Real Stories: How I escaped after getting kidnapped in Lagos

The last thing I remember before everything went black was the smell of sweat and stale cigarettes in that tinted Corolla.

It happened on a Tuesday evening. I was coming back from work on the Island, and as usual, I was already tired and just wanted to get home. Being safety conscious, I always used Bolt, but this time, the app wasn't finding drivers. I live on the mainland, so I decided to take public transport, as it was getting pretty late.

I boarded a bus at CMS heading to Ojota. The bus wasn’t full yet, but I didn’t think too much about it because Lagos buses always stop to pick up more passengers along the way.

There were about four people already inside. Two men, one woman, and a young guy who looked like a student. They looked normal, dressed like everyday people. Nothing felt off at first. The driver was quiet, and the conductor was very calm, unlike the usual loud and rude conductors I was used to.

Not long after we passed Obalende, things changed.

The man who was sitting beside me suddenly pulled something sharp. I later realised it was a small knife.

"If you shout, you die now," he whispered in a gruff voice.

My whole body went numb with terror. Before I could even react, the woman pulled out a black cloth from her bag and covered my face. That was when I knew I had been kidnapped.

READ MORE: Real Stories: The day I found out my best friend was a cultist 

I felt the car speeding through what sounded like rough roads.

My heart was beating fast. I felt frozen. I couldn’t cry, I couldn’t even pray. They tied my hands and legs and pushed me to the floor of the bus.

I kept begging them, telling them I didn’t have any money, that I was just a regular 9-to-5 worker.

They didn’t answer. They just drove.

I don't know how long we were on the road, but after some time, they stopped somewhere. I heard the gates open and the sound of dogs barking. They pulled me out of the bus and carried me into what felt like a small building.

When the hood finally came off, I found myself in a tiny, mouldy room that smelled of urine and damp cement. The walls were covered in peeling posters of old Nollywood movies. A single bulb flickered overhead.

"Call your people. Tell them to bring 5 million naira," the leader, a thick-set man with tribal marks, barked at me.

I nearly laughed. "I'm just a teacher. My account balance is 78,000 naira."

They didn't believe me. For three days, they beat me, starved me, and forced me to call every contact in my phone while they listened. My mother wept so hard on one call that even the kidnappers looked uncomfortable.

On the fourth night, God answered my prayers in ways I never expected. First came the rain. Torrential, angry drops pounding against the roof like a thousand drumbeats, drowning out every other sound in the compound. Then the generator sputtered and died, plunging the entire building into perfect darkness. I held my breath as the guards cursed, their voices fading as they moved to another room to fix it.

That’s when I noticed the new guard, a skinny boy, slumped against the wall. His AK-47 leaning beside him, his fingers slack around his phone. His chest rose and fell in the rhythm of deep sleep.

My fingers trembled as I reached for the padlock securing the chain around my ankle. It was old, rusted, the kind that might give way if pushed hard enough. The piece of broken tile I’d hidden in my sock bit into my palm as I worked it into the lock’s mechanism, twisting, prodding, praying. Hours might have passed, or maybe just minutes, but then came the sweetest sound I’d ever heard.

Click.

Once I got myself free, I quietly tiptoed past him. My heart was beating so loud, I was sure he’d hear me. But God was with me.

The darkness became my ally. I moved like a shadow, first toward the sleeping guard. His phone lay half-open in his lap, its dim glow casting eerie shadows on his face. I snatched it, my heart hammering so loud I feared it would wake him.

The bathroom window was my only way out, its louvres broken, just wide enough for a desperate body to squeeze through. Glass shards tore at my arms as I wriggled free, but the pain barely registered. Then I was outside, the rain still pouring, the night swallowing me whole.

I slipped out of the building and ran.

I ran. Barefoot, bleeding, branches whipping at my legs, I ran until my lungs burned. The thorns bit into my soles, but I didn’t stop, couldn’t stop, until I saw a small house with light. I banged on the gate and screamed for help. A man came out, shocked to see me like that, but he took me in and called the police. That’s how I was rescued.

By morning, when the authorities raided the hideout, it was empty. The kidnappers were gone. But I was alive. I later found out the place was around Ikorodu.

It still feels like a dream. Since then, I don’t enter just any bus again, especially the half-empty ones. Lagos is tough, and evil hides in plain sight. Please, if you're reading this, always be alert. Your safety is more important than anything.

PREVIOUS STORY: Real Stories: I made ₦10 million in 3 months selling fake iPhones in Computer Village