Hell away from home

#FeatureByIOM - "My son,” he’d say before his death in 2013, “I'll do everything to make you study abroad since you are so determined to do so."

This was my dad's promise to me before his demise. And like a far cry in a cave, those words echoed within me over and over again at several points after he was gone. It was almost as if I heard it every time I thought of my late pops.

By 2016, three years after his death, I decided to relocate to Uromi, my hometown. You see, Uromi is a small town under the Esan North East Local Government Area of Edo State, Nigeria.

It was there I made new friends and discovered after a while, that almost every family had somebody living abroad. Travelling abroad was like a norm for the young people there.

These seeming ‘success stories’ from those who made it through to Europe, no matter what means, filtered through the community and eventually led to a belief in the exodus of youths from there to countries abroad. It didn’t matter what had to be done or how it was to be done to get out, everyone just wanted to leave.

Sooner than I thought, I became influenced. And like a man under some spell, I handed my money to someone who promised to take me abroad like the others.

She had successfully helped several others get out to greener pastures abroad. What could possibly go wrong this time?

The Niger experience

They call her Aisha. It was her I gave the sum of Two Hundred and Fifty Thousand Naira (N250,000) to. Mind you, she was ‘The Plug’ many people went to when it came to travelling out of Nigeria from that area. So I felt no qualms hitching my wagon to hers.

According to her, applying for and getting a visa as a citizen of the Niger Republic was easier. So, the plan was for me to travel with her to the Niger Republic, where I would live with her other family members for about a month whilst she processed my visa. The plan sounded very good and I went with it.

My journey from Nigeria to the Niger Republic was stressless. Security details on the Nigerian highway and the borders were carefully settled by Aisha. We went through Kano State into the Niger Republic. As we travelled, I thought of meeting Aisha's family for the first time. I even rehearsed my speech in advance for the first meeting so as to win them over.

From Kano State, we went through the desert until we arrived in a town in the Niger Republic called Agadez.

I was locked up in a living apartment with other intending travellers in Agadez. At this point, I asked other travellers what could be amiss, Aisha was now nowhere to be found. Her telephone number was unreachable. There was no trace of her. I became suspicious and asked other travellers what could be amiss. I was shocked to hear that we were on our way to Libya through the Sahara Desert. I cried for days. I couldn't reach my younger sister who was part of the journey because our phones had been taken away from us. 

Hot tears In The Sahara

Truly, as I was told, in three days, we were packed into trucks to hit the Sahara Desert. There were about 40 people in the truck. We were sandwiched, with every inch of the truck maximized. Each of us had a 4/5-litre keg of water, and in each person's knapsack bag was some garri, sugar, biscuit, powdered milk and for some fortunate ones, groundnut.

These were to keep us alive all through the journey; that is if God was on our side and nothing worse than hunger and thirst got to us first.

The four-day journey through the Sahara Desert was like hell. The weather was hot and scorching. Our food or water didn’t even last two days. I had never experienced such before. As I sat at the rear of the truck, with a stake in between my thighs, I couldn't sleep off so as not to fall off. It was difficult to not ponder why I had brought this upon myself.

We drove for days without any trace of animals or humans. I wondered what would happen to us if the vehicle had an issue. I mean, it’s not like there was a mechanic somewhere we could call in the Desert. Surely, that would spell doom for us, I thought. And so I prayed silently in my heart, asking God to see us through. Tragedy struck instead.

Mustapha, as he was called, who hailed from Auchi, Edo State, fell off the truck. He apparently fell asleep. Realizing this, we started screaming at the top of our voices, hitting the body of the truck, so as to alert the drivers. Yes, there were two drivers who took turns at the wheel. They pulled over and came down; both of them wielding guns and big stakes. They hit us heavily at random, pointing their guns at us and speaking in a language I did not understand. They obviously gestured that we should shut up. They were fierce and inhumane. They went back into the car and began to drive again. We watched Mustapha struggling to his feet in the hot Sandy desert as we drove off. His voice faded away as he hauntingly cried out for help. 

"Help me... I am your brother... a Nigerian... please don't leave me to die here...’’ 

I shut my eyes for some minutes and sobbed like a little baby. For many hours after that, I couldn’t recover from that sight. I thought of what the fate of Mustapha would be... would he die there? Would he be there until some wild animals appeared and devour him? Could it be possible for another oncoming vehicle to pick him up to safety? I thought to myself and sobbed all day long.

On the third day, our food and water were completely exhausted. Surviving became very tough. Two other passengers who apparently were asthmatic couldn't hold on. They died due to the harsh and unfriendly desert weather. We brought them down from the truck, covered them with a sheet and drove off.  

The way and manner we survived the desert still beat my imagination till now, but somehow, we survived…

Libya and The Living Hell

We arrived in Libya on the fourth day. We were all locked up in a prison-like facility in Sabha. We were given food and water to both shower and drink. For a moment, I thought about Mustapha again. 'How I wish he made it here with us.'

The pleasure of the first day was not to last for too long, though. By the next day, we were already told to call our family members and friends back home to pay our ransoms.

Ransom?! How? How have I gone from paying #250000 to get out of Nigeria, to being kidnapped for ransom?! I couldn’t believe that I was being told to pay Five Hundred Thousand Naira (N500, 000).

We were being trafficked and sold out. Yes, as slaves. We were sold into modern-day slavery!

Every day, they beat us so badly and told us to call our loved ones back home in Nigeria. They denied us food for days. Sometimes, we’d go for three days without any food. We were dehumanized and treated like animals. Girls were raped at will. Some boys were maimed and dismembered. Some of us fell ill and died. Those who died were thrown out into the desert-like waste paper. Every other day, the Libyan Militias would come around, asking for their ransom. Only those who paid were let out of the prison. 

Sometimes, we were taken out to do domestic chores for the Libyans. We would work our hearts out with feeble strength, yet not get paid. I cried every day as I bore the starvation and the beatings at the same time. All hopes of survival were gone. Some of us prayed for death to come quickly. Every effort to raise money from home through my younger sister proved abortive. For three months (July to September 2016), I was locked up and beaten every day…

Every single day.

Freedom Regained

One day, my younger sister was able to sell some property back home in Nigeria to pay for my freedom. Of course, I got freed but couldn't go out too often for fear of being kidnapped in Sabha.

This was the trend in Sabha: migrants were kidnapped and sold out as slaves. And then, the circle of the payment of ransom for freedom would continue. Life was like hell in Sabha. Hands tied, legs in chains, beaten daily without food nor water. This truly was hell and because I had experienced it already, I knew I never wanted to be in that situation ever again.

The Mediterranean Sea

I left Sabha for Tripoli in the month of December 2016. At Tripoli, I worked for a year just to gather some money to move to Europe.

On the 6th day of January 2018, I attempted to travel to Europe through the Mediterranean Sea.

It was a dinghy boat that sailed at about 11:00 pm from Gallipolli in Tripoli. The propeller of the boat was bad. The compass given to us was equally bad, and the boat was sinking. Right there on the boat, I thought it was over. I cried and prayed to God for another chance at life.

The wave of the sea was intense and fearsome. It roared heavily and threatened to split the boat in two. While we scrambled for life, something noteworthy happened. The sinking boat united all factions and religions; it eradicated nationality immediately. I recall that while the Christian man prayed, the Muslim man answered Amen as well. This was because nobody knew where help could possibly come from.

We were tossed by the wave of the sea all night long until the next day at noon when rescue came our way. We were rescued by the Libyan Coast Guards who brought us back to a deportation camp in Terrikmata.

Home Sweet Home

After about seven days in the deportation camp in Libya, we were brought back to Nigeria on the 15th day of January 2018 by a Joint Voluntary Return Assistance by the International Organization for Migration (IOM) and the Federal Republic of Nigeria. 

Nothing can be compared to being back home as I reminisce on my experience of "hell away from home."

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