There I was, nestled deep within the vibrant metropolis of Lagos, Nigeria, a sprawling city known for its lively music scene and bustling markets. Surrounded by the chaos of a million stories unfolding all at once, little did I know that my unimaginable nightmare was about to begin.
My story started in the blistering heat of a sunny Tuesday afternoon. I had just visited the famous Owambe market, relishing in the energy of haggling traders and the aroma of hot jollof rice wrapped in banana leaves. However, as dusk descended, Lagos’ jubilance started to morph into an oppressive darkness – a darkness that swallowed me whole.
Imagine the horror when a pair of brutal hands covered my mouth and dragged me into the solitude of a run-down van. The atmosphere changed from exuberance to terror in one fierce pull. Struggling and screaming only to have the sounds drowned out by the deafening beats of local Afrobeat music wafting through the air was my first interaction with my abductor, Oluwa Adekunle.
From that moment onwards, my days became blurry nightmares. Shackled and confined to the gritty corners of what I perceived to be an abandoned warehouse. As each day dragged on, hope seemed more like a delusion than anything else. The echoing sound of my fear-filled sobs my only companion.
The memory still stings with pungent clarity; how I would wake from tortured slumbers to see Adekunle watching me – cold eyes devoid of mercy and humanity. His sinister laughter reverberated around the dank room, strangling peace and sanity from existence.
This inhumane torment continued with relentless ferocity for three gruesome days. I was gripped in an iron vice of terror, the cruel jaws of despair ever-tightening around my weakening heart. There were moments when I flirted with the idea of succumbing to hopelessness, letting my soul vaporize into a forgotten echo – becoming a statistic.
However, amidst the swallowing void of my captivity, there was an ember within me, refusing to extinguish. A resilient belief that I would escape this crushing abyss. A shred of hope that persisted among pleas and prayers to the spiritual guardian Elegua, worshipped by locals as a protector and provider of safe passage.
And deliver, Elegua did.
Seven days into my nightmare, I awoke to a different atmosphere. Lagos had entered its esteemed monsoon season – the heavens pelting down in empowered rage as if sensing my predicament. Adekunle who usually reeked of control was now thrown off-kilter by the storm’s fury. His fortressed warehouse rattled with each thunderclap like an animal under siege.
I summoned every last morsel of courage within me. With Adekunle distracted and disoriented, I clawed at my chains and bit through the frayed ropes binding me. Twisting, jerking, howling in pain. Eventually, they snapped—releasing me from my shackles but not from my fear-infested reality.
The odds seemed against me; however, I had Lagos on my side- a city known for its unpredictability and resilience as its inhabitants. As if knowingly predestined, the storm intensified. Bolts of lightning flashed blindingly radiant, and rain battered down relentlessly drowning out any sound to my advantage.
With pounding heart and throbbing limbs, I seized the moment, barrelling past a stunned Adekunle. As much as I wished to erase him from my mind, the image of his shock is one I carry with me still.
Into the stormy night I ran with nothing but the will to survive and live another day. Overhead, thunder roared its approval, driving me forward with each powerful boom.
Pity doesn’t exist in Lagos because it’s born out of weakness, and this city is anything but weak. You rise from its ashes like a phoenix or you don’t. And that’s exactly what I did: rise.
This brutal tango with Adekunle remains permanently etched into my life tapestry, a horrifying blot of trauma, but also an immense testament of human survival spirit. It’s a part of my identity now, another story hiding beneath the vibrant hydra-headed city that is Lagos – a story of darkness, despair but most importantly hope.