Tonight, somewhere in the vast forests of Western, Eastern and Northern Nigeria, children may be trying to sleep on bare ground.
Not in their beds.
Not beside their mothers.
Not with a blanket wrapped around them.
Just cold earth.
Darkness.
Fear.
And uncertainty.
A two-year-old cries into the night, too young to understand why her mother is not there to carry her.
A five-year-old keeps asking the same question:
“When are we going home?”
No one answers anymore.
The teachers who once encouraged them to dream of becoming doctors, engineers, pilots and presidents are now struggling to remain strong themselves. Their faces are thinner. Their voices weaker. Their hope fading.
Some have stopped counting the days.
Others have stopped asking questions.
Many have simply become exhausted.
When the rains fall, there is nowhere to hide.
Clothes remain wet for days.
Mosquitoes descend in swarms.
Fever follows.
Malaria follows.
Weakness follows.
A child coughs through the night.
Another shivers from fever.
Another lies unusually quiet, too weak to cry.
Who is there to provide medicine?
Who is there to diagnose pneumonia?
Who is there to stop diarrhea from becoming dehydration?
Who is there to comfort a frightened child when every adult around them is also terrified?
Some of the younger children may no longer remember what home looks like.
The sound of their mother’s voice may be fading from memory.
The face of a father may already be becoming blurry.
Birthdays pass unnoticed.
Religious celebrations come and go.
School terms begin and end.
Life continues everywhere else.
But not for them.
For them, time has stopped.
Their world is reduced to waiting.
Waiting for rescue.
Waiting for news.
Waiting for someone to remember them.
Back home, mothers stare at photographs until the images become worn.
Fathers wake up every morning hoping today will be the day.
Brothers and sisters leave an empty seat untouched.
Grandparents whisper prayers through tears.
Entire families live between hope and heartbreak.
And while all this may be happening, campaign posters are being printed.
Political rallies are being organized.
Speeches are being delivered.
Promises are being made.
The same promises.
The same assurances.
The same declarations that everything is under control.
Yet somewhere in the darkness, a frightened child may still be wondering if anybody remembers them.
The greatest tragedy is not only captivity.
It is the possibility of becoming forgotten.
Forgotten by leaders.
Forgotten by institutions.
Forgotten by a nation distracted by the next headline.
The children of Chibok became headlines.
Many eventually returned.
Some never did.
Others returned carrying wounds that could not be photographed.
Years have passed.
Lives have been altered forever.
Dreams interrupted.
Families broken.
And now another generation of vulnerable Nigerians risks becoming statistics in reports and talking points in political debates.
But they are not statistics.
They are children.
They are teachers.
They are mothers.
They are fathers.
They are human beings.
Tonight, before we sleep in our homes, may we remember those who cannot.
Before we complain about traffic, business, fuel prices, elections and politics, may we spare a thought for those whose greatest wish is simply to be free.
And may every leader entrusted with authority remember that every day of delay is another day of fear for someone else’s child.
Because somewhere in the darkness, a little boy may still be asking:
“Has Nigeria forgotten us?”
For the sake of our humanity, the answer must never be yes.
For the sake of GOD and our shared humanity, can everyone prioritize the release of these children ?
My heart is heavy 😒
Courtesy: Chinenye Olih
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