It is 5:30 in the morning.
The rain has been falling relentlessly.
I am wrapped beneath my duvet, yet I am still shivering—not because I am ill, but because the cold has found its way into the room. A cup of hot tea with lime brought only a few moments of relief before the chill returned.
And then a question pierced my heart.
What about the children still being held somewhere in Nigeria’s forests?
If this cold can make me shiver in the comfort of my home, what must it be like for a two-year-old sleeping under open skies?
What must it be like for a three-year-old whose blanket has long since been replaced by damp ground and uncertainty?
What of the children with asthma?
Those who depended on inhalers that may now be out of reach?
Those who were receiving treatment before their lives were violently interrupted?
What of children with malaria, pneumonia or other illnesses that require timely care?
What of those whose tiny bodies have endured weeks of mosquito bites, insect bites and exposure to the elements?
Has any child fallen seriously ill?
Has anyone been bitten by a snake while sleeping on the forest floor?
Has anyone stepped on a scorpion in the darkness?
Has anyone suffered an infected wound with no doctor to clean it?
We do not know.
And perhaps that is the most painful part.
We do not know.
Every passing day raises more questions than answers.
The children kidnapped from the school in Oyo have now spent weeks away from everything familiar.
Away from their parents.
Away from their classrooms.
Away from clean beds.
Away from hospitals.
Away from medicine.
Away from the comforting embrace of a mother who would have stayed awake all night just to make sure a fever came down.
Instead, they remain somewhere beyond the reach of those who love them most.
The teachers who were taken alongside them must be carrying burdens no training college ever prepared them for.
How long can exhausted adults continue comforting frightened children while battling fear themselves?
How many sleepless nights have they endured?
Have they become physically too weak to carry crying toddlers?
Do they still have the emotional strength to sing lullabies?
To wipe tears?
To reassure children when they themselves have no reassurance to offer?
Caregivers are human too.
Even the strongest eventually grow weary.
Reports indicate that security forces and local vigilantes have surrounded parts of the area in an effort to pressure the abductors and secure the captives’ release.
If access to supplies has become more difficult, another painful question arises.
What are the captives eating?
Do the youngest children have enough food?
Enough clean water?
Or are they surviving on whatever little is available?
No child should have to grow up learning the language of hunger before learning the alphabet.
No child should have to recognize the sound of gunfire before learning nursery rhymes.
No child should have to wonder whether they will see their parents again.
Meanwhile, life outside the forest continues.
Markets open.
Traffic builds.
Children elsewhere prepare for school.
Political meetings continue.
Campaign conversations gather momentum.
Social media moves on to the next trending topic.
The news cycle changes.
But somewhere beneath the thick canopy of Nigeria’s forests, families may still be living the same nightmare they woke up to weeks ago.
The silence surrounding prolonged captivity can be just as cruel as captivity itself.
The longer people remain unseen, the easier it becomes for the world to forget they are still there.
But they are not forgotten.
They must never become forgotten.
Not by government.
Not by the media.
Not by religious leaders.
Not by civil society.
Not by the international community.
Not by ordinary Nigerians.
Because behind every name on a list of abductees is a family whose life stopped on the day their loved one disappeared.
A mother who still sets aside a plate of food in hope.
A father who still jumps every time the phone rings.
Siblings who still leave an empty seat untouched.
Grandparents whose prayers have become their only remaining strength.
We have witnessed this pain before.
We remember the long years endured by many families affected by previous mass abductions.
We know that for some, freedom came after months or years.
For others, it never came.
That history should strengthen our resolve—not weaken it.
Every Nigerian held against their will, whether in forests, camps or hidden locations across the country, deserves to know that they have not been abandoned.
Their families deserve answers.
Their communities deserve hope.
Their nation owes them unwavering commitment.
This is not merely about rescuing hostages.
It is about protecting the dignity of every Nigerian life.
As the rain continues to fall this morning, let us remember those who have no roof above their heads.
As we pull our blankets closer, let us remember the children who may have none.
As we prepare breakfast, let us remember those whose next meal is uncertain.
As we send our own children to school, let us remember the classrooms left empty by fear and violence.
And let us pray—not only for the children taken from Oyo, but for every Nigerian still held captive in forests across our country.
May those in authority remain relentless in their efforts.
May those with influence continue to speak.
May the media continue to remember.
May the nation continue to care.
And may the day come, sooner rather than later, when every captive walks free and every waiting family is made whole again.
Until that day arrives, let us never allow silence to become another prison.
Let us never stop saying their names.
Let us never stop asking about them.
And above all, let us never forget them.
About the Author
