My Boko Haram Experience

May 18th, 2014, was the day we had chosen to celebrate the end of our four years sojourn in the higher institution. The entire Bayero University, Kano (BUK) knew BUKMAC13 (as the Mass Communication class of 2013/2014 of the institution was fondly called) was having its Dinner and Award Night that day. But little did we know that day would be remembered more for the souls that would be lost to another suicide bomb attack in the Sabongari area of the state.

I had been in Kano since late 2002, when my parents were transferred to the state from my hometown, Ogbomoso in Oyo State. So, by the time I gained admission into BUK to study Mass Communications in 2009/2010, I already saw Kano as my home. Before the January 20, 2012, coordinated attacks in the state, the scariest moment of my life had been the 2004 religious/political riot that broke out in the state and claimed many innocent lives. It was during WAEC, and I was writing the subject I detest the most, Mathematics.

Back to 2014, I was on the stage giving the valedictory speech after receiving the award of the Overall Best Student (Male) when my phone started vibrating in my pocket. I struggled through my speech because of the unyielding vibration in my pocket. I checked the call log afterward and saw that 16 of the calls were from my mother. “What could be scarier than 16 missed calls from mom”, I said to myself. When I eventually sneaked into the restroom to call her back, the reception was bad and all I could hear was “Where are you?”. But I went back inside determined that nothing will cut short my celebration.

Back in the hall, none of us knew what was happening in town. We were all in a good mood. Our Head of Department had just thrilled us to a sizzling old school dance step when suddenly the lights in the hall went off. But before we could react, the lights came back on. Just about that time, my mother called back. I went to the restroom because of the noise in the hall, where I heard my mother screaming over the phone “Wherever you are, go back into the school and avoid crowded area.” I angrily asked her why. “Another bomb just went off in Middle road (Sabongari)”, she said. Before I could enquire further, the call went off.

By the time I got back into the hall, the look on the faces of my colleagues confirmed what my mother just told me. Obviously, they had also received similar calls or text messages. We ended the award night abruptly and the journey back to our various destinations began. Our class leader, Mohammed Mamu, offered to give those of us residing on campus a ride back to the school. We noticed that military men had already mounted more than three check points on the road. The distance between Season Seven in Rijiyar Zaki (the venue of the award night) and BUK new site is about five minutes’ drive but it took us over 20 minutes. The 20 minutes’ drive was done in silence. I held my younger sister’s shivering hand, while I prayed silently for forgiveness of our sins because none of us could tell what would happen the next minute.

The following day we read in the papers that five persons, including the suicide bomber were killed in the explosion that rocked the Sabongari area of Kano State that Sunday night. My family house is just a street away from Middle Road where the explosion went off. My parents later told me that the impact of the bomb was felt in the house so much so that it lifted my niece from the chair in the living room and landed her on the floor. That was close enough for my family but not as close as the first terror attack in Kano on 20th of January, 2012.

There was only one door in and out of the lecture room; and the door cannot take more than two persons at a time but over 200 students needed to use it before the “bomb” could explode. The strong marched over the weak to escape. Wailing rented the air

Is my sister dead?

I was on my way to church that fateful day when I first heard the sound of what I would later find out to be a bomb explosion. I returned home to await the arrival of my parents who were still in church. When we all gathered at home, my immediate elder sister who was then working with Guaranty Trust Bank at their Murtala Mohammed way office was nowhere to be found. We could not reach her on phone, so we were all troubled. Our house had suddenly become a refugee camp of sort as family friends that were staying outside Sabongari areas trooped in, but still my sister was still nowhere to be found. We were all standing by the gate awaiting her arrival, while listening to gory details of the attacks from witnesses. Those stories got us more agitated that my father ordered that we should all go back inside and pray, but no one could persuade my mother to abandon the gate.

At a point, I started contemplating the possibility of my sister never returning home and that got me really scared. While we were still waiting for her, sounds of explosions and gun shots rented the air. Finally, around 10pm she walked in drenched in sweat and tears. We all jumped for joy but when she told us what she saw, the joyous atmosphere changed to a somber one. Her boss, who was a friend to our family, was among the casualties. He left behind a young wife and a two-week old son. April 29, 2012 My sister and I alongside most students were lucky not to have been in school on Sunday, April 29, 2012 when insurgents attacked worshippers in BUK Old Campus. But among some students that were on SIWES; was my friend, Kelechi Umezurike, who survived the attack. He shared his story with me, excerpts:

“No one thought of the possibility of an attack that day since the school was on break, but entering into the school area, I noticed that the young men who usually play football on the school field were not there. I remember the preacher that day was Professor Falola, who started by praying for the peace of the nation. Less than five minutes after his prayers, we heard a deafening sound and people took to their heels and before we knew it there were gunshots everywhere. The first victims were some of those who came late to church that day and were just about to enter the church. We all scampered for safety. I started running towards the Faculty of Medicine, because that was all I could think of while some of the people running with me were felled by several bullets. I remember telling someone to just lie down and pretend to be dead. I saw a woman praying for her children and she didn’t even notice when one of the children ran past her. I ran into one of the attackers and before I could say anything he started chanting some Arabic words; then he told me to drop my phones and my wallet but I refused to yield. He pointed his gun at me and fired; I fell to the ground. At that moment my whole life flashed before me. I thought of my mother, siblings, and my life. While I was on the ground, another bullet went through my cloth, creating a hole. I was lucky that day but some were not. When I got to the Aminu Kano Teaching Hospital, I saw lots of corpses and some with several bullet wounds. Every April, my heart goes out to all the lives that were lost and to all the families that lost their loved ones. God saved me.”

I remember earlier in 2012, during my internship with Daily Trust, Kano Regional office, the then Regional Editor, Lawan Danjuma Adamu, called me less than an hour after I got home. There had been a bomb explosion in the luxury bus park, at New Road, Sabongari and since I lived close to the scene of the attack, he wanted me get the report. I was eager to carry out the assignment, but my parents will have none of that, with my mother even suggesting that if that was what journalism was all about, I had better consider a change of profession before it was too late.

The bomb-scare

In my third year in the university, while we were having one of the Development Journalism lectures, one of my course mates, not known for much interactivity with others, walked straight up to the lecturer. The confrontation that ensued was not as strange as his choice of clothes that day. He was putting on a white jallabiyya and his head was turbaned. From my sitting position, I couldn’t hear much of the conversation but when we heard the lecturer telling him to speak English language, the person sitting next to me told me that our course mate was addressing the lecturer in Arabic language. The hall became tensed. Suddenly, a student sitting directly opposite the lecturer screamed “bomb” and the place was thrown into pandemonium.

There was only one door in and out of the lecture room; and the door cannot take more than two persons at a time but over 200 students needed to use it before the “bomb” could explode. The strong marched over the weak to escape. Wailing rented the air. Till today, I still can’t explain how I got out of the hall. The whole school later heard of the bomb in Mass Communication Department but no one heard of any explosion. We would later find out that the young man confronted the lecturer because he was dissatisfied with his scores in a course taken by the same lecturer in the previous semester.