My Boko Haram experience
It was on a Friday in January, 2012, in Kano. I had followed my friend to transact business at the Kaura Macroni Company, along Hadejia road, Yankaba. No sooner did I set my feet at the gate of the company than we were jolted by a deafening sound of a bomb blast. Members of the vicious ‘Jama’at AhlSunnah lid da’awahwal Jihad, popularly known as Boko Haram, had struck. That was just the beginning of our troubles as ferocious attacks became the hallmark of the insurgents.
I, my friend and other people in that building scampered for safety in different directions. Till today, I cannot explain how my friend got to his house safely.
As I ran for my dear life I saw terrified and confused people all over the place. Fear gripped me. For the first time in my life, I saw a stark naked woman running towards Hadejia road, crying on top of her voice. From what I learnt, she may have lost her husband to the bomb blast. My phone kept on ringing. When I summoned the courage to pick the call, it was my father who was obviously worried. He asked for my whereabouts and I told him. He prayed for my safe return. The news of multiple attacks in different parts of Kano had spread across the city like a wildfire.
Although there was palpable fear, I remained calm. It was this quality that enabled me to get home without losing focus.
It was at home that I learnt of other attacks at various locations in Kano, including that of Bompai police barracks. Many people were said to have lost their lives. At the police barracks, the Human Rights Watch put the casualty figure at 185, including policemen and civilians.
During the attack on the police barracks, corpses littered the streets and the entire neighbourhood. Only God knows the real casualty figure.
On January 22, 2013, there was another deadly explosion in the city. I and my younger siblings were watching a football match between Ivory Coast and Togo during the African Cup of Nations (AFCON). I can remember the cry of our stepmother as we ran outside to see what was happening. As we stood in front of our house, we saw a lot of people running for their dear lives. Some of the confused crowd tried to push us inside the house as they looked for a place to hide. Many of the victims of that attack sustained life-threatening injuries. It was a terrible situation.
Suddenly, our attention turned to a young man standing at the entrance of our street. He was dressed in a long Arab gown and a blue cap. Close to him was another man dressed in white. They sat on a motorcycle. My younger brother, Mukhtar, invited them to take refuge in our house, not knowing that they were the attackers. The man smile at my brother’s gesture and showed him an AK 47 riffle neatly hidden under his flowing gown, a clear indication that they were insurgents. My brother ran inside the house as quickly as possible.
As soon as my brother ran inside the house, the attackers zoomed off. Out of sheer curiosity and bravery I followed them. They had stopped to help an old man who struggled to climb his motorcycle. “Baba don’t panic, we are not after you, we are after the infidels and those who have gone astray,’’ they told the old man and left.
Bags, motorcycles, cash, shoes and other valuables of terrified people scattered everywhere. Many shops were left open as people ran for their dear lives. In front of a lottery shop were six corpses.
For the first time in my life, I saw lifeless bodies and bullets near them. Waves of shock, sorrow and panic enveloped me as our street was deserted. Everywhere was as quiet as a cemetery.
As the situation got out of cntrol, I was caught in a crossfire during an attack that brought our area to a standstill. I had gone to a canteen to buy yogurt and suya immediately after the Isha’I prayer when gunshots rented the air. I hid under the suya table while the attack lasted. From that vantage point of sorts I watched the horrific exchange of fire between the police and the insurgents. People took to their heels to save their lives. It was a well coordinated attack by the insurgents. I saw as they chased a police officer to a nearby mosque and killed him. Others sustained various gunshot injuries. Another policeman was fatally wounded behind a transformer. After the exchange of fire, the police retreated while the insurgents covered their faces with masks and left.
I summoned courage to call my editor at the Freedom FM, Kano, where I was doing my internship programme. The editor promised to follow up the story and pleaded with me to leave the scene as soon as possible.