Beneath the Tamarind Tree

by Isha Sesay

  Once feeling returned to her body, Priscilla and the hundreds of captives now took in the fact that they were filthy—covered from head to toe in layers of sandy brown dust. It was in their eyes, caked on their faces, and blanketing their clothes. Priscilla quickly pulled off the swath of fabric covering her head and used it, as best she could, to clean herself up before she joined the rest of the girls sitting on the ground. Now that the trucks and cars were empty, groups of friends reunited and everyone spread out across the clearing with as many girls as possible seeking protection from the sun under a large tree. Mary was completely exhausted and the moment she eked out a spot in the shade, she fell asleep. Many of the girls wondered whether the convoy had reached its destination.

  But this was not a camp. There were no dwellings of any description to be seen, though it appeared the insurgents knew the spot well. This suspicion was all but confirmed by some of the girls’ discovery of a couple of plates and a small pot under the tree. The militants fanned out in the enclosure and carefully surrounded the group, closing off every opening that might present itself as a chance to make a run for freedom.

  A short time later, a couple of men approached with macaroni, spaghetti, onions, oil, and a very large pot, all taken from their school store. They also brought firewood and a large bright yellow plastic container filled with water. They placed the items on the ground in front of them. The girls eyed the men suspiciously.

  “You should come and cook,” the men told them.

  The group remained silent. Priscilla saw the mounting irritation in the men’s eyes. When it became clear the girls had no intention of responding, the militants randomly selected three girls and instructed them to prepare food. Without saying a word, the trio set about the process of cooking for their schoolmates.

  Soon a pot of pasta and seasonings was cooking away. Eventually the hastily chosen cooks ladled piles of steaming food onto the several large platters for the famished girls. Groups formed quickly—everyone tucking in with their hands; no one was put off by the lack of silverware. But not all gathered round.

  Priscilla refused to touch the platters. Overwhelmed by a fresh wave of despair, through her tears she watched dozens of girls eat.

  Mary, meanwhile, had been asleep for about an hour before the sound of cooking woke her. When the time came to eat, she too refused, preferring to repeat to herself, “God shall pull me away.” She chose to depend on those words to calm and sustain her.

  “No! Do not move. Remain exactly where you are seated.”

  A handful of girls wanted to head into the bushes to relieve themselves, but the no was unequivocal. No one was allowed to move away from the group. Any bathroom needs would have to be dealt with in front of everyone, right there in the open clearing. The girls stared at the men in revulsion.

  The time for midafternoon prayers was approaching. The men quickly counted the hostages, chose a Boko Haram member who looked to be in his teens to act as their caretaker, and then headed off to a quiet corner in the clearing to pray.

  Among the schoolgirls there were at least a dozen from Mary’s home village of Thilaimakalama. Seated together under the tree and now being watched over by an adolescent guard who couldn’t understand Kibaku, the conversation among them shifted to crafting an escape plan. While the tender-featured young man looked on, groups of girls soon felt emboldened enough to wander into the bushes by themselves—and he never said a word. The girls from Thilaimakalama quickly agreed on their plan. The dozen would divide into groups of two, and each pair would head into the bushes. Then, hidden from view, they would take off running. Mary watched the first couple of girls stand and saunter over to the bushes. They never returned, and the young man failed to notice.

  It was soon her turn. Mary turned to her preselected partner, a girl called Reba, and motioned that it was nearly time to leave. Much to her astonishment, Reba shook her head, muttering that she wasn’t ready yet. She wanted more time to rest. Mary stared at her escape partner incredulously. With her frustration growing, she looked around at the horde of Thilaimakalama girls and spotted Deborah. Within minutes they’d agreed to team up. Filled with fear and desperation, the pair leapt up and began to make their way over to the nearby bushes. They’d barely taken a dozen steps when someone shouted in their direction.

  “Where are you going?”

  They stared at each other nervously before slowly turning around to face the militant who’d suddenly appeared. The girls responded in unison: “We want to go and ease ourselves.” Their need meant nothing to him. Instead, a Boko Haram member thrust a small plastic kettle into Deborah’s hands and ordered her to fetch him water to drink. With her mind set on escaping, the girl made sure the expression on her face was one of calm as she took hold of the vessel and headed over to the yellow water container. She carefully filled the man’s kettle and steadily walked back. The whole time he’d been eyeing every move she made, but he seemed satisfied and took the water from her without further comment.

  Now they were free to head to the bushes unaccompanied. The girls moved briskly without saying a word to each other. Within minutes Mary and Deborah were out of sight and quickly pushing through the vegetation. When they broke into a run seconds later, neither girl dared stop and look back till they’d moved well beyond the reach of their captors. It was about three in the afternoon when they broke free, and they had no idea where they were headed—their only guide was the sun. If you’re ever lost, just follow the sun . . . It was advice given years earlier by Mary’s grandfather. Now the frightened schoolgirl clung to those words as she wandered through the forest wearing just one flip-flop, with Deborah by her side. The pair was still walking when the sun dipped and eventually traded places with a bright moon.

  For more than three hours they moved through the shadows and tall grass, sweeping aside low-hanging branches and swatting away swarms of insects. Their bodies remained tense the whole time. Mary couldn’t help but wonder about the creatures that had made the surrounding bushes their home; even so, such thoughts weren’t enough to slow her down. She just kept on running—through her fears, her hunger, and her indescribable thirst. When they suddenly heard the low purr of motorbikes in the distance, Mary and Deborah flung themselves to the ground, too afraid to even breathe as they lay there. Eventually the sound faded into the background and the two girls were moving once more. All Mary had were the clothes on her back and the prayers on her lips. The little bit of money in their possession—5,000 naira, a little less than $14, belonged to Deborah.

  The sudden appearance of a Fulani man in the bushes brought Mary unbridled relief. He gave the girls directions to a village far in the distance. It would take the kindness of a second stranger to get them to that destination by seven that evening—the young Fulani man wheeled them along on his bicycle in exchange for 1,500 naira, about $4.

  Amid the falling-down shacks that made up this small village the girls discovered a chief, who listened sympathetically to all they’d been through. He made sure they were given a meal and then found a man willing to take the girls on his motorbike back to Chibok for 2,500 naira, roughly $7. Fearful of running out of money, the girls haggled over the fare and begged him to take a little less—they settled on 2,000 naira, in the presence of the chief. When Mary climbed onto that motorbike, her heart was doing somersaults. At last I’m on my way home! Over and over again she repeated the comforting words to herself and pictured the look of joy that would spread across her parents’ face when she reappeared. Lost in her thoughts, Mary didn’t immediately notice that the bike was slowing down. When it came to a complete stop and the driver told them to get off, she froze, openmouthed. It was close to midnight.

  “I cannot take you any farther.”

  “But why?” spluttered Mary. “You agreed to take us home for two thousand naira!”

  “I cannot go on.”

  “Why won’t you take us?”

  “Because I am afraid. You should walk.”

 
Before Mary and Deborah could even collect their thoughts, the man was gone—with his bike and their money.

  Mary stood in the darkness with fear and anger coursing through her body. How could he just leave us here? What are we to do now? Too afraid to stay where they were, Mary and Deborah chose to continue walking in the direction they’d been going with the man who’d pretended to be taking them home. Suddenly they heard something moving in the bushes nearby. Every thought that came to mind was terrifying. But thankfully what actually came into view moments later was another forest-dwelling Fulani. Startled by the sight of two distressed young girls, he led them to his home. Mary was too tired to think or feel much of anything when they finally stumbled into his small, dilapidated house. She eagerly laid her head down on the ground and closed her eyes, but she managed only a fitful sleep. The sound of forest animals passing close by and growling softly kept both girls on edge and praying through the night.

  Mary and Deborah gratefully welcomed the sun the next morning. They quickly discovered that the couple who owned the dwelling spoke no Hausa. But luckily their daughter, who was visiting from Yola, was on hand and able to translate. These cattle-herding nomads had barely enough to get by, and yet they still shared their small amount of food with the two strange-looking girls who’d suddenly appeared in their home in the middle of the night. Mary was ravenous and grateful for the gift of masa, a northern Nigeria breakfast treat traditionally made from ground rice, sugar, and yeast, then fried till a puffy cake takes shape. The girls were overwhelmed by the family’s generosity and thanked them profusely for both the masa and the instructions for how to get back to Chibok. It was midafternoon by the time they departed, and Mary began the two-and-a-half-hour trek till they reached a second settlement. Unlike the others, in this encampment there were actually people present milling about, completing chores, getting on with day-to-day life.

  Amid all the settlement activity a Fulani man sat quietly in the sun. Mary nervously asked for help. The old man listened intently, before leading them to a shack that belonged to a kind-looking woman. Her eyes filled with concern when she looked over the girls. Within minutes she’d brought them water to drink and was busy making them a meal, before washing the dirty clothes she stripped from their backs. Mary and Deborah would spend the night here with this woman and her husband, who showed up before long.

  The next morning he agreed to take the girls back to Chibok. Mary squeezed onto the bike with Deborah and held on tightly to the small grips on each side of the seat. Hours later, when they pulled up in front of her uncle’s house in Chibok’s town center, all she could do was cry. Deborah’s father arrived first and scooped his daughter into his arms. When Mary’s dad arrived a short time later shouting, “God has answered my prayers!” Mary’s tears temporarily blinded her. She was still crying when she arrived home and laid her head on the bosom of her mother, Felicie. “Don’t cry,” she cooed. At the sound of her mother’s voice, Mary broke open and relief poured out. It had taken her two days to get back, and now it was finally over.

  Mary and Deborah, like Saa and Blessing hours before them, were among the fifty-seven girls who fled the clutches of Boko Haram in the immediate aftermath of the raid on their school. For two whole years they were the only ones able to reveal what had happened behind the walls of their school that night. But long after news organizations had moved on and much of the world had forgotten about the events in Chibok, these girls remained just as mired in the past, haunted by their memories of what they witnessed.

  Chapter Twelve

  I ARRIVED IN LAGOS ALMOST THREE WEEKS AFTER THE CHIBOK girls had gone missing, though my presence actually had nothing to do with the girls’ abductions. I was there to cover the World Economic Forum (WEF Africa), a regional showing of the annual international economic event traditionally held atop a mountain in Davos, Switzerland. Now, for the first time, Nigeria had been chosen to host this Africa-specific WEF conference in the nation’s capital, Abuja, giving Nigeria the distinction of welcoming global leaders across politics and business, as well as change makers and celebrities. The conference was an acknowledgement of the country’s growing economy, as well as the burgeoning investment opportunities that existed in Africa’s most populous nation and in many other places in sub-Saharan Africa. The news network had been planning its coverage of the high-profile gathering for weeks.

  But almost immediately upon landing, news of my arrival began to trend locally on Twitter. The message I’d posted from my sun-filled hotel room was innocuous enough: “I’m here in Nigeria.” Seated on the edge of the hotel bed, I tried to figure out why my presence was causing such a stir. Why all the retweeting?

  From the moment I’d learned of the girls’ disappearance, I’d been covering the government’s lackluster efforts to find them from our CNN headquarters in Atlanta. So when I’d boarded my flight to Nigeria on May 1, 2014, I thought I had a pretty good grasp of the facts on the ground. Sure, I knew the Nigerian officials’ public statements about the abductions were muddled and left a lot to be desired. But finding the girls was a priority for President Jonathan, and everything possible was being done to bring them safely back to their loved ones. Those were the “facts,” as I knew them.

  But now I could hardly keep up with the stream of messages pouring in via Twitter, all essentially asking the same key questions.

  What is the government actually doing to find these girls?

  What really happened that night in Chibok?

  Why isn’t the government sharing information about its actual efforts to recover the girls?

  As I sifted through my Twitter feed, I realized I’d misjudged the situation. Badly. On my phone, a completely different picture was taking shape, and it involved an information blackout on the part of the Nigerian government, which had refused to categorically lay out what its response to this mass abduction entailed.

  Sitting there in my hotel room, I wondered how I could have been so misinformed. I cast my mind back to the moment the story first broke. I ran through the numerous interviews I’d done with my close friend and CNN’s Nigeria correspondent, Vladimir Duthiers. I could see it clearly now. Vladimir had done the best job possible under the circumstances. But I’d failed to realize that the slow drip of information from the authorities represented their attempt to kill the story. Only now that I was in Nigeria, engaging with Nigerians on social media and reading the local newspapers, did I fully understand the full scope of the story, and recognize how much I (and all the other Western journalists like me) didn’t know. Suddenly, the cascade of messages made sense. People were desperate for answers. They hoped my presence and CNN’s involvement would provide them. “We’ve got the story all wrong!” I said breathlessly down the phone to Atlanta. My bosses listened as I explained the apparent information blackout in Nigeria and lack of any discernible effort on the government’s part to find the missing girls. “Trust me,” I urged. “Something’s not right here.”

  CNN had spent countless hours planning my coverage of WEF, and now here I was trying to convince them to scrap it all. Nonetheless, I asked the network to shift its focus away from tales of Nigeria’s burgeoning wealth to the mass abduction of these girls. Thankfully, they agreed and the network recalibrated. Reporting teams received new assignments, and CNN did what it does better than just about any other network in the world: we kicked into high gear. I was ready and primed for my new mission. More than anything else, I felt I needed to speak to more Nigerians for their insight to the situation. Luckily, I’d been invited to a cocktail party that evening for some of Nigeria’s wealthiest and most well-known women. I’d get answers there.

  By the time I arrived at the upscale gathering, the room was hot and abuzz with chatter, clinking glasses, and the sound of cameras flashing as photographers eagerly captured some of Nigeria’s most recognized women gathered in one crowded room. Before long, I was in deep conversation with multiple guests. There were moments when I couldn’t believe what I was h
earing. The women I spoke with expressed a mix of skepticism, derision, and low-grade resentment for the Chibok girls story.

  “Are you sure there were girls actually taken?” one woman asked.

  “I don’t believe any girls are actually missing,” another mused.

  “Let CNN not come here again to show Nigeria in a negative light o!”

  I watched and listened while one woman after another rolled her expertly made-up eyes and waved a well-manicured hand to emphasize her personal doubt in the story of the missing schoolgirls. I did my best not to stand with my mouth open and eyes bulging out of my head. Repeatedly, one particular point was expressed. “These northerners most likely had a hand in the kidnapping of their own children to make Goodluck look bad.”

  I realized there was a significant section of Nigerian society that strongly believed the Chibok abduction was no more than an elaborate hoax with political objectives. These “Chibok deniers” saw a direct connection between Boko Haram and politicians from the north, many of whom strongly opposed the plan of the current Nigerian president to take part in the upcoming presidential elections scheduled for the following March, ten months hence.

  More than anything, I was struck by the complete lack of sympathy for the missing girls, and I wondered whether that hard-heartedness stemmed from the fact that the girls were poor and from Nigeria’s Muslim north. Most of the women I spoke to in that room were well-to-do Christians from other parts of the country. I was reminded again of the stark fault lines that divide Nigerians into disparate, self-interested groups.

  As I made my way back to the hotel at the end of the evening, my car wound its way through Lagos’s congested streets, with their endless motion of cars and bodies on foot. All I could think about was the narrative of denial I’d encountered. It weighed heavily on my thoughts and torpedoed my original theory that all of Nigeria was united in the face of this national tragedy. The cocktail party had also revealed something else: not everyone was thrilled to see CNN back in Nigeria and taking an interest in the Chibok story.