Beneath the Tamarind Tree

by Isha Sesay

  Team Sesay was all that was left of CNN’s dedicated resources to this story.

  I went to bed more despondent than I’d ever been during my time at the network.

  Chapter Twenty

  I WOKE UP THAT MONDAY IN ABUJA DEEPLY TROUBLED. FABS, STEPHANIE, and I met up late in the morning in our suddenly empty workspace to assess our chances of finding another opportunity to meet the girls. It didn’t look good.

  Stephanie had already started calling some of her contacts and we were busy mulling over other people to reach out to when it dawned on me that another opportunity might be at hand. I remembered the elaborate press opportunity the Nigerian government had fashioned from Amina Ali Nkeki’s journey to freedom. She’d been presented to President Buhari in the presence of a bank of cameras, creating a positive news story with the potential to boost to the president’s flailing political fortunes. If they’d done all of that to show off one girl, it was likely that there’d be another presidential presentation with all the associated fanfare for the twenty-one.

  We needed to confirm my hunch. Stephanie and I dug out our cell phones, and with notepads in hand began to call various well-placed individuals to find out. I called government aides, cabinet ministers; I even managed to track down a phone number for President Buhari’s daughter Aisha and spoke to her briefly. She confirmed there would be a meeting of the girls and her father, but she didn’t know when. We broke for lunch and headed to a popular local restaurant, parking ourselves in a corner away from the few people who dotted the small, sunlit eatery. Given its size and layout, I was worried everyone in the place would be able to hear me on the phone, so I stepped outside to continue my quest. I started each inquiry brightly enough, aware of my reputation for making Nigerian officials uncomfortable.

  “Oh hello, it’s Isha Sesay from CNN here. How are things?” Within a few seconds it was always obvious which way the call would go. Some responded stiffly and pled ignorance, others talked of plans not yet firmed up, several others just ignored my request for information altogether. Finally my persistence paid off. I eventually got the confirmation I was looking for. The girls and their parents were to be presented to the president the next day, Tuesday. Discovering a second chance to meet the girls overwhelmed me with relief. Now that we’d determined the presentation event was actually happening, we needed permission for the CNN crew to attend. Several phone calls later, I’d pulled it off. My spirits began to rise.

  The president of Nigeria has lived and worked in the Aso Rock Presidential Villa since 1991, when Nigeria’s capital moved from Lagos to Abuja. This sprawling compound is in the heart of Abuja’s central business district and in the shadow of the 1,300-feet rock formation from which the estate gets its name. Variously referred to as the Villa, Aso Rock, and State House, the lush grounds are formidably protected by multiples layers of security, which makes getting in and out of the compound a time-consuming ordeal. Cars must be left on the outskirts of the property, and all bodies and bags are scanned prior to admittance. Surveillance cameras and men with guns are everywhere; all movement is severely restricted. I couldn’t help noting, though, that the estate’s enormous peacocks are free to wander about at will.

  Stephanie, Fabs, and I showed up at the villa early on Tuesday afternoon and headed straight to the reception desk to present our IDs. I was a little surprised when we were told to take a seat so they could track down our contact. While we waited, other journalists gave their names and handed in their IDs, and then whizzed straight past us and out of the building.

  For almost half an hour we sat there in the cavernous, dark-tiled room while the team behind the expansive receptionist’s counter placed multiple phone calls to officials, attempting to confirm we were actually allowed to be there. When the all clear finally came, it was time for the next stage of security.

  We were ushered into another building. Here a bank of small lockers took up most of the room and an unfriendly looking security guard stood watch.

  “Put your cell phones in the tray in one of the lockers, and then lock it and take the key,” she instructed in no-nonsense fashion.

  There was no way I was going to leave my cell phone behind. Not when I knew how important it was to capture pictures of the girls. I could feel the security guard watch my every move, so I slowed down everything I was doing and elaborately searched through my small tan backpack. The bag bulged with makeup, notebooks, phone chargers, an earpiece, and snacks. I pulled out my iPhone with my back turned to the guardian of the vaults and loudly announced I was putting it away in the locker. I secured the small cupboard and pocketed the key. I stepped away and continued to smile sweetly as the guard eyed me with irritation.

  My heart was beating violently when I set my overstuffed bag down on the counter to be searched. Clearly overwhelmed by how much I’d crammed into it, the guard merely peered into the corners before pushing it back toward me. With a loud “Thank you,” I grabbed my belongings, spun on my heels, and walked briskly through the automated gate—with my second phone stashed away at the bottom of the crowded backpack.

  Almost as soon as I exited the building, an official standing on the covered concrete walkway yelled out, “Hello Isha, you’re late! The event is starting now. You need to hurry!” I took off running, calling over my shoulder to Fabs and Stephanie, who were following a few steps behind.

  The large, stately room with majestic floor-to-ceiling windows and sweeping swathes of brown marble was already full of journalists and VIPs, but President Buhari and his vice-president hadn’t appeared. The event had not yet begun.

  My blouse and jeans were already sticking to me by the time I walked into the hot room. With well over a hundred people crammed together, the space was loud and it took me a few minutes to gain my bearings. Multiple rows of chairs took up most of the hall. An aisle ran down the middle of the room, creating two separate seating sections.

  All the journalists appeared to be standing or sitting on the left; most looked pensive and uncomfortable. A raft of TV cameras mounted on tall legs occupied the aisle area and, as is always the case in these kinds of pressurized public events, the photojournalists lurked protectively by their equipment ready to lose their tempers at the slightest hint that another journalist was trying to encroach on their tiny plot of floor space.

  I’d been standing in the room for only a couple of minutes when an officious individual appeared at my side and started shooing me toward the other journalists. I was tempted to resist, but from the intense look on his face, I already knew there was no point.

  As he directed me, I wondered, Where were the girls? Were they in the room? Maybe they’d make an entrance with the president.

  Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw masses of bright, colorfully patterned outfits on the other side of the room, over by the imposing windows.

  The twenty-one girls!

  They were sitting quietly, almost frozen in their seats. At first I just stared, knowing they’d been through more than most of us could ever imagine. Many of them kept their heads bowed, staring intently at their hands, as others whispered quietly among themselves. They looked serious, uncomfortable in these surroundings—all except for baby Amos, who seemed serene sitting in one of the girl’s laps. He had full, round cheeks and bright eyes, and he wore a tiny white T-shirt with blue stripes, under a dusky green button-down vest and beige shorts. His chubby bare feet were exposed to the elements and kicking about. None of the room’s commotion seemed to bother him; he just sat there, staring in wonder.

  But Amos was the only source of joy in that section. I was pained by the girls’ obvious discomfort at the intrusive looks they were being subjected to. The girls occupied the first few rows of seats, while their parents and a handful of Chibok community leaders filled out the rest of the seating area on the right side of the room. At the very front, a handful of senior government officials, including the women’s affairs and social development minister, Aisha al-Hassan, who was playing a leading ro
le in the government’s efforts to support and rehabilitate the girls, and Lai Mohammed, the country’s minister of information and culture, all sat behind a long wooden table. A cherry-red microphone and two gray leather chairs were set out to mark the spot for the president and his deputy.

  It was obvious the government had intended to keep the girls away from the assembled media, which is why I was being corralled with other journalists. I had no intention of playing along. I just had to figure out a way to cross the divide and sit beside the girls. I had to make it happen under the watchful gaze of dozens of government officials and journalists and somehow avoid being thrown out of the villa.

  I was running out of time. Once President Buhari appeared, I would be stuck, unable to lift a finger, let alone walk across the room in his presence. I scanned the mass of bodies in the room in search of Fabs and Stephanie. They too needed to cross over. Fabs had wedged his camera into a small opening among the dozens of other cameras; he was set up and waiting for the program to begin.

  I pushed my way through the dozens of people milling about and whispered to him, “I’m moving across.”

  Meanwhile, Stephanie was in a conversation with someone toward the back of the room. I caught her eye and used my head to indicate that we needed to move. I couldn’t wait any longer. I took a deep breath and stepped into the rows of seats filled by Chibok parents and community elders. I mumbled out loud to no one in particular about needing to find somewhere to sit as I squeezed my way through the barely existent gap. The whole time I feared being yanked from the room by some Nigerian official or falling face-first into the lap of the elderly individuals occupying the surrounding seats. “Excuse me,” “I’m sorry,” “Apologies,” I murmured with each step I took, focusing on not stepping on the numerous pairs of exposed feet I passed.

  When I finally plopped myself down on the cold, tiled floor on the far side of the room, I was close enough to touch the twenty-one recently returned Chibok girls. Now that I was this close, I was struck by the haunted look in their dull eyes. Yes, they’d been released from captivity. But from their faraway looks, it seemed they weren’t all the way back or totally free. With all the cameras and the people staring at them, it’s likely they felt trapped once more. All they could do was sit with pursed lips, occasionally whispering to each other.

  Whenever they spoke among themselves, I noted, it was in Kibaku, their local dialect. As I watched them, I glimpsed a host of personalities hidden behind their somber masks. I saw their playful natures, flashes of warm smiles and raised eyebrows accompanying quizzical smirks. Occasionally brief laughter broke out, and I noticed how the chuckling brought down their stiff shoulders, the way their tense muscles relaxed and facial features softened, revealing the young girls they still were. But just a moment later, they’d grow serious and cautious again, replacing their softness with the impenetrable masks once more. Sitting this close, I also noticed that they were all wearing makeup. Dramatic eyebrow arches drawn with black pencil framed their faces and lip gloss illuminated their mouths. I wondered how much these small pleasures like wearing lipstick meant to them after years of hardship and deprivation.

  Though much of their ordeal was invisible to prying eyes, the state of their bodies couldn’t be completely hidden. I had seen the pictures of their arrival in Abuja and been struck by how thin they were but I was unprepared for this degree of emaciation. Sharp, angular bones pushed against papery skin. Their thin, reedy limbs looked brittle enough to break if too much pressure was applied. The multicolored blouses and matching skirts they wore were too big for most of them and hung loosely from their bony chests and hips.

  I stayed in my crouching position and crept slowly toward them. Many in the room, I knew, would be tracking my every move. I wasn’t sure what my first words should be. After years of talking about the Chibok girls, I was now a little unsure of what this group of twenty-one would make of a strange woman who suddenly appeared by their side. I tried to ignore my racing pulse. With a big smile on my face, I quietly said, “Hello.”

  I was unprepared for their reaction, mostly a catalog of cold, blank stares. But a couple of girls sitting closer to me, at the end of the row, smiled shyly at me before quickly dropping their heads and looking down at their laps. Maybe they’d been warned not to speak to any journalists. Half of the group stared at me with wary looks. More nervous now, I pressed on. “Hello, my name is Isha. I’m a journalist with CNN. It is so good to see all of you. I’ve been telling your story for a very long time. I am so happy you are home.” I noticed the surprised looks on some of their faces. Maybe it was actually disbelief that people beyond their families and community cared they were free. I could tell they needed help in making sense of me, so I told them more.

  “I’m from nearby Sierra Leone and you are all my African sisters,” I explained. At that, the girls on the end let out high-pitched squeals and smiled more warmly. Others in the group also looked at me, but this time their eyes shone a little brighter. Learning that I was African was obviously a pleasant surprise. Still, a couple in the group just stared blankly at me before turning away. Meanwhile, Stephanie, who, like Fabs, had surreptitiously made it across the room, shuffled closer to the girls and also introduced herself.

  I turned my attention to the two girls sitting closest to me who continued to smile shyly. Like the others, they wore ankle-length skirts, with blouses in an array of dazzling colors. Theirs were made from a brilliant blue-and-yellow-patterned fabric, and their heads were swathed in similar material. Looking at their small frames, I found it difficult to believe all these girls were in their late teens. They looked no more than thirteen or fourteen.

  “How are you doing?” I asked softly and the girls giggled once more.

  With heads bent into their chests they mumbled, barely audible, “Fine.”

  “How does it feel to be back?”

  I just about made out “happy.” Their voices were so soft. They continued to smile and cast furtive glances at each other.

  I knew from my travels that one surefire way to break the ice with people is to request a selfie. I glanced over to see whether anyone was watching, and then I brought out the cell phone I wasn’t supposed to have.

  “Would you take a picture with me?”

  Many nodded their heads enthusiastically. We huddled together and I snapped several pictures. I showed them the photos. When they saw themselves on my screen, they giggled with obvious delight.

  But then, without warning, there was a flurry of activity at the front of the room. I looked up to see the president and vice-president entering. President Buhari, painfully thin due to illness, was clad head to toe in white: a long-sleeved tunic top with billowing sleeves, trousers, and matching white kufi, the traditional hat worn by Muslim men. Vice-President Osinbajo was similarly dressed, but in dark hues.

  The men took their seats at the center of the table, flanked by other senior officials. The vice-president welcomed everyone with a warm tone that quickly put people at ease. When he finished speaking, one of the twenty-one girls stood and looked around nervously. She’d been given a cue to do something. She gathered herself and then she started to sing. Seconds later, the rest of the group rose to join her in singing a Christian song of thanks. As I listened, all the girls clapped gently and swayed slowly from side to side, the whole time staring blankly into space. It was meant to be a celebratory moment. Instead it was awkward, and the girls’ eyes were full of sadness.

  When the song ended, the same girl was the only one who remained standing.

  “We are happy to see this wonderful day because we didn’t know we would come back to be members of Nigeria. Let us thank God for his love.” She spoke slowly and clearly, in halting English, summing up their fears and gratitude. I was struck by how she tamed her obvious nerves and delivered her remarks to the stern-looking president and his officials. I could feel the girls’ emotional turmoil there in the room with us, and I wondered what would happen to them after th
is presidential visit. What would their futures look like?

  One of the Chibok leaders then spoke and said that the community and the girls’ parents all believed the girls’ futures would be best served by keeping them in the care of the government. I felt mixed emotions. I understood the financial difficulties experienced by most of the Chibok families. Handing over their daughters would ease the financial load considerably and possibly position the girls for opportunities their parents could never provide. Even so, this meant the girls were being handed over from Boko Haram to the government, from one group of overseers to another. They weren’t actually going home at all. I was deeply troubled.

  When President Buhari finally spoke, in his customary low, weak voice, he talked about the government’s continuing responsibility to care for the girls.

  “These twenty-one girls will be given adequate and comprehensive medical, nutritional, and psychological care and support. The federal government will rehabilitate them and ensure that their reintegration back to the society is done as quickly as possible,” he droned on.

  “Aside from rescuing them, we are assuming the responsibility for their personal, educational, and professional goals and ambitions in life. Obviously, it is not too late for the girls to go back to school and continue the pursuit of their studies. These dear daughters of ours have seen the worst that the world has to offer. It is now time for them to experience the best that the world can do for them. The government and all Nigerians must encourage them to achieve their desired ambitions.”

  The girls sat expressionless through it all, their masks firmly back in place, obscuring whatever emotions they were feeling. In the days since, I have replayed this afternoon in my head and always wondered what was going through their minds.

  Once the speeches were done, the room sprang to life and officials darted about to coordinate a series of photo ops.