Beneath the Tamarind Tree

by Isha Sesay

  Every single time I walked into my mother’s cubicle I was shocked. My brain needed to process the sight of my mother lying silently with her eyes closed all over again. I took her hand in mine and spoke slowly.

  “Mummy, if you can hear me, it’s your Isha. I have to go away for a few days. I am taking the Chibok girls home. You know how important this story has been to us.”

  I could feel my voice breaking, but I kept going. “So I’m going to take them home, then come right back to you. You’re not going to be alone. Niyi and Uncle Ayo and Aunty Tutu will come and see you every day. And I’ll be calling to check on you. I’ll be back in a couple of days. Everything is going to be okay. I love you.” By the time I started praying for her, my cheeks were wet. “Heavenly Father, look over my mother while I’m gone. Keep her safe from harm. Allow me to come back safely to her.” I leaned over the bed rail and kissed her gently on the side of her head, surprised as I always was by the warmth of her skin.

  Back on the road to the airport, I was stuck in multiple lanes of traffic for over an hour. Niyi, who was flying to Abuja with me, was driving separately and in the same situation. As it was already after five p.m., we’d abandoned hopes of making the six o’clock flight, but were now rushing to make the seven p.m. one. I wasn’t sure that was even possible given the gridlock.

  Lagos’s infamous motorcycle taxis, the okada, known for their recklessness and horrific accidents, were the only ones making it through the congestion. In 2012, the state’s former governor Babatunde Fashola had barred them from hundreds of Lagos’s roads in an attempt to minimize traffic accidents and ease the snarl-ups they habitually caused. Four years later, though, the okada continued to be a deadly motorized menace—and now they were my only hope of making it to the airport on time.

  Mel flagged down a bike. “We need to get to the domestic terminal, fast fast!” he shouted, pointing at me. The young driver looked over and grinned as I clambered onto the back of his bike and nervously wrapped my arms around his waist. Mel grabbed my duffel, which he pulled onto his shoulders like a backpack, and jumped on an okada of his own.

  I was barely sitting comfortably when my driver took off up the hill. From the whiny sound coming from his machine, it was clearly straining under our weight. The driver accelerated, weaving in and out of lanes of traffic, and without warning dove onto the pavement, narrowly avoiding pedestrians. My screams filled my ears, and my arms, clammy from his sweaty T-shirt, held on even tighter. I worried I was about to lose my life on a Lagos street, all for a story. I’m an idiot. Suddenly we were on the other side of the road, driving straight toward oncoming traffic. My stomach was in my constricted throat and the only words I could get out—“Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!”—seemed to greatly amuse the man holding my life in his hands. I prayed the entire way there.

  I don’t know how they did it, but Niyi and Mel were standing on the airport street corner, looking relaxed, when we pulled up. It was already after six thirty.

  “What about the flight?” I asked.

  “Delayed,” said Niyi.

  Of course it was! I’d risked my life to catch a flight that was delayed. By the time we took off at eight o’clock, I was worn out yet still battling anxiety about my mother, who was lying in a hospital bed across town.

  The plan was to fly to Abuja, meet the girls there in the morning, then fly with them to Yola. From there, it would be a six-hour drive to Chibok.

  But the moment we touched down in Abuja, questions from CNN management started. What kind of security was being provided by the Nigerian authorities? Were we traveling to Chibok by road or air? Were the vehicles to be soft skinned or armored? Would we have bulletproof vests? Satellite phones? I also learned that Stephanie and Lucky the cameraman were delayed and wouldn’t fly to Abuja until six a.m. the next day.

  “Steph, you guys have got to be on that first flight.” I struggled to sound calm.

  The next morning, I had to deal with the final hurdle for getting the CNN green light to proceed to Chibok: We had to supply pages of personal information to the network’s security team detailing emergency contacts and next of kin in the event that things went horribly wrong. It was the first and only time I’d had to do this, and the forms even included questions about marks that might help distinguish my body. In that moment, I grasped the magnitude of what I was moving toward.

  Meanwhile, Andrew Jones, the security risk specialist who’d traveled from London, was downstairs in the hotel lobby. But I still couldn’t reach Stephanie. When I finally got ahold of her, I was relieved.

  “Are you here in Abuja?” I asked.

  “No, we’re still in Lagos. There was a problem with the flight.”

  I froze. It was eight thirty a.m. Our instructions were very clear. We had to leave the hotel at nine with the government escort, who would take us to the twenty-one girls. Together with the girls, we’d leave for Chibok. With less than thirty minutes to departure, there was no way Stephanie and Lucky were going to make it, leaving me without a producer and camera person. When I hung up I wanted to cry.

  “Well, that’s it. It’s over. You can’t go anywhere,” Niyi said when I told him.

  But I was far from ready to give up. Not having a producer wasn’t the end of the world, as I could always produce myself. What really mattered was having someone run camera.

  I turned to Mel. “Can you help me find someone?”

  I called CNN London and told our handler, Sarah Sultoon, about the situation and the need to find a replacement. As we scrambled, the government escort was waiting for the CNN crew downstairs. It was eight forty-five.

  A bright-eyed Andrew appeared in the lobby carrying a large first-aid kit and bags filled with essential safety gear, including a bulletproof vest. I couldn’t believe how upbeat and energetic he was, having just spent the last couple of hours flying from London to Abuja at a moment’s notice.

  “We don’t have a producer or cameraman,” I told him.

  “So what now?” he naturally asked.

  I was still trying to figure that out when two men in dark suits walked over and quietly introduced themselves—our escorts.

  “I need to wrap something up. Please give me a few more minutes,” I lied, stalling for time, before I stepped away. There was no good news from Sarah in London; there weren’t any CNN photojournalists on the continent who would be able to make it to Abuja on time. I was losing hope, fast.

  Then Mel cleared his throat. “I was able to reach a friend who knows someone who’s done work for BBC and Al Jazeera. His name is Tim. He’s available.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “And he is willing to travel to Chibok?”

  “Yes.”

  The detour was unexpected and unwelcomed, but our escorts agreed. The skinny young man was waiting for us on a street corner.

  With our cameraman on board, we drove behind the escort car through the capital city. We eventually passed through a security checkpoint and into a large, sprawling complex where we would meet the girls. No one was milling around. Were these buildings for administrative or residential purposes? As I climbed out of the car I suddenly recognized the brick-covered pathway. This was where the joyous Sunday reunion between the girls and their families had happened weeks earlier. On these same bricks the rain and tears had fallen while the girls and their parents danced and celebrated.

  I told Tim to start filming immediately as I walked over and introduced myself to a couple of women standing beneath a covered walkway. They were part of the team involved in the rehabilitation of the girls. Dr. Anne Okorafor helped coordinate logistics around the girls’ care.

  “How are they doing?’ I asked her gently.

  “They are doing well. We’ve been working with them, medically, psychologically. And they’ve been coming up well. They are learning English, putting on weight . . .”

  “Have they had much contact with their families? Some are saying the families are being deliberately kept at bay.�
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  “No, that’s not true . . .” She dismissed the criticism that the girls had swapped one version of captivity for another, and were isolated from family members and the outside world. Dr. Okorafor said the girls were able to speak to their parents weekly, and she stressed that the girls needed space if they were to pull off a successful recovery.

  She was still speaking when the girls themselves suddenly appeared in their brightly colored outfits, pulling candy-colored luggage behind them. I was stunned. They were completely transformed from the silent, morose girls I’d met in the presidential villa just over two months earlier, now appearing as luminous beings with twinkling eyes and faces lit by broad smiles. They’d put on weight, and their now-plump cheeks were what drew my attention, instead of their previously sharp, bony limbs. There was an unmistakably celebratory mood in the air, with the girls chatting excitedly as they neatly placed their bags on the ground.

  The mood remained light even when Dr. Okorafor pointed out that they’d gotten a little ahead of themselves. “It’s too soon, you can take your bags back in.” There was no grumbling. Once all the bags had been cleared, I decided to go inside to see the girls and say hello. When I stepped through the doors, they momentarily stared at me warily till I reminded them we’d met before. “It’s me Isha, from CNN. Remember, I met you at the villa a couple of weeks ago?”

  Within seconds, their faces relaxed and big smiles took over as they nodded with newfound recognition. They rushed over to welcome me. “Hello, aunty,” they chimed one after another. The warm welcome made me emotional.

  “Who wants to take a selfie?” I shouted and pulled out my phone.

  Back in the villa, only a handful of girls had shown a real interest in posing for a picture. Now I heard feet racing across the tiles to push and jockey for a place on camera. In such a short time there had been so much monumental change in their lives, as well as in my own.

  The girls were to fly on a commercial aircraft to Yola, the capital of Adamawa State, and from there drive to Chibok. But there weren’t enough seats for the CNN crew on the flight. We needed four seats but had only two. It took pleading, persistence, and prayer, but against all odds, by the time the bus containing the twenty-one girls pulled into the airport parking lot, I had managed to get two more seats. We were all set.

  Tim kept the camera rolling as I stood on the steps of the bus and tried to gauge girls’ mood now that the journey home was finally under way.

  “Are you excited?”

  They mostly smiled and nodded, but there were some who looked uneasy. Dr. Okorafor explained they were nervous about the kind of welcome they’d receive once they got home to Chibok. One girl looked absolutely petrified, her eyes brimming with tears.

  I knelt in front of her and tried to allay her fears. “Don’t be nervous. Don’t be nervous,” I said to her bowed head while I held her hand. “You must hold on to your faith, that same faith you held on to in captivity.” She didn’t respond, but I sensed she was listening and that my words were having some effect.

  When it was finally time to board the plane, excitement among the girls surged. They giggled and teased each other. This was a moment they’d imagined and reimagined in the dead of night while they lay on the cold, hard ground in Sambisa Forest. Thoughts of this day had provided comfort when they’d had only each other. Finally, the journey home had actually begun.

  As the girls made their way down the narrow aisle of the plane to take their seats, fellow travelers didn’t seem to recognize them, or if they did, they made no obvious show of it. On the seventy-five-minute flight, I dug out the abaya and hijab Mel had bought for me. I let out a loud groan as I held it up to the light and saw the eye-catching gold pattern running all over it. I had no choice but to wear it over my jeans and T-shirt.

  The CNN team got off the plane before the girls disembarked, allowing Tim to capture their squeals of delight when they laid eyes on the small group of Chibok community leaders waiting for them on the tarmac. I was moved by the lingering warm hugs and loud laughter, struck by how each and every one of the girls began an encounter with these familiar older faces from home with a momentary bend of the knees to show respect.

  While we filmed the heartwarming scene, Andrew was busy with more practical matters. He called CNN Atlanta to provide a report on our whereabouts. As part of the security protocol, we had to check in every couple of hours to give our coordinates.

  The small Yola airport bustled with unsmiling DSS officials in smart suits huddled in groups and speaking in hushed voices. Once the reunions between the girls and the Chibok elders were complete, the group was led to a restricted VIP area to meet Jibrilla Bindow, the governor of Adamawa State, who was there to welcome the girls with a large contingent of aides and security officials. We hadn’t known the governor would be there. I wondered whether it was a matter of coincidence or an orchestrated plan to share in the limelight.

  Meanwhile, there was clearly no urgency on the part of the officials to leave the airport and begin the six-hour car journey to Chibok. But I knew that if we didn’t leave soon, we’d be driving into Boko Haram territory in the dark. This would never be approved by the network’s security team. And at the same time, a brand-new problem was facing us: the DSS officials at the airport hadn’t been notified that a CNN crew would be traveling with the girls. In the absence of an official notification, they weren’t prepared to let us go any farther.

  I tried to get this straightened out, but they only shrugged. “You’ll have to call Abuja. We know nothing about it here.”

  With the airport delay, the original plan to travel to Chibok that same day was shelved. Instead, everyone was headed to a hotel, and the convoy would leave in the morning. I knew that if my team was detained at the airport, it would be extremely difficult to catch up with the girls again. We had to stay together. I needed a lifeline—fast.

  The small VIP area was crammed full. The girls were seated on sofas that framed the edges of the room, but gone was the joy from earlier. They were unsmiling and looked uncomfortable. At the center of the room stood Governor Bindow, surrounded by aides, journalists, and a host of cameras.

  I balked at the scene, but I knew the governor was my only chance to get my crew out of the airport and alongside the girls on their journey home. So I pushed through the crowd of people, mumbling “Sorry” as I bumped elbows and deliberately moved bodies out of the way. I positioned myself next to the governor, who was in midflow addressing someone when I stepped forward and interrupted.

  “Good afternoon Mr. Governor, Isha Sesay, CNN. It is such a pleasure to meet you.” I offered a huge smile, my arm outstretched.

  I was clearly the last person he expected to see in his state, let alone following the twenty-one girls. As I was dressed in an abaya and hijab, it took him a few moments to recognize me.

  Then a wide, warm smile appeared. “Welcome, Isha!” he shouted and took my hand in his, shaking it vigorously. Right at that moment I knew we’d found our lifeline.

  I leaned into his shoulder, not wanting the entire contingent of Nigerian media present to hear. “Mr. Governor, do you think you could give me and my crew a lift to the hotel? Right now we don’t have a vehicle,” I whispered.

  “But of course. Not a problem,” he replied.

  Governor Bindow insisted I travel in his car, while Andrew, Mel, and Tim rode in a different vehicle within his convoy. I was uneasy about being separated, but given our predicament, I wasn’t in a position to refuse.

  When I stepped out of the VIP area to follow the governor to his vehicle, a host of microphones and cameras closed in on us. To my horror I realized I might end up as part of the story, plastered on the local Nigerian newscasts that night. So much for my goal of keeping a low profile while in the north! Thankfully, most of the questions were directed at Governor Bindow.

  As soon as the questioning ended, we sped down Yola’s wide, paved roads toward the hotel. The governor chatted away merrily and I spoke up
at the appropriate points, asking the right questions to keep him going, while I stared out the window and marveled at how different the landscape was from Lagos. From the deep reddish-brown sandy earth to the straggly straw-like savanna grass, it was clear we had jumped far north and were embracing the desertification of the Sahel. The sunlight had a stark, unrelenting quality and everything looked dry and parched.

  The governor’s convoy pulled up at the security barrier at the entrance to the American University Hotel. A line of vehicles swept up the long, pristine driveway fringed with well-manicured hedges, palm fronds, and numerous potted plants. When the vehicles stopped, aides appeared to open car doors. No one paid attention to the metal detector that marked the entrance to the lobby.

  When I arrived, the girls were already in the hotel’s expansive high-ceilinged lobby; their giggling and chatter filled the space. Tim tried to discreetly capture these relaxed scenes on camera and I stood off to the side taking it all in, staring at their relaxed features and carefree movements. In their new, brightly colored clothing, they were like birds of paradise: beautiful, delicate, and radiating pure joy.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  THE BRIEF PERIOD I SPENT IN THAT YOLA HOTEL ROOM LISTENING TO the soaring voices of the twenty-one girls before we set off for Chibok had a profound impact on me. Long after they’d stopped singing, I was still sorting through the thoughts and feelings they’d aroused while I watched them worship. Being there had opened a window to their faith, and what I glimpsed was transcendent, all-consuming, and resolute. Faith was the never-ending well from which they had drawn the courage to reject religious conversion and marriage during their time in captivity. It was what had kept them going. When separation from their loved ones tested that faith, it not only endured, but grew. That realization kept me in a state of awe.

  My mother’s stroke had taken her captive and left me wracked by grief. Now I wondered about my own faith and whether it would endure in quite the same way as theirs had.