Beneath the Tamarind Tree

by Isha Sesay

  At dinner in the hotel restaurant that evening, I couldn’t stop staring at them. They looked like an ordinary gaggle of girls, unguarded and untouched by life’s cruelties. They chatted and their bodies swayed gently as laughter traveled from their bellies and up into their throats. The sound of joy filled the dining room. I couldn’t wait to see them reunited with their families in Chibok, back where they belonged.

  We’d be on our way there immediately after breakfast the next morning. But before then, I wanted to speak with a couple of the girls on camera for my CNN report to learn more about their lives since being released ten weeks earlier. I turned to Madame Yanna for help because, as leader of the Chibok parents’ association whose own daughter Rifkatu had been taken and remained missing, I knew she’d be able to convince a couple of the girls to speak to me. Cameraman Tim set up for the interview in the sparsely furnished lobby. Realizing that we had only one wireless microphone for three of us on camera, I felt a flash of annoyance but then reminded myself I was lucky to even have a cameraman. The solution was awkward but it was the best we could come up with: I would sit between the two girls and pass the little microphone back and forth during the conversation.

  Soon, Madame Yanna appeared with two of the girls, a nervous-looking Rebecca Mallum and Glory Dama. They both smiled broadly but struggled to maintain eye contact. Instead, their heads remained bowed while they awkwardly twisted and flexed their fingers. Even after we took our places on the snug sofa and I explained what to expect from the interview, they still looked uneasy. Seeing how nervous they were and being conscious of all they’d already endured, I wanted them to feel at ease, much more than I wanted to capture every last detail of their story on camera. My prevailing goal was to avoid retraumatizing them.

  “What has life been like for you in Abuja? What have you been doing?” I asked.

  Rebecca spoke first, her gaze trained on her lap, her English rusty. “In Abuja, we enjoy and very grateful for them . . . because they protect good . . . they have done good for us. And when we are in Abuja we are playing football. We have English classes . . . we are learning how to speak English and writing very well.” Her sentences came out slowly. She smiled shyly between pauses, searching for the right English words.

  A note of satisfaction accompanied her revelation about playing football and being back in the classroom in Abuja. In captivity, “playing” had been out of the question. The girls had been denied anything and everything that had brought them joy. Meanwhile, the English classes were a reminder that the girls were still hungry to learn, the reason they’d attended the Chibok Government Girls Secondary School to begin with, in defiance of cultural norms. That hunger clearly hadn’t been diminished during their years in Boko Haram captivity.

  Glory, a pretty girl with a wide, warm smile and plump cheeks, expressed the same joyful gratitude for the care they were receiving in Abuja. Just like Rebecca, when she spoke it felt like she was trying out the new, unfamiliar words of the English language.

  When I’d first met these girls in the presidential villa in Abuja, I’d studied their sallow skin and sad eyes. Now, ten weeks later, Rebecca and Glory sat on either side of me with bright skin and their eyes glinted with joy. I was curious about what they saw when they looked at themselves in the mirror. “You look so different, you’ve put on weight. How are you feeling from that time to now?”

  Rebecca responded. “We are feeling beautiful . . . because since we came . . .” Her words trailed off. She laughed nervously, almost as if she suddenly doubted her own perception.

  I smiled encouragingly and coaxed her to continue. “You are beautiful,” I said firmly and lovingly.

  She was suddenly overcome with what seemed to be uncertainty. Her face shut down, as did Glory’s. Both the girls’ eyes narrowed. Neither was comfortable dwelling on this question. Talking about their physical transformations dredged up difficult memories.

  “Are you nervous about how you’ll be received back in Chibok?”

  They both fidgeted. With chins tucked into their chests they mumbled unintelligible words. Clearly this was another gray zone they didn’t want to delve into. With each passing moment, I felt them growing tenser. After a few more unsuccessful attempts to encourage them to share more, I brought the interview to a close.

  Judging by the speed with which Rebecca and Glory leapt off the sofa, they couldn’t have been any more relieved to have the interview over with.

  Walking back to my room, I felt anxious about the girls’ and my safety for the next day. We would journey by road to Chibok, traversing terrain on which Boko Haram had frequently terrorized travelers with improvised explosive devices and suicide bomb attacks. Even though we’d be in an armed convoy, surrounded by security experts fully prepped with contingency plans, anything could happen. Essentially, the situation was out of our hands.

  I felt the same sort of powerlessness with my mum’s condition. There was nothing I could do to wake her from the coma. The only thing I had power over were the prayers I said for my safety and everyone making the journey in the next couple of hours, as well as for my mother, who was marooned in a different dimension.

  I eventually climbed into bed near midnight, but I found it difficult to sleep. My mind churned and I couldn’t get comfortable on the hard hotel mattress.

  I was still tired when the sound of singing pervaded my dreams just before dawn. But even through the fog of my fatigue, I knew what I was hearing and was deeply moved by the girls’ early-morning devotion. The soothing sounds of their faithfulness filled the hotel’s corridors and buoyed my spirits.

  I showered and dressed for the journey, but unlike the day before, when I occasionally took the flowing abaya off and wandered throughout the hotel without concern that I’d be recognized or might offend someone, now we were headed beyond the walls of the American University Hotel. I could no longer afford such risks. I put on the gown and headscarf.

  The girls were going home to spend the holidays with their loved ones, but I wouldn’t be staying. My plan was to drop them off in Chibok and return to Yola that same evening. I grabbed my essentials: a notepad, a couple of pens, my phones, all the Nigerian naira I had with me, and dumped it all in my black backpack. The extra clothing and toiletries I stuffed in my black duffel bag and left it in a corner of the room to await my return from Chibok later that same day.

  I was waiting in the mostly deserted lobby when the girls passed through on their way to breakfast. To my surprise, each one of them paused as she walked past, wrapped her arms around me in a gentle embrace, and whispered “Good morning.” Twenty-one hugs from these girls who’d been through so much stirred me; I felt tears gathering. I was forming a bond with them, and their gesture reminded me of that and served as an affirmation of my difficult decision to leave my mother in Lagos.

  The girls tucked into a morning buffet of fresh fruit, Nigerian breakfast staples of yams, noodles, and spicy stews, as well as eggs, breakfast potatoes, and beef sausage. Meanwhile, outside, multiple trucks—including one with a formidable looking antiaircraft gun—along with buses and other military vehicles moved into place. I was taken aback by the scene spread out across the driveway: a mass of security officials in various colored uniforms, many with rifles slung casually over their shoulders, some in black helmets. Others sported green berets and several wore bulletproof vests. Right in front of the hotel’s double doors sat a white minibus to carry the twenty-one girls and their community leaders back home to Chibok.

  The Nigerian military and police had readied themselves for this journey of incredibly high stakes. Since the administration of Goodluck Jonathan had faced almost universal condemnation for its response to the Chibok abductions, President Buhari’s government understood that even the smallest mishap now would catapult it into the same domestic political abyss. Internationally, the fallout would be swift and damaging if anything went wrong.

  Given the concerns of a roadside ambush or some other type of attack, the
journey from Yola to Chibok had to be completed before dark. This meant our ten-vehicle convoy needed to be on the move for close to six hours and stop only when absolutely necessary. We’d be racing against the setting sun.

  Before we left, Governor Bindow appeared again to say goodbye, as Andrew, the CNN security specialist, finalized our plan. This included securing a separate vehicle for us, specifying our position within the convoy, and preparing our tracking equipment and bulletproof vests.

  When I got to the car, my vest was waiting.

  “I need you to go ahead and put on your vest now,” he said in his usual good-natured way.

  I was taken aback and a little confused. “You want me to wear it while I’m in the car?” I casually reached down to scoop it up, shocked by its weight; I needed both hands to lift it. Andrew helped me put it on, and when he finally got it over my head, I groaned from the weight of the two metal plates protecting my chest and back.

  While the CNN team readied itself for departure, the twenty-one girls and their assortment of rainbow-colored suitcases on wheels emerged from the hotel. It was time to set off.

  As we made our way through Yola, the town’s young and old stopped on the side of the road and stared. The sight of such a large convoy crammed with armed soldiers and police triggered looks of apprehension. This town, like many others in Adamawa State, had felt the sting of Boko Haram’s deadly violence. With the convoy’s weapons brazenly displayed, we proceeded at a steady pace, dominating the uneven roads as we moved.

  We passed large tracts of undeveloped land; the fierce northern sun had left the soil baked hard and parched. I sat silent. No one was in the mood for mindless chatter. We all understood the stakes were too high.

  We passed through a litany of towns including Gombe, Song, and Hong, all of which had been blighted as recently as 2015 by repeated Boko Haram attacks that had left scores of residents dead, with countless structures—government buildings, schools, shops, and churches—either riddled with bullets or burned to the ground.

  As with Chibok, life in these towns looked hard, all efforts centered on working the land and keeping cattle. The few roadside convenience stores we passed were bleak, dust-covered structures. Clusters of mud-walled homes could be glimpsed behind crumbling, sloping fences. Half-finished cement-block buildings dotted the route. Even the trees, gnarled with branches hung low and leaves shriveled and drooping, seemed to add to the sense of desolation.

  Just before we crossed into the town of Mararaba Mubi, our security detail shifted from the dozens of soldiers who’d left Yola with us to a new contingent of soldiers who would continue on with us after that boundary area.

  After five hours of navigating long stretches of pitted-out roads, we stopped in that small town within the Hong local government area. Just two years earlier, Boko Haram had attacked it and sent its terrified residents fleeing. Now Mararaba Mubi found itself in the terror group’s crosshairs whenever it launched an attack on one of several strategically important towns nearby.

  We headed straight to a gas station in the middle of a bustling intersection for fuel. A handful of armed soldiers fanned out and formed a loose cordon around the minibus.

  The area surrounding the gas station, meanwhile, was a riot of sound and activity. Roadside tables were loaded with an assortment of fresh fruit and local snacks—fried bean cakes and yams. Street sellers hawked household wares, jostling for business next to a strip of small shanty stores loaded with canned goods, soaps, body creams, cookies, noodles, flashlights, drinks, and snacks.

  The pause in the journey was a welcome break. My back ached from the weight of the bulletproof vest, and I needed to get more footage to help viewers understand the trip. Before I opened the car door I carefully scanned my surroundings, checked my abaya, and then pulled the folds of my headscarf closer to my face.

  As soon as I stepped into the energy-sapping heat, I sensed that something wasn’t right. Groups of men were clumped together on the side of the road, staring intently at the convoy. I looked around nervously. There was no time to dwell on my unease. I had to come up with something to say and capture it on camera before the convoy got moving again. Droplets of sweat gathered under my black abaya and hijab.

  When Tim pointed the camera at me, it took me three attempts to say “Mararaba Mubi” correctly.

  So the convoy has stopped in a town called Mararaba Mubi, which is about an hour away from Chibok. The movement of the convoy, through these parts, such a well-armed convoy, is drawing attention from passersby. . . .

  I was rattled.

  After getting our shot, I checked on the girls, wondering how they were feeling now that Chibok was only an hour away. I stood in the bus doorway and tried to make conversation. The girls seemed pensive, answering my queries with low-key smiles and half nods.

  “Does anyone want a drink?” I asked.

  Only a few registered the offer. The rest shook their heads or looked away.

  Even so, I still wandered over to the shops, moving quickly and keeping my head down. Mel was by my side, his short, stocky body tense and his eyes darting from side to side. The stores were cramped and overwhelming. Items for sale hung from the ceiling, covered the walls, and occupied every space on the floor. Mel talked with the shopkeepers while I stood quietly. We walked back to the minibus with an assortment of soft drinks, potato chips, nuts, and cookies. For all the girls’ initial reluctance, their response was as I’d hoped. The treats were happily received.

  Thirty minutes later we were back on the road, and before long we came into the girls’ home state of Borno, which, alongside Adamawa and Yobe, had been under the state of emergency imposed by President Jonathan back in 2013 when the conflict with Boko Haram was at its bloodiest high point. Signs of the long-running conflict were impossible to ignore. Rusted tanks and artillery sat conspicuously idle on the side of the road.

  As we neared the outskirts of Chibok, bulbous rock formations dominated the horizon. Their appearance gave the arid landscape an otherworldly feel and intensified my sense of being far off the beaten track. The closer we got to Chibok town, the more the road conditions deteriorated, the gouges growing deeper and wider, forcing the convoy to slow considerably.

  Before arriving in Chibok for the first time that day, I’d been reporting on the town for two and a half years. I’d seen the images of the town, read and reread accounts of what had happened when Boko Haram brought terror to these parts on April 14, 2014. I’d spoken to parents, young girls, and others who hailed from this community.

  And yet Chibok had remained a vague, almost illusory place in my mind. Now actually arriving there, and seeing with my own eyes the faded matchbox cement houses with roofs made out of rusted corrugated-iron sheets, the collectives of mud and thatched dwellings all lining the sandy road, was surreal.

  The few cars lumbered past slowly, mindful of the treacherous road surface. A far more common sight was a man wearing traditional floor-length robes over flowing trousers with opened-toed sandals pushing an aged bicycle with strangely large wheels. A young boy, probably eight or nine, in a faded yellow open-neck shirt sat on a worn wooden bench behind a compact table displaying his wares: six little off-white sticks of yam. He watched the vehicles of our convoy pass with a sad expression that didn’t change. Groups of men lounged in front of houses as sheep grazed in front yards or amid inhospitable-looking fields.

  As the military convoy appeared in Chibok town, residents noticed. People looked up from their spots in front of their homes, traders manning small roadside tables strained necks to see what was happening. People waved excitedly, children squealed as the community realized their girls were finally home. The excitement grew as we made our way through town to a large house behind compound walls, which belonged to a local politician. It was midafternoon when the girls disembarked and were ushered inside. Beyond the compound’s walls, I noticed a large pile of sand in one corner, as well as an open pit in the middle of the yard with an eight- to ten-f
oot drop, at which point I realized that parts of the house were still being constructed. Past the front door, we found ourselves in a large room with no other furniture apart from white plastic chairs. The walls of the room were painted a curious mix of cream from ceiling to halfway down, then a pink-toned lilac from midway to the dark concrete floor.

  The girls eagerly seated themselves, grinning widely, chatting excitedly as they looked about. Peals of laughter rang out, giving the room a celebratory feel. They were finally back and everyone was ecstatic, all of us savoring this homecoming, which had been years in the making.

  We’d been waiting for half an hour when a soldier stepped into the middle of the room. Brigadier General Omoigui, of medium height with a muscular physique, moved in a self-assured way. He gave the distinct impression that he was the man in charge and more than comfortable with the authority he wielded. He cleared his throat and introduced himself. I was prepared for a warm welcome, but not for what he said next, addressing the girls.

  “Due to ongoing military operations in and around your homes and the lack of security, we will not be able to let you go home.”

  The faces of the girls changed as his words registered.

  “We have made arrangements for you to spend the Christmas period here in this house. Your families will have free access to come here and spend time with you.”

  By the time he’d finished speaking, every girl in the room was wailing. In the blink of an eye the joyous homecoming had become a nightmare.

  All around me girls doubled up in grief. It felt like an emergency.

  I tried to console them. “Don’t cry, we’ll work something out.”

  Nothing made any difference. They were too far gone. Having traveled so far, having held out hope for so long, they couldn’t hold their emotions in check.

  The Nigerian military was wrecking the girls’ homecoming. I stood up, searching for the brigadier general. I spotted him on the patio surrounded by other soldiers. When I stepped outside, the men stared at me, a perplexed looks on their faces.