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We were five in the room,
Mama whispered her last prayer before bed,
the fan turned slowly, tired like the rest of us.
It was just another night
stars above, silence below.
Then the silence cracked open like a curse.

They came with shadows wrapped around them,
faces hidden, but eyes burning red.
No one spoke.
Only machetes did.
And they had a lot to say.

Mama screamed once.
Just once.
Then the world swallowed her voice.

They tied Papa with our bedsheets,
my brother's legs with my school uniform.
Stripped my little brother of his voice.
He hasn’t spoken since,
his voice buried somewhere in that forest.

We walked into the wild.
No shoes. No light.
Just prayers,
and the sound of death waiting.

One man tried to run.
They opened his stomach like a book.
Left him there,
pages of his life flapping in the wind.
Even the vultures were scared.

They didn’t ask for ransom.
They just wanted to own our fear.
They drank our tears like palm wine.

I saw them feed a girl to the fire
her body made music
no one should ever hear.

And I,
I was the lucky one.
I lived.
I breathe,
but every breath is a war.

Now, every dog bark is a gunshot.
Every knock feels like the end.
My voice is made of rust.
My dreams, full of graves.

This is not just my story.
It’s the story of every average Nigerian.
We live in fear,
every day, every hour.

I tell this so you know:
the North bleeds.
The South bleeds.
Our soil drinks too much of us.
And still,
we plant hope like yam,
praying for a harvest
where no one comes
with ropes and rifles.

We don’t ask if the horror will come,
we ask when.

Justice?
It’s a myth told in classrooms.
The wicked walk free,
hands free,
smiling.

We sleep with one eye open,
and our souls halfway buried.
Because in this country,
terror has no name
it wears many faces.
And the system?
It sleeps soundly,
while we bleed into the soil.

Tell the world:
this is not living.
This is survival.
And even that...
It is borrowed time.
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