It was an unfortunate morning in April 2020;
Sadiq, my 15-year-old cousin, came out of the house to open the gate for his father to leave for work. After his father drove off, Sadiq closed the gate. At that moment, his friend Muhammad, who was 18 years old and lived nearby, approached him and asked him to come see something at their house. Sadiq agreed and followed him. That was the last time anyone saw him alive.
Muhammad reportedly struck Sadiq on the head and tied him up. A few days later, news spread that Sadiq had been kidnapped, and the abductors were demanding a ransom of 5 million naira. The money was paid in cash.
Throughout this period, Muhammad sat with our family, mourning and praying for Sadiq’s safe return. He even spoke about the pigeons they shared, saying he could not wait for Sadiq to come back so he could give him his share.
Days passed without Sadiq’s release. The kidnappers instructed my uncle to pick him up at a location 15 kilometres away. When my uncle arrived, nothing was there. It was later suspected that he too had been targeted, and he narrowly escaped.
Afterwards, another call came demanding an additional 500,000 naira. In a fateful mistake, the caller sent his bank account details. The money was transferred, and investigations, surprisingly, traced the account directly to Muhammad.
Security personnel began searching for him and eventually apprehended him at Yankari Game Reserve in Bauchi, where he was relaxing and chilling with his friends with the ransom money. He was heavily high on drugs and had to be hospitalised. During interrogation, he implicated two of our cousins, who were arrested and remanded in custody.
The revelation tore our family apart. Relationships were shattered,
some remain broken to this day, even after it was confirmed that the cousins were not involved.
It was later discovered that Muhammad had killed Sadiq shortly after abducting him even before collecting ransom. He struck him, slaughtered him, and buried his body in a field within their compound. When my family and authorities dug up the site, Sadiq’s remains had already begun to decompose. What was recovered was placed in a leather bag. We performed his Janazah and buried him at the graveyard.
Tensions escalated. Our family wanted to burn down Muhammad’s house, but the police intervened. The government deployed two to three police Hilux vehicles with barricades to guard the property.
The governor, his wife, and several prominent figures visited to offer condolences and promised that justice would be served, promises that proved empty.
Muhammad had used the ransom money to buy a car, phones for his friends, and to flaunt his newfound wealth.
The case dragged on while my uncle’s once-happy home lay in ruins. A successful and lively doctor, he lost his spark. Both he and his wife fell ill. Their firstborn son had to be sent abroad to study to escape the trauma. His mother suffered a partial stroke, and some of the children were moved to boarding school.
Threats followed. My uncle received warnings that if he did not drop the case, he would be killed. Letters were slipped into his car. He became withdrawn and numb, avoided people, and eventually left the state for work elsewhere. He wanted to sell the family house and move, but it was too large and expensive to attract buyers easily. He was forced to remain there, constantly seeing the killer’s house heavily guarded by police just nearby. Life became miserable and depressing for him, and us, the family in general.
As time passed, the case continued. Muhammad was granted bail and walked freely as if nothing had happened. His family, leveraging their connections, allegedly worked tirelessly to shield him from punishment. His father held a position in the administration and came from the same political axis as the governor, which explained it all.
Muhammad grew arrogant. He once splashed water on my uncle while driving past him in the area.
There was one period my dad became obsessed with “healthy living.”
Suddenly sugar was banned in the house. Soft drinks disappeared. Even indomie became “too processed.”
This man started blending random fruits and vegetables every morning.
One day he made one dark green smoothie and forced everybody to taste it.
My younger brother drank his own and immediately started crying..
We laughed so hard my dad got offended and drank two full cups himself to prove a point.
Thirty minutes later, he quietly sent my brother to buy suya and maltina for the whole family.
So yesterday PCOS was renamed to PMOS. After 11 years and about 22,000 people fighting for it.
If you’re one of the women who was told to just lose weight or come back when you want children, the reason it was renamed is going to make a lot of things make sense.
Keep reading🧵🩷
Women are literally finding self healing methods for PCOS on their own. They're trying to treat themselves. No healing methods are offered other than birth control pills. In an era where technology has advanced this much, they can't find a cure for PCOS.
She said "My husband added another wife. Before then, I was just a normal career woman, balancing house chores and my job. But after he married the new wife, things changed 😭.
The bride is so weird, she’ll wash his clothes, cook all sorts of irrregular dishes… so I also started doing whatever she does 😭. But anytime I catch up, she comes up with another weird thing.
Today, as I was leaving for work, I saw her washing his car. Omo, I just looked at her and said, ‘To kashe ni ki huta?’" 😂
Happy Mother’s Day to myself for every sleepless night, every silent sacrifice, every flaw, and every moment I still chose love. I may not be a perfect mother, but I am a loving one, and that is enough. 🤍
Happy mother’s day to all mom in the world🥰
I hope when the soil covers my body one day. It doesn't feel as heavy as the hardships we are facing in this duniya but peaceful as it will be in akhirah.