They say the darkest nights birth the brightest dawns... But what if the night doesn’t end? What if it stretches on for 21 days? And you're not sure you’ll ever see the light again? Things were hard in Nigeria. So hard, it felt like hope itself was rationed. After five long years of joblessness, I finally got a job. A chance. A lifeline. It wasn’t a big job—but it was enough. Enough to feed my wife and three children. Enough to make me feel like a man again. I denied myself every luxury. I worked. I saved. I built. After four years, I finally built a house of my own. A small home in a remote area—because that’s all I could afford. But it was mine. Ours. Freedom from rent. From landlords. From shame. That night… I remember it clearly. We had dinner as a family. Laughter filled our little home. The children fell asleep with smiles on their faces. My wife and I stayed up watching TV. PHCN had taken the light, but the glow of the screen lit up the room. We were at peace. We didn’t know... evil was already at our doorstep. Suddenly… the door burst open. They came like shadows—silent but deadly. Fulani men. Armed. Fierce. Cold. They spoke Hausa. Their AK-47s pointed at our faces. We were surrounded before we even understood what was happening. They took our phones. No calls. No messages. No escape. Then, they singled me out. Me. Not my wife. Not the children. Just me. They dragged me out into the night. No one came. No help. No sound. Only my wife’s muffled cries and the silence of betrayal. They marched me—barefoot—through thorns, through bush paths. Four hours of walking. Four hours of pain, fear, confusion. Until we reached their camp. Deep in the jungle. And that was when I knew—I had been kidnapped. There were others. Men. Women. Even children. All broken. All trembling. All lost. They beat us. Fed us once a day—with cold, poorly cooked food. They kept shouting: “Call your people! Call your people or die!” They demanded ransom. Not just anything—four years’ salary. Do you understand? Everything I earned in four years… they wanted it in one go. But I had no rich uncle. No father to call. No one to run to. I was just a man trying to survive. I prayed. I wept. I stayed strong—for myself, and for the others. But inside… I was fading. Each day, they picked someone. Someone who didn’t return. One night… they killed a man. He was a father, like me. He begged. He pleaded. They shot him. And we all listened… in frozen silence. I thought my day would come. But somehow… Someone… somewhere… raised something. Not everything—but enough. After 21 days in captivity… They let me go. I came back different. Thinner. Quieter. Angrier. Not just at them—but at a country that allows this to happen. This is my story. But it’s also the story of many Nigerians. Silenced. Abandoned. Forgotten. I survived 21 days in Fulani captivity. But many… Many never return.