They were already in the air when Segal’s voice cut through the deafening roar of the chopper’s blades. “Change of plans! New coordinates—Sambisa Forest!”
Moses felt the cold sweat trickling down his spine, soaking into his shirt. His pulse pounded in his ears. Sambisa. The very name was enough to freeze his blood. A place so feared, that even the military hesitated to enter. Whispers of its horrors drifted through barracks and villages alike—dark, dense, a fortress for terror. There was no turning back now. The original destination he thought was supposed to be on the outskirts of Abuja. How had they ended up heading deep into Borno?
His throat went dry as his mind flickered to Dunni. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. She was out there somewhere, and now, they were hurtling toward the belly of the beast.
Segal moved to his side, his face grim. “I’ve been contacted by Andrew Akande. His wife was taken too.” He thrust a phone into Moses’ hands. A picture illuminated the screen—Dunni standing beside a woman he didn’t recognize. The image was taken on the first day of the conference. A sharp twist coiled in his gut. The helplessness gnawed at him. He had to get her out. He had to.
“The husband wants us to rescue her as well,” Segal continued. “And as many of the women as we can. The numbers change the dynamic. It’s Boko Haram. They’re asking for ransom—ten million naira per head and a hundred motorbikes. I’ve called for more men and more resources. We’ll have two bigger helicopters. We move in at midnight tomorrow.”
Dunni’s limbs burned with exhaustion. How long had it been—four, maybe five days? Time blurred together in the endless cycle of movement. They travelled by night and hid by day. The dry, smoky air clung to her skin, mingling with the scent of sweat and fear. Her lips were cracked, her throat raw. Hunger gnawed at her insides. The last thing they had eaten was stale, crumbling bread, its rancid taste still clinging to her tongue. But they had no choice. Strength was a necessity, not a luxury.
She glanced at Lana, her heart tightening. If they weren’t rescued soon, Lana would run out of medication. The consequences were too grim to contemplate.
A voice interrupted her thoughts. “What medication is your friend on?”
Dunni’s head snapped toward the sound. The voice was smooth, impeccable English with the slightest trace of an American accent. She squinted at the man before her, his eyes warm beneath the folds of his turban. Her shock was visceral. The contradiction unsettled her.
“We are not savages,” he said with a chuckle.
Under different circumstances, the joke might have been amusing. But here, surrounded by masked men and the echoes of suffering, it felt absurd.
“No one will be hurt,” he continued. “Those who have been… it was a necessity. To ensure obedience.”
Dunni stared at him. Had she seen him before? The faces around them changed constantly. The men who had captured them were long gone, replaced by new ones. There was no pattern.
“Diabetes,” she finally answered.
She had always believed that a closed mouth led to a closed destiny. Perhaps, just perhaps, this man could help.
“I’m a doctor. Harvard-trained.”
The accent made sense now. But nothing else did.
“Do you still practice?” Her voice held suspicion. If he was a real doctor, what was he doing here? Why was he with them?
“Yes,” he said briskly, then turned, his voice slipping seamlessly into the local dialect as he spoke to the others. Gone was the American twang.
Dunni’s stomach twisted with unease. She watched him blend back into the crowd, his posture no different from the rest. “Did you hear him?” she asked Lana.
Lana barely stirred. Her voice was a whisper. “No.”
Fear spiked through Dunni. “Are you okay?” she asked again, for what felt like the hundredth time.
“I don’t think I’ll make it,” Lana murmured. Her words were fragile, breaking against the heavy air. “Tell my son… I love him. Tell my father… to raise him as his own. With his twins.”
“Stop,” Dunni said fiercely, her hands trembling as she grasped Lana’s frail fingers. “You will make it. You will see your son again. That doctor—he’ll help us.”
“If he’s a doctor, I’m in America right now,” Lana muttered weakly, attempting a joke. She lifted her water gourd, but it was empty.
“I’ll get more.”
Dunni pushed forward toward the men. She held up the gourd in a silent plea. A grunt of acknowledgement, a rough hand snatching it away. “Go. Someone will bring it.”
She hesitated. This group was different. Their garb was just as tattered, their faces just as covered, yet there was an air of refinement. Educated men in the ranks of terror. She returned to Lana, sitting beneath the meagre shade from the mango tree, the heat pressing in on them like a suffocating blanket.
Night fell. They moved again, trudging deeper into the unknown. Dunni’s feet throbbed, her body weak, but she pressed on. They were given stale bread once more. She nibbled half and hid the rest for Lana. They scavenged as they walked—wild berries, bitter fruits, anything to sustain them.
A man approached, a blackened gourd in his hands. “Diabetes.”
Lana eyed the liquid warily. It smelled acrid. But she was too weak to care. If they wanted her dead, they would have killed her already. She drank it in one gulp, wincing at the foul taste.
“What was that?” Dunni asked, noticing Lana’s expression twist in disgust.
“Death potion,” Lana rasped. “To make my passage to the beyond easier.”
“Stop with the jokes!” Dunni snapped, her voice cracking. The fear of losing Lana made her skin prickle, goosebumps rising along her arms. They had only known each other for days, yet their fates were entwined forever. She shuddered at the thought of delivering a message of death to Lana’s family.
“It’s a local remedy,” the man said. “Herbs used for diabetes.”
Dunni narrowed her eyes. “If it works, why isn’t it in hospitals?”
His face darkened. “We don’t value what our ancestors left behind. Western medicine overshadows what is more potent.”
Dunni had no reply. A part of her wondered if he had just handed her friend a death potion.
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