Episode 2: Into the Devil’s Forest
The moment I heard the gunshots echo through the forest, something primal clicked inside me. I wasn’t just running anymore—I was fleeing death.
The angry voices got louder, closer. I couldn’t tell how many of them were coming, but it sounded like at least three. Flashlights were slicing through the trees like searchlights in a warzone. I forced myself to crawl deeper into the swampy undergrowth, ignoring the thorns digging into my flesh, the blood warming my feet as it mixed with mud and leaves.
And then—I saw it. A fallen tree, thick and hollow in the middle. Without thinking, I dove in.
I held my breath.
One of them passed just a few feet from me. His torchlight hovered, lingered on the leaves just above my hiding place. My heart beat so loudly I was sure he’d hear it. I could even smell his sweat—sour, angry.
Then he called out in Hausa:
“He went this way! Check the right path!”
They moved on.
I stayed inside that log for maybe twenty minutes. Could’ve been two hours—time was a blur. My mind was racing: Where am I? Which direction leads out? All I knew was, I had to keep moving.
Once the voices died down, I emerged slowly and began to head east, following the sound of running water. Bushcraft 101—rivers lead to roads.
But this bush wasn’t normal.
I know how crazy it sounds, but I swear I started hearing things. Whispers that weren’t wind. Footsteps that weren’t human. Twice, I thought I saw glowing eyes staring at me from the trees. Maybe fear was playing tricks on me—or maybe there was more in that forest than just men with guns.
I kept moving.
Then I stumbled on something that stopped me cold: a shrine.
It was hidden deep in the bush, surrounded by burnt-out candles, broken calabashes, and red cloths tied to trees. A black rooster’s head was nailed to a stump, still fresh. My legs wanted to move, but fear had frozen me in place.
Suddenly—crack! A twig snapped behind me.
I turned, heart hammering.
It wasn’t a kidnapper.
It was an old man.
Or at least… he looked old. Bare-chested, ash-smeared face, a necklace made of bones and cowries hanging down to his stomach. He stared at me like he’d been expecting me.
“You no suppose dey here,” he said quietly.
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
“You go die for here if you follow dat road,” he continued, pointing in the direction I was headed.
I didn’t ask questions. I turned back.
“Follow river. When you see bamboo tree with white cloth, climb. From there you go see red soil. Na dat road go save you.”
He explained
I’m not joking. I blinked.
Whether ghost, madman or bush priest—I don’t know. But I listened.
I followed the river until my legs could barely carry me. My skin was shredded by thorns. I was hungry, hallucinating. Then, around dawn, I saw it—the bamboo tree with the white cloth. It fluttered like a flag of salvation.
I climbed a small hill, pushed through more shrubs… and saw it:
A red-soil road. Fresh tire marks.
I collapsed right there and wept.
Minutes later, a bike carrying a sack of cassava stopped. The rider looked at me like I was a ghost.
“Jesus! Wetin happen to you?!”
I couldn’t even talk. Just pointed. He didn’t wait to hear the full story—he flung the cassava, lifted me onto the bike, and sped off.
I was taken to a small village health post. They gave me water. Bathed me. Called the police. I later found out that the rest of the kidnapped victims were moved again deeper into the forest. They were still missing.
I had escaped.
But not untouched.
Not unchanged.
Even now, I still see that girl’s face. Still hear the laughter of the man who almost killed her. And every time I close my eyes, I find myself back there—marching into the black heart of that forest with no name.
To Be Continued in Episode 3: Voices in the Trees
