Episode 4: The Silence They Paid For
Two days after the failed search, I got a call from the transport company.
At first, I thought they wanted to check on me, maybe offer an apology or support.
I was wrong.
A man with a sharp voice introduced himself as the company’s “regional crisis coordinator.”
“We heard about your unfortunate experience,” he began smoothly. “We’re deeply sorry. However, we kindly advise you to refrain from making public statements until the matter is fully investigated.”
I laughed bitterly. “People were kidnapped! Others might be dead! And you want me to keep quiet?”
He hesitated. “This incident, if mishandled, could damage our reputation and cause mass panic. Let’s not sensationalize it.”
There it was—damage control. Not justice. Not urgency. Not truth.
The next day, I visited the main terminal in Abuja where I had boarded the night bus. I asked around. The manifest had mysteriously disappeared. The ticketer who sold me my ticket had “gone on leave.” CCTV footage? “System failure.”
It was a full-on cover-up.
I wasn’t just angry—I was boiling.
So I called a friend of mine who worked in the media.
“Give me five minutes on radio,” I said. “Let me tell the country what happened.”
He hesitated. “Are you sure, bro? This thing you’re poking… it’s not small.”
“I’m already marked. Might as well shout while I still can.”
He agreed.
The interview went viral.
I spoke about the hijacked bus. The forest. The shrine. The failed police search. I didn’t hold back.
That was when the real pressure started.
First, I got calls from unknown numbers threatening me. One said, “You escaped once. Don’t tempt your luck.”
Then I received a cease-and-desist letter from the transport company’s lawyers accusing me of spreading “damaging lies.” They claimed my trauma had led to hallucinations and that no such incident had occurred.
But I wasn’t alone anymore.
Others began reaching out—relatives of passengers who never arrived in Enugu. A young man called me crying that his mother had boarded the same bus and hadn’t been seen since. Another sent me a picture of his cousin who was also declared missing after traveling that same route.
I compiled every name, every statement, and sent it to multiple news outlets, online blogs, and human rights groups.
And finally, someone listened.
A certain senator from the East picked it up and raised the matter in plenary. A few tabloids carried the headline:
“Kogi Forest of Death: Transport Company Accused of Covering Up Night Bus Kidnap.”
That was when the government began to panic.
The state police command issued a statement denying knowledge of any “mass abduction,” but promised to “reopen inquiries.”
But I knew what that meant—stalling. Delaying. Burying.
Until the public forgets.
Until another tragedy happens.
But I wasn’t letting this one fade. I kept pushing. Kept posting. Kept tagging officials. I became a one-man PR disaster for both the company and the state.
And that’s when the government finally acted.
They deployed something they should have from day one.
A joint military-police task force.
But by then… it was already too late.
To Be Continued in Episode 5: Operation Black Dusk
