Episode 5: Operation Black Dusk
It was called “Operation Black Dusk.”
A joint task force of the Nigerian Army, Police Special Tactical Squad (STS), DSS operatives, and hunters from the local vigilante network. The air was thick with tension and expectation when they began mobilizing. This time, it wasn’t just rifles and half-hearted effort—it was full-scale warfare.
I wasn’t supposed to know the operation date. But a contact from one of the media houses forwarded me the classified launch info. And I made sure the whole internet knew too.
It was their way of silencing me.
This was mine of making sure they couldn’t sweep it under the carpet.
On a Thursday morning, a convoy of trucks and armored personnel carriers rolled into the outskirts of Kogi state. Military helicopters hovered above like vultures, drones buzzed across the green canopy, and combat boots crunched the ground.
The villagers gathered in awe. This wasn’t just a rescue mission—it was a statement.
I stayed at the edge of the cordon, watching. One of the lieutenants recognized me.
“You’re the one who made noise on the internet,” he said, almost smiling. “Let’s hope you’re right.”
“I wish I wasn’t,” I replied, heart p******g.
The operation moved swiftly. I’d given them a rough idea of the path I took during my escape, and they cross-referenced it with heat signatures from drone scans and disturbed soil patterns. They found a few trails—barely visible, but fresh enough to follow.
By 3:47 PM, deep in the forest, one of the scout teams found something.
A fresh camp.
It wasn’t the one I escaped from—but it was similar.
Inside were crude shelters, broken chains, pieces of blindfolds, bloodstained sacks. They found a half-buried mobile phone and a handbag with ID cards from two missing passengers whose relatives had contacted me.
Then they stumbled upon something worse.
A mass grave.
Shallow. Disgusting. Fresh.
Thirteen decomposing bodies. Bound. Some with bullet holes. Others… mutilated beyond belief. One still had a yellow transport company luggage tag around her wrist.
It was unmistakable.
They were our people.
The task force pressed on, anger boiling in every step.
The drone captured movement a few kilometers northeast. They moved in. Gunshots rang out. The forest erupted in chaos.
Three of the kidnappers were killed. Five escaped. Two were captured alive.
One of the arrested—barely more than a teenager—confessed.
He told them the truth.
They had been operating that route for over eight months. The bus was targeted because a politician’s relative was expected on board. Turned out she missed the trip, but they took everyone else anyway. Most victims were either ransomed or… offered to organ harvesters.
Yes—offered.
The operation ended three days later.
Official report: 2 kidnappers captured. 13 victims dead. 6 rescued.
17 still missing.
But I knew the truth.
More people had died than they admitted. Some bodies were never recovered. Some of the officials on the field even whispered about a second, deeper camp they weren’t authorized to mention.
Even in death, the bush kept its secrets.
The transport company quietly sent compensation to the families of the missing without admitting fault. The state government claimed victory and “commended the security forces for swift action.”
Swift?
We screamed for weeks.
It was only swift when the world noticed.
That night, as I lay on a thin mattress at a press lodge in Lokoja, I dreamt of the bus again.
But this time, I wasn’t escaping.
This time, I was still inside.
And the girl… she was sitting beside me, blood on her face.
“You came back late,” she whispered.
“Too late.”
To Be Continued
