I am Janada, our beautiful home was raided by insurgents as a result we had to run for our lives, many fell that day including my dad and two brothers; only me , my mom and my little sister were left. The Ambush was abrupt, deafening and chaotic. We had to vacate all we knew of our home in our mountainous habitation and move to a different location called IDP camps. Although it is relatively safer than our homes, it has never been the same.
It hurts especially as younger girls of 8-9 years give themselves away simply because they want that special treatment The very people who should protect us are ravaging the young girls in the camps especially because they are all vulnerable, naïve and abandoned with no hope of ever seeing their family members again. They are all so vulnerable and wounded. It’s so easy to take advantage of them.
Donations are made by politicians usually close to the elections periods because they need our votes, they see our vulnerability as opportunity because we are only useful as statistics. How can someone prey on the misfortune of another human being? Where do you draw the line? More so those items were given to the government officials to share for the destitute and you wouldn’t believe the government officials butchered the cows and distributed other food items amongst themselves, there’s no one to speak for us.
The outbreak of diseases and death rate among my fellow displaced persons is so sad, it became commonplace to see a person die, I have never seen life become so insignificant simply because there’s inadequate healthcare on ground.
Society now calls us labels, she is IDP! It has become a tag as a result when we leave our camps to go out and work our labour is exploited.
We wallow in misery while the world around us goes about like everything is fine. We make up the population or this country, we are youths and young persons as well as the elderly, and some displaced-persons have even had babies in the camps. Millions of us are scattered all over the country with different heartbreaking stories to tell the world, we have had our homes taken from us, our culture, our dignity infringed on, we have lost our voices. Only concerned citizens and non-profits lend us a hand and communicate our grievances to the world.
We are the castaways, the forgotten, we have no voice so we whisper, and maybe tomorrow the suffering of a Nigerian in Adamawa will be the suffering of a Nigerian in Benin or Lagos. Perhaps this storm will pass away and give way to healing and a new dawn and maybe you would feel the pains of a Nigerian who has no blood relationship with you and realize that no Nigerian is more Nigerian than every Nigerian!
This article was written by Lisa Zek; connect with her on IG here