15/12/2024
I used to run a kitchen in Yesufu Abiodun, Oniru, where I supplied food to banks and offices in Victoria Island, Lagos. My 15-year-old son often helped with deliveries, as he had just completed his WAEC exams in 2018. On one particular day, we had a delivery close to our house. Since it was nearby, he went without the driver, carrying the food and our POS machine.
Tragically, the Nigerian police abducted him, confiscated his phone, and took him to the anti-cultism unit in Gbagada. We searched everywhere in Victoria Island, unaware that he had been taken so far away. Eventually, they allowed him to call me, and his terrified voice broke me: “Mummy, are you on your way? I’m so scared.”
My husband and I, along with our lawyer, rushed to the station. At the gate, they took our phones, and then I saw my son—half-naked and sitting on the ground with over 100 others outside the station. I collapsed in tears. My husband, who is British, demanded to see the DPO and asked him directly: “What offense are you charging my son with?” The boy hadn’t been allowed to explain himself, yet the food and POS machine were right there at the station. The DPO’s response? “Because he dyed his hair.” That was it. Nothing more.
In the end, we were forced to pay for his release. This incident was a turning point for my husband, who decided that we couldn’t continue living in Nigeria.
What made this even more painful was the nature of our family. My children were homeschooled, had no social circles outside the family, and never went anywhere without us. They were raised in a closely-knit environment. At the time of this ordeal, I was seven months pregnant, and the trauma of the experience caused me to go into premature labor, resulting in an emergency C-section.
My son’s only “crime” was being a hardworking boy, helping with his parents’ legitimate business—a business that provided employment for Nigerians. For my husband, a white British man, to witness such injustice firsthand was a harrowing experience.
Many of us have bitter, painful stories about the Nigerian system. Yet when we speak out and tell the truth, we are accused of defamation or subjected to cyberbullying. It’s truly heartbreaking.
I personally say that Kemi should be left alone, she is saying exactly what she experienced and if I'm asked anywhere in the world the same question, I will narrate my ordeal, so will every member of my family!
May Nigeria not happen to you!
Kachifo
