The Voice of the Poor- A Cry for Justice by Torsaa Emmanuel Oryiman 

For the first time in our lives, we have come to know true terror, the kind that turns human beings into prey, hunted like chickens in the bush. The air in our village is thick with fear, the nights are filled with silence, broken only by muffled sobs and the hurried whispers of those who dare to speak of the evil that has gripped us. The weight of despair sits heavily upon our chests, making each breath feel stolen, each step feels uncertain. Every passing second is a countdown to an unknown fate, and every heartbeat is a reminder of our helplessness.

It all began when my father was kidnapped, torn from us in the dead of night. The pain of his absence was unbearable, but worse still was knowing that his suffering had been orchestrated by someone among us, someone we trusted, someone we called our own. We suspected him, but suspicion alone was not enough. We needed proof, and while we searched for it, we endured the unthinkable. The nights became endless, our eyes red and swollen from sleepless worry, the fear of hearing another loved one dragged away into the abyss of the unknown settling deep in our bones. Each passing moment felt like a razor cutting through our souls, leaving us bleeding in silent agony.

When the kidnappers finally called, their demands cut through our hearts like a blade. They wanted money, an amount so vast, it mocked our suffering. Their voices were cold, devoid of humanity, treating my father’s life as nothing more than a price tag. But in our darkest moment, kind souls emerged from the shadows, standing beside us. They did not fear the weight of our burden; they shared it. They helped us sell what little we had, taking our goods and assets to the market, sacrificing their own well-being for ours. But our act of survival enraged the man we suspected, the very man whose hands, though seemingly clean, dripped with my father’s suffering. He seethed with hatred and spat out his venomous words: “Even if your father returns, I will make sure you lose everything.” And he kept his word. Forced to sell at pitiful prices, we watched our livelihood slip away, just to bring my father home.

And when at last my father was released, we thought the nightmare was over. We clung to the hope that justice would be served, that the horror would end. But the darkness was far from gone. Just two days later, the phone rang again. The kidnappers, once faceless monsters in the shadows, now bore a chilling truth: “We were paid to take more. You and four others.” And the names they listed shattered what little hope remained. Each was a person who had stood with us. Each was someone who had fought for our justice. And now, they too had been marked for suffering.

Panic consumed them. They fled their homes, seeking safety in the bush, in secret places only they knew. Their children cried, their wives prayed, and their hearts pounded with the terror of what lay ahead. But the kidnappers were relentless, demanding an impossible sum of about one million five hundred thousand naira for recharge card. “Pay us,” they said, “and we will call it off. We will tell you who sent us.” They were confident enough to even send their account number, where they demand the money should be sent to them. The hunted had no choice. They gathered what they could, and with trembling hands, they sent the money, believing the nightmare was over.

But the nightmare had only just begun. That same night, another demand came: “Meet this particular person” which was the very one whom we were suspecting to have been the one who betrayed us, that’s according to the descriptions they gave us, “Fetch him to the elders. Let him answer for what he has done, or else the bloodshed will not stop.” after we have fetched him to the elders, the kidnappers called our phone line again, they ask us to put it on a loud speaker, which we did, and they said that: “He who we have fetched before the elders of the community is the one responsible for the entire episode of all that is befalling us, they further add that, if that incident should repeat itself in the community, they will surely have him kidnapped, torture him as well just ensure that  he sees, feels what people are going through.”  We were very happy when we heard the kidnappers said this by them self threating him, we thought that will be the end of the super story but we were wrong, all the people who were supporting him underground, that secretly, despaired were led to comply, but the monster among them was far from finished.

Days later, footprints appeared outside the affected name’s doors, silent ghosts in the dust, marking the presence of new hunters. Investigations unveiled an unspeakable horror. The same man had now hired another group of people, not to take them away, but to kill them in cold blood. Under the cover of darkness, he led the killers through the village, pointing out their homes, whispering their deaths into existence. Mothers clutched their children tighter, rocking them back and forth in trembling fear. Fathers, once protectors of their homes, felt powerless against an enemy that could not be fought with fists or weapons, but only with money and power, things they did not have.

Perhaps fate intervened that night. The killers, sensing the weight of their crime against the sum they were offered, refused to carry it out. But the man’s thirst for destruction was unquenchable. He sought others, more ruthless, more willing. And soon, the calls returned. “We were paid to take you. Send more money, or you will not see the morning.” And so, the hunted ran once more, back into the wilderness, back into the suffocating fear that had become their existence. They hid in holes like frightened animals, their bodies cold, their souls weary, the weight of impending death pressing down upon them like an immovable stone.

The police were informed, but justice remained a stranger. The adviser to the state government was  also informed, but safety never came. Helpless and abandoned, our people now live in exile within their own land, fleeing from death at the hands of a man who walks freely among us. A man who sleeps soundly while others lie awake in terror. A man who has turned life itself into a curse for those who dare to stand against him.

We are no longer living. We are merely waiting, suspended between life and death, knowing that a single mistake, a single misstep, could be the end. The cries of the poor echo through the night, unanswered. The hands of justice remain idle, unwilling to move. How long must we suffer before someone listens? How long before the hunted can finally breathe?

The children of the village no longer play freely in the fields. They no longer chase each other with laughter, their feet pounding against the earth in joyous rebellion. Now, they cower behind doors, their eyes filled with a fear no child should ever know. The women no longer gather in the marketplace, their chatter and songs a thing of the past. The men, once proud and unbreakable, are shadows of themselves, waiting, watching, hoping for an answer that never comes.

The night has stolen our peace, and the dawn brings no relief. The air is thick with the scent of sorrow, our voices hoarse from unanswered cries for help. How can life be so cruel? How can evil walk among us, unchallenged? How can justice turn its face away while we drown in suffering?

We do not ask for much. We do not ask for revenge. We ask only for justice. Let it be done before more blood is spilled. Let it be done before another father, another mother, another child is stolen from us. Let it be done before the laughter of our children is silenced forever.

Let the voice of the poor be heard.

Let the world not turn away from our cries, for today it is us, but tomorrow, it could be you.

Torsaa Emmanuel Oryiman

Image: A hand holding a fan of Nigerian currency notes. Credit ThisDay Nigeria