The night in the ISWAP camp hung heavy with silence—unnatural, watchful. Crickets chirped in a distant bush, and the faint hum of a generator echoed through the still air. In the makeshift girls' dormitory, a rectangular tent stretched with frayed ropes and sagging tarpaulin, ten girls lay shoulder to shoulder on thin woven mats.
The night patrol had passed. The guards' footsteps had faded. Only the low moan of the wind brushing the nylon walls reminded them they were still breathing.
It was Hassana who spoke first.
"His name was Yusuf," she whispered, her voice barely louder than a breath. "He said he would only marry me for a week. One week. But then he gave me to his cousin when he left for a raid in Damboa."
The tent remained still. No one interrupted.
"He beat me with the cord from a generator when I tried to run. Said I was a gift from God and to escape was blasphemy."
No one told her to stop. They had all lived variations of the same nightmare. Now, under cover of dark, they let the memories come out—ugly and broken.
"I was ten when they took me," another girl murmured from the corner. Her name was Hauwa. She had soft eyes but carried herself like stone. "I'm fifteen now. My mother died in the bush trying to find me. They made me watch it. Then they told me to pray louder."
There was a gasp from the far side of the tent. One of the younger girls, barely twelve, sobbed quietly into her sleeve. Amina shifted closer, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.
"We're still here," Amina said softly. "That means something."
Hassana scoffed lightly, though not unkindly. "You still believe in meaning?"
"I have to," Amina replied. "Otherwise, I wouldn't still be alive."
Silence stretched between them. Then another voice, new and hesitant: "I was at the market when they came. Just buying salt for my grandmother. One man grabbed me. My father tried to fight him. They shot him there, in front of everyone."
"What's your name?" Amina asked.
"Maryam."
Amina nodded. "We remember you now."
The girls began speaking more freely. In low murmurs and shivering voices, they confessed what had been bottled up for months—years for some. One had been taken from her Quranic school in Gwoza, another during a night raid on her village near Geidam. Many had been traded between factions like property. Some no longer remembered their hometowns. Some had forgotten their birthdays.
But none had forgotten the sound of gunfire. Or the first time they were called someone else's "wife."
Amina waited until the others were quiet before she shared her own story.
"I was in school. Emmanuel was beside me." She paused. Just saying his name felt like exhaling a secret. "He tried to stop them. Took a blow to the head. I thought he died."
Someone whispered, "Did he?"
Amina closed her eyes. "No. I don't think so. I dream of him. That he's out there, somewhere, still fighting."
"Dreams," Hassana muttered.
"Dreams are all we have," Amina replied. "And one another."
A long pause followed, but it wasn't empty. It was full—of shared grief, of stolen childhoods, of unspeakable things spoken at last.
Then, quietly, Maryam asked, "If they attack the camp… what will you do?"
"I'll run," Amina said without hesitation.
"They'll shoot us."
"They might. But I'd rather run than grow old in chains."
Hassana shifted on her mat. "I'll run too."
The room fell silent.
The fire had burned low, casting soft shadows along the walls of the hut where the girls huddled. Amina sat beside Hassana, wrapping a thin shawl tighter around her shoulders. The air was cold, but no
Then Habiba spoke.
Her voice was quiet at first, almost like a prayer.
"You want to know how long I've been here?" she asked, staring at the flames. "Since April 14th, 2013. Chibok. That was the night the stars disappeared."
Amina turned toward her, heart suddenly still. She had heard stories about Chibok. The girls who vanished. Some said they had been killed. Others said they had been married off in the forest. Many had simply been forgotten.
Habiba continued.
"It was a Monday night. We were cramming for our physics exam. Most of us were tired, some already asleep. I remember it was humid, and the lantern in our dormitory kept flickering. I'd just closed my notebook when we heard shouting. Then gunfire."
She paused, eyes distant.
"We thought it was soldiers at first. They were wearing uniforms. But the way they moved, how they shouted… it was wrong. One of them fired into the air and told us to get out. We didn't know what was happening. We thought maybe it was a drill. A mistake."
Habiba's voice caught, but she pushed on.
"They forced us into trucks. All of us. Girls crying, holding hands. Some tried to escape—one jumped down and ran into the dark. I'll never forget the sound when they shot her."
A hush fell over the group. Even the wind outside the hut seemed to pause.
"They drove us for hours. Bumpy, dusty roads. No food. No water. Some of us passed out. When we arrived, it was deep in the forest. Sambisa. That's where they kept us."
Amina's eyes widened. She had heard of the forest, whispered among captives like a cursed name.
"They beat us," Habiba said simply. "Forced us to pray the way they wanted. Told us we were now wives. Property. Tools for their holy war. Some girls were taken right away. Others, like me, they left to rot a while, maybe to make us more obedient."
She looked down at her hands, fingers trembling.
"I had a friend—Saratu. We promised each other we'd stay alive. That we'd find our way home. She was given to a man a week later. I don't know if she's still alive."
One of the girls near the doorway quietly began to sob. Habiba's eyes filled, but she didn't cry.
"They shaved our heads. Made us wear black. We weren't allowed to talk unless spoken to. If you cried, they beat you. If you begged, they laughed. If you tried to run..."
She stopped.
"They made us choose. Convert, or suffer. Some of us pretended. Others did it for real. I kept my prayers silent. I hid them in my heart."
Amina whispered, "But you survived."
Habiba nodded. "Yes. But parts of me didn't. Every day, I pretended. Smiled when they wanted. Obeyed. Waited. Watched."
She looked up at the circle of girls, her eyes hard now, sharp as cut glass.
"I memorized everything. The way the guards changed. Who slept heavily. Where they stored the weapons. I never stopped looking for a chance."
She glanced at Hassana, then Amina. "And I'm still looking. I don't know what's left of the world out there. But I know what's left of me. I won't die here."
Silence again.
But it was a different silence now.
One filled with weight. With resolve.
Amina reached over and gently touched Habiba's hand. "We'll get out," she said. "We'll get out, and we'll tell the world everything."
Habiba managed a small smile. "Then they'll know we were here. That we didn't disappear quietly."