Simbi, a young mother caught in the unfortunate storm of insurgency, crosses paths with a young insurgent. Simbi met Ahmed in the early years of her marriage. Tobi, her husband, had been murdered when the insurgents had entered her village and burned it down. There were only five survivors from that tragedy, and Simbi was one of them. Simbi was a born-again Christian who became a prison minister. Ahmed was a poor young trader who used to supply Simbi with medicinal herbs. She had been unable to conceive for three years after marriage, and she would buy herbs from Ahmed, who would peddle his wares in the village every Wednesday. She could speak Hausa fluently, and she made quick friends with the gentle young man. When she finally got pregnant with her only daughter, she would still buy herbs from her Wednesday customer. 

On the day of the massacre, which was just like any other day, Simbi had travelled to buy some things for her new business. She would buy adire from Lagaga and design them into her own shirt brand for men and women. She would supply banks in the central city. On her way back, she saw smoke billowing ominously in the sky. The driver had refused to go any further than the village before Madala, which was her village. Her heart pounded violently as she thought about her husband and her five-year-old daughter. She had tried frantically to call him, but to no avail. Someone had picked up the first call, and she heard the cries and screams of people being slaughtered in the background before the call went dead. Her whole body shook in fear for her family. Were they still alive? Nobody wanted to go to Madala.

 When she finally reached the village, Simbi was in a haze, but she kept going. She wept bitterly as she stepped over the corpses of her friends and relatives. When she reached her house, she saw her neighbour's dead bodies sprawled over the compound, and she heard the familiar cry of her five-year-old daughter, Samantha. She saw her husband’s dead body at the door of their house while a man stood over him searching his pockets, and others were inside raiding the house for food and any other useful items. She saw one of them laughing and putting on the clothes of her deceased husband. Her cry brought the attention of the man standing over her husband’s body. As he turned around, she was shocked to see Ahmed with blood drenching his shirt. He moved with speed, his eyes a demonic red. He raised his weapon, a stick with a blunt end, and struck her over the head. She fell, and in the blur, the last thing she saw was her daughter being carted away by the same Ahmed.

Simbi had woken up in a community hospital, a small hospital in the central area. She had sustained blunt force trauma to the head and had 30 stitches. She would be transported to the Salvation Army shelter in the central area. The stench of death was everywhere; she could only cry for her lost family. Where were the security agencies when they were most needed? There were no police, no military, no form of government help.

 Her aunt had worked for the Salvation Army for over twenty years, and she took it upon herself to take care of her niece, as she was the only relative living close by.

Simbi cried and prayed until she had no breath left in her. She was at that time inconsolable. When she had recovered a little, she had been called to the police station to write a statement. Her husband had been buried a week after the massacre. Her aunt Clara had been her greatest support.

 Five years after the massacre, she had started to do volunteer work for an NGO that took care of the victims of insurgence and terrorist attacks. She was still dealing with the trauma of her loss and the sheer magnitude of the violence perpetrated on the innocent people of Madala. She now looked at all the Hausa-speaking traders with suspicion and hatred. The deep betrayal she felt was indescribable. Ahmed had been a young man she had befriended and learnt to trust. He knew where she lived, and he delivered the herbs regularly to her. Why had he chosen to do this to her husband and to her daughter, who was only five years old? She had prayed fervently to God for the grace to forgive, but she knew she would never forget. Her life would never be the same. She woke up most nights screaming as she clawed her way out of dreams where she would be climbing over dead bodies, her husband and her daughter waving goodbye.

Her daughter Samantha’s body had never been found, and it was speculated that she was probably buried in the mass grave, as some bodies could not be identified because they had been completely burned. Simbi wondered whether she would ever heal. One particular night, she woke up from a dream where she saw herself in a prison cell and felt something moving in her hand. As she looked down at the palm of her hand, a little bird was looking up at her. It was a yellow canary singing a beautiful song in the dark, dingy prison space. The smell was pungent, and the place was dirty. The bird flew to a nearby window, and the outside light flooded into the prison space, and everywhere just became the purest white. She woke up with the most peaceful feeling in her heart. She couldn’t explain or interpret what she had seen, but she just pondered on it quietly. A few weeks later, a request for a few volunteers for the prison outreach ministry had been released, and at that moment, she remembered her dream and decided to fill in the form as a volunteer. She had been trained as a counsellor for trauma victims, but this mission was for a prison full of terrorists. Her heart hurt for the victims of these unfortunate circumstances, and she didn’t know if she would be able to be of any help, as she was still dealing with anger and bitterness. It had made prayer hard for her; she knew she had to face this deep offense that she carried in her heart, and what better way to deal with it than by facing the culprits? She prayed for the grace to forgive and let go, and she submitted her form. A few weeks later, she had been called to the office of the Manager Missions Control (MMC), where she was interviewed. She had explained the reason why she had volunteered and her deep need to forgive so that she could continue to live a life pleasing to God.

“I need to do this for God and for myself.” Simbi never told anyone about the dream and how she felt she was being drawn to minister to these prisoners; she knew the Lord wanted her to go and that through her obedience, she would find the strength to live again and not just exist.

Five volunteers were chosen for the job, and Simbi was relieved to be one of them. They were driven six hours through deep forests and numerous military checkpoints till they got to a shabby-looking camp. It was busy and very noisy. Simbi could see a building being erected and many workers bustling around the construction site. There was a smell of local jollof rice and stew in the air, and goat meat pepper soup. They were taken to their even shabbier quarters, and she wondered how safe they were. The attendant reassured her that they were very safe and that they should not worry, as security was around the clock. Simbi had taken the liberty of asking them where the prisoners were being kept, as the camp looked ill-equipped to house prisoners. She was informed that they would be taken to the facilities in the morning. 

The five of them huddled into a corner and began to pray for the mission that they came for, asking for His grace and the right words to speak. They were told that the criminals were hardened murderers. The team would be allowed to serve them food and would be given a certain time to speak with the inmates. They were all trained trauma counselors, and the next day would be their first introduction to the inmates. Each volunteer would be assigned to an inmate and would serve and interact with the inmates for the stipulated 10 days. Simbi hoped that she would be able to find what her heart was looking for and that she could finally find closure.

The morning came around fast, and they all got ready quickly and prayed before convening at the agreed spot; there were two females and three males. They would be assigned to females while the men would handle the males. As they carried the disgusting-looking lumps of food in the rusty tin can plates, they all looked disappointed and had jointly agreed to use their allowance to get them a better breakfast subsequently. As they entered the prison area, they could see two refurbished porta-cabins with bars crudely welded to make them look exactly like prison cells. There were more guards stationed around the cells. From the small windows at the back of the cells, Simbi could see the prisoners being escorted after being handcuffed and foot-cuffed. They were being pushed and shoved in the direction of the officer’s mess hall, where another group of guards was waiting to receive them. All sorts of vulgarities were being exchanged as the prisoners were mercilessly shoved into their seats.

“Pls take it easy.”

The guards glared at the missionary volunteer as the words innocently escaped from his mouth. Simbi was gently muttering prayers under her breath and looking down at their bare and bloody feet. As she looked up, her eyes met a familiar face, his face hardened with eyes so cold. Simbi suddenly was unable to breath, gasping for air, tears began to run uncontrollably down her face, and the other volunteers began to panic. The sudden commotion caused other guards to run frantically to the mess. Her colleagues escorted the distressed counselor to the small medical facility on the camp, where there was a male nurse stationed at the front desk.

“The Doctor is not here yet.”

They carried Simbi and laid her on the bed while the nurse quickly sedated her. When she woke up, her head was pounding, and she was still a little groggy; her heart was filled with rage. Why was he still alive when her precious family was not? God, why? She got up quietly and walked to the prison cell area on her bare feet. She asked the military guard if she could look at the prisoner, as she felt she knew him. He took permission from his superior officer before giving her instructions on where to stand. She stood there just repeating the name ’Ahmed’ until the man lifted his head and replied, ‘Mrs Simbi, long time no see.’ She walked away looking like a living corpse, all the colour drained from her face, her head began to pound again, and tears ran down her face as she walked back to the quarters they had provided for them. Her colleagues looked up at her in shock as she stood looking like a woman with mental health issues. She could hear them whispering how inappropriate the situation was, how she was not honest when she filled out the volunteer form, and that her outbreak could cause serious repercussions to the mission's outreach program. Her team lead asked her to sit down.

‘Simbi, what happened?’

She gathered herself and explained to them how she knew one of them and how he was the one who murdered her family in cold blood. She had told them how he was a petty trader who peddled his wares in the area and how she had been his customer for years before the massacre. Her head was light; she was ashamed. She would still have to face the prisoner she was assigned to and tell them about Christ; there were only eight days remaining of their missionary trip. She had to gather herself emotionally, and so she looked up to God and said a simple prayer asking the Lord for strength. 

The next few days were hard; she had to look at the man who slaughtered her family in cold blood. She had to forgive him, she had to pray for his salvation, she had to overcome the desire to jump over the table and tear his eyes out. She prayed more, and she studied the word of God more, she looked at Joseph’s story in the bible, she looked at Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount, she tried to quieten her mind and allow the Spirit of God to heal her broken heart. Then she had the same dream again, the dream that made her volunteer for the special mission. 

The day had come for them to leave. Out of the seven people they came to speak to, four of them accepted Jesus as their Lord and Saviour. They were all most probably going to die by firing squad, and whether or not they would get a fair trial was left to the authorities. They had all committed atrocities, and by the standards of this world, they would be judged, but just like the thief next to Jesus on the cross, the last-minute offer of salvation was extended to this group of terrorists. Simbi and the team said their last prayers and were waiting for their ministry van to come back from the filling station.

“Ms Simbi, pls can you come with us?” The soldier requested.

They led her back to the same area where they had been counselling the inmates.

“Ahmed has asked to see you.”

“I don’t have anything to say to him,” she replied with heaviness in her heart.

“He says he has something important to tell you; he has not been able to sleep since you came. I have never seen a hardened criminal cry like he did last night.”

Simbi thought deeply about what she should do and resolved in her heart to do all she could to get closure. She would see him one last time, and by the grace of God, she would forgive him and put this whole ugly situation behind her. 

Her heart pounded as she was led to the officer’s mess, where Ahmed was waiting. He looked deranged and out of his mind. He had not slept for days, and his bloodshot eyes darted from side to side as he mumbled illegibly to himself.

“What did my family and I ever do to you, Ahmed?” she confronted him. “You cut my husband down like an animal, you slaughtered my daughter, Ahmed, why? We were not your enemy.”

The room was still. Ahmed shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He smelled like someone who hadn’t taken a bath in weeks, his teeth were a dark brown colour, and his eyes were red from sleepless nights. Simbi refused to sit; she stood a distance from him like an executioner looming over the shabby shell of a man. He shook his head as if he was trying to align his thoughts.

“Ahmed, don’t waste the woman’s time, talk.”

Ahmed went on to narrate what happened that day. He explained that he had tried to move his colleagues away from the compound. He would have succeeded if it had not been for the squad leader, who insisted that they had not yet entered that compound, it was because he had insisted that the squadron leader suspected him and commanded him to kill her husband and take any item of worth on his body. He risked losing his life by disobeying. He didn’t want to do it, but he had to. He had been recruited a year earlier and had been in training since. The organization that sponsored him and his family had come to take him. He was told that he owed them and that whatever happened, his family would be taken care of. He was separated from his family and was taken for random raids, where he was forced to take human life. Every time he killed a person, he felt a part of him die. Tears were running down his face, and Simbi was still looking at him with a straight face. He had been careful to strike Simbi in a way that would knock her unconscious and not kill her. Then he began to narrate how he had abducted Samantha under the guise that she was his new wife because the leader would have taken her, but he miraculously allowed Ahmed to take her. He kept her by his sleeping quarters in the camp, and when darkness fell, he took the excuse that he needed to go to the toilet. He had carried the sleeping Samantha on his shoulders while other drunk and drowsy comrades winked at him, thinking he wanted to do unspeakable things to the five-year-old. It was common in the camp. By this time, Simbi was crying and shaking. Ahmed continued. He had hidden a bike in the bush some meters away, and he pushed for about forty minutes till he reached the tarred road. The child was quiet all this time. Ahmed had told her that if she ever wanted to see her mummy again, she had to be quiet.

He moved with stealth and asked Samantha to play dead when they stopped at one of their checkpoints, which she did. He explained that her little body could not take the impact of the experience as he called it and that she had passed away, he needed to bury her, they had just flagged him to go ahead without checking her body, he was on the road for another two and a half hours till he got to a camp for orphans that was run by a non-government organization. He had risked his life to make sure that he got her there safely. He had abandoned the bike when the fuel had finished and walked for hours back to the checkpoint, where he had collapsed from exhaustion. When he was taken back to the camp, he explained that the girl died and he had to bury her. His feet were bloody with blisters everywhere. He was punished severely, but that was the only act in all these years that kept him human.

“Where is my daughter?” Simbi’s heart was pounding out of her chest. “Tell me where she is!”

Ahmed described to her where he had dropped her, but he heard that they had relocated to the main town in the area. She couldn’t believe her ears. Samantha, her baby, was most probably alive; she would be about ten by now.

“Can your Jesus forgive a person like me?” Ahmed asked.

Simbi took a deep breath, and she sat down and led Ahmed to Christ. The ministry van had arrived, and she would have to go. Ahmed smiled at her and thanked her, and she smiled back at him and thanked him for saving her baby. 

As she entered the van, she began to narrate with tears the story of Ahmed and her daughter. She would drop by the main town area to find the orphanage. It was unexpected for her even to dream that she would find her daughter alive, but Ahmed had given her hope that everything was not lost. She had come this far, and she wouldn’t stop until she held her daughter in her arms.

She had gone down winding dusty paths and had reached the gate of the third, Heart of the Virgin Catholic Orphanage. The building was dilapidated, and Simbi felt her heart beating fast once more. The children were playing outside on the sandy playground. She looked at all the faces as she was escorted to the administrative block. The warden in charge of the orphanage was a large woman with fierce-looking eyes. Simbi introduced herself with the missionary identity card she held in her hands. Her palms were sweaty, and she was very nervous, almost incoherent. Suddenly, there was a commotion from behind; a child was screaming and shouting as the security guard held her back.

“I told you she would come for me, Mummy!” The girl shouted.

Simbi turned around, and the large warden lady stood up swiftly and moved to try to get the situation under control. The young girl screamed for them to let her go. Simbi ran to see what was going on. She saw a young girl, pale and thin, who was probably about nine or ten years old. Simbi looked at her intently; she had the same birthmark as her father beneath her nose, the same eyes.”

“Samantha, is that you?”

“Mummy, what took you so long? I have been waiting for you.”

Simbi didn’t know when she pushed past the warden and swept the girl into her arms; they wept for almost ten minutes. She squeezed her long-lost daughter, vowing never to lose her again. Her hands caressed her daughter's face gently as she wiped the torrent of tears that fell from her young, tired-looking eyes. Samantha clung to her mother with desperation, just basking in the reality that she had been found and that the nightmare was over. The journey ahead would be a long one, but Simbi now understood that God wanted Ahmed to lead her back to her child, and he wanted her to forgive him and lead him to Christ. If she had not been sensitive enough to insist on being part of the mission, she would most probably have never known that her daughter was still alive, nor where she was. For that singular thing, she was most grateful. Unfortunately, Ahmed had tried to attack one of the guards to escape, and he was gunned down. Simbi felt sorry for him; she knew her story had a happy ending, but so many other people’s stories did not. She would try to be more empathetic toward the people on both sides and to pray that in all the darkness and chaos, Christ would continue to be the guiding light, bringing comfort and healing to all the confused and broken hearts.

For those who have suffered at the hands of insurgents, forgiveness is often a tool for personal liberation rather than an endorsement of the crime.

• Psychological Unburdening: Holding onto deep-seated resentment and a desire for revenge keeps victims tethered to their trauma. Research suggests that the "emotional unburdening" of forgiveness can lower stress, reduce PTSD symptoms, and prevent the development of long-term depression.
• Restoring the "Survivor" Identity: By choosing to forgive, a victim shifts from a passive state of suffering to an active state of agency. It is an internal declaration that the perpetrator no longer has the power to dictate the victim's emotional state.
• Holistic Support: Extending help—through counseling, economic empowerment, and reparations—ensures that victims are not left behind as the state focuses on security.