MY ESCAPE FROM KIDNAPPING TWICE- BY PROFESSOR S. DOSUNMU

There are blessings God gives that refuse concealment. They announce themselves daily like a growing pregnancy, impossible to hide, impossible to deny. Such blessings throb with testimony; they echo in memory and mature into gratitude. What I narrate here is one of such mercies quietly dramatic, dangerously close, divinely decisive.

On November 19, I set out from Lokoja for Lagos with two colleagues. Road travel seemed routine enough, so we left early for the motor park, trusting time, traffic, and transport. Our first vehicle, a Sienna bus, behaved well for about an hour before it began to groan subtly at first, then insistently. I noticed before others did. A seasoned unease stirred in me, and I asked the driver pointedly what was wrong.

He muttered something evasive. Moments later, he veered into a mechanic’s workshop. The verdict was a gear problem. After about an hour of tinkering and reassurance, we resumed the journey only for the vehicle to collapse completely; another hour later at Sosoliso village. That was our first delay, our first disruption, our first quiet rescue disguised as inconvenience.

Another Sienna was dispatched to convey us to Lagos. By the time it arrived, nearly three hours had been lost. We boarded, hopeful but cautious, and continued.

Two hours into this second leg, history began to repeat itself. The bus started losing acceleration. Again, I noticed first. Again, I asked the driver. This time, he didn’t pretend. “Gear!” he shouted and abruptly parked by the roadside.

What confronted us was unsettling: an express road, thick bushes hemming both sides, and a vehicle that had finally given up the ghost. The driver tried, failed, retried, and failed again. Anxiety spread among passengers like smoke without fire. No bus was willing to stop. Eventually, people began leaving one by one, desperate to escape the place more than to argue. As if to rub salt into the wound, the driver announced bluntly that there would be no refund. No one protested. Fear had silenced fairness.

My concern turned immediately to an elderly Professor among us. I made sure he was among the first to secure a ride away. In doing so, I forgot myself. I allowed others to go. Gradually, the crowd thinned until it was just the driver and me.

Then the air changed. The driver stared at me strangely. Not aggressively but curiously. Suspiciously. Something unnamed but undeniable settled between us. Yet I felt no panic.

At that moment, a hunter emerged from the bush. He walked straight to me and spoke with urgency:

“Do everything to leave this place before 4:00 p.m. Once the Fulani finish prayers, they will bring their cattle across this road into the forest. They will not leave you behind.” The time was 3:25 p.m.

Mercy raced against minutes.

At 3:??, an 18-seater bus from Gombe appeared. It was headed to Alabarago. I entered it with gratitude too deep for words. God had plucked me from the edge of an unnamed fate. That was escape number one. However, was not done demonstrating.

The bus drove fast, as though it wanted to recover all the hours I had lost. Around 9:30 p.m., a ricocheting sound shattered the night as a rear tyre burst. We disembarked. While the driver and his mate worked, I sat by the roadside with my laptop. A document awaited submission before midnight. Duty insisted even as danger hovered.

At 11:58 p.m., I clicked submit. Almost simultaneously, bad news arrived. The front shaft had broken. It was irreparable. The driver told us plainly: there would be no movement till morning. We should find somewhere to sleep. Then another mercy arrived this time as a warning. A vehicle driving in the opposite direction passed us, then reversed. The driver spoke with urgency and fear: they had just seen two Fulani men, one on each side of the road, not far from us. Their gait, spacing, and silence suggested evil intent.

His advice was chilling and clear:

Do not stay together

Do not remain static

If attacked, run in different directions

He drove off.

We picked our bags and began to move. I was in front. And then without drama, without delay a Volvo vehicle with an empty back pulled up. I shouted one word: “Lagos!”

The driver replied simply: “Come.”

I sat on the only seat in front. Others occupied the open space behind.

That was escape number two.

Twice, delay saved me.

Twice, breakdown became breakthrough.

Twice, danger drew close and mercy drew closer.

I thank God who frustrates the devices of the crafty, who turns mechanical failure into mortal preservation, and who teaches me again that some blessings are too loud to hide.

Praise God with me.

© PROFESSOR SIMEON DOSUNMU

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-Nigeria