By Aishat Adejo
Dalori IDP Camp, Maiduguri — May 4, 2023
The afternoon heat inside Dalori IDP Camp is unforgiving. Between rows of patched-up tarpaulin tents, a woman sits on a mat, gently braiding her daughter’s hair. Beside her, a small, fading photograph lies on the ground — the picture of a smiling man in a checked shirt.
His name is Albert Eyimofe Esiri. He has been missing since May 3, 2022, when Boko Haram fighters attacked their hometown of Chibok.
For his wife, Mrs. Esimajemite Mabiabiaku Esiri, each sunrise begins the same way — with a prayer that someone, somewhere, will bring news that he is alive.
“It has been a whole year,” she said softly, looking down. “People tell me to move on, but how do you move on?”
The Night Everything Changed
When gunmen stormed Chibok that night, Mrs. Esiri remembered the confusion, shouting, gunfire, and the crackle of burning rooftops. Her husband urged her to take their then-sixt-year-old daughter and run toward the forest.
“He said, ‘Don’t look back, just go,’” she recalled. “I saw them surround him. That was the last time.”
Since then, she and her daughter have lived in Dalori, a sprawling camp that shelters thousands displaced by years of insurgency. Their tent is one among hundreds thin walls that barely hold out the wind or rain.
Days Measured by Hope
Inside the camp, daily life is a mix of waiting and survival. Food rations are small, queues for water are long, and sickness travels fast in the heat. But the hardest part, she says, is the silence.
“Every evening, I look at the road outside the camp,” she said. “Whenever a soldier or a truck passes, I think maybe they are bringing him back.”
Her daughter, now seven, attends a makeshift school under a large neem tree.
“She still draws her father when she’s asked to write about her family,” her mother said with a faint smile. “She tells me, ‘Mummy, when Daddy comes back, we will go home.’ I just nod.”
A Community Waiting
Around them, other families from Chibok share similar stories — loved ones gone, lives uprooted, hope slowly eroded by time.
Umar Ali, a volunteer with the State Emergency Management Agency (SEMA), said that for many of these women, waiting has become a way of life.
“They hold on to faith because it’s all they have,” he explained. “Many still believe their husbands or children will walk through the gate one day.”
“Just Tell Us Something”
Community elders have called on the federal government and the military to renew search operations in the Sambisa Forest, where many captives are believed to be held. But official updates are rare.
“We just want to know,” Mrs. Esiri said. “Even if it is bad news, at least we can stop wondering.”
As the sun dipped behind the camp fence, her daughter brought her a small plastic cup of water. They sat quietly, the hum of evening prayers rising from nearby tents.
Mrs. Esiri lifted her eyes to the fading light and whispered, almost to herself:
“I know he’s out there. One day, he will find his way home.”
