On the morning of November 25, 2025, I set out from Mokwa to Papiri village in Agwara LGA of Niger State for a follow-up investigation of the mass abduction of students and teachers of St Mary’s Catholic School by armed bandits.
The moment the abduction broke, I filed the news and alerted THE WHISTLER’s newsroom in the early hours of Friday. As the report spread and outrage grew, it was clear that the public needed a full account, one that could only come from being physically present at St Mary’s Catholic School in Papiri.
But I didn’t wait for the usual newsroom mobilisation. My fixer, Mallam Usman, had already arranged meetings with families whose children were among the victims. The story could not wait, and neither could the grieving parents.
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From Mokwa to Kainji, New Bussa
Before dawn on Monday, I packed my bag and began the journey toward Papiri. I called Usman, informing him I was on my way. The road felt unusually burdened, as if absorbing the weight of the news I carried.
Midway through the trip, the commercial vehicle I boarded broke down. I didn’t have the patience to wait; time was working against me. I stepped down, flagged another old vehicle and continued the journey.
The new driver kept shaking his head as we sped past quiet villages on the Mokwa–Ibbi axis. “Things don spoil finish,” he muttered, his voice barely louder than the rattling engine. By 12 pm. I reached Kainji in New Bussa, where I planned to get a vehicle heading toward Guffeti village in Agwara.
As I waited, Usman called: “You don reach Bussa?” “Yes,” I replied. “I’m about to get the Guffeti car.”
The road to Guffeti was almost entirely worn out; patches of asphalt peeled away like old skin. When I finally arrived, dusty and drained, I called Usman to pick me up. From Guffeti to Papiri was another ten minutes, but this time on a motorcycle through a cloud of dust and silence, until we reached the scene of the abduction.
“Be careful with the police.” — The Warning
As an investigative journalist, I knew I needed to walk the ground where everything happened to meet parents, hear their trembling voices, and witness what fear had done to their community. But Usman had warned me: police officers stationed at the school had been difficult, even hostile.
He told me a female journalist from Lagos had been denied interviews and forced to leave without any information. “They no allow her hear anything,” he added. That warning stayed with me.
The Harassment and Confrontation With Police
Still, I prepared myself and proceeded to the school gate, my backpack slung over my shoulder, notebook in hand, both phones with me. The sun was merciless, but not as piercing as the grief on the residents’ faces.
Mothers sat on bare ground, clutching their wrappers, eyes hollow from tears. Fathers lingered around the charred sections of the school, pointing quietly as they narrated how the bandits stormed the classrooms and vanished with their children under the cover of night.
Ignoring the police officers at the entrance, I walked in. I approached a hapless father—Mathew—whose children were among those taken. He began to speak, voice cracking as he pointed to the classroom where his children were.
The moment the police officers stationed inside the school compound saw me raise my iPhone, camera already rolling as I interviewed the confused father, whose two children were among the abducted, I knew instantly that my trouble had begun.
Before I could ask the man my next question, two officers charged toward me. One snatched the phone from my hand; the other barked at me to stop recording immediately. Behind them, the headmistress, visibly agitated, screamed at the parents not to grant any interviews to journalists.
I staggered back, not surprised, only disappointed. I had prepared myself for hostility, but not the level of intimidation that followed.
Two giant officers held me firmly between them and dragged me aside for questioning. They ordered me to bring out both of my phones. Without hesitation, they began scrolling through everything — my recordings, my camera roll, even my private WhatsApp and Facebook messages.
In my mind, I kept repeating the same sentence: This is an invasion of my privacy. Then came the interrogation.
“Who are you? Introduce yourself,” one demanded.
I told them I was a reporter but had forgotten my press ID — they could verify my name online with the organisations I worked for. One officer insisted they needed to confirm with my editor.
“Give us his number.” I gave them. They dialled immediately.
After talking to my editor, one of the officers turned and muttered, loud enough for me to hear, “We would have shot him.”
Oddly, that was the moment I felt relief. They now believed I was truly a journalist. I smiled faintly, nodding with a confidence I didn’t fully feel.
After hours of grilling, they deleted the pictures and recordings I had taken. Then they ordered me to leave the school premises and the entire community.
Still, I left with questions burning in my mind. And thankfully, I wasn’t alone. My fixer, who had hidden nearby watching everything unfold, joined me as we walked away.
“What is the school trying to hide from the public?” I asked him. He had no answer.
I knew I had to go back to the school. So, the next day, when I heard the Agwara Local Government Chairman would be coming to inspect the scene of the mass abduction at St Mary’s Catholic School, I proceeded again. However, day two also presented the same challenges.
I followed the chairman’s team inside the school and resumed taking pictures. But almost immediately, the chairman gave me a suspicious gaze.
“Who are you?” he asked sharply.
“I’m a pressman,” I replied. I was immediately ordered out.
An infuriated officer stormed in from behind me, and without warning, he slapped me. Then kicked me repeatedly while the parents watched in fear.
I walked away from the school in pain physically and emotionally, heading toward where I could get a motorcycle out of the community.