Young Nigerian survivor of desert and sea journeys devotes life to protecting migrants from dangerous routes
Along the way, the desert revealed its horrors. Bodies—some fresh, others desiccated—lay scattered across the sands, victims of the merciless terrain. I saw abandoned travelers whose vehicles had broken down or who had been robbed by Azmah gangs, stripped of food, money, and hope. Doubt began to fester within me. What had I done? Fear engulfed me as I realized I had left without a word to my family. If I died here, my disappearance would remain an unsolvable mystery, leaving my loved ones with nothing but unanswered questions.
- 1 week ago
December 24, 2024
Voice of Migrants Association volunteers during a campaign. | Photo courtesy of Voice of Migrant Association
LAGOS, Nigeria — Growing up as a church boy, my world revolved around faith and serving God. That unwavering belief became my anchor, the reason I am alive today. It carried me through the scorching expanse of the Sahara Desert, the merciless hands of human traffickers in Libya, and the unforgiving waves of the open sea. I witnessed comrades lose their lives and buried some whose bodies bore the scars of unspeakable cruelty. Amid unimaginable horrors, I survived—my faith guiding me through each step—so I could share this story.
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Chasing dreams abroad
Growing up in a family of eight children—five boys and three girls—in Edo State, Nigeria, I never experienced poverty or financial hardship. In our community, traveling to Europe was more than an aspiration; it was a cultural norm and a symbol of pride. Nearly every family had at least one member living abroad.
The pressure to move to Europe intensified as parents eagerly sent their children to anyone offering the promise of a better life, ignoring the dangers. Traffickers fueled these dreams with deceptive tales, claiming that walking from Nigeria to Spain required only resilience and that crossing the Mediterranean was no harder than swimming across the Ogba River. They insisted, “If Osaro can do it, so can you.”
After completing my engineering studies at Ambrose Alli University, Ekpoma, in 2015, I started a dry-cleaning business to fund my master’s degree. The business grew quickly, and I began planning to open a second shop. During this time, I often met customers who had returned from Europe. Their clothes, marked with foreign labels, spoke of wealth and success. Though I admired their lifestyle, I never seriously pursued the idea of leaving.
That changed when I met a man at my workplace who convinced me I could grow my business and achieve more by moving to Europe. His words planted a seed that soon consumed my thoughts. Driven by the desire for a better life—whether through studying abroad, working, or expanding my business—I made a life-altering decision. Blinded by ambition, I failed to research the harsh realities of such a journey.
A customer’s generous tips sparked a secret escape plan from Nigeria
For months, I cleaned his clothes, impressed by his generosity as he left hefty tips and paid more than necessary. Over time, he became my favorite customer, and I looked forward to his visits. One day, as we chatted, he asked how much I earned from my business. After hearing my answer, he suggested I could earn far more. Praising my competence, he offered to help me migrate to Europe. He asked for my passport and 300,000 naira (about $150 USD), assuring me he would cover the rest of the expenses. His offer struck me deeply; no one had ever presented me with such an opportunity.
He urged me to keep everything a secret, even from my parents, explaining too much attention could ruin my chances and insisted he wanted to focus solely on helping me. He painted a picture of surprising my family and friends with a phone call from Germany in just two weeks.
Excitement coursed through me as I rushed home to prepare. I withheld my staff’s salaries, a choice weighting heavily on me but seemed necessary at the time. A week later, I called to inform him I had the funds. He gave me a bank account number to send the money and instructed me to prepare additional cash and be ready to leave the next morning. “Tomorrow morning?” I asked, startled and unprepared, but I agreed.
That night, I packed a few clothes, gathered the extra cash, and waited in restless anticipation. Before dawn I went to our meeting point at Ring Road in Benin City. My heart raced with both excitement and unease as I set out toward what I believed was the opportunity of a lifetime.
Trusting the unknown: a path beyond borders
Deciding to leave Nigeria felt effortless, trusting the man I believed embodied success and luxury. He showed little interest in my money, even contributing his funds to secure my trip. With complete faith in him, I never sought additional advice or questioned his intentions.
When we met at Ring Road, he drove me to a park, took my passport, and handed me over to a driver. The driver explained the journey to the Sokoto border would take two days. Upon arriving at the border, immigration officers stopped our vehicle, searching everyone thoroughly. They demanded to know the reason for my trip, aware of the dangerous journeys many embarked on. Despite telling them I was visiting my brother, they detained us.
Panicked, I called my agent, who confidently assured me he would resolve the issue within 30 minutes. To my astonishment, in less than 30 seconds, a man holding my passport called my name. He verified my identity, instructed me to get into his car, and sped off. In that moment, I felt an overwhelming sense of importance and reassurance, exactly what I sought from this journey.
While others from Benin City remained behind, I continued toward the Niger border. Border control stopped us briefly, questioning us before allowing us to proceed to Niamey. Once there, another man took charge and introduced me to a larger group of travelers. The leaders of the group greeted me warmly, asking about Nigeria and life back home. Their friendly demeanor put me at ease, and I shared stories about recent events. Shortly after, they suggested I get food and rest, ensuring I felt welcome and comfortable. Their hospitality momentarily masked the uncertainty of what lay ahead.
From promises to danger, my journey through the Sahara in pursuit of Germany
When I woke up the next morning, a man announced we needed to pay more for the trip to Germany, claiming the money we had given in Nigeria had “expired.” Confused and shocked, I tried to contact my agent but could not reach him. With no explanation or alternative, I reluctantly paid an additional 200,000 Naira (around $120 USD), convinced it was the only way to continue toward Germany.
Shortly after, we boarded a bus to Agadez, embarking on a grueling 17-hour journey. Along the way, a man acted as a motivational speaker, rallying the group. He spoke with enthusiasm, saying, “Never give up! Life rewards hard work. You made the right choice. Germany is where dreams come true. I worked with this company, and they treated me so well.” His words lifted our spirits, silencing doubts and reigniting hope. His performance convinced us to keep paying and pressing forward.
After a meal and brief rest, I woke to yet another announcement demanding more money. By then, I had completely run out of cash. Desperate, I offered my Blackberry Z10 phone as payment. At the time, the Z10 carried significant value, and its rarity impressed them enough to accept it.
Later, they instructed us to board a truck and handed out sticks, offering no explanation. They told us to purchase food and five liters of water. The recommended foods—kulikuli, groundnuts, and glucose—were cheap and energy-dense. I hesitated, wondering why I needed such provisions when I considered myself a “wealthy traveler,” but complied anyway.
Climbing into the open Hilux truck, sold to us as a VIP travel option, provided brief relief. However, as the truck ventured deeper into the Sahara, the harsh reality set in—an endless, grueling journey where food and water became scarce luxuries.
Surviving the Sahara, witnessing death and despair
Under the Sahara’s relentless sun, thirst consumed us. Without water, we began exchanging urine, as drinking one’s own proved futile. Pairing up as “urine partners,” we set schedules to urinate, a grim arrangement to survive. Hunger gnawed at me, while the desert’s extremes drained every ounce of my energy.
Days scorched us; nights froze us. To endure the biting cold, I layered every piece of clothing I had packed for what I imagined would be my grand arrival in Germany. My carefully ironed shirts turned into my survival gear. Shielding my eyes with glasses and covering my face with makeshift masks, I resembled a faceless wanderer. Never having lived a “ghetto life,” I struggled to adapt. Softened by my upbringing, I cried, overwhelmed by the unforgiving conditions.
Some travelers, better prepared through research or advice from family, managed slightly better. Meanwhile, the sticks we had been given became essential, helping us stay upright on the shifting sands. The driver offered no respite; if anyone fell, the truck kept moving unless we stopped to pray. With no common language, we failed to communicate with him as he spoke only Arabic, adding another layer of isolation.
Along the way, the desert revealed its horrors. Bodies—some fresh, others desiccated—lay scattered across the sands, victims of the merciless terrain. I saw abandoned travelers whose vehicles had broken down or who had been robbed by Azmah gangs, stripped of food, money, and hope. Doubt began to fester within me. What had I done? Fear engulfed me as I realized I had left without a word to my family. If I died here, my disappearance would remain an unsolvable mystery, leaving my loved ones with nothing but unanswered questions.
Sold to traffickers after surviving the Sahara desert
The desert humbled me, but we survived and reached Qatron, Libya. There, the traffickers welcomed us, gave us a meal, and urged us to rest. Despite the exhaustion, I already regretted my choices. Then, another motivational speaker arrived. He gained popularity as he rallied us, getting us to clap and cheer. At that point, I could no longer turn back, so we encouraged each other and held onto belief. They guaranteed we would reach Germany with just two stops remaining. This, however, turned out to be another lie.
No one demanded money when we reached Sabha from Qatrun. Instead, they told us they sold us. I wondered: “Sold? To whom? How?” Fear coursed through me. They claimed we were now at the mercy of traffickers as we used a bag agent who owed them money. I remember the man handing the driver money before we drove deeper into the desert. They told us to rest and promised they would explain how to buy our freedom in the morning.
Guiding us into a large hall, they packed us with Nigerians and other Africans. About 700 Nigerians filled the space, creating a massive community of kidnapped individuals. I began asking them how they ended up there. They shared stories of beatings, starvation, and more. At first, I assumed they did something wrong and believed I would not suffer the same fate because I did nothing to deserve this. But no, they endured the beatings to force their families to send money for their release. The hall overflowed with people, and as we lay down to sleep, we could not move, packed like sardines. Distressingly, we stayed in that position until morning.
Migrant forced to call family for money after being kidnapped in Libya
When we woke up, they asked the newest arrivals, including me, to step out. They told us we had to pay again, charging an amount even higher than they asked the previous group to pay. With no money, I had no choice but to call my family in Nigeria. I did not tell anyone about this trip, so instead of surprising them with a call from Germany, I decided to shock them with a call from a kidnapper’s den in Libya. They bluntly offered only three options to contact: my mom, dad, or a contact in Europe.
Before the call, they ordered anyone who had not paid to step forward. I watched as they undressed and beat those individuals until they bled. As they screamed, the kidnappers called their families on video or audio, torturing them to watch the pain their loved ones suffer. Then, they forced them to sleep on the ground with their legs tied, making them endure the torture as long as their debt remained. They even forced us to witness this violence to scare us into convincing our families to pay as quickly as possible. Shockingly, the ones running this business were my countrymen, Nigerians.
After a deep thought, I chose to call my father, knowing that calling my mother might worsen her health due to her high blood pressure. Also, being a daddy’s boy, I instinctively turned to him. My heart raced as I waited for him to answer. When he picked up, they told him he needed to speak with his son, Jeremiah, in Libya. He immediately insulted them, calling them scammers, because his son, Jeremiah, was in Nigeria, not Libya. “Wrong number,” he said and ended the call.
My sister’s kindness saves me from Sahara abductors
When my father ended the call, it felt like my heart stopped. Although my family had noticed my absence, they assumed I was busy or staying with one of my siblings. Since I could make and receive calls all the way to the Sahara, no one realized I had vanished.
I decided to call my sister next. She has a kind heart, and I knew she would do whatever it took to save me. When she answered, I felt her shock as she heard my voice. We had only one minute, so I quickly told her about my situation and begged her to help raise the money. She promised to send 300,000 Naira within four days. If she failed, they threatened me with severe punishment or even death. They even lied to her, claiming they had found me beaten and rescued me but needed the money to pay off my supposed abductors, who they claimed were organ traffickers.
Four days later, my sister sent the money. I was lucky they accepted it, as some families sent money only for it to be rejected, forcing them to raise more. Once the money arrived, their treatment of me changed drastically. By then, I had already pretended to be sick, prompting them to bring in a nurse, whom I paid for her services. After receiving the payment, they offered better food and water and even apologized for their mistreatment. Previously, we had only been given watery soup that even dogs would refuse.
While their shift in behavior offered temporary relief, the trauma of those days lingered. The lies, the threats, and the despair of relying on my family to save my life left a scar I would carry forever.
Mediterranean turns fatal: 37 people drown
Without trusting anyone, I ventured to the nearest town, determined to find work and earn enough to cross the Mediterranean into Europe. Surprisingly, one of the traffickers took me in, offering food and shelter for a month. His behavior contradicted the cruelty I had seen him inflict on others.
After a month, my family sent more money, allowing me to continue my journey. I traveled to Sapraa and paid for a spot on a rubber dinghy. Although I could not swim, my determination to reach Europe outweighed my fear. However, as I stood on the shore, staring at the vast, unforgiving sea, regret and terror consumed me. Tears streamed down my face as I realized the enormity of what lay ahead. Before we departed, a motivational speaker led us in prayer, urging us to seek protection. I prayed with all my strength, begging for safety against the ocean’s dangers, until exhaustion silenced my words.
Two hours into the journey, disaster struck. A fault developed in the dinghy, leaving us adrift. Fishermen who discovered us urged us to turn back, warning the journey was far too dangerous. When we refused, they contacted the border guards. Determined not to return to Libya, we resisted. In response, they rammed our boat, shattering part of it and sending those seated near the damaged section into the water. Chaos erupted as we screamed, convinced we faced certain death. Many drowned, the sea swallowing them mercilessly.
Clinging to the undamaged side of the boat, I fought to stay afloat. A fisherman eventually pulled me from the water, saving my life. Tragically, the rescue effort also recovered 37 lifeless bodies, a haunting reminder of the lives lost that day.
Survivor returns to Nigeria after enduring Mediterranean trauma
As we moved the bodies along the shore, the haunting images etched themselves into my memory. Fish began feeding on the corpses within minutes, tearing at their eyes, noses, ears, and other parts. When we lifted them to bury, their skin peeled away, decayed by the salty sea water. Witnessing the dead turned into food for the ocean’s creatures devastated me. Overwhelmed by emotion, I wept uncontrollably, unable to process the horror before me.
After the burial, authorities transferred us to a detention facility. Exhausted physically and emotionally, I decided to end my journey and return to Nigeria. The ocean had turned from a path to a dream into a predator, and I could no longer bear the thought of falling prey to it. NGOs and migration organizations visited the facility regularly, offering support and assistance. We also reached out to Emmanuel Church in Nigeria for help with repatriation. When they arranged a flight home, I eagerly accepted, clinging to the hope of starting over. Yet, many others refused to return, burdened by the shame of failure and the pressure of debts owed to family or lenders.
Completing my documentation and boarding the flight felt like a long-awaited miracle. For the first time in months, I experienced joy and relief. I had survived with my body intact, a rare gift compared to the others at the center. Some bore bullet wounds; others had been raped, forced into prostitution, or encountered organ traffickers. Many carried injuries and trauma from slavery, witnessing brutal acts of violence, and enduring forced labor. As the plane ascended, I realized my survival was more than luck—it was a second chance to rebuild a life I once thought lost.
Survivor calls for action against traffickers and irregular migration
When I finally stepped onto Nigerian soil, I knelt and thanked God for what felt like a miraculous survival. Alongside others, we sang and rejoiced, grateful to be alive. Journalists arrived to cover our return, and I agreed to share my story, hoping to shed light on what we endured. My parents and siblings hugged me through tears, shocked at my frail appearance after losing so much weight. To begin healing, I deleted every photo from my journey, trying to erase the memories. I relocated to another city, as people in Benin mocked me, calling me “weak.” It took over three years for me to start feeling whole again.
My ignorance had led me into a nightmare, and since then, I committed myself to preventing others from making the same mistake. Through my organization, Voice of Migrants, or Migrants as Messengers, I share my story to warn young people and parents about the dangers of irregular migration. I emphasize how governments, traffickers, and exploitative foreign powers create conditions forcing people to take deadly risks. Shamefully, those meant to protect us are often complicit in these destructive practices.
I refuse to let my survival mean nothing. My mission is to raise my voice and demand action from security officials to dismantle the networks of traffickers. I urge people to stay home, endure hardship if necessary, learn skills, or start small businesses—anything is better than dying in the desert or at sea on a journey to death. No one who has survived this route would recommend it. If you must travel, pursue the legal path. Check embassy websites, research, and prepare. Although getting a visa is difficult, it is far better than risking your life for nothing.
