On Monday, inside the quiet halls of the Oyo State Secretariat in Ibadan, Mrs. Rachael Alamu finally stopped running. For 56 agonizing days, the secondary school principal had been a captive of the forest, forced to shepherd terrified children through a living nightmare.
Abducted by heavily gunmen on May 15, 2026, in the Oriire Local Government Area, Mrs. Alamu, alongside her fellow teachers and pupils, was recently freed in a coordinated rescue operation by security forces. Handed over formally to Governor Seyi Makinde, she shared a harrowing story of survival—one defined by extreme weather, physical exhaustion, and the brutal reality of keeping crying children silent under the threat of violence.
The nightmare began with a chaotic, terrifying ambush. The kidnappers hijacked Mrs. Alamu’s personal car to transport the initial group of captives deep into the forest. There, they merged with another group of primary school pupils and their teacher.
What followed was a fast-paced, highly coordinated transit into the wilderness designed to lose any pursuers.
“We walked for about an hour before they brought motorcycles,” Alamu recalled. “About 10 motorcycles were used to move us for more than four hours through bush paths they knew very well.”
For nearly two months, the open forest became both their home and their prison. The hostages were entirely exposed to the elements, enduring torrential rains and scorching heat without shelter.
As the days blurred together, the principal’s primary mission became keeping the children alive—and quiet. The kidnappers, constantly paranoid about security forces closing in, met any sound with swift, merciless retaliation.
“Personally, I was not beaten, but some of the children were. What they hated most was noise because they believed it could attract attention. The youngest children suffered the most. They would tie their mouths with pieces of cloth and beat them very well,” she said
While Alamu confirmed that none of the hostages suffered sexual molestation, the physical toll of their captivity was grueling. Whenever the kidnappers feared their location had been compromised, they forced the group into exhausting, hours-long midnight treks.
“When the place was discovered, we had to move, and that usually started around seven or eight at night,” she said, pointing to the visible bruises on her skin. “Sometimes we walked for three to four hours. The younger ones were carried, but the older children had to walk. They fell many times. It was very difficult.”
While the women and children navigated the physical torment of the treks, the male captives faced a different kind of psychological and physical torture.
“The men had it worse than us,” Alamu revealed. “They were blindfolded, handcuffed, and chained on their legs.”
Despite the overwhelming dread, the group clung to a fragile sense of hope, sustained almost entirely by their shared faith. Alamu explained that they survived on the quiet belief that they had not been forgotten by the outside world: “We knew it was only God that could help us, and we believed people were praying for us. That kept us going.”
Now safe, the physical wounds will slowly heal, but the emotional scars run deep. For Mrs. Alamu, who has dedicated nearly three decades of her life to educating Nigeria’s youth, the trauma has fundamentally altered how she views her vocation.
With 28 years of service under her belt and just four years left until retirement, the thought of returning to a rural classroom fills her with dread.
“Visiting rural areas now requires the grace of God,” she admitted quietly. “Before this happened, I had already sacrificed a lot because of the distance. Now, coupled with this experience, I don’t know what will happen. I just want to see my husband. When I get home, I can think of every other thing.”
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