It was drizzling when I left the hospital that morning. I had worked the night shift, and it was one of those nights that kept me on my feet the entire time.
From two accident cases to a gunshot victim, a little girl who lodged a hair bead in her nose, the man who beat his wife and broke her nose only for her to retaliate by breaking his head and a pregnant woman who insisted she was a “Hebrew woman” until she lost her baby after refusing a caesarean section… by the end of it, I was physically and mentally drained. All I wanted was to go home, take a shower and collapse into bed.
I thought I could beat the weather before the rain grew heavy but I was wrong. By the time I reached Oshodi, the drizzle had turned into a heavy downpour. I took shelter under a shed with others as we waited for the rain to subside. Minutes turned into hours and still no transport was in sight. I tried to order a ride but every driver declined. Exhaustion weighed me down and at some point, I began nodding off while standing. A kind man offered me his stool. It wasn’t exactly comfortable but it was better than standing for hours.
I rested my head against the wall and drifted off but I was startled by a scream. I opened my eyes, waiting for them to adjust to the dim light. There was movement all around me, yet I couldn’t see clearly. The air smelled like a dumpster beside a gutter, so foul that I vomited.
I struggled to recall where I was or what had happened. Then I remembered that I had fallen asleep on a stool while it was raining but how on earth did I end up here? Panic set in. I cried and joined others who were screaming. Fear gripped me. Was this a kidnap? How could this happen in Oshodi, a place I had passed through for years without a single problem?
Harsh voices barked at us to keep quiet but the terror in those voices only fueled our fear. Suddenly, the light was switched on and bright light blinded us. In front of us stood rough looking men with discoloured teeth, breath stinking of alcohol and drugs, sunken eyes and scarred faces. Shock washed over me. I still couldn’t understand how I had landed there.
Their leader ordered the men to be separated from the women. Then the beatings began. One by one, the men were forced to withdraw cash from a POS agent stationed there or transfer money to strange bank accounts. When it was the women’s turn, I thought we might be treated differently but I was wrong. They fondled, harassed and searched us. My only prayer was that I would not be raped. I was ready to empty my life savings if it meant keeping their hands off me. When it was finally my turn, a voice suddenly shouted, “Ah-ahn! Na who bring Sisi Nurse come here?”
Another replied, “Boss, e be like say na KB market be dis.”
The boss cursed, “E no go better for KB. Ogun go punish am. Abi he no dey look face ni? Sisi Nurse wey get respect, wey dey always greet person if she dey pass.”
From the crowd, voices began to rise. Someone said, “Ah, na Sisi Nurse help me dat time wey I dey sick. I jam her for bus stop, I come tell her as my body dey do me. She tell me say make I wait for her for that same place the next day, true true, she show with medicine. She no even collect money for my hand.”
Another added, “I sabi this nurse now. Remember that time wey that oloshi for under bridge chook me bottle, na she been treat me na. Laslas she no collect shingbain from me.”
A woman’s voice came next: “That nurse dey buy pure water from my pikin hand, sometimes sef she no dey even collect change.”
Another said, “Nurse wey dey bring worm medicine for me bah.” I recognised that voice. It was the Hausa woman who sold gala and drinks by the bus stop. We had shared small conversations from time to time and I always brought her worm expellers for her children.
Someone else recalled how I once helped his daughter when her school uniform was stained with blood. I had bought her sanitary towels from a store nearby.
I stood frozen as I listened. These little gestures, done without a second thought had become lifelines in this moment. I never imagined they mattered to anyone but here they were… my kindness speaking for me.
The boss asked me if anyone had taken anything from me and I said no. Then he ordered that I be blindfolded and released, assuring me that as long as he remained in Oshodi, my safety was guaranteed.
An escort led me through winding paths and after nearly twenty minutes, he stopped and instructed me to count to ten before removing the blindfold. When I did, I found myself right in the middle of Oshodi bus stop. It was early morning, the city just stirring awake. I switched on my phone and it buzzed with missed calls and messages but I was too dazed to answer. I just wanted to go home.
I was grateful that those small selfless acts had saved me. Yet I couldn’t stop wondering what became of the others trapped in that dungeon.
For weeks, I avoided Oshodi like a plague. Nightmares haunted me and fear sat heavy on my chest. Oshodi was the fastest route for me to and from work but I wasn’t ready to confront my fears. Eventually, I braved it. Clutching my bag, face cap pulled low to hide my face, heart racing. I was at Oshodi bus stop, waiting for a bus, then I felt someone beside me.
“Sisi Nurse, abeg no fess. Boss don tell me since say any day wey you pass here again, I must to tell you sorry. I no know say you be our person. Abeg no fess”
I trembled, unable to move even when my bus arrived. That was definitely KB.
As soon as he moved away, I recognised her voice as she wrapped her arms around my shoulders. “My sista, I know say na fear drive you comot for this our area but I want give you assurance say.. no shaking. Nothing sup for here so make you no fear” It was the Hausa woman.
I gathered myself and boarded the next bus but deep down I knew I was done with Oshodi. That place had scarred me beyond repair.
The next day, I shared everything with my boss who already knew about the initial ordeal. He was empathetic and linked me to a doctor friend who needed a nurse. I got the job and that was how I never had to pass through Oshodi again.
Looking back, I shudder at what could have become of me. But one truth remains clear: kindness never goes to waste.
