How I Survived Attack by Armed Men in Awka

By Izunna Okafor, Awka

Yes, it was exactly one week yesterday, on August 4th, 2024.

My friends and I had finished a gathering we had somewhere in Awka, the capital city of Anambra State, which though didn't start early enough on Saturday, August 3. We broke the day there, as the gathering officially ended at about 2.am.

Awka had been revered as a ‘happening city’ where activities, especially nightlife, never go off, till almost the following night.

Being an Awka-based practicing journalist, I had also attended many other functions, meetings, and media-related assignments in the past, especially during emergencies and political periods, from where I safely returned home late in the night, even at such odd hours as 2.am, 3.am and so on, without anybody or group interfering with my movement.

These, and other heap of confidence so far built over more than ten years of my stay and practice of journalism in the city made me have less anxiety over my safe return to my residence that fateful Sunday night after our dismissal. Although I hear of and also write many news of the various crimes and security happenings in Awka on a daily basis, I never knew that the city had currently grown to be in its most unsecured status in the history of human existence.

So, as usual, after our gathering, I saddled on my somewhat new ride and mounted the road, after my friends and colleagues had taken their own direction. I was the only one among us going to my side.

And, as is usually the case, some streets were still on, especially the ever-busy Abakaliki Street (Club Road), as at that 2:09 am when I took off and was cruising to my residence.

It, however, became unusual, as I diverted towards the direction of my destination, Off the Abakaliki Street before the Queen Suite Hotel, as a yellow-coloured tricycle (Keke) double-crossed me, with three ferocious and cantankerous men onboard.

That area is known for its quietness, darkness, and loneliness, especially in the night, and early hours of the day when the shop owners in the vicinity are closed or yet to open for the day.

“Oga, come down,” one of the boys said, brandishing a gun in his hand.

As I was trying to resist, question, and understand what was happening, the other one among the two persons who alighted from the tricycle drew closer and leveraged the tool of hot slap to order me not to waste their time.

As the slap was still echoing some bee sounds in my ear, the third person who remained inside the tricycle joined his voice to warn me not to delay them further; even as few cars that approached the spot at that moment all reversed upon seeing the tricycle standing at the center of the road, with armed men standing by.

With courage and instigation that came from nowhere, as this was going on, I immediately geared up my motorcycle in a bid to flee, while one of them immediately cocked his gun, and the other pushed me down on motion, together with the motorcycle. And we crashed.

As I was struggling to get up, one of them grabbed up the motorcycle, saddled on it, and zoomed off in the company of the Keke, in which the other two had already mounted; and they sped off.

Immediately after the scene cleared, some people rushed to assist me, as they comforted me and stopped a tricycle for me, which I boarded in the company of some people, and was ridden home, after I declined to go to the hospital that night.

As I got home, and even while still inside the Keke, I started making calls, beginning with informing the friends I had just finished staying with before the incident, and then calling the Commissioner of Police, CP Nnaghe Obono Itam; the State Police Public Relations Officer, SP Ikenga Tochukwu, and some other security personnel I could reach on phone then, notifying them of what happened. I also requested their assistance in facilitating the apprehension of the hoodlums and recovering my stolen motorcycle — a ride that had been of great help to me in meeting up with my various journalistic engagements, both timeously and economically.

It was not until later in the morning that I clearly saw and began to feel the real pains of the injuries I sustained from the incident the time hoodlums pushed me down when I took the highly regretted dangerous risk to escape.

While I could not comfortably sleep that night, the following morning, as early as 6:30 am, I was already dressed up for church. But the pains couldn't allow me. So, I had to begin finding transportation means to a hospital for urgent medical attention.

However, on second thought, I decided to trek down the axis where I had been attacked the previous night, though still making some phone calls and raising alarms.

Moments later, I was already at the Abakaliki Street. Lo and behold, a motorcycle that looked exactly like mine was dumped along the roadside.

“Could this not be my bike? Or, are these criminals relaxing and drinking somewhere around here in celebration of their successful ‘outing’ last night?” I reasoned aloud.

As I drew much closer, with some premeditated phone numbers in mind to call immediately if something strange was encountered, or if the men were drinking there; lo and behold, it was my motorcycle; abandoned, without anyone in sight as the parker.

What could have happened that led to the motorcycle being abandoned there?

The carburetor of my motorcycle had developed a fault a few weeks ago, such that it usually overfloats most times when I park it, especially when there is enough fuel in it. This made me start locking up the fuel tap each time I park the bike and unlock it when I'm about to go.

Now, this mechanical fault has believably become my saving grace this time; little wonder why I had been reluctant to go fix it since about two weeks ago it started.

Now, before taking off from the venue of our gathering that night, I forgot to unlock the fuel tap as I usually do; and so, the only fuel inside the carburetor was what sustained my ride to the point where the hoodlums robbed me. Unknown to me and them, the fuel in the carburetor was almost finished, even though there was still enough fuel in the fuel tank.

So, men and brethren, it was this remaining fuel in the carburetor that eventually finished up along the road when the criminals were fleeing with the bike, and then, the motorcycle locked up without any sign. Because they obviously could not begin to look for the fault (being a stolen bike), for the fear of being apprehended in the process; they disappointedly dumped and abandoned it there along the road, which was where I saw it the following morning, to the glory of God. This occurred just a few treks away from where the robbery occurred, implying that they didn't even go far with the motorcycle before it locked up — a miracle I believe they might suspect to be a security lock, as it usually happens without giving signs.

Because I couldn't find the key on the motorcycle, I rolled it to a place and parked it there; then went back home, brought the spare key, and started it, after having switched on the fuel tap and given enough time for the carburetor to absorb fuel. Men and brethren, that was how I miraculously recovered and regained the ownership of my lost motorcycle, all to the glory of God.

With that accomplished, the next concern was seeking urgent medical attention, because the various degrees of injuries I sustained on different parts of my body were still very acerbic, which include part of my cheek, part of my eyes, and limbs. Consequently, therefore, I mounted my motorcycle and hurried off to the hospital to take care of myself. And since then, I have been on medication till date, with many significant differences showing already on my body.

Many of the people I have encountered since the day of this incident have shown concern, empathy, and sympathy, but not without asking me what happened to me, especially given the degrees of injuries and scars on my body.

However, because of the blame I perceived would trail me if I should tell the people the real story, especially that aspect of the daring and highly regretted risk that I took by staking my life to drag a motorcycle with armed hoodlums; and because of my reluctance to be recounting the same long story to different people over and over; I decided to be telling them that it was just an accident that I had, whenever anyone asks me what happened after seeing the injuries all over my body. In fact, I even started this the very night the incident happened.

So, as it stands today, many people, including some of my biological relatives, still hold the belief that it was just an accident that I had, as I told them, without knowing yet the real thing that happened to me. Although it's also an accident, to some extent; only a few persons I told know the true story. Meanwhile, some are not even aware that anything happened to me at all.

Howbeit, now that I have almost fully recovered; with appreciation to God, and with sincere apologies to those I somewhat lied to about that; I have finally made up my mind to tell the world the true story of what actually happened to me.

So, men and brethren, this is my story!

Join me to thank God, especially for sparing my life this time again, as many have died through this kind of incident and still lost the dragged item.

It is indeed a testimony and a great lesson to me.

The Lord's name be praised.

Izunna Okafor (12/08/2024)