Kim

The sound of tires on gravel rouses me. Engines rumbling, filling the air with the smell of unfiltered diesel fuel make me open my eyes. Machine gun fire makes me jump out of bed and lie flat against the wooden floorboards of the hut I’m staying in. My heart is racing, sweat is beading on my forehead. This is a raid, the kind I've read about happening at villages and settlements like this one in the desert of Nigeria. The kind I hoped never to write about, the kind I might not survive. My stomach's clenching so hard I want to throw up, but I'm afraid to even lift my head.

A man is yelling for everyone to come outside, speaking English, which is the official language in this country. I can hear doors slamming open, men and women yelling, the girls screaming and crying. The door of my hut slams open too, and two tall men holding machine guns burst inside. One of them yanks me off the floor, sticks the machine gun in my side and hisses at me to be still as I fight to break free. I stop fighting. Rule number one when on assignments in dangerous places is, "Don't be brave". Go along, cause no trouble, do as you're told, and hope that your PRESS ID will save you.

I didn't think I was in a dangerous place here. This is an orphanage for Christian and Muslim girls who have lost their families in the never-ending hostilities plaguing the region. I'm on assignment for The Guardian, writing an article on how Nigeria is well handling the terrorist threat to their country, and this part of it—the part about the Christian and Muslim orphans living and learning together and hopefully heralding a brighter future for this poor, religion-torn country—was supposed to be the happy part of it.

But the terrorist group Boko Haram has been very active in this region lately. They warned me and my photographer to leave days ago. But I wanted to stay a little longer to get a better feel for the place.

Outside, the man standing in the open back of the truck is still yelling for everyone to assemble, still shooting his gun in the air in between giving commands. All I see is his gun and the whites of his eyes. He pauses when he sees me brought out. I'm only wearing the short t-shirt I slept in. His gaze slithers across my bare legs like a snake. He must not see many white women here, especially ones with waist-length thick red hair and skin white as milk. Right now, he's thinking he might as well make the most of me while he has me. I can read that clearly in his expression.

The orphan girls, all twenty of them, are being herded toward the truck by five armed men in fatigues. Their uniforms look state issued, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything. It doesn't mean the government is in on this, whatever this is. But it could.

A man is still clutching my arm tightly, but I try to jerk out of his grasp when one of the girls is hit viciously for stopping.

"What are you doing?" I scream as the man pulls me back and jabs the gun into my side again.

The man addressing the crowd jumps off the truck and approaches.

"This is the American journalist, no?" he asks the principal of the orphanage, a man in his sixties kneeling in the sand to my left.

The principal gives me an apologetic, scared look before nodding.

The feeling of being touched by a snake intensifies as the man sets his gaze back on me and walks closer.

"You will write that we took these girls to a better place," he says, standing so close I can smell the alcohol on his breath. "This is no place for girls. They will go to a nice place."

I know he's lying, we all know he's lying. But if I don't get out of this alive, I'll never be able to tell the world what happened here, never be able to describe this man to the authorities, so they can track him down and free the girls that are now being forced onto the truck he vacated.

"You will write this?" he asks pointedly and I nod, despite the knot in my throat, despite everything inside me telling me I should spit in his face. Telling me to fight him right here and now, because if that truck with the girls leaves, no one will ever see them again. But I have no chance of freeing them right now. And if I try, I'll get a belly full of bullets and they'll lose their best chance of getting freed.

The smell of burning wood and corrosive gasoline is filling the air around us, the heat of the flames as they engulf the huts that make up this orphanage licking my bare legs.

The man grips my chin and gives me a wet sloppy kiss that's all tongue and spit and no feeling. I almost retch when he finally lets me go. Between my flame red hair, milk white skin and big breasts, I've never had any shortage of creepy guys seeking my attention. But this one is by far the worst yet. If he wasn't too afraid of what the US government might do to get me back, he'd probably pack me onto that truck along with the rest of the girls. My government wouldn't do anything, just like they've done nothing to intervene in the bloodshed that's raged here for ages. I'd be lost forever and my mother would die of grief. That's about all that would happen. No lover would weep for me, no child would be orphaned.

"Remember me," he says. "And do not fail me or I will find you. I will enjoy finding you."

Then he tells his men to leave. They keep their guns trained on us as they drive away, and I can't peel my eyes from the screaming, scared girls aged eight to sixteen huddled in the back of the truck. Suddenly, one of them jumps off and I scream, but she seems unhurt as she runs across the field to safety. A machine gun rattles, bringing her down. Her body falls in slow motion, the sight eerie and unreal, illuminated by the orange light of the fire raging all around us. But this is real.

I don't look away, and I will never forget this scene. I will get justice for her. And I will do all I can to get the others back from the clutches of these terrorists.