My Maiduguri Story, By Abigail Olugbode

A teenage girl, Abigail Olugbode, recounts a day she would never forget during a near fatal attack on her estate in Maiduguri as a young girl.

For a long time, bombing wasn’t something I only heard about from news or far places—it was part of life. I grew up in Maiduguri, Borno State, during a time when attacks were frequent and unpredictable. Some days we’d get to school and be sent back home because there were reports of terrorists nearby. Other days, we were already in class when teachers suddenly told us to go under the desks and stay completely quiet.

I was six years old at the time, so I didn’t fully understand everything happening around me, but I understood fear. It showed up in small ways—in how people talked, how quickly things could change, and especially in my mum’s face whenever my dad wasn’t home.

There’s one memory that has stayed with me more than the others. It doesn’t really have a lesson. It’s just… what happened.

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It was December 20th, 2014. My mum had just given birth to my baby sister, and my grandmother had come from Lagos to help out.

That day started off normal. We were outside frying plantain. I still remember the smell and how we were all just there waiting to eat. Nothing felt wrong at that time.

Then someone came with the news—Boko Haram had entered 1000 Housing Estate, the estate where we lived.

Everything just shifted immediately.

My grandmother started panicking and praying out loud, calling on God and saying she didn’t want to die yet. It sounded almost like a strange kind of comic relief at first, the way she was speaking so loudly, like she was trying to be heard over everything. But she was scared—you could hear it underneath.

My mum quickly gathered us inside and told us to keep quiet. My dad was calm but very firm. He told us where to stay and that nobody should go outside. No discussion.

Then we heard gunshots.

Inside the house, staying quiet wasn’t easy. The baby started crying. The younger ones couldn’t sit still. People were whispering, shifting around, arguing in low voices. Everyone was trying, but no one was really calm.

Even the dog was barking like crazy. At some point, we were whispering at it to shut up, like it would actually understand.

My mum got really tense and said she would flog anyone who didn’t keep quiet. That was enough. Everyone froze after that.

My grandmother kept insisting we should run. She was begging my dad, switching between prayer and panic. She would get loud, then remember and lower her voice again.

But my dad didn’t move. He just stayed alert and kept listening to what was happening outside.

So we stayed.

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We just sat there listening. The gunshots, the silence between them, even our breathing—it all felt too loud.

At some point, things got quieter inside. The baby stopped crying. The dog finally stopped barking. Even my grandmother went from talking to just whispering prayers.

And we waited.

By morning, everything was calm again.

Later, we heard what actually happened. People who tried to run were shot. Houses were attacked.

That’s when it really hit me.

That could have been us.

We didn’t do anything special. We just stayed where we were—and somehow, that was enough.

My grandmother left for Lagos as soon as she could find transport. The whole thing really shook her. Even though she was grateful we survived, she didn’t want to stay anymore.

As for me and my siblings, something changed in us without us even noticing. We had heard gunshots so many times that it stopped feeling strange. It became something you just lived with.

Our relatives would always call when there were reports of attacks, asking why we were still in Maiduguri, telling us to leave.

But to us, it didn’t feel unusual.

It was just life