Mrs. Elizabeth Rosemary Iyoha
They know where my son is, they must release him to me, kicks Elizabeth Iyoha ,as she calls for justice
A widow’s life has been torn apart yet again as Mrs. Elizabeth Rosemary Iyoha faces the devastating abduction of her son, Emmanuel, the second time just four years after losing her husband to a similar fate. In a harrowing tale of grief and unanswered questions, Elizabeth recounts the chilling events surrounding her family’s tragedy, from her husband’s abduction and death at the hands of militants to the mysterious disappearance of her second son, Augustine. Now, with Emmanuel missing the second time, Elizabeth’s hope fades as she questions the authorities’ inability to protect ordinary citizens from the relentless grip of criminal gangs.
Your story is beyond tragic. Your husband, your son Augustine, and now Emmanuel, all taken from you in unimaginable ways. How are you finding the strength to continue in life ?
Strength? I don’t know if that’s what you’d call it. Every day, I feel the weight of it all pressing down—my husband’s gone, Augustine disappeared, and now Emmanuel, abducted again. There’s this emptiness inside me that only grows with each loss. It’s as if I’m cursed to endure the unimaginable, over and over.
The authorities—the very people meant to protect you—appear to be failing in their duty. You mentioned comments by a former governor who claimed people know where these bandits are hiding. How has that affected your trust in the system?
They’re failing us—every single one of us. They talk about these criminals like they’re some untouchable force, yet they know where they are. They can reach them if they want to, but they do nothing. We’ve become prisoners in our own land, paying for ‘protection’ from the very people who should be protecting us. And to hear whispers that some of these killers now wear military uniforms… that they’re the ones supposed to keep us safe? It’s beyond betrayal; it’s like living in a nightmare with no end.
To think that someone in uniform might be tied to the same violence that took your husband and son is horrifying. But Augustine… you mentioned he changed before he disappeared. Do you think his disappearance and these abductions are connected?
Yes, I do. Augustine worked with a security outfit and defending the oppressed, yet somehow he may have crossed paths with a wicked group determined to make us pay. He became so secretive… so distant. I believe he stumbled onto something dangerous, but he never told me, never asked for help. And now they’ve taken Emmanuel, too. One by one, they’re tearing my family apart, and I’m helpless to stop them. Every ring of the phone chills me, wondering if this time, they’ve come for me.
You mentioned Chief Josiah collapsed and died rushing back to find his home engulfed in flames. Do you believe these events connect to the criminal network suffocating this region? And did you report this to the police?
Chief Josiah, my husband, Augustine, Emmanuel… they’re all threads in this web of violence and corruption, strangling anyone who dares resist. My husband died because he stood up to them, and now my sons are caught in the crossfire. I keep wondering—what did I miss? Could I have saved them?”
I reported everything to the police at Ohe, Uru, in Esan Central LGA, where Augustine lived. They saw the ashes of our home and the traces left behind. And then… nothing. They left us to fend for ourselves, as if the criminals were the true lords of the land.
And now, with Emmanuel missing again, after he was taken once before… do you still hold onto hope?
Hope? What hope does a mother have when she’s already buried a husband in pieces and watched one son vanish? I know what they’re capable of. Every moment Emmanuel is gone, I imagine the horrors they’re inflicting on him. But I can’t stop hoping—not yet. Even if hope is killing me, I have to believe. If I don’t, then who will?”
If you could send a message to those in power, those who have turned a blind eye to this chaos, what would you say?
I would ask them—how do you sleep at night? Knowing you could end this, that you could save lives, but you choose not to. You leave mothers like me to suffer, to watch our children be hunted down. Do you even care that we’re dying? Or are we just numbers on a page to you?
Your courage is remarkable. You have faced more than anyone should have to endure. I can only hope that your voice will be heard, that Emmanuel will come home to you, and that this nightmare will finally end.
Thank you. But I wonder… is there a place of safety left in Nigeria? In the North, where Boko Haram and bandits have driven families into IDP camps, stealing lives and hopes alike? Or in the Middle Belt, where herders and farmers clash with such brutality that land becomes a battlefield? The South West and South East, where ritualists prey upon us, and ‘unknown gunmen’ declare curfews, pretending they fight for our freedom while we cower at home. Even in the South-South, where the fear of violence lingers every night—where do we turn? There’s no refuge, nowhere that feels like home anymore.
I just want peace. I just want my children to be safe. Is that too much to ask?
