Beyond the headlines: An unexpected 4-hour journey into Oriire’s valley of grief

The day had already been mapped out. As a member of Governor Seyi Makinde’s press crew, my attention, like that of many journalists in Oyo State, was firmly fixed on the governor’s presidential nomination event of Saturday, May 30, 2026.

It was a major political engagement, one expected to dominate news cycles and newsroom conversations. The assignment was straightforward: cover the event, file reports and return home after what had already been a demanding day.

Then came the unexpected call, but journalism rarely follows a script. Shortly after 5 p.m., information filtered through that Governor Makinde would immediately proceed to Oriire Local Government Area on a sympathy visit, following the abduction of teachers and students in the area. 

The decision was swift. The governor wanted to personally assess the situation and meet with families affected by the incident. Within minutes, plans changed. Equipment was gathered. Vehicles were mobilised. Conversations shifted from politics to security.

What had begun as a day of political coverage was suddenly transformed into a journey, into one of the most troubling stories in the state.

As a journalist, one learns to expect the unexpected. Yet, as a wife and mother, I could not help but think about the family I had expected to return home to that evening. There would be no early return, no opportunity to unwind after a demanding day.

Instead, there was a five-hour journey ahead. Back home, my husband and children were understandably concerned. Like many residents who had followed reports of bandit activities and kidnappings in parts of the state, they knew where we were headed. Their calls and messages reflected a mixture of anxiety and encouragement. Still, I had a mixture of anxiety and fear in me as we headed on the journey. 

The destination was not just distant, it was a location many associated with recurring security concerns. As our convoy moved farther away from Ibadan, civilisation gradually thinned out. 

The highways gave way to narrower roads, towns became less frequent, and commercial activity diminished. Darkness slowly crept across the landscape as the journey continued.

The deeper we travelled into Oriire, the more apparent its geographical challenges became. Long stretches of bushland surrounded portions of the roads. Thick vegetation extended into the horizon. In several locations, the dense undergrowth appeared almost impenetrable. More troubling was the fact that we couldn’t have access to our mobile networks as such we could neither make calls nor send messages.

For an observer like myself, the scenery was picturesque. For communities battling insecurity, however, it represented something more troubling. We saw more Fulani herdsmen along the way as they took their cows grazing.

The vast bushes and forests have, over time, become potential hideouts for criminal elements. One could easily understand why residents repeatedly call for greater surveillance, increased security presence and strategic environmental management to reduce vulnerabilities.

As the convoy continued through the gathering darkness, the isolation of some of the communities became increasingly evident. Hours later, we finally arrived. The atmosphere was sombre.

There was no mistaking the grief that hung over the community. Under the glow of vehicle headlights and scattered electric bulbs, members of the affected families had already assembled, waiting for the governor’s arrival in the compound of one of the affected schools, L. A. Basic School.

Some sat quietly on benches. Others stood in small groups, engaged in hushed conversations. Their faces bore visible signs of exhaustion, anxiety and emotional distress.

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The uncertainty surrounding the fate of their loved ones had clearly taken a toll. Children remained close to their parents. Elderly community members sat silently, their expressions reflecting deep concern. Women clutched prayer beads and handkerchiefs. Every face seemed to tell its own story of worry and helplessness.

It was one of those scenes that photographs can capture but never fully explain. The atmosphere carried a painful mixture of hope and despair. Hope that their loved ones would return safely. Despair born from not knowing when or if that would happen.

When Governor Makinde arrived, the crowd stirred. Professor Alamu, husband to the abducted Principal, Mrs Folawe Alamu, cried uncontrollably as he walked down to Governor Seyi Makinde, the governor received him in warm embrace and patted him, promising him of the safe return of his wife and other abductees.

The governor then moved from one group to another, listening attentively as relatives who recounted their experiences and concerns. There were no rehearsed speeches from the families, I could only see raw emotions.

Governor Makinde while speaking, stressed that while many Nigerians had expressed opinions and offered suggestions on how the crisis should be handled, authorities must proceed with caution given the sensitive nature of the ongoing operation.

“I understand that many people have different opinions about what should be done. Many have offered advice and suggestions, and we appreciate the concern.

“The people we are dealing with are dangerous and unpredictable. Because this is an ongoing security operation, there are certain details I cannot disclose.

“However, I want to assure you that every available resource is being deployed to secure the release of the victims,” he stated.

Some spoke through tears. Others struggled to find the right words. Several family members described sleepless nights since the abduction. They spoke about interrupted lives, shattered routines and the emotional burden of waiting for news.

As I listened, notebook in hand, the story became more than another assignment. Behind every headline about kidnapping, insecurity or criminal attacks are ordinary people whose lives are abruptly disrupted.

A father worried about his child. A mother praying for safe return. Siblings clinging to hope. These were not statistics. They were people navigating one of the most difficult moments of their lives.

The governor offered words of reassurance, promising that efforts were ongoing to secure the safe return of those abducted. While government responses and security operations remain important, what seemed to matter most to the families that evening was the simple act of being seen, heard and acknowledged.

Not long, curiosity got the better part of me and I quickly walked round the premises, I tried to take a quick pee, and suddenly I heard some rustling in the bush part which got me both started and scared, only for me to discover there were some security personnel (Army) in the bush area, we both laughed at the way I jumped. 

As I walked out of the bush part, a Fulani man among the crowd caught my attention, during an interview with him, I discovered he is the Seriki Fulani in the local government, Musa Adamu. He stated, “We have never experienced such since we have been living here for years and it is so sad, even my children are part of those kidnapped and we hope that the government helps us bring them back and save them from harm.“

An aged woman was shattered as well, she knelt before the Governor, crying and said, “As you are looking at me like this, I am empty, my four grandchildren and daughter who teaches at the school, were taken away, sobbing while saying this and also affirming that her daughter is the teacher seen in the video released by the abductees carrying the two-year-old. She went further by stating, through sobs, that she is completely empty.

“We have never witnessed such before in this community and this is so sad, my daughter and four grandchildren are part of those kidnapped and we hope that the government will help bring them back, safe from harm,” he said.

Governor Makinde after speaking with them openly, later called families of those affected aside to have a private discussion with them. We, journalists, were asked to excuse them; they want whatever is discussed at that point to remain private. 

The visit stretched late into the night, and discussions continued. Community leaders raised concerns. Residents shared observations.

Government officials listened. By the time the engagement concluded, fatigue had begun to show on many faces, including those of journalists who had been on duty since morning.

Yet no one appeared eager to leave. The gravity of the situation commanded attention. Eventually, preparations were made for the return journey.

As our convoy pulled away from the community, many residents remained standing, watching the departing vehicles disappear into the darkness.

Ahead of us lay another long journey back to Ibadan. Nearly four hours on the road. The night was quiet. Inside the vehicle, however, my thoughts remained with the families we had just left behind.

Unlike us, I could not help but think that they were not returning home with closure. They were returning to uncertainty. As a journalist, I have covered political events, government projects, ceremonies and public celebrations. Yet some assignments leave a deeper impression than others.

This was one of them. My first visit to Oriire was not defined by its roads, its settlements or its distance from the state capital. It was defined by its people. Those who carry the weight of fear.

People searching for answers. People holding firmly to hope despite overwhelming circumstances. As we approached Ibadan late that night, one thought remained with me.

The true measure of journalism is not merely reporting events as they happen. It is giving voice to those whose stories might otherwise remain unheard.

As our convoy made its way back through the darkness, one thought lingered. Some of the most important stories are not found on political stages or inside conference halls. 

They are found in quiet communities like Oriire, where ordinary people endure extraordinary circumstances and where, even in the shadow of tragedy, hope continues to survive.