By By Rita Enemuru
DOES your body ever give you signs when danger is near? Mine did last Sunday. Around 11:00a.m, I felt uneasy. Goosebumps covered my skin, and I couldn’t explain why. Every little sound made me jump. Maybe it was because of the stories of incessant robberies in Itu, Idak-Kpor, and along Ikpa Road, Uyo.
I remembered my friend, Anthony Uyah, telling me how armed robbers had entered a student’s room at Idak-Kpor a week earlier and warning me to always double-check my door before sleeping. I also remembered July, when I went to my friend Chioma’s house to read, only to return to tales of robbers raiding part of my compound, dispossessing students of their phones and electronics. I thanked God I wasn’t home that night; it would have been traumatising. Perhaps those memories fed my anxiety.
To distract myself, I opened MX Player and started watching House of David. Then PHED restored power. I wanted to plug in my phone, but a small voice inside me said, No, plug in your power bank instead. You can always use it later. I obeyed. I didn’t know my instincts were preparing me for what was to come.
Past 11:00p.m, I drifted off to sleep with my lights still on. I was dreaming about the film when, at exactly 2:00a.m, I suddenly opened my eyes. I can’t explain what woke me, because I’m a deep sleeper. But what I saw froze my blood.
I saw a pair of scissors tied to a long stick reaching through my window, trying to hook my phone. A chill ran through me, making every hair on my body rise. I looked out of the window, and there he was—shirtless, fair-skinned, with a broad chest. I jumped up and started shouting at the top of my voice: “Thief! Thief! Thief ooo!” He bolted immediately. I didn’t care if he was gone; I continued shouting. I was too scared to stop. I kept shouting, hoping the vigilante members around would catch him, but he was never caught.
My landlady’s voice broke through: “Rita, what is that? Did the person enter your house?” My voice was trembling as I replied, “No.”
By then, I was shaking uncontrollably. Tears streamed down my face. My mind ran wild with terrible what-ifs. What if my door hadn’t been locked? Would he have raped me? Stolen my belongings? The thought of a stranger—a dangerous one—watching me while I slept creeped me out. I was scared. I was traumatised. I was shaking.
Anger burned through my fear. I thought of the jungle justice stories I had reported on, and for a moment, I understood. I wanted him roasted alive. I imagined what I would have done if I had had a knife in my hand.
This was the first time I had ever witnessed someone attempting to rob me, and it left me deeply shaken. Two days later, the image still flashes in my mind. Not because I want to remember, but because I can’t help it. He wasn’t caught, but you know what they say: “Every day is for the thief; one day is for the owner.”
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