By WHEN Mrs Theresa Obogosan-Ofobrukueta, a retired nurse, left her small shop in Ugbeiho, Sapele, with her husband on the evening of Monday, 13 January 2025, she had no idea her life was about to be shattered. The couple had gone about their day as usual—simple routines shared by two ageing pensioners hoping for quiet, restful years after decades of public service.
But that night, the ordinary gave way to the unthinkable.
Mr Emmanuel Ofobrukueta
“My husband, Mr Emmanuel Ofobrukueta, got a call around 8:00pm,” she recounted, her voice shaking as she relived the moment. “We closed the shop a bit earlier than usual and drove down to our residence at Okuomore, Mosogar. By 8:30, we were already home.”
Theresa, 65, had no reason to be afraid. The neighbourhood was familiar, the night calm. She and her 66-year-old husband—once a director with the Delta State Post-Primary Education Board—alighted from their car just as they had done countless times before.
“I was holding my keys, and he held his. That’s how we usually do it,” she said. “As he bent over to open the car door, I heard something—like feet brushing against grass. I thought it was a frog. I was just saying it when they jumped out.”
Mr Emmanuel Ofobrukueta
“They” were a group of armed men—between five to seven, by her estimate. She can’t remember clearly. What she does remember, with painful clarity, are the gunshots and the shouting.
“They came out of nowhere, screaming and shooting. Two of them grabbed my husband and started dragging him toward the road. Our house is by the roadside, but they pulled him further onto the tarmac.”
Terrified, she stood frozen, watching as her husband struggled with his captors. “He was resisting. He kept saying, ‘I don’t know you. Why should I follow you?’ But they insisted. The shooting didn’t stop.”
Mrs Theresa Obogosan-Ofobrukueta
What happened next remains a blur in Theresa’s memory.
“I don’t know how I got away. I don’t know if I ran, flew, or vanished. But I found myself at my neighbour’s gate. I knocked and they let me in. I was trembling, trying to call people, but the network was poor.”
Inside her neighbour’s home, she listened helplessly as gunshots continued to ring out for what felt like forever—twenty minutes, maybe thirty.
“I called my children, my brother-in-law. I don’t know how many people I managed to reach. I just kept trying. I couldn’t believe it was happening.”
Eventually, the shooting stopped. Word of the abduction spread through the village, and residents began to gather. Some wanted to organise an immediate search into the bush, but others hesitated—it was already late, and dark.
“I was faint,” she said. “I asked my neighbour’s husband for water. I couldn’t even sit up properly. Everyone stayed for about an hour, and then they left. I couldn’t go home. I stayed with my neighbours.”
Around midnight, the first call came.
“My husband’s number was calling. I thought—oh, thank God, maybe he escaped,” she said, a faint flicker of a smile crossing her face before fading just as quickly. “I answered and started speaking Urhobo, asking him if he was okay. But then a harsh voice cut in: ‘Shut up! Go and find 40 million if you want your husband back.’”
She pleaded with them. “I told them we were retirees, that my husband hadn’t even received his pension yet. But they just said, ‘Shut up,’ and ended the call.”
The horror had only begun. Over the next three days, the kidnappers maintained contact. They initially demanded N40 million. The family begged. The sum was eventually brought down to N30 million, then N7 million.
“Every time they called, it was like my heart would stop,” she said. “We told them we had only N1.2 million. They said we were not serious. We kept begging. On the third day, we told them we had four million. They didn’t agree at first, but that evening, my husband called. He said they had accepted the amount.”
Hope stirred once again, but it was quickly replaced by anguish. Despite paying the N4.2 million ransom through an intermediary on 15 January, Mr Emmanuel Ofobrukueta was not released. To this day, he remains in captivity.
“I don’t understand. We paid the money. We did everything they asked. Why haven’t they let him go?” she asked, her voice breaking. “What kind of wickedness is this?”
IGP Kayode Egbetokun
Now, more than three months later, the family has turned to the highest levels of law enforcement for help. With legal representation from Forthright Chambers, led by Barrister Frank E. Tietie, they submitted a formal petition to the Inspector General of Police (IGP), Mr Kayode Egbetokun.
“There are strong suspicions of conspiracy,” Tietie told journalists. “From intelligence reports and certain irregularities in the way the ransom was handled, we have reason to believe some close associates of the family—including the ransom bearers—may have colluded with the kidnappers.”
The petition, now with the Force Headquarters in Asokoro, Abuja, describes the Delta State Police Command as overwhelmed by the complexity of the case and calls for immediate federal intervention.
CP Olufemi Abaniwonda
“This is not just about one man,” Tietie said. “It’s about justice, law and order, and the protection of every Nigerian citizen.”
For Theresa, though, it’s about something simpler, more human, and infinitely more painful.
“He was supposed to go to Asaba the next day to process his pension,” she said quietly. “That’s all. That was the plan. He didn’t even get the chance.”
She now spends her days in limbo—waiting, praying, hoping. Her children are equally distraught. Friends and neighbours visit often, but their presence can only do so much.
“I just want him back,” she said, tears brimming in her eyes. “I want him home. I want to see his face again, hear his voice. That’s all I ask. That’s all.”
What's your reaction?
