John Hunter kidnapped from his prison

06 Apr John Hunter kidnapped from his prison

The fifteen minutes Hunter spent alone in the room after Chief Goodman’s exit seemed like eternity. He had closed the door behind him, locking Hunter inside, but at least he was kind enough to leave the lantern behind so Hunter l wouldn’t have to spend any more time in the heavy darkness.

Hunter leaned back in his chair and propped one leg up on the one Chief Goodman had been using. It felt good to stretch out, and now that his brain was chewing through the circumstances surrounding the tension in Urodo, his physical discomfort no longer nagged from the forefront of his mind. The bitterness the villagers felt towards the oil companies was bound to boil over.

As in previous cases, he knew the government would move quickly to crush the protest. There seemed to be an unofficial government policy to remove any blockers to the flow of oil.

Hunter was startled out of his thoughts when the door to the room suddenly burst open. When he looked up, he saw three young men standing before him. Hunter caught himself holding his breath, fearful of their intentions without the presence of Chief Goodman to protect him.

One of the men carried a large paper bag. He barely looked in Hunter’s direction as he set the bag down on the empty chair. Another man held two bottles that appeared to contain water, which he placed on the floor next to Hunter’s chair. The third stood still, just inside the doorway, with his arms folded across his chest. His tight T-shirt revealed his muscular chest and arms.

Hunter wanted to say something, although he had no idea what. He noticed that the young men were not carrying weapons, so he wanted to engage them in conversation, a gesture he hoped would encourage them to let down their guard. Before he had a chance to open his mouth, the three young men charged out of the room, slamming the door shut behind them. Hunter heard a click that secured the lock from the outside.

“So much for open communication,” Hunter said to the empty room.

He needed a moment to regain his composure and steady his breathing. The men couldn’t have been in the room for more than twenty seconds, but they managed to rattle every nerve in Hunter’s body.

When he finally calmed his nerves with deep breaths, Hunter reached over and snatched the paper bag off the chair. Inside it he found two slices of bread and two oranges. He looked down at the two bottles of water placed next to him on the floor.

“Apparently, they think I have a guest staying with me in this lovely condo,” Hunter remarked to himself.

He took a bite of the bread. It was stale and required more chewing effort than he was used to. That didn’t matter, though. At first, Hunter didn’t think he was hungry, but after just one bite of food, his body’s need for sustenance became clear. He wolfed down the rest of the bread so quickly that he almost choked on it.

He reached down and grabbed one of the bottles. He took a big gulp of water, then instantly spit out some of it. Hunter realized like most people, he didn’t appreciate the value of clean, fresh water until he had to go without. The water in these bottles was not of the same vintage he shared with Chief Goodman. It had a saline taste to it. Hunter drew in a deep breath and tried to settle his stomach. He needed some hydration to wash down the bread, so he took another swig, tossing it far back into his mouth, to enable him swallow it without letting it sit for too long on his tongue.

After a little practice, he settled into a rhythm—bite, chew, gulp, swallow. As he ate, his thoughts drifted back to his conversation with Chief Goodman. Oil was Nigeria’s greatest export, responsible for nearly ninety per cent of the country’s foreign exchange earnings. Why wasn’t the Niger Delta receiving its share of that income? Yes, the greed of key stakeholders was a problem as the Chief pointed out, but smart businessmen usually knew how to mask their greed by dangling minimal amounts of money in front of people who had almost none of their own.

The average man had no chance in this conspiracy between the oil CEOs, who chose to invest in the Niger Delta because of huge returns, and the local politicians, who were supposed to be looking out for the best interests of their constituencies, but were corrupt.

In a twisted way, Hunter admired their craftiness. He remembered the Halliburton scandal over the construction of an LNG plant.

The politicians accepted the cash bribes from the oil companies, and then they trash-talked the companies to the residents in a popular blame game, saying that they were responsible for the underdevelopment of the region.

So, who was left to care about the Niger Delta and the people who lived there? Where could they get the power of leverage against such wealthy and well-connected people?

Before Hunter had a chance to ponder that thought, his ears were assaulted by the sound of gunshots outside his door. Not knowing who was doing the shooting or what their targets were, he flattened his body on the floor, instantly becoming reacquainted with his bruises. But he didn’t have time for self-pity. He tried to make himself the smallest possible target.

Hunter heard hysterical voices on the other side of the door. Feet scurried and stomped in what sounded like extreme panic. He couldn’t be sure if someone was attacking the village from the outside or if tempers had boiled over on the inside. In the end, it didn’t matter. All he could do was keep his body as far out of harm’s way as possible.

That immediately proved more difficult than he had expected.

A loud bang bounced off the walls of the tiny room. The door had been kicked in with such force it was nearly torn from the hinges. Two heavily built men in army fatigues reached down, grabbed hold of Hunter, hoisted him up and stormed out. They said nothing.

Once outside in the heavy air, the men tossed Hunter into the back of a Land Rover as if he weighed less than a sack of dirty laundry. The vehicle zoomed off in the dark, seeming to hit every bump and hole in the muddy road.

The attack was so sudden Hunter could hardly think about putting up a fight or escaping. Rather he decided to hold his body still and keep his stomach settled.

When, finally, the vehicle hit smoother road, and Hunter’s nausea subsided, he wanted to talk. He was about to say something to the driver, but then stopped short. His eyes caught a glimpse of a government insignia on the patch stitched onto the driver’s uniform. He allowed himself a smile.

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The ride on the smooth stretch of road provided Hunter some comfort. For once, he felt he was safe in the hands of soldiers on a rescue mission, more so when both of them sat in the driver’s cabin, not caring if he would jump out from the back. But he perished the thought as quickly as it came to plan for the worst.

He felt increasingly uncertain about the company he was now in. He wasn’t sure how soldiers managed to find him in the first place. How did they know he was in Urodo? How did they know he had been kidnapped? How did they know where he was being held? Clearly, they had been tipped off, but who might have done that?

The odds of the government assisting anyone connected with The News Hub were slim. The paper had exposed considerable incidences of corruption since it began publication years earlier, and Hunter was often the journalist who delivered the reports resulting in the dismissal, arrest, or imprisonment of criminals within the government. The mountain of distrust between the government and The News Hub was insurmountable.

The most obvious candidate was Chief Goodman, but that didn’t make sense either. If Goodman had ordered Hunter’s captives to release him, they would have. There was no need for government intervention and violence.

Hunter’s thoughts were interrupted by the high-pitched screech of the Rover’s tyres. The driver had slammed on the brakes so hard the back end of the vehicle bucked up off the ground, tossing Hunter off his seat. The force smashed his body against the front seat and dropped him to the floor.

The second soldier muttered something under his breath before he unbuckled his seatbelt, and hurried to the back of the vehicle where Hunter was trying to ignore his renewed discomfort. He was the shorter of the two soldiers and looked thinner than the tall thick-set driver. To aid his memory, Hunter named the bulky soldier Biggie and his colleague, Smallie.

Hunter noticed that they were parked near a wide creek, one of the many meandering across the Niger Delta, but he had no idea where—there were no landmarks to provide him with any clues.

“Where are we?” Hunger asked. “What are we doing…?”

Before he had a chance to blurt out any more questions, Smallie held his finger up to his lips, silencing Hunter

Something about his attitude alarmed Hunter. He was quiet and calm, but also distant and menacing. If these men had been commissioned to rescue him, they would have been more sympathetic to his trauma and eager to assure him everything was all right. When Biggie moved closer to them, Hunter’s heart began to race.

They hoisted Hunter out of the back seat and planted him on his feet, then grabbed him by the arms and dragged him toward the water.

Hunter’s concern morphed into desperation. For a moment he considered trying to break free and running for safety. He sensed the odds of surviving whatever plans they had for him versus his chance of out-running them through the dark were nearly even. He had no idea where they were.

His captors dug their fingers so hard into his arms Hunter thought they might cut off his circulation. Even with his tall, slender frame, his feet still barely touched the ground as they dragged him towards the creek lit by moonlight. Hunter saw a boat ahead of them and suspected they were going to use it.

With a synchronized heave, the men tossed Hunter into the back of the small speedboat. A moment later, the snarl of the engine crackled through the night air and the boat shot down the creek. The speed and the darkness combined to blind Hunter, yet Biggie maneuvered the vessel with great skill and finesse. They had travelled only a few minutes when the boat slowed its pace for the driver to bring it to a complete halt at a bank.

Before Hunter had a chance to calm his stomach, which was raging again, his weary eyes were stabbed by a bright light.

“John Hunter,” Smallie said excitedly as he pointed his torchlight directly into Hunter’s face, “you aspire to be the James Bond of Nigeria?”

Hunter wasn’t sure how to respond.

“Have you finished investigating all the official corruption in Abuja, the capital, where politicians loot the treasury?” Smallie continued.

Biggie’s chuckled, his voice deep. Hunter couldn’t read their faces on the other side of the torchlight. Even after his eyes adjusted a little bit to the brightness, all he could see were silhouettes.

“Perhaps you are investigating the massive fraud within the oil industry,” Smallie said. “Practically all of Nigeria’s revenue is made right here in the creeks and you know that.”

Hunter listened closely. He wondered if the men might provide him with some useful information—deliberately, accidentally, or any other way.

“Can you tell the rest of the world where all that money has been spent?” Biggie said. “Better yet, forget about the rest of the world. Just tell us. We would certainly like to know.”

“He means we need specific details,” Smallie added. . “We’re pretty sure that the money is spent on private jets and fancy homes in Europe and America for our politicians. They don’t even hide their dirty affluence anymore.”

At that, both captors roared with laughter that echoed in the night air.

But Hunter felt it was no fun. And he was right. Suddenly, a heavy hand cracked across Hunter’s jaw. The blow landed with such tremendous force it snapped his head back and knocked him off balance. In the darkness, he never saw it coming. He couldn’t even be sure which man had hit him. He stumbled backward, banged his leg against the boat’s frame, and fell overboard into the water. He managed to catch the boat’s edge with his left hand. He held on tightly to it.

A hand grabbed the collar of Hunter’s shirt, hoisting him partway up. Another hand grabbed him under his right arm and pulled him up the rest of the way. Once back in the boat, Hunter wasn’t sure if he should be grateful or fearful.

“You came to investigate crude oil theft,” Smallie said. “The oil you people say we steal is actually ours. We are simply taking ownership of our own property. You have seen the small refinery we have in that village. Tell me, is that comparable to the billions of dollars stolen by the politicians?”

The night air had turned brisk, and the wetness of Hunter’s clothes combined with the cold sweat running down his face caused him to shiver heavily.

“You’re just like all the rest,” Biggie said, his voice rising. “You don’t care about us any more than all the others who come to the Niger Delta, wearing their tailored suits. You’re just here to exploit us, to write your arrogant critique of our lives and then sell thousands of copies of your newspaper so you can make yourself rich!”

Working with nervous energy, Hunter continued to store as much of what they were saying as possible. The men had just confessed to stealing—or in their view, reclaiming—crude oil from the oil companies. On some level, the men were right. In other countries, the mineral rights to oil and gas found beneath the earth belonged to the people who lived on the surface. Had those laws existed in Nigeria, rights to the Delta oil would belong to the Niger Delta residents?

“You’re just another talking head,” Smallie continued. “You babble and tap away on your computer keys just to serve your own selfish needs. We should have let the villagers rip you to pieces. They deserve the honour.”

“It would also have saved us the trouble,” Biggie said.

Hunter still couldn’t see the men’s faces, but he caught Biggie’s movement as he pulled his gun from his holster and checked the clip. Having faced such threats many times over in previous assignments, Hunter kept his cool sufficiently to speak.

“Please,” he said, “you don’t want to do anything rash. You won’t gain anything by killing me. In fact, you will lose the only voice that may be able to convince the world to listen to your story. I have no intention of chastising you for illegal oil bunkering. Everyone already knows that it is a common practice here—and it is no big news.”

Biggie brandished the gun.

“I assure you,” Hunter continued. “I didn’t come here to expose illegal oil bunkering in the Niger Delta. That is probably the country’s most open secrets. I came to witness the after-effects of the recent oil spill here for myself. My intention is to report the damage and demonstrate how the oil company is not taking appropriate measures to clean up the environment. The villagers thought I worked for the oil company and wanted their revenge. I tried to explain my purpose, but they were too angry to listen.”

Hunter drew in a deep breath and hoped he had successfully presented his case. For a long, tense moment, the only sound he heard was the water slapping up against the side of the boat as it bobbed in the creek. Finally, Hunter saw Smallie tap Biggie’s shoulder.

“Put the gun away,”

Hunter didn’t realize he had been holding his holding his breath, but he finally allowed himself to exhale.

Smallie took a few short paces in the small space inside the boat. “We’ll take him to the cell for now,” he said.

Barely a split second after, the boat sped off.