I am the knock at midnight,

the call that makes a mother tremble,

the voice saying, “Your child is gone.”

I was there when the Chibok girls disappeared,

when school became a place of fear

and mothers learned to pray with tears.

I have walked through the North,

through villages stained with blood,

through churches where Christians were killed

for simply believing.

I wait on your roads too—

behind the darkness, behind the silence,

waiting for travellers who may never return.

I enter homes,

I take daughters,

I break bodies,

and leave shame where justice should be.

I have stolen farmers from their fields,

children from their beds,

dreams from the young,

and peace from the old.

I am the reason a mother calls twice,

then three times,

because her child is late.

I am the fear behind locked doors,

the prayer whispered on dangerous roads,

the empty chair at the dinner table.

I am not one tribe.

I am not one religion.

I am the wound we keep pretending not to see.

And still—

I feed on your children's tears.

But one day,

those tears will become voices.

And when Nigeria finally speaks,

I will have nothing left to eat.