A Journey of Struggles and Triumph
written by: Torsaa Emmanuel Oryiman
Growing up in a small village where opportunities were as scarce as rainfall in the dry season, I knew from an early age that education was my only way out. My father, a hardworking farmer, spent his days under the scorching sun, toiling in the fields to provide for our family, while my mother, a devoted housewife, managed our humble home. Life was difficult, and every day was a battle against poverty.
I had always dreamed of becoming an Electrical & Electronic Engineer, but navigating through school was like walking through a storm with no shelter. The cost of tuition, accommodations, textbooks, reading materials (handout), and even food felt like an insurmountable mountain. Many nights, I went to bed hungry, my stomach growling in protest, but I refused to let my circumstances define me.
By God’s grace, a miracle happened. I was awarded a Federal Government scholarship, a lifeline that lifted a crushing weight off my shoulders. It felt like light piercing through my darkest night. With this blessing, I could finally focus on my studies without the constant fear of dropping out. I poured my soul into my coursework, determined to build a future that would lift my family out of hardship. I thought my struggles were finally coming to an end. I was wrong.
As I approached my final year, I dedicated myself to my project, eager to complete this chapter of my life. Then, one fateful night, my world collapsed. My mother, who was pregnant, was unstable; it was as if she would give birth to the unborn baby at that very moment. A phone call came at an odd hour, bringing news that shattered me into pieces, my father had been kidnapped.
People who came to kidnap him were seven in number, two of them armed, holding guns, shouting ‘Stop!’ at the top of their lungs, scaring the villagers into fleeing for their lives. The terror in their voices sent chills down spines, and before my father could fully grasp what was happening, they surrounded him. They promised him that even if he refused to go with them to their hideout, they would kill him and still kidnap his son.
The sheer cruelty of their words sent an unbearable shudder down my spine. This was not just about ransom; this was a war against our very existence. And that was the first time since the history of creation that such impending doom would happen in the land, and my father was the first person to experience it.
At that moment, time stood still. My heart pounded against my chest as if it wanted to escape the agony that consumed me. My hands trembled as I gripped my phone, unable to comprehend the cruel reality before me. “Why? Why him?” I cried out, my voice breaking under the weight of despair. What could a poor farmer possibly have that would make anyone want to take him? The thought tormented me. Tears streamed down my face, blurring my vision as fear wrapped its cold hands around my heart.
I was lost. How would I continue my project? How would I eat? How could I focus on my defence when my father’s life was hanging by a thread? The walls of my tiny room seemed to close in on me, suffocating me with the helplessness I felt.
For the first time in my life, Studying Engineering felt useless. My dream, which I had nurtured with so much passion, suddenly felt insignificant. Maybe I should have studied Law so I could fight for justice. Or perhaps I should have joined the Air Force or any of the military lines, in fact, anything that would have given me the power to search for my father. No one was doing anything. No one cared. The helplessness crushed me, leaving me drowning in sorrow.
Days turned into an endless nightmare. My siblings were a thing of pity; their innocent faces bore the weight of a horror they could not fully comprehend. They looked up at us, their eyes silently pleading for reassurance, but we had none to give.
The kidnappers demanded a ransom we could not afford. We sold everything we had, our livestock, our farm tools, even our small piece of land, but the money was still not enough. Desperation clawed at us, forcing us to borrow from neighbours, from friends, from anyone willing to listen. It was a time of unbearable hardship, a time when every moment felt like a blade cutting through our souls.
Even after gathering all we could, it still felt like a hopeless endeavour, as though we were drowning in an ocean with no shore in sight. My mother’s condition worsened as grief consumed her. She would sit in silence, eyes filled with fear, clutching her belly as if trying to shield the unborn child from the horrors of the world. The nights were filled with muffled sobs, the weight of uncertainty pressing down on all of us.
People whom you call friends, until a problem hits you, you don’t truly have friends. I remember very well those who claimed they were my father’s friends, those we thought would support us, even if it was just a token. They completely refused to assist us. Not even a dime did they offer. The betrayal cut deep, leaving us to wonder if we had ever truly known them. Yet, in the midst of this despair, the most unexpected people, those we never even imagined, stepped forward and supported us massively. It was then I realized: sometimes, it’s good to choose friends wisely.
My mother’s condition as a pregnant woman, barely ate barely spoke, and her once bright eyes dimmed with worry. Every second that passed was a reminder that her husband was out there, suffering. I barely slept, and when I did, I woke up drenched in sweat, haunted by nightmares of him being tortured. The pain of uncertainty was unbearable.
Then, after what felt like a lifetime of torture, he was released. But the man who returned was not the father I once knew.
When I saw him, my knees buckled, and I fell to the ground, wailing. He was a shadow of himself, his once strong body now frail, his eyes swollen, barely able to open. Deep scars covered his back, evidence of the merciless beatings he endured. Blood no longer seemed to circulate properly through his body, and he could barely walk. My heart shattered as I reached out to touch him.
“Baba…” I whispered, my voice trembling, but he could not even form words.
Tears streamed down my face uncontrollably. My father, the man who had worked tirelessly to give us a better life, was broken beyond repair. He could barely move, his spine seemingly damaged. The pain in his eyes was unbearable, and I wished I could take it away, trade places with him just to ease his suffering. But I was powerless.
The nights that followed were agonizing. I sat beside him, watching him struggle to even breathe. In these difficult times, I want to use this moment to appreciate the people who supported me in prayers. It’s not all about money, money could be anything, but not everything. Some even went beyond words, fasting and praying for my father’s safe return. Their unwavering faith and kindness carried me through the darkest moments, reminding me that humanity still exists in its purest form.
The physical wounds would heal, but the mental scars would remain forever. He barely spoke, barely ate, and his eyes carried a weight that words could not describe. My mother sat beside him, silent, her tears flowing endlessly as she held his hand. The trauma had aged him years in just a few days.
That day, something inside me changed. I could not sit idly and watch as evil thrived. I made a vow to myself that no one in my family would ever go through this again. I registered for JAMB to study Law, determined to fight injustice with every fibre of my being. My younger brother, equally shaken by our father’s suffering, enrolled in the Nigerian Defence Academy (NDA), choosing the path of the military to protect those who could not protect themselves.
Life has tested me in ways I never imagined, but I refuse to let it break me. My dreams may have shifted, but my purpose is now clearer than ever. I will fight. I will rise. And I will ensure that what happened to my father never happens again, not to my family, not to anyone else.
Before you judge someone for dropping out of university, take a moment to think. Sometimes, it’s not laziness or lack of ambition, but the sudden, cruel twist of circumstances that forces them to let go of their dreams. I would have been a dropout if my father had been killed. When life turns into an unbearable storm, even the strongest can falter.
There were days I thought of giving up. Days when the pain became too much to bear, when I wanted to scream at the unfairness of life. But I held on. I held on because I had no choice. I held on for my mother, for my father, for my brother, and for every other person who had suffered injustice.
This is my journey. A journey of pain, struggle, and heartbreak. But also, a journey of strength, resilience, and hope.
- A Journey of Struggles and Triumph - August 15, 2025
