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Borno. As I sit cross legged on the floor of my room staring blankly at the empty wall in my eye-line this is the word that continually rings in my head. Will I really be spending the next three weeks of my life in a confirmed Boko Haram state? “You will be okay, God will bring you home to me in one piece, so wipe your tears,” these comforting words came from my mother as she stared at me with a faraway look in her eye. I went about my day like I hadn’t just gotten the worst news. I remained in denial of my reality, refusing to accept that this was happening. I just couldn’t believe an institution like the National Youth Service Corps would be so irresponsible as to send a young graduate to a Boko Haram state. What if I was hit by a stray bullet, kidnapped or married off? My mind was in overdrive as the different scenarios play out in my head. I get a book out, create a checklist of everything I need for the trip and start packing. Dressed in my full NYSC kit - green cargo trousers, plain white tee and orange and black jungle boots – suitcase, pepper spray and pocket knife in hand, I take one last look at my room, trusting it will not be the last time I see it. Flickering fluorescent lights, white tiled floors and a strong smell of disinfectant welcome me as I arrive at the local airport. It’s quiet, it is a Tuesday morning after all. Carrying my suitcase to check-in I hand my passport to the attendant. She has kind eyes, so bright. Taking one look at my outfit she exclaims, “Ah, camp abi? Where were you posted?” “Borno,” I reply weakly. “Oh. Safe journey,” she replies, with a hint of pity in her voice. Her once bright eyes become dim. An already bleak situation becomes bleaker. With my boarding pass in one hand and hand luggage in the other, I head to the boarding gate. I board the plane and within an hour I’m in Borno State. Borno airport is not the chaotic mess I had imagined it to be, the unexpected calmness is unsettling. Checking my google maps, it says the NYSC Camp is 40 minutes away. I hail a cab, old and rickety but as the only option I get in and we begin the journey. The streets are lined with trees; large, tall and dense. Cattle graze in dry fields while women fetch water from stone wells. We must be in the rural part of Borno. Looking at google maps – 30 minutes, 15 minutes. My heart beats loudly, as if it were outside my body. “Madam, we’re here,” my cab driver said. “How much?” I inquired. He replied, “800 naira”. I pay, grab my bags from the boot and make my way to the camp gate. It’s a large, black, steel gate, I couldn’t escape even if I tried. This is where my three weeks in Borno begins. A knock is all it takes for the gate to be opened, a large man – a soldier with an intimidating stance holds it open with a less than reassuring smile. On the other side of the gate is a long road leading to an open space where large canopies are set up for corp members to get registered. Beyond that are two large identical buildings both with double doors, roofs and window panes – all wooden and all clearly termite ridden. With rain clouds gathering I decide to seek refuge under a canopy. Then I hear it before I see it, a scream and then running. Before I can comprehend what is happening my legs are running. I try not to look back, but curiosity gets the better of me. Turning back, the sight is horrific. I see corp members, fellow graduates being scooped up like bags of rice by Boko Haram members, our camp has been raided, and on my first day. I find a large tank of water and hide behind it, hoping, praying that I’m not find out. All I can think about is the false sense of security the calmness of the Borno airport lulled me into. Trying my best to stay hidden, I hear footsteps, drawing close to my hiding place.