True Life Story
My Journey To Europe That Changed Everything
A true story of why we do what we do.
It was a cold summer night of May, half a mile away from the beach of Ganapoli, Libya. A time when birds are long tucked in, and zephyr soothes lovers. A voice suddenly breaks the quiet of the night — ordering everyone to form a line.
In split seconds, we stood behind each other in a five-line phalanx. We move with such brisk and exactitude like soldiers well drilled and well regimented. But we are not soldiers.
We’re young men and women — elderly men, women, and children, fleeing from what we call a godforsaken country in search of greener pastures. Men and women who thought good fortune lies somewhere else.
And the screaming voice was not the commander. Neither was it the voice of a sergeant. He’s one we call, “the connection man.” Whose job it is to smuggle people from where they wish not to be any more to where they desire. No doubt this is illegal and in the right term, it’s called human trafficking.
But who really is the actual trafficker? The one paying to get away or the one helping the one who wishes to getaway?
What does it matter anyway? As they say; necessity is the fore-bearer of inventions. The trafficker, as well as the trafficked, are both moved by necessity. The necessity to live a better life. The need to make something of one’s self and seek to raise one's family out of the dust of poverty.
These are the thoughts that reinforced my weakened heart as I stood there in the cold, underneath a sky full of stars, with the connection man screaming to get everyone accounted for. No one must be missing.
He need not reinforce these warnings as everyone understood why they’re there. Seaside…, an abandoned building with no roof where we wait until the weather is stable enough to cross the Mediterranean. But not until we’ve purchased other necessary items like a compass, a device called “turayà” and enough gallons of fuel to cross the Mediterranean.
We have been staying within these walls for over three days and only have a single meal a day.
This was what caused our swift movements. Having been malnourished for weeks, we’ve lost enough weight that enabled us to carry ourselves easily and anyhow necessary.
The connection-man scanned the crowd with his eyes, looking for a pastor amongst us to pray for the journey. Finally, he stepped out, said the prayers, and fell back in line.
There’s a notion that these smugglers are evil and heartless. But on this occasion, we had the opportunity to be smuggled by one who takes great joy in the safe arrival of his cargo. And in such a journey of great uncertainty, it is a mountain of encouragement.
Just a few weeks ago, the news was that a boat capsized, taking nearly 300 lives with it. I’m sure just as we stand here praying to God for safety, so also did those people and thousands more who have passed through here.
In such a journey, what does one puts his faith in?
His own bravery? Well, I have none left. I’ve exhausted all bravery in the desert. During the seven hellish days spent there. Or should one have faith in his friend? I’d advise caution. In my experience, many times, friends have turned on each other. Friends had hidden food and water from each other. In this journey, it’s survival of the fittest.
The connection-man made the headcount, and when all was set, we set out to sea.
As we match forth to the sea on this cold starry night, to embark on the deadliest journey any one of us have ever embarked on, I asked myself, to whom or what will I put my trust?
There is an ancient idealogy about sacrifice and reward, which is emblematic of, and a portray of the journey of Christ to Golgotha. The sacrifice always precedes the reward. The value of the reward equals the weight of the sacrifice.
Was this how Christ felt, as he dragged that rugged cross on his back?
These thoughts filled my mind as I felt the weight of the raft on my back on that cold summer night of May. The presence of other men underneath the raft did not spare me from feeling that the boat was heavy and at any time could fall down.
The men have been taxed with lifting the raft and carrying it to sea, while the women and children ran behind them as they all head to the Mediterranean. The earth is rugged and unfriendly. Sandwiched by two giant rocks; it sloped down into the sea with pieces of rocks scattered in its path.
Shoulder to shoulder we all bore the weight of the boat, which ironically felt like a representation of our sufferings — a symbol of why we must continue on this journey and risk all, including our lives.
As we carefully, and painfully usher our way with the heavy large white raft on our backs, many frail ones began to remove their weight from underneath it. Making it heavier for others who feared causing damage to the boat if by chance it fell.
Who could blame them for giving up on carrying the boat? They’ve been starved and are no doubt of little strength. It’s hilly with large stones just before the sands on the beach, which made it even worse.
But this only worsened the misery I was feeling already. And for some seconds my mind wandered afar off with questions I longed for the answers. What really am I doing here? How did I find myself shoulder to shoulder with young and older men and women; thieves, cultists, and pastors, religious and non-religious, responsible and irresponsible men and women all fighting for survivor?
My mind went far back to who I was and what I used to be. As a young boy, loved and protected by my father, I lacked nothing. In my teen, I was reserved, highly introverted, and reserved. How did a young boy years ago, whose father rebuked his mother for allowing his son to engage in manual labor, end up here?
My father had said;
“As long as I am alive, my son will not suffer as I have. I would wear rags, so none of my children will have to.”
Indeed he kept his word. But the problem was, he never lived long enough. And that was how I found myself in this perilous and life-shattering journey. After years of misfortunes. One unfortunate circumstance after the next.
It is safe to say that the young boy who left home a month ago was not the same boy carrying this heavy boat. I have been on this journey for over a month, spent over five days in the desert, lived only on water for days. Whipped by desert soldiers — imprisoned and smuggled in the back of trucks.
I have seen people shot and thrown into prison, like animals. I have had my head broken by militias.
Within a short period, this boy who has been shielded all his life has been forced to grow into a man very quickly. It was an easy choice though — man up or die.
As we began to feel the fierce breeze, and the water on our feet, and then slowly towards our thighs, we knew we were out on the open sea.
We screamed at each other as we laid the boat to rest on the water. The water level was already at our waist, I took a step back to take in the view.
I stared at the vastness of the sea. With the wind blowing against my pale skin, I was gripped with fear. I stood, but my spirit dropped to its knees. I knew it was not the sea that scares me, for I am a lover of the beach. Seldom times I have gone to find solace on the beach at Jakunde, where I once lived.
The beach has always been my therapeutic lounge where I de-stress after the harsh reality of Lagos life. But never have I ventured into the sea — to swim or to sail.
I stood there wondering if this was worth it. Every week there is news of lives lost at sea. Boats and people, forever lost and never to be found. Families back home, that will never know what happened to their loved ones. All for what I wondered?
I thought of all the things I have left behind; family, friends, and my home. I reminded myself why I left in the first place. The feeling of emptiness and meaninglessness crept back into my heart. The same ache that nudged me out of my country, that same ache nudged me unto the raft. There was no turning back now. “O, Lord! Here I stand, for I can do no more.”
We set sail!
And my nerves racked and trembled. This is it. This was the moment I have always dreaded. Would this be it? I concluded in my heart, that whatever happens, happens. If God deems me worthy, then let Him take me through.
Surprisingly enough, after a few hours, I calmed down and was at peace. I began to take notice of the waves of the sea and how the boat would climb high on a mountain of wave and then slides back down. With this new calmness, I looked and behold, dolphins on both sides of the boat and one ahead — all swimming along. Like some celestial guide.
I may not fully understand, or be able to comprehend what brought me calmness or the courage that night to get on that boat. It was more like a feeling deep within my soul — an after-place beyond an overly exhaustive dark long dread. If I could try to translate it into words, it would go like this:
“When life can no longer threaten you with death, what else is there?”
Nearly six years ago I sailed the Mediterranean in search of a meaningful life, follow me to read the stories and lessons from my journey through life here.