Abuja, Nigeria. December 3 2016

My name is Jason Jeffries, and I'm 36 years old. I'm a humanitarian worker, a builder of hope in high-risk areas worldwide. My job is to help build schools, hospitals, and libraries, to improve people's lives. I'm unmarried and travel often, a lifestyle I've come to enjoy. Earlier this year, a project to build a school in Nigeria came across my path. I accepted it, even with the potential danger.

On August 18th, I flew to Nnamdi Azikiwe International Airport, Abuja. My plane arrived at 9 AM, and at the airport, Jean Valdez, a representative from the company that hired me, greeted me. Jean is a friendly, soft-spoken Frenchman who has worked in Nigeria for many years. His face was a map of sun-worn lines, and his eyes held a quiet wisdom. As we walked to his car, he told me about his time in Nigeria, his stories a mix of challenges and unexpected joys. After we had gathered my luggage, we headed to the parking lot.

We loaded my things into his black Jeep Grand Cherokee. The air was hot and humid, the kind of heat that hits you the moment you step outside. Jean asked me if I'd like to go to my hotel or wouldn't mind a detour along the Government Science Secondary School where his girlfriend worked. I felt energized by being in a new country and opted for the detour, eager to see more of the city. We drove north on Airport Road, the road a blur of traffic and vibrant colors. At the spaghetti junction in Lugbe, we took a right onto Ring Road 3. The city was a sprawling, chaotic, and beautiful tapestry. I noticed a café on the right-hand side of the road, its bright sign a welcome sight in the midday heat. I asked if we could stop for a quick coffee. At the G-Classic Café, Jean said it wasn't far from the school, but we could stop if I wanted to.

So we stopped. We pulled into the gravel parking lot, a cloud of dust rising behind us. Jean parked the car, and I got out and stretched my legs, the long flight's stiffness leaving my muscles. That's when I saw two dark-colored Jeep 4x4s speed into the parking lot, their tires screeching as they blocked our car in. Four heavily armed guys got out, two from each Jeep. The Jeep on the left was cream-colored and newish. The Jeep on the right was a dusty brown and looked a bit like the one Jean was driving.

The two men who got out of the cream-colored Jeep were taller than I am. I'm 5'8", so they must have been at least 6'0". They were both Black, and they were wearing long pants and t-shirts, not the traditional Nigerian clothing I had expected. One guy pointed a handgun at me, and the other had a rifle.

The other two men who got out of the brown Jeep were similar in appearance. Both were Black, wearing long pants and t-shirts. But these guys both had rifles. My mind raced, trying to make sense of what was happening. This wasn't a random robbery; it was a planned attack. I looked at Jean, and I saw him pull a gun from a holster on his hip. He didn't hesitate. He shot at the two guys by the cream-colored Jeep. I'm pretty sure I heard four shots. The noise was deafening, a brutal interruption of the quiet afternoon.

I got down on the ground and covered my head, the gravel digging into my skin. That's when I felt hands grab me and start pulling me away from our Jeep. Someone put a gun in my side and told me to get in the brown Jeep. Their voice was rough, their words a jarring command. I scrambled to my feet, my mind a whirl of fear and adrenaline.

As I was being shoved into the car, I scanned the area for Jean but couldn't see him. I did, however, see the cream-colored Jeep driving away, its tires throwing up dust as it sped out of the parking lot. I took in as much information as possible as I climbed into the backseat of the Jeep. The driver was a light-skinned Black man, about 27, with short, neat hair. He wore a red polo shirt and a gold necklace that gleamed in the sunlight. The interior of the Jeep was brown leather, and the air was filled with the faint smell of gasoline and sweat. The passenger was one of the two who had initially gotten out of the Jeep. He was also young, maybe 30, wearing a white t-shirt and a big gold watch on his wrist.

The third guy, the one who had shoved me, was sitting next to me in the backseat. He had what looked like an M762 Beryl pointed at me, its cold barrel a silent threat. He was thin; they were all thin. He looked older than the others, maybe 35. He also had short dark hair like the others, but this guy had a mustache. He wore a yellow plaid button-down shirt. The details, however insignificant, were all I had. I was a professional observer, and my mind was cataloging everything.

The driver drove the Jeep on Ring Road 3, heading back toward the airport, away from the school and away from Jean. I was a hostage. I had no idea why.

Sincerely,

Jason Jeffries