The North Beneath the Applause

The early morning Harmattan dust filled Amara’s lungs and the lens of her camera. It was the perpetual state of the North Eastern part of Nigeria, a land simultaneously ancient and brutally modern, where banditry often drowned out the beauty of daily life. For three years, Amara, a seasoned investigative journalist with a nose and brevity for uncomfortable truths, had been embedded here, her writings painting a blunt picture of a region under siege. Villages raided, crops torched, lives shattered and rural citizens turned into Displaced persos in their own Countries. Her latest assignment was Sabon Daga, a small farming community nestled in the heart of the troubled zone. The aid workers and terrified villagers, indicated a major bandit incursion was imminent as they always did but fell to the deaf ears of the heartless government. Amara had arrived early, her team setting up discreetly, ready to document the raw reality bravely for the first time ever. The air was thick with apprehension with nerves.

Then the news broke, not of the bandits as they had anticipated but of a rare state visit. The President, accompanied by foreign dignitaries was scheduled to tour a “project” in the capital and with the announcement, a strange silence descended. Her phone, usually buzzing with anxious calls from her editor, went quiet. Her sources, usually eager to share their fears, became evasive and stone cold silent. “Amara, darling, about Sabon Daga,” her editor, a man named Mr. Davies, had said over a crackling line. “We’re…re-evaluating the focus. With the President’s visit, the narrative needs to be…more positive.” “Positive, Mr. Davies? Sabin daga is about to be overrun! People are fleeing their homes!” Amara had said, her voice in disbelief. “Balance, Amara he said. Always balance. We can’t be seen to be undermining national security at a critical juncture.” His words felt like a dirty slap. Amara knew what balance meant in this corrupt world. It meant softening the edges, and silencing the victims. She stayed in Sabon Daga, the expected attack never materialized. Not that week, at least but the fear remained, they knew, as Amara knew, that the bandits hadn’t simply vanished, as the government always reported in their false security reports. They had merely retreated waiting for the spotlight to shift. Over the next few months, the pattern became undeniable. Every high-profile visit, every international conference, every carefully orchestrated photo opportunity of government officials shaking hands with foreign investors, was preceded calm. Bandit attacks, previously a daily occurrence, would mysteriously cease to be reported. Villages would burn, families would be displaced, but the news wires remained silent. Amara, now back in the capital, found herself increasingly isolated. Her colleagues, once comrades-in-arms, began to eye her with a mixture of pity and exasperation. “You’re obsessed, Amara,” one had said gently. “The government is clearly making efforts.”

But Amara saw through the efforts. She saw the carefully choreographed press releases, she saw it all, and she saw the gaping hole in the middle, the untold stories, the unacknowledged suffering and fear in the face of the villagers. She started collecting her own data. Scrutinizing satellite imagery, tracking aid organizations’ reports that never made it to the mainstream. She built a map of the burnt villages and displaced populations, all meticulously dated and correlated with official pronouncements of peace and stability. Her apartment became a war room, cluttered with maps, documents, and pins on the board The exhaustion was a constant companion, but it was fueled by a growing fury. Her editors, sensing her growing defiance, tried to rein her in. Her articles were heavily edited, her findings downplayed, her sources questioned. “Amara, you’re losing perspective,” Mr. Davies had cautioned, his voice sharper now. “You need to remember who you work for.” “I work for the truth, Mr. Davies,” she had replied.

The turning point came with the announcement of the Global Economic Forum, set to take place in the capital. The President was to deliver a keynote address, presenting the North as a prime example of successful counter-insurgency and economic revival. Amara knew, with a deep certainty, that this was her last chance. The “silence strategy” would be at its peak. She worked feverishly, piecing together her final, damning report. She knew it wouldn’t be published. But she had another plan.

The day of the press conference for the Global Economic Forum arrived, a blaze of cameras, microphones, and polished platitudes. Amara, surprisingly calm, stood at the back of the room, her heart a steady drum against her ribs. The President, beaming, finished his address, painting a glorious picture of progress and stability. Then came the questions. A flurry of carefully curated queries from compliant journalists, praising the government’s efforts. Amara waited, her hand trembling slightly as she raised it.

The President’s press secretary, recognizing her, hesitated. Amara had become a liability and was known as a familiar rebel, who didn’t play ball,, but to ignore her entirely would draw unwanted attention. He nodded and forced smile on his face. “Ms. Ahmed,” he said Amara stepped forward onto the podium steady but firmly. She looked directly at the President, then swept her gaze across the sea of flashing lights and expectant faces, faces kinda expecting trouble. “Mr. President,” she began, her voice clear and resonant, “you speak of security, of progress, of stability in the North.” She paused, letting her words hang in the air. “But what about the villages that burn in silence?” A ripple went through the room. The press secretary’s smile vanished. “Ms. Ahmed, I believe we have addressed this thoroughly. We have implemented robust security measures…” “You’ve implemented a strategy of silence, Mr. President!”

Amara cut him off, her voice rising now, with every word she gained more confidence. “Every time a high-profile visit is announced, every time you need to project an image of peace, the reports of banditry vanish. But the villages still burn! The people still suffer! Their stories are simply erased from the news cycle!” Murmurs erupted. Camera flashes intensified. “This is simply not true, Ms. Ahmed,” the President stated, his voice losing its composure. “Your accusations are baseless Madam.” “Baseless?” Amara reached into her bag, pulling out a thick binder. She slammed it onto the podium. “I have satellite imagery. I have eyewitness accounts. I have the suppressed reports from my own news organization! I have a map, Mr. President, a map of all the villages that have been sacrificed on the altar of your carefully constructed narrative!” She looked around, her eyes meeting those of her shocked colleagues, the bewildered foreign dignitaries. Then, her gaze landed back on the President, her voice ringing with an unwavering conviction. “You want to know why I’m saying this? Because for months, I’ve been told to ‘balance the story.’ Balance the truth with a lie. Balance the suffering of real people with your political agenda. Well NEVER!!!!!!!!!!! She said

Then, Amara took a deep breath, her eyes blazing with a fierce, unwavering light. “And to anyone who doubts me, to anyone who thinks I’m driven by anything but the desperate need for truth, let me say this to the world: I’m not crazy. I’m a journalist. And I will not let the North burn in silence any longer.” The room erupted. The world, for the first time, heard the unspoken truth. And Amara, standing amidst the chaos, knew that the silence, at least for now, had finally been broken.

P.S THE IMAGES ARE A.I GENERATED!!!!!!!!!!!!