The massacre lasted for five hours.
Esther listened from the makeshift outhouse as she hid behind the door. “Convert or be killed!” shouted Boko Haram militants. Their commands were followed by screams, the popping of machine guns, and the smell of burning flesh and hair as they made their way through the village.
Esther, whose name I’ve changed for her safety, tried to slow her breathing, but the foul stench only made her panic rise. She’d told her children to stay put and be silent, but now she wasn’t so sure if she’d be able to sit still and wait.
She had hidden her children in their village’s graveyard, covering them with grass and leaves so the rebels wouldn’t discover them. Esther had not seen her husband since they all fled. She’d hidden in her family’s latrine, prepared to climb inside the toilet if it came to that.
As she peered wide-eyed through the slight crack in the door, she slowly caressed her growing stomach, wondering what kind of life her unborn child would have. She didn’t know if any of her family would live through this day.
Her breath caught in her chest as two men with guns approached her house. She’d already watched as they’d burned down her neighbors’ homes and their local church. The smoke still smeared the sky. Those who hadn’t been shot in their homes died in the fires.
The men spoke to one…
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