04/09/2026
ABU UMORU: FOURTEEN YEARS WITHOUT ANSWERS
On 1 September 2012, my elder brother, Abu Umoru, left home from from Hayin Banki in Kaduna.
He was the eldest of my siblings.
That Saturday morning, Abu left home for Abuja to carry out an assignment for a client. He was expected to complete the assignment and return home that day.
But he never returned.
By about 5:30 p.m., when his wife had not heard from him, she called to ask about his journey. Abu told her that he was preparing to board a vehicle at Zuba for his journey back to Kaduna.
About fifteen minutes later, at approximately 5:45 p.m., she called again.
His phone was no longer going through.
That was the last time anyone in our family heard from Abu.
Fourteen years have passed.
Fourteen years of questions.
Fourteen years of wondering.
Fourteen years of hoping.
Fourteen years of wondering what happened on that journey from Abuja—or at Zuba.
We searched. We followed the Kaduna–Abuja road. We stopped in villages and made inquiries about possible accidents, given the heavy flood that year. We searched mortuaries. Letters were written to security agencies, DSS, IGP, and the Presidency. We pursued every lead we could find.
And through it all, there were people who took advantage of our desperation, claiming to have information and demanding money, only to leave us without and answer.
Yet, after fourteen years, there is still no answer.
That is perhaps the hardest part of this story.
If Abu had died and we knew what happened to him, the pain would have been terrible, but there would at least have been the finality of knowledge. We would have mourned him, committed the situation and him to God and tried to accept what we could not change.
But what do you do when you don't know?
What if he is still alive?
And what if he is not?
How do you mourn someone whose death you cannot confirm?
How do you completely stop hoping when there has never been an answer?
His wife, who lived with the pain of his disappearance and the expectation that perhaps one day he would return, died two years later.
My mother, our mother, lived for another ten years. And in each of those ten years:
Every September 1st, the date became another painful milestone. She would say:
"Today it marks five years."
"Today it marks seven years."
The number of years kept changing, but the unanswered question remained the same:
Where is Abu?
My mother died on 10 August 2021, without seeing her son again and without knowing what became of him.
Some of the friends and relatives who cried with us, searched with us and continued to hope for answers have also passed away. One of them, an elderly cousin was just buried last month.
But the question remains.
What happened to Abu Umoru?
Today, I remember my brother—not as someone whose death I can declare, but as someone whose whereabouts remain unknown.
And so, even after all these years, I still choose to leave room for hope.
No, I won’t give up on him for as long as I live, because he won’t either, if it were the other way round. Because I know his good heart too well.
If Abu is still alive somewhere, may the Almighty God preserve him and cause him to be found. May every barrier, circumstance and mystery standing between him and the family be broken, and may the path that leads us to him become clear.
But if Abu has died, may God reveal the mystery surrounding his disappearance. May the truth finally come to light. May we know what happened to him, find whatever remains to be found, and finally receive the closure that fourteen years of uncertainty have denied our family.
For Abu's friends, neighbours and everyone who has carried this unanswered question with us, may God grant us the grace to know the truth.
Fourteen years have passed.
The memories remain.
The questions remain.
The hope remains.
And the prayer remains:
ABU UMORU, WHEREVER YOU ARE—MAY GOD BRING THE TRUTH TO LIGHT.
If you are alive, may you be found.
If you have passed on, may the mystery be revealed.
And in either case, may God grant us closure.
Rest is difficult when there are no answers.
But we continue to hope, we continue to pray, and we continue to remember.
— John Umoru
