Three weeks ago, my 23-year-old neighbor was kidnapped on her way to Kontagora in Niger State. While in captivity, the bandits repeatedly raped her taking turns sleeping with her night after night. Still, they kept bargaining with her father over the phone, demanding ransom even as they violated her. Her father fought with everything he had. He hustled day and night, borrowed from everyone, took loans, sold whatever he could determined to bring his daughter home. When he finally gathered the full amount, he called the bandits and begged them, ‘Please, give the phone to my daughter. Let me speak to her. I want her to know I’m coming for her.’ They gave her the phone. In a broken, traumatized voice, she told her father: ‘Dad, do not suffer yourself looking for the money. They have been sleeping with me. I’m traumatized. I can’t forgive myself. Even if I’m released, I’ll kill myself. Don’t bother paying the ransom.’ Those were the last words she ever spoke to him. While her father was still holding the phone, he heard the gunshot. He heard his daughter being killed. Moments later, the bandits sent pictures of her remains to him, a final act of cruelty. A 23-year-old girl. My neighbor. Someone’s daughter, someone’s sister, someone’s friend gone in the most horrific way possible. This is not just one story. This is the nightmare too many families are living in Niger State and across Nigeria. Young women snatched on the roads, violated, used as bargaining chips, and discarded like nothing. Living in Nigeria has become truly scary. You wake up, you step out, and you don’t know if you or your loved ones will return home. The fear is constant. The pain is constant. And too often, justice never comes. Rest in peace to my neighbor.