Being a journalist was always a life ambition.  My academic odyssey was one that had long prepared me for the torturous yet exciting world of the media.  With bachelors and masters degrees in journalism, I was prepared for the professional journey ahead of me.

 Demonstrating a combination of journalistic curiosity and predilection for task execution, I experienced a steady progression in my place of work. I was a senior investigative journalist at the National Truth newspapers. Located in the heart of Lagos, The Truth paraded a host of news gurus. But none matched my colossal professional feats. I was the quintessential journalism detective. So, when Majid Abass, my highly respected editor-in-Chief announced that the agency was going to investigate the torrid tales of trafficking, assault and rape occurring in Internally Displaced Persons(IDP) Camps in Nigeria, my colleagues were unanimous in their nomination. My fluency in Hausa, Kanuri and Fulani languages was a massive plus.

I began preparation in earnest. The 21st of August, 2020 came faster than I had anticipated. Soon, with camera in hand and my notepads together with few clothes, I was on board the flight to Maiduguri, capital of Bornu State. I was to spend two weeks chronicling experiences of women in internally displaced camps. The projected story was definitely going to be a hit. And I was the poster boy of my reputed media outlet, saddled with upholding the highest levels of her professional integrity.

 From the international airport in Maiduguri, I took a taxi to the city and checked in into a modest hotel. The next day, I visited one of the Internally Displaced camps in the outskirt of Maiduguri. Midway to the camp, my thoughts revolved around my personal life. At 35, I remained unmarried, yet professionally successful.  cex has never really been a personal cruise. Yes, I had a couple of behind-the-newsroom flings with d!*k-loving female colleagues at National Truth. Yet, they were just what they were: Flings and nothing serious. Outside the newsroom, journalism had exposed me to a compelling array of women- from the mammoth br@8sted to the flat chested. But none ever came in between my job and i.

I shrugged off the distracting thoughts and began going about my tasks for the day. I began with women within the oldest age groups. 

As I chronicled these lurid stories, I considered myself lucky. I was quite privileged to have been granted this opportunity to report the problems of the helpless.

The following day commenced for me with a visit to the camps of young, unmarried women. My interviews with the several young ladies reported similar ugly stories. Rape. Torture. Incarceration. Assault.

As I walked into the 10th tent, I decided that would be enough for the day. The following day would be for the teenagers, I concluded.’

“Wassalamwayekum, Ina o ni”, I announced in my fluid blend of hausa and arabic.

“Good evening delectable and respectable gentleman of the press. You are heartily welcome”

I froze. The shock coursed through me in an instant. I couldn’t feign normality. I had had to revert to the local hausa, fulani and arabic languages to interact with all of my interviewees so far. These were meant to be the most uneducated, poorest victims of an insurgency foisted on them. But here was an English-speaking , grammar-wielding victim welcoming me with effusive smiles.

Her name was Aminat. And she knew I was Omar even before I could introduce myself. She read a lot of my stories in the newspapers during her undergraduate days at the University of Maiduguri. The insurgency had come like a whirlwind, seizing and dumping her in the dungeon of IDP camps

“I ran into an attack while on my way to my grandmother’s village in Monguno. I was abducted, raped, and forcefully married to one of the Boko Haram’s commanders in the village. I had thought that succour had come my way after I was brought to this camp. However, I have been raped thrice within this camp, once by a security guard at the gate”

As she narrated this gripping story, I felt pity and love, then lust. As tears trickled down her cheeks, I traced them as they flew down across her hijab, down to the glaring protrusion of her mammoth b00bs. Suddenly, I was thinking of how nice it will feel to place my c0*k between those mammaries. This was a lady in pain and tears. I should be here reporting her story, not leering at her body.

“Astagafullilah”, I muttered under my breath.

As the night dawned and I announced my intention to take my leave, she offered to walk me down to my room. On this particular day, those in charge of the camp had advised that it was too late to return to my hotel in the city. Especially since they had to continue the interviews the following morning. I was offered a small, dimly lit room. As I walked in and said my goodnight, she followed, without a word. She then shut the door behind her. The next words I heard were clear and unmistakable:

“Journalist Omar, I noticed you ogling at my chest during my sober moments. I am yours. Take me”

In that instant, my dick surged

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