Nearly every day in Agadez, a sandy, windswept town in the north of Niger Republic, West Africa, scores of trucks stuffed with African migrants barrel out of town and across the parched and cracked earth, dust swirling around their swivelling tyres, human feet dangling precariously from all sides, on a perilous multi-week journey through the inhospitable Sahara Desert into Libya in the Maghreb region of North Africa, hoping to cross the Mediterranean Sea into Europe, particularly Italy. Investigative journalist ‘FISAYO SOYOMBO spent 47 days as one of them, journeying from Kano in Nigeria through notorious illegal migrant hubs Zinder, Agadez and Dirkou in Niger, and al Gatrun and Sabha to Tripoli in Libya. He returns to document tales of deaths, starvation, rape, dehumanisation, mental abuse, physical assault, abductions, torture, and modern-day enslavement of citizens of Nigeria, Ghana, Niger, South Sudan, Eritrea and Somalia by Arab traffickers who treat dogs better than black Africans.
Editor’s Note: This is the first of a three-part series. You may read Part II here and Part III here.
You are the Lord, that is your name
You will never share your glory with anyone
You will never share your glory with anybody
Almighty Lord, that is your name.
This was a sombre rendition by five young men in a dingy, teeming room with a pungent smell in Rijiyar Lemo, Fagge Local Government Area of Kano in northwestern Nigeria. Three more men sat idling away by the doorway. I was the ninth, the most recent addition. In an adjoining room were girls numbering up to six, all of us awaiting the next steps in our excitingly anticipated journey to the desert.
No migrant has full knowledge of the risks awaiting them in the nearly endless, mostly fruitless odyssey to Libya, but the quintet at least possessed a sparse idea. Nobody voyaging through the desert is guaranteed to arrive in Libya physically intact. The quintet knew enough to seek supernatural intervention. Most migrants do, anyway. Over the coming seven weeks, I would meet migrants who procured incisions on their bodies, including their privates, courted prophets, or even visited native witch doctors. I understood why. I had been warned of a significant risk of perishing in the desert, languishing in kidnappers’ dens, or returning physically maimed.
There were physical preparations too. My tailor gazed at me in disbelief when I nudged her to carve out an inside pocket in the torso area of my jeans; this was where I tucked cash away from the marauding hands of desert bandits and robbers, the latter a broad group that ironically includes the police and the army. I slung on a laptop-size bag housing personal hygiene items including a toothbrush, toothpaste and an antiperspirant, and breakfast staples such as cereals, noodles, milk and tea. Finally, in that bag, I carried with me a compact GPS tracker with which my backroom team could monitor my location anywhere in the world. I could not control the outcome of my expedition, but I could ensure someone knew if — and where — something went wrong. We timed the tracker to hourly location updates. Two people monitored it. From their phones, they journeyed along with me. Every hour.
LAGOS TO KANO: EASY-PEASY
The passage from Lagos to Kano in the early hours of Friday May 22, 2026, was the first and only uncomplicated leg of the trip. I had jetted into Nigeria’s second most populous state, but Alhaji Buzu (real name Buhari Umar Adamu), my ‘connection man’, believed it was a road trip. Once I confirmed I was nearing Kano, Alhaji Buzu (phone number +218916087xxx) ‘connected’ me to Ismael Abubakar (phone number +2347060507xxx) who would inherit the next leg of my journey. Ismael’s job was to facilitate my trip to Magaria, a farming and herding town in the Zinder region of southern Niger, where I would then be connected to someone else for the next leg of the journey. As the name suggests, a ‘connection man’ is a background trafficker who links an illegal migrant to an active trafficker, who in turn provides a linkup to the next active trafficker, on and on until the migrant arrives at their destination. A trip from Nigeria to Libya is typically coordinated by one connection man with 20 to 30 traffickers in between.
Knowing I was about to embark on a journey of uncertain return, I lodged at a hotel in Kano to sneak in a nap in what became my only revitalising sleep in nearly 50 days, then contacted Ismael. He wouldn’t tell me where to meet up. Instead, he instructed me to hand my phone to a tricycle driver once I reached the heart of town. Even my tricycle driver did not get a pinpoint description from Ismael after they both conversed in Hausa, consequently ostracising me. Instead, Ismael led him to a location, from where he led him to another location, and then another. The location we believed was the third and final turned out distant from our destination. But waiting there was Mohammed, a young, lanky fellow who led me on a quarter-hour walk through several narrow, low-end streets. Mohammed took a picture of me when we arrived at the ghetto; every new trafficker along the journey to Libya must present this photo to their passenger to prove their vehicle was the correct one to board.
I cast a slow, furtive glance across the compound. A tall, dark, hijab-donning lady was sauntering into the adjoining room. She looked every inch a teenager. A much younger girl emerged from the room to make use of a pit-latrine-cum-bathroom, the size of a telephone booth.
‘YOU CANNOT GO OUT’ — THE FIRST IMPRISONMENT
As the boys polished off their intense prayer session, Mohammed returned to warn me I couldn’t exit the hut at will, irrespective of my need; I had to tell him and he would get it for me. “The police often raid the area,” he said. For whom and why, he didn’t say. But we both knew.
In Libya, the journey we were about to embark on is deemed a crime. According to Libyan laws, “anyone who deliberately obtains for himself or another person a material or non-material benefit, whether directly or indirectly, by commission of any of the acts considered illegal immigration shall be penalised by detention for a period not exceeding one year and a fine of no less than 5,000 Libyan Dinars (LYD) and not exceeding 10,000 LYD”. Also, “if it is proven that the perpetrator belonged to an organised gang for smuggling immigrants at the time the crime was committed, the penalty shall be imprisonment for a period of no less than five years and a fine of no less than 5,000 LYD and not exceeding 30,000 LYD”.
Libya Law No. (19) of 2010 on combatting illegal immigration specifically lists acts of illegal immigration to include the admission of illegal immigrants into the country or removal therefrom by any means, transportation of or facilitating the transportation of illegal immigrants inside the country with knowledge of their illegality, and harbouring illegal immigrants or concealing them in any way from the competent authorities or concealing information about them in order to enable them to reside in the country or depart therefrom.
Nigeria, meanwhile, continues tackling irregular migration through a series of strategies including repatriation and returnee support, policy reforms, public awareness campaigns and crackdowns on traffickers like Mohammed, Ismael and Alhaji Buzu.
POVERTY THE ROOT OF THE MIGRATION EVIL
Despite these efforts, the Libyan journey remains bi-directional. The more African migrants get deported to their home countries, the more fresh ones find their way back in, with as many as an estimated 85,000 Nigerians risking their lives on the journey to Libya annually despite a steady decline in success rate for entry into Europe. The reason is clear to all. According to the World Bank, poverty in Nigeria rose to 63 per cent in 2025 despite a slowdown in inflation, underscoring the limited impact of recent macroeconomic improvements on household welfare. For 2026, PricewaterhouseCoopers (PwC) predicted that at least 141 million Nigerians (representing 62 per cent of the population) would live in poverty. “Approximately 33.1 million Nigerians may face food insecurity due to economic hardship and violence in northern food-producing regions,” it added. It was therefore unsurprising that the migrants I encountered on the journey were all united by one thing — a quest for economic prosperity.
Political instability triggered by the toppling of the Muammar Gaddafi regime hasn’t helped, either. Libya has been fractured since the civil war of 2014 to 2020, the northwest controlled by the western-backed government in Tripoli, and the south and the east overseen by warlord Khalifa Belqasim Haftar, whose military government commands several militias exercising authority in the regions. These militias consider themselves legitimate, ostensibly working to enforce peace, security and order, and fighting migration. Under this pretext, they operate migrant detention camps where they torture and film migrants, with the videos sent to their families for the purposes of extortion. This absence of a solitary government has engendered a free-for-all that has been maximally exploited by human traffickers.
******* ********** *********
Emmanuel from Imo State became my first migrant-friend, striking a conversation with me and surprisingly volunteering unsolicited personal information. A lady in Libya had funded his trip, but he was oblivious of the cost and unaware of her Libyan city of residence. He had deposited N350,000, surely insufficient to cover half the overall costs. He also had no idea how long he would stay in Libya before crossing the Mediterranean Sea. Tall, dark, and well-built. He did not appear to know what he was doing!
A MIGRANT’S ACCOMMODATION
When I woke up the following day, I resumed looking at the house searchingly. The all-round restriction of movement in such constricted space gave it the feel of a prison. You also paid for everything other than breathing. A night’s sleep cost N500. It was N300 for a bucket of water for a bath, and N200 for half a bucket. If you charged your phone, you paid N200. And if Mohammed bought you food or water, the cost was extortionate. He — not the shop — told you the price of whatever item you purchased.
The inner room occupied by men had no window or mattresses. The walls were brown and pale. There were two raffia mats on the floor for more than 15 of us to sleep on. I slept with folded legs due to the human congestion. The room offered no ventilation, save the door space with no door. The patio right outside the room was roofless; it became useless when it rained briefly.
A car had come over the night to pick half the men, the other half converging on the verandah to chat idly away while I remained in the room, listening in on them. A young man in his early 30s said his girlfriend was in the other room. Both of them were plotting to cross the sea into Europe. They had left their two kids back home in the southwest. He dismissed concerns about his girlfriend embarking on such a treacherous journey. “She’s not scared,” he remarked. “She’s even more animated about the journey than me. All that matters to her is that we’re physically together.”
‘MOTOR DON COME’!
‘Motor don come!’ — I was roused from siesta at about 4:20pm on Saturday May 23. Mohammed hurried and harangued me out of the room while the aged woman stewarding the ghetto hounded me for money for a night’s worth of sleep. Two of the driver’s accomplices sat in the car’s front seat, but nine of us were forced into a backseat designed for three passengers.
One passenger requested to use my phone — to speak with her mother who was unaware she was embarking on the journey. The trip was indeed her aunt’s making. She dialled her mother twice but the calls went unanswered. She described herself to me as “Emmanuella, Ella for short”, but I insisted on knowing her native name. Ogochukwuamaka. She looked no more than 17, maybe 18. She hails from Ebonyi, Nigeria’s fourth smallest state, in the southeast, but grew up in Ikorodu. All three females in the car looked roughly 15 to 18. All were deceptively robed in hijabs. They displayed conspicuous cluelessness about the dangers ahead.
READ ALSO: From Nigeria to Burkina Faso: Undercover as a Trafficked Person
The driver ignited his engine at exactly 4:57pm, accelerating north of Kano city. Notable landmarks on the journey included the Abubakar Imam Urology Centre and, in quick succession, Luxury Furniture City. We drove along the Kano-Gumel-Road-Magama-Gabasawa highway and cut through a part of Katsina before eventually pulling up in Ungongo at exactly 7.41pm.
Within two minutes, two motorcycles sped towards us and pulled over swiftly. The driver lined all nine of us up, sized us up, and waved four of us onto the two motorcycles. I was one of the first four. As we were climbing, three more motorcycles pulled over to collect the other five.
In under three minutes, all nine of us were gone, the riders operating at breakneck speed through undulating bush paths with no landmarks. Sometimes, they linked up with tarred roads, but it was always brief and they always diverted to the bush. It was a stunningly reckless ride. I started to pray; it was too early to die; we hadn’t even left Nigerian territory yet!
Occasionally, the riders stopped to make a phone call, then resumed the journey at dizzying speed. After more than an hour through an admixture of bumpy bush paths, rocky swamps and patchy quicksand, the riders stopped us in Magaria, an agrarian town in the Zinder region of Niger, just north of the Nigeria border. Another ghetto!
WELCOME TO NIGER REPUBLIC
We were received by ‘Manager’, the man who oversaw the band of tents allotted to our larger group of travellers. Some half a dozen travellers were already inhabiting the tent six of us were led to: a raft of sticks bound together by raffia mats on a bare, sandy floor. Ella and the other two ladies with us were shown into a small, concrete hut. We spread out our only cloth on the sand, leaving us with nothing to cover ourselves. Thankfully, there were no mosquitoes. The flies, though, came in their droves, making sleep uncomfortable.
At the break of dawn on Sunday May 24, I got a better but gloomier view of the environment. Our shed was right next to a dumpsite. Fifty metres away was a canteen where the CFA was three times more valuable than the naira. There, I scoffed a sachet of noodles and two eggs for N1,400.
The morning temperature in Magaria was 36°C — four more than Kano’s afternoon temperature. It was so hot my phones started to overheat. A migrant who had been stuck in Magaria for five weeks let me in on a secret: the only way to preserve my phone while using or charging it was to place a sachet of cold water on it. Meanwhile, the temperature in the deserts, where we were headed, can sometimes be north of 50°C.
In Magaria, I met Michael, a late-30s man from Akure whose persona matched what ‘Para’, his moniker, signalled on the streets. Married with kids from two different women, he smoked compulsively but ate little. Para was headed to Libya but, like Emmanuel, didn’t know exactly where. His connection man had paid 10,000 LYD (N1.7 million) to kickstart his journey. Para intended to repay by working menial jobs in Libya for “several months”, before crossing the Mediterranean Sea into Europe. Worryingly, he had zero idea of the risks ahead.
GOODBYE TO ZINDER: HUMANS, CHICKENS AND DUNG LUMPED TOGETHER
‘Para’ was regaling me with tales of nightlife in Akure when we were interrupted by the sight of a migrant sprinting towards us. ‘Manager’ had begun parading the pictures of the migrants scheduled to continue on the journey to Agadez, and he had spotted our faces. Located in the north-central region of Niger, Agadez is strategic as the confluence for irregular migrants all over West Africa seeking to enter Libya through the Sahara Desert. We sped to the shelter to grab our bags, then dashed to a nearby kiosk to buy Airtel SIMs we had been told were best in Niger. Our vehicle — an improvised minibus originally conveying several dozen chicken cages to Agadez — arrived at 10:55pm and departed at 11:12pm, nine of us sandwiched like sardines among chickens into a constricted space reeking of fowl dung.
What we thought was a straight journey would soon be truncated. The vehicle was in motion for exactly 1 hr and 8 minutes before the driver abruptly parked right in the middle of the road, offering no explanations. When he disembarked, everyone figured out that was it for the night. With no cover cloth, I lay right there on the sand, my head resting on the tarmac, and slept until minutes past 5am on Monday when I was woken from sleep by the unnerving rumbling of early-morning human traffic, accompanied by the eerie din of the wind howling through the desert.
READ ALSO: Undercover as a Smuggler
We resumed the journey at exactly 5:29am. By then, the nine of us had started to build camaraderie; the other two ladies with Ella were loosening up too. Save the checkpoints, where the driver simply bribed officials, he made no stop for nearly four hours until we arrived in Tatokou, a rural village in the Tanout department of Zinder. We passed many checkpoints when the journey resumed, but only the last before Agadez made trouble that required passengers to step in with extra cash.
Shortly before noon, Ella became visibly uncomfortable, needing to excrete urine from her bladder, but the driver would not stop. Before leaving Nigeria, I had been warned that the drivers only stopped if they themselves needed to, not because any passenger asked. They did not stop for Ella despite her glaring unease.
To everyone’s chagrin, when one chicken escaped from one of the cages strapped to the roof of the van, the driver stopped for two of his men to chase after the bird. This proved Ella’s miraculous opportunity to ease herself. The message was clear: human migrants being trafficked have no value; and if they did, the worth was surely far less than chickens’. It was an advance warning of what was to come — migrants’ complete loss of agency once they signed up for this journey.
WELCOME TO AGADEZ, BUT NEVER TRUST ‘CONNECTION MEN’
We arrived in Agadez at 2:02pm on Monday May 25, stonkered from long hours mostly spent in the same sitting position. We were dropped off at a market in town where one middle-aged man was waiting with pictures of five migrants. The five, including ‘Para’, took off in a tricycle while the rest of us huddled together to call our connection men. Alhaji Buzu sent his son, a handsome young man who only spoke French but no English, to fetch me, leaving three others. We hugged and expressed hopes we would meet again. We never did.
I arrived at Alhaji Buzu’s house in Tchirozerine, some 50km north of the administrative capital of Agadez, at exactly 2:22pm to a scorching temperature of 39°C. Alhaji told me I missed the day’s vehicles by a few hours. “They all left in the morning,” he lied, before adding: “you’ll go with the 10am vehicle tomorrow”, which turned to another lie.
He may have forgotten, but his promise when I was leaving Nigeria was that he had booked me for a Monday evening departure from Agadez to Sabha, which, by the way, is the longest and most dangerous leg of the journey.
“There’s a vehicle currently approaching Agadez, 80km away,” he added. “If there are no repair issues, you’ll leave with it later tonight. And if there are, then you’ll leave tomorrow.”
Those were two lies in quick succession, and his fourth within five minutes, all proven with the passage of time.
13 DAYS OF SOLITARY CONFINEMENT
Alhaji didn’t utter a word to me about the trip for the next three days. Three days became four days, then four became five, and six, and seven. One week morphed to two weeks, and I ended up spending 18 lonely days in Agadez. Meanwhile, nobody, not even the connection men, can say for sure the kickoff time or day of any migrant’s journey. When it comes to travel schedules, the drivers keep their cards close to their chest to blindside security agencies. Every journey begins with a sudden declaration — “motor don come” — which is sometimes a false alert. Therefore, to prevent myself from becoming the next Ella needing to excrete solid waste during a journey, I subsisted on bread and water, or garri, for most of those 18 days. On each day, I thought the vehicle could come. So, each day, morning and night, my meal was one of bread and water or soaked garri (cassava flakes).
Thirteen of those 18 days were in a nondescript room inside Alhaji Buzu’s house. I slept on the floor, with no mattress or pillow, or chair to sit on. They were 13 wearisome days lying on the floor all day awaiting a vehicle that never came, and dealing with sizzling temperatures ranging from 38°c to 42°c. By then, I had started emaciating due to my unwholesome diet. The skin around my forefeet and ankles had started to peel, while the one around the radius of my forearms had begun to blacken.
The first telltale signs of departure were on Saturday June 6, 2026, when Alhaji sent his son to ferry me to the market so I could purchase anything else I needed for the trip. My most important purchase was garri weighing 12.5 kg or thereabouts. Alhaji had warned me my phones would be gone by the time I arrived in Sabha: phones were always the first target of drivers, policemen, soldiers and bandits in the desert. Therefore, I hid my phones in my sack of garri at exactly 4:29pm on Sunday June 7 when Alhaji announced: “Dress up; there’s a motorcycle waiting to take you to the garage [sic].”
I also changed N176,000 into dinars and CFA. Of this sum, 40,000 CFA (N101,600) was for Alhaji Buzu. After I asked him if it was possible to be allotted a seat inside the truck, he had told me one of the traffickers would sell their space for me for 40,000 CFA. Not only did this not happen, I found out during the journey that it was impossible.
Of the remaining 30,000 CFA (N75,000), I hid some notes in the crotch-area pocket tailor-made for me, then hid some more inside the garri. The rest I neatly folded and squeezed into empty sachets of Milo and Peak Milk, then stowed them away in my bag.
ALHAJI BUZU’S LIES BUSTED
Alhaji’s “park” — what many on this trip, including him, call ‘garage’ — was nothing close to a public vehicle boarding arena; it was in fact a ghetto, similar to Magaria albeit less populated. It had a series of sheds close to — you already know it by now — yet another refuse dump! Most migrants slept in there but as the sheds were vastly outnumbered by the migrants, many migrants slept outdoors, in the desert sand and the biting cold.
The days flew past until Wednesday June 10 when someone approached me to say he was delegated to tell me in English that a vehicle was coming for me later that night. I soon found out he was Yoruba and was travelling with his wife and two young men who carried themselves like they were his brothers-in-law. Unlike me, he was speaking to drivers directly. It was his third desert trip in as many years. He appeared to be a trafficker himself, having admitted he had “brought more than 10 people into Libya in the last one year”.
He was in constant communication with two drivers scheduled to arrive in Agadez from Libya in a few days. I wondered if he might leave Agadez for Sabha before me, as a result, but he doubted it. “It’s such a gruelling trip the drivers always need a few days of rest when they arrive,” he explained. “No driver embarks on this journey without taking some days off to rest, recharge, fill several kegs with fuel and service their vehicles.” Alhaji Buzu’s second lie busted!
OVER 100 NIGERIANS ‘STARTING TO LOOK LIKE MAD PEOPLE’ STRANDED IN GERIN RABIU
This was my 16th day in Agadez and my frustration was palpable, but he told me my suffering in the hands of my connection man wasn’t the worst in recent times. While journeying from Nigeria to Agadez, he and his family had made a brief stopover at a settlement in Niger called Gerin Rabiu, where more than 100, mostly Yoruba, travellers had been stuck for over three months and were “starting to look like mad people”. My travails hadn’t reached that sort of crescendo yet; I still looked fairly normal.
There was a downpour later that evening. It felt like the heavens opening up to answer my prayers for a resumption of the journey. One thing with desert zones: the weather operates in extremes. When the sun shines, it is with fury. And when it rains, it is torrential. The rains lasted a little over an hour, but they left the inner parts of the ghetto ridden with puddles and the outer parts outright flooded.
A black Tundra truck operated by an Arabic-speaking driver finally saved me from that ghetto at exactly 9:26am on Thursday, June 11. In the booth waiting for my introduction were Austin, 35, from Edo State, and Oumarou, 22, from Niger Republic. After roughly 10 minutes, the driver stopped at his ‘garage’ [sic], an abandoned building with all the markings of a makeshift migrant mini-camp. There were several heavy bags scattered all over the pavement, plus a mat for migrants to lie on. Two other passengers — Bamidele, 25, and Samuel, 30, both from Akure — were ecstatic to see us. They had been loitering in Agadez for 13 days and reasoned that our arrival signalled the onset of departure to Libya.
‘IF I KNEW I’D SUFFER THIS MUCH, I WOULDN’T HAVE COME’
Austin, a remarkably calm and likeable fellow, was being ‘pushed’ by his mum. In street lingo, a ‘pusher’ is someone who funds another migrant’s desert trip. Austin’s mum had paid N1.5 million to a connection man for the journey from Edo to Tripoli, and another N2 million for crossing into Italy — “IT” for short — from Tripoli. Bamidele and Samuel, meanwhile, were being ‘pushed’ by someone linked to their prophetess’s husband. They were cash-strapped and had been starving, feeding off crumbs from the drivers’ tables. Quite worryingly, they had no water kegs or water itself, and had no plans of buying. Even if they wanted to, they had no dime on them. These guys were definite death candidates in the desert.
“If I knew I would suffer like this, I would have stayed put in Akure,” Samuel told me during our first conversation. His most recent meal was some 18 hours ago, and it was garri soaked in water. But this was just the beginning; Samuel had not yet experienced five per cent of the sufferings associated with this trip.
Originally a plumber before morphing into bricklaying, Samuel has all his family in Akure and feels “at least one of us should break the jinx by travelling out”. But he and Bamidele do not even know their final destination in Libya, whether that’s al Gatrun, Sabha, Misrata or Tripoli. All they know: they will take on manual labour for one-and-a-half years so they can repay their ‘pusher’ for bringing them into Libya, after which their earnings finally become theirs. But pushers are rarely truthful and never honour that sort of deal; Bamidele and Samuel do not know, but they will be their pusher’s slave for two to three years. Not 18 months.
Austin, meanwhile, was hell-bent on crossing into ‘IT’ and would not accommodate any admonition to the contrary. He told me he expected to have crossed into Italy by the end of June, which was never going to happen and, with the benefit of hindsight, did not happen. I asked him if he could swim, to which he answered ‘no’.
“And you aren’t scared of drowning?”
“I have seen many trials in my short life,” he replied. “I have seen too much to be scared of anything at this point.”
‘IF YOU SLEEP, YOU FALL OFF. AND IF YOU FALL OFF, YOU DIE!’
As dawn began to descend on Agadez’s blazing sky, some six young men entered the compound to help the traffickers load the heavy sacks and a car engine onto the pickup truck. It smelled imminent departure. I quickly sneaked out to buy bread and water for dinner and recharge my two lines with internet service. When I returned more than an hour later, Austin told me all four passengers were conscripted into helping heap the heavy sacks onto the truck. I found it strange but dismissed it. It would come back to haunt me.
The truck was fully loaded shortly after 9pm, and the traffickers instructed us all to climb up and take our positions on the sacks. For a moment, I fretted. I had never sat atop a moving pickup truck before, which was why I paid Alhaji 40,000 CFA for a front seat, but the traffickers were having none of it.
I climbed reluctantly, fitting my butt inside the spare tyre. It was more uncomfortable than the other spots, but it offered me more territorial security. The time was nearing 10pm.
“Make sure you don’t sleep,” one trafficker belted out after all of us had assumed our positions. “If you sleep, you fall off. And if you fall off, you die!”
I soliloquised to myself over the next few minutes. What could I do to keep myself awake, knowing life now hinged on staying awake? I opted to keep my mind busy by creating a list of 20 reasons to stay alive. Throughout the overnight journey, I’ll keep running through the reasons one after the other, and repeating the process. Yes, 20 reasons to stay alive.
…because if you sleep, you fall off. And if you fall off, you die.
Editor’s Note: This is the first of a three-part series. You may read Part II here and Part III here.
All surnames in this story have been intentionally redacted.
Currency conversions:
1 dinar = N172.4
I CFA = N3
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