The Night I Came Face-to-Face With Death

Frank Ofili

The Night I Came Face-to-Face with Death

Earlier today, I read Amadioha Mbaise’s chilling Facebook account of how he survived two encounters with car snatchers at Yaba, Lagos, in 2011. His story stirred memories I have carried for more than three decades—memories of a night in Warri when I looked death squarely in the face.

It was 1992.

I was a young bank worker, still trying to find my feet in life. I lived with two of my younger siblings in a modest room-and-parlour apartment on Betty Obodo Street, off Ovie Palace Road, Effurun, Warri.

Those who knew Warri in the early 1990s will remember it as one of Nigeria’s most dangerous cities. Armed robbery was almost a nightly occurrence. Mobile phones did not exist, and even landlines were luxuries reserved for offices and the wealthy. If you screamed for help in the dead of night, you were on your own.

The nearest police station was nearly ten kilometres away in Ekpan.
Like many neighbourhoods then, residents formed vigilante groups. Men took turns patrolling the streets at night with locally made rifles registered with the police. It wasn’t perfect. Some people shirked their responsibility, leaving the rest of us exposed.

One night, our worst fears came alive.

The sound of gunfire shattered the silence.

The robbers had arrived.

They stormed our compound, moving methodically from one apartment to another, robbing every family at gunpoint—including our landlord.

As they drew closer to my apartment, I made what I thought could be my final decision.

I asked my younger brothers to bring every kobo they had. We gathered everything—about ₦2,000, a considerable sum at the time, and placed it neatly on the centre table in the living room. If money was all they wanted, they could have it.

But I was worried about something else.

My youngest brother had just finished secondary school. He was a huge, fearless young man with a fiery temper and zero tolerance for intimidation. I knew that one wrong move, one angry response, could get all three of us killed.

When the robbers banged violently on the door, I whispered only one instruction:

“Lie face down.”

Without hesitation, they obeyed.

I opened the door.

Then I joined them on the floor.

Seconds later, I felt something icy against my bare back.

It was the muzzle of a gun.

If you have ever touched a firearm, you will understand. The barrel is frighteningly cold, like the nose of a dog, but infinitely more terrifying. That cold steel sent a message words never could.

Death was only a trigger away.

The robbers ransacked the house until one of them stumbled upon this photograph of me wearing a piece of clothing with a military camouflage design.

Everything changed.

Two hefty men yanked me to my feet. One pressed a gun against my stomach while another shoved the camouflage shirt into my face.

“So… you be soldier?”

My heart stopped.

“No, sir,” I stammered. “Na cloth I buy for Ibo Market.”

I doubt they believed me.

Then their leader barked an order.

“Detective! Search everywhere. I want this cloth!”

Those few minutes felt like an eternity.

I was convinced I would die.

One of the robbers even suggested they should waste me because they could not be sure I was not a soldier.

Then something happened that still amazes me today.

The leader looked at me for a few seconds before saying:

“Him no be soldier. If him na soldier, him for dey live for barrack… or dem for mark this house Military Zone. On top of that, him too young to be soldier”

Those words saved my life.

The “Detective” eventually found the camouflage shirt and threw it at me.

They shoved my brothers and me aside and continued destroying the house.

With their pen-knife, they cut open my upholstered chairs.
They ripped my mattress apart.

They pulled up the rug I had only recently bought with hard-earned money.

Every corner was searched.

When they finally decided to leave, one of them struck me on the head with the butt of his gun – a final reminder that our lives had been entirely in their hands.

Then the leader shouted:

“Let’s go!”

More gunshots rang into the night.

Then…

Silence.

It probably lasted an hour.

But to us, it felt like five.

We did not dare move.

We remained on the floor until the first sounds of life returned with dawn. The voices of danfo drivers echoed through the streets, shouting:

“Enerhen Junction! Enerhen Junction!”

Only then did we find the courage to stand.

And the very first thing I did?

I carried that camouflage shirt outside. And set it on fire.

Watching the flames consume it felt like watching death itself leave my house.

Looking back today, I realize how thin the line between life and death truly is.

That night taught me that survival is not always about bravery.

Sometimes, it is about staying calm, making the right decision under unimaginable pressure, and, above all, receiving a measure of divine mercy that no human being can ever fully explain.

Thirty-four years later, I still remember the cold touch of that gun barrel on my back.

Some memories never leave you.