Nothing could have prepared me for the first time I visited an IDP camp in Nigeria.
My leadership team there in Abuja, the nation’s capital, had spent months organizing 21 churches, renting a stadium, and all the many details in staging a large-scale evangelistic outreach. It was early afternoon in November 2019, and my crew from the USA were dressed up, loaded in vans, and ready to roll.
So I was taken aback when my dear friend Pastor Jed D’Grace, head of my in-country organization Africa Arise, pulled me aside and said, “Brother, I have been in prayer, and we can’t go.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“To the outreach. I have a check in my spirit. It’s too dangerous. We can’t go.”
I knew how much Jed had put on the line – reputationally, financially and otherwise – to organize this event. And to be sure, he suffered repercussions for a long time following his decision to cancel at the last minute. But I’d known Jed and family for many years and trusted him fully. He truly is a man of God.
“Ok then,” I said, “But we’re all dressed up and in the vans. What should we do instead?”
Jed said he felt we should visit an IDP camp. I didn’t even know what that was. He informed me IDP stands for “internally displaced persons.” An IDP has the same international legal status a refugee, only they’re still in their home country, whereas refugees are in another country.
“Let’s do it,” I said. So we informed the drivers and the team and took off for the New Kuchingoro IDP camp.
The route was familiar to me. Abuja is a new, modern, prosperous city of about 3,000,000 in the geographic center of this large West African nation. Nigeria is home to about 20% of the population of the continent, and is Africa’s largest economy. Of countless airports I’ve passed through around the world, their brand new Nnamdi Azikiwe International Airport stands out among the finest. Similarly, the highway between downtown and the airport is perhaps the cleanest and best-made in Africa, and I’d traveled it many times.
On down this highway, Jed told me the people living in this camp were from far North Nigeria, more than 500 miles away, and fled here to escape the widespread massacre of Christians at the hands of Boko Haram, the radical Muslim group.
About halfway to the airport, we turned off the nice, new pavement onto a rough dirt track. About a quarter mile in, we came upon an encampment that can best be described as post-apocalyptic: Shanties constructed of sticks and feedbags, random sheets of scavenged plastic, torn old tarps and such, crammed into an area of a few acres. The packed, rutted, red dirt paths between the structures were crowded with people, and a shallow, open sewage ditch ran through the center.
But the first thing that hit me wasn’t the deplorable conditions, but the children. Hundreds of them, ranging probably from 3 to 10 years old. Bright, joyful, full of energy, and very happy to see us.
They ran up to me and my team members and surrounded us, full of smiles and laughter, and we couldn’t help but smile and laugh with them. Their joy was contagious.
Everywhere I’ve traveled, I’ve always taught native kids the American custom of “gimme five!” After demonstrating for the first few kids how to do it, suddenly the whole throng was giggling and slapping each other’s’ hands.
Then I pulled the “down low, too slow” move, and they all erupted with glee. A bond was made. A simple gesture and joke became a universal symbol of friendship and good humor. It was an amazing thing.
This wave of joy in the midst of such horrific squalor was happy yet surreal, and only deepened our anguish when we started talking to the adults and heard their stories.
Postscript: Ends up there was an outbreak of gun violence that afternoon at the area of our canceled event. It is clear they had been waiting for us. Jed had discerned clearly we were in mortal danger.
Part 2 next week: Meeting Ms. Hanatu
Mike Arnold is an international entrepreneur and missionary who is proud to call Blanco his home. Contact him at [email protected].
