As I look out at the remnants of what was once my home, a wave of sorrow crashes over me. The flood that ravaged Mokwa town in May has stolen more than just possessions; it has taken my family, my stability, and my sense of safety. I stand here, among the ruins, a silent witness to a tragedy that has claimed over 200 lives. Each name, each face that I’ve lost weighs heavily on my heart, leaving an indelible mark on my soul.

The water rose so quickly that I barely had time to react. One moment, my children were playing in the yard; the next, they were swept away from my grasp. I search for them in my dreams, hoping to find them safe, but every dawn brings another painful reminder of my loss. How do I begin to rebuild a life that feels so irrevocably destroyed? The government has offered compensation,N1 million to each affected family,but what is money compared to the love of a parent, the laughter of a child? It feels like a cruel joke amidst this overwhelming grief.

In the aftermath of the flood, I watched as officials mobilized humanitarian aid, distributing food and clothing like lifelines thrown into the abyss. For many, it was their first taste of assistance, a gesture that felt both generous and insufficient. I stood in line, clutching the hand of my surviving child, praying that we would receive something,anything,to help us survive this nightmare. But my heart sank as I learned that many were overlooked, their needs dismissed in the chaos of disaster response. The very system meant to help us felt foreign, disconnected from our reality.

As we gathered in interim camps, I thought we might find solace in shared suffering. But the government soon ordered us to leave, claiming these camps were breeding grounds for immorality and danger. My heart raced with fear at the thought of being forced into the streets again, exposed and vulnerable. Alhaji Dauda Liman, the Secretary of the Mokwa Local Council, spoke of our plight as though we were mere statistics,458 households recorded, 424 destroyed homes counted. Yet, how could he understand the depth of our loss through mere numbers?

I remember the moment the Nigerian Red Cross arrived, bringing temporary shelters and hope. They built us a haven, a place where we could catch our breath amidst the chaos. But just as quickly as the hope surged, it was snatched away again. The state government ordered the closure of our makeshift homes, citing security threats. My heart ached with betrayal. How could they label us,victims of a disaster,as potential threats? The very walls that offered us protection became our prison.

In hushed whispers, I listened to my neighbors voice their frustrations. They echoed my pain, feeling unseen and unheard. Malam Musa Sheshi, a local resident, spoke of the camp’s deterioration, where once we sought refuge, it had become a place of shame. Yet, how could we be blamed for the actions of a few? We are not criminals; we are survivors. We are mothers and fathers grasping at scraps of hope.

As I reflect on the Red Cross’s efforts, I am filled with a mix of gratitude and sorrow. They came with good intentions, yet their work was dismantled by forces beyond our control. An anonymous Red Cross official insisted their actions were sanctioned, yet I am left to wonder who truly stands for us in these moments of desperation.

With each passing day, we remain in limbo, caught between the heartbreak of our losses and the uncertainty of what lies ahead. The government’s decisions hang over us like a dark cloud, stifling any flicker of hope we dare to hold onto. We are not just victims; we are human beings, yearning to reclaim our lives from the depths of despair. In this struggle, we seek not just shelter, but dignity, recognition, and the chance to heal from the wounds that run deeper than any flood.