Calabar Waterways Nightmare: Pirates Grab 17 in Dead of Night

By: Abudu Olalekan

Silence.
Then chaos.

Not Hollywood. Not a drill. Real life. Last Thursday night. On the black water near Calabar.

Seventeen souls. Just trying to get home.
Gone. Snatched off a Sea Express Limited boat by men with guns.

How? You ask.
Easy. Because these waterways? They’re a labyrinth. Mangroves swallowing sound. Narrow channels where big boats can’t follow. Pirates know every twist. Every shadow.

Authorities confirm it happened near Ekeikwu. A busy route. Fishermen. Traders. Families. All fair game now.

“They came fast,” whispers a survivor who escaped later, voice cracking. “Two small boats. Out of nowhere. Guns everywhere. No warning. Just… take us.”

Picture it:
Darkness.
Rain slicking the decks.
The sickening thump of bullets hitting wood.
A child’s cry. Cut short.

This isn’t piracy. It’s terror on water.

And it’s getting worse.

Economists call it “systemic failure.” Locals call it “God punish them.”
Same brutal truth.

See, Calabar’s waterways are lifelines. No roads. Just rivers. So people have to travel here. Daily. For markets. For clinics. For school.

But security? Laughable.

Check the facts:

Navy patrols? Barely a handful of boats.
Checkpoints? Gone by dawn.
Community watch? “We’re fishermen, not soldiers,” shrugs one elder.
Pirates know this. They live here. Blend in. Strike at dusk. Disappear into creeks before dawn.

Now? Seventeen names added to a growing list. Families shattered.

Amina Bello clutches her chest. Her son, Chijioke, 19, was on that boat. “He texted me ‘Mama, almost home’*” she sobs. “Then silence. Where is he? Who has him?”

No answers. Just radio silence from officials.

Meanwhile, Governor Ben Ayade promises “urgent action.” Sounds big. Means nothing.

How many more?

This isn’t new. Remember the 2022 attacks? Or the 2020 massacre at Ikot Abasi? Each time, outrage. Then… quiet.

Pirates laugh all the way to their hideouts.

Why? Because they can.

The rivers are vast. Poor communities. Zero backup.

Armored boats? None. Night vision? Forget it. Intelligence sharing? “We shout warnings when we see them,” admits a fisherman. “But they’re gone before help arrives.”

It’s a trap laid bare.

And tonight? It snapped shut again.

On Thursday.
At 9:47 PM.
Near Ekeikwu.

Seventeen passengers. Gone.

No ransom demands yet. (Yet.)
Just fear. Thick as the river fog.

Family members tell reporters they’ve been unable to reach loved ones. Phones remain switched off. Dead air.

A source reveals attackers abducted seventeen because their getaway boat couldn’t carry more. Left others behind. Cold calculus.

Deputy Public Relations Officer DSP Igri Ewa confirms: “We are aware of the abduction and we are making efforts to rescue the victims. At the moment, no contact has been made… but we are on our toes.”

On our toes? Sounds like a dance. Not a crisis.

This is bigger than crime. It’s collapse.

Think about it:

Farmers can’t reach markets. Starvation looms.
Sick people? Stuck. Hospitals fifty kilometers away.
Jobs? Gone. Who fishes if pirates own the water?
The math is brutal.
And no one’s fixing it.

Back in Calabar, the river flows.
Same as always.

But now? It carries secrets.
And silence.

Where are the seventeen?
Are they alive?
Will they return?

No one knows.

Only this:
Every sunset, mothers pray.
Fishermen arm themselves with sticks.
And pirates? They’re laughing.

How many more must vanish?
Before someone acts?

Not “studies.” Not “promises.”
Action.

Tonight, the water waits.
Dark. Hungry.

And somewhere, a child cries for her brother.