Three weeks ago, my uncle did not come home. He had left at dawn, the way he always does. A poor man moving through the world before it fully wakes, returning to a family that waits for him. He did not return. Gunmen took him from the road, into a forest that stretches from Taraba, Plateau, and Bauchi, and they have kept him there ever since. As I write this, he is still in that forest. He is still alive. And we are running out of time. My uncle is not a man of wealth or influence. He holds no government position, owns no land beyond what feeds his family, has no cousin in Abuja to call. He is a man who has spent his life in the honest arithmetic of survival — working, providing, asking for nothing beyond safety and the right to return home at the end of each day. He is the kind of man w...