How I Escaped Execution for Blasphemy with Deborah
By Asabe Kdada Sabitu, Interviewed by Lawrence Zongo
When I close my eyes, I still see her—Deborah Emmanuel.
The last time I saw her alive, we were both locked up inside the school security post. She was in the inner room. I was inside the outer room.
I could see her. We were both beaten. We were both afraid.
She asked me what time it was. I told her, “11:00 a.m.” She was meant to be writing her exam by noon.
That was May 12, 2022. It was our second year at the Shehu Shagari College of Education in Sokoto. Deborah was studying Home Economics. I was in my final year, studying Integrated Science and Biology.
We came from the same village in Niger State. We were cousins, but more like sisters. We grew up together. She was the bright one, always asking questions, always top of the class.
She Dreamed of Joining the Police
She told me often she wanted to be a police officer so she could “end corruption in Nigeria.” I used to laugh. She’d laugh too. But she meant it. That’s who she was.
That morning, I was in my hostel room when someone banged on the door. “They’re beating Deborah!” someone shouted. I ran to the campus to her hostel.
Students had gathered around her. I pushed my way through, screaming, “What is happening?” They turned on me, too. The mob beat us both. It was Deborah’s classmates who accused her. They said she had blasphemed the Prophet Muhammad. I didn’t hear her say anything like that on her WhatsApp group. I don’t believe she ever did.
The school security came. So did some policemen. They fired teargas, but the mob pushed back. The officers could not control them.
We were both dragged to the security office by students, classmates of Deborah.
It wasn’t the police who arrested her. It wasn’t the school authorities. It was her own classmates.
They were the ones who brought her to the security room, saying she had committed blasphemy. Inside the security post, they locked us up. Deborah was in the back room, and I was in the front room. I could see her through bars on a door.
Deborah’s last words: ” What time is it?”
Deborah wasn’t crying. She was quiet. I remember her looking straight at me and asking, “What time is it?”. I told her. I told her to pray. I did, too. I was praying to God, “Let us come out alive.”
Several times, the mob came back. At about 2 p.m., they overpowered the security. Some were shouting “Allahu Akbar.” Deborah was silent.
The mob found me, first, in the front room, thinking I was Deborah. A man wrapped a chain around my neck and started strangling me. I was frozen in fear.
By a miracle, a Muslim student from my home village walked in and saved me. He stood between me and the crowd and said: “Let this girl go! She isn’t Deborah!”
If he hadn’t done that, I would be dead too. I don’t think he even knows what that meant.
The mob went to the back room and pulled Deborah out. I was nearly unconscious, but I heard screams. I could not see everything, but I saw the smoke and the fire. I smelled it. I felt the heat. Someone came into the outpost and told me I should get out.
And I knew—they had killed her.
They were her classmates. They were not strangers. The people she sat with in class, the people who greeted her before lectures, were the ones who dragged her out and beat her. The school authorities did not stop it.
The police fired tear gas and left. I found out later there were 15 policemen watching everything from a distance. They had rifles they didn’t use.
Afterwards, I couldn’t go back to school. I dropped out in my final year. I moved to Jos, Plateau State, because I didn’t feel safe anymore.
Since then, I haven’t been able to sleep well. I’ve married and given birth to a beautiful baby girl. But I live in fear.
When I hear the name “Muhammad” in any context, I panic. I no longer live in Muslim communities. I avoid them.
I do not know if all Muslims are like those who killed Deborah. But I can’t trust again. I saw what they did to her. I felt it on my own skin. I smelled the burning.
I know what people are capable of. I often think of Deborah’s last words to me: “What time is it?” She was planning to write her exam that very day. She was planning to join the police force. Imagine, that was the police unit that left her to die.
She was carrying books in her hand. They killed a girl who was holding books.
In the three years since that day, I have asked God many times, “Why did you allow me to live?”
I feel it’s because He wants me to tell the truth about what happened. Many people have said things. Some said she blasphemed. Others said it was a misunderstanding. But I was there. I saw it. I heard it. Deborah was not screaming. She was not angry. She did not insult the Prophet. Seen from her standpoint, she was just a girl trying to go to class.
Some say justice will come. I don’t know.
I heard a few students were arrested, then released. I don’t know their names. I haven’t followed the case. I’ve been trying to stay alive, to care for my baby, to heal. But I haven’t healed.
Deborah wanted to be a police officer. She loved going to church. She never missed prayer meetings. She was never ashamed of her faith. I remember her waking me up for Bible study. She’d knock on my door and say, “Let’s go, Asabe. Time for fellowship.”
That’s who she was. Always joyful. Always ready to serve. After her death, my parents became more devoted to Christ. They said they had nothing else – no court case, no lawyers, no power. Only God. So, they left everything to Him.
I’ve learned something else, too. If someone can kill your sister, your friend, your classmate — they can kill anyone. If I had said anything that day to defend her, I would have died too. But God allowed me to live. I don’t know if justice will ever come for Deborah. I don’t know if I will ever feel safe again. But I want to live a life that tells the truth about her.
She didn’t die because she insulted anyone. She died because she was a Christian girl in a place where that is a crime. Today, I want to go back to school. Or start a business. Something to care for my baby. Something to move forward with.
But I carry the memory of May 12, 2022, with me and the Deborah Emmanuel only I knew.
Lawrence Zongo is studying law at the University of Jos and is a conflict reporter for TruthNigeria.
