It had happened to some people, but I didn’t think it would happen to me. Even when my mother woke up one day and dragged me to the salon to have my ears pierced, I couldn’t help but be amused. Not to say that I was surprised; my mother always had a flare for the dramatic.

I didn’t think I could be kidnapped, to be sacrificed to the devil so that some random person would gain material wealth. At 14, I thought of myself as too old to be a worthy sacrifice.

I could already envision the witchdoctor being given a few strokes by the demons, demanding to know why, of all sacrifices, he had brought me. First of all, I was a terrible child. Every single report card since the day I joined school at three years old had revealed endlessly rants from my class teachers.

Secondly, (and until that day, I had hated it), I had a large scar on my right forefinger. I had acquired it from playing with a broken bottle when I was seven. It was alleged that the devil could reject a sacrifice if that sacrifice had a scar, or even a piercing. I found it strange but comforting.

On the last day of the term, the school arranged for buses to take students to their different home districts. Our driver was a fat short man with an awkward smile. He wouldn’t look anyone in the eye. So when he took a shortcut and stopped in the middle of nowhere, after a few hours we got worried.

Why had he left us in the bus? Why was he talking so secretively? Why did he stop in an isolated area? There was only one logical explanation; he wanted to sell us off to be sacrificed to the devil. We panicked. It was time to remember the Lord.

I had previously been comforted by the thought of being an unworthy sacrifice, but I thought to myself; "What if the devil changed his mind and is now accepting everyone? He isn’t known for having high standards or keeping his word.”

So I prayed earnestly. I said to God, "Dear Lord, I don’t want to die. But instead of ending up being mentally or physically incapacitated as a result of this, just spare me the trouble and let me die.”

Just as I finished praying, Jessica, a girl from my class, came up with a brilliant suggestion; to attack the driver. We had only recently studied about surprise night attacks and how they brought victory to many an army in history. Yes, he was strong and it was day time, but we were many and we were going to surprise him.

So we suddenly ran out of the bus and ganged up on him and beat him to pulp. Then we tied him up and carried him until we reached a nearby trading centre. We explained our ordeal and one of the residents arranged for us to be taken back to school.

The driver spent the night in the coolers. He later explained to court  that he had been calling someone to bring some fuel since it had suddenly run out.

But none of us believed him. Well, I didn’t believe him because my life has not been very exciting and by holding onto this falsehood about escaping death, I can always bring it up in order to convince people that I have ‘lived.’