The Kidnapping of an American Missionary

By Phyllis Sortor

On Monday, February 23, 2015, Phyllis Sortor's life was irrevocably changed when she was kidnapped by Nigerian gangsters while working at a Christian school. Over the next two weeks, she was repeatedly beaten, traumatized, and abused as she held out hope for rescue.

Read Phyllis' firsthand account of her harrowing adventure. Her trust in her Savior and her fierce resolve will embolden your faith and enliven your spirit. This remarkable true story of God's beloved daughter will challenge you, inspire you, and transform your Christian experience like no other.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Light Life Publishing
• Release date: Mar 20, 2018
• ISBN: 9780893673352

Book preview

On Monday, February 23, 2015, I knew something was wrong when my cell rang at 6:10 a.m. Mike Reynen, Area Director for Free Methodist World Missions in Africa, would never call so early. When I answered, he reported: Phyllis Sortor has been kidnapped! Armed men invaded our school, fired their guns in the air, assaulted the pastor, grabbed Phyllis and dragged her into the bush.

For some of us the next twelve days treated us to the most intense, incredible, exhilarating and exasperating drama of our lives, much of it unfolding in the middle of the night and demanding our full and constant attention. Along the way, 100 or more persons from law enforcement and government agencies in the U.S. and Nigeria offered their counsel and assistance, and an expert in crisis management and hostage negotiation guided us. Until finally, on March 6, our colleague and friend was set free!

In these pages, Phyllis recounts what happened to her and with her during her captivity. The story reads like a thriller waiting to be made into a movie, and like something out of the Book of Acts. It’s a story of Jesus’ followers sharing God’s love with new friends only to encounter dangers, threats, opposition, abuse, incarceration, uncertainty and suffering. But then prayers are answered, Jesus’ witnesses are strengthened and emboldened, God intervenes, and the good news spreads wider and farther than we could have anticipated. Indeed, the closer you look the more you can see that what some meant for evil, God has somehow turned to good on account of the strength of love.

My wife and I have known and worked with Phyllis Sortor for 12 years now, and count her among our dearest friends and colleagues in ministry. News that she had been taken rocked our world. Obviously, we prayed and worked for her safety and release. But we also prayed that somehow even this situation would serve the mission Jesus had given Phyllis out of love for him and the people of Nigeria. In so many ways, the Lord continues to answer these prayers.

David Kendall

Bishop, FMC-USA

PART ONE: The Kidnapping

Monday, February 23, 2015

I know without looking at my phone that it’s time to rise and shine. Soft light streams through the ornamental blocks circling the walls of my round house. I know it will be another beautiful day on the campus of Hope for Little Shepherds, this important place, the first school for Fulani children in Kogi State, Nigeria.

I’m Phyllis Sortor, by the way, serving under Free Methodist World Missions for nearly twenty years, the past twelve years right here in Nigeria.

Despite being warned repeatedly about the Fulani, God has clearly called me to minister to these northern Muslim nomads. Yusuf, clan head of the first Fulani family I met and now my dear friend, spearheaded schools for Fulani children with these unforgettable words. My grandfather cheated my father. He gave him cows and bought him wives, but never sent him to school. My father cheated me. He gave me cows and wives, but wouldn’t let me go to school. I don’t want to cheat my children. Please, would you bring a school for my children?

With Yusuf, we opened Hope for Little Shepherds School in Ogebe, in February 2008. Over four hundred children are currently enrolled, with an additional thirty at the Little Lambs Nursery School. I cannot help but be overwhelmed by the miracles God provided so we could begin.

Davis, the school security officer, is outside my hut. Davis always starts his day by coming to check on me.

Mum, he says quietly, announcing himself at the door.

I call out and let him know that all is well.

I’ll be going to Lokoja for the renewed car papers, Mum, Davis says, but you have the receipt for your driver’s license and can drive the Sequoia if you need to.

Okay, Davis, thanks, I reply. I’m not going far, just over to Afad. I’ll see you later back at the school.

I pad barefooted to the kitchen for my morning cup of Nescafe then take my ‘bucket bath’, since there is no shower or tub in my house, and put on my favorite outfit—a long black skirt from Nordstrom Rack in Seattle; a black and white striped tank top, and my jean jacket. I complete the outfit by tying a colorful scarf around my neck and slipping on comfortable, black clogs.

At nine o’clock, my phone rings. It’s Ruth, the local pastor’s wife, phoning to tell me a government official is at the gate, the Director of Lands. I'm expecting him.

Grabbing my backpack, laptop, phone, and car keys, I lock my front door, hop in the car and drive past the church toward the campus gates.

The Director is waiting in his car. When he sees me, he pulls out and drives south toward the region of Afad. As planned, I follow close behind.

Neither of us pays much attention to the small car pulling out behind us. Neither does it fully register that the car follows at a comfortable distance all the way to Afad.

Our business in Afad is with the Chief. With the government’s support, I will request nine hundred hectares of land to add to the one hundred we already have, for a grazing reserve for Fulani herdsmen.

The Director and I park our cars in front of the Chief’s palace. The small car slows down behind us and parks on the other side of the road.

We enter the reception hall, greet the Chief and his three sons, and explain our mission. The Director then makes the formal request, on behalf of the Kogi State Government, for the additional land, and explains we will build a grazing institute, guesthouses, a veterinary clinic, and a cattle market.

The Afad Chief agrees. After discussing related details, the Director arranges to return with a surveyor. We shake hands with the Chief, reenter our vehicles and drive back to the school.

The small car follows at a discreet distance.

After the Director leaves, my friend Ruth drives into the compound, followed closely by her husband, Reverend Hamul. Our three vehicles are parked under the shade trees in front of the Ogebe Free Methodist Church. I stand with Ruth and her husband, rejoicing over the morning's success.

Suddenly, gunshots shatter the air, and several men dressed in black, with hoods pulled over their faces, run at us from every direction. As they come, they continue firing.

Reverend Hamul shouts out behind me, calling on the Name of Jesus.

In Jesus’ Name, I repeat slowly, frozen in place, not sure what's happening.

The men are running straight for me.

Two of the gunmen grab my arms, pulling me across the compound toward the wall. One of the men hits me hard across the face. Then he hits me again. I am aware of dropping my cell phone. I trip and lose one of my shoes.

Today is the day you die, growls the man on my right. They pick me up and throw me over the wall. Then they haul me to my feet and begin dragging me up the hill behind the school. Two of the gunmen hold my arms while another pushes me from behind.

Is this happening? Or is it a dream? I don’t understand. I hear a sudden cry from the direction of the school. Are people coming to rescue me?

My mind is somehow fogged up. My legs and feet won’t work right. The men keep pushing me up the hill over ground covered with fallen leaves and spiky, dry grass. The kidnapper leading the way avoids sandy patches, keeping to places where his footprints will not leave a mark. He's rushing forward in a zigzag manner, uphill and down, trotting, walking, running urgently.

We've been moving for over an hour now. I'm trying hard to keep up, but it's difficult. I’m so thirsty, so hot. I need water. I need to rest. But we keep running, running and running. I sink down to the ground over and over again, begging for water. Finally, someone thrusts a water bottle into my hands. After one gulp, the man takes it back. He pours some water on my head, which feels good and cools me down.

The tall kidnapper on my right notices my bare foot, takes off his own sandal and puts it on my foot. Then he shouts, Oya. Oya. Let’s go. Let’s go. He pulls me back to my feet. We keep moving like this for several kilometers.

Somewhere along the way, I am no longer able to walk on my own. I keep sinking to the ground, begging for water, begging to rest. Two of the men sling my arms around their shoulders and drag me along with them. This is the only way I’m able to continue.

I turn to the man on my right, a tall rangy man dressed in jeans, a military jacket over an embroidered shirt, a long vest, and billed cap. He’s not wearing a mask like the others. He has a pleasant, open face, and slightly protruding ears.

What is your name? I ask.

I am Alhaji Ismaila, he answers.

I am Reverend Phyllis, I say.

We push on, the kidnappers taking turns helping me walk.

Despair

Make haste, O God, to deliver me! Make haste to help me, O Lord!

Psalm 70:1

All I can think about is water.

Water, I need water, I keep saying. But there is little available. Each man has only a small water bottle hanging from his belt and they do not seem eager to share.

I am so incredibly hot and thirsty.

We continue moving through the brush. Finally, I am told there is a 'moto' ahead, waiting for us, and the reality of this situation nearly drops me to the ground. I’ve been kidnapped. There’s a car. A car that may take me out of this area, that may take me out of the state. Where will they take me? How will anyone find me if they take me away from here? The terror leaves me breathless. I feel sick to my stomach and struggle not to throw up.

Oh God, save me. Save me. Save me.

A few minutes later we come to a motorcycle hidden in the trees. A masked driver waits. This is the 'moto' Ismaila referred to. A motorcycle, not a car. Thank God. Thank God. Surely, we won’t go far on a motorbike.

I’m told to get on behind the driver. Ismaila pushes a hood over my head and tucks my hair beneath the black wool. There are eyeholes, so I can still see. He takes off his army jacket and makes me put it on. But despite this disguise, I know people would still be able to see my hands and legs as we pass by and be able to identify me as a white woman. If so, would they report to someone in authority, someone who would then know where to start the search? How I pray this will happen.

Ismaila gets on the motorcycle behind me. I’m wedged tightly between him and the driver. They keep pushing forward through the forest, weaving and turning as they go, scouts loping along in front and at our sides. There are many men in this gang. I count at least seven.

I look around as best I can, trying to see familiar landmarks. At one point I think I see Afad Mountain in the distance, but I can’t be sure. We could be on the west side of the mountain, but I don't really know.

It must be late afternoon. We’ve been driving through the wilderness for hours. I am so unbelievably thirsty and yearn for a sachet of the pure water we drink in Nigeria, although any water would do. We arrive on the bank of a deep, narrow ravine, a dry riverbed.

I’m taken off the bike so weak and stressed, I fall as I am pushed down the steep bank. I ask if we can dig in the dry riverbed for water, but Ismaila says there’s none there. The men push me along the ravine for a short distance, around several bends, to an area hidden by overhanging branches. They tell me, Rest here.

I collapse to the ground, my stomach lurching from exhaustion and fear. I throw up what’s left in my stomach and immediately pass out, coming to minutes later, still with my face in the dirt. Gradually, I become aware of the leaves plastered on my face, my mouth filled with earth and vomit. I can feel ants crawling on my legs.

Never in my life have I felt so defeated, never in such despair.

Then I realize how I must appear to these men, these kidnappers. They must see me as repulsive, filthy and disgusting, weak and afraid, a helpless victim to be treated any way they please.

When I visualize myself as they surely must, I’m appalled and angry. It is then and there I decide that if I’m going to make it through this ordeal alive, I must take control of myself. I must show my captors the kind of person I really am—not a frightened and helpless victim, but a strong woman, a Free Methodist missionary, an American ex-patriot working with the state Governor on a project impacting thousands. I need to establish myself, in their minds, not as an object to be reviled, but as a leader to be cared for and respected.

God tells me my identity is as Christ’s beloved. My present circumstances must never define me. This broken, helpless victim is not who I am. I must overcome these circumstances if I’m going to make it out of here alive.

I look around for a rock to sit on. Then I pull myself up, and arrange my skirt around my legs, brushing away the dirt and leaves. I’m thankful for my clothes: the shirt and jean jacket, the long skirt--though the hem is now shredded from the run through the forest--and the scarf tied around my neck. I use the scarf to scrub my face as best I can, then sit awaiting my captors.

The sun is going down. It’s cool and quiet in this ravine. I listen carefully to try and identify the kidnappers’ location. But I hear nothing at all—no bird song, no rustling of dry leaves or steps in the grass.

Maybe the men have left to find food. Maybe they intend to spend the night elsewhere, imagining me too weak to escape. As the minutes pass I think maybe I can escape, but am I brave enough to try? If indeed the men have gone, I’d be a fool not to make the attempt.

I continue to wait and listen.

I hear cows in the distance and children’s voices off to the left. The children are laughing, calling back and forth to each other. I’m sure they are Fulani boys, following the herd back to their camp after a long day in the bush.

Should I go to them and ask for help, ask them to take me to their family? I quickly dismiss the thought. I cannot involve these children. I won’t put them in harm’s way.

I think about walking back down the ravine to the right. I had noticed a patch of sand earlier, where I might dig and find water. I am so thirsty. If I walk toward the right and am caught, I can say I was looking for water. After long minutes, I slowly