Nigeria, Dec. 13 -- They call it non-kinetic a soft whisper in a burning field, a handshake offered to hands still wet with yesterday's blood. In secret rooms they bargain away our lives, counting ransom in bundles as if naira could purchase conscience, as if money could bribe a monster into becoming a man.

Each payment buys silence, yes a brittle, borrowed peace, the peace of a graveyard at noon when even the wind holds its breath.

A Pyrrhic victory wrapped in headlines, a lullaby sung to a nation whose children no longer sleep. For when the bandits leave, they leave only to return, their pockets heavier, their rifles newer, their courage sharpened by the government's trembling hands.

The true war-the one that matters is never fought....