For years to come, Ali Musa Buba, a security guard at the University of Maiduguri Teaching Hospital (UMTH), Maiduguri, will be remembered as one of the heroes that risked their own lives to thwart the terror attack and minimize the death toll.

Time was 7:24 p.m. as families across Maiduguri reached for dates and water to break their Ramadan fast.

Suddenly and in quick succession came sounds of explosions.

Panic soon seized a period reserved for prayer.

The first blasts echoed from the crowded Monday Market. More followed near the Post Office. Sirens, screams, and the crackle of fear soon spread across the Borno State capital.

But within the walls of the University of Maiduguri Teaching Hospital (UMTH), something else was unfolding—a quiet act of defiance that would save countless lives.

The gatekeeper

Inside the hospital, the atmosphere had been calm. Patients were resting. Families gathered in small groups, preparing for Iftar. The hospital, as always, was a sanctuary.

At the gate stood a security guard known as Ali Musa Buba.

While others turned toward the distant smoke rising over the city, Musa focused on something closer: a motorbike speeding toward the hospital entrance. Three men rode on it, meandering through with a sinister purpose.

They were not seeking help and Musa’s instincts didn’t fail him.

“They tried to force their way in,” Musa said yesterday on his hospital bed while relating his encounter with the suspects to Gov. Zulum.

His voice was barely above a whisper.

At that moment, Musa made a decision. He stepped forward and blocked them.

What happened next lasted only seconds.

Unable to breach the gate, the attackers hurled explosive-laden food containers at him. The irony was cruel, containers meant to symbolize nourishment during Ramadan turned into instruments of destruction. The explosion was deafening.

A flash of fire. The sharp sting of shrapnel. The force threw Musa backward, tearing into his arms and legs. But the attackers never made it inside.

Beyond that gate lay crowded wards, patients too weak to run, families gathered shoulder to shoulder. Had the explosives reached them, the casualty figures already climbing across the city would have been far worse.

Musa had become the barrier between life and catastrophe and even Gov. Zulum admitted that the death toll and general damage would have been higher if Musa had not stood his ground to prevent them.

From protector to patient

Today, Musa is a patient in the very hospital he defended. Doctors and nurses who had been bracing for casualties from the market blasts suddenly found themselves treating one of their own protectors. Shrapnel wounds mark his body. The psychological weight of the encounter lingers behind his quiet gaze, but his optimism quite high.

Around him, the hospital continues its rhythm but his story has already begun to travel beyond those walls. Among staff and volunteers, his name is spoken with a mix of gratitude and awe. A gatekeeper who refused to step aside!

The night the city gave its blood

As the wounded began to pour into UMTH, the hospital’s emergency systems were pushed to the limits. Stretchers rolled in one after another. Doctors shouted instructions. Nurses moved with urgency, their hands and uniform stained with blood in the process of saving lives. Then came a new crisis. ‘Blood was running out’.

Some of the victims had lost too much blood far too quickly. Without immediate transfusions, survival would slip out of reach. The hospital authorities sent urgent appeals across Maiduguri for generous blood donors and what followed was something no one in the emergency ward would forget.

From different parts of the city young men, traders, students, civil servants—people began arriving at the hospital gates,” one of the nurses Halima informed. “Some had just fled the blasts. Others had not even broken their fast, she added.

But they came anyway. Within minutes, the hospital compound transformed.

“We didn’t even ask who the blood was for,” one volunteer donor said. “It could be anyone. Tonight, we are all the same,” a donor was quoted as saying.

Inside, doctors who moments earlier feared losing patients began to regain hope.

Bag after bag of donated blood moved from the collection point into operating rooms and emergency wards. Lives that were slipping away were pulled back. In the midst of chaos, the city answered with humanity.

“That is the spirit of Borno,” one medical doctor said.

The shattered

But while some lives were being saved, others had already been lost.

At the Monday Market, where the evening should have been filled with the simple joy of breaking fast, devastation unfolded in seconds.

Among those caught in the carnage was Malam Goni, a respected teacher and head of a Tsangaya School around Sabon line.

That evening, four of his students, children under his care had gone out in search of food to break their fast. They never returned. The explosions caught them in the open, turning a search for sustenance into a fatal encounter with violence.

For Malam Goni, the loss was unbearable. The children he had been raising, teaching, and guiding were gone in a single moment of cruelty.

Goni called everything that happened the will of Allah.

“It is the design of Allah”, he said.

A neighbor, struggling to contain his emotion, recalled the aftermath in chilling detail: “They brought them in four black polythene bags… like meat. Just like that. Children.”

The words hung heavy in the air.

“They were just children,” he added quietly. “They went out to find food… and that was how they met their end.”

For many who lived through the blasts, survival itself has become a burden.

Some recalled the confusion, the sudden darkness, the smell of smoke, the frantic search for loved ones. Others speak of the silence that followed, when the noise faded and reality settled in.

At UMTH, survivors now fill the wards Musa once protected.

And in those same corridors, a stream of high-profile visitors had come, bearing sympathy and solidarity.

Vice President Kashim Shettima accompanied by the Director General of National Emergency Management Agency, Hajia Zubaida Umar Abubakar moved from bed to bed, speaking softly with victims.

The VP was also joined by Borno State Deputy Governor Umar Usman Kadafur, while Governor Babagana Umara Zulum who had been away for the lesser hajj when the terrorists struck was also at the hospital on Thursday night and reassured families of continued support.

Among them was also social media influencer, VeryDarkMan, whose presence reflected how far the shockwaves of the attack had spread.

Yet beyond the visits, the real story remained with the survivors—and those who saved them.

The quiet heroes

In the end, there were no headlines at the moment Musa stepped forward. No cameras. No applause. Just a choice. And because of that choice, hundreds lived.

And because of that night, others like the young students of Malam Goni never returned. But in between the loss and the survival, something else endured: A people who, even in the face of terror, refused to look away. A people who showed up. And when it mattered most, they gave life to one another. (The Nation)

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