Inna had just settled her youngest child back to sleep after his fourth restless stirring due to hunger when she heard movement outside her tent. It was around three in the morning, and the pitch darkness only deepened her sense of isolation. “Who could that be?” she wondered, her mind racing with possibilities. Her husband had passed away seven years earlier, leaving her to shoulder the burdens of raising their eight children alone. The silence of the night made the sounds outside even more threatening, but Inna summoned the courage to investigate, a decision many might have hesitated to make.

Before she could fully grasp what was happening, a group of armed men dragged her out, forcing her into the midst of other terrified Internally Displaced Persons (IDPs) at the Nguro Soye camp in Borno state, northeast Nigeria. The assailants were Boko Haram terrorists who, that night, stripped the IDPs of their livestock, clothing, food, and phones. Hours later, just before dawn, security forces arrived, but it was too late.

“Robbery became more frequent after that night,” the 40-year-old told HumAngle, her voice a mixture of weariness and quiet despair.

The situation Inna describes is not unique. Borno remains the epicentre of the Boko Haram violence. As of 2023, approximately 3.3 million Nigerians were internally displaced, with half residing in Borno, according to the Internal Displacement Monitoring Centre (IDMC). Boko Haram attacks in the state from 2011 to 2023 caused over 38,255 deaths resulted in 38,255 deaths, according to Statista, worsening the already fragile security situation and endangering IDPs like Inna.

The incident is just one of many hardships endured by residents of Nguro Soye since the government relocated displaced persons there in 2022. The resettlement is part of a broader plan to return IDPs in Borno to their ancestral homes or ‘any safe host community of their choice’ by 2026. Recently, an additional 1,600 households were resettled, adding to the community’s growing challenges. 

Originally from Banki in Central Borno, Inna’s journey to Soye is a story of survival against all odds. After her husband’s death, she became the sole provider for her family, scraping by through the sale of firewood—a precarious and often dangerous livelihood. 

“We gather firewood from the bush and sell eight pieces for ₦100 [$0.06], which is barely enough to buy a measure of maize flour,” she explained. But even this meagre income is far from secure. The threat of encountering Boko Haram terrorists looms over every trip to the bush. “They snatch any valuables we have, including clothing, food, and footwear. On days we cannot go to the bush, we sleep hungry.”

The dire conditions faced by Inna and her fellow IDPs reflect the broader challenges in Borno’s resettled communities. 

Food insecurity remains an urgent issue throughout the state. The World Food Programme (WFP) reported that in 2020, 4.8 million people in Borno, Adamawa, and Yobe states were grappling with acute hunger. The United Nations Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs (OCHA) has further warned that in 2024, the survival of over 230,000 children under five in these states is at risk if they do not receive immediate treatment for acute malnutrition and other essential nutritional support. Additionally, the OCHA projects that 4.8 million people are likely to experience severe food insecurity, with nearly half a million on the brink of catastrophic hunger. 

As Inna described, the reliance on firewood sales for survival is a stark indicator of the limited economic opportunities available to these displaced populations.

Karu Modu, a 30-year-old mother of five, corroborates Inna’s account, painting an even bleaker picture. “We have been suffering since we arrived in Soye,” she says. “It is even worse now. It has gotten to the point where we feed on unknown vines and tree leaves, which have now finished because of constant gathering.” The desperation in Karu’s voice is evident as she recounts the frequent stint of diarrhoea that afflicts the community from consuming these wild plants. “We often purge after eating the plants, but we have no other choice. Hunger leaves us with no options.”

Karu’s testimony underscores the dire nutritional crisis gripping these communities. Médecins Sans Frontières (Doctors Without Borders) reported admitting approximately 1,250 severely malnourished children in Maiduguri alone in April 2024. The situation is worsened by food scarcity and reliance on unsafe and non-nutritive sources, like the wild plants Karu mentioned. The situation is especially dire for women and children, who are often the most vulnerable during periods of food scarcity.

Despite several food aid organisations in Borno communities, the IDPs in Soye find themselves excluded from the assistance. “They only operate in the township of Nguro Soye,” Karu reveals, frustration creeping into her voice. “But for us IDPs, we have to fend for ourselves. Some people were registered for aid but have not received anything. I don’t know why the camps are excluded—maybe the aid organisations did not get permission from the township leaders. The camps often operate independently from the town’s leadership. We have our own leaders.”

This exclusion is symptomatic of a broader problem: the inequitable distribution of aid in the region. Despite the presence of numerous aid programs in Borno, many IDPs remain underserved due to logistical challenges, security risks, and bureaucratic obstacles, according to an analysis of OCHA’s data on humanitarian challenges in the Northeast. As a result, thousands of displaced people are left to fend for themselves, relying on limited resources and precarious livelihoods.

The lack of coordination and the absence of basic amenities are glaring in this resettled community. “We have a school here, but it is not functional,” Karu continues, her voice breaking with emotion. “The children do not attend often because of hunger. Even when they do, they cannot concentrate because they’re too hungry.” The clinic, built by Mercy Corps, is similarly under-equipped. “There’s always a shortage of drugs and personnel. Our children are constantly malnourished and sick.”

Inna, however, paints an even grimmer picture. “There are no hospitals or clinics in the town or health workers to attend to our needs,” she says. “Our tents and houses have collapsed, and we get drenched by rain. This has been the case for two years now.”

Without access to primary healthcare, children surrender to malnutrition and disease. Without functioning schools, the next generation is deprived of the education they need to break the cycle of poverty and violence. According to UNICEF, Borno State has one of the highest rates of out-of-school children in Nigeria, with about 1.8 million children lacking access to basic education. Without adequate security, the fear of Boko Haram attacks remains a constant shadow over daily life.

The IDPs’ cries for help seem to have fallen on deaf ears. “The government has taken no action to address these challenges,” Inna laments. “No one has reached out to check on our conditions.” The desperation in her voice is heart-wrenching. “If we could get it, we want the government to assist us. It would be helpful if we could get food or some vocational training. We have no one helping us, especially us women and children. We would appreciate any help we can get.”

Karu corroborates: “We are suffering here. We are in dire need of help from the government. It should pity us and our children and come to our aid. We are their responsibility. We have no means of livelihood. Our men have abandoned us and gone to other places for greener pastures. The men that remain are too afraid to go into the bush because the Boko Haram terrorists will not spare them.” 

The emotional toll of this neglect is immense. For women like Inna and Karu, the daily struggle to provide for their children is a source of constant anxiety and fear. The risk of encountering Boko Haram in the bush, the uncertainty of whether they will be able to feed their families, and the knowledge that there is no one to turn to for help—all of these factors contribute to a pervasive sense of hopelessness.

Yet, amidst this despair, there is a quiet resilience. Inna and Karu continue to fight for their children’s survival, even as the odds seem overwhelming. They gather firewood, forage for whatever food they can find, and endure day after day because they have no other choice.

Resettled with promises of a better life, these communities continue to endure unimaginable hardships.

Additional reporting by Yakura Kumshe and Fatima Bukar.