Abuja

Ali Juwon’s future shattered at the same time his father’s leg did. The year was 2012, and the 9-year-old, hand in hand with his mother, was fleeing his home in Borno State, northeastern Nigeria. Boko Haram members had stormed their community in Gwoza, killing neighbours and burning buildings Ali had known his entire life. 

As he and his mother ran, a familiar voice cried behind them. Both turned to see that Ali’s father had crashed to the ground, crushing his leg in the process. Yet, with all the odds stacked against them, the three managed to make it out with their lives. 

The family travelled for half a day to Nigeria’s federal capital, Abuja, and sought refuge in the Durumi IDP camp like many survivors at the time. 

The camp, with the flurry of Borno survivors, was overcrowded, but Ali’s mother promised him it would not be home, only a resting place before they could find their footing again. Over 14 years later, the Juwon family continue to reside there. 

Ali, now 23, explained how the situation derailed his life, “Before fleeing, my father had a business and was able to afford all my needs. Since he broke his leg, he hasn’t been able to work, and because we couldn’t get him properly treated, his leg never healed well. He hasn’t walked since the fall. Suddenly, all the luxuries we could afford before have vanished.”

Being the only child in his family, Ali took it upon himself to care for his parents. The only thing he needed was a decent education that would lead to a business or accounting degree. He planned to join whatever lucrative fields these courses would thrust him into and use his money to get himself and his parents a place away from the camp.

But Ali quickly learnt that he was no longer in Borno, dependent on his well-to-do father. His education now rested in the hands of IDP leaders, non-profit donors,  government promises, and his own hustle. As the years wore on, he learnt that even with seemingly more helpers, his chances of finishing school had dimmed significantly.

In the Durumi IDP camp, displacement does not end with fleeing violence. For many, it continues in the classroom. While primary education is often supported by NGOs or private donors, secondary school is where the system collapses. 

According to camp leaders, the girls in the camp are often married off after their basic education ends, as secondary education is no longer attainable without sustained government intervention. Hundreds of displaced boys, on the other hand, are forced to choose between survival and schooling, a gap that is reshaping their futures and deepening Nigeria’s long-term social and economic vulnerabilities.

No way past secondary school

“In primary school, things were okay. NGOs sponsored my schooling, but once I got to secondary school, that was where the real problem began. No one sponsored secondary schooling for us,” Ali explained. 

Liyatu Yusuf, the woman leader of the Durumi camp, finds the schooling situation distressing.

“We had certain sponsors who do everything for these children. Usually, it’s from an individual with a good heart. We used to do their secondary school education in the camp as well, but due to a lack of teachers and overcrowding, we had to stop it.”

According to her, over 1,000 students occupy the less spacious class, forcing them to have seven different sessions in just one class. But that’s not just the problem. There is a lack of teachers, too.

“The teachers we have are university volunteers. They would come three times in a week, but then refuse to come the next week because no one was paying them or giving them transport money,” Liyatu said.

Liyatu says the children never receive government sponsorship, and that many of the people who help the children through primary school are good-natured individuals or NGOs. Despite record education budgets announced in Abuja, camp leaders say they have not seen much implementation, especially for the displaced children like those in Durumi.

In a 2025 press release by the Presidential State House Villa, Nigeria’s Vice President, Kashim Shettima, called for collaboration between the government and the private sector to invest in education, as the burden of educating children cannot fall entirely on the government’s shoulders. But in the Durumi IDP camp, help has come mainly from the camp leaders and individual sponsors. 

So, with no one to help him through secondary school, Ali did what several boys in the camp chose to do: work and fund his education in tandem. This way, he would be able to pay for school with the money he made and leave some for his unemployed parents. 

But this was not an easy route, and soon the stress of paying for so much caught up with the boys. Salim Aliyu, for example, now runs a small provision shop near Durumi, as his education ended in Senior Secondary (SS) 1.

“I’m 25 now,” he said. “I stopped at SS1 because it was too expensive. Transport alone was about ₦1,000 every day. How much was I earning to pay that?”

At the time, Salim did menial jobs, sweeping houses and cleaning compounds to survive. Eventually, the numbers stopped adding up. “One day, I realised I couldn’t continue. I just had to leave school.” His story is common in the camp. For many boys, the challenge is not only tuition fees but the impossible balance between earning and learning.

Sulieman Nobo repeated SS3 three times after running out of money repeatedly. By his final attempt, anxiety had overtaken ambition. “In junior secondary school, I learned a lot,” he said. “But in senior secondary, I was focused on passing, not learning. I didn’t have time to retain anything.”

School ended by mid-afternoon. Work began soon after. By nightfall, he was too exhausted to revise his notes. Despite the strain, Sulieman managed above-average grades. Others were not as fortunate.

“I was funding my education myself,” Usman Selman, another young man in the camp, told HumAngle. “My school fees were ₦20,000 a year, so I had to work. But the stress became too much.”

The dual burden affected his concentration. “No matter how hard I tried to listen in class, the only thing on my mind was money.” For some, the pressure pushed them out entirely. Aliyu Usman began paying his own fees at 15. By 17, even ₦3,000 per semester proved unsustainable.

“I was tailoring while in school,” he said. “But I couldn’t cope with fees and transport. I dropped out in SS2. Now I do laundry. It feeds my family.” He paused before adding, “If I could go back to school, I would. But I know in my heart I can’t.”

Salim, now financially stable enough to run his shop, no longer sees school as essential.

“Even if I had the chance, I wouldn’t go back,” he said. “Everything I need for business, I learned here. And after school, where is the job? Unless you already have money, there’s nothing waiting.”

For the few who make it through secondary school, graduation does not guarantee anything. Umar borrowed ₦87,000 to register for the West African Examinations Council (WAEC) exam, one the final secondary school tests that qualify one for further education in the university and other higher insitututions. It took him half a year to repay the debt. In those six months, he was forced to cut back on food. “After all that, I still didn’t get a job,” he said. “If university graduates are struggling, who am I with only a WAEC certificate?” 

The repeated disappointments take a toll. According to Liyatu, who coordinates the camp, more than half of the 1,000 boys there are currently out of school and unemployed. “If they even register for WAEC, we are lucky,” she said. “Most cannot finish secondary school. When they see there’s no support, they lose hope.” She worries about the ripple effects.

“With no school and sometimes no work, small arguments turn into fights. I saw boys punch each other over ₦200. I don’t excuse it, but I understand the frustration.”

Humanitarian worker Mohammed Abubakar, who has spent over a decade in Nigeria’s humanitarian sector, says prolonged educational exclusion carries broader consequences. “When young people are cut off from opportunity, their productivity drops,” he said. “They become more vulnerable to exploitation and manipulation.” He cautions that marginalisation, not ignorance alone, creates risk. “If society neglects them, others will step in, sometimes with harmful intentions. That is how cycles of insecurity and poverty sustain themselves.”

Beyond security, he points to economic cost. “When you underinvest in education, your population becomes less competitive. It affects productivity, innovation, even GDP. The impact goes far beyond one camp.”

Yet, despite the barriers, many of the boys continue to dream. Sulieman plans to register for JAMB, hoping for a scholarship. If that fails, he wants to join the armed forces.

“My dream is simple,” he said. “To live a better life and take my parents out of this camp.”

Umar still hopes to study computer engineering. Aliyu once imagined becoming a doctor. Sadiqi Shauku, 18, who left school in SS2, says he would return “if someone helped.” And Ali Juwon, still carrying the weight of his family’s survival, has not let go. “If there is anyone who can help me continue my education, I will continue,” he said. “I want to study something that will help me start a business or work in government. I want to be a better man.”

For now, he survives on friends’ support and periodic food distributions. Hope remains, but evidence of escape is scarce.

“Since I started primary school, I have never seen anyone gather enough money to leave this camp,” Sulieman said. “I believe in my future. But no one has gotten out.”