Adamawa

The easiest way to reach Savannah-Ngurore is to tell the cab drivers at the park that you’re headed to Wurin pasa dutse, a Hausa phrase meaning ‘the place stones are broken’. It is a rural community in Yola North Local Government Area, Adamawa State, northeastern Nigeria. 

With no signposts leading into the community, the only marker is a bus stop across the road, directly opposite a once-massive mountain. For decades, its slopes have been cut down, felled, and flattened into stones and gravel by labourers who toil from dawn to dusk. 

For many of these stone crushers, quarrying — the process of breaking rocks from the earth, either by hand or heavy machinery, for construction or industrial use — has been a means of survival for decades. Equipped with gloves, hammers, sunglasses, and sometimes heavy machinery, they leave home at dawn for the mountain they call ‘site’.

The only path he knew

Nehemiah Nuhu sits atop a pile of gravel he has broken. While his legs sprawl to the side, a hammer is clutched in his left hand, and his right hand is gloved. He continues to break the stones into tiny fragments. A small music box blasts Afrobeat rhythms beside him, its speaker carrying the beat across the dusty air. 

“The mountain has slowly given way over the years,” he said. As one of the stone crushers who has been carving into the earth for nearly a decade, he has mastered the art of quarrying. His hands move very quickly as his hammer splits the stones in seconds. 

The 28-year-old has been doing this since he reached adulthood. “I don’t have any job apart from this,” he told HumAngle. “It’s not a good job. It requires a lot of energy, and it’s very exhausting.” With high unemployment across the country, Nehemiah said his secondary school certificate is not enough to get him a white-collar job.

“Nobody taught me this business. This is something that has been going on in this community since I was a boy, so I grew up and joined them,” he said. 

He explained that the struggle to survive drove him into quarrying. The trade provides him with an income to support himself and his younger siblings. Nehemiah believes the mountain is a gift from God to the community. He noted that most youths in Savannah-Ngurore have little or no formal education, and with few job opportunities, the quarry has become their only means of survival.

“Most of the youths from this community work here. We are happy that God gave us this mountain to break and earn a living from it.”

Daily labour, hard choices

Nehemiah and other stone crushers start their day by climbing the mountain to carve out excavations. From the top, they roll heavy rocks down a sloping channel that they have shaped over the years by repeated use. Once the stones reach the ground, they are gathered at the foot of the mountain, where they are broken into smaller pieces. 

After the stones are reduced to gravel, they are measured in wheelbarrows and sold to individuals or dealers who come with trucks or open vans. Each wheelbarrow sells for about ₦400 or ₦500, and Nehemiah says he makes around ₦4,000 daily.

“I fill up like 10 wheelbarrows or more in a day. I come here every day and work from 6 a.m. to 12 p.m. Then I return home to rest. By 2 p.m., I come back and continue, then close around 5 p.m.,” he told HumAngle. 

Sometimes, dealers call them to request specific quantities. “The ones that trust us give us contracts with specific targets, then we deliver to them,” Nehemiah said. When buyers don’t show up, they keep adding to their piles, waiting for the next order.

When other jobs fail

For 45-year-old Ibrahim Hassan, quarrying became a last resort after trying several jobs that yielded little or no results. He started working at the site about five months ago, and despite the physically demanding nature of the job, he finds satisfaction in it. 

“Quarrying fetches quick cash,” he said. “I worked in a bread factory. I worked as a construction labourer, and I was a mechanic one time.” 

He travels 40 minutes from Jimeta to Savannah-Ngurore every weekday. “I’m enjoying the work so far. Apart from its complex nature, I don’t have any problem with it.”

There is also 26-year-old Faruk Muhammed, who has been working at the site for a decade. From his earnings, he established a local tea shop around the community, which he runs alongside his quarrying business. 

“I do both jobs hand in hand,” he said, face down as he split rocks. Faruk arrives at the site in the morning, leaves around noon to rest, and then prepares for his tea shop. 

What he appreciates most about quarrying is not having to search for customers, since the dealers come to the site. “It’s a very tough job. You have to be strong to handle it, but I’m glad I use it to fend for myself. I don’t have to beg anyone for a penny,” he said.

A toll on the environment 

Even though quarrying has become a source of livelihood for many in Savannah-Ngurore, the trade continues to burden the earth. Amid the heaps of broken rock lies a toll impossible to ignore.

Zaccheus Bent Adams, a geologist, said quarrying causes air pollution, biodiversity loss, flooding, and erosion, among other environmental and health hazards.  

“Dust settles on leaves and can physically cover the surface, reducing the amount of sunlight available, which can lead to water stress because the pores on the leaves are crucial for gas exchange,” he stated. Such disruption, he added, affects water circulation above and below the earth’s surface.

He also said the extraction affects both aquatic and terrestrial ecosystems, destroying habitats and diminishing biodiversity. Zaccheus stressed that conserving biodiversity is essential because all species are interconnected and depend on one another for survival.

He added that climate change exacerbates these effects, contributing to droughts, heatwaves, rising sea levels and wildfires. “Extreme weather conditions increase storm and flood levels, causing damage to communities,” he said.

Living with risks

Quarrying comes with other risks and hazards to the stone crushers.

“While excavating the stones, we sometimes slip and fall, and when we manage to roll the rocks down the slope, we must stand firm or fall down the mountain,” Nehemiah said. He noted that several accidents had occurred at the site, resulting in injuries to workers. He himself bears scars from those incidents. 

“The accidents are regular. Some died when the rocks crushed them during excavation. Others tripped and fell,” he told HumAngle. 

Despite the dangers, the stone crushers show up every day. Although Faruk has not suffered any major accident, he has sustained injuries — and admits he is often afraid. 

“If I get another job right now, I’ll quit quarrying. It’s strenuous. I don’t enjoy it. It’s just that the income helps me and my parents a lot,” he stated. 

Zaccheus added that both residents and stone crushers are at risk of developing respiratory illnesses and symptoms such as shortness of breath. “Exposure to quarry dust has been linked to headaches, eye itches, and skin irritation,” he said.

Nearby communities, he noted, are not immune to the hazards. Landscape degradation, noise pollution, air pollution, and water contamination can lead to social tension and the loss of agricultural land.

Paying the price

Far from the clatter and the dust, 55-year-old Jauro Tafida, the community leader of Savannah-Ngurore, believes that these operations are responsible for several environmental challenges affecting the community. As someone who was born and raised in the area, Tafida draws a comparison to the rapidly vanishing landscapes.

“Before they started quarrying, our lands absorbed water, but now it flows through the lands and farmlands very easily,” he said, explaining that erosion is worsening. 

During the rainy season, water cascades down the mountain along channels carved by the stone crushers, often causing floods that damage homes and farms.

“Where there were no holes before, you now see holes everywhere — even on our farmlands,” Tafida said.

He also noted that local water bodies are shrinking and vegetation is losing its richness.

“There are so many changes,” he told HumAngle. “Years ago, we didn’t bother about spraying herbicides or anything on our farms because the land is rich, but now, we must spray herbicides, and the harvest is no longer bountiful.”

Zaccheus confirmed that quarrying stirs up sand sediments, reduces water quality, and disrupts photosynthesis in plants, ultimately destabilising the food chain. “Coastal and riverine areas face increased erosion as sediment transport changes. Flooding also intensifies, with serious socio-economic impacts on farming communities,” he said.

The community leader said quarrying in Savannah-Ngurore began about fifteen years ago and has since intensified, attracting workers from neighbouring communities. “People from Rundamallu, Ngurore town, Jimeta, and other places all come here to work and then return home,” he said.

Some workers, he added, have died or suffered amputations after accidents. Yet he believes the practice will continue. “It will go on since the children have no other work. Quarrying keeps them occupied and prevents idleness,” he said.

Regulation gaps

The National Environmental Standards and Regulations Enforcement Agency (NESREA) Act, established in 2007, aims to prevent environmental degradation, air and noise pollution, and the obstruction of natural drainage channels. The Act restricts quarrying and blasting activities that cause public nuisance.

Similarly, Section 76 of the Nigerian Minerals and Mining Act prohibits individual quarrying. “Every operation for extracting any quarriable mineral, including sand dredging for industrial use, shall be conducted under a lease or licence granted by the Minister,” the Act states.

Before any lease for quarrying is granted, the legislation requires an environmental survey to determine approval. Despite these legal frameworks, quarrying activities continue largely unchecked. In 2024, it was reported that Nigeria loses about $9 billion annually to illegal mining and unlicensed quarry operators.

According to Zacchaeus, unregulated quarrying amplifies social and environmental harm. “The local miners aim to extract the stones without backfilling, which is required after every extraction,” he said. Backfilling, he explained, restores land and vegetation, creating new habitats for plants and animals. It ensures the area can be used again after mining is complete.

He urged the government to engage in community outreach to ensure the implementation of stricter environmental regulations or laws governing quarrying operations. “Through this, the negative impact on the environment and local communities would be minimised,” he said.

Zaccheus also called on policymakers to conduct regular environmental impact assessments to evaluate the effects of quarrying on ecosystems and water quality. “Sustainable practice is the key,” he stressed, “because it promotes rehabilitation and the protection of biodiversity.”

The midday sun blazed over Bare village, but the heat that lingered in the air was nothing compared to the heaviness in people’s hearts. Two days had passed since three young farmers were killed in a violent attack by armed men, yet the air still pulsed with grief and fear.

Men sat in groups, deep in deliberation, while children lingered quietly around their mothers in front of their homes. The quiet was not peace—it was mourning.

A few nights earlier, the rice fields on the outskirts of Bare, a rural community in Numan Local Government Area of Adamawa State, northeastern Nigeria, had turned into a killing ground.

The night the harvest turned deadly

A few days earlier, Peter James, 24, secured a job harvesting rice on a commercial farm. He invited his friend, Cyprian, 20, and ten others to join him. It is the height of the harvest season in Bare, when labourers often camp overnight in the fields, working by moonlight. It’s a source of livelihood for many young people in the community.

But that Tuesday night, Nov. 4, the serenity of the farmland was shattered around 9 p.m.

“We were gathering the rice into bags when we heard gunshots,” Peter recalled, his voice unsteady as he spoke from a mat in his father’s compound. “The people appeared out of nowhere. When they came closer, we realised that they were herders. They didn’t say anything or take anything. They just opened fire on us.” 

Peter said he recognised them as herders because some have grazed their cattle within the community for years.

In the chaos that followed, Cyprian was hit in the neck and collapsed beside him. Peter felt a burning pain in his cheek and arm—gunshot wounds. Somehow, he fled into the darkness and staggered home, bloodied and half-conscious, arriving close to midnight.

“I heard a scream outside, and when I went out, I saw my son staggering. His face and his shirt were covered in blood,” 49-year-old Gloria James, Peter’s mother, told HumAngle. 

The farm lay an hour’s walk from the village, but Peter’s injuries slowed him to a crawl, taking him two hours. Gloria raised an alarm after she saw her son, and villagers mobilised a rescue team. By the time they arrived at the farm, the gunmen had vanished. Cyprian was dead. Two others were critically wounded. 

They carried the injured back to the village and buried Cyprian the next morning. Both wounded men died later that day.

There are currently no security operatives stationed in the community. After the incident, members of Bare reached out to the police station in Numan town; officers came, assessed the situation, and left, promising to follow up.

When contacted, Suleiman Yahaya Nguroje, the Spokesperson for the Adamawa State Police Command, told HumAngle that he had not yet been briefed on the incident. “I will let you know if I have any information,” he said. 

No arrests in connection with the attack have been made yet, according to residents and local leaders who spoke to HumAngle. 

A pattern of violence

The attack is the first reported in Bare this year and is part of a long, bitter struggle between farmers and herders in the area—a conflict that residents say has festered for nearly a decade. Bare and neighbouring communities like Mararaban Bare have seen repeated cycles of bloodshed, often triggered by disputes over land and water. 

When HumAngle visited Bare, the District Head was away in Yola, the state capital, attending a meeting convened by the Adamawa State government over the recent violence, so we spoke with his representative, Anthony Duwaro.

Anthony said that the locals lived peacefully with the herders who settled in their communities for generations. One herder we met during a trip to the area in October is 40 years old and has lived there all his life.

The herders have their settlement about half an hour away from Bare. Anthony said they traded and used resources together. But things changed in 2017, during the harvest. 

“We went to the farm and realised that they led their cattle into it. We confronted them, and that’s when the problem began,” he recalled. 

Since then, clashes have become almost predictable. “It happens every harvest season,” Anthony said, lifting his shirt to reveal scars from a previous attack. “We report to the authorities, but the cycle continues. Now, people are afraid to return to their farms.”

Despite several reconciliation meetings between both sides, he said the latest attack on the young men proved that the conflict was far from over. “One time, the clash was so brutal that people lost their lives, farms and properties were also destroyed. Most of us were rushed to the General Hospital in Numan,” he recounted. 

With no police station nearby, only one in Numan town, several kilometres away, villagers rely on local vigilantes for protection. The community’s police outpost was burnt down during a similar incident in 2018 and has not been restored. 

Anthony described the conflict as a “battle of survival”. “We depend on farming to feed our families. They depend on grazing for their cattle. But when the cattle destroy our crops, we can’t just fold our arms. If we confront them peacefully, they retaliate with attacks.”

Several peace talks have been held between the host community and the herders, yet tensions remain unresolved. Just a week before the latest attack, locals accused herders of grazing on their farms, further heightening the conflict.

While the herders have not claimed responsibility for the killings, they say worsening environmental pressures are making it harder for their cattle to find feed. “We do not wish to provoke anyone; we are only after the welfare of the cattle,” Alhaji Ngala, the chairperson of the local herders’ community, told HumAngle in an interview before the recent attack.

He blamed the clashes on the loss of “traditional grazing routes”. “If we can have access to routes and enough water supply, then our minds will be at peace,” he said. 

Another herder, Muza Alhaji Shenya, who has lived in the Bare area for two decades, said industrialisation and farmland expansion have pushed them onto the highways as they go in search of water and greener pastures.

HumAngle recently reported how nearby Mararaban Bare has faced its own crisis due to the contamination of the only local water source by cattle waste. An uneasy arrangement now exists: locals use the river in the morning, and herders use the water in the afternoon. Still, residents say they need to treat the water before drinking or cooking with it. 

“There has never been a time when we confronted the herders except when they led their cattle to our farms,” Anthony said. “We don’t have a problem with them.”

A national crisis 

The struggle in Bare mirrors a broader crisis playing out across Nigeria’s rural and urban communities. In July, a HumAngle analysis showed how pastoral life is collapsing due to climate change, farmland expansion, and urbanisation in Nigeria. This situation is forcing some herders to cross to neighbouring countries in search of food and water for their cattle. 

Authorities have attempted various interventions, but with little success. In recent years, several state governments have enacted anti-open grazing laws, requiring herders to rent land for ranching, which has been protested by some associations of cattle breeders.

Although the Adamawa State has not passed such legislation, officials announced in December 2024 plans to establish grazing reserves “as a measure to bring an end to farmers and herders clashes in the state”.  

The idea is not new. In 2019, the Nigerian government introduced the Rural Grazing Area (RUGA) scheme to establish designated settlements for herders nationwide. But the initiative was derailed by mistrust and controversy, and later suspended by the former President Muhammad Buhari’s administration.

A few months later, another intervention, the National Livestock Transformation Plan (NLTP) was inaugurated to “create a peaceful environment for the transformation of the livestock sector that will lead to peaceful coexistence, economic development, and food security…” The Plan, whose first phase execution was budgeted at ₦120 billion, has not been actualised. 

“If implemented properly, [the NLTP] could resolve many of these issues,” said Malik Samuel, a Senior Researcher at Good Governance Africa, who researches armed violence in the country. “Ranching is the most effective alternative. Moving cattle around will always spark conflict.” 

Grief remains

Back in Bare, the national debate feels distant.

Chrisantus Bong sits under a tree surrounded by relatives murmuring words of comfort. A few metres away, beside a silo, lies the grave of his son, Cyprian.

The sixty-one-year-old told HumAngle he is still struggling to accept the loss. He said if he could turn back the hands of time, he would have prevented him from going to the farm that night.

While he struggles with his grief, he fears that more tragedy lies ahead. “They have taken others before. They took my son this time. They might take someone else tomorrow,” Chrisantus said.

Residents say the killings have left the community paralysed by fear and anger.

“We have reported this issue countless times to the authorities,” Chrisantus added. “The perpetrators are not strangers. They live around us and should be interrogated.”

Peter is healing from his gunshot wounds, but the emotional scars remain. Cyprian was his closest friend, and he watched him die. “I saw the bullet pierce his neck,” he whispered. Peter’s mother said he has hardly left his room since the attack.

Bello Gambur dreads going to the stream before 2 p.m. 

Every morning, he leaves home with a herd of over 30 cattle, with his staff slung across his shoulders as they head into the bush. For about five hours, he watches them as they graze, rest, and wander, but none can drink. The only stream in the community lies just a short walk away, yet he must wait until 2 p.m. to take them there.

Going earlier, he says, could have deadly consequences.

All his life, the forty-year-old has lived as a herder in Mararaban Bare, a small community in the Numan Local Government Area of Adamawa State, North East Nigeria, where his ancestors migrated and settled a long time ago.  

Over the years, the herders lived in peace with their host community, but in 2017, violence broke out over water. The clash claimed many lives, and several properties were destroyed. In October, security operatives stepped in to quell a similar incident. 

So, Bello doesn’t mind his herd enduring hours of thirst if it helps keep the fragile peace.

He leads the cattle to the stream when most locals have finished using it and are back at their homes. Bello and the other herders go there between 2 p.m. and 5 p.m. to prevent coming in contact with the locals who visit the stream every morning to bathe, wash, and fetch water for domestic chores.  

The rationing also requires the locals to leave before 2 p.m. 

However, this arrangement has not ended the clashes between the groups, as locals believe it does little to address deeper grievances.

Tension keeps building 

“Irrigation farmers use the water from the canal to farm. And other community members drink the water, the cattle also drink from it, so this is a problem,” Alphonsus Bosso, a 55-year-old farmer and resident of Mararaban Bare, told HumAngle.

He said the tension is unlikely to end soon, especially with the dry season approaching. This competition for access to the stream intensifies during this period.

Alphonsus said a lasting solution would be to provide the herders with their own water source “because we no longer co-exist”. In some other Adamawa communities, humanitarian organisations have already supported the creation of alternative water sources, which have helped ease similar tensions, a model yet to reach Mararaban Bare.

“We used to have canals that served as water sources for our cattle, and we barely used the stream until the canals began to dry up,” said Muza Alhaji Shenya, a 37-year-old herder in the area. He linked the recent drying up of water bodies in the area to industrial expansion, particularly the construction of embankments to store water for sugarcane plantations. HumAngle saw some of these embankments during a visit.

However, environmental experts say the problem extends beyond industrial activity.

Hamza Muhammed Usman, the Executive Director of Environmental Care Foundation, a non-governmental organisation in Adamawa State that promotes a climate-friendly environment, food security, and peacebuilding, explained that prolonged dry spells, erratic rainfall, and deforestation, among other factors, are responsible for the shrinking water bodies in the state.

He said that overgrazing by livestock and human activities such as excessive farming on the same location and mining reduce vegetation cover, which disrupts the natural flow of water into its channels and bodies, especially in local government areas such as Numan, Fufore, some parts of Madagali, Maiha, Gombi, and the southern zone. 

Hamza also noted that migration and growing birth rates in the affected areas have increased the competition for water. “There are people from Borno, Gombe, Taraba, and other places trooping into Adamawa for greener pastures. This leads to overdependence on the limited resources,” he said. 

‘They pollute the water’

Locals insist that sharing the water with the cattle is unhealthy. 

“The cattle are polluting the water with mud and urine,” said Silas Simon, the community leader. “We dilute the water with alum when we want to consume.”

Even this treatment becomes difficult during the dry season, which starts in October. 

During the season, the herders in Mararaban Bare are left with two options: lead their cattle to the local stream or trek six kilometres into Bare, the nearest village with multiple water sources. The journey takes about six hours, making the local stream the closest option for many.

One herder, who treks to Bare to avoid being attacked by locals, said his cattle often drink water once a day, mostly in the afternoon, and sometimes, in the evening while returning to their settlement. There, water is provided for them in small containers, but much priority is given to the calves since the water is not enough. 

“The cows are getting thinner; their health has deteriorated over the years,” he said. “Every water source is drying up.”

“If we can have alternative water sources, then we won’t go to the stream for water where the people drink from,” Muza said. 

There is a borehole in Mararaban Bare, but it barely functions. 

Silas noted that if the borehole was functional, locals would use it as a water source and leave the stream for the herders, which would reduce the clashes.

“The borehole barely works. If it ever pumps water, it ceases at any time, so one has to wait for hours before the water runs again. Sometimes, people queue up from morning to evening and get unlucky because it ceases anytime,” he said. 

‘No agreement’

Several meetings have been held between the locals and herders to resolve the conflict, but no lasting agreement has been reached apart from a temporary water-use arrangement. Silas said tensions remain high, as youths from both groups often act as the main instigators during clashes.

“We do not wish to provoke anyone; we are only after the welfare of the cattle,” said Alhaji Ngala, the chairperson of herders in the community. He also noted that farms have taken over grazing routes, leaving them with “no freedom”. 

“If we can have access to grazing routes and enough water supply, then our minds will be at peace,” Ngala told HumAngle. 

Hamza, the climate-friendly environment advocate, urged the government to invest in solar-powered boreholes as a way of promoting clean energy and sustainable water supply across communities facing similar challenges. He also called for stronger conflict-resolution mechanisms across the state.

“Water scarcity is not just an environmental issue but a driver of insecurity, because in a place where there is tension, certain groups can take advantage of the situation to infiltrate such communities and cause problems,” Hamza said. 

Although the state government has collaborated with civil society organisations to adopt measures like afforestation, small-scale irrigation projects, and awareness campaigns, among other initiatives, to address the recurring clashes over water and limited resources. Hamza noted that many communities still lack the technical capacity and financial support to sustain these interventions.

“Some of the measures, like afforestation and proper waste management, are not owned properly by the locals,” Hamza said. 

He further called for integrated water resource management and inclusive governance to protect watersheds and prevent further land degradation. “Degraded lands can be restored through rotation. Herders should not graze on the same spot for more than five years, and farmers should do the same,” he said.

He also stressed the need for interdependence; farmers relying on cow dung as manure, and herders being granted access to reserved grazing areas.