Adamawa

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.

In November 2024, an empty field suddenly turned into a bustling scene. Women streamed in carrying baskets of tomatoes, while others unwrapped sacks of oranges. At the time, teenage girls hawked in the crowd with trays of boiled groundnuts balanced on their heads. Along the roadside, two trailers lined up a few metres away as young men tossed heavy sacks of maize into one and rice into the other.

This was the Tumba Ra Ngabili market.

For a trader like Asmau Abubakar, she never imagined a market like this could exist, especially when she reflects on the years when the Boko Haram insurgency was at its peak. She says her fear grew the first time she heard the insurgents had arrived in Madagali in 2014, a few towns away from Michika, her hometown, both in Adamawa State, northeastern Nigeria.

When rumours spread at the time that the insurgents would not harm women, Asmau urged her husband to flee while she stayed behind with the children. But he refused, insisting the family remain together.

Then came the news that the insurgents were unleashing violence in Gulak. And knowing Gulak was close, Asmau’s family fled to Uba, a neighbouring town, where they passed the night before returning home the next morning.

But the fear never left Asmau. Soon again, word spread that Michika itself would be attacked on a Sunday.

“Before they came, on that Sunday at dawn, my husband got us a car that took us to Yola [the Adamawa State capital] while he fled on foot, passing several villages to reach Gombi,” Asmau recalled. “We were at Mararraban Mubi when I heard the insurgents had entered Michika.”

Many families, like Asmau’s, fled for safety. But that Sunday in September 2014 carried the memory of gunfire echoing in the air, houses burning in flames, and, of course, the lives taken in cold blood. The insurgents did not only stop at attacking Michika, they in fact seized the town and spread into nearby villages, inflicting fear and hardship on the locals. It was a period when they were expanding across northeastern Nigeria in their bid to carve out an Islamic caliphate.

Boko Haram’s violent campaign had started five years earlier in 2009, first as an uprising in Maiduguri, the Borno State capital, before spreading across the region. In its wake, families mourned their loved ones, schools and markets were left destroyed, and dozens of communities were turned to ruins, with over a million people uprooted from their homes.

Michika was soon trapped in this same cycle of bloodshed and chaos that forced people across Borno, Adamawa, and Yobe to live with fear as part of daily life. Meanwhile, the insurgents held the town captive for months until January 2015, when Nigeria’s military finally drove them out. So, as locals began to return, they discovered that what awaited them were wrecked houses and the loss of nearly everything they owned.

“The walls of my house were riddled with bullets,” Asmau told HumAngle. “They destroyed doors and windows and looted some of our belongings.”

Even as Asmau and other families in Michika began to rebuild and piece their lives back together, they realised that the insurgency had sown deep distrust between Christians and Muslims. The divide between the two faiths grew so intense that, according to locals HumAngle spoke with, it spread into the main Michika market, where Christians chose Saturdays to sell their farm produce and Muslims traded on Sundays when most Christians were in church.

Asmau has not forgetten that period when she moved between the main Michika market and those in Bazza and Lassa to buy and sell bags of maize, beans, and groundnuts.

“Relations between us Muslims and the Christians became strained,” she explained. “They thought the majority of Muslims were Boko Haram.”

HumAngle also learned that, at the time, Muslims said their children could not have relationships with children from Christian families, and Christians equally insisted their children would not relate to Muslim families.

Rebuilding Trust

This situation persisted in Tumba Ra Ngabili, Asmau’s community, until 2020, when the British Council, in partnership with the Women and Youth Economic Advancement and Health Initiative (WYEAHI), brought women from the area into its Managing Conflict in Nigeria (MCN) programme.

About 200 women from Christian and Muslim households received training in peacebuilding, conflict management, and Early Warning and Early Response (EWER).

“We learned that due to the insurgency, these women lost their livelihoods. So we felt it would be good that after the training, we should also empower them,” said Aishatu Margima, WYEAHI’s Executive Director.

The women were organised into groups of 20, with each member receiving ₦30,000 to start a business or support an existing one.

“I was happy when my name made it to the list of women selected for the training and even more when I got empowered with ₦30,000,” shared Asmau, recalling it was a time when her business was struggling due to low capital and disruptions from the COVID-19 pandemic, which restricted movements and closed markets.

The micro-funding and training also transformed Christiana Emma’s life. She had lived in Tumba Ra Ngabili for 20 years and fled to Yola only when the insurgency struck. Though she lost her house and belongings, she returned after Michika was liberated because the feeling that it was her home did not leave her.

“We started rebuilding with my husband through the grace of God, and to support him, I was selling tomatoes, bananas, and oranges,” Christiana said. She would travel to Besso and Kirchinga villages in Michika and Madagali to collect goods on loan, sell them, repay the loan, and keep the profit.

“The ₦30,000 I got helped me grow my business. I later built a capital of ₦150,000 that allows me to buy goods upfront without taking loans,” she noted. “Today, the proceeds help me cover my family’s bills, from education to feeding and healthcare.”

Restoring peace through trade

In their 20-member group, 16 were Christians and 4 were Muslims. The training enlightened them on love and peaceful coexistence.

The group began holding weekly meetings every Sunday to strengthen relationships and discuss business challenges. And in one of those meetings, they decided to establish a market in Tumba Ra Ngabili.

The women approached the community chief, Lawan Yakubu, who, after consulting with his council members, approved their request and allocated land a few metres from his house for the market.

They believed the local market would make it easier to run their businesses and improve their earnings without the need to travel to nearby villages or the main Michika market. At the same time, they wanted the market to serve as a space for unity where people from all faiths could trade freely.

At first, the women traded in an open field until the Danish Refugee Council, an international humanitarian organisation, while implementing a different project in the community, learned about the market and decided to support and expand the women’s efforts by constructing a block of 16 roofed tents where traders could display their goods.

In the two years since it opened, the Tumba Ra Ngabili market has transformed both business and relationships in the community, especially with Christian and Muslim women trading side by side.

Blessing John, a widow and member of the group who now sells Gwanjo (second-hand clothes), remembers how isolated she once felt and how difficult it was to keep her business running or get help when challenges came.

“Now, I know I can turn to any member of the group, whether at the market or at home, whether a Christian or a Muslim, and get support,” said the 40-something-year-old mother of eight.

Blessing explained that to make it convenient for everyone, the women agreed that the market would mainly operate on Sundays immediately after morning church services. 

“The market also opens on Wednesdays, but Sunday has become the main trading day,” she told HumAngle.

Traders troop into the market, mostly during the harvest period, to buy bags of food crops ranging from maize, rice, beans, groundnuts, and even tomatoes, which are then transported in big lorries to Mubi, Maiduguri, and other parts of the country.

Each trader at the market pays ₦50 to the local government as tax on every market day.

Saving together

The women have also started an Adashe (savings pool) system. Every Sunday evening, after trading, they gather to repeat sessions on “maintaining peaceful coexistence with one another,” and each member contributes ₦1,000. 

The collected ₦20,000 is kept in a wooden box made by a local carpenter. The box has four keys, each held by a team of four members, and it can only be opened when all group members are present. If a member is sick or unavoidably absent, a representative from her family or relations can stand in to ensure the box can be opened.

After collecting the contributions, any member needing a loan can borrow from the pool and repay it with 10 per cent interest within a month. For example, if a member borrows ₦10,000, she will repay ₦11,000. In the early days of the system, Asmau often borrowed from the pool to strengthen her business capital.

“It helps me make more profit since the capital is much larger when I combine my initial empowerment money with the loaned amount,” Asmau said. From the profit, she buys foodstuffs each market day and contributes to the savings pool.

“I have children and pay their school fees with a part of the profit,” she added.

When no one needs a loan, the wooden box is locked and kept by the group’s treasurer, Manga Musa, who shared that the group also has a social fund, to which each member deposits ₦50 weekly.

“It’s the savings we use in case any of us gets sick. We can then support the person without asking for repayment,” she said.

And by December each year, a week before Christmas, the group gathers to share all the money in the savings pool before taking a break and returning in January for the new year. 

“We buy Christmas food and clothes for our children in December after sharing the earnings,” noted Christiana. “For Muslims, during their festive seasons, if they need to borrow money from the pool, we give it to them.”

The struggle to thrive

However, despite their success stories, some challenges raise questions about how sustainable the women’s efforts are without institutionalised support. 

During the rainy season, the market does not come alive like it does in the dry months. When HumAngle visited on a Wednesday, the tents were empty. And even on Sunday, the main market day, only a few items, such as vegetables, fruits, and small household goods, were on display. There were no food crops. 

Locals told HumAngle that this is because most traders are occupied with farming at this time of the year and do not come to the market as often.

Last year, the community suffered a flood, and most traders whose farmlands were flooded did not harvest many food crops that could be brought to the market.

Still, the poor roads leading to Tumba Ra Ngabili, along with a river that traders from distant villages must cross, also limit the amount of produce that reaches the market.

On the other hand, Blessing admitted that business has slowed in recent months. “People focus more on looking for what to eat than buying clothes,” she explained.

Manga said the women’s savings pool is directly tied to market activity. When sales drop, some members struggle to make their weekly contributions, which sometimes delays their cycle of lending and repayment.

Even with the gaps, Blessing dreams of opening a shop to stock clothes instead of pushing them around in a wheelbarrow. Others hope to see the Tumba Ra Ngabili market upgraded into a standard marketplace with proper shops and storage facilities. 

Together, the women want their savings pool to grow strong enough to sustain members and extend support to other women in the community.

Now, what remains uncertain is whether the peace they have built can withstand the challenges that still surround them.

This story was produced under the HumAngle Foundation’s Advancing Peace and Security through Journalism project, supported by the National Endowment for Democracy (NED).

The cold bites harder at night. Nathaniel Bitrus* feels it on his face as the motorcycle roars along the dirt path to Sunawara, a small community in the Toungo area of Adamawa State, North East Nigeria. A chainsaw sits carefully on his lap, and with two other men, he disappears into the forest.

Nathaniel has spent nearly half of his 45 years taking this three-hour trip. It has helped feed his family, but it has also taken lives and stripped the forest bare. Once, he says, the forests were so dense that the sun barely touched the ground at noon. Now, there are clearings everywhere. Loggers like him have carved paths through the vast Gashaka-Gumti National Park, cutting less lucrative trees to reach the prize – rosewood.

The forest is patrolled, Nathaniel says, checkpoints mounted along the main routes. But with a government permit and the usual bribe, he says, a passage can be bought. 

The men prefer the cheaper way, the secret trails that slip past the eyes of rangers and guards, the paths only loggers know. One such road is called Yaro Me Ka Dauko, a Hausa phrase meaning, “Boy, what are you carrying?” It is the road of the daring. Nathaniel takes it again in silence tonight. He does not have a choice.

When farming is no longer enough 

Nathaniel was a farmer first, or at least he tried to be. He grew maize on a small plot outside Toungo, enough to feed his wife and children. But then the seasons turned. The rains came late or did not come at all, and so the harvests shrank.

In 2001, some men from Lagos, South West Nigeria, came asking for people who could supply rosewood. They showed pictures of the trees they wanted. The locals knew exactly where to find them. Nathaniel was in his twenties then, strong enough to swing an axe all night, and the pay was good – ₦1,000 (about $10 then) per tree log. It was enough to buy food, pay school fees, and buy fertilisers and insecticides, he recalls. 

He signed up.

Soon, there were chainsaws, trucks, and high-paying middlemen. They cut faster and worked into the nights.

David Isaac*, another Toungo farmer-turned-logger, tells us he has been at it for 15 years. “I cut trees to feed my family,” he says. “Farming does not pay anymore. This one does.”

In Baruwa, a forest community tucked in the Mambilla Plateau in the Gashaka Local Government Area of neighbouring Taraba State, George Johnson* has been logging for three decades. He first came to Gembu, a cold town on the plateau, to work on people’s farms. But farming paid too little. 

“Things were expensive,” he says. Logging was better. Sometimes he harvests eucalyptus for local farmers. Other times, when dealers call, he travels three hours to Baruwa to log rosewood.

“The work is dangerous,” Nathaniel says.

They spend days deep in the forest, cutting trees. At night, they sleep with one eye open in makeshift tents. Wild animals prowl close. 

“Sometimes people die or get injured,” says David. “Trees fall on people.”

It happened to him once. He lived. Others were not so lucky.

Rosewood is heavy. When a tree falls, the men loop chains around the trunk and drag it out of the forest until it reaches the dirt road, where trucks wait to transport the logs to a depot outside Sunawara. But as more people died, they pooled money for a crane.

“We did not choose this job,” Nathaniel says softly. “We went to school. But there is no work. If I had a choice, I would not do this.”

Road to China

The real money is not in Toungo or Gashaka or the Mambilla Plateau.

It is in the hands of dealers, foreign buyers, and complicit officials who turn forests into fortunes.

When a dealer receives a consignment request, he calls loggers like Nathaniel.

“We have dedicated loggers, the ones we contact anytime there is demand,” says Charles Ekene*, a Gembu-based dealer. The buyers rarely visit, he says. “They communicate over the phone.”

The dealer commissions the loggers, supplies chainsaws and trucks, sets the prices, pays the transporters, and handles all the paperwork.

Loggers like Nathaniel have their own tools and work independently. “We meet with loggers at a place called ‘Kan Cross, where we negotiate prices,” says  Aliyu Muhammad, a 20-year-old Toungo-based motorcyclist. A trip into the forest costs about ₦4,000 ($2.68), he explains. 

Inside the forest, the loggers cut the trees, paint their initials onto the stumps to mark ownership, and drag the trunks to the roadside. From there, trucks carry them to depots beyond Sunawara.

“They pay about ₦20,000 [$13.40] per log,” Nathaniel says. 

The logs are measured with tape, he adds. 

“And since we do not have access to the buyers in Lagos, we accept whatever the dealers pay us,” says David. 

George says he gets ₦40,000 ($26.81) no matter the size of the log. This is where the real profit begins.

“A truck could fetch ₦3 million [about $2,100] or more on a good day,” Charles says.

From Taraba and Adamawa, the trucks head southward. “From Baruwa, we drive to Jalingo,” Hamma Yusuf*, a 38-year-old truck driver, tells us. And from Jalingo, they reach Lagos, passing through Abuja. 

“It is close to the water,” he says vaguely of the final location. “There are a lot of containers there.”

Logs from Sunawara follow a similar path, passing through Yola, the Adamawa State capital, then Abuja. “Other drivers head first to Kano,” David explains. “A few take the hilly roads through Gembu before reaching Baissa in Taraba.”

Hamma has been transporting timber since 2010. It is mostly intrastate – moving logs from Baruwa and Nguroje, another logging hotspot in Taraba, to a major depot in Baissa, a town in the Kurmi Local Government Area. Occasionally, he makes the longer trip to Lagos.

Hamma works under someone else. They handle the paperwork and negotiate with the dealers, he explains. He carries the documents only to present at checkpoints. 

“Most of the money goes to the owner,” he says. 

Like with the loggers, truck owners decide the pay. Hamma says he earns what could sustain him and his family.

A 2022 Arise News investigation confirmed what Hamma and David describe: rosewood from the region pass through Shagamu, Ogun State, before reaching Apapa Port in Lagos, where cargo ships carry it to China. Our GIS analysis corroborates this route.

Between 2014 and 2017, an average of 40 shipping containers – about 5,600 logs, or 2,800 trees – left Nigeria for China every single day, according to the Environmental Investigation Agency (EIA). In 2016 alone, the EIA reported, more than 1.4 million rosewood logs worth $300 million were smuggled into China, despite the species being listed under Appendix II of the Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Fauna and Flora (CITES), a classification requiring strict permitting and oversight.

Today, the financial losses remain unquantified. Neither the National Strategy to Combat Wildlife and Forest Crime (2022–2026) nor Nigeria Customs Service (NCS) performance reports estimate how much Nigeria loses annually to timber trafficking. 

In search of clarity, we filed Freedom of Information (FOI) requests to the Federal Ministry of Finance and the NCS, asking for revenue-loss data. Neither agency had responded at press time.

China’s official 2025 import figures are also unavailable. However, Statista reports that in 2023, China imported $17.1 billion worth of wood products, second only to the United States. Meanwhile, the Enhancing Africa’s Transnational Organised Crime (ENACT) 2017 report estimates that Africa loses about $17 billion annually to timber smuggling.

Much of this demand traces back to China’s enduring cultural fascination with rosewood, known as hongmu. Once reserved for emperors of the Ming and Qing dynasties, rosewood furniture became a coveted status symbol, admired for its deep hues, durability, and capacity for intricate carving. That appetite lives on. 

But China’s own forests could not sustain this demand. Large scale logging was banned decades ago. The hunger simply shifted elsewhere. First to Southeast Asia, and more recently to Africa, which now supplies the lion’s share. A 2022 Forest Trends report shows that by 2020, 83 per cent of China’s wood imports came from Africa, while shipments from Southeast Asia declined. CITES data adds that over 41 per cent of China’s rosewood log imports from range states – more than 2.2 million cubic meters worth about $1.037 billion – came from Africa. The scale of demand is staggering: Forest Trends noted that between 2000 and 2015, China’s rosewood imports surged by 1,250 per cent, with the value nearly doubling in a single year between 2013 and 2014, reaching $2.6 billion.

Laws exist, only on paper

Nigeria’s laws against illegal logging look formidable on paper. The Endangered Species Act (1985, revised 2016), the Nigerian Customs Act (2023) prohibiting the export of endangered timber, the pending Endangered Species Conservation and Protection Bill (2024), and multiple state laws ban or criminalise rosewood trafficking. Yet in 2022, CITES issued a rare Article XIII intervention, citing “persistent governance failures” and warning of possible trade sanctions if enforcement did not improve.

State-level bans tell the same story of power without teeth. Taraba State outlawed rosewood logging in 2023. Yet, George insists he pays ₦10,000 ($6.70) each to both local and state governments for annual permits. When asked for proof, he claimed he left the permit at home and promised to send a photo later – a promise he never kept.

Our attempts to verify his claim led nowhere. Officials at the Taraba State Ministry of Environment and Climate Change declined to comment. The ministry’s director of planning, research, and statistics, Fidelis Nashuka, told us, “We have a department of forestry which has no more details on this.”

That same year, Adamawa State governor Ahmadu Fintiri announced a tree-felling ban but framed it as a measure against burning trees “in the name of charcoal,” without naming specific species. Loggers say the ban changed nothing. 

“We obtain permits from the local government,” David says. 

A permit used to cost ₦30,000 ($20.11), he adds, but now goes for ₦50,000 ($34). Nathaniel agrees. “Officials could even issue them at ₦70,000 [$47],” he says, “because the business became competitive.”

When asked to produce these permits, none of the loggers could. They claim carrying the documents is risky, so they leave them at home unless heading deep into the forest. HumAngle wrote to the Adamawa State Ministry of Environment and Natural Resources to verify these claims. However, we got no response. 

On paper, Nigeria has the laws to end this trade. In reality, enforcement bends under corruption.

“We pay money at every security check point for us to be allowed to pass,” David claims.

The problem runs far deeper than local bribes. In 2017, the EIA revealed that Nigerian officials retrospectively issued about 4,000 CITES permits for rosewood logs seized in China, allegedly after payments of over a million dollars to senior officials, with the involvement of the Chinese consulate. Former Environment Minister Amina Mohammed reportedly signed the documents in her final days in office before becoming UN Deputy Secretary-General.

And this is not just a West African story. In 2021, a Kenyan court ordered the country’s Revenue Authority to return $13 million worth of confiscated rosewood to alleged traffickers. The timber had been seized at the Port of Mombasa while in transit from Madagascar through Zanzibar to Hong Kong

A 2022 report by the Institute for Security Studies argued that illegal African rosewood trafficking thrives on corruption, weak enforcement, and legal loopholes across Madagascar, Malawi, Tanzania, Zambia, and Kenya, with China’s demand as the engine driving it all. The report shows how high-level officials, court decisions, and lax port regulations across East and Southern Africa have turned enforcement into theatre, allowing traffickers to sidestep both domestic laws and CITES restrictions.

The Nigeria-Cameroon border tells the same story. Porous and poorly monitored, it serves as both source and smuggling corridor. Once, Nathaniel crossed the border into Cameroon. The locals there, he recalls, are not as deeply involved as those in Nigeria. The trees felled in Cameroon find their way into Nigeria, he explains.

A 2022 investigation traced the journey of logs from the forests of northern Cameroon through Taraba and Adamawa, showing how the wood, cleared to look Nigerian, made its way to export points. Forest Trends’ Illegal Deforestation and Associated Trade database confirms Nigeria’s role as both a major source and transit country.

People were caught along the way, Nathaniel says. “Our people were beaten, locked up. Some died in prison. At one point, we had to run to save our lives. Our equipment was even set on fire after clashes with security officials in Cameroon.”

There is some success. Occasionally, government officials seize illegal timber, arrest a handful of loggers and dealers, or burn trucks on the spot.

In Taraba, officials insist the 2023 logging ban is being enforced. 

“There are mobile courts, attached with a task force, that go round penalising illegal loggers,” says Fidelis. “They are stationed on major roads. Once the task force apprehends timber poachers, the mobile court immediately fines.”

Penalties, however, rarely go beyond fines. “No jail terms at the moment,” Fidelis admits. “We are still working on the law to include that. There have been arrests, almost every day. But I cannot mention the scale of these arrests, as I am not part of the team.”

Yet on our reporting trip, we saw no sign of these mobile courts or task forces. Only the usual immigration, military, and police checkpoints lined the roads.

At the federal level, the Nigeria Customs Service touts large-scale seizures across ports, border posts, and inland commands. Its 2024 performance report claims that from January to June 2024, the agency made 2,442 seizures with a Duty Paid Value of ₦25.5 billion ($17 million), 203 per cent higher than the same period in 2023.

The National Park Service (NPS) also points to progress. In an April interview with HumAngle, Surveyor-General Ibrahim Musa Goni said the NPS was working with agencies like the National Environmental Standards and Regulations Enforcement Agency, the NCS, and others to curb trafficking in wildlife species and plants.

At the end of 2023, Goni said, the NPS made 646 arrests across all national parks, with Gashaka-Gumti recording the highest number, a sign of persistent clashes between park rangers and illegal loggers, poachers, and other intruders in the reserve’s forests and buffer zones.

Regionally, Nigeria is working with the African Protected Area Directors (APAD), ECOWAS, and other regional blocs in East and Central Africa, Goni says. “We take our issues to the European Union and other regional bodies. This way, we get to reach the governments of various countries.”

Yet the logging continues.

The human and ecological toll

The scars are everywhere.

“Before, this place was covered with trees,” says Mary, a 45-year-old farmer in Sunawara, pointing to the bare stretch where stumps now stand like broken teeth. We flew a drone over the hills above Toungo. We could see the empty patches where forests once stood like walls.

Gathering firewood has become a daily struggle. “We have to walk a long distance now just to find enough for cooking,” Mary says.

But the loss is deeper than firewood.

“Rosewood belongs to the Fabaceae family,” explains Ridwan Jaafar, an ecosystem ecologist from the Mambilla Plateau and lead strategist for the Nigerian Montane Forest Project. “This group of species fixes atmospheric nitrogen and enriches the soil. When the trees are gone, that function disappears too.”

Farmers feel the loss directly. “It hardly rains anymore,” says Juris Saiwa, a 68-year-old farmer in Sunawara. “Maybe it is because of cutting down trees,” he adds, convinced that history links deforestation with drought.

Yields have shrunk. “We could cultivate even without fertiliser before,” says Jauro, the Sunawara village head. 

Mary agrees: “Now our crops do not grow well. The land does not produce the way it used to.”

Dr Hamman Kamale, a geologist at the University of Maiduguri in Borno State, confirms what the farmers sense. “Deforestation degrades soil fertility. Organic matter declines, soils compact, and land degradation spreads,” he says. HumAngle reported in July that farmers in Taraba complained of dry spells withering their crops.

The damage spirals outward. Ridwan explains that trees play a key role in carbon storage. “Forests act as terrestrial carbon sinks, absorbing carbon dioxide and locking it in biomass and soil,” he says. Remove the trees, and you release carbon while erasing that storage capacity.

The dangers multiply with floods and erosion. “Deforestation removes root reinforcement, increasing landslide risk, accelerates runoff, and triggers gully formation,” says Dr. Kamale. “Sediment loads rise in rivers, channels destabilise, groundwater recharge drops, and water quality declines.” 

In Adamawa, floods now come almost every year, destroying homes and displacing thousands.

The damage extends to wildlife.

“The animals we used to see, such as gorillas and monkeys, are gone,” says Jauro. “We don’t know if they left or died out.” 

Rosewood provides shelter for these animals, ecologist Ridwan says. “They are also a food source as their leaves are rich in nitrogen. Their disappearance means animals and birds migrate.”

Satellite analysis reveals what the farmers, scientists, and ecologists are saying. Our Landsat data analysis (USGS, 2023) shows a dramatic transformation of the Gashaka-Gumti National Park between 2010 and 2023. Bare land expanded by more than 1,800 km² between 2010 and 2015 alone, a fourteen-fold increase in just five years. Farmland and sparse vegetation actually shrank by nearly 80 km² during the same period, proving that this was no slow encroachment by farmers but a rapid, organised logging boom. By 2020, cleared land exceeded 2,050 km². Even after a slight recovery by 2023, dense forest cover stood at just 39.8 km², far below pre-boom levels, leaving the park deeply scarred.

Experts say the solutions must begin where the damage began. “Even some security agents don’t understand the environmental laws,” Ridwan laments. “The government must involve the communities, enlighten them on the risks, and provide sustainable alternatives like beekeeping or shea butter processing. These are more profitable and ecologically sound. But the key is community ownership.”

Dr. Kamale recommends protecting riparian zones and steep headwaters, restricting logging on fragile soils, building erosion control structures like check dams, reforesting degraded slopes with native species, enforcing low-impact harvesting, and strengthening Nigeria–Cameroon cooperation on monitoring.

But money remains the missing piece. NPS boss Goni admits enforcement cannot rely on security agencies alone. “Half the success depends on local communities,” he says. “We have begun training people with new skills and giving starter packs for alternative livelihoods. It has reduced hunting and logging in some areas. But we need more resources to make this sustainable.”

The last ride

It is dawn. Nathaniel and his crew emerge from the forest, three men on a motorcycle, just as they had gone in. 

They will not make this trip again for months, Nathaniel says. The trees are thinning out. The dealers have moved south, to Cross River, where rosewood still grows in abundance. 

“The market is no longer like it used to be,” he tells us. “The people from Lagos don’t come anymore. The foreigners too, we don’t see them like before.”

He sits on the stump of a felled rosewood at the depot outside Sunawara, where he speaks to us.

The air here is damp and cold; fog drifts between the few remaining trees. We can feel the cold, despite putting on jackets. The temperature is below 19°C. A few birds call from somewhere deep inside the remaining trees in the forest, their songs thinner than was described before our trip.

Nathaniel looks towards the forest. He has made this journey hundreds of times, yet each one leaves him with a hollowness he cannot name. The money never lasts. The danger grows each season.

It is hard to picture the world Ridwan, the ecologist, dreams of, a world where bees hum between restored trees, where tourists come to see the wildlife instead of empty clearings. Harder still to imagine a government willing to stop the trade not only with arrests but with real work for men like Nathaniel.

A tricycle moves past, stacked with rosewood planks. It disappears down the road, leaving behind a ribbon of smoke and the smell of fuel hanging in the cold morning air.

*Names with asterisks were changed to protect the sources.

Satellite image analysis and map illustrations were done by Mansir Muhammed. Imagery was sourced from Google Earth Pro and the multi-decade Landsat archive of the U.S. Geological Survey (USGS), with official park boundaries obtained from the World Database on Protected Areas (WDPA).

This story was produced by HumAngle with the support of Internews’ Earth Journalism Network.

Auwalu Saidu remembers his elder brother, Babayo, with robes and horses. The kind worn and ridden by royalty in northeastern Nigeria. He remembers him through colours, too. Royal festivities in their hometown of Mubi, Adamawa State, are a spectacle of more colours than the rainbow, but Babayo’s signature colours were white and red. He wore the robe, called babban riga in Hausa, proudly. 

In 2005, he was conferred the title of Barade, which means the royal head of security and commander of horsemen.

Babayo had always been drawn to royalty and had worked with Sarkin Mubi, the King of Mubi, for a long time. As Barade, he led the king’s horse convoys, tied his turban, and fulfilled other royal obligations in the palace. It was his full-time job, and he took pride in it. He basked in the praises his brothers sang of him, known as kirari (praise chant). 

“Even when we did something to him or upset him, we’d do that kirari to diffuse the situation, and he’d laugh and forget about it,” Auwalu recounts.

Babayo also married into royalty. His wife is the daughter of the King of Mokolo, a town in Cameroon. After their wedding, she moved with him to Adamawa, where they lived for about 25 years and had four children together. It has been 11 years since he went missing, and she still waits for him. 

The last time Auwalu saw his brother was on a Wednesday morning in 2014. They were living together and had exchanged greetings before Auwalu left for the market that day. Later, word began to spread that terrorists were on the outskirts of the city, so he sold what he could, put the money together, and quickly came home to tell his family about the rumour. But they were not as alarmed as he was. Auwalu took his wife and children and left for Gela, a nearby community, leaving Babayo, who did not believe the news, and others behind. 

“After I left, I was told that he had been seen on a motorbike with one person in front of him and another behind,” Auwalu tells HumAngle. 

After a few days of not hearing from him, Auwalu started to look for his brother. He searched through the town they fled to, asked around, and tried to contact people who were with Babayo, but there was no luck. He also tried to call his phone, but the cellular network had been disrupted at the time.

Auwalu was then told to go to the highway, where corpses had been discarded and people were searching for their loved ones. He went there conflicted. On one hand, he desperately wanted to find his brother, and the pile of bodies carried a faint, bitterly ironic kind of hope. 

On the other hand, he dreaded the possibility that his brother lay among them. He did not want to see his body cast aside in an open field, nor imagine the state he might find it in. He knew the human body does not last long under the elements before worms and insects claim it, but nothing prepared him for the dreadful, inhumane condition of those corpses. He had seen bodies before, but always in their “fresh” state, when they were washed, shrouded, and prayed over, as is customary in Islamic burial rites. Within a day, the dead were laid to rest with dignity.

Yet as he scanned the lifeless faces in front of him, there was no room for wonder. Under a tree, he saw a body so swollen it looked ready to burst. It was not Babayo. None of the bodies were. But that single, bloated corpse seared itself into his memory and shook him to the core.

“That day I couldn’t eat,” Auwalu recounts. “Even when I was offered food, and it was right there in front of me, I couldn’t eat it. I was in so much shock. It wasn’t until the following day that I started slowly eating.”

As the years went by, Auwalu continued to search for his brother. Two years ago, a driver in his area, who regularly transports drinks between Mubi and Cameroon, claimed to have seen Babayo in Cameroon. Auwalu went there and scouted refugee camps, and asked around, but there was no trace of Babayo anywhere. The person who was “seen” was not him. Auwalu left Cameroon, realising that he had been misinformed about the whereabouts of his brother. 

About four years ago, Auwalu had launched yet another search for his brother when he came into contact with the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC), which had reached out about Babayo through its missing persons programme. He was then enrolled in the ICRC’s Accompaniment Programme, which he says has taught him patience and resilience. 

It has also provided support to his nephews, Babayo’s children, helping them cope with their grief. After his brother went missing and the war subsided, Auwalu took in two of them, Dahiru and Salisu, who have lived with him ever since.

Dahiru remembers his father with schoolbooks and a football. His father always asked about his studies, whether he had revised well, and whether he was keeping up. But the memory that lingers most is the day a fight over a ball led him to be beaten up by friends. His father consoled him and promised to buy him his own. He did, and it became one of the symbols of his father’s care. 

Now 17 years old and in SS2, he wants to be a businessman after graduating from secondary school, so he can earn enough money to take care of his mother and siblings. And while he dreams of the man he will become, he dreams of the return of his father, the man who took care of him so fondly when he was young.

“I feel in my heart that my father will come back,” Dahiru says. “I never think that he’s gone forever. I know that he’ll be back.”

His brother, Salisu, remembers his father with toys. Each time he passes a shop with shelves full of them, he thinks of the days his father would buy him one. At first, the memories came with worry and fear. The mere mention of his father’s name evoked such grief that he would be unable to study or play that day. But with time, he has turned that fear into prayer. And now, when he hears the name, he asks God to bring his father back in good health.

Salisu is 15 years old and in JS2. He is outspoken and full of energy, while Dahiru is more shy and measured in his speech. Like his brother, Salisu wants to become a businessman, so he can support those who have helped him, especially his uncle, Auwalu, who has been there for him in his father’s absence. “I want to make him happy,” Salisu says, “just like he’s made me happy.”

Both boys said the ICRC’s programme has given them tools to navigate their emotions. They have learned patience and obedience towards their caretakers and elders, the importance of upholding their morals, and the need to avoid harmful practices such as substance abuse. The programme also encouraged them to seek out trusted people when they feel overwhelmed, to practise breathing exercises when they are angry, and to retreat to quiet places, such as the shade of a tree, where they can calm their nerves.

The ICRC runs the Protection of Family Links, an initiative that helps families affected by war stay connected and supports them in discovering the fate of missing loved ones. It is under this that the Accompaniment Programme was launched in 2019 to support families of missing persons in the North East, while searches are ongoing. 

The programme runs in six-month cycles, offering psychosocial and economic support, along with regular updates on the search. So far, seven cycles have been completed, with the eighth currently underway. It has reached more than 700 beneficiaries. A dedicated Child Accompaniment Programme has also been introduced, with two cycles completed for 68 children aged 13–17.

Searches are conducted through various methods, including announcing names, active tracing, and photo tracing, which enable wider community involvement in identifying the missing. Through these combined efforts, the Accompaniment Programme continues to address both the emotional and practical challenges faced by families, while keeping the search for their loved ones active and visible.

Whenever Auwalu remembers his brother, worry overcomes him. But then, he says, he remembers his own mortality and surrenders it all to God.

In the years after Babayo’s disappearance, his children often asked where their father was. Auwalu would comfort them and tell them he would return. He has taken on the role of their father, caring for them as though they were his own. He does his best to fill the emptiness of their loss, to give them enough love and guidance that their pain is eased. Over time, Babayo’s sons have spoken of their father less and less. Auwalu hopes the boys will grow into responsible men, able to care for and raise families of their own. Seeing the boys calmer and less weighed down by grief has eased his own pain, too, even if it has not disappeared entirely.

“At one point, whenever something would happen, they would say, ‘If my father were here…’ But now, because we treat them well, they are happy, even as they still remember him and see his photos in our home,” Auwalu says. “If I were to speak to him, I would tell him: If you are still alive, please come back.” 

Auwalu says their mother has suffered greatly since her son’s disappearance. It has been tears and grief all these years, as he was very good to her when he was around. He provided for her and took care of all that concerned her. Since the day he went missing, she has persistently been in distress, and her health has faltered again and again. 

Babayo’s wife, Fatoumata, has waited for him for 11 years now. While some Islamic clerics ruled that she could remarry because of her husband’s prolonged disappearance, she refused. She continued to hope and believe that he would return. She was living in Cameroon with the other children. But recently, she has shown signs of being open to remarrying. Four days ago, she moved back to Mubi to stay with her uncle, who says he will arrange for her to get married.  

As for Auwalu, every time he receives news or follows a lead that ends in yet another disappointment, it chips away at his hope a little more. When he returned from Cameroon, for instance, he felt defeated and consumed by despair, and throughout his journey home, his thoughts were only of Babayo.

He has dreamt of his brother more times than he can count. Once, he dreamt that Babayo returned dressed in white. But in those dreams, he never spoke. And now, as the long years have gone by, even those dreams come to him less often. 

Boko Haram insurgents raided Wagga Mongoro, a rural community in Madagali Local Government Area (LGA), Adamawa State, in northeastern Nigeria, on Tuesday night, Sept. 23. They killed four residents, injured several others, and destroyed property, including a church, homes, and vehicles.

Cyrus Ezra, a resident, told HumAngle that several residents began fleeing when the terrorists invaded the community at about 11:40 p.m. “They killed David Mbicho, his son Daniel, Jude Jacob, and Omega Duda. They burnt churches, motorcycles, houses, and a car,” he said, adding that the local vigilante group tried to repel the attack but was outnumbered and outgunned. 

“The group was heavily armed, and there was no official security presence, so our vigilante group had to abandon the fight,” he explained. “So far, we don’t know the total number of injured persons apart from the deceased.”

Cyrus said security operatives arrived only the following morning, Sept. 24, after fleeing residents had begun returning to assess the damage. 

Residents told HumAngle that security operatives deployed to Madagali LGA are usually stationed in the town centre or in Nimankara, leaving villages like Wagga Mongoro vulnerable. 

This was not the first time the community had been targeted. Barely two months ago, in July, terrorists raided the community, burning houses and forcing residents to flee to Madagali town and other neighbouring communities. They returned weeks after calm was restored. Now, after the latest assault, residents are fleeing once again.

“Right now, people have packed their bags and are leaving for Yola, the Adamawa State capital, and other places to go and stay with their loved ones.  Nobody wants to stay behind to witness this kind of incident again,” Cyrus said. 

According to the UN’s International Organisation for Migration, Boko Haram has displaced over 200,000 persons in Adamawa State so far, most of them from Michika and Madagali LGAs. 

“We are scared,” Cyrus said. “Our greatest need right now is security. Some of us don’t want to leave our homes.”