Boko

The 300 metres separating Aisha Ali’s new house from the old farmhouse may seem short, but it represents the long journey of her life. The 45-year-old widow crosses fields of various crops that she tends. 

Aisha was not an active farmer; her late husband handled that. However, he was abducted in 2023 by Boko Haram terrorists while working on their farm in Malari Village, Mafa Local Government Area of Borno State, northeastern Nigeria, and was later killed after they failed to pay a ransom. 

“My life changed tragically,” she recounted with a weary calm. 

Aisha’s husband’s death made her the breadwinner of a 10-person household, which included her six children and three of her husband’s siblings. She had no choice but to take up the hoe. 

A year later, her 10-year-old son was abducted by terrorists. He was later released when they learned that they had killed his father in the past.

It was under this constant shadow of fear, relying on subsistence farming and petty trade, that Aisha and her family found a fragile balance until the night the water came.

The midnight escape

In September 2024, a ruptured dam in nearby Alau, coupled with heavy rainfall, led to floods that submerged Maiduguri and surrounding communities, including Muna displacement camp, where Aisha lived with her family. 

They had gone to bed after an exhausting day, but around midnight, screams from the neighbours woke them up. “I woke up and saw water everywhere,” she recounted. 

Amid the terrifying mix of darkness and rising water, there was no time to save their belongings. She rallied her children, strapped the youngest to her back, and fled into the downpour. 

Together with other displaced persons, they walked for hours until they found dry land, where they stayed until dawn. When the water subsided, Aisha returned to find her entire life washed away. “We became homeless without our belongings,” she said.

A doorless shelter and hope

Staying at the displacement camp was not an option, as the government had already planned to shut it down. “Returning to Dubula, our ancestral home, was not an option either,” she said 

Aisha looked for shelter nearby and found one on credit—an uncompleted building. The structure had no doors, leaving her family vulnerable to constant theft. What few items they acquired were often stolen when they stepped out, turning their temporary shelter into a trap of insecurity. The widow, who had survived both Boko Haram and the flood, now faced the demoralising grind of daily survival in an exposed space.

Since there was no other alternative, they continued living in the building.

Aisha said it was overwhelming, but she held onto hope and did the best she could to care for her children. Weeks later, SOS Children’s Village, a global humanitarian organisation, visited the community for an assessment. “When they came around, I initially dismissed them for one of those numerous NGOs that normally come around to take our data but offer nothing much but some measures of grains,” Aisha told HumAngle. However, she registered with them as a widow and head of her household. 

SOS returned with support that Aisha describes as “an investment in dignity”. She underwent training in smart farming techniques, followed by a starter kit of essential tools: a pumping machine for irrigation, a spraying machine, insecticides, fertiliser, a wheelbarrow, and processed seeds.

“This support transformed our lives and brought relative comfort to us,” she added.

The first harvest 

With the implements, cash support, and farming inputs, Aisha got to work. She cultivated beans, pepper, tomato, okra, onion, and yams. 

She made her first harvest this farming season. “I was able to use the money from my first farm harvest to escape the unsafe shed,” she said, adding that she paid ₦30,000 for half a year’s rent on their current house. Her family now has enough food, and the surplus is sold to cover essential needs like medication.

“I am most excited that for the first time, my children are now in school—something we could not afford before,” she told HumAngle. 

Aisha explained that her income varies depending on what she takes to the market and how much she can harvest. “There is no fixed amount,” she said. “For beans, a full ‘mudu’ — that’s a standard measuring bowl — sells for between ₦1,200 and ₦1,300. Sometimes I sell up to half a bag, which is about 20 mudus. For tomatoes, a basket goes for about ₦25,000, and we usually get two or three baskets, depending on the yield.”

She hopes that the cycle of loss and disaster has finally been broken. 

“I thank the SOS people for coming to our aid because only God knows the fate that would have befallen me and my family if I had not received their support. They didn’t come to give us fish, but they came to teach us fishing,”  she said. 

Aisha said other women also received the support: “I saw them during the training, and I believe they are doing well with their families as well.”

According to Fredson Ogbeche, the Humanitarian Action Manager at SOS Children’s Village Nigeria, “One hundred families, many headed by women transforming grief into drive just like Aisha, benefitted from the intervention.”

One of the women, Aisha Bukar, is also a widow. The 55-year-old lives in the Elmiskin 2 area of Jere LGA, Borno State. Life has been a relentless succession of personal loss as she has buried seven of her 12 children over the years due to the conflict and lost her husband to a prolonged illness. This overwhelming hardship was compounded last year when destructive floodwaters swept through her home. Having lost everything in the flood, she had to start all over again. 

“What the government offered as a palliative for the flood survivors did not go around to many of us. We were almost stranded until SOS came to assist us,” she said. 

SOS Children’s Villages Nigeria is one of the humanitarian organisations that provided post-flooding recovery support for survivors. Aside from the farm implements and inputs, the organisation gave ₦395,000 to each beneficiary. 

Bukar did not go to the farm. She used the funding to meet domestic needs and also started a tailoring business where they mass-produce and sell children’s clothes.

She said that the steady income has given her daughter a second chance at education. 

Earlier this year, Ya Jalo Mustapha stayed with her two sons, Ali and Bor, in Njimiya, a village in Sambisa Forest, Borno State, North East Nigeria, an area under the governance of the Islamic State West Africa Province (ISWAP). 

In Njimiya, as in other villages under its control, ISWAP’s authority is absolute — enforced through rules, fear, and constant surveillance.

One day, Ya Jalao’s sons went out and never returned. No one could say where they had gone or whether they were alive. In the weeks that followed, rumours spread that some men from nearby settlements had been seized by the military during raids.

Such disappearances are not uncommon in Borno State, where years of insurgency have blurred the lines between civilians and suspects. In one well-known case, 42 men from Gallari village were arrested by the military on suspicion of being Boko Haram members and detained for 12 years without trial; only three were recently released. Other times, the insurgents also abduct and forcibly recruit young men. 

In October, five months after their disappearance, Ya Jalo’s daughters-in-law remarried Boko Haram terrorists. 

Stranded with her four grandchildren, Ya Jalo knew she could not remain in Njimiya. Her eleven-year-old granddaughter, Magana, was next in line to be forced into marriage. “A suitor was already chosen for her,” Ya Jalo told HumAngle. “I was at the risk of losing her, too.”

Staying in the villages is rarely a sign of loyalty. For most families, it is because they risk execution if they flee, while staying at least allows them to eat from their farms.

Every day brought a deeper fear for Ya Jalo. She worried that her grandsons would slowly absorb the teachings of the insurgents. With no schooling except the sermons of Boko Haram, the risk of their indoctrination weighed heavily on her.

She kept her plan secret until the morning of her escape. That day, Ya Jalo informed neighbours that she was visiting a relative in a nearby settlement with her grandchildren. That began the three-day trek to Bama town. They travelled through bush paths, walking mostly at dawn and dusk until they reached the camp. 

“The journey was full of risks and uncertainty,” she said. “Even the children don’t know where we’re heading.” They eventually arrived. 

A different kind of struggle

For families fleeing Boko Haram-held villages, arriving at the Bama IDP Camp feels like stepping out of a nightmare. Many come with the hope that they are walking into safety, a place where food, shelter, and healing will finally be waiting. 

But what they find is a different struggle altogether. The displacement camp has exceeded its capacity, with hundreds of people living there. In early 2025, the government relocated about 3,000 persons to Dar Jamal, a small fraction that barely reduced the camp’s congestion. 

New arrivals, like Ya Jalo, often sleep in the open because no shelters are available. Since she was with children, Ya Jalo moved in with a relative who lives nearby. 

At the camp, individuals are required to register with the State Emergency Management Agency (SEMA), which forwards the information to ZOA International. The organisation provides breakfast and lunch for five days and a cash token of ₦11,450 per person for three months. 

However, there is no provision for education, healthcare, and psychosocial support.  

Several others who are fleeing their homes for refuge at the camps are confronted with this reality. “We thought this would be a place to rest, but it is only another kind of struggle,” Hajja Kura lamented. She fled Zarmari in October, another Boko Haram stronghold, in early July to the Bama displacement camp.

The absence of proper shelter and long-term care leaves many returnees questioning whether their escape was worthwhile. Some, disillusioned, quietly return to their villages, where the danger of insurgents still lurks.

Children at risk

In Bama, Ya Jalo’s fears for her grandchildren continue in new ways. She often worries about how years of exposure to insurgent preaching may have shaped their minds.

“The children are like wet clay,” said Abba Kura, a community leader at Bama. “Whoever holds them first will shape them. In many of those villages, it was Boko Haram who held them first.”

The effect is visible across the camp. When HumAngle visited, ten-year-old Modu Abbaye recalled lessons he learned in the forest. “Boko Haram are kind,” he said. “They always preach to us not to cheat people, to be kind, and not to insult others.”

Even though the group killed his parents and his friend’s father, a schoolteacher, Modu still speaks of them with a child’s innocence. He has never attended a formal school and insists he never will because “it is forbidden”.

“I don’t want to go to school,” said Modu. He lives with a relative at the camp.

Due to the absence of structured education and psychological support at the camps, many children remain caught between conflicting identities, victims and vessels of the very ideology that uprooted them.

“Children growing up in displacement camps or conflict zones suffer disrupted education, delayed development, and persistent anxiety. They often struggle to imagine futures beyond survival,” said Mohammad Usman Bunu, an educator at Future Prowess School for displaced and vulnerable children in Maiduguri.

For Ya Jalo, that future feels uncertain too. As she watches her grandchildren adjust to life outside of their hometown, she is haunted by the same questions: what kind of lives will they build without their fathers and mothers, and will they ever know peace again? Her thoughts often drift to Ali and Bor, the sons who vanished months earlier.

“I also came here to wait for news of my sons,” she said. “I feel closer to them in Bama. I believe they are with the military, and one day I will be reunited with them.”

In Borno’s camps, stories like hers echo everywhere. Families are displaced, divided, and still holding on to hope that the war has not taken everything from them.

Amid ongoing terrorist activities by Boko Haram in northern Cameroon, particularly in the Far North, contraband trade with Nigeria and neighbouring countries has resulted in a significant increase in Cameroon’s deficit, reaching 50.7 billion FCFA (around US$89.8 million).

A report from Cameroon’s National Institute of Statistics (NIS) regarding informal transborder trade for 2024 indicates that this deficit is increasing compared to last year’s numbers, which reached 44.6 billion FCFA (approximately US$79 million). This deficit was noted in 2023 following the record high of 71.8 billion FCFA (around US$79 million) in 2022. 

The deficit, which is in Cameroon’s disfavour, is principally due to the heavy weight of informal purchases from Nigeria, a neighbouring country with a commercial deficit of 111,73 billion FCFA in 2024 after the 2022 peak of 168.04 billion FCFA.

“The structural disequilibrium of the informal commercial balance with Nigeria can be explained by two closely linked factors namely, the extensive land border with this neighbouring country (Nigeria) doubled with the permeability of the border and the dynamism of the Nigerian economy accentuated by the drop in the exchange rate of its currency, the naira, as well as the competitivity of its offer in the hydrocarbons sector,” the NIS noted.

The NIS added that informal importations from neighbouring countries, including Nigeria, which shares a common border of 1,500 kilometres with Cameroon from north to south, have two principal entry points: the Far North and the North within the northerly part of Cameroon and the Southwest in the southern part.

The majority of imported goods primarily pass through the Far North region, accounting for 49.4 per cent of imports in 2024, followed by the North region at 20.8 per cent. This trend is largely influenced by contraband networks dealing in fuel, livestock, and manufactured products. According to NIS, fuel and lubricants make up the largest share of these imports at 22.1 per cent, with live animals following at 14.6 per cent.

Over 70 per cent of smuggling activities between Cameroon and its neighbouring countries, especially Nigeria, occur in the Far North and North regions. This continues despite the insecurity caused by Boko Haram militants operating in the Far North of Cameroon.

On the contrary, the influx of transit through the Southwest Region has dropped (-38.7 per cent), due to the Anglophone crisis, according to the report. The Adamawa (-17.5 per cent) and the East (-3.3 per cent) have also seen their imports contrast due to security and logistical difficulties (degraded roads and armed groups).

Since 2016, separatist activities have disturbed the Southwest and Northwest regions of Cameroon, which have boundaries with Nigeria. These activities are slowing down economic activity. These same activities are parallel to exactions by armed groups from the Central African Republic, which endanger the corridors of the East and Adamawa regions of Cameroon.

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.”

Modu Bintumi was sleeping peacefully with his wife and eight children that Tuesday when, just before dawn, they were jolted awake with the news that Boko Haram was about to raid their village in Borno State, northeastern Nigeria. 

He quickly carried a wheelbarrow with some of his children inside to flee. 

“We left everything behind and fled,” he recounted, adding that they have not returned since.

The family travelled for two days before reaching Maiduguri, the state capital. “We had nothing to eat during that time. We survived by finding ways to make do in the forest. From there, we went to Mamuri before finally arriving here,” he said. 

Like many others in the community who fled that night, Modu left behind his livelihood, that is, his farms, which he described as his “main concern”. “We want to go back and check on our farms and retrieve our belongings, but I am afraid,” he added.

Modu’s life has changed since he fled. He once had a steady daily routine: waking up in the morning, eating, going to the farm, returning home to bathe, visiting friends, and praying. Now in Maiduguri, he spends most of his days lost in restless thought, reflecting on the life he left behind and the farms that once sustained him. 

“I had planted millet, groundnuts, beans, and other crops, but I fear that most of them have spoiled by now. I keep thinking of my valuables, and that’s why I’m looking worried and slimming,” he said, adding that fleeing has cost him around ₦5 million. 

“We need the government to help us according to its capacity,” Modu told HumAngle.

HumAngle reached out to the Borno  State Emergency Management Agency (SEMA) to enquire about any response plans for the affected populations. There had been no response yet at press time.

For Falmata Ahmed, the loss cuts even deeper. Her husband has been missing since the attack. He fled moments before Boko Haram stormed in and has not returned since. Now, living alone and caring for her three children. She longs to return to her village not only to resume her life but also to search for her missing husband. 

“I am hoping to see my husband,” she said.

“We’re currently waiting for our village to become peaceful so we can return to our farms,” Falmata added. “If the situation doesn’t normalise, we’ll have to stay here. Our main desire is to have access to our farms and return to our village when it’s safe.”

The influx of displaced people into Maiduguri and other major towns has increased since the beginning of 2025 as Boko Haram’s continuous violence sweeps through villages and repatriated communities in the region. 

In August alone, the terror group attacked more than ten villages in Magumeri Local Government Area, ransacking homes. Thousands of families have been forced to flee, abandoning their ripening crops, destroyed homes, and looted communities, and are now scattered in search of safety, food, and shelter.

One of the terrorised villages is Kriwari, where Falmata and Modu fled from. Its 65-year-old head, Bulama Umara Kanami, and his three wives and 28 children, watched as the terrorists stormed in on motorcycles, firing shots and scattering the entire community. 

Bulama said “no single person remained” in the village of over 1000 households. 

Listing other villages that had been emptied, Bulama named Malabari, Borkawuri, Bulumdi, Kurumri, Sadiri, Abachari, Abchuri, Titiya, and several others. 

“We were all chased away with our children,” Bulama said.

Although traumatising, he said their ordeal in Kriwari was mild compared to what other villages experienced that day, as the terrorists launched simultaneous attacks across multiple communities in the area. At least eight people from Bulama’s village were abducted during the attack, he said. It is, however, unconfirmed if Falamata’s husband was among them.

The attacks took place in the first week of August, right at the peak of the farming season. Crops had already begun sprouting, while others were nearing maturity.

Like Modu and Falmata, Bulama’s deepest regret is abandoning his farm just as the crops ripened. “We left our beans, maize, millet, and groundnuts,” he lamented. “I cultivated a large area inherited from my parents and grandparents. Personally, I lost about ₦8 million. Still, we have faith in God, but we will also be glad if the government can help.”

Since the attack, he said, people have dispersed across Maiduguri, staying with relatives, friends, or setting up makeshift shelters in host communities. 

“Actually, my people are in a critical condition due to a lack of good accommodation. Some ran but couldn’t reach here. They were sleeping in the farm among trees, still hiding,” Bulama said. “What I want is for my people to have something to eat and have shelter. This is what I want.”

When HumAngle visited some of the displaced families in Maiduguri, the living conditions were dire. Villagers had fled with nothing but the clothes on their backs. Only a few, they said, had received clothes from kind residents in the host communities.

The series of violence that swept through Magumeri adds to recent attacks, including the killings of at least 60 residents in Darajamal, a community in Bama Local Government Area, just weeks after the attacks in Magumeri. These cases simply indicated sustained Boko Haram violent campaigns targeting rural villages that have been steadily uprooting communities, deepening hunger, and fuelling displacement in areas already struggling with insecurity and fragile humanitarian conditions.

According to Bulama, Kriwari, like some of the other villages, had no form of state security services like the army and members of the Civilian Joint Task Force. Even Babagana Zulum, the state governor, recently admitted that “the numerical strength of the military is not enough to cover everywhere,” leaving communities exposed with little or no protection.

For Bulama, the recent displacement is painfully familiar. “We were displaced about three times before. However, the previous times, we were able to come back and take our belongings and eventually resettled, but this time, we are afraid to go back,” he said.

Sept. 7 (UPI) — More than 60 people were killed in overnight attacks by the jihadist group Boko Haram in the northern Nigerian state of Borno, local officials said. At least five of the people killed were soldiers.

The militants struck the village of Darul Jamal, the location of a military base along the Nigeria-Cameroon border. The Nigerian Air Force said it killed 30 militants after it received reports of attacks on the village.

“In a series of three precise and successive strikes, the fleeing terrorists were decisively engaged, resulting in the neutralization of over 30 insurgents,” Nigerian Air Force spokesperson Ehimen Ejodame said, according to BBC News.

Ejodame said the insurgents were fleeing north from the town toward nearby bushes.

Residents recently returned to the rebuilding village after years of being displaced by fighting between Boko Haram and rival groups, including the West African branch of the Islamic State group, authorities said.

“This community was settled a few months ago and they went about their normal activities, but unfortunately, they experienced a Boko Haram attack last night,” Gov. Babagana Zulum told local media. “Our visit is to commiserate with them and build their resilience.”

Zulum called for the immediate deployment of newly trained specialty guards to help the military defend vulnerable communities.

A decade ago, Boko Haram controlled large areas of Borno state before being pushed back.

Nearly two months after being resettled to rebuild their lives following several years of displacement, residents of Darajamal have suffered a devastating Boko Haram attack that left at least 63 people dead, including five soldiers, according to data from local authorities and sources who spoke to HumAngle.

The assault began on Friday night, Sept. 5, when the terrorists stormed the rural community in Bama Local Government Area, Borno State, in Nigeria’s North East. Modu Gujja, the area council chairman, said the terrorists arrived around 9 p.m., opened fire, and set homes ablaze. At least 24 houses were destroyed.

In the wake of the Boko Haram insurgency over a decade ago, Darajamal became a stronghold for the terrorists and remained deserted for years, even after the military recaptured it in ruins. On July 13, the Borno State government resettled more than 3000 displaced persons from an IDP camp in Bama town into 300 newly constructed housing units in the community.

The recent attack has shattered fragile hopes of stability; it has led to a fresh displacement of about 108 households, according to Gujja. 

Borno State Governor Babagana Umara Zulum, who visited the community on Saturday, Sept. 6, confirmed the death toll and the displacement figures. Standing before the remaining residents, he described the incident as “very sad” and a “major setback” for resettlement efforts.

“We are here to commiserate with the people of Darajamal […] This community was settled a few months ago, and they go about their normal activities, but unfortunately, they experienced a Boko Haram attack last night,” Zulum said. 

For residents, the tragedy is a cruel repetition. Kaana Ali, a resident of the village, told journalists that he had resolved to leave for good after losing close family friends, though the governor appealed for him and others to stay. “The governor is still begging us to stay back as more protection would be provided to secure our community,” he said.

Zulum acknowledged the limits of the military’s capacity to secure all vulnerable communities: “We have to take note that the numerical strength of the military is not enough to cover everywhere, so far so good, two sets of Forest Guards have been trained, therefore one of the solutions that we need to implement immediately is to deploy the trained Forest Guards to most of the locations that are vulnerable, they will protect the forest and communities.”

The attack also drew condemnation from Kaka Shehu, who represents the Borno Central senatorial district, which includes Darajamal. He described the killings as a crime against humanity and pledged legislative support for restoring peace in the state.

The massacre in Darajamal comes only a month after Boko Haram struck Kirawa, another resettled border town in neighbouring Gwoza Local Government Area. That attack killed at least four people, displaced hundreds, led to the abduction of a schoolgirl, and left homes, vehicles, and food supplies destroyed. 

In the aftermath, locals in Kirawa told HumAngle that no Nigerian military or Multinational Joint Task Force reinforcements had returned to the community, leaving it without security. Many residents fled across the border into Cameroon, surviving nights in makeshift shelters or the open air before cautiously returning during the day.

The back-to-back attacks underscore the continuing presence of Boko Haram across Borno’s rural communities and highlight the persistent risks undermining the state’s resettlement programmes. Since the start of 2025, multiple repatriated communities have faced renewed violence, leaving many families once again displaced, grieving, and uncertain of the future.

Boko Haram launched a four-hour assault on Kirawa, a border community in Gwoza Local Government Area of Borno State, northeastern Nigeria, on Saturday night, Aug. 7, displacing hundreds and leaving a trail of destruction.

Buba Aji, a schoolteacher at Kirawa Central Primary School, had just settled in for a quiet evening with his family. After dinner, they all retired to bed. The beginning of the night was marked by the usual rainy-season chorus of croaking frogs and deep silence. But at about 9 p.m., Buba began to hear distant gunfire. Thirty minutes later, the sounds grew louder and closer.

“Before we knew it, the entire town was filled with the sounds of heavy blasts and gunfire. We could clearly distinguish the exchange of shots between Boko Haram and the soldiers at the barracks. That’s when we knew it was an attack,” he recalled.

Like many residents, Buba fled with his family toward the border between Kirawa and Kerawa in Cameroon, joining hundreds of others fleeing their homes. “It was chaotic, we could see Cameroonian soldiers and members of the Multinational Joint Task Force (MNJTF) driving in to take positions,” Buba told HumAngle. 

While some families crossed into Cameroon, others remained at the border gate, seeking safety alongside some of the military personnel. Locals who spoke to HumAngle said that the Boko Haram fighters set fire to the house of the community head, looted properties, and burned civilian trucks and homes during the raid. At the MNJTF post, where the fierce battle took place, some military facilities and vehicles were set ablaze or damaged.

Amid the chaos, they abducted a teenage girl, Aisha Mohammed Aja. She recently completed her Junior Secondary School examinations and was awaiting her results. 

Local sources reported that four soldiers were killed in the attack and that no residents died, but HumAngle has been unable to verify this with local authorities. 

Kirawa has endured repeated Boko Haram attacks since it was first overrun in August 2014, forcing residents to flee to Cameroon and other parts of Borno. After residents were repatriated in 2022, the community has suffered multiple attacks this year alone, including deadly raids in February and July. Each attack follows a similar pattern, targeting both military and civilians.

Last year, HumAngle reported extensively on the unsettling realities facing displaced families resettled in Kirawa, who, even a year after their return, continue to face insecurity, poverty, government neglect, and continued displacement. 

More than six million people in the Lake Chad Basin are caught in a cycle of violence, displacement, and ecological disaster.

As Boko Haram exploits shrinking resources and fragile security, communities face impossible choices — return home under threat or stay in limbo.

In this episode of Pinch Point, explore how conflict, climate change, and geopolitics are shaping this crisis.

Renewed violence by armed groups Boko Haram and ISIL (ISIS) has forced thousands of people to leave their homes in Nigeria.

Despite repeated government pledges, the military has been unable to end the unrest.

So why is it continuing – and what threats does it pose?

Presenter: 

Elizabeth Puranam

Guests: 

Kabir Adamu – Managing director at Beacon Security and Intelligence in Abuja

David Otto – Deputy director of counterterrorism training at the International Academy for the Fight Against Terrorism in Abidjan, Ivory Coast

Ovigwe Eguegu – Peace and security policy analyst at Development Reimagined in Abuja

Hassan Audu is lost in the past.

Tricked into a Boko Haram camp in Niger State, North-central Nigeria, the 16-year-old is mired in the mud of his traumatic experience as a child soldier. He is a witness to the terror and tragedy devastating his hometown of Shiroro. He struggles to move towards a glimpse of the future. Audu’s nine-year-old brother, Ja’afar Hassan, was caught in Boko Haram’s vicious net in 2022, with families and friends thrown into agony that the terrorists had conscripted their beloved son. For years, no one could trace Ja’afar’s footpaths to the camp; his parents wallowed in pain, begging local authorities in the Mashekeri village of Shiroro to help retrieve their son.

When Ja’afar’s captors sauntered into the village in 2024 for their exploits, they encountered a weary Audu, exhausted from his desperate search for his younger brother. The terrorists took advantage of his desperation, asking him to follow them into the forest to retrieve his brother. He hopped on a motorbike, wedged among the terrorists, as the rider zigzagged his way toward the forest’s edge.

“They asked me to come see my brother. When I arrived, they locked me up in a mud cell,” Audu tells HumAngle. “We used three motorcycles, two people each, including the one I was on. They asked me to come with them and see my brother. Since I knew my brother was with them, I went along.”

The boy wears a sour face and a sober appearance, beaming softness and stone-heartedness simultaneously. One minute, his eyes catch tears during the interview in a secured location in the Hudawa area of Kaduna State in northwestern Nigeria, and the next minute, he carries a terrifying face, stirring up a panic-stricken atmosphere.

Concerned that he might go rogue if allowed to travel alone, Audu’s stepmother, Laraba, accompanied him from Zamfara to Kaduna to speak with HumAngle. Since returning from the terrorist den, his chances of going berserk have been high, according to the stepmother, who noted that the boy has lost his tenderness as a teenager, occasionally displaying wild behaviour and betraying a civil demeanour. Blame him, but also blame the men who lured him into the valley of violence, keeping him in the logistics unit of the camp where he witnessed how terrorists planned attacks, brutally punished offenders, and detained civilians for ransom. 

The terrorists fed him enough tuwo, a local Nigerian meal made from maize, and a hastily prepared tomato soup. He had wanted to return home the same night with his brother, but fed like a cat, Audu stayed, with the terrorists promising more sumptuous meals if he swallowed their rulings. He had more than three square meals that he couldn’t have at home. Back in Mashekeri, a single solid meal daily was a luxury. The boy found that luxury in multiple folds in the terrorist camp and stayed glued to it, quickly forgetting his initial mission to bring his brother back home.

“I never missed home. Whenever I mentioned home, they would say, ‘Some other time.’ Since then, the feeling of returning home faded,” Audu tells HumAngle.

He is one among dozens of children lured with food to embrace corrosive doctrine peddled by violent extremists. The food weaponisation strategy is deployed by a fragment of the Boko Haram terror group predominantly settling in the lush canopy of the Alawa Forest in the Shiroro area of Niger State. Caught up in the terrorist zone, children are vulnerable to hunger and displacement and are trained to become brutal terrorists.

They are recruited into different areas of terrorist operations. While Audu, for instance, was placed in the logistics unit, his younger brother was taught how to spot a target and pull the trigger. Teenage girls trapped in the camp are kept as wives, a euphemism for sex slaves. The women are also responsible for the food supply, preparing meals for the captives and commanders in the camp, and determining the food ration formula.

Fed to forget home

The terrorist group deliberately ravages specific areas, destroying crops and farming infrastructures, looting stores and houses, and destroying properties to make life difficult for locals.

After impoverishing and uprooting them from the agrarian areas, the terrorists, having access to the food supply, take advantage of the undernourished children, tricking them into their enclaves with promises of enough food and water. They also use this tactic to gain appeal among marginalised communities, seeking to win the hearts and minds of potential supporters by providing crucial services and distributing meals. 

HumAngle’s investigation, spanning months of identifying underage boys and girls tricked into the terrorists’ territory, interviews with their parents, and local sources, including farmers and vigilantes, reveals this strategy. We monitored some radicalised teenagers from the moment they were abducted to when they escaped from the terror camps to reunite with their families. Many of the victims’ parents asked HumAngle to hide the identity of their children for fear of reprisals and stigmatisation. Being a minor, we spoke to Ja’afar through his uncle, but Audu and two other teenagers with the same story spoke to us directly.

Several months after they tricked him into the camp, Ja’afar fell into a toxic love with guns and the deadly triggers they pulled. As a child, he was trained in the art of using a weapon to snuff life out of a human being and to get a human to do his bidding in seconds. When Audu witnessed his younger brother’s newly acquired prowess in spraying bullets, he fell flat for the escapade. 

“It was an admiration. I admired the way boys my age wielded weapons,” he says. He had thought only grown-up men like police officers could do so until he saw his mates displaying mastery in it and following terrorists to the battlefield as they fought security agents or rival terror groups. “I gradually got used to their lifestyle. I adapted. It felt good, and I liked it.”

This terrorist empire belongs to a man simply known as Mallam Sadiqu. Sadiqu is a Boko Haram commander and a protégé of Mohammed Yusuf, the founder of the extremist group. An adherent of the catch-them-young maxim, Sadiqu heavily invests in manipulating teens and young people. The empire’s underworld setting, known among terrorists as Markaz (centre), makes it easier for them to plan covert anti-state operations.

Interactive map/ Mansir Muhammed, HumAngle

Recruiting children as fighters didn’t start with Mallam Sadiqu’s terror camp — terrorists in West and Central Africa deployed child soldiers in their fights against authorities. A 2021 United Nations Children’s Fund (UNICEF) report revealed that since at least 2016, the region has recorded more than 21,000 children used by non-state armed groups.

“Whether children in West and Central Africa are the direct targets or collateral victims, they are caught up in conflict and face violence and insecurity. The grave violations of their rights perpetrated by parties to the conflicts are unacceptable,” UNICEF says.

The global humanitarian organisation added in a 2022 report that over 8000 children had been recruited by insurgents since 2009, describing Boko Haram as the major recruiter of child soldiers in Nigeria. The sect forcibly recruits children to strengthen its fighting ranks, abducting many of them during raids on villages, schools, and camps. 

Boys are often trained as fighters, spies, or to carry ammunition, while girls are frequently subjected to sexual violence, forced marriages, and used as domestic servants. Some of the children are direct descendants of these fighters, with terrorists raising a deadly generation of criminals. Boko Haram is also notorious for using children as suicide bombers, with at least 117 kids, mostly girls, used in covert bombing operations between 2014 and 2017, according to UNICEF.

Interactive map/ Mansir Muhammed, HumAngle

Bewildered by the near-perfect coordination of the terrorist enclave, however, Audu’s naivety made him think it was a sovereign territory set up for religious purification and built to fight the secular state. The setting first set him off balance before offering an adrenaline of safety, power, and protection from what he thought was the government’s persecution. There were four rogue commandants, with only one supreme leader: Mallam Sadiqu, a dangerous man with a growing network of followers and foot soldiers.

The terrorist apprentice 

In April 2025, HumAngle travelled to several satellite communities in the Shiroro area of Niger State. Apart from battling deeply-rooted insurgents, we found that the communities suffer from apparent government absence, turning the local areas into ungoverned spaces. Many villages and townships lacked good roads, hospitals, and basic schools. The terrorists are taking advantage of the governance gap to brainwash children and teenagers into believing in their ideology. There is also the social welfare appeal.

“When I fell critically ill in the forest, a doctor came in to treat me. I was worried that I might not be able to get adequate treatment in the bush, but I was wrong. I got a treatment far better than what I would have gotten at home,” Audu says. Even now that he’s out of the den, he wonders why he got better medical attention in the camp, saying, “This was one of the attractive points.”

Audu was placed under the watchful eye of Muhammad Kabir, the commander in charge of logistics and operations. Considered a stranger, Audu wasn’t given a gun or taught how to use it. He had only seen his terrorist chaperone servicing guns upon returning from battlefields. Kabir also prepared the fighters for operations, especially when they had fierce face-offs with security agents and local hunters surveilling the forest areas.

Kabir moved from the Sambisa forest to the Allawa wilderness to join Mallam Sadiqu in Shiroro. In September 2021, the Nigeria Security and Civil Defence Corps (NSCDC), released an internal memo confirming that scores of senior Boko Haram fighters were moving out of the Sambisa Forest to work in cahoots with Sadiqu, who was wielding rocket-propelled grenades and shuffling between Kaduna and Niger states at the time. The NSCDC advised security agents to scale up surveillance in the affected areas, according to the memo obtained by HumAngle. Kabir was among the terrorists the NSCDC was referring to, locals and security sources said, corroborating the internal memo.

Audu would later learn how to reload guns for the militants in the camp. He painstakingly watched his boss service various rifles, including the Russian Avtomat Kalashnikova (AK-47), the Gewehr 3 (G3), and Rocket-Propelled Grenade (RPGs). Kabir also prepared the fighters for war against the military and terrorist rivals. Under the operations unit was the group’s bomb manufacturer; he had produced scores of explosive devices used to waylay unarmed citizens and military men, tearing them apart and killing them instantly during face-offs. Audu referred to him as Baba Adamu.

“Baba Adamu had picked Ja’afar up in the village, luring him into the enclave and training him to operate guns and produce bombs,” Audu notes. “Baba Adamu himself learned bomb making from one man who later died during a gun battle with the military.”

Working with the operations unit, Audu’s duty included joining other child soldiers to work on Mallam Sadiqu’s illegally acquired farm fields. In many Shiroro villages, the group has violently evacuated local farmers, illegally occupying their lands to farm. When they needed more workforce on the farms, they abducted vulnerable civilians, forcing them to farm for them. Audu says he had joined other teenage terrorists to supervise civilians working on the farm. They planted beans, maize, and rice and harvested richly while the local farmers struggled to cultivate their fields over fears of being attacked.

Dozens of farming communities in Shiroro also signed a peace deal with the Sadiqu-led terror camp, paying millions before accessing their farm fields. In 2021, a journalist documented how 65 agrarian communities paid over ₦20 million to access their farm lands and live peacefully in the villages. In the same fashion as terrorists in northwestern Nigeria, Sadiqu partners with communities and, in some cases, collects levies to allow people to farm freely.

“We would travel through villages in the Alawa town to work on Mallam Sadiqu’s fields, which are close to people’s homes. Sometimes, we would spend days on the farms, planting and harvesting. We planted maize and rice most of the time. It was a big field,” Audu adds. “Almost all those who can ride motorcycles in the camp used to labour there. Almost all of us used to go there to work. We used to buy boiled cassava from the townspeople. But when the people fled, we harvested the cassava from the farms. We would boil and eat them while on the farms.”

Shadow justice

One man, Mallam Shaffi, was the spiritual commandant of the gang, usually regarded as the amirul da’wah. He led daily prayers and preached on Fridays, encouraging the children to neglect modern ways for their anti-Western governance path. Every morning, he admonished the combatants to fight for God’s cause, manipulating verses from scripture to convince his disciples that Western ways would only lead them to hell. Anyone antagonistic to their violent operations and extremist tendencies is an enemy and must be taken out of the way, Audu says.

Although Sadiqu presided over the general affairs of the camp, Mallam Shaffi served as the Amirul Khadi (chief judge). This role gave him oversight that ensured discipline and strict adherence to their extremist doctrine within their sphere of control. He was consulted before judgments were made on offenders. In this clime, misdemeanours could attract capital punishments; petty thieves caught with their hands in the cookie jar were first jailed before their hands got cut off.

When Sani, Mallam Shaffi’s younger brother, was found guilty of petty theft, he was not spared. “His hands were cut off instantly; they passed a judgment,” Audu recalls. It was his first time witnessing such a gory scene, wondering why a man would lose his hands “just because he stole”. But something even more shocking unfolded before his eyes months after he arrived at the forest: six combatants were killed on the camp’s wild execution ground.

“They killed them for imposing a tax on the Gbagyi locals and seizing their farm produce,” Audu tells HumAngle. “The fighters executed are Jabir Dogo, Usmna, ⁠Attahir, ⁠Abdullahi, ⁠Elele, and Abu. They killed them about a month ago.”

The black market justice system turns like a vicious circle: if the rules favour you today, they might be used against you tomorrow. 

One morning, Ja’afar woke up locked in a cell, with his hands and legs tightly bound. He was accused of stealing petrol and bullets from the logistics store. Ja’afar’s case seemed different from other thefts recorded in the past. While others stole from civilians on the other side, he stole from the terrorists — that was considered a grave offence, raising tension that the punishment might be more than cutting off his hands, like they did for Sani.

Audu’s worry suddenly grew cancerous; he was there to rescue his brother, and now he had been fed so much that he even forgot about going home. The detention of his younger brother tensed his worry; the probability that the young lad would be killed was high. He had committed treason, according to their laws, and the most severe punishment for such an offence was brutal death. 

Rumours mounted that Mallam Shaffi had ordered that Ja’afar’s throat should be slit. That rumour flared up Audu’s fear. He had lately been nursing the thoughts of escaping the forests due to increased aerial attacks from the military. That trepidation was aggravated when the military perpetuated surveillance of their camp almost every day, killing the combatants frequently.

“Teenagers far younger than me and my sibling had been killed in that forest, either by the terrorists or the military,” Audu says, enveloped in his sweat. Months after leaving the camp, the boy still lives in fear, displaying paranoia towards every positive event around him and showing violent tendencies at any provocation.

Lost in the lush

As he forged escape routes for himself and his brother, Audu says he thought about scores of girls also trapped in the terrorists’ camp. Girls from satellite communities in Shiroro were tricked into the underworld after they were promised better living conditions. One girl, Zainab Mainasara, suddenly disappeared after terrorists raided her community in 2021, kidnapping a considerable number of girls. Since then, Zainab’s parents have done everything to retrieve their daughter from the hands of the terrorists. Later, they learned she had settled with them, marrying one of them.

When Audu came to the forest, he met Zainab. He had learned about her from the lips of villagers, especially how the terrorists attempted to pay her bride price to her father in the Kurebe area of Shiroro. HumAngle spoke to her father, Ali Mainasara, somewhere on the shore of the town, where he is currently burying his head. He left the Kurebe community in shame after villagers accused him of marrying off his 17-year-old daughter in exchange for farming freedom.

Ali denied the allegation during an interview with HumAngle, saying he wanted to give his daughter the formal education he lacked. “But the terrorists took her away from me one afternoon, with guns and weapons in their hands,” he says, amid sobs. “If she were with me, she would probably have finished schooling or legitimately married.” 

Zainab’s mother, Fatima Mainasara, left the community for a neighbouring village. The incident that took their daughter away from them also shattered their homes, as Fatima seemed to have swallowed the flying rumour that Zainab’s father sold her out to terrorists. “Since the incident, her mother has been quite distressed and experiences anxiety daily. She has been diagnosed with chronic hypertension. The reality is that we are suffering deeply. I am urging the government to assist in securing my daughter’s release so that she can be safely reunited with her family,” Mainasara cries out.

Audu knows where to find Zainab, but cannot take anyone there. While in captivity, he realised Zainab was forcefully married to his chaperone in the forest, Muhammad Kabir. Now with two kids from the ‘unholy’ marriage with the terrorists, Audu recalls that Zainab and many other girls were in charge of cooking and sharing food in the camp. Knowing each other from Shiroro, they had met on many occasions and exchanged greetings, but they’d never had a chance to discuss anything. It was forbidden to be seen discussing with the fighters’ wives in the camp.

“Zainab’s first child was named Adam. I don’t know the second boy’s name,” Audu notes. “Adam could be around two or three years old. The boy can walk and talk. The second boy is an infant.”

Mainasara’s worries double up at the mention of his daughter’s sudden disappearance into the woods. He fears Zainab might have been brainwashed into the realm of extremism, as news emerging from the terrorist camp revealed she had been fully immersed in the life outside her home. Her mother, once chubby, has become emaciated due to the anguish of her daughter’s disappearance. The grief has taken a toll on her health, but Zainab’s captors won’t let her go.

Scores of girls in Kurebe are in Zainab’s shoes: they were indoctrinated by terrorists a few years back, and now they can’t look back. One such girl is Rumasau Husaini, who was just 11 years old when she was abducted in 2022. Her father, Haruna Husaini, is still desperately searching for her. He once offered to pay a ransom for his daughter’s release, but it failed.

“When we reached out to the terrorists, we asked them to return her, but they told us it was impossible since she had already been brought into the forest,” Husaini recounts. “They mentioned discussing her dowry, but I refused to entertain that. All I want is my daughter back.”

Other girls caught in the trap of the terrorist group include Mary, Azeemah, and Khadijah — all from the Kurebe village of the Shiroro town. While Zainab was betrothed to Muhammad Kabir, Mary was forced to marry Ismail, another terrorist, and Azeema was given to Mallam Shafii.

As the grip of Boko Haram grew stronger in Shiroro, casting a shadow over the community, girls and boys became an endangered species. Mallam Sadiqu took over the leadership of several ungoverned communities neighbouring the Alawa Forest. One evening in 2021, he announced in his local mosque, with his voice echoing through the modest building: all girls must be married off or risk being forcefully betrothed to terrorists.

“Any female child that is up to 12 years old should be married off,” Sadiqu was quoted to have announced, instilling fear among the parents who listened. Unable to bear the thought of their daughters being taken by terrorists, many families chose to flee, relocating their girls to safer locations or sending them to displacement camps in more garrison areas.

When Sadiqu finally took absolute control of the political and economic lives of the locals, he propagated his extremist beliefs, wielding threats like weapons and eliminating anyone daring to defy him. He banned schools, stripping formal education away from children and forcing them into menial jobs and denying them a brighter future.

The tragedy deepened so much that the Nigerian military declared Kurebe a terrorist zone. In April 2022, six out-of-school girls were sent to fetch water from the nearby Kurebe stream. In a cruel twist of fate, they were mistaken for armed terrorists by the Nigerian military. An air raid ensued, killing the unprotected children who had already been traumatised by the circumstances forced upon them.

As the dust settled, it became clear that Boko Haram’s reign of terror was far from over. With schooling activities ground to a halt in the community, the terrorists began abducting the very children they had denied an education. The girls were taken as brides, and the boys were forcibly recruited into their radical ideologies, whisked away to secret camps hidden deep within the forests of Alawa.

“Up till now, some of our boys and girls are still missing,” laments Yusuf Saidu, the district head of Kurebe. He looked disturbed as he spoke of the lost boys and girls missing from their homes and families. “They marry the girls and sometimes even come to pay dowries to their parents.”

As military surveillance abounded in the Alawa Forest, Mallam Sadiqu built fortresses around himself to dodge attacks. Then, fear grew like wildfire in the terrorist camp, especially among children and teenagers trapped in the camp. Audu realised his younger brother could be killed if he folded his arms — either by military airstrikes or through the terrorists’ shadow justice system, which recently found him guilty of stealing. 

One night, while everyone slept, he crept into the cell where Ja’far was caged and untied him. Discreetly, the two brothers walked out of the camp, trudging through the woods to find a way out. After days of sojourning in the forested expanse, they finally reunited with some relatives in the Shiroro area. Knowing they were not safe anywhere in the town, their relatives moved them to a community in northwestern Nigeria.

Back to square one

For Ja’afar, it was a free ride out of the lion’s den. And for Audu, the journey had only just begun. Their lives never remained the same; even after escaping from the radical world, they struggled to adapt to a regimented civilian lifestyle under their guardians. A few months after reuniting with families, Ja’afar exhibited attitudes suggesting he could no longer live in a civilian community. He would threaten his mates with death or charge at them at any slight provocation. His family has handed him over to the military in Kaduna State, hoping for a deradicalisation and psychological reform process so he can be safely reintegrated into society.

Audu, who appears calmer, was moved to Zamfara State to stay with a family member and is under tight monitoring. The family feared the proximity of the original town to Shiroro could later prompt the teens to return to the terrorists. Months after they returned, the boys seemed to be back to square one. Audu, for instance, is not enrolled in a school and struggles to have three square meals as adequately provided to them in the terror camp.

The situation remains dire back in Shiroro: locals caught up in war zones can hardly feed themselves properly, as food insecurity bites harder. Unfortunately, food insecurity is a reality for many Nigerians, yet those in power tend to downplay the issue. The United Nations predicted last year that by 2030, over 80 million Nigerians might face a severe food crisis. In many villages and displacement camps HumAngle visited while gathering this report, hunger, malnutrition, and food insecurity dominate the land, with hundreds of locals uprooted by the insurgency relying on animal feed due to an extreme food shortage. 

HumAngle spoke to Dapit Joseph, a child psychologist at the Federal University Kashere, Gombe State, to further understand the implications of children being recruited in this manner.

“You know, food is a physiological need; it’s the foundation of human motivation and the first in the hierarchy of needs. People need food to survive, and in the quest to get it, they can do anything to survive. When people are hungry, especially children, that hunger can be weaponised to lure them into terrorism,” he asserts.

Joseph noted that we can neither blame the children nor the parents in this situation, because “when you’re caught up in a devastating war-torn area, you lose a lot of things, you become traumatised, and all you do is struggle to survive. It’s a very terrible condition that comes with a lot of psychological effects.”

The psychologist thinks the government needs to prioritise rehabilitating and providing social support for the children. Social support, he says, includes providing the basic needs these families require to survive and educating the parents on how to take care of these vulnerable children in society.

“Religious bodies have a role to play. You know, we attach serious meaning to religion in this part of the world,” he advised. “So if religious bodies can go, talk to these people, give them hope, and tell them that it won’t remain like this forever, it would help.”

For a region big on farming and fighting insecurity, it remains unclear what the Niger State authorities are doing to avert Boko Haram’s weaponisation of food shortages to recruit children. However, the permanent secretary of the Ministry of Niger State Homeland Security, Aminu Aliyu, recently told local journalists that the government and security agents were aware of the situation, failing to reveal steps to put the situation under control.

Laraba, Audu’s stepmother, worries about what might happen to him and his younger brother. She says she ponders every day, with no clarity, how to ensure these children do not derail again. Her heart pounds whenever she sets her eyes on Audu every morning because she’s clueless about providing a permanent succour to the brothers.

Audu’s parents are stuck in Shiroro, living from hand to mouth, swept under the control of terrorists in the ungovernable Kurebe village. Now, looking after their children has become a burden for Laraba, who complained recently that Audu has refused to return to school after terrorists brainwashed him against Western education.

“He has now returned to Hudawa, and he shouts about wanting to get married, instead of going back to school, but we’ve warned him against that,” Laraba says. For a 16-year-old, the stepmother thinks marriage should not be the next chapter in Audu’s life, but the boy seems convinced otherwise.

Audu’s return to the town also bothers Laraba because the area, although in Kaduna, borders Shiroro, making it easy for the boy to return to terrorism if he finds no help. “We’re seeking help from all angles so that he can at least start a business even if he can’t return to school,” she says.

Ja’afar’s uncle has also expressed doubt over his fate. He says living with the military has not yielded desired results, noting that the boy does not seem to have been deradicalised months after he was taken to the army. As it stands, the future of both boys has been halted.

Asked if he was considering going back to the forest fringe if he gets the chance, Audu says he would not hesitate if another chance was given, “because I got enough food that I don’t have access to even at home.”

Beneath the violence that has come to define the Islamic State West Africa Province (ISWAP) lies a highly organised financial ecosystem sustaining their operations. Fuelled by a complex blend of taxation, extortion, smuggling, and ideological justification, the groups have transformed parts of northeastern Nigeria into a conflict-driven economy.

For over a decade, terrorists have waged war against Nigeria and its neighbouring countries, displacing millions and wreaking havoc on communities. They took control of some civilian communities, collecting taxes, enforcing laws, and offering basic welfare, particularly within their strongholds around Lake Chad.

In recent times, HumAngle has uncovered how these groups have moved beyond the conventional tactics of ransom collection and taxation. They are now tapping into the dark web to generate revenue, exploiting the anonymity of cryptocurrencies to evade traditional financial surveillance. This marks a strategic shift by Islamic State affiliates, especially as the core group struggles with diminished income following its territorial losses in Iraq and Syria.

Beyond the traditional hawala system, which transfers funds informally through networks of trust, terrorist financiers are now leveraging decentralised digital currencies to solicit donations and channel funds. These covert financial pipelines challenge counterterrorism efforts and expose a growing blind spot in the global fight against extremism.

Drawing from interviews with former fighters, security experts, and residents of conflict-affected communities, HumAngle has also traced offline funding methods that jihadist factions continue to rely on across the Lake Chad region.

“Zakat is paid willingly by members and enforced on outsiders,” said a former ISWAP member, who spoke anonymously due to safety concerns. “It is pooled to the Baitul Ma-al (treasury) at the headquarters of the different wilayats.” For the outsiders and non-combatants, the term is referred to as “jizya”, a levy enforced on an individual who doesn’t subscribe to the jihadists’ version of Islam. 

The wilayat (smaller territories under ISWAP control) enforcing the zakat and jizya serve as administrative zones modelled after Islamist governance. They function not only as extensions of the Islamic State’s ideology but also as de facto provinces, each led by a wali (governor). At the local level, operations are controlled by an administrator known as an Amir.

The insurgents operate a formal taxation system that draws from Islamic principles but is executed with military precision. Residents pay zakat, the religious tithe, alongside fees for farming, fishing, or conducting trade. Outsiders entering the dawlah (state) are subjected to additional levies.

“Revenues are collected by appointed officials who move around town, villages, farmlands and grazing areas,” the former fighter explained. “The financial records are kept by the revenue collectors.”

Compliance is mandatory. Refusal brings swift and brutal retribution. “Confiscation of assets, jail sentence or capital punishment were the typical sanctions,” he said. “[Sometimes] it could amount to capital punishment.”

Farmers interviewed by HumAngle in Borno, for instance, are required to pay about ₦10,000 per hectare. No one is permitted to begin farming without this payment, and receipts are issued by the group as proof. Recently, that levy has been increased to a whopping ₦50,000, causing some discontent among the people living under ISWAP’s control, reportedly making them defect to the Jama’atu Ahlussunnah Lidda’awati Wal Jihad (JAS) faction of Boko Haram.

To mask coercion under religious legitimacy, ISWAP invokes theological language. Appeals for financial support are couched in terms like isti’dad (preparation for jihad). While donations are said to be “according to your means,” refusal is harshly punished.

“Sometimes businessmen are fined for disobedience, and it’s called a donation,” the former terrorist recalled. “It’s never really voluntary.”

This fusion of religious rhetoric and criminal enforcement allows ISWAP to assert moral authority while wielding authoritarian control. The collected money doesn’t simply enrich individual fighters. Much of it flows into a central Albaitul maal, where it is redistributed across operational and administrative needs.

According to the former fighter, funds are used for multiple purposes: “Weapons, paying fighters, giving stipends to widows and orphans of dead fighters, running health clinics on special days. Even some community services.”

Fighters receive monthly salaries and bonuses during military campaigns. Welfare packages are given to the families of dead fighters. Some areas under ISWAP’s influence maintain makeshift clinics and rudimentary schools, financed from this central pool.

While this may resemble the functions of a state, it is fundamentally underpinned by coercion. Services are tied to loyalty, and taxes to survival.

“Those living in the dawlah see it as normal activity, and forcefully living under the dawlah, they have no strength to make any reaction,” the former member said.

People living under ISWAP-controlled areas are divided into Awam (commoners/non-combatants) and Rijal (contextually meaning fighters). For civilians in ISWAP-held areas, daily life is a constant negotiation with fear. Some comply to survive, and others, especially new arrivals, live in quiet terror.

Crypto donations

Nigeria’s status as one of the world’s fastest-growing cryptocurrency markets offers fertile ground for terrorist financing, allowing terror groups like ISWAP to use different platforms, such as Monero, a digital crypto page with enhanced privacy features.

ISWAP’s use of digital currencies in its financial playbook mirrors a broader trend among insurgent groups in Africa and beyond. On the dark web, their propaganda outlets have actively solicited Monero donations, leveraging its anonymity and security.

Monero, developed in 2014 by anonymous creators, conceals transaction details on its blockchain. This has made it the preferred choice for both ransomware operators and extremist networks. The Islamic State’s dark web platforms have openly called for Monero donations in support of insurgent activities. While IS branches like Khurasan have launched dedicated crypto campaigns, ISWAP has yet to do so. However, researchers identify it as a leading crypto user among IS affiliates globally.

ISWAP generates significant revenue, which is often converted into the Monero cryptocurrency platform, which can facilitate anonymous transactions. The preference for Monero stems from its enhanced privacy and security measures, making it challenging for authorities to track and monitor financial flows. By utilising Monero, ISWAP maintains secrecy and evades detection, potentially complicating efforts to disrupt their financial networks and operations.

Smuggling and black markets

In addition to cryptocurrencies, black market operations and regional trade form a large portion of the insurgent economy. Smuggling routes span Nigeria’s borders with Cameroon, Chad, and Niger, facilitating the movement of fuel, food, and drugs.

“Smugglers bring in fuel through Banki and Kirawa [in Borno State],” the former fighter said. “They pay a levy to pass. The group taxes everything.”

Markets within ISWAP’s domain operate under strict supervision. The group controls livestock and fish markets via appointed intermediaries—local businessmen who handle external trade and launder profits back to leadership.

“They are businessmen, but they are also collaborators,” the former ISWAP member told HumAngle. “They don’t carry weapons, but they are part of the system.”

This economic integration has allowed the insurgents to embed themselves into local commerce, making it harder for Nigerian forces and international partners to isolate and weaken them.

The financial engine behind Boko Haram and ISWAP is resilient, adaptive, and deeply entrenched in local realities. It flourishes in the absence of Nigerian state authority, often aided, willingly or otherwise, by community actors.

A 2023 report by the International Crisis Group observed that ISWAP’s economic model mimics state structures and generates steady revenue, especially from taxation of local businesses and traders, noting that defeating this system would take more than military might.

“Breaking the financial backbone of these groups involves restoring legitimate governance and providing alternative livelihoods,” a former staff member of the Nigerian Financial Intelligence Unit told HumAngle, pleading anonymity for security reasons. “As long as they provide services and the state does not, they will retain influence.”

Fifteen years into the conflict, the fight against Boko Haram and ISWAP is no longer solely about military victories, the expert said. It is also about dismantling the systems that keep them alive. In a conflict-ravaged region where the state has faltered, insurgents have constructed a parallel order, founded not only on violence but also on function.

“They are fighting a war, yes. But they are also running a government,” the former ISWAP fighter reiterated.

A Cameroonian soldier was killed and three others were wounded during a two-night attack by Boko Haram terrorists from 19 to 20 May. The assault occurred in Kerawa, a locality on the border with Nigeria, within the Kolofata sub-division of the Mayo-Sava division in the Far North region.

A member of the local vigilante committee said the assailants, who came from Nigeria, targeted a Cameroonian military post. “After opening fire on the post, the assailants quickly fled towards the Nigeria-Cameroon border,” he stated.

The recent attack highlights an alarming trend, as Boko Haram terrorists have become more aggressive since March, utilising previously unseen sophisticated weaponry during their operations. Notably, one major incident occurred on the night of March 24 to 25, 2025, in Wulgo, in the Logone-et-Chari division, where 12 Cameroonian soldiers lost their lives. 

This week’s deadly assault serves as a reminder that, despite claims of a retreat by the terrorists, the threat they pose remains constant within the Lake Chad Basin. Even with strong responses from the Cameroonian army, Boko Haram continues to conduct violent operations, instilling fear and destabilising the border areas with Nigeria. This comes despite repeated assertions from the military that they have broken the back of Boko Haram in the region.

As part of its intensified violent campaign, Boko Haram/ISWAP increased the deployment of improvised explosive devices (IEDs) along critical highways in the Lake Chad region, especially in Nigeria. Over the past month, numerous IED detonations occurred, resulting in casualties among both civilians and security forces.

Recent developments have seen two significant bridges – one in the Gujiba local government area of Yobe State and the other in the Biu local government area of Borno State – damaged by IED blasts attributed to the terrorist group. These incidents have significantly disrupted mobility, making entire routes perilous and putting commuters at heightened risk of attacks, particularly in resettled communities that are already unstable.

The destruction of these essential infrastructures also threatens humanitarian efforts and the region’s economic stability. Human rights groups, humanitarian organisations, and local media have cautioned for months that resettling populations without adequate security measures may expose them to reprisals and further displacement.

Beneath the violence that has come to define the Islamic State West Africa Province (ISWAP) lies a highly organised financial ecosystem sustaining their operations. Fuelled by a complex blend of taxation, extortion, smuggling, and ideological justification, the groups have transformed parts of northeastern Nigeria into a conflict-driven economy.

For over a decade, terrorists have waged war against Nigeria and its neighbouring countries, displacing millions and wreaking havoc on communities. They took control of some civilian communities, collecting taxes, enforcing laws, and offering basic welfare, particularly within their strongholds around Lake Chad.

In recent times, HumAngle has uncovered how these groups have moved beyond the conventional tactics of ransom collection and taxation. They are now tapping into the dark web to generate revenue, exploiting the anonymity of cryptocurrencies to evade traditional financial surveillance. This marks a strategic shift by Islamic State affiliates, especially as the core group struggles with diminished income following its territorial losses in Iraq and Syria.

Beyond the traditional hawala system, which transfers funds informally through networks of trust, terrorist financiers are now leveraging decentralised digital currencies to solicit donations and channel funds. These covert financial pipelines challenge counterterrorism efforts and expose a growing blind spot in the global fight against extremism.

Drawing from interviews with former fighters, security experts, and residents of conflict-affected communities, HumAngle has also traced offline funding methods that jihadist factions continue to rely on across the Lake Chad region.

“Zakat is paid willingly by members and enforced on outsiders,” said a former ISWAP member, who spoke anonymously due to safety concerns. “It is pooled to the Baitul Ma-al (treasury) at the headquarters of the different wilayats.” For the outsiders and non-combatants, the term is referred to as “jizya”, a levy enforced on an individual who doesn’t subscribe to the jihadists’ version of Islam. 

The wilayat (smaller territories under ISWAP control) enforcing the zakat and jizya serve as administrative zones modelled after Islamist governance. They function not only as extensions of the Islamic State’s ideology but also as de facto provinces, each led by a wali (governor). At the local level, operations are controlled by an administrator known as an Amir.

The insurgents operate a formal taxation system that draws from Islamic principles but is executed with military precision. Residents pay zakat, the religious tithe, alongside fees for farming, fishing, or conducting trade. Outsiders entering the dawlah (state) are subjected to additional levies.

“Revenues are collected by appointed officials who move around town, villages, farmlands and grazing areas,” the former fighter explained. “The financial records are kept by the revenue collectors.”

Compliance is mandatory. Refusal brings swift and brutal retribution. “Confiscation of assets, jail sentence or capital punishment were the typical sanctions,” he said. “[Sometimes] it could amount to capital punishment.”

Farmers interviewed by HumAngle in Borno, for instance, are required to pay about ₦10,000 per hectare. No one is permitted to begin farming without this payment, and receipts are issued by the group as proof. Recently, that levy has been increased to a whopping ₦50,000, causing some discontent among the people living under ISWAP’s control, reportedly making them defect to the Jama’atu Ahlussunnah Lidda’awati Wal Jihad (JAS) faction of Boko Haram.

To mask coercion under religious legitimacy, ISWAP invokes theological language. Appeals for financial support are couched in terms like isti’dad (preparation for jihad). While donations are said to be “according to your means,” refusal is harshly punished.

“Sometimes businessmen are fined for disobedience, and it’s called a donation,” the former terrorist recalled. “It’s never really voluntary.”

This fusion of religious rhetoric and criminal enforcement allows ISWAP to assert moral authority while wielding authoritarian control. The collected money doesn’t simply enrich individual fighters. Much of it flows into a central their bai’atul maal, where it is redistributed across operational and administrative needs.

According to the former fighter, funds are used for multiple purposes: “Weapons, paying fighters, giving stipends to widows and orphans of dead fighters, running health clinics on special days. Even some community services.”

Fighters receive monthly salaries and bonuses during military campaigns. Welfare packages are given to the families of dead fighters. Some areas under ISWAP’s influence maintain makeshift clinics and rudimentary schools, financed from this central pool.

While this may resemble the functions of a state, it is fundamentally underpinned by coercion. Services are tied to loyalty, and taxes to survival.

“Those living in the dawlah see it as normal activity, and forcefully living under the dawlah, they have no strength to make any reaction,” the former member said.

People living under ISWAP-controlled areas are divided into Awam (commoners/non-combatants) and Rijal (contextually meaning fighters). For civilians in ISWAP-held areas, daily life is a constant negotiation with fear. Some comply to survive, and others, especially new arrivals, live in quiet terror.

Crypto donations

Nigeria’s status as one of the world’s fastest-growing cryptocurrency markets offers fertile ground for terrorist financing, allowing terror groups like ISWAP to use different platforms, such as Monero, a digital crypto page with enhanced privacy features.

ISWAP’s use of digital currencies in its financial playbook mirrors a broader trend among insurgent groups in Africa and beyond. On the dark web, their propaganda outlets have actively solicited Monero donations, leveraging its anonymity and security.

Monero, developed in 2014 by anonymous creators, conceals transaction details on its blockchain. This has made it the preferred choice for both ransomware operators and extremist networks. The Islamic State’s dark web platforms have openly called for Monero donations in support of insurgent activities. While IS branches like Khurasan have launched dedicated crypto campaigns, ISWAP has yet to do so. However, researchers identify it as a leading crypto user among IS affiliates globally.

ISWAP generates significant revenue, which is often converted into the Monero cryptocurrency platform, which can facilitate anonymous transactions. The preference for Monero stems from its enhanced privacy and security measures, making it challenging for authorities to track and monitor financial flows. By utilising Monero, ISWAP maintains secrecy and evades detection, potentially complicating efforts to disrupt their financial networks and operations.

Smuggling and black markets

In addition to cryptocurrencies, black market operations and regional trade form a large portion of the insurgent economy. Smuggling routes span Nigeria’s borders with Cameroon, Chad, and Niger, facilitating the movement of fuel, food, and drugs.

“Smugglers bring in fuel through Banki and Kirawa [in Borno State],” the former fighter said. “They pay a levy to pass. The group taxes everything.”

Markets within ISWAP’s domain operate under strict supervision. The group controls livestock and fish markets via appointed intermediaries—local businessmen who handle external trade and launder profits back to leadership.

“They are businessmen, but they are also collaborators,” the former ISWAP member told HumAngle. “They don’t carry weapons, but they are part of the system.”

This economic integration has allowed the insurgents to embed themselves into local commerce, making it harder for Nigerian forces and international partners to isolate and weaken them.

The financial engine behind Boko Haram and ISWAP is resilient, adaptive, and deeply entrenched in local realities. It flourishes in the absence of Nigerian state authority, often aided, willingly or otherwise, by community actors.

A 2023 report by the International Crisis Group observed that ISWAP’s economic model mimics state structures and generates steady revenue, especially from taxation of local businesses and traders, noting that defeating this system would take more than military might.

“Breaking the financial backbone of these groups involves restoring legitimate governance and providing alternative livelihoods,” a former staff member of the Nigerian Financial Intelligence Unit told HumAngle, pleading anonymity for security reasons. “As long as they provide services and the state does not, they will retain influence.”

Fifteen years into the conflict, the fight against Boko Haram and ISWAP is no longer solely about military victories, the expert said. It is also about dismantling the systems that keep them alive. In a conflict-ravaged region where the state has faltered, insurgents have constructed a parallel order, founded not only on violence but also on function.

“They are fighting a war, yes. But they are also running a government,” the former ISWAP fighter reiterated.