Borno

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.

Journalists and Civil Society Organisations (CSOs) have joined forces to seek justice for 42 men arbitrarily detained and tortured by the Nigerian military in Borno State, North East Nigeria.

During an advocacy meeting organised by HumAngle and Amnesty International in Maiduguri, the state capital, on Wednesday, Oct. 22, civic leaders and media practitioners took a step to spotlight an investigation that opened a can of worms on the gross violation of human rights.

The survivors were present at the meeting to share first-hand accounts of how they endured years of torture, abuse, and brutal treatment in detention. They were accompanied by some of their relatives, who waited over a decade for their return. 

One survivor lost his sight while in detention, another lost an ear, and the other bore scars all over his body. Their stories cast a sombre mood over the room, as participants and advocates reflected on how to achieve transitional justice for the victims.

Usman Abba Zanna, the HumAngle reporter who investigated the case for months, detailed how he followed a lead from local sources and made several visits to Gallari, a rural community in Borno’s Konduga Local Government Area, to verify claims of military invasions and arbitrary arrests.

“In a conflict situation like this, there are so many cases of violation of humanitarian laws and war crimes by state actors. These men were the breadwinners of their families, and the military just arrested all of them,” Zanna narrated to the audience, stating that the arrest happened immediately after the Chibok schoolgirls’ abduction in April 2014.

“When I went to Gallari, I met a 16-year-old boy who told me that they had arrested his father. He was now saddled with all the responsibilities of the family, including caring for her grandmother, who cried until she became blind. He travels far away to work and raise money to fend for his younger ones,” he added. 

In his remarks, Isa Sanusi, the Country Director at Amnesty International in Nigeria, reiterated the organisation’s efforts in documenting human rights violations amid insurgency and armed violence in the region. He said the organisation’s recent partnership with HumAngle is another move to seek accountability.

“One of the issues that we consistently talk about is the issue of accountability. Many people believe that the only way to bring peace is just to say that schools are being rebuilt and people are being forced to return to their communities,” he said, urging stakeholders in the meeting to take necessary actions.

“So many people are always asking: How are we going to have accountability, and how is it going to work? This is the reason we’re here. Amnesty International and HumAngle are partners in making sure that we seek accountability in this case.”

Hauwa Shaffii Nuhu, HumAngle’s Managing Editor, corroborated this sentiment, saying: “Journalism and advocacy are some of the most effective tools with which to correct the ills in society. Through the gathering today, we are merging both so that the suffering of people like the Gallari men and all other victims of enforced disappearances can have their stories heard. This is in the hopes that targeted advocacy towards stakeholders will elicit positive action from them.”

The raid that led to the arrests shattered the civilian community, leaving children, wives, and the elderly in displacement, poverty, and forcing some to remarry or assume breadwinning responsibilities prematurely.

Ten years later, in 2024, HumAngle revisited the incident, documenting the fate of the forgotten men. Three of them were released following our investigation a few months later. When we visited them after their return, we found an even more disturbing revelation: 37 of the 42 men detained had died gruesomely in detention, and those still alive carry their grief and scars around.

Before his arrest 12 years ago, Ahmadu Gujja was a strong man in his mid-20s and his family’s breadwinner. Life in Gallari, his village, was simple and fulfilling. He farmed, reared animals, and has supported his widowed mother and seven younger siblings since his father’s death. 

Gallari is a community of the Shuwa Arab tribe in Konduga Local Government Area (LGA) of Borno State, northeastern Nigeria. The remote village lies along Damboa road, 28 km away from Maiduguri, the state’s capital, 12 km from the nearest military base, and 98 km away from Chibok LGA. 

In 2014, a tragedy struck. For Gallari, it meant near extinction. For Ahmadu, it meant losing everything overnight. He had just married his second wife and was eagerly expecting the birth of a child from his first wife when the tragedy unfolded.

When HumAngle met Ahmadu, the weight of the memories of that day was almost unbearable. Blind now from injuries and neglect suffered in detention, he struggled through tears to recall what happened.

“I can never forget the day,” Ahmadu started.

On Thursday in April 2014, one week after the 276 school girls in Chibok were abducted by the infamous Boko Haram group, soldiers in a convoy with the Civilian Joint Task Force (CJTF) drove past Gallari without incident. Villagers, including Ahmadu and his neighbour Abubakar, remember seeing them. 

But the following morning, everything changed. Around 9 a.m., soldiers and CJTF members surrounded the village, herding men, women,  and children into a square. 

Ahmadu had barely woken. He was waiting for his wife to finish cooking and to heat water for his bath, a daily routine for Ahmadu before taking his herd to graze. Instead, he was stripped alongside 41 other men. Among them were two strangers, one from a neighbouring village who had come to the market, and another who cut trees for a living. 

“They gathered everyone in the village. They asked if we were Boko Haram. We told them no, but they wanted us to say yes,” Ahmadu recalled.

The soldiers picked all 42 men, tortured them in front of their families, and hauled them away in military trucks to Dalwa, a nearby village. “Some had their ears cut off, others were stabbed. I myself was tied with ropes and beaten by soldiers and members of the CJTF,” Ahmadu recounted the horrors of that morning. 

Before transporting them further, soldiers interrogated the men about the abducted Chibok girls, whether they had seen Boko Haram passing through or witnessed the girls being taken. “We told them we saw nothing, that we don’t know Boko Haram,” Ahmadu told HumAngle.

That same day, the men were moved to Giwa Barracks in Maiduguri. The conditions there were appalling, he recounted.

“The cell was very tight, with no good toilet. We could only defecate in a bucket. There was not enough water, and the food was not enough,” Ahmadu said, adding that their hands were tied tight from behind for as long as he could remember.

They were given pap in the morning, maize for lunch, and semovita at night. Soldiers continued to interrogate them, demanding that they confess to being Boko Haram members.

“We suffered to the extent that if we were hiding something, we would have confessed,” he said.

For one week, they endured torture, including being tied up and left under the scorching sun from 7 a.m. to 4 p.m., given just a bottle of water and a biscuit. Within days, three of the men had died due to hardship, untreated injuries, and the unbearable living conditions.

Years of darkness 

After a week at Giwa, 39 survivors from Gallari were flown with hundreds of other detainees to a military detention centre in Niger State, North Central Nigeria. The conditions there were even worse. Their clothes were stripped, and their trousers cut short. They were forced to sleep on bare floors. Water was scarce. It was simply depressing, Ahmadu recounted. 

“They gave us water in a teacup, and it was not daily. Sometimes we spend a whole day without water. They gave us tea with bread, but without water, we couldn’t eat. Sometimes, we drank our urine,” he recounted.

The first year was especially deadly. Ahmadu said many detainees died from hunger and suffering. “We have witnessed several cases of dead bodies disposed of in the cell. I did not have the count, but many Gallari men died within that period,” Ahmadu told HumAngle.

It was in Niger that Ahmadu began to lose his sight, first from a head injury during interrogation, then from months in darkness. “They kept us in a cell for one year without seeing the sun. When they later brought us out, they told us to look at the sun. That was when my eyes began to hurt,” he recalled. “I first lost vision from the right eye, then one year later, I lost the vision of the left eye. Turning me completely blind in a protracted year.”

For years, he suffered without treatment. Doctors in the prison said they had no specialist, and he was denied access to outside care. 

After six years in detention, a court declared Ahmadu and others innocent. But instead of being released immediately, they spent more years in detention. 

“The court said we were not guilty, but we still stayed,” he said.

For more than 11 years, Ahmadu did not hear from his family. “I gave up because I had lost everything. I had stopped thinking about home because it only reminded me of memories I had missed and would never get back. I missed my two wives and the unborn child I left,” he said. 

The isolation drove him to despair. At one point, he contemplated suicide. Ahmadu started shedding tears from the eyes he could no longer see with when he recalled the memories.

A shattered homecoming

In 2024, the detainees declared innocent were moved to Mallam Sidi, a rehabilitation centre in Gombe State in the country’s North East, where they underwent social reintegration activities. That same year, HumAngle compiled a list of the 42 men from Gallari who had been arrested and remained untraceable to their families. We submitted the list to the Nigerian army, asking for their whereabouts. HumAngle never heard back. 

But in April 2025, Ahmadu and two brothers from Gallari — Mohammed and Hashim Garba — were freed and reunited with their families in Maiduguri. “Out of the 42 men from Gallari, only five survived. And out of the five, only three of us were released,” Ahmadu told HumAngle. “The other two, Maina Musa and Isa Usman, remain in custody, waiting for court hearings.”

The military transported them to the Maryam Abacha Hospital in Maiduguri. They were received by the International Organisation for Migration (IOM), which offered them food and asked about their problems. But no medical care was provided. The military then told them to call their families or find their own way home.

For Ahmadu, returning home after 12 years was devastating. His first wife, pregnant at the time of his arrest, had died with her unborn child from grief and trauma. “She was not eating; she vomited up any meal we made her to eat,” Ahmadu’s mother recalled.

His second wife had been abducted by Boko Haram, bore four children for a fighter before fleeing, and when she heard the news of Ahmadu, she tried to reunite with him. But he refused.

Since his release, Ahmadu has continued to suffer excruciating pain in his eyes and head. With no access to proper medical care, he relies only on the little drugs his mother can afford from local vendors, mostly painkillers that provide temporary relief but do not address his actual ailments.

Two months after his return, Ahmadu continues to live with deep trauma that affects his daily life. His mother, who had long lived with little hope of ever seeing her son again, was overjoyed at his release. In her happiness and out of concern for his condition, she quickly arranged a small wedding so that Ahmadu could have a companion to support him through the hardship of his blindness. 

In June, three months after he was freed, Ahmadu married his new wife. Today, the couple depend largely on his ageing mother, who struggles to provide for them from the little income she makes selling dairy milk. “My biggest fear is for my younger ones. My mother is still the one caring for me,” Ahmadu lamented.

He lives in an unfinished building under thatch that barely gives them shelter. It’s the rainy season, and everywhere is leaking in the room when HumAngle visits his home. Now blind and dependent with no livelihood, Ahmadu lives in humiliation. “Whenever it rains, we cannot sleep because the roof leaks. Before, even our goats had better shelter than this,” he said quietly.

Ahmadu lives with trauma and the weight of a lost life. He longs for justice but fears causing unrest. “If I can get my rights without causing any riot in Nigeria, I will be glad. But I don’t want anything that will cause a problem. We need a lot of help;  I need support to start a business so that I can take care of my new family,” he said.

The brothers’ ordeal

Like Ahmadu, Mohammed, 35, and Hashim, 32, were ordinary herders and farmers before the raid. Soldiers seized them alongside the other men of Gallari. Mohammed remembers the day clearly. He was sitting with his wife, about to eat, before taking his animals out to graze. Then soldiers in nearly 40 vehicles surrounded the village. 

From Gallari to Dalwa, then Giwa Barracks, and finally Niger State, the Garba brothers lived through the same cycle of torture and despair as Ahmadu.

“My friend Dahiru died in my presence because of thirst,” Mohammed said. “We could go four days without water. Some of us even drank urine to survive. By the time the Red Cross came to bring carpets and water, 37 of our people had died.”

Hashim recalled how three men died from torture before his distraught eyes within a week at Giwa Barracks. He also watched his elder brother faint under the beatings. Mohammed’s left ear was cut off, his wrists and back etched with scars from where he had been tied. Hashim, too, bore the marks of restraint and filth, his skin discoloured from months without bathing.

When the International Committee of the Red Cross intervened, conditions improved slightly, but the damage was irreversible.

Although eventually declared innocent by the courts, Mohammed and Hashim remained imprisoned. “We were told to calm down, that someday we would be released. It took 11 years,” Mohammed recounted.

At the rehabilitation centre in Gombe, where they were finally transferred, the brothers heard devastating news from home. “I heard that my wife and unborn child had died. My father, too, had died,” Mohammad said quietly. “When we were captured, my wife was pregnant. She gave birth to a dead child because of the way they took us. Later, she also died.”

Hashim’s grief was different but just as heavy. “We came back with nothing,” he said. 

“Even this phone I use was given to me by my mother. I feel shy when I see people I used to know as children, now grown up. Everything has changed while we were gone,” he said.

The brothers returned to find their family scattered and their property gone. Before his arrest, Mohammed owned about 30 cows and goats. His herd and even his house are now gone. “We only depend on our elder brother, who is taking care of our mother. We want to be self-reliant again,” Hashim said. 

Both men carry lasting scars. Mohammed struggles with heart pain and breathing difficulties. Hashim still bears deep marks on his wrists and head.

“When we first came back, I couldn’t even walk to the toilet without help. I had to reduce how much water I drank just to avoid disturbing people every time,” he said.

But beyond the physical pain is the humiliation of starting life from nothing. 

“We don’t want to be beggars. If I can have a wife, I can have someone to help me every day. But now, even marriage is far from us. Before, I married my wife with ₦100,000. Today, you need nearly a million. And I have nothing,”  Mohammed said.

Upon release, Ahmadu, Mohammed, and Hashim told HumAngle that the authorities gave them ₦50,000 cash. “They wasted 12 years of our lives. How can we recover with ₦50,000? I exhausted the money two days after my release,” Mohammed told HumAngle.

‘When we saw them, we cried’

The release of Ahmadu and the Garba brothers broke years of silence but also reopened deep wounds, especially for families who have lost loved ones forever. “When we saw them, we cried. They were unrecognisable,” a relative told HumAngle.

Other locals, like Kellu Janga, spent everything they had chasing hopes of reunion. She turned to people who claimed they could help to secure the men’s release, but those efforts proved futile. Her grief eventually cost her her eyesight, and she now depends on her grandson Abubakar for survival.

“We need the government to tell us where the rest are. We need justice,” Modu, the village’s deputy head and the only man spared during the mass arrest, told HumAngle.

Gallari’s tragedy has remained invisible, overshadowed by global attention to other incidents like the abduction of the Chibok schoolgirls that led to the raid. While the world mourned those girls, Gallari’s men vanished in silence. No official explanation has ever been given. The Nigerian Army has not responded to HumAngle’s letters seeking answers.

Children who were toddlers when their fathers were seized are now teenagers, growing up without fatherly support. Some dropped out of school to fend for themselves. 

Abubakar, only ten when his father and uncles were taken, has carried the burden of raising his siblings ever since. “I just want to see my father again. If he is alive, let them bring him back. If not, we deserve to know,” he said.

‘A gross violation of the constitution’

In the North East, transitional justice has often focused on the reintegration of former Boko Haram members through initiatives such as the Disarmament, Demobilisation, Rehabilitation, and Reintegration Borno Model (DDRR) programme, a counter-terrorism project aimed at rehabilitating and reintegrating surrendered Boko Haram members back into society, and Sulhu, a local peace and deradicalisation initiative. 

While these efforts aim to end violence and rebuild communities, they leave behind unresolved wounds for families whose loved ones were arrested arbitrarily and held without trial for years. For these families, justice is not about reintegration alone but also about truth, accountability, and the right to know the fate of those taken away.

Relatives of detainees interviewed by HumAngle argue that any conversation about reconciliation feels incomplete and one-sided when innocent civilians remain behind bars without trial. Their demand is simple: justice must include the release or fair trial of those held in military detention centres, alongside information about those who have died in custody. 

For them, healing cannot come from dialogue with insurgents while their own sons, brothers, and fathers languish in silence and neglect.

Aisha, one of several individuals and groups in Borno State advocating for justice and the release of their loved ones, expressed the frustration shared by many. “How can we have Sulhu with Boko Haram members who were the cause of the mass arrests, detentions, and killings? Our children, sons, relatives, and parents have been detained without trial for many years, and you want us to accept Sulhu? Release our children if you want justice for all. Our children were innocent when the military arrested them,” she said.

Aisha’s activism began with seeking the release of her own son, arrested along with other youths in a mosque in 2012. Since then, she has become a prominent voice for families whose loved ones remain in military custody.

Sheriff Ibrahim, a lawyer and human rights activist in Maiduguri, described the detention of the Gallari men as “a gross violation of the Nigerian Constitution and international human rights law.” He explained that under Nigeria’s 1999 Constitution (as amended in 2011), no person should be detained for more than 24 hours or at most 48 hours without being charged in court. 

“The law is clear. Anyone arrested should either be charged within that time frame or released on bail. To hold people for over 10 years without trial is unlawful and unconstitutional,” he said.

According to Ibrahim, the fundamental rights of the Gallari men and their families were completely violated. Chapter Four of the Constitution guarantees the right to life, the right to human dignity, and freedom of movement. “These men were presumed innocent but were treated as though they were guilty without evidence. Their families too suffered years of separation, uncertainty, and economic hardship,” he added.

He further noted that survivors and families of those who died in detention have the right to seek justice and compensation from the Nigerian state. “The victims, survivors, and their families can sue the government for unlawful and unjustified detention. There were no prior charges against them, no fair hearing, and no due process. These are the most basic rights guaranteed by law,” Ibrahim told HumAngle.

In contrast to the treatment of Boko Haram fighters and innocent civilians, Ibrahim criticised what he described as double standards in the Nigerian justice system. “Former Boko Haram members who committed crimes against humanity are reintegrated into society through government programmes. Yet innocent civilians like the Gallari men were locked away for years without trial. That is clearly a misplaced priority and a failure of justice,” Ibrahim said.

To prevent such cases in the future, Ibrahim called for an independent committee of inquiry involving civil society groups, non-governmental organisations, and other stakeholders. 

“There must be transparency and accountability. If anyone is found guilty of aiding or abetting, they should face charges. But if there is insufficient evidence, then the person should be released immediately and compensated. That is the only way to restore public trust in the justice system,” Ibrahim noted. 

This story was produced by HumAngle and co-published with other media.

Abba Ali says he was there when Boko Haram leader Abubakar Shekau blew himself up to avoid capture by the Islamic State West Africa Province (ISWAP) in May 2021. 

He survived, but his life changed forever. The road to that experience stretched back to 2015, when Boko Haram stormed his hometown of Bama and abducted him at the age of six.

That day, Abba and his four-year-old brother were taken to the forest by the terrorists. His younger brother succumbed to the harsh conditions in Sambisa Forest, the terror group’s enclave in Borno State, North East Nigeria, but Abba survived. 

In the forest, he lived among other children in a village called Njimiya and was later taken to Shekau’s enclave by one of his two elder brothers, who had joined Boko Haram two years before Bama fell. That brother also later died, leaving Abba in the custody of Shekau’s household and his other elder brother.

By then, he had turned ten and had started combat training at Bula Sa’Inna in Sambisa Forest, where the deceased Boko Haram leader lived and conducted his operations. For two years, he was drilled until he became a sniper. When the training ended, he was assigned to guard checkpoints around Shekau’s camp. 

Abba stayed at one of these posts for years, often seeing Shekau, who, though calm and playful with the boys, was ruthless when betrayed.

There, he repelled countless attacks and fought against splinter groups like ISWAP.

After Shekau’s death, ISWAP held him for two months, until his uncle, once the fourth in command under Shekau, saw a chance to escape. After three failed attempts, they succeeded. Together, they rode in the night, dodging rival factions until they reached the outskirts of Bama. Abba couldn’t recognise his hometown; his childhood memories were gone.

“I only knew it was Bama when I was told,” he said.

Now 19, Abba lives in Maiduguri with his mother and stepfamily, who continue to care for him. When he first returned, he surrendered to the authorities. He was held briefly for a day before being taken to an internally displaced persons’ camp at Government Day Senior Science Secondary School, Bama. There, he was given a food ration card and shelter until he reunited with his family. 

Unlike the others who surrendered at the same time, Abba was not enrolled in Operation Safe Corridor, the federal programme launched in 2016 to provide psychosocial support, vocational training, and business starter packs for the reintegration of surrendered terrorists. He did not disclose why he was excluded. 

Over 500,000 insurgents and their families have laid down their arms through the programme, while others have deliberately avoided it. Abba, however, did not evade but was excluded for reasons he did not disclose. 

“We were told there would be help, but nothing came. Sometimes I feel like going back to Sambisa,” he told HumAngle. “I only feel like going back when I am hungry. I wish I had something to do.” 

Fighting on the right side

While Abba battles hunger and memories of Sambisa, other surrendered insurgents, such as Musa Kura, have returned to the battlefield, but on the government’s side. 

He recalls how Boko Haram preached to him until their ideology seemed the only truth. At 18, in 2013, he followed willingly into the bush. But after Shekau died, Musa saw ISWAP as traitors, and the government’s amnesty offer felt like a lifeline. He fled with his wife and children and surrendered to the authorities. 

Musa passed through Operation Safe Corridor, and it was there, he says, that the military recruited him. He works as a civilian security guard in Konduga, but he is struggling. 

“The payment is poor. Our children are not in school, and what we are given is not enough to care for our families. The only reason we stay is because we swore not to go back to our old ways,” he told HumAngle. They are paid ₦30,000 per month. 

“I don’t know anything apart from fighting, so that is what I do,” he added. 

Others, however, have chosen to disappear from the battlefield entirely. Isa Gana, another former Boko Haram member, chose a different path. After surrendering, he was given ₦100,000 in “startup support”. However, people never quite trusted him in his community. 

Isa left Borno for Lagos, where he now works menial jobs. For him, anonymity is better than suspicion, and poverty in a city far from the battlefield feels safer than returning to violence.

“It is better this way,” he said. “I don’t want to fight for Boko Haram, and I don’t want to fight for the government.”

Yet, for some, even leaving the battlefield behind does not bring peace. Twenty-four-year-old Bakura Abba, who also surrendered after Shekau’s death and underwent the Operation Safe Corridor programme, said: “Survival in this new life is almost impossible. We have no housing, and we are jobless.”

Bakura was 17 when he was captured while working on the farm. Faced with the threat of execution, he chose to join Boko Haram and was trained as a fighter. 

The frustration voiced by all those who spoke to HumAngle highlights a larger problem in Nigeria’s reintegration programme. Ahmad Salkida, the CEO of HumAngle and a security expert who has spent decades researching and reporting on the Boko Haram insurgency, said the sustainability of the reintegration programme rests on credibility. 

The managers, he stressed, must be able to keep their promises to beneficiaries while also designing a framework that ensures the safety of the communities where defectors will eventually be resettled. According to him, the only way to achieve this is through a robust deradicalisation process, something that is currently missing. 

“If a person is used to violence for over a decade and he is back in society, and is not engaged in other forms of livelihood or any skills, the likelihood of them going back, or even committing crimes in the community, is very high,” Salkida warned. 

He added that the government’s best chance of success is to establish trust by handing the process to an independent civil society group, interfaith organisations, and mental health professionals, with communities fully involved, rather than leaving it in the hands of the Nigerian Army. 

So far, however, there has been little meaningful support for communities most devastated by the insurgency, while considerable resources have gone instead to the perpetrators. This imbalance, Salkida warns, fuels the perception that deradicalisation is a reward for violent crimes — a perception that must change if trust is to be built between defectors, communities, and the government.

Official claims of success stand in sharp contrast to the lived reality. The deradicalisation programme suffers from a shortage of specialised trainers, poor physical infrastructure, and a lack of effective systems to monitor participants after reintegration. 

The credibility gap is most visible in the mismatch between promises and delivery. Earlier in 2025, Borno State alone allocated ₦7.46 billion for the reintegration of surrendered combatants, one of its largest capital projects. But, as beneficiaries reveal, this investment is only heavy on paper, not in impact.

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.

Weather forecasts suggest Maiduguri and surrounding communities in Borno State, northeastern Nigeria, are set for reduced rainfall in the coming days, offering some relief to a city haunted by last year’s Sept. 10 devastating flood.

The chance of rain, which stood at 74 per cent last week, is expected to drop to 11 per cent today, easing pressure on the city’s fragile drainage systems and flood-prone neighbourhoods. ​According to AccuWeather, scattered showers are still expected, but without the intensity that typically triggers flash floods.

For residents, however, the reassurance is tempered by painful memories. Nearly half of Maiduguri was affected last year, with at least 150 lives lost, according to the National Emergency Management Agency, and over 400,000 people displaced. Critical infrastructure was damaged, livelihoods destroyed, and many survivors are still struggling to recover. 

The improved forecast offers hope, but Maiduguri’s long history of flooding means residents remain wary. Last year’s calamity was not caused solely by rainfall but by inadequate infrastructure, blocked drainage systems, and the dam’s failure. HumAngle reported extensively on the series of events that led to the flood. 

Babagana Zulum, the state governor, who visited the Alau Dam recently, assured residents that water levels are now stable after controlled releases since July.

“Based on current engineering analysis, there is no cause for alarm,” he told journalists.

Yet not everyone is convinced. Timothy Olanrewaju, a resident who was affected by last year’s flood, said the government’s assurance should be taken with a grain of salt.

“We can’t assume that just because the rain is easing compared to last month that we won’t experience flooding,” he said. “Two communities, 505 Housing Estate and Fori Layout, were flooded last weekend, even though there was no heavy rainfall in the city. The Ngada River simply overflowed its banks, and the water made its way into those communities.”

Like many residents, Timothy said he has yet to replace most of the items he lost in the last flood. “Even my car, which was submerged in the water for over a week, is still in terrible shape. I’ve spent a lot of money on it, but it’s not fully repaired,” he said, adding that he is still traumatised. 

“Every time I hear the sound of rain, I start to panic, thinking the flood is coming. A few days ago, I learned that some communities in the city were flooded, and it made me anxious. I began to worry that we would experience the same things we did last year.”

Residents take precaution

In the absence of certainty, some communities are taking matters into their own hands. At the State Low-cost Estate, one of the hardest-hit areas last year, residents have begun desilting their clogged drains during environmental sanitation exercises.

“We were blamed for the flooding we face here because of blocked drainage,” said Abdulkareem Mai Modu, a resident of the estate. “So, in order not to take any chances, we decided to pool our resources and clear all our waterways to avoid any disaster.”

Others, like automobile mechanic Yahaya Garba, remain displaced. ​“We are still taking temporary abodes at the homes of our relatives. I hope there will be a permanent solution to this annual calamity that comes to our homes,” he said. Yahaya’s home in Bulunkutu is still submerged from the recent excessive rainfall.

In the 505 Housing Estate, where floodwaters recently breached perimeter fences, resident Babagana Wakil described wading through knee-deep water.

​“Many residents to relocate as quickly as possible,” he said.

“The government needs to step up and ensure they monitor the flow of water and, when they see danger, pass on information to residents as quickly as possible so people can evacuate from flood-prone areas,” Timothy added.

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.

It’s 1:00 p.m., and the sun in Maiduguri, North East Nigeria, scorches without mercy – too hot to stand still and too bright to keep eyes open. Under the blistering heat, however, children clutch their bowls tightly, roaming the streets for food.

When it rains, they shiver violently, teeth clattering loud enough to be heard from several feet away, their stomachs rumbling, their eyes scanning for anything edible. With bleeding heels and limps from split soles, their skin looks cracked during the harmattan. They often wander around, drifting through dumpsites with empty bowls or plastic bags clutched to their sides.

At fast food joints, they watch others eat, swatting flies from their eyes and the corners of their mouths, waiting for crumbs or spilt leftovers. By nightfall, they curl under bridges or behind kiosks, sleeping beneath shop awnings, or wherever a patch of shadow might pass for shelter. 

They survive on dumpsites and gutters, scavenging for scraps, stretching out their palms to uninterested pedestrians, and knocking on car windows with quiet pleas. Some chant, some mumble, and some say nothing at all. It rarely makes a difference; most of the time, no one listens. 

HumAngle has spoken to scores of children uprooted and shaped by the Boko Haram insurgency in the northeastern region. Broken and disadvantaged, many of these children say they resort to scavenging at dumpsites to survive, searching through refuse to feed themselves and support their families.

Twelve-year-old Ibrahim Ali, one of the scavenging boys HumAngle interviewed, returns with some metal scraps from a day-long exploration. “I always look for metal scraps that I can sell to support my family,” Ibrahim said. “On a good day, I find three to four kilos of metal that I sell for ₦300 per kilo. But on normal days, I get less than that. Sometimes I may end up without getting any scraps worth selling.”

The Boko Haram conflict unravelled the social safety net entirely. It swelled the ranks of the homeless, turned children into scavengers, and broke the links between family, education, and protection. When two cases of child abuse surfaced recently in the media, the public had a rare glimpse into the routine violence many children silently endure. The first involved a schoolgirl caught plucking mangoes, who was beaten with fists and kicks by the tree’s owner. The second was a video that emerged from a Tsangaya school: a boy stripped shirtless, doused with water, sand poured over him, and lashed mercilessly by his teacher.

The backlash was swift. The teacher was arrested. The state awarded the boy a scholarship. There was outrage. There were hashtags. However, the troubles facing children caught up in war zones are far more disturbing; the future of many of them is held to ransom by terrorists, ruining lives and properties in the suburbs of Borno state.

Bama, for instance, was once a bustling commercial hub, a critical trade link for merchants from Cameroon and neighbouring Nigerian states. But in 2014, it became the first major town to fall to Boko Haram. What followed was the collapse of life as it had once been. When the military reclaimed the town, a deepening humanitarian crisis emerged. Today in Bama, children roam the streets. Many have no idea where their parents are or what it means to be cared for.

These gaps in protection are realities carved into the lives of children like Adamu and Bala, who are forced to navigate survival without the support of family.

Adamu is just 10 years old, yet he carries himself with the hollowed, guarded manner of someone much older. He lives alone in a displacement camp in Bama, a place originally meant to provide safety, but where no one takes responsibility for him. “I don’t know who my parents are,” he said quietly, avoiding eye contact. “I just sleep anywhere in the camp. Sometimes near the fence, or by the market sheds.”

At sunrise, he sets out for Bama town, wandering in search of food. “In the morning, I go to town to beg. That’s how I survive,” he said. 

In Konduga, 12-year-old Bala lives a different but equally difficult life. He shares a shelter in the IDP camp with his mother and two younger brothers, but the conditions are dire. “We don’t have food,” he said. “I beg on the streets to eat.” His father disappeared years ago, and Bala doesn’t know whether he’s alive or dead. Now, as the oldest child, he bears a responsibility far beyond his age, providing for his family.

Both boys are among the estimated 2.6 million internally displaced persons (IDPs) in Borno, more than half of whom are children. Despite the scale of the need, investment in education remains limited. Between 2020 and 2023, the Education Cannot Wait (ECW) initiative allocated US$20.1 million to support nearly 2.9 million children across Borno, Adamawa, and Yobe. In 2024, it pledged another US$15 million to reach over 130,000 more. 

“We cannot talk about algebra when they haven’t eaten,” said Mohammad Bunu, an educationist working with displaced and vulnerable children in northeastern Nigeria. The real crisis isn’t infrastructure; it’s the disconnect between formal education models and the survival realities of children in camps and communities, he said.

Bunu calls for a shift toward community-based education that combines basic literacy with vocational training, such as carpentry, tailoring, agriculture, and technology. “They need a path beyond begging or just attending school. Reintegration isn’t only for ex-combatants. We must invest in skills that restore dignity.

Longkat Enock, a clinical psychologist, adds that education must have structured emotional support. “You can’t heal a broken society if you ignore its broken children,” he warned. “They’ve seen killings, starvation and abandonment, yet no one asks how they feel.”

Longkat advocates for trained counsellors, safe spaces, and mentorship. “If we keep acting like food and books alone are enough, we’ll be here again in ten years, facing even more shattered futures.”

“We’re not just talking about children missing school, we’re talking about children missing entire stages of development,” said Bunu. “In many of these camps, there’s no structure, no routine, no trained teachers. It’s impossible to talk about rebuilding a society without rebuilding its education system first.”

The coordinators of a makeshift displacement camp at the Government Day Science Secondary School (GDSSS) in Bama say they host over 109,000 people, including more than 64,000 children.

When HumAngle visited the GDSSS school within the camp, the classrooms were empty, and only five teachers were present. “We don’t have more than 50 pupils attending class regularly,” one teacher said.

“When these boys grow up without any care, what will they turn into?” asked Bulama Abdu, a community elder in Bama. “We suffered from one generation of angry boys with guns. Are we raising another?”

“Conflict doesn’t end by hosting displaced people at camps or even back to their communities. If children are left without education, stability, or guidance, the trauma festers. They become vulnerable to criminality, violence, even new forms of extremism,” Enock added.

This concern is similar in post-conflict zones. In South Sudan, neglected war-affected youth became prime targets for militia recruitment. In post-war Liberia, years of childhood abandonment fed into cycles of urban violence. The Nigerian government has refused to articulate a long-term reintegration and education policy specifically targeting children displaced or affected by the Boko Haram conflict. 

Reintegration efforts in the northeastern region largely prioritise ex-combatants, neglecting civilian victims and displaced children. Education-in-emergencies programs, such as learning centres for orphans, remain donor-dependent and limited in scale. Just 27 per cent of school-aged children in humanitarian response plans have received adequate education support, leaving the vast majority without access.

Health educators note that many Nigerians resist birth control on religious grounds. One family-planning counsellor explained that when the term for “family planning” (literally “limiting birth”) was introduced in Hausa (“Kaiyadde Iyali”), people instantly objected, asking, “Who are you to limit birth?”.  They cite Qur’anic teaching that “Allah will provide for all children.” Many of them see large families as divinely ordained and avoid family planning on faith-based grounds.

Traditional socioeconomics also favour big families.  In rural northern society, women live mostly at home and rely on children for chores and farm work.  Children thus serve as household labour and social security.  Having many sons or daughters brings status and assistance.

When HumAngle randomly spoke to some young persons in Maiduguri, the sentiment was nearly unanimous: family planning is perceived as a Western concept, alien to their values. Most respondents said they desired at least eight children, with several aiming for ten or more. “It is God who takes care of children,” said one of the young men. “Every child comes with their destiny. If he makes it, he will make it. If not, nothing the parents do will change that.”

For 27-year-old Adamu Ali, fathering ten children is part of his plan. “At least five of them will grow up to look after me when I’m old,” he said with conviction. His rationale is not uncommon in most northern communities where the collapse of formal social safety nets has reinforced the reliance on children as a form of long-term security.

UNICEF reports that Borno has one of Nigeria’s highest out-of-school rates, as roughly 1.8 million children lack access to schooling. A study found that conflict-affected women showed increased preference for larger families, viewing “more children as a coping strategy amid insecurity, seeking enhanced social and economic security, or replacing lost members during the conflict”. 

In other words, families often cling to the belief that God will provide for any children they have, even when resources vanish.  Humanitarian workers and relatives thus become the de facto caregivers for these unplanned generations, as villagers insist on growing their families in the hope of divine provision.

The ongoing boko haram conflict has shattered traditional support systems. Where once extended families or religious communities would help raise children, displacement and poverty have made that impossible.

“We don’t plan children,” said Hajja Fatima, a 45-year-old widow in Maiduguri raising six children alone. “That is God’s work. If he gives, you take.”

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. 

At the Muna Kumburi camp along Dikwa Road in Maiduguri, northeastern Nigeria, displaced families are taking desperate steps to survive. 

With the provision of humanitarian aid having been ceased for over three years and growing insecurity keeping them from farming freely, dozens of internally displaced people (IDPs) have begun dismantling and selling the very shelters meant to keep them safe.

“We have no choice,” Malum Aisami, the camp chairperson, told HumAngle. “People are in such a desperate situation that they sell their shelter and travel using the money.”

The makeshift tents, constructed from wood, tarpaulin, and zinc sheets, are sold for ₦40,000 to ₦50,000. They use the money to feed their families, buy seeds, cultivate lands in remote areas, or attempt to resettle in safer areas.

When HumAngle visited the camp on July 24, many spaces where shelters once stood now lay bare, marked by upturned soil and abandoned frames. 

While some moved into nearby host communities after selling their shelter, other families squeezed into overcrowded shelters with relatives in the camp. Many travelled to remote bush areas to work on farmlands, and some relocated entirely to farming settlements for the duration of the rainy season–a common practice among families in the region seeking seasonal agricultural income.

“I sold it so that I can use the money to go and buy seeds and feed myself on the farm,” Baisa Modu said, pointing to the plot where his shelter used to be.

Camp residents say the situation worsened when the state government began constructing buildings in parts of the camp, displacing even more families within an already overcrowded space. Some residents relocated to nearby host communities, but many remain in desperation for a good life.

“So far, we’ve recorded over 50 households who dismantled and sold their shelters and moved on. Even me, I sold one of mine. There is hunger, and we cannot go to a farm in peace. There is insecurity and abduction on a daily basis,” Aisami said. 

In February this year, several residents of the same camp were abducted while fetching firewood in the bush. Their families were forced to launch crowdfunding efforts, scraping together ₦300,000 in a desperate attempt to pay the ransom demanded.

Now, as hunger worsens and with risks rising, selling shelters has become a survival strategy, even if it means sleeping in the open or starting over in a new place.

Despite their depressing conditions, over 200 households were also forced to vacate parts of the Muna Kumburi camp last month to make way for a government construction project. The development, which affected nearly half of the camp’s area, rendered many families homeless, pushing them to seek refuge in surrounding host communities.

The camp, which accommodates over 3,000 individuals across more than 600 households, is now experiencing one of its most severe humanitarian crises to date. The perios is marked by food shortages, insecurity, and the gradual disappearance of what little shelter remains.

HumAngle reached out to both the Borno State Police Command and the State Government spokesperson for comments regarding the increasing cases of abductions targeting returnees in Dalori and the humanitarian distress in Muna Kumburi. At the time of filing this report, no official response had been received. 

Abduction cases are rising

After Boko Haram members abducted and killed her husband in 2019, Maryam Indi fled her hometown of Goniri Kadau in Konduga local government of Borno State.

Accompanied by her family, she fled to Maiduguri, the capital city, settling at the Kawar Maila camp for displaced people. She lived there for about six years until the government shut down the camp in 2023 and repatriated her and all other occupants to the 1,000 Housing Units situated at Dalori village along the Bama–Maiduguri road. 

She now lives there with her six children, she says, and life has only grown more difficult and unbearable since their return.

The 55-year-old worked as a farm labourer but stopped this year when suspected Boko Haram members began kidnapping residents who were going to the fields.

Her father-in-law, Ba Modu, was taken just five days before, while returning from the farm in Lawanti, a remote village in Konduga. He was one of eight people abducted from the community when HumAngle visited on July 25.

“The kidnappers demanded ₦1 million per person, but we couldn’t raise the money,” she said.

The abductors warned that Ba Modu would be killed in a week if the ransom was not paid. Maryam says this isn’t the first time their family has suffered such an ordeal.

“We have had three other cases of abduction in our family since we were repatriated to this estate. We paid ₦400,000 to free them,” she recalled.

But now, there is nothing left to give. And the process to raise the money is nearly impossible for many families.

“We used to go around the neighbourhood collecting donations from people, like ₦200 here, ₦500 there. But this time, we couldn’t raise anything. Everyone is suffering,” Maryam told HumAngle.

Maryam now begs in the markets across Maiduguri to feed her children. She said her daughter had recently narrowly escaped an attempted kidnapping while fetching firewood. Her son, who was with her, became sick with shock after witnessing the incident.

“We are scared. We can’t even go outside without fear. We are just surviving on begging and prayers,” she said.

Women like Maryam now bear the brunt of farming-related risks. While farming is often considered a male-dominated occupation in the region, the current insecurity has pushed many men into hiding, leaving women to farm in distant and dangerous areas. 

“Our men are afraid to go. If they go, they’re targeted more. So we, the women, take the risk,” Maryam said.

Since 2021, the Borno State government has implemented a phased closure of displacement camps across Maiduguri, relocating IDPs to newly built housing units in their ancestral communities or nearby towns. The policy was premised on restoring dignity, reviving local economies, and reducing long-term aid dependency.

As part of the exercise, at least ten informal camps in Maiduguri have been shut down. The most recent was the closure of Muna IDP camp in May 2025, during which the state governor, Babagana Umara Zulum, oversaw the relocation of 6,000 displaced families.

The government said the decision was driven by rising issues of crime, drug abuse, and child exploitation within the camp. However, the transition has deepened the humanitarian burden for many, particularly those unable to relocate or access livelihoods.

For many returnees, the promise of stability and improved living conditions remains unfulfilled.

Yakaru Abbagana, 30, another returnee, fled Shettimari in Konduga and lived at the same camp with Maryam before being relocated to the Dalori estate. She now lives with her husband and eight children in what was meant to be a fresh start.

“I used to be a farmer. Now, my children and I beg for survival. Sometimes my children and I go three days without food,” she told HumAngle in a faint voice.

When HumAngle visited her for an interview, her brother, Mammadu, had been abducted ten days before while working as a farm labourer in Lawanti. As with Ba Modu, the captors are demanding ₦1 million. The family cannot raise it; their only asset is the house gifted to them through the resettlement scheme.

“We told them we don’t have that money. They told us to sell our house for his release. But if we do that, we’ll have no shelter. Nothing,” she said.

Yakaru’s family had faced abductions in the past, too.

“Two of my uncle’s children were kidnapped last year. We paid ₦500,000 each to get them out. But now, we have nothing. Only this house the government gave us,” she said.

The uncertainty and fear have left many families choosing between starvation and the risk of death. “We are just begging. That’s our only means now,” Yakaru said.

On July 25, Nagari Bunu’s younger brother, Mustapha Bukar, 20, was abducted while farming. Ngari told HumAngle that, in two days, their family managed to raise ₦900,000 out of the ₦1 million ransom through community donations. 

He added that their father had considered selling their tent to raise the money, but community members helped. “People came together to help. They said we shouldn’t sell the house,” Nagari said.

Mustapha was abducted alongside others, but he remains the only one in captivity as others have paid and regained their freedom. The captors did not set a deadline but made it clear that Mustapha would not be released until the full ransom was paid.

Muhammed Usman, 30, is a community representative of the repatriated families from Kawar Maila camp, overseeing about 400 households now living in Dalori. His account reflects a community on the verge of collapse.

“This year alone, more than ten people have been abducted from our community while trying to farm. At least eight are still in captivity. The total ransom demanded is over ten million naira,” Muhammed said.

He explains that farming is not only a livelihood but the only lifeline left for many. Yet the farmlands surrounding Dalori and other nearby farming areas have become hunting grounds for Boko Haram.

Each time their community members are abducted, they resort to crowdfunding as authorities or organisations do not support them in the process. Muhammad says they do it alone year in year-round. 

“We rely on neighbours to contribute what they can to rescue victims. But now, even that system is failing. We are all empty,” he told HumAngle.

According to locals interviewed by HumAngle, security presence is patchy. Civilian Joint Task Force (CJTF) members are stationed in some areas, but vast stretches of farmland remain unprotected.

“The government helps by giving us these houses. But they don’t help when our people are kidnapped. No food, no aid, no security. We are on our own,” Muhammad said.

The displaced communities continue to appeal for urgent government intervention to address their growing insecurity, hunger, and lack of support in resettlement areas

Every weekday, 38-year-old Fatima Musa grips her son’s hand as they step onto a makeshift bridge in Fori, a community in Jere Local Government Area (LGA) of Borno State, northeastern Nigeria. Together, they cross the poorly constructed structure to reach the primary school he attends, and later make the same journey home.

The original Fori Bridge collapsed during the devastating floods of September 2024, which inundated Maiduguri and its environs, leaving dozens dead and thousands displaced. The destruction severed vital connections between Bama Park and Market, the University of Maiduguri, and several neighbourhoods.

With no official intervention, local youths erected a makeshift crossing far from Fatima’s home. Constructed from wooden planks, logs, and sand-filled sacks, the narrow bridge hovers precariously over the Ngadda River, the same river that swept away homes, businesses, and livelihoods just months ago.

The disruption forced residents like Fatima to undertake perilous detours or depend on the makeshift bridge, which is far away from her home. 

The community’s improvised fix has restored a semblance of connectivity, but it is fragile. In less than two months, seasonal rains will return, swelling the Ngadda once again. Residents told HumAngle they fear the structure will be destroyed, cutting them off from schools, hospitals, and markets, and deepening the isolation they already face.

The original Fori Bridge, a vital link for residents across several communities in Jere, was the first structure to collapse when the floods ravaged the area. 

A student’s dread

For 27-year-old Zainab Yahaya, a student at the University of Maiduguri, the broken bridge is more than a daily inconvenience, it threatens her future. She crosses the makeshift bridge every day to attend classes. As the rainy season looms, her anxiety increases.

“I use the makeshift bridge now, but when the water returns, the bridge won’t survive it,” she said. “And then, everything becomes more difficult, more expensive, more dangerous and more exhausting.”

Last year’s flood destroyed her neighbourhood. This year, she fears her education may be next. Without the bridge, Zainab would be forced to take longer detours that significantly increase both cost and travel time.

“What used to cost ₦100 will now jump to ₦400,” she explained. “And the hours I lose taking detours, it’s hard to keep up with school. I will be exhausted before I reach class.”

Crossing by canoe is not an option she trusts. “It’s dangerous. The water is unpredictable, the canoes are unstable, and sometimes you don’t even know if the person paddling them is a professional or not,” Zainab added.

Her frustration is echoed throughout the community. “The government hasn’t done anything tangible. No repairs, no support, not even a visit,” she says. “We’re left on our own.”

A cycle doomed to repeat

A HumAngle investigation published in 2024 traced the flood’s origins to a combination of infrastructural decay, poor planning, and delayed emergency response at the Alau Dam.

Originally designed in 1986 to hold 112 million cubic meters of water, the dam’s capacity has swelled to an estimated 279 to 296 million cubic meters, primarily because of unchecked sediment buildup. 

Every year, during the June-to-September monsoon, stormwater flows from the Mubi highlands into the Yedzeram River. This major tributary quickly swells and merges with the Gambole River, before entering the wetlands of the Sambisa Forest to form the headwaters of the Ngadda.

From there, the Ngadda empties into Lake Alau, held back by the Alau Dam, a large reservoir on the outskirts of Maiduguri. When rainfall is heavy upstream, the rivers surge downstream with little delay, raising water levels sharply in Lake Alau.

The dam is gate-controlled, designed to hold and release water in a regulated manner.

However, another dam downstream lacks this control. Without gates, it simply overflows once water reaches a certain level, releasing torrents into vulnerable communities with no warning. This unregulated spillway worsened last year’s catastrophe in Maiduguri.

In February, the federal government announced a ₦80 billion rehabilitation and expansion project for the Alau Dam to prevent any disaster in the future. On March 2, the Minister of Water Resources and Sanitation, Joseph Utsev, officially flagged off the project, stating it would be executed in two phases over 24 months.

Yet, a visit by HumAngle to the site in May painted a different picture.

Three bulldozers sat idle in the sun. No workers were present. The dam, still visibly broken, lay open like an unhealed wound. A makeshift sand barrier was the only sign of intervention, containing stagnant water where a flowing river once ran.

Nearby, fishermen cast their nets into the shallow puddles, making do with what remains of their vanishing livelihood. 

“They [referring to government contractors] brought those bulldozers months ago,” said Musa, a wiry young man watching the water. “All they did was pile sand to block the flow. Since then, nothing.”

Adamu, another resident and a fisherman, leaned against a tree and shook his head. “This sand is like candy floss,” he muttered. “It will melt when the floods come. Then we’ll flood again.”

At 53, Bulama Isa no longer moves with the vigour of his youth. Yet he frequently walks his farmland along the banks of the Ngadda River, inspecting what remains of his farmland. 

“This place used to feed my whole family,” he says, gesturing at the gaping holes where his garden once stood. “Now I don’t have a farm.” Isa has farmed near the Alau Dam since the early 2000s. He watched the flood swallow his fields last September and his year’s harvest. When the water receded, he was left with a gaping hole. 

Now, with no compensation and no clear plan from the government, he survives on support from relatives and the little his wife makes selling fried groundnuts.

Residents who spoke to HumAngle expressed frustration over the lack of progress and now fear that this year’s flood could be even worse than the last. 

As of May 2025, neither the Fori Bridge nor the Alau Dam has been repaired. 

The Nigerian Meteorological Agency (NiMet) has projected that the onset of the rainy season in Borno State will occur between early June and July 2025. In northern states, flooding will likely occur at the peak of rainfall between July and September, according to NiMet. Urban areas with poor drainage systems are particularly at risk of flooding during this period.

HumAngle reached out to the Ministry of Water Resources through the state commissioner, Tijjani Goni Alkali, to inquire about the project’s status and the concerns of nearby communities. As of press time, no response had been received.

With the forthcoming rains, many fear that their lives will be uprooted once again.

There is a tenderness between Fati Bukar and her eldest son, Lawal.

When he sits next to her, she holds his hands. As he gets up to leave the room, she asks where he’s going, and he says he’ll be back soon. When Lawal returns and sits across from her, she taps the mat beside her, and he moves closer. She holds his hands again. He says something, and she laughs.

The next day, Fati and seven of her children are set to leave the Muna Garage camp for Internally Displaced Persons (IDP) in Maiduguri, the Borno State capital in northeastern Nigeria. They are heading to Dikwa Local Government Area (LGA), as part of a government resettlement programme to close the IDP camps in the state. The initiative began in 2021.

Lawal, however, will not be going with his mother and siblings.

His resettlement papers indicate that he will be taken to Mafa LGA, approximately an hour and a half from Dikwa. Both mother and son are deeply unsettled by this development.

Lawal had told the officials he wanted to be with his mother and siblings, but the arrangements didn’t go as he hoped. Since Lawal has a family of his own, he registered as a separate household from his mother, who was listed as the head of the household with his younger siblings. They assumed they would all be sent to Dikwa, their place of origin, but the resettlement programme does not always work that way.

With one arm paralysed from a motorbike accident, the 23-year-old can no longer farm efficiently. Instead, he guides his younger siblings through it, showing them what to plant, how to weed, and when to harvest. 

Fati is especially close to Lawal, and the thought of their separation weighs heavily on both of them. 

She and her children have lived in the Muna Garage IDP Camp for seven years.

Fleeing home

Back in 2014, as news of insurgency spread like wildfire, and terrorists invaded town after town in Borno, Fati and her husband hadn’t decided to leave their village in Dikwa yet. They were holding on to hope that maybe the war would end. Still, she thought the worst-case scenario would be displacement. 

She was wrong.

The worst-case scenario unfolded as she was tending to her livestock by a stream when someone came running to tell her that her husband had been shot. 

She let the animals loose and ran home, crying, in disbelief, her heart pounding as she inched closer to her husband’s lifeless body. 

“I fell, and for the next three days, I didn’t even know what was going on. It was like I was going in and out of consciousness,” Fati narrated, her hands lifted, then fell, as if even they had lost the will to explain.

Grief consumed her completely, but survival demanded she keep going. So in 2018, she gathered her eight children and headed into the bush, trying to find a way to Maiduguri. 

They eventually found safety at the Muna Garage IDP Camp, a crowded settlement on the outskirts of the city full of families like hers; people who had lost homes and loved ones to the Boko Haram insurgency. The camp shelters about 10,000 displaced people.

Fati shared her story with HumAngle through an interpreter, who bridged the language barrier. It was a scorching Sunday afternoon in the camp, and people were packing and preparing for the journey ahead. 

“I don’t want to go,” Fati frowned. “I know the kind of terror that made me come here. I know how much we suffered. Why would I go back to such danger?”

There is anger in the pitch of her voice and the sharp, insistent gestures of her arms.

After the conversation, she agreed to show what packing looked like.

Fati ducks to enter her thatched room, which has a small partition just inside the entrance, so that her makeshift bed isn’t immediately visible to anyone stepping in. The air inside is warm and still. 

“I don’t have a lot of things, so they’re just in this bag,” she says, pointing to a bag and two sacks beside her bed. 

“The first time we tried to flee from our homes before coming here, soldiers chased us back. So we had to try again. When I left, I knew I wouldn’t go back until everywhere became safe. But is it even safe now?” Fati reflects. 

The return

It’s been four years since the Borno State government began working to close all official IDP camps in Maiduguri and resettle displaced people, either back to their home communities or new locations across the state. 

Governor Babagana Zulum maintained that “we will never eradicate insurgency without resettling people,” arguing that the camps have become sites of deepening social problems, including child abuse and prostitution.

The United Nations defines resettlement as a “voluntary, safe and regulated transfer of people [and] is intended as a long-term solution.” 

But that’s the theory. In reality, many residents in the Muna Garage Camp remain hesitant. They are unsure what they are returning to or what kind of life awaits them.

Some are returning to places where security remains fragile. Others are being moved to unfamiliar towns with no jobs and no clear path forward. What was meant to be a temporary displacement now stretches into a second chapter that looks different but feels just as unstable.

With resettlement comes many fears: the fear of starting all over again, the fear of the unknown, and most terrifying of all, as Fati puts it, the fear of “coming face to face with the terrorists you fled from almost a decade ago.”

“If I go back there, what I fear most is that I won’t have peace of mind. That I’ll be constantly thinking, ‘Will the terrorists come today? Will they come tomorrow?’ That alone is enough to make someone lose weight, to live in constant fear. That alone is enough.” Fati says, then looks down at the floor, and starts to draw invisible circles with her index finger. 

Outside the hut, a cluster of people sat together in the open, under the shade of trees, waiting to collect documents needed to claim shelters in Dikwa. They were also given meal tickets, with both the papers and tickets handed to heads of households. 

The buses arrived at sunrise on Monday, May 12. 

Even before they left, parts of Muna Camp were already coming down. Huts made of straw and tarpaulin were dismantled. A crowd formed near the camp’s edge where HumAngle met Fati amidst the chatter of people, children playing, and some murmuring their unwillingness to leave. 

She was squatting, shielding her face from the sun with her hands. When asked whether she is tired, she simply smiles. She was very quiet but managed to say, “I’ve packed up. We’re just waiting to leave now.” 

Then she continues looking into the distance. 

They left around 11 a.m.. Lawal stayed behind and waved goodbye to his mother. A few hours later, he tried to call his brother, but the call didn’t go through. It turns out that his brother’s mobile network, like many others’, doesn’t work in Dikwa. His mother’s phone was also switched off. It wasn’t until later in the day that he could finally reach them. They told him they had arrived safely.

Still not safe

Soon after their journey to Dikwa, Fati’s fears started to materialise. 

Although HumAngle couldn’t reach her for a few days after their trip, we were able to reach other returnees.

“We keep hearing gunshots at night. People are going back to Maiduguri in scores.  Everyone is scared,” one of them, Kaka, explains over the phone. 

The following day, on Friday, May 16, Kaka reached out to HumAngle and said, “I just called to tell you I am back to Maiduguri. I can’t live there with my baby. But my parents are still there.” 

Kaka is now staying with a neighbour in Muna camp who, like Lawal, was meant to be relocated to Mafa. However, none of those assigned to Mafa have been relocated yet, so a few rooms in the camp remain standing. She had heard about an ISWAP attack in Marte, a nearby town, which forced thousands of people to flee to Dikwa. 

That attack is one of several recent signs of ISWAP’s resurgence in Borno State, including another in Dikwa on May 13. These incidents have prompted many to flee again, with some heading towards the Cameroonian border and others to Maiduguri. 

Some security analysts and international groups say the resettlements are ill-timed. They point to recent attacks and the ongoing threat from ISWAP as signs that many areas remain volatile. The violence, they argue, reflects a level of instability that makes voluntary return difficult, if not dangerous. Without consistent safety, people are unlikely to settle and may continue to move.

For example, the International Crisis Group has warned that these resettlement efforts are “endangering displaced people’s lives,” especially in areas that “tend to lack rudimentary health care, education and other state services.”

With no updates from officials and the relocation to Mafa still on hold, Lawal decided to travel to Dikwa on Sunday, May 18, to check on his mother and siblings.

Fati was delighted to see him. 

“When she saw me, her face lit up with a smile,” he said. “She looked over my shoulder and asked, ‘Where is your wife? Why didn’t you come with her? I kept a room for you that used to belong to a woman who has returned to Maiduguri.’”

Fati wants him to stay, because “it’s easier for the family.”

She tells HumAngle that they are fine and prays no harm comes to them.

“When we arrived, the government gave us one bag of rice, four litres of cooking oil, seasoning, a few measures of guinea corn and ₦50,000,” Fati says. “The problem is that there’s no running water even though they [the officials] said they’ll sort it out. The toilets are quite crowded too because some of them were damaged by the wind, so there aren’t enough.” 

Fati explains that, while they are getting by now, the future remains uncertain, as there will be no food once their current supply runs out. The farmland in Dikwa is far, and going there means risking an encounter with terrorists. Reaching the fields also requires a bicycle or motorbike, neither of which they own.

These poor living conditions and persistent threats have forced many returnees in other communities to flee once again, despite having been resettled in recent years through the same programme. Kaka’s return to Maiduguri, for instance, is not an isolated case; several families have also left Dikwa. 

Such recurring setbacks paint a bleak picture for Fati and her family. 

For now, she is focused on surviving each day in Dikwa, caring for her children, rationing food, and holding onto hope. What she wants most, she says, is not just food or water, but peace. 

When HumAngle last spoke to her, over a week after the trip to Dikwa, Fati still sounded worried, but there was also a lightness. 

In the background, Lawal teased her attempts to greet in Hausa, a language she doesn’t speak. She laughed. Then he took over and facilitated the conversation, fluently translating her Gamargu to Hausa and vice versa. But laughter needs no translation, and neither does the anxiety in Fati’s voice. 

A coordinated wave of violence has raged through Borno State in northeastern Nigeria between May 12 and 13, as the Islamic State West Africa Province (ISWAP) launched its most sophisticated assault in recent memory. 

The group, wielding advanced drone capabilities and high mobility tactics, attacked military installations, key towns, and vital roadways, reigniting fears over the fragility of Nigeria’s counterinsurgency efforts and the evolving face of terrorism in the Lake Chad Basin.

The offensive targeted Marte, Dikwa, Rann (Kala-Balge LGA), and the Damboa–Maiduguri road in near-simultaneous strikes that signalled strategic coordination, technological evolution, and growing audacity. 

Before this latest wave, however, the Borno State government itself was the first to raise the alarm when the resurgence of attacks by ISWAP began to intensify in April. 

Marte – 12 May, 3:00 a.m.

In the early hours of May 12, ISWAP fighters stormed Marte in northern Borno, dislodging the Nigerian military after a series of intense clashes. Local sources said several soldiers were captured, while others retreated toward Dikwa. The insurgents now control the town, which holds immense strategic value due to its access to Lake Chad smuggling corridors.

Rann and Dikwa – 13 May, midnight and afternoon

A dual strike followed just hours later. In Rann, ISWAP reportedly deployed drones, possibly for both surveillance and tactical strikes, before breaching the town’s defences, residents told a member of the civilian JTF. 

The incursion triggered mass civilian flight towards the Cameroonian border. Simultaneously in Dikwa, the group carried out another attack. The precision and timing of both attacks point to elevated operational planning and coordination. 

Damboa–Maiduguri Road – 13 May 

Later that day, an improvised explosive device (IED) ripped through the vital Damboa–Maiduguri corridor, disrupting civilian mobility. The route is a lifeline for economic activity; its compromise marks a major setback in efforts to stabilise southern Borno.

Damboa is a strategically important town in Borno State. It serves as a key pathway between Maiduguri and southern Borno, including Chibok and Biu local government areas. Damboa has been a hotspot in the Boko Haram insurgency, often targeted because of its role as a major food supply route. Its control is also vital for military operations and humanitarian access in the region.

Drones in the desert: a tactical turning point

ISWAP’s deployment of drones represents a major departure from the insurgency’s guerrilla roots. While aerial surveillance has long been the domain of state forces, the group’s apparent mastery of drone warfare introduces a new dimension to Nigeria’s protracted conflict.

These devices offer real-time intelligence and enhance battlefield accuracy, especially in isolated or under-supported military camps. In Rann, witnesses spoke of a buzzing sound in the sky before the town fell, suggesting a calculated dismantling of defensive positions.

The Nigerian military responded with aerial bombardments, but sources suggest some jets may have targeted already-abandoned facilities, raising questions about the accuracy of ground-to-air coordination.

The economic engine behind ISWAP’s resurgence

What enables ISWAP to sustain this scale and frequency of operations? HumAngle, over the past months, has documented a systematic, robust and diversified funding model that includes ransom payments targeting high-profile travellers. Taxation and extortion in ISWAP-held areas are enforced through mobile courts and checkpoints.

Cross-border smuggling networks, particularly those that deal with fuel, arms, and food, frequently pass through Cameroon, Niger, and Chad. Spoils from raided military bases replenish weapons and supplies.

“ISWAP is no longer distracted by clashes with its rival Boko Haram faction,” a source closely monitoring the situation informed HumAngle. He said the group has diminished its rival and successfully recruited many of its fighters to join their ranks.

The terror group hosts dozens of foreign fighters in the Bosso region, with Abu Musab, ISWAP leader, increasingly assuming regional roles and responsibilities, strengthening its recruitment drive, facilitating investments in drone and communication technologies, and enabling the maintenance of supply chains even in challenging terrains.

New wave of mass displacement

As Borno State is shutting down Internally Displaced Persons (IDP) camps in the state capital, thousands of resettled displaced communities continue to flee their homes in Marte, Dikwa, Rann, and surrounding communities. Aid groups are bracing for a new wave of IDPs. 

Newly resettled displaced people from the Muna camp in Maiduguri, who arrived in Dikwa about a day before the attack, said they heard sporadic gunshots throughout the night, with the women having to run into the nearby forest areas for cover. Large groups of people are fleeing the town again, barely 72 hours after being resettled in the town. They also told HumAngle that there are no security officials there to guard them. 

“We hardly sleep,” one resident said. “We are constantly worried about when the insurgents will come again, especially with the gunshots we hear. Yesterday, we could only sleep around 3 a.m.”

“Some individuals are seeking refuge in Cameroon, while others are relocating to any available host communities, as there are currently no provisions for IDP camps, unlike the situation five to ten years ago,” stated a member of the Civilian JTF.

The constant withdrawal of soldiers from their strategic outposts and their capture has rattled the ranks and file. Troops now face an opponent that not only improvises but also innovates.