Nigeria

Hauwa Abdulkarim was inside her house when the violence began. 

As evening settled over Woro, a village in Kaiama Local Government Area (LGA) of Kwara State, North Central Nigeria, on Feb. 3, the terrorists descended on motorcycles like a sudden storm. What began as a seemingly ordinary evening quickly turned into chaos, with about 170 people killed, their homes set ablaze, celebrations interrupted, and families forced to flee.

“Most of the youths were at the field playing football [on a school field close to the house]. Then we saw people running back home with the news that kidnappers had entered the town,” Hauwa recounted. 

At first, she did not panic. The terrorists had sent word days earlier, a letter to the district head saying they were coming to “preach”. When the motorcycles rolled in, there was confusion and fear.

Then the shooting started. 

“Upon entering the village [around 5 p.m.], they started shooting at people,” she said. The football field emptied in seconds. Inside her house, Hauwa and her husband tried to gather their children, counting them quickly and realising some were still outside.

“We were thinking about some of our children who were outside and those that went to the football field. The shooting continued until 5 a.m., the next day,” Hauwa added. 

But the terror was not continuous. It came in waves.

“When it was time for the call to prayer, they suddenly stopped,” she recalled. “They made the call to prayer for Maghrib and called out people to pray.”

The silence was almost as frightening as the gunfire. After the prayer, the shooting resumed. “They did the same for the late-night prayer, stopping briefly to make the call to prayer and observe it. Afterwards, they resumed shooting through the night,” Hauwa told HumAngle.

Later that night, everything suddenly became quiet: the gunshots stopped. That was when the residents began to hear the call to come out and extinguish the blazing fires.

Many were confused and afraid, unsure whether to come out to help put out the flames, flee, or stay hidden. 

Hauwa and her husband came out with other residents, but they were ambushed. “We thought they had gone, so we came out with buckets to save our homes. That was when they opened fire again. It was a trap and my husband was almost killed in that encounter. He hid in a ditch, as I ran inside to stay with my children,” she recounted. 

By dawn, the village was scarred by destruction — dead bodies with gunshot wounds to the head and cuts to their necks, houses reduced to ashes, the district head’s residence consumed by fire, and families shaken by the night’s events. 

The alternating rhythm of violence and prayer created a chilling atmosphere that has left Hauwa to grapple with both physical loss and psychological trauma. She described the ordeal as a mix of terror and deception, designed to lure people into vulnerability. 

The attack on Woro and neighbouring Nuku communities has displaced at least 941 persons and exposed glaring intelligence failures, despite prior warnings, and the growing influence of terror groups operating from the Kainji Lake National Park axis. HumAngle met with some of the survivors in Wawa, a town in nearby Niger State. 

Ibrahim Ismail Dan’umar, a community leader in Wawa who serves as the coordinator of the displaced persons, told HumAngle that the community has been providing the families with relief materials and accommodation, as there is no designated camp for them. 

“On our records, we have people from Plateau, Nasarawa, Kebbi, Kwara, and Niger,” he noted. “We decided to organise a breakfast for them and announced that anyone offering shelter to the displaced should bring them to the gathering. On the first day, we had 381 people, even though we only projected for 200.”

“The next day, we distributed food items, and by the third day, the Emir of Borgu and representatives of Kaiama Local Government came with support, which we shared among them. Now, we have 941 displaced persons — adults and children — here in Wawa,” he explained.

Amnesty International, a global human rights organisation, described the killings as evidence of systemic neglect of rural communities. In a statement, the organisation condemned the attacks as “vicious” and criticised the Nigerian government for leaving rural communities at the mercy of rampaging terrorists.

Following the deadly attacks, the Nigerian military has formally launched a multi-agency offensive  in Kwara and Niger states, code-named ‘Operation Savannah Shield’, designed to dismantle terrorist networks and restore security in the region. 

The initiative was flagged off on Thursday, Feb. 19 at Sobi Barracks in Ilorin by the Chief of Defence Staff, General Olufemi Oluyede, the Chief of Army Staff, Lieutenant General Waidi Shaibu, and the Kwara State Governor, AbdulRahman AbdulRazaq. 

Unmasking those behind the terror

This attack is one of the deadliest this year.

In the weeks leading up to the Woro massacre, Sadiku’s faction of Boko Haram had already reached out to the community.  

According to the village head, Salihu Umar, a letter dated Jan. 8 — written in Hausa and bearing the signature of JAS (Jama’atu Ahlis Sunna Lidda’adati wal-Jihad) — was delivered to him. The message requested a “private” meeting with local leaders for preaching and assured residents that no harm would come to them.  

Umar said he made copies of the letter and forwarded them to both the Kaiama Emirate and the Department of State Services (DSS) office in Kaiama. Despite this warning, no preventive measures were taken, raising questions about Nigerian security intelligence.

However, security sources revealed that the killings are part of a jihadist campaign commanded by Malam Sadiku, a notorious terrorist whose influence has steadily expanded across multiple parts of Nigeria’s North Central region. 

HumAngle has extensively documented how Sadiku, once closely aligned with Boko Haram founder Muhammad Yusuf and later Abubakar Shekau, has re-emerged at the forefront of a dangerous wave of insurgency. 

After a stint with the Darul Islam sect, he returned to Boko Haram with renewed zeal, positioning himself as one of Shekau’s most loyal comrades. Sadiku’s financial windfall from the infamous Kaduna train abduction gave him the means to expand his influence, strengthen his network, and spread Boko Haram’s radical ideology across Niger State and neighbouring states. 

With resources and reputation firmly behind him, Sadiku built a growing base of followers and fighters. Under his leadership, extremist teachings were not only revived but embedded into local communities, turning quiet rural villages into recruitment and indoctrination centres.

His trajectory, security analysts such as Yahuza Getso of Eagle Integrated Security note, reflects a long-term strategy of territorial control and ideological entrenchment, with this latest attack underscoring both the scale of his operations and the devastating impact on local communities. 

But he is not alone.

Malam Mahmuda, the leader of the Mahmudawa (an Ansaru faction), has also turned the Kainji Forest into a safe haven for his fighters. Despite previous arrests of their leaders, the group has replenished its ranks and rearmed its foot soldiers. 

According to Ahmad Salkida, HumAngle’s founder, who is one of the foremost experts on the protracted Boko Haram insurgency and the complex conflicts in the Lake Chad region, “The relocation of Sadiku and Umar Taraba, both veteran jihadist operatives, to the Kainji axis in 2024 marked a shift. Their presence injected technical expertise into a space previously dominated by loosely organised armed groups.”

He added that they are fragmented into smaller camps: some closer to the Benin border, acting as brokers linking criminal networks of jihadist actors. The Mahmudawa are said to facilitate training, arms movement, ransom negotiations, and sanctuary for fighters arriving from outside the region.

“Official claims regarding the arrest of their leader, Malam Mahmuda, remain unconfirmed in border communities, where continued attacks and coordinated leadership are still attributed to the group,” he noted. 

“If the Mahmudawa are brokers, the Lakurawa are enforcers. With an estimated 300 fighters, they have become one of the most active jihadist–terrorist hybrids affecting […] border communities. Operating from within and around Kainji Lake National Park, they routinely launch incursions into Bagudo and Suru LGAs, combining attacks on military targets with ideological messaging aimed at delegitimising the Nigerian state.”

Security sources and community accounts indicate that Sadiku’s group and Mahmudawa, linked to jihadist networks across West Africa, have long operated in the dense Kainji Lake National Park and Borgu Reserve, straddling Niger and Kwara states. According to the sources, this is an attempt to create another Sambisa: a hotbed for Boko Haram in the North East.

Local residents have repeatedly warned authorities about the presence of terrorist camps in the forest, but responses have been slow. Between September and December 2025, the Federal Government carried out aerial and ground operations in the area, yet the group remains influential. The forest’s vast terrain and porous borders have provided cover for training, recruitment, and staging raids. 

Getso believes that Sadiku’s Boko Haram has rebranded and reorganised remnants of Ansaru and JNIM cells, consolidating them into a formidable force in North Central Nigeria. He also revealed that the Woro massacre underscores the growing threat posed by Sadiku’s network. 

“Nigeria’s current counter-terrorism strategy is insufficient. There is a need for a comprehensive review of military doctrine and intelligence operations,” Getso noted.

A dream on hold

At just 22 years old, Ibrahim Ishaq Woro had recently graduated from the School of Health in New Bussa, Niger State. He had only returned home to Woro a year earlier and was in the process of applying for jobs when the attack shattered his community.  

On the day of the assault, Ibrahim was sitting at a tea stall when he spotted the terrorists approaching. Recognising them from a previous encounter, he fled — but minutes later, gunfire erupted across the village. 

That day was meant to be joyous, with three weddings taking place, including his cousin’s. Instead, the celebrations turned into a massacre. 

“The wedding was taking place at our house. Yahaya, my cousin, was killed. His wife and children were abducted and taken to the forest,” Ibrahim recalled.  

Like Hauwa, who described how false calls to prayer lured residents into ambushes, Ibrahim witnessed the same deception. “Those who hid inside were warned: ‘you either come outside or burn in your houses.’ Those who opened their doors out of fear were kidnapped,” he said.  

By dawn, Ibrahim returned to find the bodies of women, children, and men scattered across the community. His closest friends — Zakari, Habib, and Shamsudeen — were among the dead. 

His mother, three siblings, and several family members who came for the wedding were taken captive. “Personally, we lost 20 people from my extended family and about 50 are still missing,” he said quietly, while looking away. 

Like Hauwa, Ibrahim and other survivors fled Woro to Wawa and other neighbouring communities, with their belongings in wheelbarrows and on their heads, trekking for about 42 kilometres with swollen feet in search of refuge.   

Now displaced, their only plea is for the government to secure the release of kidnapped women and children, and restore safety so families can return home. 

“For those we have lost, we can only pray for eternal peace. But we need our loved ones back. That is why we are afraid to even return home,” Ibrahim said.

Officials in Wawa town, speaking on condition of anonymity, said discussions are ongoing with the district head to facilitate the safe return of displaced residents. The move, they explained, would allow survivors to access federal and state-level interventions more effectively once back home.

Nigerian lawmaker reports ‘at least 50 people dead’ after attack as list of missing is still being compiled.

Gunmen killed at least 50 people and abducted women and children in an overnight assault on a village in northwestern Nigeria’s Zamfara State, authorities and residents said.

The attack started late on Thursday night and continued into Friday morning in Tungan Dutse village in the Bukkuyum area of Zamfara when armed men arrived on motorcycles and began setting fire to buildings and abducting residents.

“They have been moving from one village to another … leaving at least 50 people dead,” said Hamisu A Faru, a lawmaker representing Bukkuyum South.

Faru, speaking to the Reuters news agency by phone on Friday, said the number of people abducted remained unclear as local officials were still compiling lists of the missing.

Residents say warning signs were visible before the attack.

Abdullahi Sani, 41, said villagers alerted security forces after spotting more than 150 motorcycles carrying armed men a day earlier, but no action was taken.

“No one slept yesterday; we are all in pain,” Sani said, adding that three members of his family were killed in the attack.

Areas of Nigeria’s north and west continue to grapple with overlapping security threats, including armed criminal gangs and rebel fighters.

Just last week, at least 46 people were killed in raids in the Borgu area of northwest Niger State. The deadliest assault occurred in the village of Konkoso, where at least 38 residents were shot or had their throats cut, according to reports.

The crisis has drawn increased international involvement.

Nigeria recently expanded security cooperation with the United States after President Donald Trump accused the country of failing to halt the killing of Christians and threatened military intervention.

On December 25, the US launched air strikes on the northern state of Sokoto, conducted in coordination with Nigerian authorities.

Earlier this week, Nigeria’s military confirmed the arrival of 100 US soldiers tasked with training local forces.

Samaila Uba, spokesperson for Nigeria’s Defence Headquarters, said the US troops would offer “technical support” and “intelligence sharing” to help combat “terrorist organisations”, along with “associated equipment”.

He stressed the US personnel would not engage directly in combat and would share technical expertise under Nigerian command.

How do you comfort a man who has just watched years of his life turn to smoke?

Sulaiman Mustapha remained seated inside the mosque after the dawn prayer, long after others had left. He put both hands on his head as if trying to hold his brain in place. He could not speak. No wailing. No outburst. Just the stillness of a man whose world had collapsed overnight. Those around him tried to console him, but the words sounded distant, almost irrelevant. 

Less than a month ago, Sulaiman bought a new motorcycle to make his trips to Singa Market in Kano, North West Nigeria, easier. For him, it was not just a bike. It was a milestone. For years, he had gone to the market with his brother as a worker, running errands for established traders. With time, he began handling purchases. Then he began trading in small quantities for himself. The profits were modest but steady.

The motorcycle symbolised a shift. It meant he would no longer spend heavily on transport. It meant more capital for his small shop. It meant growth. Then, in a matter of hours, fire erased that growth. Now it was metal frames and ash. 

On Saturday, Feb. 15, around 4 p.m., a fire broke out at Gidan Glass, a plaza at Singa Market. Witnesses say the fire spread quickly, leaping from shop to shop before traders could salvage much. It burned for two days. By the time it was contained, dozens of shops had been reduced to charred frames.

Sulaiman and his brother’s shop was among them.

When he sat in the mosque that morning, he was mourning years of hard work — the savings, the small profits he reinvested, and his mother’s inheritance. “After his grandfather died, the inheritance was shared,” his close friend, Abba Abubakar, told HumAngle. “His mother gave him her portion to grow the business.”

Now, everything is gone. 

The fire that tore through Singa Market is the latest in a long line of infernos that have become almost routine in Kano markets. Within 48 hours, early estimates placed losses in billions of naira. But beyond the figures lies a deeper story: how recurring fires, weak emergency infrastructure, and structural neglect continue to threaten the livelihoods of thousands of small-scale traders who form the backbone of the city’s informal economy.

Sulaiman’s story is that of hundreds of traders whose stalls were destroyed. In markets like Singa, capital is built slowly from daily turnover and rarely backed by insurance. Many traders rely on family contributions, cooperative loans, or personal savings. A single disruption can undo a decade of effort.

For small-scale traders, the market is their safety net. It funds school fees, hospital bills, rent, and other family obligations. When the market burns, the consequences ripple far beyond the charred stalls.

By Monday afternoon, some traders had returned to sift through ashes, hoping to salvage metal frames or partially burned goods. Others simply stood in clusters, calculating debts they still owed suppliers.

There are still unanswered questions about what triggered the fire and whether preventive measures were in place. For now, what remains visible is the human toll.

The full extent of the damage and how traders will rebuild is still unfolding.

But how did it start? 

Between sparks and sorrow

Around 3 p.m. that Saturday, Abba Abubakar noticed thick black smoke rising into the sky. The sight unsettled him immediately. Some weeks earlier, he had seen a similar column of smoke before a fire gutted Gidan Mazaf at the same Singa Market.

“But this one was very close,” he told HumAngle.

Abba is not a trader at Singa. He sells wrappers and garments at Abubakar Rimi Market, popularly known as Sabon Gari, just across the road. His fear was instinctive. Fires are not unfamiliar in that commercial district. When smoke appears, traders do not wait for confirmation. They imagine the worst.

“We rushed out of our shops and later realised it was solar panels burning on top of Gidan Glass,” he said. “By the time we got there, it had already consumed part of the upper floor, and the fire was raging.”

From another part of the neighbourhood, Muttaka Musa, who works in one of the affected stores, also saw the smoke. He had been at a nearby plaza known as Gidan Gwaggo Laraba when he looked up and saw the sky darken.

“Immediately I got there, the fire had already finished one of our stores and had started catching the other,” he said. Muttaka said people had been warned when the fire first broke out. But warnings in markets often compete with denial. No one expected the flames would escalate to that scale.

Auwal Ibrahim Gaya lost two shops in the blaze. He was performing the afternoon Asr prayer when he received the call. “When they told me the fire had started, I was at the mosque,” he said. “I rushed there, and when I saw it, I began reciting prayers. I said Allah is testing us, and we accept His decree.”

Faith, in moments like this, becomes both refuge and resignation.

As the fire intensified and traders failed to contain it, emergency services were called. But by then, the scene had drawn large crowds. Onlookers filled the narrow access roads, making it difficult for fire trucks to reach the core of the market.

One firefighter, who asked not to be named because he was not authorised to speak to the press, told HumAngle that “almost all the fire service trucks we have in Kano were mobilised. But the fire kept spreading from the top. It was moving across the upper structures, so it was difficult to control. If there had been a helicopter, it could have quenched it from above.”

An investigation by HumAngle found that the Nigerian Federal Fire Service does not currently operate firefighting helicopters. Announcements about acquiring one circulated between 2021 and 2024, but the purchase never materialised. The National Emergency Management Agency (NEMA), which previously had access to such support, is also reported to have non-functional aerial equipment.

As a result, even with the presence of the Federal Fire Service, NEMA officials, the Kano State Emergency Agency, and the state governor, Abba Kabir Yusuf, at the scene, the fire burned for two days before it was finally largely subdued.

What causes market fires in Kano? 

Market fires are not new in Kano. Almost every year, a section of the city’s commercial heart goes up in flames. Sometimes it is a cluster of stalls. Sometimes an entire block. The pattern has become disturbingly familiar. Traders rebuild. Business resumes. Then another fire breaks out.

In the two months of 2026 alone, at least five fire incidents have been recorded within the Kano metropolis. Four occurred in markets: Kofar Ruwa yan Katako, Gidan Mazaf Singa, Gidan Glass Singa, and near Abbatuwa cemetery. One affected a filling station along Madobi Road. For a city whose economy leans heavily on trade, these events are structural tremors.

A 2021 study by Sulaiman Yunus, an urban risk and disaster management researcher at Bayero University, Kano, documented 366 fire incidents between 1974 and 2017. On average, that translates to at least eight outbreaks annually in markets alone. The data suggests a chronic vulnerability embedded within Kano’s commercial architecture.

But what explains this cycle? Why do the fires persist, despite decades of losses?

Sulaiman found that outbreaks are most frequent in highly concentrated, densely built, older commercial hubs. Large central markets such as Kantin Kwari Market, Kasuwar Kurmi, and Sabon Gari Market were identified as particularly vulnerable.

These markets evolved long before modern urban planning standards. Stalls are packed tightly together. Extensions are added informally. Electrical wiring snakes across wooden beams and zinc roofs. Access routes are narrow, often clogged with traders, buyers, and transporters. When fire breaks out, it meets fuel.

The study notes that most affected markets lack functional fire hydrants and emergency suppression facilities. In many cases, traders rely on buckets of water or improvised extinguishers in the crucial first minutes. By the time fire trucks arrive, flames have often climbed to rooftops and leapt across adjoining structures.

Temporal analysis in Sulaiman’s study shows a clear seasonal pattern. Fire outbreaks peak during the dry season, particularly between November and March. The Harmattan months record the highest incidence rate because the air is drier and the winds harsher. Materials that might otherwise resist ignition become combustible.

Yet climate alone does not ignite markets.

The research found that electrical faults and power surges account for the majority of recorded incidents. Illegal connections and overloaded circuits were identified as primary ignition sources. In markets where dozens of traders tap into a single supply line to power freezers, grinding machines, bulbs, and charging points, the system is often stretched beyond capacity. Electricity, meant to enable commerce, becomes the spark that destroys it.

The Singa Market fire fits within this broader history. Its scale may be exceptional, but its underlying conditions are not. The questions raised in its aftermath echo those of previous disasters: Were safety standards enforced? Were electrical systems inspected? Were access routes kept clear?

For now, attention has shifted to relief. The Federal Government has approved a ₦5 billion intervention fund for traders, while the Progressive Governors’ Forum also donated ₦3 billion, signalling recognition of the magnitude of the loss. But compensation, even when fully disbursed, rarely mirrors destruction. For small-scale traders, relief funds often dissipate before reaching the lowest tiers. Many operate without formal registration, insurance, or documented inventories. Their losses exist in memory, not in audited balance sheets. A bag of rice here. Ten kegs of oil there. A motorcycle bought less than a month ago.

Billions of naira in pledges may soften the blow at a macro level. Yet, for the petty trader who relied on daily turnover to survive, recovery is measured not in billions but in whether he can reopen with even a fraction of his former stock.

In Kano’s markets, fire is no longer an anomaly but a recurring chapter in the city’s commercial story. Each outbreak exposes the same structural weaknesses. Each investigation repeats familiar findings.

And each time, traders return to rebuild in the same crowded corridors, under the same fragile wiring, hoping that this season’s wind will be kinder than the last

Hannatu Charles* carried her pregnancy to full term. She attended all antenatal sessions and was eager to meet her baby. 

In January, when she was due, she went into labour around 7 p.m. Unfortunately, the primary healthcare centre in Kirchinga, a community in Madagali local government area of Adamawa state in northeastern Nigeria, closes around 6 p.m. Her family immediately called one of the traditional birth attendants in the community.

Hannatu laboured for hours, yet her baby did not emerge despite the efforts of the traditional birth attendant. By 10 p.m., warning bells began to ring in her mind, as by that time, all doors in Kirchinga had been shut and all access routes deserted. 

“We decided to try to see if we could at least meet one person at the primary healthcare centre, so my husband and my neighbour took me there that night, but we didn’t meet any midwife or any healthcare staff,” she told HumAngle. 

The centre was closed. All the healthcare staff had gone and would only return the next morning. Night shifts no longer hold. These changes were made due to the scale of insecurity. 

Hannatu told HumAngle they returned home, where she continued to push, but despite her efforts, she was unable to deliver. The birth attendant noted that the baby was in breech position and, therefore, an experienced midwife or a gynaecologist was required. The only way they could access such care was by travelling to the Cottage Hospital in Gulak Local Government or the General Hospital in Michika Local Government, both many hours away. 

Hannatu said they would have made the journey that night on a regular day, but now,  it was too risky. Movement in Kirchinga was restricted after dark as Boko Haram terrorists roamed the area, especially at night. There was also no way to access vehicles or get a driver to take the,m as all routes were closed. 

She said she was willing to persevere until dawn when the roads would reopen, but by midnight, the pain intensified, and the midwife doubled her efforts. A stillborn was delivered. 

“I’m not the first to lose a child because of the security situation in this region,” Hannatu said as she talked about how insecurity destroys healthcare. “In fact, I’m lucky to be alive,” she added, stressing that several women and their babies had died.

According to Hannatu, the women who went into labour during the day in Kirchinga are considered lucky. 

The healthcare crisis 

Kyauta Ibrahim, a community health extension worker, spends her days at the primary school in Limankara, another community in the same Madagali that has, since the past decade, been repurposed as the community’s healthcare centre. Since residents began returning to Madagali in 2016 — two years after Boko Haram attacks displaced them — she and her colleagues have provided medical services from this makeshift facility.

“We are yet to move to the permanent site. We were asked to stay here to perform our duties,” she said. When the insurgents struck, they torched several structures, including the original primary healthcare centre where she worked.

For Limankara residents, this temporary facility remains the only nearby source of medical care. With few doctors remaining in the region, patients are often forced to travel long distances to better-equipped centres in Shuwa, Michika, or Gulak, particularly in emergencies.

Before the insurgency, the primary healthcare centre in Limankara served the local population and neighbouring communities such as Sakur and Lakundi, providing antenatal care, deliveries, and basic medical services. After peace was gradually restored in 2016, the state government converted one of the primary schools into a modest healthcare facility to meet the community’s needs.

A decade later, the school still functions as the healthcare centre. The situation worsened as medical doctors and other professionals began withdrawing, leaving indigenous community health extension workers to manage the facility. In 2016, most health centres in Madagali and Michika were closed because many professionals had either been killed or fled permanently.

As of 2019, the World Health Organisation’s Health Resources Availability Monitoring System (HeRAMS) highlighted that only 45 per cent of health centres in Adamawa were fully functional after 12 per cent had been destroyed and 34 per cent severely damaged by Boko Haram attacks. 

Kyauta told HumAngle that, aside from staff shortages, inadequate healthcare equipment continues to affect healthcare delivery in the area. The temporary primary healthcare centre now closes by late evening due to recurring Boko Haram attacks, leaving pregnant women and children most vulnerable.

“When a woman starts labour at night, she can’t even go to the primary healthcare centre and has to give birth at home,” she said. Complicated cases are referred to Shuwa, and if necessary, to the General Hospital in Michika or the Gulak cottage hospital, all of which are some distance away. 

Esther Markus, a mother of six from Wagga, another community in Madagali, travels six hours for a round trip to Gulak for medical care. Emergencies are further complicated by a 6 p.m. curfew. Traditional birth attendants handle routine deliveries, but high-risk cases, like breech births or sudden illness at night, go untreated until morning.

“Once it’s 6 p.m., we can’t take sick people to the hospital, so we leave them till the next day in the hands of God, and if the person dies, then we accept it,” said Hamidu Ahmadu, Limankara’s community leader.

Residents said security remains precarious. “A few days ago, the soldiers guarding us were attacked, so since then, they leave once it is 5 p.m. and head back to their headquarters in town. Our youths guard us all through the night,” Esther added. 

Hamidu told HumAngle that the community has a population of about 3,000. He acknowledged the efforts of some humanitarian organisations that have visited the area in the past to treat malnourished children and provide basic healthcare services to residents, but the gap remains. 

In 2024, the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC) resumed operations in Madagali after being unable to operate since 2018. The following year, the organisation provided basic healthcare and nutrition services to residents and also renovated the existing healthcare facility in Madagali town, which has become a haven for displaced persons in villages around the area. This has helped mitigate how insecurity affects healthcare in Madagali. 

Despite these humanitarian efforts to restore healthcare access in conflict-prone communities in Madagali, however, factors like the curfew, abductions, and the absence of medical professionals continue to limit access to services. 

Medical professionals are fleeing 

Kirchinga, the community in Madagali where Halima had the stillbirth, faces a similar plight. Although it has a functional primary healthcare centre, the lack of medical professionals severely affects service delivery.  

“Since the insecurity started, the doctors have stopped staying. They no longer live in the community but only show up from time to time,” said Bitrus Kwada, a Kirchinga resident.

Boko Haram terrorists have abducted, killed, or threatened several health and humanitarian workers in the northeastern region. In 2018, some medical workers were kidnapped and later killed in Borno. The following year, Boko Haram attacked Kirchinga and Shuwa communities, burning houses, shops, and clinics after killing three people. 

By 2020, Bitrus explained, healthcare workers, including doctors, who once lived in Kirchinga had either been transferred or fled, leaving them only occasionally available and unable to respond to emergencies.

“We suffer when it comes to emergency treatment at night,” Bitrus stated.  

Over the years, several women with complicated pregnancies have died during childbirth, along with their babies, due to the absence of doctors and surgeons. 

Blessing Dingami, another resident of Kirchinga, told HumAngle that before the insurgency started in 2014, the primary healthcare centre in the community was staffed by a medical doctor, two nurses, and another healthcare provider who ran the facility round the clock, with support from community health extension workers.

Following the attacks, the centre collapsed, forcing the professionals to flee. Although the government has since renovated it, community health extension workers now manage the facility, and the quality of services has declined.

Even though movement in Kirchinga is unrestricted until 10 p.m., accessing medical care is increasingly difficult. “There was a time when people from our community were involved in a ghastly accident at night, and we rushed them to the centre, but there was no professional to handle their case,” Blessing recounted. 

She noted that the healthcare centre no longer provides scanning, surgery, and other services it previously offered. Residents now have to travel for over half an hour to Shuwa and sometimes to Gulak, where there is a cottage hospital.

In Wagga Lawan, another community in Madagali, the primary healthcare centre was destroyed during Boko Haram attacks in 2014 but was recently rebuilt and commissioned by the state government.

Despite the renovation, many Madagali residents remain unable or afraid to use the facility. People from Wagga Mongoro, Thidakwa, and even Limankara travel there, yet fear of kidnapping, its remote location, and the surrounding bushes keep many away, particularly at night.

“The centre is located on the outskirts of the town, and bushes surround it, so people are afraid to go there for services, especially at night, due to fear of kidnapping,” said Cyril Ezra, a resident. Travel to the facility takes over an hour by bike. 

In 2025, Boko Haram attacked Wagga Mongoro, killing four people, injuring many others, and razing property—underscoring why many remain hesitant to use even the newly rebuilt facility.

Uncertainty 

Peace Ijanada Simon, a midwife at Shuwa’s primary healthcare centre, said the facility is overburdened with deliveries and emergencies from surrounding communities, as theirs lack night services. Although staff work night shifts, service is inconsistent due to recent kidnappings and a lack of reliable electricity. 

“There is no power supply. We use torchlights for most deliveries. If we can’t handle it, we refer immediately to Gulak or Michika,” she said.

In Kirchinga, locals have lost hope for the return of professional healthcare workers. “From 2014 to today, we’ve been facing security challenges because Boko Haram can attack at any time and destroy our things. Some of our people have been killed. Two years back, the situation changed into kidnappings,” he said. 

Bitrus explained that the terrorists mostly show up at night when locals are sleeping and carry out these abductions. “Ransoms have been paid, and some have been released. We have soldiers here, but I don’t think they are taking strong action,” he added.

Maradi, a community near Kirchinga, was attacked on Jan. 23. One resident who resisted capture was killed in his home, while a hunter who confronted the attackers that night was also killed, and another person was abducted that night. 

“We don’t sleep. From midnight, we stay awake till 3 a.m. because that’s the time they normally come. We have to stay conscious,” he said. 

The routine of gently but skillfully pushing wooden canoes into the water body at the shores of Kainji Lake each dawn has been part of the lives of generations of fishermen in North-central Nigeria. 

The lake was not always calm – vigorously exhaling and flooding the banks, then intermittently receding – but was inevitably connected to the lives that many communities have held firmly to across Kebbi, Niger, and Kwara states.

Today, that ancestral connection between the communities and the lake is evaporating rapidly. And it is not merely ecological. In some villages where government presence is absent, and terrorists have assumed authority, fishermen now wait for permission from non-state actors before casting their nets. In other areas within the Kainji region, they pay informal levies to armed groups operating from the forests. For decades, Nigeria’s national parks were imagined as spaces apart: buffers of nature against human pressure and political failure. Sambisa Forest shattered that illusion long ago when the Boko Haram terror group took control of it, transforming from a conservation zone into the most notorious symbol of jihadist insurgency in the country. Now, further west, a quieter but no less consequential transformation is unfolding.

The Kainji Lake National Park (KLNP), sprawling across three states and bordering Benin, has slipped from a wildlife sanctuary into a strategic corridor where poverty, climate stress, criminal enterprises, violence, jihadist ideology, and Sahelian militancy intersect.

A corridor

Security analysts increasingly describe Sambisa as a “fortress-base” model of insurgency: entrenched, ideological, territorially assertive. Kainji Lake fits a different and more elusive pattern—a “corridor-node” model.

Here, armed actors do not raise flags or announce governance structures. They pass through, networking, training, recruiting, and trading, before vanishing. The park links Nigeria’s troubled North West to the Middle Belt and, increasingly, to the destabilised Sahel. It connects Kebbi to Benin Republic’s Alibori and Atacora regions, Niger State to Niger Republic’s Tillabéri zone, and local grievances to transnational jihadist ambitions.

This distinction matters. Sambisa attracted relentless military pressure for more than a decade because it became a visible symbol of territorial breach. Kainji Lake did not. It appeared peripheral, quiet, manageable. In that absence of sustained attention, the park matured into something arguably more dangerous: a fluid connector for multiple armed actors rather than a single-group stronghold.

Communities along the lake, from Yauri and Ngaski in Kebbi to Borgu in Niger State and Kaiama in Kwara, depend on a fragile interweaving of fishing, floodplain farming, pastoralism, and cross-border trade. Fishing sustains thousands of households. Smoked and dried fish move through informal networks to Ilorin, Ibadan, southern Niger, and beyond. Seasonal farming follows the lake’s unpredictable pulse: millet, sorghum, maize, rice, and cowpea are cultivated on land that appears and disappears with the water’s rise and fall.

Pastoralism runs through it all. Herders move cattle along routes that long predate colonial borders, grazing across Nigeria, Benin Republic, and Niger Republic as if the lines on maps were suggestions rather than laws. Weekly markets in Bagudo, Wawa, Babana, Kaiama, and Borgu draw traders from Benin’s north and Niger’s Tillabéri. Grain, livestock, fuel, kola nuts, dried fish, and cloth circulate through these hubs. Some of it is smuggling.

These networks matter because armed groups do not need to invent new pathways. They insert themselves into existing ones. The same tracks used by herders and traders now carry militants, arms couriers, recruiters, and ideological emissaries. 

Climate stress as an accelerant

Climate change has exacerbated existing security vulnerabilities around Kainji Lake. 

Erratic rainfall patterns and fluctuating water levels have made fishing yields unpredictable. Floodplains that once reliably supported seasonal farming now vanish early or arrive late. Pasture availability shifts without warning, intensifying competition between herders and farmers. Each shock further compresses livelihoods, forcing households to adapt through debt, migration, or risk-taking.

In this environment, armed groups offer something deceptively valuable: predictability. Access to grazing land. Protection from rivals. Permission to fish or farm. Even informal dispute resolution. Where the state provides uncertainty – sporadic enforcement, unclear rules, delayed response – armed actors provide immediate answers, enforced by violence if necessary.

Climate stress, in this sense, is not just an environmental issue but a governance crisis multiplier. 

Fieldwork conducted by HumAngle across several local government areas in Kebbi, Niger, and Kwara states identified at least five active extremist factions operating within and around the park. These include the Mahmudawa (Mahmuda faction), Lakurawa, elements of Ansaru and Jama’atu Ahlis Sunna Lidda’awati wal-Jihad (JAS) led by Sadiku and Umar Taraba, and a newly emerged cell linked to Jama’at Nusrat al-Islam wal-Muslimin. 

The groups do not operate in isolation. Many originate from northwest Nigeria and southern Niger, with local cover, as they undertake terror attacks in distant locations and return to their various hideouts within the region. What has emerged is a hybrid threat ecosystem where ideology, criminality, climate stress, and grievance reinforce one another.

Brokers, enforcers, and ideologues

The Mahmudawa illustrate the new logic of this ecosystem. Despite sustained air and ground operations by the Federal Government between September and December 2025, the group remains influential. Fragmented into smaller camps, some closer to the Benin border, they act as brokers linking criminal networks of jihadist actors. They facilitate training, arms movement, ransom negotiations and sanctuary for fighters arriving from outside the region.

Official claims regarding the arrest of their leader, Malam Mahmuda, remain unconfirmed in border communities, where continued attacks and coordinated leadership are still attributed to the group.

If the Mahmudawa are brokers, the Lakurawa are enforcers. With an estimated 300 fighters, they have become one of the most active jihadist–terrorist hybrids affecting Kebbi’s border communities. Operating from within and around KLNP, they routinely launch incursions into Bagudo and Suru LGAs, combining attacks on military targets with ideological messaging aimed at delegitimising the Nigerian state.

Their leadership shows signs of Sahelian exposure. Their fighters are drawn from local nomadic tribal networks and northwest terrorist pools. Kebbi, long considered peripheral, is now firmly part of the frontline.

The relocation of Sadiku and Umar Taraba, both veteran jihadist operatives, to the Kainji axis in 2024 marked a shift. Their presence injected technical expertise into a space previously dominated by loosely organised armed groups.

IED knowledge, structured training, and a sharper focus on high-value targets followed. Collaboration with criminal terrorist groups deepened. The abduction of foreign nationals near Bode Sa’adu illustrated this fusion starkly: JAS elements, Mahmudawa fighters, and allied terrorists executing a single operation where ideology and profit were indistinguishable.

JNIM’s shadow on the lake

The most alarming development emerged in late November 2025: the appearance of a group believed to be affiliated with JNIM along the Kebbi–Benin border corridor.

Witnesses describe predominantly foreign fighters, many believed to be Tuareg, moving at night in disciplined formations, wearing military-style uniforms with turbans on their heads, and engaging communities with a calculated restraint unfamiliar to local armed groups. So far, they have avoided major attacks.

That restraint is likely strategic.

Their presence suggests Kainji Lake could become a staging ground for Sahelian expansion into northwestern Nigeria — a shift that would fundamentally alter the region’s security calculus. Unlike local groups, JNIM brings external financing, battlefield experience, and a long-term vision.

Communities adapting under pressure

Communities in the lake basin are not passive observers. They are recalibrating in real time. Some negotiate access quietly to avoid displacement. Others maintain layered loyalties, sharing information selectively as a survival strategy. Vigilante groups that once patrolled forest edges retreat under sustained pressure. Traditional rulers face coercion or marginalisation. In certain settlements, schools and community buildings are repurposed by armed actors for operational use.

Access to fishing grounds, farmlands, and trade routes increasingly depends on permissions issued by commanders operating from forest camps rather than on decisions by local councils or chiefs. Authority has shifted, not through formal declaration, but through incremental control of movement and livelihoods.

How conservation and governance hollowed the ground

The transformation of Kainji Lake into a security corridor is as much the product of ideology as it is the cumulative outcome of governance failure layered over decades.

The creation of Kainji Lake National Park in 1976 displaced communities and restricted access to land and water without meaningfully integrating residents into conservation planning. Fishing zones were closed, grazing was curtailed, and farming was criminalised in places where alternatives did not exist. Promised livelihoods rarely materialised.

Park rangers – tasked with enforcing vast conservation boundaries – were underpaid, poorly equipped, and often absent. Their presence, when felt, was frequently punitive rather than protective.

Local governments in Bagudo, Suru, Kaiama, Borgu, and Ngaski remain chronically weak. 

When armed violence escalated across the northwestern region, security deployments focused on Zamfara, Katsina, and parts of Niger State. Kebbi’s borderlands were treated as peripheral, stable, and low-risk. That assumption proved costly.

Border governance failed as well. Coordination with Benin and the Niger Republics remains distant, reactive, and politicised. Joint patrols are rare. Intelligence sharing is uneven. Communities know this. Armed actors understand it better.

Armed groups arrived first as guests, then as protectors, and finally as power brokers, filling gaps the state created—sometimes violently, sometimes persuasively.

Poverty caused by the absence of authority

In the absence of legitmate sate authority, people seek alternative systems of order. Armed groups exploit this vacuum expertly. They tax, regulate, punish, and reward. In some communities, the question is no longer whether armed groups are legitimate, but whether they are avoidable. Increasingly, they are not.

Once a symbol of Nigeria’s conservation ambition, KLNP has become a largely ungoverned hub exploited by a mix of violent actors: jihadist cells, armed terrorist factions, and transnational militants with roots beyond Nigeria’s borders.

From the northwest’s perspective – particularly Kebbi State – the park functions as a rear operational hub. Armed groups operating in border local governments use it for recruitment, logistics, training, and cross-border movement into the Benin Republic. Its sheer size, rugged terrain, and weak oversight enable a dangerous convergence: criminal armed groups blending with jihadism.

This shift carries national implications

Kainji’s forests and waterways provide mobility, with the lake economy providing revenue streams and border proximity offering escape and reinforcement routes.

While Sambisa became synonymous with territorial insurgency, Kainji signals the maturation of a corridor-based conflict economythat binds Nigeria’s northwest to wider Sahelian instability through forest reserves and lake communities.

When conservation spaces double as conflict connectors, the impact extends beyond biodiversity loss. Human buffers weaken first as communities negotiate survival under parallel authorities. Ecological buffers follow as enforcement fractures and resource exploitation become embedded in armed group financing.

The lake basin lies close to Kainji dam, a critical energy infrastructure, touches sensitive international borders, and anchors trade and livelihood systems that extend deep into the country’s interior.

In 2026, the geographic corridor surrounding the lake and its forest reserves recorded some of the highest levels of mass killings and large-scale abductions in Nigeria. Armed groups operate with increasing confidence, widening their reach across rural settlements and mobility routes connecting Niger State to Kebbi, Zamfara, and beyond toward the Sahelian belt.

The warning signs are not limited to a single park

In April 2025, the Conservator-General of Nigeria’s National Park Service, Ibrahim Musa Goni, told HumAngle that six national parks across the country were overrun by terrorists. Two years earlier, the federal government had created 10 additional parks to prevent further takeovers. However, only four of those new parks are currently operational. In addition to the seven existing parks, only eleven national parks are currently functioning nationwide.

Even where reclamation has occurred, the process is complex. The Conservator General pointed to Kaduna State as an example, describing what he termed a “mutual understanding” between authorities and armed groups. 

“They have agreed to resolve their issues,” he said. “[As a result], most of the forest and game reserves, and even the national park in Kaduna State, have today been freed of banditry.” This, he argued, has brought “relative peace” and enabled forest and game guards, including officers in Birnin Gwari, to resume operations.

The National Park Service has also redefined its institutional posture. “The government classified the National Park Service as a paramilitary organisation,” Goni explained. “And as a paramilitary organisation, the act provides that we can bear arms.” Rangers affiliated with the Service have received training from the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime to address wildlife crime and respond to terror-related takeovers. According to Goni, this training has strengthened Nigeria’s capacity to confront forest-based criminality linked to armed groups and insurgents.

The approach is not solely security-driven. The Service engages surrounding communities through alternative livelihood programmes, skills training, and starter packs intended to reduce dependence on park resources. “This has, in a great deal, diverted the attention of most of them from the resources of the national parks,” Goni said, adding that it has helped contain hunting and wildlife trafficking.

Yet resource limitations remain significant. “Apart from managing wild animal resources and the plants, we also have to manage the human population,” he acknowledged, noting that the Service cannot meet the needs of every community bordering the parks.

Around Kainji, these gaps are visible.

Illegal mining is a widespread issue in Nigeria, where operations lack both government oversight and safety protocols.

At least 37 miners have died from carbon monoxide poisoning at a mining site in central Nigeria, the Reuters news agency reports.

The deadly incident, which took place on Wednesday morning in the Kampani community in the Wase area of Plateau State, also resulted in the hospitalisation of 25 people, Reuters said, citing a police source and a security report the news agency obtained.

Government officials identified the location as a dormant lead mine where accumulated minerals had released lethal fumes.

The Plateau State government said many ⁠were feared dead without providing an exact figure, ⁠adding that others were receiving treatment in nearby hospitals.

Security forces have cordoned off the site to prevent further access.

Nigeria’s Minister of Solid Minerals Dele Alake said that the accident occurred when local villagers, unaware of the toxic nature of the emissions, reportedly entered the tunnel to extract minerals and inhaled the gas.

Illegal mining remains a widespread concern in Nigeria, where extractive operations frequently lack both government oversight and basic safety protocols.

The federal government in Nigeria has ordered an immediate suspension of all mining activities in areas near the accident site to allow for a comprehensive investigation, Reuters said.

Plateau State is a historical mining region, with its capital, Jos, known as the Tin City, though mining activities have slowed in recent years.

Several similar accidents have killed miners in Nigeria previously, including at least 18 people killed last year in Zamfara State in the northwest of the country after a boulder crashed onto an illegal mine during heavy rains.

The pursuit of mineral wealth across the African continent continues to be shadowed by a recurring cycle of mining disasters, as recent tragedies highlight the persistent dangers of both legal and irregulated operations.

An estimated 200 people were killed in a collapse at the Rubaya coltan mine in eastern Democratic Republic of the Congo last month.

The mine, located some 60km (37 miles) northwest of Goma city, the provincial capital of North Kivu province, collapsed after a landslide.

Rubaya produces about 15 percent of the world’s coltan, which is processed into tantalum, a heat-resistant metal that is in high demand by makers of mobile phones, computers, aerospace components and gas turbines.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No way past secondary school

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The US soldiers will not have a combat role and are to operate under the full command authority of Nigeria’s military.

The United States has sent 100 military personnel to northern Nigeria to train and advise local forces, as deadly threats rise from armed groups such as Boko Haram and ISIL (ISIS)-linked factions.

Samaila Uba, Nigeria’s Defence Headquarters spokesman, confirmed the US troops’ arrival in the northeastern area of Bauchi on Monday.

He said they will provide “technical support” and “intelligence sharing” to help target and defeat “terrorist organisations”. The US also sent “associated equipment” to support the mission.

Uba stressed that the US soldiers will not play a direct combat role, but will share technical expertise under the full command authority of Nigerian forces.

“The armed forces of Nigeria remain fully committed to degrading and defeating terrorist organisations that threaten the country’s sovereignty, national security, and the safety of its citizens,” said the military spokesman in comments carried by Nigeria’s Premium Times newspaper.

Last weekend, gunmen on motorcycles rampaged through three villages in northern Nigeria, killing at least 46 people and abducting many others. The bloodiest attack happened in the village of Konkoso, in Niger State, where at least 38 people were shot dead or had their throats slit.

Protracted fight

The US deployment follows an easing of tensions that flared between Washington and Nigeria late last year, when US President Donald Trump accused the country of failing to stop killings against Christians and threatened to intervene militarily.

The Nigerian government has rejected Trump’s accusation, and analysts say people across all faiths, not just Christians, are victims of armed groups’ violence

In December, US forces launched air strikes on ISIL-affiliated fighters in the country’s northwest. Last month, following discussions with Nigerian authorities in Abuja, the head of US Africa Command confirmed that a small team of US military officers were in Nigeria, focused on intelligence support.

Nigeria is facing a protracted fight with dozens of local armed groups increasingly battling for turf, including the homegrown Boko Haram and its breakaway faction, the ISIL affiliate in West Africa Province (ISWAP).

There is also the ISIL-linked Lakurawa, as well as other “bandit” groups that specialise in kidnapping for ransom and illegal mining.

Recently, the crisis worsened to include other fighters from the neighbouring Sahel region, including the Jama’at Nusrat al-Islam wal-Muslimin, which claimed its first attack on Nigerian soil last year.

Several thousand people in Nigeria have been killed, according to data from the United Nations.

While Christians have been among those targeted, analysts and residents say the majority of victims of the armed groups are Muslims in the Muslim-dominated north, where most attacks occur.

Nigeria’s 240 million people are evenly split between Christians, mainly in the south, ‌and Muslims, mostly in the north.

At least 32 people were killed when terrorists invaded villages of the Borgu Local Government Area (LGA) in Niger State,  North Central Nigeria. The attack occurred around 7:30 a.m. on Saturday, Feb. 14, lasting for about three hours.

Umar Abdulkarim, the village chief of Konkoso in the Borgu LGA, was identified as one of the victims of the terrorist attack. The attackers set homes ablaze, leaving people displaced and fearful of further raids. 

“We ran with nothing,” a resident who asked not to be named for security reasons, said. “Our houses and police station were burnt, including the houses of Sarkin Samari and his brother.”

Another resident, who is also related to the Konkoso village chief, revealed that the assailants had hung around the community until around 1 a.m. before carrying out the attack, which lasted till about 10 a.m.

“Before the attack, I spoke with him, and he confirmed that the terrorists were approaching the community. After about thirty minutes, they started shooting. As for yesterday, we were able to retrieve 30 dead bodies, which were shot and slaughtered. This morning, we recovered two more,” the local said, noting that the assailants kidnapped an unspecified number of women and children, while some ran away for safety. 

Although residents insisted there has been no assistance from security agencies since the onset of the attack, Wasiu Abiodun, the Niger State police spokesperson, claimed military forces were being deployed to the area.

This incident is part of an escalating wave of violence linked to terrorists who have taken control of the Kainji Forest Reserve, instilling fear in rural communities across the region. The terror group, led by the notorious leader Mallam Sadiqu, engages in merciless killings and kidnaps individuals for ransom, often for mass executions. 

Thousands of fishermen converged on the milky waters of the Matan Fadan river, a UNESCO heritage site, winding through verdant landscape in northwestern Nigeria’s Argungu.

President Bola Tinubu joined thousands of spectators on Saturday, cheering competitors vying to catch the largest fish, despite security concerns deterring some attendance.

Participants employed only traditional methods, including hand-woven nets and calabash gourds, with some demonstrating their prowess using bare hands. The Kebbi State waterway teemed with woven nets and canoes as fishermen waded through.

This year’s champion landed a 59kg (130-pound) croaker fish, winning a cash prize. Other participants sell their catch, stimulating the local economy.

The river remains closed throughout the year, overseen by a titled authority known as Sarkin Ruwa, the water chief.

The fishing contest marked the pinnacle of the annual international fishing festival, which showcased cultural displays, including traditional wrestling and musical performances.

“I thank God that I got something to take home to my family to eat. I am very happy that I came,” Aliyu Muhammadu, a 63-year-old fisherman who participated in the competition, told The Associated Press news agency.

The festival originated in 1934, marking peace between the extensive Sokoto Caliphate – a vast 19th-century Islamic empire spanning from Nigeria into parts of modern-day Burkina Faso – and the previously resistant Argungu emirate.

Considered a symbol of unity, the festival ran continuously for decades until 2010, when infrastructure problems and growing northern Nigerian insecurity forced its suspension. It briefly resumed in 2020 before pausing again until this year.

Nigeria faces complex security challenges, particularly in the north, where thousands of people have been killed in attacks over the years.

While Tinubu characterised the festival’s return as a sign of stability, for many, it represents restored community pride.

“Our challenge now is that people are scared of coming. A lot of people don’t attend the event like before because of insecurity,” said Hussein Mukwashe, the Sarkin Ruwa of Argungu.

Witnesses say the motorcycle riding gunmen attacked three communities in northern Nigeria, killing and abducting dozens.

Gunmen on motorcycles have rampaged through three villages in northern Nigeria, killing at least 32 people and abducting several more, according to witnesses and local police.

The raids on Saturday in the Borgu area of Niger State came amid a complex security crisis in northern Nigeria, featuring armed groups affiliated with ISIL (ISIS) as well as gangs that abduct people for ransom money.

Wasiu Abiodun, ‌the Niger State police spokesperson, confirmed the attack in one of the villages.

“Suspected bandits invaded Tunga-Makeri village,” he said. “Six persons lost their lives, some houses were also set ablaze, and a yet-to-be ascertained number of persons were abducted.”

He added that the assailants had moved on to Konkoso village, while details of other attacks remained unclear.

Jeremiah Timothy, a resident of Konkoso, told the Reuters news agency that the attack on ⁠his village began in the early hours with sporadic gunfire.

“At least 26 people were killed so far in the village after they set the police station ablaze,” said Timothy, adding that the ⁠attackers entered Konkoso around 6am (05:00 GMT), shooting indiscriminately.

He said residents heard military jets flying overhead.

Abdullahi Adamu, another resident of Konkoso, said 26 people were killed. “They were operating freely without the presence of any security,” he told The Associated Press news agency.

The AFP news agency, citing an unnamed humanitarian source, put the death toll in Konkoso at 38. The source said the victims were shot dead or had their throats slit.

Most of the homes in the village were burned down, and apart from those already counted as dead, “other bodies are being recovered”, the source told AFP.

The agency cited a Konkoso resident as saying that the gunmen had killed his nephew and abducted four women.

“After Konkoso, they went to Pissa, where they set a police station on fire and killed one person.”

“At the moment, many people are missing,” he said.

The AP also reported an attack in Pissa, without providing details.

The attacks in Niger State followed a deadly attack by armed fighters earlier this month in neighbouring Kwara and Katsina states that killed nearly 200 people.

The border between Niger and Kwara states is home to the Kainji Forest, a known haven for bandits and fighters, including from the armed group Boko Haram. Last October, the al-Qaeda affiliated Group for the Support of Islam and Muslims (JNIM) also claimed responsibility for its first attack on Nigerian soil, near Woro, in Kwara State.

Religious and community leaders from the Borgu area in Niger State last week called on President Bola Tinubu to establish a military base in the area to put an end to the recurring attacks, Nigerian media reported.

Nigeria is also under pressure to restore security since United States President Donald Trump accused ‌it last year of failing to protect Christians.

Authorities, however, denied that there is systematic persecution of Christians, while independent experts say Nigeria’s security crises kill both Christians and Muslims, often without distinction.

Nigeria’s government, meanwhile, has stepped up cooperation with Washington to improve security, and in December, the US military carried out air strikes in Sokoto State, targeting what Washington said were armed fighters.

The armed forces of the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) have deployed drone technology against several positions of the M23/AFC rebels around Mpety of Walikale territory in North Kivu.

According to local administrative sources, the first explosions from the drone attack occurred around 1 p.m. on Feb. 11, causing widespread panic among villagers and forcing families to leave their homes.

The strikes occurred 48 hours after similar operations aimed at rebel positions in Mindjendje, close to Mpety in the Banakindi area. According to various sources in the region, the earlier missions resulted in multiple non-fatal injuries among the M23/AFC forces.

In the past month, the Walikale territory, particularly the Pinga-Mpety-Mindjendje axis, has been the theatre of violent clashes between the army and the M23/AFC rebels. This strategic area is highly sought after by both parties, intensifying regional security instability. 

The ongoing airstrikes are part of a strategy by the DRC army to reclaim control of key areas around Pinga, which is regarded as the security hub of Walikale territory. The growing arms race between the Congolese government and the M23 rebels has necessitated investments in drone warfare by both parties.

DRC has particularly invested heavily in acquiring military drones, especially the China-made Wing Loong 2 combat drone. In 2023, the country purchased nine Chinese attack drones to strengthen its military capabilities amid the war against the M23 rebels. 

The drones are recognised for their precision strike capabilities and long endurance. They are expected to give Congo’s armed forces a tactical advantage as they work to counter the M23’s advances, which Kinshasa classifies as a terrorist organisation.

A surge in armed violence has uprooted hundreds of locals from their homes in the Takum Local Government Area of Taraba State in northeastern Nigeria. Terrorists raided the Chanchanji District in the LGA on Sunday, Feb. 8, disrupting church services and opening fire on worshippers.

Residents told HumAngle that at least 14 churches were attacked in several villages across the Chanchanji District, leaving many dead. “People were confused and began to scatter. Most of the casualties were women and children,” said Monday Vincent, a resident in the Amadu area of the district.

The Sunday attack lasted for about two hours. Just as residents were trying to recover from the horror of this incident, another attack occurred the following day, in which terrorists killed dozens of people and set houses on fire. While there have been no official statements on the total number of casualties, locals said scores of people were rushed to the hospital for emergency care. The affected communities include Amadu, New Gboko, Adu, and Tse-Tseve.

In the past year, terrorists repeatedly attacked locals in the area, causing mayhem and violating law and order. In September, for instance, they attacked Akate ward, within the Tor-Damisa axis, leading to the establishment of a displacement camp in the area. 

“It used to be two to three casualties, but this time, it’s worse,” Monday said of the attacks, noting that the areas affected are the economic hubs of the Chanchanji District, which have now been deserted. 

He said people are leaving the district en masse, with thousands moving to the displacement camp for shelter and protection. He stressed that security officials have not been deployed to the area, despite the recurring attacks.

“There have been soldiers stationed around the area, but they said they are awaiting official orders,” Monday said. 

Terkuma Moses, a community leader in Amadu, told HumAngle that about 80 deaths have so far been recorded.  Lember Tyozua, the community leader of the Mberev community, corroborated this, saying about 200 people are generally affected. He said they are still documenting the tragic events, and investigations are ongoing.

“We can’t say the situation is under control. It feels like we are at the mercy of the attackers,” Terkuma said, noting that the biggest worry for most residents is survival. 

Kingsley Chidiebere, the commander of the 6 Brigade of the Nigerian Army, visited the area on Feb. 10 and ordered the deployment of soldiers to protect locals and extend patrols across all affected communities. However, locals insisted that security officials have not yet been deployed to the area.

“What we need the most is protection of lives and property because almost all the surrounding villages in Amadu are deserted,” Torkuma stated. 

On 15 different occasions, terrorists trailing Amiru Bala failed to capture him. They succeeded on their 16th attempt in the Tsafe area of Zamfara State, northwestern Nigeria. 

Amiru, whose locality is boiling with rural terrorists turning towns and villages into hell, is revered for providing effective, yet affordable medical care to residents of the Bakin Manya village in Tsafe and is praised for compassionately treating his patients.

In his village, criminal actors have metamorphosed into killing, kidnapping, and maiming residents at will. For more than a decade, security forces have tried but failed to rein in attacks on civilians, causing distrust between locals and state authorities. 

Life in Bakin Manya is hard, residents said. Nobody trusts anybody; many young people within the local community have joined the bandwagon of terrorists killing for fun and kidnapping for ransom. Amid this devastating development, the health system in the rural villages is debilitating, with clinics and hospitals running out of drugs, staff, and patients.

“Our life is threatened, our peace is lost, and our homes are broken,” Amiru cried, as he spoke to HumAngle after regaining his freedom. “Our neighbours turned into sworn enemies. Many among them do not understand why they were subconsciously lured into rural terrorism by their kinsmen, harrowing as their enslaved masters.” 

Amiru said he grew up in an indigent family. At 10, he was inspired to go to school after seeing a team of health workers conducting house-to-house vaccination. It took him over a year to appeal to his father to enrol him in the village primary school. He finally gained admission into the Chediya Primary School when he was 11. After completing his primary education, he proceeded to the Government Science Secondary School in Tsafe, where his interest in science and health grew rapidly.

He later secured admission into College of Health Science and Technology, Tsafe, and graduated as a Senior Community Health Extension Worker after two years of study. Amiru returned to Bakin Manya to focus on providing medical care for villagers and organising campaigns against seasonal diseases.

As medical needs grew within the community, more villagers knocked on his door. He would soon become popular within and outside his community.

Amiru said he advised the village leadership to sponsor the medical needs of some of the community members, but his hope was thwarted when terrorists took over the governance of the village. Rural terrorism has taken a toll on the people, with criminals operating without hindrance.

“Today, as I speak, there are no vehicle movements; not even a bicycle would dare or try passing through the entire northern parts of Chediya Ward, which is just 5-6 kilometres away from the Tsafe local government headquarters,” he lamented.

Life became even harder when terror groups in Tsafe decided to take total control of Chediya, including Amiru’s village. They divided the ward into two: The Chediya North and South. One terrorist leader, Kachalla Musa, first tried to subjugate 14 communities in Chediya North but failed, calling the locals “irredeemably bad people” because they refused to be submissive or negotiate with him. Kabiru Adamu, the Chediya district head, said life has been miserable for his people since they refused to adhere to the demands of the terrorists. For at least five years, they have been under incessant attacks.

“Two different gangs loyal to Ado Aleru and his kinsmen, Hassan Nabamamu and Kachalla Saidu, came together recently to launch a weeklong attack on our communities. Their mission was to displace all of us. In that attack, there were 35 people killed, 29 abducted; they ransacked houses and shops where they looted,” Kabiru recounted. 

Amid escalating chaos, the community faced a difficult predicament beyond their resilience. As state authorities failed to offer assistance against the terrorists, they were left with no choice but to negotiate. About 300 individuals were forced into manual labour on the terrorists’ farms, as part of the so-called peace deal. The community paid millions of naira to gang leader Ado through his agent, Musa Kwamanda, but locals still live in fear. 

In Chediya South, locals have totally succumbed to the antics of terrorists, allowing them to operate freely in exchange for their freedom. Since they entered into the peace deal with Ado’s gang in February 2025, they said they had not experienced any major attack or abduction.

“We eat together and spend most of the night with the terrorists at our homes. Our farmlands are free for us, travel to Gusau and Tsafe towns and safely return at any time,” said Mamman Dirmi, the village monarch of Chediya South. “Our matrimonial beds are shared with the armed terrorists, especially the young boys among them. Although we reported to Ado, asking for his intervention, nothing seems to have changed for the better.” 

Despite adhering to the terrorists’ rules and regulations, however, residents in the Chediya North told HumAngle that things became even tougher. The terrorists have taken over the main road to the community, extorting travellers and raping women and girls indiscriminately.

Abducted to treat terrorists

When they fall ill or are wounded by gunshots, terrorists are usually wary of visiting health facilities within the Tsafe area. The criminal gang came up with a plan to abduct a health worker to treat their injured fighters. Amiru was the prime target, being the most popular health worker in the axis.

After multiple attempts, a gang of five terrorists invaded Amiru’s house in November 2025. Among them, two were armed with guns that slung over their shoulders. They called out his name from outside the door, demanding that he come out peacefully; they threatened that if he refused, they would shoot him and his wife. Faced with the frightening threat, he reluctantly opened the door and stepped outside. 

One of the invaders locked eyes with him and declared that their mission was a simple abduction: he would be taken to their camp for a few days before ultimately being released.

Amiru quickly realised the terrorists were possibly abducting him because they needed medical treatment for either their wounded members or sick ones, or both. “They chained, placed a gun at my wife’s head and smuggled me out at gunpoint,”  he recalled. 

He was overpowered and placed on a motorcycle, leaving his wife and relatives panicking. Later, one of the motorcycles, which carried three terrorists with guns, went far ahead of Amiru and his captors. Amiru sat tightly chained in the centre of the motorcycle, his heart racing as he assessed his precarious situation. In front of him, the motorcycle’s rider leaned forward, oblivious to the tension mounting behind them. At Amiru’s back, another terrorist gripped a gun against his spine. 

Despite the daunting presence of his captor, Amiru’s resolve hardened. He realised he could shake the moving motorcycle free from their control. With iron chains cutting painfully into his skin, he felt the limited but crucial freedom offered by the loose straps across his lap. The rail track whizzed by, a blur of danger and opportunity. Amiru knew that if he could just muster his strength, he might fight back, even in chains, to reclaim his freedom and thwart the terrorists’ plans. The stakes were high, but so was his determination.

“We all fell down, the rider could not move an inch as he kissed the ground with the vehicle’s headlight cover marching his chest. The other terrorist ran away after I knocked his head with the chain and was bleeding helplessly,” Amiru said, describing how he escaped about two hours after he was abducted. “I returned home, and there was huge jubilation across the community, breaking the news of my narrow escape. My father insisted that my wife and I flee our village. The news of my abduction jittered many informants, and the terrorists will likely return again.” 

Fearing reprisal attacks on his people, Amiru said he did not inform any local or state authority about the issue. In the past, those who reported such incidents later regretted it– the terrorists often imposed severe penalties on villagers after security operatives had withdrawn.

Struggling to rebuild life

Amiru fled his home, abandoned his work, and resettled in another town. His life transformed from that of a village health worker to that of a beggar. “As an IDP, my wife and I suffered from insufficient food, hardly getting three square meals a day. I left my father in the village, and he needs my help, but we are all helpless,” he complained.

The few residents who remained in the village were nearly subdued by the relentless attacks. Silence became their daily refuge in an unsettled peace. Whenever community protection guards or soldiers arrived to secure the area, terrorists would accuse the residents of inviting them. At one point, they no longer wanted to see government security forces visiting their communities, as these visits only brought unending humiliation and infringed upon their freedom of movement.

“I am declared wanted and hunted by the terrorists loyal to Ado Aleru’s faction, led by Hassan. He orchestrated an operation with his armed men – Dankaura, Ofisa, Aljan, and Dankabiru – that resulted in the death of 36 innocent farmers. I was not present during the attack, so I escaped and fled my home,” Amiru recounted.

“There came another group of targeted attackers to my home, led by the kingpins Dan-Najeriya and Na-Bello. They ransacked many houses searching for me, but they had no idea I was hiding inside the silos they passed by. It felt like hell that day. I still feel inexplicably nervous and shattered, with the sounds of gunfire echoing in my mind like thunder. Their desperation is such that they want me to go to their camp to treat their terrorists.” 

Amiru vowed never to provide medical treatment to terrorists, insisting that he did not go to school to treat killers. 

HumAngle Foundation, a sister organisation of HumAngle Media, has convened 17 peacebuilding actors, including civil society organisations, government institutions, and security agencies, for a two-day multi-stakeholder roundtable on local peacebuilding efforts in Plateau State, North Central Nigeria.

The roundtable, supported by the National Endowment for Democracy (NED), was held from February 5 to 6 in Jos, the Plateau State capital. It forms part of the Advancing Peace and Security through Journalism (APSJ) Project, launched by the Foundation in 2024 to strengthen the technological capacity of journalists and community-based organisations to promote peacebuilding, accountability, and good governance in conflict-affected areas.

Plateau State has, for decades, experienced recurrent communal violence driven by a complex mix of farmer–herder tensions, identity-based disputes, land ownership conflicts, and political grievances. The state has also suffered terror attacks by armed groups, further compounding insecurity, displacement, and trauma among affected communities. These overlapping forms of violence have resulted in significant loss of lives, widespread displacement, and deep-seated mistrust, underscoring the need for inclusive, locally driven peacebuilding approaches.

Speaking at the event, Angela Umoru-David, the Foundation’s Programme Director, said the roundtable was designed to bridge gaps between stakeholders who often work in isolation. 

“Our objective is to deepen collective understanding of local peacebuilding efforts in Plateau state and promote knowledge exchange on innovative approaches to curbing violent conflict,” she said. “As the project progresses, we intend to also create linkages to journalists so that civil society organisations (CSOs) and community-based organisations (CBOs) can engage with media practitioners in a meaningful way and contribute to journalism for peace.”

Participants discussed emerging trends, persistent gaps, and new opportunities within Plateau State’s peacebuilding ecosystem. Describing the engagement as timely, Nanmak Bali, President of the Plateau Peace Practitioners Network, an umbrella body for peacebuilding organisations in the state, noted that the discussions would improve coordination among actors. “The roundtable is apt, and it is coming at the right time,” he said. “These conversations will strengthen our approach to information sharing and guide how we design and implement our interventions.”

Bwemana Hailey Adanchin, an officer at the Mediation and Dialogue Unit of the Plateau Peace Building Agency, also highlighted the value of collaboration fostered by the meeting. “Participating in this roundtable has been very impactful, especially the lessons on collaboration,” she told HumAngle. “It reinforces the fact that no single institution can build peace alone.”

The roundtable featured plenary sessions and breakout discussions, during which participants examined the progress and limitations of existing peacebuilding interventions in the state. 

Alfred Alabo, spokesperson of the Plateau State Police Command, said security agencies were increasingly recognising the limits of force-based responses to conflict. “There is a growing understanding that peace cannot be achieved through kinetic approaches alone,” he said. “When we engage more deeply, we realise that dialogue and community engagement are essential. In many cases, civil society organisations are already on the ground before we arrive, and we work together to resolve issues.”

Other participants echoed similar sentiments, emphasising the importance of early engagement, coordinated responses, and the responsible use of information in conflict-sensitive environments, and collaboration.

Fatima Suleiman, Executive Director of the Islamic Counselling Initiative of Northern Nigeria, described the roundtable as a moment of self-reflection. “This engagement has made me think more critically about stakeholder mapping and inclusion,” she said. “It highlighted gaps in how we identify and engage relevant actors in peacebuilding.”

Similarly, Kangyang Gana, Executive Director of Claire Aid Foundation, said the sessions helped her reassess her organisation’s interventions. “The discussions helped me identify gaps in our current interventions,” she said. “It has given me clarity on what needs to be adjusted to make our peacebuilding efforts more effective.”

Aliyu Dahiru, HumAngle’s Head of the Extremism and Radicalisation Desk, led a dedicated session on extremists’ use of media for propaganda, radicalisation, and recruitment. He stressed the role of journalists and peace actors in countering harmful narratives. 

“Violent groups understand the power of information,” he said. “Our responsibility is to ensure that media and community voices are not exploited to inflame tensions but are instead used to promote understanding, resilience, and peace.”

In another session, Abdussamad Ahmad, HumAngle’s Human Security and Policy Analyst, introduced participants to in-house tools, including the HumAngle FOI Hub and Maps.HumAngle, designed to help civil society organisations and local communities strengthen advocacy and accountability efforts.

“Our hope is that over time, stronger multistakeholder networks that understand their local contexts will be built and sustained,” Angela added. 

Since its launch, the APSJ Project has hosted similar roundtable discussions in northwestern Nigeria. The initiative has also trained journalists and awarded grants to those reporting on grassroots peacebuilding efforts across the country, particularly in Adamawa, Borno, Cross River, Lagos, and Taraba states. 

Gina Bashir is a 46-year-old farmer from Askira Uba, in Borno, northeastern Nigeria. At the peak of the Boko Haram insurgency, she lived in Benisheik, a small town in Borno, with her husband and six children.

During the height of the Boko Haram insurgency, she lost her brother, nephew, and six other relatives.

In this video, we talk about her survival and her ambition for her children.

Reported and scripted by Sabiqah Bello

Voice acting by Rukayya Saeed

Multimedia editor is Anthony Asemota

Executive producer is Ahmad Salkida

Armed men burned homes and shops in Woro, a remote village in north-central Kwara State bordering Niger State, authorities say.

Armed men have killed at least 35 people and burned homes and shops in Woro, a remote village in Nigeria’s north-central Kwara State, authorities said.

“This morning, I was told that 35 to 40 dead bodies were counted,” Sa’idu Baba Ahmed, a local lawmaker in the Kaiama region, told the AFP news agency on Wednesday.

“Many others escaped into the bush with gunshots,” Ahmed said, adding that more bodies could be found.

It was the deadliest assault ‍this ⁠year in the district bordering Niger State, which armed gangs have attacked increasingly.

Villagers fled into the surrounding bushland as the armed men attacked Woro, Ahmed told ‌the Reuters news agency by phone. Several people were still missing, he said.

The attack was confirmed by police, who did not provide casualty figures. The state government blamed the attack on “terrorist cells”.

Banditry and armed ‌attacks on rural communities have surged across ‌northwest and north-central ⁠Nigeria in recent years as gangs raid villages, kidnap residents and loot livestock.

It was early in the morning, and Yakubu Buba stood in front of his house in Gamboru, northeastern Nigeria, looking towards the horizon. He was not waiting for a vehicle. He was waiting for cattle.

From across the Cameroon border, they came in low, patient herds, hooves lifting dust into the air. Yakubu breathed in deeply and smiled.  He enjoys the smell of fresh animal droppings, he says. “It replenishes the soul.”

The herds come daily. “About ten of them,” the 57-year-old estimates. “They are guided into Kasuwan Shanu, where they are loaded onto trucks bound for Maiduguri.”

That same morning, he, too, was headed to Maiduguri. A bean merchant since he was 17, Yakubu began travelling the Maiduguri-Dikwa-Gamboru road in 1986, importing beans from Cameroon and selling them onward to traders at the Muna Market who supplied to markets across Nigeria.

Gamboru sits on the Nigerian-Cameroon border in the northeast. A few kilometres away is Ngala, which links Nigeria and Chad. Through these borders, traders export processed goods like flour into Cameroon and Chad, Yakubu says. And when crossing back, they would import beans, sesame, and groundnuts. Animals, in whole or in parts, like hides, are the most imported from these countries, he says.

At the Muna Motor Park in Maiduguri, where I met Yakubu, this pattern was once predictable. Vehicles arrived full and left fuller. Mustapha Hauwami, a 47-year-old driver who began plying the route in 1980, remembers when the park felt like a tide. “We transport traders and passengers to Gamboru and Dikwa daily,” he says. “Most of those coming from Gamboru are Chadian traders.” He drove twice a day, sometimes more.

The pattern got interrupted, slowly. Conflict came, and fear crept in. “It became too risky to travel,” Mustapha says. Checkpoints began to pop up, and movement became impossible without military escorts. “There are at least 20 checkpoints on the road,” Mustapha says. “Importing goods became difficult,” Yakubu adds.

Movements became restricted

The effects were uneven. While Maiduguri’s economy tightened under restricted access, border towns like Gamboru adapted in unexpected ways. Cut off from Maiduguri at the height of the Boko Haram conflict, traders there turned outward. “We relied entirely on Chad and Cameroon,” Yakubu recalls.

Over time, goods from Maiduguri began arriving again, but now as just one stream among many. “They became cheaper in Gamboru,” he said. “Goods were coming from both Maiduguri and the neighbouring countries.”

The movement did not stop. It rerouted. The road’s restriction reshaped the advantage, redistributing it. What Maiduguri lost in centrality, border towns gained in flexibility.

Elsewhere, the pattern repeated with variations. On the Maiduguri-Bama-Gwoza road, Muhammad Haruna remembers when nights were just nights. He began driving in 1981, commuting passengers to Bama, Gwoza, Pulka, Yola, and Mubi. “Driving to Bama took at least 40 minutes,” he recalls. “For Banki, Gwoza, and Kirawa, it was one hour and 30 minutes.” There were few checkpoints, he says. And these existed because of criminals. “And travelling to Mubi was three hours, while Yola was not more than five hours.” The roads were free, even at night. “On market days, as many as 200 fully loaded Gulf cars carried traders into these towns,” says Bamai Mustapha, Chairman of the Bama Park National Union of Road Transport Workers.

Here, too, the Boko Haram conflict affected the flow. Most of the roads became inaccessible, forcing drivers to take a long route passing through the forest into Dikwa, before reaching Bama, until it became totally impossible to travel. “After escaping abduction in 2015, I stopped driving,” Muhammad says. “I sold the car and went into trading.”

Some traders shifted focus to Yola, Muhammad says. They would import from Cameroon into Yola instead. “Others import to Jalingo.”

When calm slowly returned, the routes reopened, but with limited access. “In some of the towns, curfew starts early,” says Muhammad. “They close Bama and Konduga by 5 p.m.” “If you leave Maiduguri by 2 p.m. with Gwoza passengers, you must spend the night in Bama.”

Still, it is not totally safe. “There was a time we got stuck for about a week in Konduga, while going to Gwoza, waiting for military escorts,” Muhammad recalls.

There have been recurring attacks and abductions on these routes for about a decade. The Boko Haram terror group has turned to the kidnapping economy as one of its revenue windows. “The most dangerous route is between Gwoza and Limankara,” Muhammad reveals. “The terrorists would plant mines on the roads. You cannot follow the route without a military escort.”

Despite that, they must travel the route. “It leads into Cameroon. We often transport traders and goods imported from Cameroon through Banki, Kirawa, and Pulka into Maiduguri.” At least seven trucks filled with grains enter Maiduguri from Pulka daily, he says. “It used to be around 30.” “This is the same for Gwoza, Madagali, and other towns.” 

The goods coming in, especially grains and animals, are transported onwards to Lagos in southwestern Nigeria and other cities, Bamai says. “They pass the Maiduguri-Damaturu road.”

The fish stopped coming

The story is the same on the Maiduguri-Baga-Monguno road. This is the backbone of Maiduguri’s fish trade. Audu Gambo began plying this route in 1990, transporting passengers, including traders and farmers, to Baga daily. “Driving to Baga used to take only two hours and 30 minutes,” the 54-year-old recalls. “There were few customs and immigration checkpoints, and the roads were good,” he adds. This enabled him to make a full trip twice, he says, until the conflict interrupted this frequency.

“Travelling has become difficult and restricted,” Audu says. “The entrance to Baga closes at 2 p.m.” So, they must leave Maiduguri as early as 8 a.m. “There are at least 30 checkpoints before reaching Baga,” he says. “Most of the drivers here are from Baga. Those of us from Maiduguri rarely travel the route.”

This affected the city’s source of protein. “I stopped going to Baga in 2017,” Abubakar Mustapha, a fish trader, recalls. It was 10 a.m. when I met him at his stall at the Baga Road Fish Market. “If it were before [the insurgency], we would have finished trading by this time,” he says. The influx of fish into the market has reduced. “They were cheaper and in abundance in the past. We used to offload at least five trucks of fish daily in the market.”

When the insurgency peaked, Abubakar recalls, it became one truck in days, until it became too risky to travel. The road became totally inaccessible.

Then the focus shifted to neighbouring countries. “We began importing from Cameroon, Chad, and Niger,” Abubakar recalls. “Fish from Cameroon and Chad are imported through the Maiduguri-Gamboru road. Those from Niger are brought in through Geidam in Yobe State,” and are transported through the Maiduguri-Damaturu road. “At least four trucks from these countries are offloaded daily,” he estimates. However, transporting to Maiduguri became costly. “Each cartoon costs 4,000 to import,” he says. So, traders relocated to Hadejia and Yola. “More than 50 per cent left.”

In the past two years, however, there has been cautious improvement. The market’s population has increased as previously closed roads are now accessible, Abubakar says. “Some traders have returned and they can now directly import from Baga and Monguno. Yesterday, we offloaded four vans. And the day before, it was three. It doesn’t go below or beyond this number.”

Yet, consignments from neighbouring countries make up the majority. “Fishers cannot freely access the water from the shores of Baga and Monguno,” he says. The shore there is one of the strongholds of the Islamic State West Africa Province (ISWAP) terror group. To fish in the water, fishers must pay.

That afternoon, Yakubu Buba boarded a vehicle at the Muna Park back to Gamboru. His beans had been delivered. He has learned to accept delays as the new rules of the road. Still, he remembers it used to be free.

Kurmin Wali, Nigeria – Like most Sundays in Kurmin Wali, the morning of January 18 began with early preparations for church and, later on, shopping at the weekly market.

But by 9:30am, it became clear to residents of the village in the Kajuru local government area of Nigeria’s Kaduna State that this Sunday would not be a normal one.

Gunmen known locally as bandits arrived in the village in numbers, armed with AK47 rifles.

They broke down doors and ordered people out of their homes and the village’s three churches.

They blocked the village exits before taking people and marching dozens into the forest at gunpoint.

Some captives were taken from church, while others were forcibly kidnapped as gunmen moved from house to house.

In one house, more than 30 members of an extended family were abducted.

Jummai Idris, a relative of the family that was taken, remains inconsolable.

She was home the day of the attack and did not go out.

“When I heard shouting, I took two children and we hid behind a house. That was how they [the bandits] missed us,” she told Al Jazeera.

“But I heard every shout, every cry and footstep as they picked up people from our house and surrounding houses,” she added, between sobs.

With tears streaming down her face, Idris recounts how she kept calling out the names of her missing family members – men, women and children.

Her house sits on the edge of the village, close to a bandits’ crossing point.

“I don’t know what they are doing to them now. I don’t know if they’ve eaten or not,” she said.

A total of 177 people were abducted that day. Eleven escaped their captors, but about a quarter of Kurmin Wali’s population remains captive.

Initially, state officials denied the attack had taken place.

In the immediate aftermath, Kaduna’s police commissioner called reports a “falsehood peddled by conflict entrepreneurs”.

Finally, two days later, Nigeria’s national police spokesman, Benjamin Hundeyin, admitted an “abduction” had indeed occurred on Sunday. He said police had launched security operations with the aim of “locating and safely rescuing the victims and restoring calm to the area”.

Uba Sani, Kaduna state’s governor, added that more than just rescuing the abductees, the government was committed to ensuring “that we establish permanent protection for them”.

There has been a police presence in Kurmin Wali since then. But it is not enough to reassure villagers.

Locals say the police are not there to protect the village, but merely to compile the names of victims they for days denied existed.

At the premises of Haske Cherubim and Seraphim Movement Church, the largest church in the village, days after the attack, a rust-coloured door lay on the floor, pulled off its hinges. Inside the mud-brick building, the site was chaotic.

Plastic chairs overturned in panic were strewn around the room – just as the kidnappers had left them.

‘Only the recklessly bold can stay’

The church building was where the captors brought everyone before marching them into the forest surrounding the village.

Residents said the gunmen divided themselves into different groups, targeting homes and churches in the village.

Maigirma Shekarau was among those taken before he managed to escape.

“They tied us, beat us up, before arriving us into the bush. We trekked a long distance before taking a break,” he said of his journey with his captors.

Shekarau, a father of five, was holding his three-year-old daughter when he and others were taken.

“When we reached an abandoned village, I ducked inside a room with my little daughter when the attackers weren’t looking. I closed the door and waited. After what seemed like eternity, and sure they were gone, I opened the door and walked back home, avoiding the bush path,” he said, now back in the village.

But on returning home, his heart sank. He and his three-year-old were the only ones who made it home. The rest of the family is still held by the kidnappers.

Standing in a parched field of long dried grass, Shekarau says the village no longer feels like home.

The village chief was also taken, but managed to escape. He now presides over a community hopeful for the return of the missing – but too scared to stay.

“Everyone is on edge. People are confused and don’t know what to do. Some haven’t eaten. There are entire families that are missing,” said Ishaku Danazumi, the village chief.

Danazumi says the kidnappers regularly visit and loot the village grain stores and the villagers’ possessions, including mobile phones.

Two days after the attack, residents said the bandits rode through their village again.

On that day, the community also received a ransom demand.

“They accused us of taking 10 motorcycles they hid in the bush to evade soldiers who operated here the week before,” Danazumi said. “But we didn’t see those bikes.”

The chief said the captors told him the return of the 10 bikes was a precondition for the return of his people.

But deep inside, he knows, more demands will follow.

In the village, residents wait in their thatch and mud-brick houses, hoping for their loved ones to return.

But because of fear and the tense situation, many are leaving the farming community.

“Anyone thinking about remaining in this village needs to reconsider,” said Panchan Madami, a resident who also survived the attack.

“Only the recklessly bold can stay with the current state of security here.”

Villagers said that before the January 18 attack, 21 people kidnapped by the bandits were returned to them after a ransom was paid. But just two days later, a quarter of the village was taken.

“It will be stupid to stay here, hoping things will be OK,” added Madami.

The government says it will establish a military post to protect the community from further attacks. But that is not comforting enough for Idris, who has also made up her mind to leave.

“I’m not coming back here,” she said, gathering her belongings to leave the village where she grew up and married. “I just hope the rest of my family gets back.”

A bowl of leftover pap saved Audu Gimba* from being abducted, but his wife, children, and relatives were not as fortunate. 

On Jan. 18, Audu’s family found their way to the Cherubim & Seraphim (C&S) Movement Church, Number 2, Kurmin Wali, Kaduna State, northwestern Nigeria, like they do every Sunday morning. Around 10:30 a.m., warning cries interrupted their service.

Terrorists had surrounded Kurmin Wali from all angles, unleashing their horrors on the worshippers of C & S 1 and 2 and the Evangelical Church Winning All (ECWA) Church in the same community. They would later make away with 177 people in total, according to Audu and some media reports. 

“We tried to run out but discovered we were surrounded. Even if you run, they chase you down,” he recalled the horrors of that morning. He said the terrorists were also collecting phones and cash from the victims. Before they got to him, he threw his phone into the bushes, planning to retrieve it after he escaped. 

The terrorists divided the captives into batches, with Audu and four others placed at the front. 

“As we were walking, I saw one of my brothers being beaten by the terrorists. They demanded that he get them food from his house. He told them he only had leftover pap, and when he brought it to them, their attention shifted to it, including the terrorists holding us hostage. When I noticed that, I used that opportunity to run and hide, but the rest were taken into the forest,” he told HumAngle. 

From his hiding spot, Audu watched as the terrorists brought out the remaining church members who had been hiding, made them lie on the ground, and then herded them into the forest. 

“The terrorists were holding guns, which were similar to the ones soldiers use,” he told HumAngle. “All of them had weapons. They came out through three angles; even if you run, you will run into them from all angles.” Although no one was shot, the presence of the firearms and the terrorists’ known ruthlessness were enough to force the villagers into submission. They wore no masks, and the survivors who spoke to HumAngle said they did not recognise them as familiar faces.

They came in through the forest and returned through the same path, this time with unwilling villagers, leaving behind a trail of fear and heartbreak. 

“My in-laws and two other women were heavily pregnant. My second wife and another in-law had daughters under two years old. My daughter was one year and two months old, and my three sons and their wives were all taken away into the forest. The children are not even old enough to walk on their own,” his voice cracked as he named his losses. 

He admitted that revisiting the events of that day makes him want to break down and cry.

It wasn’t just his losses, he said, but also the reaction of the military, those meant to protect them, that further pushed him into despair.

“The day the soldiers arrived, we told them the path they followed. When one of my brothers insisted on showing them the way, one of the soldiers even threatened to slap him. I don’t think any soldiers walked for 10 minutes between the village and the forest. They just stood there watching us,” he lamented. 

Security officials first dismissed the attack as a falsehood spread to cause chaos, only to later confirm it. The Kaduna State Governor, Uba Sani, said the reason for the denial was “to confirm details first before making any statements”. 

“We need help,” Audu cried. “We don’t have anything to do unless the government helps us. What can I possibly do to help them come out? It’s just my wife and me; they have taken everyone else away.”

A recurring problem 

For the people of Kurmin Wali, this is not the first of such attacks. Eight days earlier, on Jan. 11, another mass abduction of about 21 people occurred. The people were released four days later, only after a ransom of ₦2.6 million was paid, according to another villager, Moses Noma*. 

Attacks on the village remain largely underreported. Online searches for Kurmin Wali mostly return reports of the most recent abduction, belatedly drawing attention to yet another community Nigeria has failed to protect. 

Moses escaped the latest attack, but his family had been directly affected by the previous one. The incident occurred at night. 

“They entered my house and my brother’s house,” he recounted. “Twelve people from my family were kidnapped. I barely escaped with my wife. When I returned, I heard my mum crying. She had been badly beaten with metal and was injured. I picked her up along with my injured uncle and took them to the hospital.”

When Moses arrived, his mother was in a pool of her blood. He thinks the kidnappers must have assumed she died due to how badly she was bleeding. Even when he heard her cries, he hid until he was sure the terrorists had gone before he went to her side. Fortunately, her injuries were treatable, and she was able to return to her family. 

Usually, when attacks like this occur, residents say they report them to military personnel stationed along nearby roads. However, soldiers often arrive late, if at all, and little is done until kidnappers demand ransom and eventually release victims on their own. In some cases, soldiers show up a day after the attack, claiming they did not receive permission to respond earlier, residents said. 

“Even as we speak, we are currently patrolling the streets because no security forces have been dispatched,” the 30-year-old man explained a week after the attack, despite the governor’s visit four days earlier. 

According to Moses, the village has been under constant threats and attacks for about three years. “Even in February last year, they came and kidnapped people,” he noted.

After such attacks, some residents flee to other parts of Kaduna, such as Marraraban Kajuru, Kasuwan Magani, and neighbouring towns, and return after some time. Moses, like others, usually finds his way back home, but the terror never stops. 

Government intervention? 

James Kura* says it was the stars that guided him home that night. 

“We were in church. We stationed some people outside to ensure security. When they saw them coming, they raised an alarm. We ran out, but soon discovered they had circled us. They put us together and collected all our money and phones in front of the church. Then they started to march us into the forest,” he narrated. 

At one point, the terrorists stopped and started to beat them heavily with sticks before continuing with the march. James was injured during the assault. 

They later arrived at Sabon Gida, a nearby village that has been deserted due to the constant terror attacks, one of the many ghost communities in Kaduna State. Some captives managed to escape there. But it was much later that James found the chance. 

“I noticed I was lagging behind and the kidnappers were distracted, so I used that opportunity to hide somewhere in the bushes until they left. I started to walk into the forest and eventually found my way home by following the stars,” he recalled. James got home around 9 p.m. that night. 

Despite his escape, many of his relatives and friends remain in captivity.

James and ten other escapees were taken to Barau Dikko Teaching Hospital in Kaduna town on Jan. 23, following the governor’s visit. Before then, James had tried to treat his injuries at a chemist’s shop in the village.

The hospital’s Chief Medical Director, Abdulqadir Musa, said the victims would receive maximum care and attention and would “leave the hospital smiling”.

Even so, this was not the first time James had been kidnapped. In 2021, he was abducted from his home and held captive for days, and the horrors of that experience fueled his determination to escape repeating it. 

“They demanded a ransom of ₦1 million then, and they demanded other items like phones, which amounted to almost ₦200,000 extra,” he recalled. 

Although the current ransom demand has not been formally communicated, James told HumAngle that the kidnappers are demanding 17 motorcycles, which they claimed were left behind after the attack. Residents say only three were found, some of them already stripped of parts such as headlights. 

A separate report corroborates James’ account, adding that ₦250 million and three more motorcycles, bringing the total to 20, have been demanded by the terrorists. 

For a community already struggling to survive, residents say such demands are difficult to meet. The  Kaduna State government has said it will work with security operatives to ensure the victims are rescued unhurt. 

“We have been collaborating with the relevant security agencies, both the military, the DSS, the police, and the Office of National Security Adviser, to ensure the quick return and recovery of our people that were abducted in this very important community,’’ Uba Sani said during his visit to Kurmin Wali. 

The fear of the future 

Survivors like James are worried and concerned about their future security, the fate of their loved ones who are still in captivity, and the ransoms they may be forced to pay. 

Nigeria has criminalised ransom payments, with violators facing at least 15 years in prison. Yet kidnapping continues to surge nationwide, with few successful rescue operations, leaving families with little choice. 

On social media, people, including former top government officials, have crowdfunded for ransom. About ₦2.23 trillion in ransom payments was made between May 2023 and April 2024 in Nigeria, according to the National Bureau of Statistics. 

“When the governor visited, he promised he would bring us security. The government is taking care of our hospital bills and feeding. But in addition to that, the most important thing we need now is financial support because we know we would have to pay ransom,” he added. 

As for tightened security in the village, Audu said some military officials were stationed in front of their church during their morning service on Jan. 25. However, they are unaware of any action or movement to retrieve their loved ones, whose situation remains unknown. 

*Names marked with an asterisk are pseudonyms we’ve used to protect the identities of those interviewed.

For years, 64-year-old Ibrahim Zira lived with high blood pressure, managing the condition at Jigalambu Primary Healthcare Centre (PHC) in the Michika area of Adamawa State, northeastern Nigeria. When his condition worsened, he was referred to the Michika General Hospital, where he faced a familiar struggle: incomplete medical records and repeated tests.

“When I got there, they asked for my records, and the file I had contained very little information. I was asked questions and told to repeat tests I had already done. I had to pay again. It was painful because I don’t have a steady income,” Ibrahim complained.

In Nigeria, about 77 per cent of health spending is paid out of pocket, so each additional test adds a financial burden that many patients can barely afford. But the challenge is not only financial. Without digital medical records, patients like Ibrahim are often made to reconstruct their medical histories whenever they move between facilities, relying on memory of dates, drug names, and test results. 

“Sometimes I forget dates or drug names,” he said. “When that happens, the health workers think I’m not serious. It’s stressful explaining the same sickness again and again, especially when you’re not feeling well.”

The same experience surfaced for Pwavira Akami during her first pregnancy. She began antenatal care (ANC) at Gweda Mallam PHC in her hometown of Numan but later relocated to Jimeta, Yola—more than an hour’s journey away—to stay with her sister. There, she registered for antenatal care at Damilu PHC. 

The transition exposed the same fault line in the absence of digital patient records.

“They asked me many questions that were already written in my ANC card, but some pages were missing,” she recalled. As a result, Pwavira was asked to repeat basic lab tests. “I had to spend more money. It’s tiring; you keep answering the same questions about your last period, past illnesses, and tests. Sometimes you’re not even sure if you’re saying it correctly.” 

In both cases, the problem was not medical knowledge or staff competence. It was the absence of a shared system that allowed patient information to follow people as they moved between facilities.

Frontline workers show concerns

This gap, healthcare workers say, affects patients across Adamawa every day.

Mercy Dakko, a midwife at General Hospital, Michika, said she works almost every month without patient files and that internally displaced persons (IDPs) and pregnant women often arrive with incomplete or fragmented medical histories. 

“It slows everything down,” she told HumAngle. “In emergencies, lack of history can be risky. You may not know past complications or drug reactions.” 

Mercy recalled the case of a woman who came into labour, only for the staff to later learn that she was diagnosed with high blood pressure in a previous clinic. “We found out late, and it almost caused serious complications,” the midwife explained.

Sam Alex, another medical practitioner, agreed that due to a lack of well-documented medical history, they rely only on what the patient remembers, which is not always accurate. “Very often we repeat tests. It’s not ideal, but sometimes it’s the only safe option,” Sam said, noting that the stakes are even higher for chronic diseases.  “It increases the risk of wrong medication, delayed care and poor outcomes, especially for conditions like diabetes or hypertension.” 

He acknowledged that patients often bear additional burdens, spending more time and money, and some even refuse to come to the hospital because they are tired of having to repeat medical procedures. 

‘Everything is paper-based’

At the root of the problem is a paper-based system that requires patients to carry physical files. Emmanuel Somotochukwu, a Nigerian pharmacist, told HumAngle that in his hospital, about one in ten patients are sent back simply because a prescription is illegible or an old lab result is missing. 

Studies in Nigeria have found that illegible or incomplete prescriptions are a leading cause of medical error. In most hospitals across Adamawa, record officers are overwhelmed by paperwork. Bewo Gisilanbe, a record officer at the General Hospital in Michika, described how patient histories are stored. 

“Everything is paper-based. Files are created manually and stored in cabinets,” he said, admitting that old files or files from busy clinic days could get torn, misplaced, and slow to retrieve. “Once a patient leaves, their record ends here. There’s no connection to other facilities.”

Bewo stressed that searching for a lost history wastes time and distorts continuity of care. “We don’t know what happened to a patient’s prior care after they leave,” he said. If systems were linked, he argued, everything would change. “It would reduce workload, improve accuracy, and make record tracking easier.”

Why digitalised medical records matter

Experts say the solution to the flawed health system in Adamawa lies in Digital Public Infrastructure (DPI). In the health sector, DPI refers to shared, secure information systems that allow “medical histories, prescriptions, insurance status, and laboratory results to move electronically between units, without requiring patients to act as messengers”. 

The cornerstone of this system is a dependable digital identity. By mid-2025, Nigeria’s National Identity Management Commission (NIMC) had issued 123.5 million National Identity Numbers (NIN). These IDs, if utilised, can act as a digital passport, enabling the connection of patient records across various healthcare facilities.

Recently, the National Health Insurance Authority (NHIA) and NIMC signed an MoU to establish a unified framework linking citizens’ national identity data with health insurance records. This integration is meant to streamline verification, reduce fraud, and expand access to healthcare, especially for underserved communities.

Beyond identity, DPI seems to require an interoperable health information record system. In 2024, the government launched the Nigeria Digital in Health Initiative (NDHI) to build a national health information exchange and patient registry. The goal is for health facilities to securely and seamlessly share information. 

Nzadon David, a digital innovations specialist working with the African Union, and Asor Ahura, a Nigerian-based AI engineer and digital health expert, highlighted several key requirements for success in digital health systems. Nzadon emphasised that “every system needs a way to recognise each person. In Nigeria, this means using the NIN or similar IDs in health records.” Asor also stated that “clinics must agree on data formats and coding systems to ensure that one hospital’s notes can be understood at another. He stressed that privacy laws, such as Nigeria’s 2023 Data Protection Act and clear guidelines about who can access information are essential for building trust. 

Across Africa, early DPI projects show what’s possible. Rwanda has an integrated e-health platform (Irembo) that links digital IDs to patient records and lab results. Kenya’s Afya Kenya initiative likewise allows a clinic in Kisumu to retrieve the same information as a clinic in Nairobi, eliminating duplicate efforts. The payoff is clear: fewer medical errors, faster diagnosis, and better continuity of care, according to the DPI Africa platform. Even India’s Aadhaar ID system now covers 1.4 billion people and is tied into programs including health insurance.

Nzadon noted that these countries didn’t digitise everything at once. They started small, created shared standards, scaling gradually. “States that succeed focus on shared standards and simple, open systems more than expensive software,” he added.

The road map

In 2025, Nigeria joined the UN’s Digital Public Goods Alliance, pledging that government systems, including health, should be open, inclusive, and interoperable. These moves seem to reflect lessons from around the world. Rwanda, Kenya and other countries show that with a national ID, electronic medical records, and a clear privacy framework, health services can become seamless. In Nigeria’s case, there is no shortage of data on why it matters. Aside from the human toll of broken care, inefficiency has economic consequences. According to McKinsey Global Institute’s digital identification report, scaling digital ID systems worldwide could add $5 trillion to global GDP. 

Frontline healthcare workers, seeing the impact firsthand, have a clear wish list. 

With connected records, Mercy said, “we can focus more on care instead of paperwork.” Bewo admitted that a shared system would “reduce mistakes” and free up resources for patients. Perhaps most pointedly, patients themselves feel the difference. Reflecting on his own experience, Ibrahim says a digitalised health system would make life easier. 

This report is produced under the DPI Africa Journalism Fellowship Programme of the Media Foundation for West Africa and Co-Develop.