Nigeria

Fireworks lit the stage and the audience roared as pop star Nicki Minaj walked out hand-in-hand with Erika Kirk Sunday in a surprise appearance at Turning Point USA’s annual convention in Phoenix.

“I love this woman; she is an amazing woman,” said Kirk, the widow of Charlie Kirk, who headed the right-wing student organization until he was killed in September. “Words are words, but I know her heart.”

Minaj, who has surprised some fans in recent months by embracing the MAGA movement, praised President Trump and mocked California Gov. Gavin Newsom.

“I have the utmost respect and admiration for our president,” Minaj said. “I don’t know if he even knows this but he has given so many people hope that there is a chance to beat the bad guys and to win and to do it with your head held high.”

Minaj then read some of her former social media posts mocking Newsom, calling him “Newscum” and “Gavie-poo.”

“Imagine being the guy running on wanting to see trans kids, haha, not even a trans adult would run on that,” she said. “Normal adults wake up and think they want to see healthy, safe, happy kids — not Gav.”

Minaj then urged boys to “be boys.”

“There is nothing wrong with being a boy,” she said. “How about that? How powerful is that? How profound is that? Boys will be boys and there is nothing wrong with that.”

Minaj praised Turning Point USA, saying the organization is encouraging youth to connect with God.

“There has been a lack of that in our media, in our everyday conversations,” she said. “Christians have been being persecuted right here in our country in different ways.”

Minaj drew attention from the Trump administration in November, when she publicly backed the president’s assertions that Christians face persecution in Nigeria, a claim the Nigerian government has disputed.

The country has seen a wave of recent mass abductions, as it suffers from multiple interlinked security concerns.

Nigerian authorities have secured the release of 130 kidnapped schoolchildren taken by gunmen from a Catholic school in November, according to a presidential spokesman, after 100 were freed earlier this month.

“Another 130 Abducted Niger State Pupils Released, None Left In Captivity,” Sunday Dare said in a post on X on Sunday.

In late November, hundreds of students and staff were kidnapped from St Mary’s co-educational boarding school in north-central Niger State.

The attack came amid a wave of mass abductions reminiscent of the 2014 Boko Haram kidnapping of schoolgirls in the town of Chibok.

The West African country suffers from multiple interlinked security concerns, from armed groups in the northeast to armed “bandit” gangs in the northwest.

The exact number of children taken from St Mary’s has been unclear throughout the ordeal.

Initially, the Christian Association of Nigeria (CAN) said that 315 students and staff were unaccounted for after the attack in the rural hamlet of Papiri.

About 50 of them escaped immediately afterwards, and on December 7, the government secured the release of about 100 people.

That would leave about 165 thought to be still in captivity before Sunday’s announcement that 130 were rescued.

However, a UN source told the AFP news agency that all those taken appeared to have been released, as dozens thought to have been kidnapped had managed to run off during the attack and make their way home.

The accounting has been complicated because the children’s homes are scattered across swaths of rural Nigeria, sometimes requiring three or four hours of travel by motorbike to reach their remote villages, the source said.

The source told the AFP that “the remaining set of girls/secondary school students will be taken to Minna”, the capital of Niger State, on Monday.

“We’ll have to still do final verification,” Daniel Atori, a spokesman for CAN in Niger State, told the AFP.

Mass kidnappings

It has not been made public who seized the children from their boarding school, or how the government secured their release.

Kidnappings for ransom are a common way for criminals and armed groups to make quick cash in Nigeria.

But a spate of mass abductions in November put an uncomfortable spotlight on the country’s already grim security situation.

Assailants kidnapped two dozen Muslim schoolgirls, 38 church worshippers, and a bride and her bridesmaids, with farmers, women and children also taken hostage.

The kidnappings also come as Nigeria faces a diplomatic offensive from the United States, where President Donald Trump has alleged that there have been mass killings of Christians in Nigeria that amounted to a “genocide”, and he threatened military intervention.

Nigeria’s government and independent analysts reject that framing, which has long been used by the Christian right in the US and Europe.

One of the first mass kidnappings that drew international attention was in 2014, when nearly 300 girls were seized from their boarding school in the northeastern town of Chibok by the Boko Haram armed group.

A decade later, Nigeria’s kidnap-for-ransom crisis has “consolidated into a structured, profit-seeking industry” that raised some $1.66m between July 2024 and June 2025, according to a recent report by SBM Intelligence, a Lagos-based consultancy.

On the eve of the 2025 AFCON, football’s governing body in Africa create new four-year cycle and form a Nations League.

African football is getting a major shake-up with the creation of the African Nations League and conversion of the biennial Africa Cup of Nations to a four-year cycle.

Patrice Motsepe, the president of the Confederation of African Football, announced the changes Saturday during his news conference before the 2025 Africa Cup hosted by Morocco.

Motsepe said that the 2027 Africa Cup, to be hosted by Uganda, Kenya and Tanzania, will go ahead as planned and that the following edition – originally scheduled for 2029 – will be moved forward to take place in 2028. The next Africa Cup after that will be in 2032.

This would allow the first African Nations League to take place in 2029. Motsepe said it would involve each of the continent’s 54 members, divided into four geographical zones, with games in September and October before the finals are held in November.

“What is new is that … in Africa there’s going to be a competition every year where the best African players who play in Europe and worldwide will be with us on the continent,” Motsepe said.

CAF officials did not immediately specify if the African Nations League will be held on a biennial or annual basis.

When Wura Hope paints her nails, she paints her prosthesis too. Pink glows on her dark skin like fine art. But her right foot is pale, yellowish-tan, the generic colour of many imported prosthetics. It contrasts with her melanin-rich skin and does not offer the aesthetics she desires.

Wura is a model, fashion designer, and vendor of Ankara fabrics. She also interns at a bank. Sometimes, she doesn’t want the spotlight that comes with being an amputee. But with a prosthetic foot so different from the rest of her body, curious eyes are unavoidable. As a result, she fully covers up her leg.

The unease Wura feels today traces back to when she was 11. One of her daily chores was filling the water tank of the large generator her parents used at their home in Abuja, in Nigeria’s North Central. One day, the propeller caught her long dress and badly injured her right leg. An infection followed, and the leg was eventually amputated. 

The 28-year-old barely remembers life with two legs. She has lived with one for so long that she even forgets she has a physical challenge. 

“Like, I literally forget,” said Wura.

Every word she says seems to arrive with a smile. And when her lips spread, they show her teeth like fresh corn peeking through a half-opened husk. She’s grateful to be walking again after many years on crutches. 

Her current prosthesis is her third. The first, donated by an Indian charity in 2014, was heavy and rigid. The second caused blisters around her stump that took days to heal. The one she uses now is lighter and has a knee joint that makes walking easier. But it is far from perfect. In hot weather, the liner squeaks against her sweaty stump and sometimes threatens to slip off. When that happens, she has to find a restroom, take it off, clean it, let it dry for a few minutes, and put it back on.

“Sometimes in the market, I’ll be looking for somewhere private to clean my liner,” she told HumAngle. 

Moments like this remind Wura of her disability, turning long-distance walking into a nightmare. 

The struggle is not just Wura’s; it is a shared reality for many who wear devices designed for colder climates. Thirty-year-old Eva Chukwunelo knows it well. She finds her stump in a pool of sweat after walking just a few metres. But in March this year, she walked seamlessly from Washington Park to the Brooklyn Bridge in New York, a distance of more than two kilometres. Back home in Abuja, she would have stopped multiple times to pull off her prosthesis, drain the sweat from its liner, and wait for her stump to dry. 

In Abuja, March is one of the hottest months, but it is cold in New York, giving chills rather than sweat. Most advanced prosthetic devices come from temperate countries, where they may be designed with little consideration for Africa’s heat and humidity. 

Silicon liners, the technology used by both Wura and Eva, were invented in Iceland and initially called the Icelandic Roll-On Silicone Socket. Made from medical-grade silicone RTVs, they do not absorb sweat. As moisture gathers inside, it simply coats the stump, making every step increasingly uncomfortable. The material is soft and generally reliable, but it does not match Africa’s weather realities. 

“So I felt like if you’re wearing a silicone liner, you cannot do so well in a hot environment,” Eva said.

As for the skin covers, they are either too black or not black at all, wrote Eva in the Nov. 5 dispatch of The Amputee LifeStyle, the newsletter where she documents the lived experiences of amputees.

“Somewhere between ‘too white’ and ‘too black’, African amputees are left underrepresented,” she noted. “So yes, we walk again. But sometimes, we walk in discomfort.”

Eva was also born with two legs. As a child, she was always running, climbing trees, playing football, or dancing. Even after she was diagnosed with osteomyelitis, a severe bone infection, she stayed active in school and continued playing with friends. But her left foot soon developed ulcers, prompting concerns about activities that could expose her to germs. The leg began to decay right from between the big toe and the second. When gangrene—the death of body tissue due to lack of blood flow or severe bacterial infection—set in, the only option was amputation.

Eva was just 16. She imagined a future spent on crutches, or confined to a wheelchair, or, even worse, reduced to begging like the lepers who often took shelter under the flamboyant trees outside her parents’ house. She had never heard of prosthetics, a life-changing technology that dates as far back as ancient Egypt. But everything shifted the day her doctor invited a prosthetist into the room.

“The first time I walked again, it felt like a miracle,” she wrote in her newsletter.

Her first two prosthetic devices were heavy, rigid, and, in her words, ugly. They helped her walk, but she was never comfortable enough to let her live freely. Until she got her third device, which came with a silicon liner, she never felt confident leaving her left leg uncovered in public. The fourth was lighter. The fifth, lighter still and more advanced, each upgrade was a small step toward ease, though never quite the perfect match she longed for.

“I think the more money you have, the lighter it becomes,” Eva told HumAngle.

Africa’s difference is not just in climate and skin tones. Like Nigeria, most African countries trail far behind Europe in minimum wage and purchasing power. And for many amputees across the continent, this means the most advanced and most comfortable prosthetic devices are far beyond reach. 

On the day 18-year-old Adeola Olailo lost one of her legs in an accident in Ekiti State, South West Nigeria, she had hoped to hawk groundnuts after school. Selling groundnuts and fried pork was how she supported her parents, who struggled to make ends meet. And she was good at it. But when a car veered off the road and ploughed into the students walking home, Adeola lost a limb on the spot, and her family lost a vital source of income. It took repeated media reports and the state government’s intervention for her to receive a locally made prosthesis, one she has now outgrown.

For amputees like Adeola, a matching device must be affordable, too. She dreams of a waterproof leg that aligns with her height, matches her complexion, and lets her jump, walk without pain, run, and dance again, especially now that she is preparing for university. But a prosthesis that can do even a fraction of these may cost up to ₦5 million, an amount far beyond the reach of her household. And like most imports, when the naira slips, the price soars.

Taiwo Akinsanya, founder of Dynalimb, a Nigerian company working to expand access to quality prosthetics, said there are still many barriers to creating truly Nigerian or African-centred devices. One of the biggest, he explained, is the education system that does not encourage home-grown innovation, often producing graduates who take pride in their ability to apply foreign products rather than pioneer new ones for local realities.

“We were taught in medical school to take the approach of what is currently being done in the current market and keep applying it to a number of patients,” he said.

Access and affordability, he added, are also limited by Nigeria’s heavy reliance on foreign manufacturers for key prosthetic components. 

“We were trying to develop a locally made prosthetic device here in Nigeria. We did it, and it worked. The major constraint we had was that the raw materials, such as steel, used to produce the metallic part of the prosthetic device, were imported, which made European products more affordable than we wanted to achieve here.”

Every imported part raises the overall cost, making locally assembled devices expensive and out of reach for many amputees. Meanwhile, Dynalimb’s mission was to make prosthetic devices accessible and affordable. They had to scrap the innovation.

Of the estimated 65 million amputees in the world, about five million live in Africa. Many are victims of diabetes, road traffic accidents, industrial mishaps, congenital conditions, and conflict-related injuries. Yet most struggle with prosthetic devices never designed with their bodies, climates, or lifestyles in mind. An even larger number have no access to prosthetics at all.

Amid numerous infrastructural constraints and inadequate government support, African innovators are working hard to adapt foreign inventions to local realities and, in some cases, to build African-centred devices from scratch. Earlier this year, South Africa’s Prosthetic Engineering Technologies launched silicone liners “engineered for the unique challenges of African terrain and climate”. The liners, according to the company, are locally manufactured to reduce costs and improve access. In Nigeria, Immortal Cosmetic Art is creating hyper-realistic prosthetic skin covers for people of colour, an innovation that has already been celebrated both locally and abroad. But the effects of these breakthroughs are yet to be felt at scale. And African amputees, tired of struggling in devices not made for them, want even more.

“My leg is black, but the prosthesis is not,” Adeola said about why she always wears knee-high socks. 

“I think it’s time we start designing prosthetics that understand Africa. Products that consider the climate, materials that can breathe, and sweat and heat. Products that match our tones, so people stop asking why your leg looks ‘imported’,” Eva wrote in her International Prosthetic and Orthotics Day newsletter.

Once, Wura received a dark prosthetic foot from a company that imported devices from China. When she painted the nails, it looked “very, very pretty.” It felt like it truly belonged to her. But the joy didn’t last.

“I don’t know what they sell to us here,” she told HumAngle. “I don’t think that foot lasted six months. I like it when the colour of my socket is dark. Because I’m a dark person, my foot should also be dark.”

Taiwo said there are no perfect prosthetics. An artificial limb, he said, will always be an artificial limb. But for amputees like Wura, Eva, and Adeola, progress begins with a limb that matches their skin and survives their weather.

Saturday, Dec. 13, 2025, was meant to be a pivotal civic exercise across Borno State, northeastern Nigeria, as residents were expected to elect chairpersons and councillors responsible for local development, basic services, and community representation. Instead, what unfolded across parts of the state bore little resemblance to a functioning democratic process.

Umar Ali, a resident of Gamboru in Maiduguri, stepped out that morning expecting to vote, but could not locate any polling unit nearby. “We thought it was just a delay, but there was no election activity at all,” he said. 

His experience was replicated across the city and other neighbouring council wards. HumAngle observed that many polling units listed by the Borno State Independent Electoral Commission (BOSIEC) were deserted, with neither officials nor voters in sight. In locations where officials were present, there was only a handful of voters, often confined to near-empty compounds.

An exception was Ajari II polling unit in Mafa Ward, where Borno State Governor Babagana Zulum cast his vote, which recorded a higher turnout than most other locations observed.

In several neighbourhoods, residents watched the day pass from outside their homes or went about their chores. Conversations revealed frustration, distrust, and a widespread perception that the outcome had already been predetermined.

“This is not an election. It is a selection,” said Musa Ali, who declined to approach the polling unit closest to his house. He accused the government of determining the results in advance. “They already know what they are doing,” he argued. 

For many residents, the only indication that an election was taking place was the restriction of movement imposed across the state. “If not for the ban, you would not even know voting is going on,” said 22-year-old Fatima Alai. 

On some of the empty streets, children and even young adults turned it into football fields. 

Borno State has over 2.5 million registered voters, with about 2.4 million Permanent Voter Cards collected, as of February 2023. Yet participation in local government elections remains low. It is unclear how many people voted in the Dec. 13 elections. However, this trend is not unique to Borno or even to the current election cycle.

Across Nigeria, turnout in local government elections is consistently lower than in national polls. Analysts and residents alike attribute this to weak service delivery at the council level, the routine imposition of candidates by political parties, and the limited credibility of state-run electoral commissions. For many citizens, local elections appear disconnected from accountability or tangible improvements in daily life.

Malpractice in plain sight

Beyond voter apathy, HumAngle observed troubling procedural violations at multiple polling units. At a polling unit in Bulama Kachallah II, in Maiduguri, HumAngle observed electoral officials stamping ballot papers and depositing them into the ballot box in the absence of voters. This continued between 9:00 a.m. and 1:00 p.m., when we left the unit. 

A similar scene played out at another polling unit in nearby Bulama Kachallah I. BOSIEC officials wearing identification tags, alongside unidentified individuals, openly filled out ballot papers and inserted them into the boxes. 

When approached, a party agent who was present at the scene told HumAngle, “Ba ruwan ka,” meaning, “It is none of your business.”

Despite these irregularities, BOSIEC Chairperson Tahiru Shettima maintained that the process met democratic standards. “I think the commission has done its best and the election was free, fair, inclusive, and transparent,” he said. 

Two days after the exercise, BOSIEC announced that the ruling APC won all 27 chairpersonship seats in the state. The election was contested by six political parties, including the New Nigeria People’s Party, Social Democratic Party, Labour Party, and People’s Redemption Party.

Notably absent was the Peoples’ Democratic Party (PDP), the state’s leading opposition force. In the days leading up to the election, the PDP formally boycotted the process, citing concerns about the legitimacy and fairness of the electoral process, the high costs associated with the expression-of-interest and nomination forms, and a lack of trust in BOSIEC’s capacity to conduct credible elections.

The African Democratic Congress (ADC), a national opposition coalition, was also missing from the ballot. A member of the party, who asked not to be named, claimed that “the state government had been a big challenge”. He said that when the party attempted to launch its Borno State chapter in November, security operatives disrupted the event, alleging that the government had not been notified. According to him, this interference contributed to the ADC’s absence from the December local council election.

The electoral commission rejected these criticisms. Shettima said BOSIEC had consulted with stakeholders, including political parties, on logistics and nomination fees, and insisted that participation was voluntary. “We cannot force any political party to take part in the election,” he told journalists.

Public reactions on social media, meanwhile, suggested a contrasting reality to official claims. Tanko Wabba, a Facebook user, wrote: “We didn’t see the election [ballot] box in our street,” reflecting frustration over missing polling units and highlighting a gap between official claims and citizens’ experiences.

Weakened local governance 

For more than a decade, local council elections were not held in Borno State due to the Boko Haram insurgency. During that period, councils were administered by caretaker committees appointed by the state government. Elections resumed in 2020, with another round held in January 2024. 

While those elections were described by the media as largely peaceful, turnout was characterised as average at best. Analysts cited voter fatigue, lingering security concerns, and persistent doubts about the relevance and autonomy of local councils.

Under Nigeria’s Constitution, local governments constitute the third tier of government, operating under the state’s supervision. Democratically elected councils are mandated to manage basic services such as roads, markets, sanitation, health clinics, business and vehicle licensing, local fees, education, and support for agriculture and health in coordination with the state.

Executive authority at the local level rests with the chairperson and vice chairperson, who implement council policies through supervisory councillors and the civil service. In practice, however, councils often have limited autonomy. State governments frequently override their authority by appointing caretaker committees—often ruling party loyalists—and retaining control of local government finances through joint state–local government accounts.

Autonomy debates and unresolved tensions

In July 2024, Nigeria’s Supreme Court ordered that allocations from the federation account meant for lo­cal governments must be disbursed to them directly, rather than the joint account created by the state government. The court restrained governors from collecting, withholding, or tampering with these funds, declaring such actions unconstitutional, null, and void.

The Minister of State for Defence, Bello Mohammed Matawalle, welcomed the ruling, saying it would allow local governments to manage their own finances, strengthen accountability to voters, and improve service delivery and development.

However, the Nigerian Governors’ Forum opposed the decision. The governors argued that full local government autonomy does not align with Nigeria’s federal structure and said the ruling failed to address longstanding issues of weak administration and executive excesses at the council level.

“The desire for decentralisation must be backed by a commitment to delegate resources, power, and tasks to local-level governance structures that are democratic and largely independent of central government,” said Victor Adetula, a Professor of Political Science at the University of Jos.

Against this backdrop of contested authority and fragile credibility, the conduct of Borno’s local government elections raises deeper questions—not just about electoral integrity, but about whether local democracy in the state can meaningfully deliver the governance and development it promises.

HumAngle, the newsroom known for its in-depth coverage of conflict, displacement, and insecurity across West Africa, has announced a major overhaul of how our journalists work and rest.

From January 2026, an Anti-Burnout Work Policy that restructures the work year into nine active months and three mandatory rest months will be introduced, while maintaining a full 12-month salary for our journalists.

The move, an attempt at reimagining what sustainable journalism looks like, is designed to protect mental health, reduce burnout, and sustain the quality of reporting from some of the region’s most difficult environments.

Under the new system, editorial staff will work in three cycles each year:

• Work: January–March 
• Rest: April
• Work: May–July 
• Rest: August
• Work: September–November 
• Rest: December

Traditional annual leave will be embedded into these rest periods, which are intended to serve as structured breaks for recovery, reflection, and creative renewal. The in-house workweek for journalists will also be shortened to three days — Monday to Wednesday.

Support teams and staff of the advocacy arm, HumAngle Foundation, will have a different, flexible structure: they will be required to work two in-office days per week, with the remaining days remote, and will receive 28 days of paid annual leave. Accountability and performance expectations will remain in place, but alongside a clearer recognition of human limits.

Why rest is now part of the job

HumAngle’s reporters routinely work in and around conflict zones, camps for displaced people, and communities living with violence and trauma. This kind of journalism demands not just technical skill but emotional stamina and deep empathy, and the costs are often borne silently. We have a dedicated clinical psychologist who supports staff well-being and manages secondary trauma that results from our regular interaction with violence and victims of violence.

HumAngle sees burnout not simply as personal exhaustion, but as a direct threat to credible journalism, storytelling, creativity, and accuracy. Building rest into the structure of work itself is a step towards treating mental health as a core requirement for excellence, not an afterthought. Well-rested journalists are better able to think clearly, write powerfully, and engage more sensitively with vulnerable sources and communities.

The policy aims to ensure continuity in coverage while allowing staff to step back regularly, process the emotional weight of their work, and return with renewed focus.

A cultural shift in African newsroom practice

Care, structure, and humanity, especially in newsrooms that routinely deal with violence, loss, and injustice, are critical for the sustainability of newsrooms. By aligning productivity with well-being, HumAngle hopes to model an alternative to the long-standing culture of overwork that exists in many media spaces.

The policy is a commitment to our people and our mission: to demonstrate that rest and excellence can reinforce each other, and that protecting journalists’ minds is part of preserving the integrity of the stories they tell.

Kolo Askumto sits on a small mat outside her makeshift shelter, a shawl draped around her shoulders for warmth. Her eyes remain fixed on the farmland ahead, not out of desire but necessity. Rows of guinea corn and beans stretch into the darkness. While she scans the fields, careful not to blink for too long, her ears strain at every unfamiliar rustling of leaves. 

It is midnight, and Kolo is at the Lainde fields in Mayo-Ine, a community in Fufore Local Government Area of Adamawa State, in North East Nigeria.

The 55-year-old has been living on her farm during every harvest season for the past three years. Before 2022, guarding her ripe beans or guinea corn was never a concern. That changed when thieves began invading their fields at night, carting away crops — sometimes even those already harvested and packed, waiting to be transported home. 

Kolo lives with her family at the Malkhohi displacement camp in Yola, the state capital. She managed to secure farmland in Lainde after fleeing Madagali in Borno State due to Boko Haram attacks. Since 2016, subsistence farming has helped her support her husband in providing for their family. 

This year, Kolo has slept on her farm for more than two weeks. Every night, she spreads her blanket on her mat, switches on her torch, and scans her surroundings like an owl. When the night deepens, she retreats to her thatched tent but barely blinks while she’s there. 

She is not the only one keeping watch. The isolation of the area adds to the danger. Located on the outskirts of the Mayo-Ine area, Lainde lie far from residential settlements, with only a few people living there permanently. There is no police station nearby, farmers said, except in the main village several kilometres away, leaving those who sleep on the fields largely on their own through the night.

The vigil

Every night, several farmers keep watch across open fields. Some sit in small groups, whispering as they stay awake until dawn. At sunrise, some resume their harvest, while others head home to return by evening for the night shift. The women mostly stick together. 

To stay awake, the farmers told HumAngle that they drink herbal concoctions believed to chase sleep from their eyes. Sometimes, they light a fire and huddle around it for warmth. 

“We pray that God should protect us before we sleep, but we wake up to every sound we hear,” Kolo said. 

Though the vigil has helped keep her farm safe this year, fear still lingers. Two years ago, criminals struck in the dead of night and stole all the grains she had packed in sacks. She was not physically harmed, but the memory of that night has never left her. Since then, she sleeps with a machete by her side.

Unlike some women who return home during the day to rest, Kolo plans to remain on the farm for nearly a month — until the crops are fully harvested. The journey from the IDP camp is long and exhausting. “If we are to trek before we get here, we will be tired, and we will not have enough strength to work,” Kolo said. It takes about an hour to reach Lainde from Yola by tricycle, and much longer on foot.

While she has not encountered any security problems this year, she fears she might encounter the same group that robbed her the last time. However, Kolo says she is willing to go to any length to protect her farm. “If we don’t sleep here, we can lose everything,” she said.

“We can’t afford to pay”

Not every farmer in Lainde stays on the field all night. Some pay guards, mostly young men, to keep watch on their behalf. It costs around ₦60,000 to ₦70,000 monthly. In some cases, the guards are paid with a bag or two of harvested crops.  

For many women, that option is simply out of reach. “We have to buy fertilisers, herbicides, and other inputs,” Kolo explained. “There is nothing left to pay guards.”

Elizabeth Joseph has farmed maize, groundnuts, and beans in the Lainde fields for three years. Every harvest season, she says, comes with anxiety. Once, she harvested several bags of beans and left them in the field while she went to find transport. When she returned, everything was gone. Not even a single grain remained.

In 2024, a bag of beans sold for between ₦110,000 and ₦130,000, while a bag of maize cost about ₦60,000; losing even a few bags can undo months of back-breaking work for these small-scale farmers. That loss left her with little choice but to keep watch herself.

But the vigil is exhausting.

“If I have money, I won’t have to come to the farm. I will just assign labourers to do the work for me, and I will just come during the harvest season. I will even pay those who will harvest, and there won’t be any stress, but since I don’t have the money, I have to come and guard myself,” Elizabeth added. 

Although her husband could sleep on the farm while she managed the household, they switched roles. According to Elizabeth, men are more likely to be attacked or killed by thieves at night.  Her fear is not unfounded.

Recently, in Bare, another community in Adamawa State, twelve young men working on a farm at night were attacked; three of them were killed. Even on the Lainde fields, such attacks that claimed lives have occurred. 

Such thefts are not isolated to Lainde or Bare. Across the BAY states — Borno, Adamawa, and Yobe — farmers have repeatedly reported nighttime farm thefts and attacks during harvest seasons. Communities continue to call on authorities to address the insecurity, saying the losses threaten their livelihoods and food supply.

These threats compound the vulnerability of rural communities to hunger and poverty. Nearly 35 million people in Nigeria, particularly in the BAY states, are facing acute food insecurity, according to the World Food Programme. Displacement, rising food prices, and ongoing violence have further worsened the risk of malnutrition in the region.

Living with danger

However, the robbers are not the only thing farmers are afraid of; they face other threats such as snakes, scorpions, cold weather, and isolation. 

Zara Abba, who began farming in Lainde in 2023, said the environment becomes frightening after sunset. “By 7 p.m., everywhere looks like it is midnight; the whole place gets dark,” she stated. 

Like Kolo and Elizabeth, Zara cannot afford night guards. A mother of four, she brings her children to the farm and lives with them in a thatched tent. At night, the children sleep while she stays awake, watching the fields.

Zara said the women had once raised their concerns with the community leader, hoping for intervention or improved security. But nothing changed.

“If I could afford guards, I would stay home with my children,” she said. “But I don’t have a choice.” She carries gallons of water, cooking utensils, and clothes, staying on the farm for nearly a month until the harvest is complete.

“The other women, too, have been sleeping here for a long time,” she said. “We decided to come here because if we don’t, we will lose our harvest.”

As someone who has lost her ripened crops to thieves in the past, Zara says she does not mind living on the open field with her four children, where she can keep an eye on all of them. 

While they continue to find ways to adapt, the women who spoke to HumAngle said staying on the fields has impacted their other responsibilities, especially for those who can’t bring their children to the open fields. “When coming to sleep here, we leave the children at home and make sure we give them food that would sustain them with the older ones who take care of them before we get back,” Kolo said. 

Though the routine has become familiar, it remains exhausting. 

“The nights are harsh, and sometimes we feel like not selling our farm produce because of the suffering, but we end up selling it at a cheaper price sometimes,” Elizabeth lamented. The exposure often leaves them with flu. “Every harvest season comes with its stress.”

Elizabeth is also frightened by snakes and scorpions; people have been bitten in the fields in the past. To protect herself, she keeps a machete by her side.

As the harvest season draws to a close, the women of Lainde fields look forward to when they can return home, carrying the fruits of both their labour and sleepless nights. Yet even as they prepare to leave, another harvest season will come, and they will be forced to face long nights under open skies again.

When armed soldiers in the small West African nation of Benin appeared on national television on December 7 to announce they had seized power in a coup, it felt to many across the region like another episode of the ongoing coup crisis that has seen several governments toppled since 2020.

But the scenes played out differently this time.

Amid reports of gunfire and civilians scampering to safety in the economic capital, Cotonou, Beninese and others across the region waited with bated breath as conflicting intelligence emerged. The small group of putschists, on the one hand, declared victory, but Benin’s forces and government officials said the plot had failed.

By evening, the situation was clear – Benin’s government was still standing. President Patrice Talon and loyalist forces in the army had managed to hold control, thanks to help from the country’s bigger neighbours, particularly its eastern ally and regional power, Nigeria.

While Talon now enjoys victory as the president who could not be unseated, the spotlight is also on the Economic Community of West African States (ECOWAS). The regional bloc rallied to save the day in Benin after their seeming resignation in the face of the crises rocking the region, including just last month, when the military took power in Guinea-Bissau.

This time, though, after much criticism and embarrassment, ECOWAS was ready to push back against the narrative of it being an ineffective bloc by baring its teeth and biting, political analyst Ryan Cummings told Al Jazeera.

“It wanted to remind the region that it does have the power to intervene when the context allows,” Cummings said. “At some point, there needed to be a line drawn in the sand [and] what was at stake was West Africa’s most stable sovereign country falling.”

Is a new ECOWAS on the horizon?

Benin’s military victory was an astonishing turnaround for an ECOWAS that has been cast as a dead weight in the region since 2020, when a coup in Mali spurred an astonishing series of military takeovers across the region in quick succession.

Between 2020 and 2025, nine coup attempts toppled five democratic governments and two military ones. The latest successful coup, in Guinea-Bissau, happened on November 28. Bissau-Guineans had voted in the presidential election some days before and were waiting for the results to be announced when the military seized the national television station, detained incumbent President Umaro Sissoco Embalo, and announced a new military leader.

ECOWAS, whose high-level delegation was in Bissau to monitor the electoral process when the coup happened, appeared on the back foot, unable to do much more than issue condemnatory statements. Those statements sounded similar to those it issued after the coups in Mali, Burkina Faso, Niger, and Guinea. The bloc appeared a far cry from the institution that, between 1990 and 2003, successfully intervened to stop the civil wars in Liberia and Sierra Leone, and later in the Ivory Coast. The last ECOWAS military intervention, in 2017, halted Gambian dictator Yahya Jammeh’s attempt to overturn the election results.

Indeed, ECOWAS’s success in its heyday hinged on the health of its members. Nigeria, arguably ECOWAS’s backbone, whose troops led the interventions in Liberia and Sierra Leone, has been mired in insecurity and economic crises of its own lately. In July 2023, when Nigeria’s President Bola Ahmed Tinubu was the ECOWAS chair, he threatened to invade Niger after the coup there.

It was disastrous timing. Faced with livelihood-eroding inflation and incessant attacks by armed groups at home, Nigerians were some of the loudest voices resisting an invasion. Many believed Tinubu, sworn in just months earlier, had misplaced his priorities. By the time ECOWAS had finished debating what to do weeks later, the military government in Niger had consolidated support throughout the armed forces and Nigeriens themselves had decided they wanted to back the military. ECOWAS and Tinubu backed off, defeated.

Niger left the alliance altogether in January this year, forming the Alliance of Sahel States (AES) with fellow military governments in Mali and Burkina Faso. All three share cultural and geographic affinities, but are also linked by their collective dislike for France, the former colonial power, which they blame for interfering in their countries. Even as they battle rampaging armed groups like Jama’at Nusrat al-Islam wal-Muslimin (JNIM), the three governments have cut ties with French forces formerly stationed there and welcomed Russian fighters whose effectiveness, security experts say, fluctuates.

But Benin was different, and ECOWAS appeared wide awake. Aside from the fact that it was one coup too far, Cummings said, the country’s proximity to Nigeria, and two grave mistakes the putschists made, gave ECOWAS a fighting chance.

The first mistake was that the rebels had failed to take Talon hostage, as is the modus operandi with putschists in the region. That allowed the president to directly send an SOS to his counterparts following the first failed attacks on the presidential palace at dawn.

The second mistake was perhaps even graver.

“Not all the armed forces were on board,” Cummings said, noting that the small group of about 100 rebel soldiers had likely assumed other units would fall in line but had underestimated how loyal other factions were to the president. That was a miscalculation in a country where military rule ended in 1990 and where 73 percent of Beninese believe that democracy is better than any other form of government, according to poll site Afrobarometer. Many take particular pride in their country being hailed as the region’s most stable democracy.

“There was division within the army, and that was the window of opportunity that allowed ECOWAS to deploy because there wasn’t going to be a case of ‘If we deploy, we will be targeted by the army’. I dare say that if there were no countercoup, there was no way ECOWAS would have gotten involved because it would have been a conventional war,” Cummings added.

Quickly reading the room, Benin’s neighbours reacted swiftly. For the first time in nearly a decade, the bloc deployed its standby ground forces from Nigeria, Ghana, the Ivory Coast, and Sierra Leone. Abuja authorised air attacks on rebel soldiers who were effectively cornered in a military base in Cotonou and at the national TV building, but who were putting up a last-ditch attempt at resistance. France also supported the mission by providing intelligence. By nightfall, the rebels had been completely dislodged by Nigerian jets. The battle for Cotonou was over.

At least 14 people have since been arrested. Several casualties were reported on both sides, with one civilian, the wife of a high-ranking officer marked for assassination, among the dead. On Wednesday, Beninese authorities revealed that the coup leader, Colonel Pascal Tigri, was hiding in neighbouring Togo.

At stake for ECOWAS was the risk of losing yet another member, possibly to the landlocked AES, said Kabiru Adamu, founder of Abuja-based Beacon Security intelligence firm. “I am 90 percent sure Benin would have joined the AES because they desperately need a littoral state,” he said, referring to Benin’s Cotonou port, which would have expanded AES export capabilities.

Nigeria could also not afford a military government mismanaging the deteriorating security situation in northern Benin, as has been witnessed in the AES countries, Cummings said. Armed group JNIM launched its first attack on Nigerian soil in October, adding to Abuja’s pressures as it continues to face Boko Haram in the northeast and armed bandit groups in the northwest. Abuja has also come under diplomatic fire from the US, which falsely alleges a “Christian genocide” in the country.

“We know that this insecurity is the stick with which Tinubu is being beaten, and we already know his nose is bloodied,” Cummings said.

Revelling in the glory of the Benin mission last Sunday, Tinubu praised Nigeria’s forces in a statement, saying the “Nigerian armed forces stood gallantly as a defender and protector of constitutional order”. A group of Nigerian governors also hailed the president’s action, and said it reinforced Nigeria’s regional power status and would deter further coup plotters.

Not yet out of the woods

If there is a perception that ECOWAS has reawakened and future putschists will be discouraged, the reality may not be so positive, analysts say. The bloc still has much to do before it can be taken seriously again, particularly in upholding democracy and calling out sham elections before governments become vulnerable to mass uprisings or coups, Beacon Security’s Adamu said.

In Benin, for example, ECOWAS did not react as President Talon, in power since 2016, grew increasingly autocratic, barring opposition groups in two previous presidential elections. His government has again barred the main opposition challenger, Renaud Agbodjo, from elections scheduled for next April, while Talon’s pick, former finance minister Romuald Wadagni, is the obvious favourite.

“It’s clear that the elections have been engineered already,” Adamu said. “In the entire subregion, it’s difficult to point to any single country where the rule of law has not been jettisoned and where the voice of the people is heard without fear.”

ECOWAS, Adamu added, needs to proactively re-educate member states on democratic principles, hold them accountable when there are lapses, as in the Benin case, and then intervene when threats emerge.

The bloc appears to be taking heed. On December 9, two days after the failed Benin coup, ECOWAS declared a state of emergency.

“Events of the last few weeks have shown the imperative of serious introspection on the future of our democracy and the urgent need to invest in the security of our community,” Omar Touray, ECOWAS Commission president, said at a meeting in the Abuja headquarters. Touray cited situations that constitute coup risks, such as the erosion of electoral integrity and mounting geopolitical tensions, as the bloc splits along foreign influences. Currently, ECOWAS member states have stayed close to Western allies like France, while the AES is firmly pro-Russia.

Another challenge the bloc faces is managing potential fallout with the AES states amid France’s increasing closeness with Abuja. As Paris faces hostility in Francophone West Africa, it has drawn closer to Nigeria, where it does not have the same negative colonial reputation, and which it perceives as useful for protecting French business interests in the region, Cummings said. At the same time, ECOWAS is still hoping to woo the three rogue ex-members back into its fold, and countries like Ghana have already established bilateral ties with the military governments.

“The challenge with that is that the AES would see the intervention [in Benin] as an act not from ECOWAS itself but something engineered by France,” Adamu said. Seeing France instigating an intervention which could have benefitted AES reinforces their earlier complaints that Paris pokes its nose into the region’s affairs, and could push them further away, he said.

“So now we have a situation where they feel like France did it, and the sad thing is that we haven’t seen ECOWAS dispel that notion, so the ECOWAS standby force has [re]started on a contentious step,” Adamu added.

Morning light glints off the water as children in crisp uniforms, polished sandals, and neatly packed schoolbags paddle across the same waters where fights once broke out among young boys. They are heading to Part of Solution Nursery and Primary School, Makoko, in South West Nigeria, a free, floating school that is turning the tide against crime and violence in one of Lagos’s most marginalised communities.

For five years, Segun Opeyemi made this journey every morning.

But before school days and uniforms, mornings like this did not exist for him. Segun spent his days roaming the streets of Makoko, and he slept wherever night met him—beneath market stalls, beside rickety shacks, or along the water’s edge. Hunger dictated his choices, and survival came at a cost.

“When I was on the street, I indulged in all kinds of bad activities just to put food on my table and survive,” he recalled. 

By 2018, when Taiwo Shemede, the school’s headteacher, first met him, Segun was about ten years old and already hardened by life on the streets. Taiwo took him and enrolled him at the school. “Thank God for education,” Segun said.

‘Part of the Solution’

The story of the school that changed Segun’s life began eight years earlier.

In 2010, members of the Yacht Club of Nigeria, who often visited Makoko, asked the community’s chief, Emmanuel Shemede, what the area needed most. He told them it was “a school building”. The club raised funds and built Whanyinna Nursery and Primary School, the community’s first floating school, which was handed over to the community and run by the Shemede family. 

Soon, Whanyinna became overcrowded. The school’s success drew hundreds of children, and before long, there was no space to accommodate them. Determined not to turn any child away, Sunday Shemede, son of the community chief, and his siblings, including Taiwo, decided to act.

In 2015, they started another school.

“My brothers and I began with just 50 children in our father’s house,” Sunday recalled. “We went to 50 parents and asked each to give us one child we would teach for free.”

That humble beginning marked the birth of Part of Solution Nursery and Primary School, the second free school on the Makoko waterfront, according to Sunday.

As more parents saw how their children were learning to read and write, enrolment grew beyond 400 within months, outgrowing the small family space once again.

A few years later, the Shemedes met Cameron Mofid, an American tourist, who, moved by the lack of uniforms he saw during his visit, started a GoFundMe campaign through his non-profit, Humanity Effect, to raise $5000 for the school. Within a week, over 200 people had donated, contributing more than $100,000.

The funds built an additional wooden school on stilts and provided uniforms, school boats, and other essentials. Another soon followed. Today, the Shemede family runs three free schools across Makoko’s waterside — Whanyinna, Part of Solution 1, and Part of Solution 2 — the only completely free schools in the entire community. Together, they educate more than 750 pupils and operate an orphanage that shelters 31 children, all registered with the Lagos State Ministry of Education.

Segun has lived at the orphanage since he enrolled in the school.

“It was free education with the provision of books and uniforms,” he added. He graduated from the school in 2022 and is now enrolled at nearby Ade Comprehensive Government Junior Secondary School. “The homeless 10-year-old boy of yesterday is now in JSS2 with a dream to become a lawyer,” he told HumAngle.

Welcome to Makoko

Makoko sits on the Lagos Lagoon, just beside the Third Mainland Bridge. The fishing settlement was founded more than a century ago by migrants from the Egun ethnic group of neighbouring West African countries, including the Benin Republic and Togo. It is home to an estimated 100,000 to 200,000 people, though exact figures remain uncertain because the community is considered informal and largely absent from government records. 

For generations, life revolved around the waters, with men casting nets, women smoking fish, and children learning the trade as soon as they could paddle a canoe. 

Before the rise of community schools, Makoko’s youth often grew up without structure, falling into cycles of crime, violence, and hopelessness. But the efforts of the Shemede family and other humanitarian organisations are changing that through community schools where children can learn, dream, and stay safe. 

Building peace through education

Each morning, they paddle to class in small canoes, keeping their books dry in their bags. The atmosphere at the school is lively and disciplined. Pupils recite the alphabet in unison, clap to the rhythm, and eagerly raise their hands to answer questions.

For the founders, literacy was only part of the goal. Education, they believed, was a tool that could prevent the community’s younger generation from drifting into violence.

Before the schools were built, many children like Segun wandered the narrow alleys in canoes or idled at the waterfront. Petty thefts, street quarrels, and fights were part of daily life. Parents expected their children to fish or trade, but without guidance, many drifted into mischief. Teachers say this pattern is shifting.

“For me, keeping them in school keeps them off the streets and away from trouble,” said Juliet Okundere, who has taught at the school for four years. “When we started, most pupils couldn’t read, speak, or write English. Gradually, they began to read and write. That gives them confidence and purpose.”

Twelve-year-old Abutu Lazarus said the school has helped him dream bigger. “Now I can read and write well,” he said with a smile. “I want to be a pilot.”

Across Makoko, others are noticing it too.

“Until recently, young boys fought over little things, and it created bitterness,” recalled Segun Adekunle, a 50-year-old youth leader. “But the coming of education has reduced all that. Even the old ones now go to evening school. So, there’s no time to fight like before. At my age, I am learning how to read, and it gives me joy.”

Jacob Ikeki, an older resident who never had the chance to attend school, has witnessed a transformation in his own family. “When children are not going to school, they just play around and cause trouble,” he said, recalling how he once joined street fights as a child after long fishing trips. “I’m proud to see my son reading and writing perfectly. I know he will not repeat my mistakes.”

Another parent, Mary Rofik, whose son attends the school, said education has brought discipline to her home. “Since he started schooling, he has communicated well in English. When I call him, he responds with ‘Ma’ and calls his father ‘Sir.’ Before, you would see children as young as two or three stealing from their mothers’ pots and talking back to elders. Now, my son has respect, and I know education is shaping him.”

Teachers say fewer children skip class for mischief, traders no longer have to chase them from stalls, and elders notice that quarrels have given way to learning. 

Inside the classrooms

On low benches, children lean over their books as volunteer teachers guide them through lessons in English, maths, and basic science. The space hums with energy — the scrape of chalk, the shuffle of feet, the soft rise and fall of young voices eager to learn.

Among the teachers is Samuel Shemede, who grew up fishing but decided to go to school after seeing how education transformed his siblings. He has completed his secondary school education and is now a teacher at the Part of Solution School. 

Samuel teaches a kindergarten class. “I make learning fun,” Samuel said. “We sing, we play, and through that, they learn. Class time is not just lessons; it is a moment of joy. I want them to love school as much as I’ve learned to love it.”

Keeping the vision afloat 

Part of Solution School and its sister schools remain free, ensuring even the poorest families can send their children. Sunday says this has been key to maintaining high attendance and low street crime in the area.

Still, the school is not without challenges. Classrooms are overcrowded, stipends for the ten volunteer teachers, including Juliet and Samuel, are inconsistent, and learning materials are limited. There are only a few canoes to transport pupils, leaving some to paddle long distances themselves. 

Yet the resilience of the community keeps the project afloat. “What we need the most is increased support for our teachers, technological equipment and facilities, and enough canoes for the children,” said Sunday, who still fishes part-time to sustain the project.

But beyond these daily struggles lies a deeper worry — what happens after?

After primary school, many pupils face another barrier: there are no secondary schools within Makoko. Graduates must cross to Lagos Mainland to continue their studies, where most schools charge at least ₦42,000 per term, far beyond what many families can afford.

To prevent them from dropping out, the Shemede family has created a follow-up system.

“We register our graduating pupils at schools in Sabo, on the Mainland, and pay for their textbooks and supplies,” Sunday explained. “We also check on them every three weeks and stay in touch with their teachers.”

So far, more than 200 pupils have graduated from Part of Solution School.  

Still, he fears that without broader government support, their efforts may not be enough. “If our children can’t continue beyond primary school, we risk returning to the days of idleness and violence. Everything we’ve built could be undone,” he said. 

Despite being Nigeria’s economic hub, Lagos State has a rising number of out-of-school children. While the government has invested in the establishment of schools and the enrolment of students, gaps remain, especially in underserved communities like Makoko.

Grassroots efforts like Part of Solution School have shown how education can calm unrest and open new paths for children. But to secure that progress, they need systemic support — better funding, accessible secondary schools, and consistent policy attention.

Until then, the sight of children paddling to class each morning will remain both a symbol of Makoko’s hope and a reminder of how fragile that hope still is.

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

Fatima Alhassan is twenty years old now, but her voice still carries the weight of a ten-year-old girl who watched her world collapse a decade ago. Her father, Shahid Alhassan, was killed on Dec. 12, 2015, during the infamous ‘Zaria Massacre’.

“Despite our little time with him, we were always happy around him,” she said. “We were very close. Since we lost him, that vacuum has not been filled in our hearts.”

It was a Saturday morning, and Shahid had just returned home from a funeral. He lay on the sofa, with dust still on his palms. After some moments, he rubbed it across his face and said, “I am next”. His wife, Hauwa Muhammad, found those words unsettling. 

Immediately, Hauwa dismissed it, insisting it was not yet time and that they still had years to spend together, but he replied quietly that “my grave would not be dug in Kano, but in Gyallesu [a suburb in Zaria, Kaduna State, in North West, Nigeria].”

Shahid rose from the sofa, bathed, and had breakfast, and together they walked to the door, exchanging pleasantries before he left.

Around noon, news broke that officers of the Nigerian Army opened fire on some members of the Islamic Movement of Nigeria (IMN) in Zaria town.

That Saturday was the first day of Maulud, the birth month of Islam’s Holy Prophet Muhammad. Shahid and other IMN faithful had gone out for the celebrations. 

Founded in the early 1980s, the IMN grew under the leadership of Ibrahim Zakzaky, then a student activist at Ahmadu Bello University in Zaria. Inspired by the 1979 Iranian Revolution, Zakzaky advocated for an Islamic state governed by Sharia law. What began as a campus-based movement quickly expanded nationwide, attracting millions of followers who aligned with Shi’a Islam.

What really led to the Zaria Massacre?

The military claimed that the convoy of the then Chief of Army Staff, Lt Gen. Tukur Yusuf Buratai, was denied access through the road where the members of IMN were preparing for the Maulud celebration. 

However, Mukhtar Bashir, an IMN representative in Kano State, told HumAngle that the group were hoisting a flag when they sighted the convoy and some soldiers stationed near a filling station. Immediately, they felt something was off, and then some members confronted the convoy to enquire what was happening.

Over the decades, IMN’s growing influence and its confrontations with state authority led to heightened tensions with Nigerian security forces. One of the most significant clashes occurred in July 2014, when soldiers killed three of Zakzaky’s sons and 30 IMN members during a Quds Day procession. 

The incident deepened mistrust and left many IMN members expecting hostility whenever the military appeared. As Mukhtar recalled: “We thought it was another attack.”

What began as a “simple confrontation” quickly escalated into a full-scale assault, which continued through the weekend. Mukhtar told HumAngle that the soldiers opened fire indiscriminately on unarmed civilians, including women and children, killing hundreds as the violence stretched across three days. 

By Tuesday and Wednesday, the focus had shifted from gunshots to the evacuation of dead bodies that were buried in mass graves. Mukhtar said the burials were held without religious rites, or “any form of dignity”. Amnesty International confirmed this claim in a report on the incident. 

Based on IMN records, “a thousand members of the organisation” were killed in the massacre. Muktar noted that when the numbers of passersby who were caught in the violence and also lost their lives are added, the death toll will be significantly higher. “We can show the houses of each person killed or missing,” he added.

The aftermath

When the news got to Hauwa, she was at home, anxiously waiting for her husband’s return. During those tense moments, she remembered the words Shahid had said while on the sofa. “What if his prayers had been answered?” She thought. 

Hauwa kept dialling her husband’s phone number, but every call went unanswered. Later in the evening, she began receiving different accounts about Shahid’s whereabouts; some said he was injured, others said he was dead. 

“Initially, I never believed he was killed,” she recounted. “We heard that it was our neighbour who died. Even my husband’s uncle said he was alive. Until Shahid’s friend, Malam Abdulkadir, drove to Zaria and confirmed that he was dead.” 

Hauwa still didn’t believe that testimony until a local newspaper published images of the deceased Shi’a Muslims. That was when she accepted his death. 

What followed was silence, Hauwa said it was unbearable. “Every day, in every aspect of my life, I felt the absence of my husband, the only pillar of our household. He had been a devoted father to our seven children and a loving companion to me,” she said. 

His loss left the family adrift. Twenty-one months after the incident, Hauwa’s youngest son also died. It deepened the tragedy for the family. 

“I miss my husband,” she said. “It was through him that I fell in love with the path I am on as a Muslim. I have nothing to say, only to ask Allah to bless him for all he has done for us, and may his soul continue to rest in peace.” Hauwa believes that Shahid died a martyr—a gift he had long prayed for. 

However, the challenges of raising their children alone, the weight of grief, and the absence of justice have defined the family’s life for the past decade.

“Some days are filled with happiness, while others are filled with pain and hunger. The sad days are more than the happy ones,” said Fatima, staring away from the camera. She attends a secondary school in Kano, where she also lives with her mother and six siblings in a modest three-room apartment. 

Each morning, as she prepares for school, she asks her mother for transport fare. Too often, her mother has nothing to give. Fatima does not feel anger; it is the ache of knowing her father is not there to shoulder the burden. 

While in school, Fatima says she is often silent when conversations come up with friends about their fathers and their life plans. “Living without a father is emotionally disturbing,” she told HumAngle. “We just have to do everything with our mother, and it saddens me.”

The loss has reshaped her dreams. Once, she imagined herself studying commerce, perhaps medicine or journalism. But after her father’s death, affordability dictated her path. She now studies Arabic, hoping to become a teacher—a future she never planned for, but one forced upon her by circumstance.

It is ten years since the massacre, but families, like Shahid’s, said they have not gotten justice. “They even painted it to look like we are the ones who committed an offence,” Fatima said. “The government has not done anything tangible. To them, it might have passed, but to us, it is as fresh as it was ten years ago.”

After the massacre, the former Kaduna State governor, Nasir El-Rufai, set up a judicial commission of inquiry, whose report found evidence of human rights violations by the Nigerian Army and also noted that 347 IMN members were killed in the incident. 

“The commission recommended prosecution of the soldiers who participated in the killings, but that has not been done,” said  Haruna Magashi, legal practitioner and human rights activist.

IMN also accused the soldiers of demolishing their buildings, including the residence of their founding leader, Ibrahim Zakzaky. In November, when HumAngle visited Zakzaky’s house and some of the IMN centres, some had been turned into a refuse dump site, while others were still not in shape.

Some survivors who spoke to HumAngle three years ago recalled scenes of chaos as homes were raided, people shot at close range, and corpses left scattered on the streets.

Zakzaky was arrested by Nigerian authorities after the incident, but he was discharged and acquitted by the court in July 2021. “All the concluded cases against the IMN were in their favour,” said Haruna. 

A Nigerian court has since ruled that the activities of IMN are “acts of terrorism and illegality”, an allegation that it has persistently denied. IMN was banned in July 2019. 

Echoes of grief

While some of the survivors were teenagers and are now young adults, others can’t even remember because they were babies, but they have formed memories through stories. 

Fatima Alhassan was four when her father died in the massacre. The 14-year-old said she only tries to picture her father through the good things her mother has said about him. Through the stories, she knows that his father was a good cook, and he always bathed his children and cared for the household whenever illness struck.

“Honestly, we have all been cheated in our family,” she said. “This is because whenever my mother falls sick and my elder siblings aren’t home, she has to do all the chores by herself. But if my father were around, I am sure he wouldn’t leave her like that. Even if she insists he go to work, he would still stay behind to assist her. Such moments break my heart, and I wish he were still alive.”

Those recollections make her long for the father she never really met. At her former school, she and her siblings were bullied by classmates who mocked them for not having a father, flaunting gifts they received, while they reminded them of what they had lost.

Fatima says her uncles and other close relatives have been supportive, especially during festive seasons, but the longing for her father never fades.

“It hurts me a lot. If I were to see him now, I would tell him that we have missed him a lot and we have suffered without him,” she said as tears rolled down her cheek.

‘To live my father’s dreams’

Amidst an unending grief that aches now and then, Al’haidar Alhassan said he wants to live his father’s dream. He is studying at Basita Darwish Chami Academy, a boarding school in Kano State built for orphans whose parents were killed in the massacre, and he hopes to be a scientist and a researcher someday. 

“Glory be to God Almighty that we have gotten the support we need, and I believe we will achieve what we intend. Nevertheless, I still feel heartbroken. The thought of losing my father and pillar still affects me because I feel demotivated sometimes,” he said. 

After his father’s death, the 19-year-old and his siblings dropped out of school for two years. Al’haidar said that his father’s greatest wish was for his children to be educated. 

“I miss the father-and-son bond we shared. Whenever he was leaving for work, I never wanted to let him go. Whenever I see a child and his father, the more I miss him, and in some cases, I have no choice but to cry,” Al’haidar added.

A father’s loss

While Al’haidar misses the bond with his father, Bashir Muktar sits on the floor in his living room, in between the portraits of his two sons who were killed in the massacre. The bond with his children was one of deep affection and shared ambition.

Shahid Abba, his eldest son, had just completed his remedial studies at the College of Arts and Islamic Studies a few days before the incident. The 20-year-old was brimming with plans to pursue chemical engineering at the university. Meanwhile, Bashir’s younger son, Hujjatullahi, was still in secondary school at Fudiya Science in Kano. The 18-year-old has dreams of becoming a doctor.

“A child is a flesh of yours,” Bashir said, “and you live your life trying to ensure that you build them up. You have certain ambitions towards your children. In every household, every father tries to build his children to greatness because they are your successors.”

Even though he kept a smiling face, it broke his heart as he recounted some of his sons’ youthful curiosity. He speaks about a day in 2014 when he found the younger son under the staircase, carving something for a school experiment. 

He teased him for “still behaving childishly”, but Hujjatullahi replied that: “It is an assignment. I am going to conduct an experiment on meiosis and mitosis.” That was the day his son revealed to him his dream of becoming a doctor. These memories, Bashir said, are etched in his heart.

He was on a trip in Abuja, North Central Nigeria, when his children called to ask if they could attend the Maulud programme in Zaria. He suggested they meet there at the event, but he was caught up in a late meeting, and his sons kept reaching out to confirm what was happening.

“They sent a text message enquiring what was happening in Zaria. I replied with, ‘Nothing is happening.’ They asked if they could proceed, and I said yes, not knowing soldiers had attacked and opened fire at the venue earlier that day,” Bashir recounted. 

By the time he tried reaching them again, their phones were no longer connecting. Bashir attempted to travel to Zaria the following day, but the roads were sealed off as news spread quickly that soldiers had blocked the entrance to the city.

Two days later, while having breakfast, he got a call: “I extended salutations, then I heard, ‘Father! Father!!’ It was the voice of Hujjatullahi. I confirmed by calling his name, then I started recording and put the call on speaker. I asked, ‘What’s happening, Hujjatullahi?’ He said, ‘Please forgive us, Father.’ I asked again, ‘What is happening?’ He responded, ‘Forgive us for whatever we have done to you until we meet at Darul Salam [referring to the final abode of the deceased righteous in Islam].’”

The words that followed were devastating.

“My elder brother has been shot in the stomach, and I have been shot in the stomach and my arm,” Hujjatullahi told him.

Bashir said that how his sons were buried worsened his grief.

“If they had travelled or fallen sick and died, it would have been different. But the manner in which they lost their lives is painful,” he said. “After killing them, they took their corpses, both men, women, children, pregnant mothers, and the elderly, then dug a massive hole and buried them all together like animals. No religious ritual was performed. With these, there are a lot of things to remember, and we can’t forget them.”

When asked what justice looks like for him and other grieving families, Bashir said that the fight for justice is not only about acknowledging the massacre but also about reclaiming the dignity of those who were killed.

“The most important thing for us in this fight for justice is the corpse of our loved ones,” he told HumAngle. “Where are the dead bodies of the people they killed and buried without prayer, spiritual bath, no shroud, no graves, nothing at all?”

“I believe even if someone is sentenced to death, after the life is taken, the body belongs to the family. So, where are the bodies? Despite killing them without any valid reason, they are still depriving us of their dead bodies.”

The last witness

In the same incident, Zainab Isa lost nearly everything.

Her husband, Abdullahi Abbas, and six of their children—Abdulrazaq, Muhammad, Abbas, Ahmad, Ibrahim, and Jawwad—were all killed in the Zaria massacre.

A decade later, at her home in the Rimin Danza community in Zaria, she imagines what her youngest son, Jawwad, who was only 18 when he died, might have become at 28. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he were a doctor by now,” she said.

She said Jawwad was quiet, intelligent, and reserved and carried the kind of promise that only time could have revealed. Instead, his life ended before it even began.

Her eldest, Abdulrazaq, was over thirty when he was killed, four years after graduating from Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria.

He had plans to further his education once he secured a job. She remembers his brilliance in school, his demur anytime he was announced first in class, and his humility in admitting that his younger brother Jawwad was even smarter.

Jawwad contributed to scholarship by writing an Islamic book, the Forty Hadiths, which was published and shared at his graduation, before his death. 

Zainab can go over and over again about the stories of each of them. She told HumAngle that even other people in her community remember her children not only for their achievements but also for their kindness. 

Neighbours told her of small acts of generosity—paying transport fares for strangers, helping to fetch water for a neighbour, and offering support without being asked. “Wherever they went, they were loved,” she said. “I am not saying it to prove anything. It was God Almighty that blessed me and made them upright.”

Since that incident happened, her husband’s words about the frailty of life have stayed with her: “Only God knows who would be the first to leave this world between us. I just pray God accepts my worship before He takes my life.” 

“The scar will never heal,” she said. “Even if they would bring a truckload of dollars to my house, with the intention of making me happy, honestly, it won’t make me happy. If times could change, I would ask them to stay behind and go there myself to die instead, because they were still young and had dreams and were loved by everyone.”

Zainab is one of the few surviving witnesses to her family’s tragedy. 

Between grief and discrimination

Sadiya Muhammad, another widow of Abdullahi Abbas, was left between the pain of losing her husband and the discrimination her daughter endured in its aftermath.

Sadiya’s daughter, Radiya, was only two years old in 2015. Too young to remember her father, she grew up knowing his face only through photographs. “Whenever you hand her a picture, she would be able to point out her father,” Sadiya said.

But at school, where students and teachers came from different Islamic sects, her daughter faced painful words that deepened her grief. One day, a teacher openly told the class, “Do not be carried away by the prayers and fasting of any person who is a member of the Shi’a sect; they are worse than unbelievers, and they are all going to hell.”

The little girl returned home troubled, asking her mother, “Since my teacher said those who are Shi’a are all going to hellfire, is my father also going to hellfire?”

Sadiya’s response was firm yet tender: “I told her that her father is not going to hell; rather, he was martyred, and by Allah’s mercy, he is going to paradise.”

In the years after the massacre, her family’s mourning was made heavier by the sectarian prejudice of others, forcing her to constantly remind her children of their father’s honour and the value of their faith.

Human rights activists like Magashi believe the massacre carries a broader warning about minority rights in Nigeria. “You are in danger of extinction once you are a minority in the country,” he said. “This is dangerous as far as human rights are concerned. The Shi’ites are the minority Muslims in Nigeria, but they share the same human rights as the majority.”

Bilkisu Haruna’s* voice carried over 25 years of frustration, rising through the phone. Her life, which she expected to change when she got a job at Ahmadu Bello University (ABU), Zaria, Kaduna State, in northwestern Nigeria, in the early 2000s, after years of menial labour, was swallowed into an endless pit of suffering and bitterness. 

Being a casual worker in Nigeria is to drown in a cycle of hopelessness, a feeling she knows too well. 

“When I got hired, I was paid ₦3000, which was ₦100 per day. It was a fair offer because that money did more for me than what I earn now,” Bilkisu told HumAngle. 

At that time, a 50kg bag of rice cost about ₦2500, but the cost-of-living crisis has increased it to an amount that she and many other Nigerians can no longer afford. Her current salary of ₦11,000 can buy only an estimated three bowls of rice, without enough condiments or other necessities to feed her family.

However, most of her salary goes towards paying transport fares to work. She pays an average of ₦500 for a tricycle ride or ₦300 for a motorcycle ride to get to work daily.

“I usually take a bike to go to work, then I walk back home, despite how far it is,” Bilkisu explained, adding that the journey takes her around 50 minutes. “And if you go late, they sometimes send you back without payment. I rarely miss work for any reason, but I am still in the same place after almost 25 years.” 

Workforce casualisation in Nigeria

A study by the International Journal of Business and Social Science describes casualisation as a form of temporary employment that has become a permanent job, yet lacks statutory benefits, such as adequate pay, medical insurance, and a pension. The system also prevents casual workers from the right to unionise. According to a 2018 Nigerian Labour Congress report, an estimated 45 per cent of Nigerians are casual workers, with a high prevalence at both the federal and state levels across all sectors.

Recently, the Minister of Labour and Employment, Muhammad Dingyadi, warned against the growing normalisation of casual and precarious work arrangements in Nigeria’s labour market, describing the trend as a threat to workers’ welfare and national productivity. Dingyadi noted that many organisations now rely on casual and contract staffing to cut costs, often at the expense of workers’ security and rights.

Bilkisu is a mother of nine; she lost her husband not long ago. Before his passing, he worked as a security guard and often catered for the family, but that entire responsibility now lies on her shoulders. It is even difficult now, as she is observing ‘iddah’, an Islamic practice that mandates widows to mourn their spouses for four months and ten days, and that restricts their movement and activities. 

“Some of my coworkers helped me work for free when I was taking care of my husband while he was sick, but the work is tiring, so I  just made an arrangement with someone I could pay for the duration of my mourning period,” she said. 

There is no provision for casual workers, such as Bilkisu, to receive paid leave during such situations. The few instances she has received grace were when she was very sick. Sometimes, they would ask her to get checked in the hospital, but they don’t give her drugs. Health insurance is not something she can afford on her own. 

“Sometime back, they used to let us see a doctor for free, including admissions. But, I think for the past 10 years, we have to pay ₦1,000 to see a doctor, and no drugs are given; they will only write you the prescription,” she recalled. 

For Bilkisu, she harbours no big dreams; she just wants a better salary so that she can take care of her children and grandchildren. The university has no provision for casual workers to enrol their children in the staff school, leaving them without benefits for all the years they have worked there. 

Over the years, the cost of hostel accommodation has changed, but the salaries of casual workers have remained the same. A former student, who asked not to be named, told HumAngle that she paid around ₦7,000 when she first got into the university in 2018. However, she paid ₦14,000 before graduating, which is still the current price for a hostel bed space at the university. 

Bilkisu supplements her income by fetching water, washing dishes, doing the laundry, and running errands for students. However, the pay is low. Sometimes students can pay ₦50 or ₦100 to wash plates, unless it is a monthly arrangement, in which case it can be up to ₦1500. The side jobs are also highly competitive, as everyone is scrambling to get what they can. 

“Sometimes, you also have to find something to buy and eat at school to get through the day. If not for that extra work, I would not even go to work because I am constantly in debt,” she complained.

These menial jobs have sustained Bilya Nafiu* for over 30 years. At over 50, Bilya finds himself running errands for students young enough to be his children. He shares Bilkisu’s experience, living from hand to mouth as a casual worker.

“When I started, I was being paid ₦1500. I currently earn ₦13,500. Even when other job opportunities come up in the university, such as security jobs, they hardly give them to us, even if we are qualified, ” he lamented. This makes it impossible to become a permanent worker. Sometimes, they make it to the interview stage, but nothing comes of it. 

What does the law say?

Hikmat’llah Oni, a Nigerian lawyer, noted that there is no explicit definition of “casual worker” in the Nigerian Labour Act. She, however, cited Section 73 of the Employees’ Compensation Act 2010. The Act defines what it means to be an employee: a person employed by an employer under an oral or written contract of employment whether on a continuous, part-time, temporary, apprenticeship, or casual basis and includes a domestic servant who is not a member of the family of the employer including any person employed in the Federal, State and Local Governments, and any of the government agencies and in the formal and informal sectors of the economy. 

The legal practitioner stressed that under the Minimum Wage Act, three categories of people are exempted: part-time workers, seasonal workers, and piece-rate workers. 

“What most establishments do is lump casual workers with these three categories of workers in an attempt not to pay the minimum wage, which is unfair because they sometimes do the hardest work; their bargaining power is also not the same as that of one in full-time employment,” she explained. 

The casual workers in the university said they’ve spent decades in the job, but they struggle to pay their bills.

“We have tried to seek help; some of the previous students we know have become professors, but they don’t listen to us. We also tried to seek help from the Student Representative Council (SRC), especially regarding the late payment of salaries, but they don’t even listen to us anymore,” Bilya said. 

In the past, the university provided loans to casual workers, but it eventually stopped. They fear the workers may refuse to repay the loan, leaving them without an outlet for other financial assistance in emergencies. The repayment system was also a problem they encountered, as almost half their salaries were taken off every month to pay back the debt. Another issue was the lack of privacy, where news would spread around the school about who was benefiting from that system, making them feel exposed. 

With a daily transport fee of ₦300 to ₦500, it is almost impossible for Bilya to even handle his family affairs. When he is sick, he has to find an outsider to do his task, as all his older children are women, and he doesn’t feel safe enough to send them to do his work at the male hostels.

The horrible hostel conditions make it harder for them to do their jobs. Immediately after they clean, toilets can get dirty again, and that can get them in trouble with their supervisors. Even when they manage to save water for the next day, students can sometimes sneak in and use it all up before the next morning, Bilya explained. 

Washing the bathrooms also requires them to carry buckets of water up the stairs, and sometimes they have to buy brooms to clean them, because the school rarely provides them with the right tools anymore, taking much more from the little they earn. 

“With all I have poured into the school over the years, even the role of a director is not adequate to compensate me,” he claimed. 

He works part-time as an electrician because the school has its own official workers. He gets side gigs from students to handle minor tasks, such as fixing faulty sockets and light bulbs, which can pay ₦100 or ₦200 per task. Despite these obstacles, he has managed to educate his children. 

As coworkers save from the little they earn for rainy days by contributing ₦1,000 monthly, he sometimes benefits from the kindness of friends and family.

“When we started working, people kept telling us to be patient,  that it would pass, and one day we would be leaders of tomorrow. But many years have passed, and nothing has changed. I can go three years without buying a simple shirt for myself because of outstanding debts. We are suffering, but we are also trying to practice contentment,” he explained. 

Sometimes, the management deducts from their salaries without explanation, even if they didn’t turn up late or miss work, and almost nothing is done when they complain. 

In one particular month, Bilya received only ₦8,000 without an explanation. He tried to follow up, explaining that he had not failed to do his duty that month, but he still didn’t receive the outstanding payment. These days, he doesn’t bother to complain even when his salary falls short of the expected amount. He understands that life as a casual worker also means he can be fired if he steps outside the lines. 

This exploitation is common across different sectors in the country. In 2011, for instance, the Nigerian Labour Congress shut down 15 Airtel Communication showrooms across the country to protest the alleged casualisation and dismissal of 3,000 workers. In 2024, HumAngle published an investigation into the maltreatment and exploitation of some casual workers at the Dangote Refinery in Lagos.

“Casual workers, in most cases, do not have a formal contract, which is the prerequisite for becoming an employee under Labour Law. So, in reality, they don’t get the full ‘package’ of employment benefits, leaving room for cutting their salaries without explanation, because they don’t have a work contract protecting them. Keeping casual workers for years without a contract is exploitative,” the legal practitioner explained. 

Different strokes

The cleaners at ABU are categorised into student affairs and health services, with those in health receiving higher pay due to hazardous conditions. The casual workers earning ₦13,500 are those who wash bathrooms and clean gutters, but people who just sweep the compound earn ₦11,500. HumAngle’s findings show that the casual workers are not given any payslip or physical evidence of their salaries. Every month, they queue up at the school bank to collect their cash payments. 

Hikmat’llah explained that the labour law does not require the provision of payslips. However, it requires employers to maintain records of wages and conditions of employment, which can lead to further exploitation of casual workers. 

As a casual worker under health in ABU, Nabila Bello* earns ₦22,000 or ₦22,500, depending on the number of days in a month. Before she got her job 10 years ago, she dabbled in business in her home, which still helps supplement her income. Even with a degree, there is no pension, gratuity, or hope of promotion. Her transport to and from work costs ₦700, which is almost what she earns per day. 

Further research shows that casual workers are more likely to experience more disadvantages compared to permanent employees, such as inadequate statutory protection, social security, and union membership, and are least likely to receive compensation for injuries. 

“Sometimes, I can spend ₦500 if I leave home early and trek to reduce transport fare,” she recounted. Being in a supervisory role means she doesn’t do the cleaning herself, but missing a day’s work also means losing her pay for that day. Unlike the cleaners, she cannot delegate her task. Nabila hopes to get a bigger opportunity with her degree someday. 

This experience is common for other casual workers around the country. In a Federal College of Education in Adamawa, northeastern Nigeria, Maimunah Ado* pays ₦400 daily to get to work from her ₦18,000 monthly salary. Her most significant challenges are the workload, especially on Mondays, which requires extra work, such as cleaning offices. But she has no choice but to keep showing up to work every day. 

It is almost impossible to survive without side jobs. 

After a long day at work, 45-year-old Ilya Adamu* sets his sewing machine to work to supplement the ₦13,500 he earns as a casual cleaner at ABU. Every day, he spends about ₦1,000 on transport to and from work. With four small children still in school, he is barely scraping by to make things work. 

“There are no promotions, and the pay is very little. It makes us feel very stuck and hopeless. Even though payment comes in every month without fail despite the delay,” he said.

HumAngle learnt that the school had months of unpaid wages owed to the cleaners for work completed in 2020. However, the school only paid part of the money after the workers went on a five-day strike in 2024. Some have given up on getting the rest of their money back. Some workers in the ABU Kongo campus claimed that they still have a month’s salary pending from that time, but the sources from the Samaru campus said they have been paid in full. 

Bilya, one of the few who ensured the strike’s success, explained that during the strike, they ensured no cleaner violated it and went to work. Some were delegated to go through the school and stop any staff from working. This strike worsened the already horrible living conditions of the students in the school, making the environment unlivable.

Despite multiple attempts to reach out to Ahmadu Bello University for a response to these allegations, all emails, including follow-ups, have remained unanswered.

A health challenge 

As an asthmatic patient, 50-year-old Halimah Ashiru’s* work as a nanny in Kaduna State poses a lot of risk and triggers for her condition.

“Even when you say you are sick, you are expected to show up at work, unless the sickness is so severe that you can’t get up. There was a time I had a terrible attack in school, and they had to return me home. After that time, my work got reduced, but I had to go back to work the next day, even though I had a smaller attack that day too,” she told HumAngle. 

This is the reason why she doesn’t sweep anymore, unless it is a less dusty place. The Islamic school she works at has two segments: it runs the Western education segment on weekdays and the Islamic school segment on weekends. When she began her job ten years ago, earning ₦3,000, the Islamic segment was from Saturdays to Wednesdays.

“I can’t afford an inhaler, they said I have to keep using it, and I know it’s not sustainable for me. I just asked them to write me other drugs that can help manage my symptoms, and it helps a bit. I also ensure they are always available. Sometimes, I can go months without an attack,” she explained. 

Her condition usually worsens during harmattan, and sometimes even during the rainy season. Still, she tries to avoid her triggers as much as she can, while working overtime to sustain her family. 

Hikmat’llah explained that the Employee Compensation Act provides for claims for health or work-related injuries, entitling casual workers to compensation and similar benefits. According to the Labour Act, employees are expected to be formally hired after three months. Some organisations exploit this loophole to fire and rehire casual workers every three months, or hire new people, to avoid violating the law. This further contributes to the lack of job security for casual workers. But many workers like Halimah are not aware of these provisions. 

Apart from Halimah’s salary, the school sometimes provides food items, especially during Ramadan, and free sacks of rice can arrive at random times. However, her salary has not changed much, even amid the cost-of-living crisis. She currently earns ₦8,000 monthly. 

Her main task is cleaning, but she also serves as a nanny for the children of teachers and other older students at the school during classes.

“My workload has reduced. I used to sweep the classes and environment, clean toilets, and take care of the younger students, especially when they needed to use the toilet. I used to be the only nanny, but they hired another one recently.” Before then, she had worked in residential houses as a cleaner. 

Once, a massive fight with the proprietress led her to quit for a while, but the woman reached out, apologised, and asked her to resume. “If I go late, she removes a small part of my salary, usually ₦500 or ₦700, so I  try to make it on time.” 

The cost-of-living crisis has changed so much for her. The good thing is she lives close to the school and doesn’t need to pay for transport. 

“My salary can only buy things like soap, detergents, and similar items. I keep working because I can’t afford not working,” she said. Halimah takes on part-time cleaning work in residential homes, and she also holds another side job that brings in an extra ₦10,000 per month. On days she has work in the morning, she shows up at the other job in the evening. 

This combined salary is really not enough to take care of her family, but immediately the salary comes in, she tries to stock up on some food items- sometimes the food can last for 10 to 12 days and on other days, she looks for other part-time jobs. 

“My family members also try to help in their own ways,” she added. 

A positive experience? 

Grace Amos* started working as a cleaner at a private hostel at Kaduna State University in 2023. Before then, she ran a small business at home, selling pap and firewood. Her salary is currently ₦40,000, which is still below the current minimum wage of ₦70,000. 

“I am satisfied with my job. The biggest challenge for me is dealing with students. We work hard to keep the environment clean, and they will make it untidy by the next morning, which makes our work harder,” she said. 

Grace sweeps the hostels, washes the toilets, and cleans the hostel’s surrounding area. Her work starts by 7 a.m. and ends by 2 p.m.

“I also supplement my income by taking small jobs from the students, such as laundry,” she said, noting that this makes it easier for her to help herself and her family. 

This experience is shared by thirty-five-year-old Margaret Joseph*, who started working in the same hostel in 2021. 

With a secondary school certificate, she doesn’t see much hope for a bigger opportunity. “There is no chance for career growth when you work as casual staff, but we can only hope for more salary increases. I never expected that I could be paid this much as a cleaner,” she said. 

Even without other work benefits such as pensions, insurance, or promotion, they feel content because their working conditions are much better than those of many others. 

However, investigations show that the working conditions differ from hostel to hostel. The university has regular and private hostels, run by different companies, which vary in cost. Maimunah*, a student at the university, said she paid ₦207,000 for accommodation at a private hostel on campus this year, up from ₦140,000 in 2024.

Inadequate working tools 

Zaliha Ahmad* started working at Kaduna Polytechnic in northwestern Nigeria in 2020. Her biggest challenge is the inadequate provision of cleaning supplies, which makes them dig into their pockets to cover the gap. 

“Students are always complaining about the conditions of the bathrooms, but we usually have to use our own money to buy detergents and bleach. We can go three months without receiving cleaning supplies,” she explained. She is ideally supposed to clean twenty toilets from her assigned two floors daily, but due to inadequate cleaning supplies, she sometimes cleans an average of three to four a day. 

There is also a limited number of cleaners, putting the burden of washing the bathrooms, halls, and even clearing overgrown weeds around the hostel on the casual staff. Sometimes the work gets too overwhelming, and they have to outsource the task to someone else and pay them for their services. 

“We don’t complain because that’s how it has always been; we just find our way around it. But it’s better than staying at home without a job. I try to run small businesses on the side to supplement my income,” she told HumAngle. 

With a monthly salary of ₦20,000, Zaliha spends an average of ₦600 to get to work every day. Sometimes she walks back home, which takes her almost an hour. 

The only other benefit she receives is during Ramadan, when the school provides a form with basic items such as spaghetti, sugar, and other items they may need, and, based on the choices they make, a particular amount is deducted from their salaries every month until they finish paying back. This helps them immensely. 

In 2020, the Nigerian Senate considered passing the ‘Prohibition of Casualisation Bill 2020,’ which aims to criminalise casualisation. The bill also recommended a bail of ₦2 million or two years’ imprisonment for violators. Although it has passed the second reading, it has yet to be signed into law, leaving Nigerian casual workers at the mercy of their employers. 

*Pseudonyms were used to protect the identities of the sources. 

<![CDATA[VOV 2025 Wrapped | RSS.com]]>

To tell stories of conflict, and show what becomes of people and communities when their lives are upended, is to witness both the depth of human suffering and the remarkable ways people adapt and survive. Through Vestiges of Violence, HumAngle has continued to shine a light on the human faces behind Nigeria’s conflicts. This year, we shared eleven stories of abduction, displacement, loss, and the daily struggle for survival that thousands endure.

This is our 2025 wrapped.

Reported and scripted by Sabiqah Bello

Multimedia editor is Anthony Asemota

Executive producer is Ahmad Salkida

The Nigerian military has, on Monday morning, allegedly opened fire on unarmed protesters in Adamawa State, North East Nigeria, killing eight people, seven of them women. 

According to the locals who spoke to HumAngle, the tragedy happened after a 24-hour curfew was imposed by the police in Lamurde to stop a communal clash in the community. Not satisfied with the decision, some women from Lamurde stood on the route to BaShaka, a community around the Lamurde axis, waving their leaves and chanting songs in protest. Hours later, HumAngle learned, members of the Nigerian military deployed to secure the area allegedly opened fire on them.

“When the soldiers came, they met the women standing on the highway, blocking the access road. The soldiers didn’t say anything to the women. They just opened fire. These women had nothing on them but leaves, and who attacks women during battle?” Morison, an eyewitness who also lost his son in a previous episode of the clash, said. 

After the gunshots broke out shortly after the soldiers arrived at the scene, seven women and one man were found dead at the spot. The rest fled with bullet wounds. One of the survivors, who is currently receiving treatment at the Numan General Hospital, recounted the harrowing incident to HumAngle. 

“When the soldiers arrived in their vehicle, they first fired gunshots in the air, and while we began to disperse, one particular officer knelt with a gun in hand and aimed at us, then he opened fire at us. He killed them all,” she said. 

She escaped with a gunshot wound in the hand. The other women are receiving treatment at the female surgical ward in Numan General Hospital, while some have been referred to the Moddibo Adama Teaching Hospital in Yola. A total of 16 people, mostly women, are currently receiving treatment at the Numan General Hospital. 

The soldiers left the scene after the incident, and later that day, locals crept out and carried the bodies, transporting them to the morgue in Numan Local General Hospital. HumAngle saw the bodies at the morgue today. The seven women and one man were wrapped in white clothes and placed on a local mat. They were later placed in a vehicle and conveyed back to their hometown in Lamurde for a mass burial. 

HumAngle gathered that the clash began Sunday night and by Monday morning had intensified. Homes were razed, properties destroyed, and many died, while several others were injured that morning. So far, the cause of the fresh clash is yet to be determined, but locals blame it on past grievances over land.

On Tuesday at dawn, a group of protesters consisting of men and women dressed in black from the Numan community stormed the Numan–Lamurde highway to protest in solidarity over the killing of the women. 

What the military is saying

In a statement issued via X and its other social media handles, the Nigerian Military denied killing the women. 

“While moving to secure the Secretariat, some women blocked the road to deny troops passage to the Secretariat, while armed men suspected to be fighting for Bachama extraction fired indiscriminately within the community. Troops then created a passage and proceeded to the Local Government Secretariat ( LGS) to secure the area. At this point, no woman was shot or injured. Otherwise, troops would not have been allowed to find any passage through the crowd,” a part of the statement read. 

The military further blamed the death of the women on the unprofessional handling of automatic weapons by the local militias, whom they described as ‘not proficiently trained  to handle such automatic weapons.’

Eyewitnesses like Morisson allege the military is shielding itself from accountability, and while the Bachama community in Lamurde and Numan is aggrieved over the killing of the women, Hyginus, the Tshobo community leader, says his people are in a dire situation as the security forces that have been deployed to the local government have camped in Lamurde town, leaving villages vulnerable. 

“We are just here. We don’t know what will happen next,” he said. 

The deceased have been laid to rest in a mass burial in Lamurde amidst hushed discussions of retaliation from their kinsmen. 

In September, HumAngle reported how a land dispute tore apart both communities, who are just a kilometre apart despite sharing the same resources.  In the clash, walls were torn, homes were burnt, valuables like motorcycles were set ablaze, and animals were slaughtered and left to bleed in the compounds where they were found. 

Speaking about the current incident, Hyginus Mangu, the leader of the Tshobo community, says he doesn’t know what caused the incident. 

“We just saw houses being set ablaze in Wammi 2 from Sunday night, and by Monday, it intensified,” he told HumAngle. 

The community leader explained that by Monday, three villages inhabited by Tshobo locals in Lamurde were completely burnt after being looted. The villages are Wammi 2, Bashaka, and Sabon Layi.

In Rigange, a Bachama-dominated community, Morrison Napwatemi, a resident of the area, explained that the clash resulted in the deaths of many natives, including his son. 

He explained that despite the intervention of the Adamawa State Governor in the past month, the fresh clash hints that the dispute is far from over. Even though the community is still under curfew, Morrison said there is a lot of tension in the land as locals are aggrieved. 

“It’s a terrible situation. It’s not something one would want to talk about,” he said. 

In Tshobo communities, the community leader explained that locals have currently rallied under a shade for safety, while some have climbed the mountains bordering Gombe. 

“Right now, we have no food, water, or security. We don’t know what will become of us later,” he said. 

While he doesn’t know the exact number of casualties so far, Hyginus said they have recorded many deaths. He fears his tribe might be wiped out as the clash is getting more deadly.