Nigeria

Kidnapping for ransom by armed groups and bandits has become a major crisis in Nigeria.

More than 300 people who had been kidnapped across Nigeria have been freed in an intelligence and security operation, the government has announced.

“President Bola Ahmed Tinubu warmly welcomes the successful rescue of 308 Nigerian citizens who were abducted in different attacks in Niger and Kwara states,” Bayo Onanuga, a special adviser to Nigeria’s president, said in a statement.

The statement said that 163 of those rescued were abducted from the Woro Community in Kaiama Local Government Area in Kwara State, and 145 were taken from Niger State.

“The victims were rescued from the Kainji Lake National Park Forest in New Bussa Local Government Area of Niger State”, according to the statement, as a result of a “coordinated, intelligence-driven operation”. The operation was carried out by the country’s National Counter Terrorism Centre, involving members of the armed forces, the police force and the Department of State Services.

“It was the largest rescue operation ever carried out on the same day by Nigeria’s joint security team,” the statement added.

The government in Kwara State, near the border with Benin, welcomed the rescue in a social media post, local channel Arise News reported.

“Kudos to President Bola Ahmed Tinubu GCFR, security forces, and everyone who played a role in this huge feat. We are grateful!”, said the Kwara government statement, announcing the release of those abducted during the February 3 attack on local communities in Kaiama.

At least 200 people were killed in the attack, when suspected Boko Haram-linked fighters launched a coordinated assault that lasted several hours, according to the Nigeria-based Punch website.

Kidnapping for ransom by criminal groups, Boko Haram-linked fighters and gangs known as bandits has become a major crisis in Nigeria, especially in areas with little state presence.

Soft targets, including schools, churches and mosques, particularly in vulnerable rural communities with limited state security, have been particularly at risk.

On January 18, 177 people were abducted from three churches in the village of Kurmin Wali in Kaduna State.

Last month, security services freed at least 40 students and teachers kidnapped in May from the southern state of Oyo.

In June, the president announced that the military had “neutralised” more than 13,000 “terrorists” in the past year. The army also said it had rescued 360 people abducted by Boko Haram, which has spread across parts of the country from Borno State, once considered the centre of its operations.

“The successful execution of this intelligence-led operation demonstrates the growing efficiency and collaboration among our security services. I commend our gallant men and women in uniform for their bravery and unwavering commitment to safeguarding Nigerian lives,” the president said in his latest statement.

Jibia, Katsina State, Nigeria – Safiya Musa’s sewing machine has given her something violence had taken away: a way to provide for her children.

But the livelihood she built after losing her husband and two of her children has left her facing a painful choice: whether to return home or risk losing the fragile independence she has created after being forced to flee.

Safiya cannot remember which month it was, only that it was 2023, when armed bandits raided the town of Kankara in Katsina State, where she and her husband had built their life after moving from their hometown of Batsari. Kankara is a small rural community where farms sit close to homes, and her husband worked as a farmer and foodstuffs trader. They lived there with their two youngest children, Umar (4) and Maryam (6), while their three older children, Sani (12), Hajara (10) and Zubaida (8), were staying with relatives in Batsari.

The attackers had come to kidnap the town head, but the attempt failed. As gunfire spread through the community, Safiya locked herself inside her room while Umar and Maryam were outside playing with other children. Her husband had left for the farm when the attack happened. The bandits killed about 20 people as they left the town.

Three days later, after she had learned that her husband had also been killed during the attack, she fled to Batsari, where she was reunited with Sani, Hajara and Zubaida. When another bandit attack reached Batsari, she fled again with her three surviving children – now aged (15), (13) and (11) – to Jibia, where they eventually settled in a camp for displaced people.

She still remembers the night she lost much of her family.

“Minutes later, silence overwhelmed the atmosphere,” she recalled. “Then I started thinking about my husband, who had left for the farm, and my children, who were outside playing with other kids.”

The thought of them pushed her out of hiding.

But she was too late.

“They were all killed,” she told Al Jazeera.

Safiya’s experience reflects a wider crisis affecting communities across northwest Nigeria. For more than a decade, the region has faced attacks, kidnappings and village raids by armed groups commonly called bandits.

The violence has forced thousands of families from their homes, disrupted farming and trade, and left many people struggling to rebuild their lives.

Katsina State, which borders Niger, has been among the areas hardest hit.

After arriving in Jibia, Safiya survived by taking whatever work she could find. She ground grain for local residents and relied on temporary jobs to support her children.

She was then selected for a handbag-making training programme organised by the United Nations Development Programme (UNDP) through its Climate Security Project.

The initiative provides women affected by conflict with vocational training and equipment to help them start small businesses.

Months later, the programme gave her a source of income. The work brought stability, but it also created a new uncertainty: whether she could continue the business if she returned home.

“The essence is to give them an opportunity to become self-reliant,” said Muhammad Hamisu, the project coordinator in Jibia.

A skill that changed her circumstances

After completing the training, Safiya turned handbag-making into a source of income for her family.

With sewing materials and new skills, she began cutting fabric, stitching designs and producing handbags she could sell to support her children.

The work did not erase the pain of what she had lost, but it gave her something she had struggled to regain since fleeing: the ability to provide for herself.

“I used to wake up with nothing to offer my children,” she said. “There were days I sent my boys out with bowls to beg for food because I had nothing to give them. Now I can feed them myself.”

In March 2024, the Climate Security Project trained 20 women in Jibia in handbag production and provided sewing machines and materials to help them begin working.

Jibia’s location near the border with Niger also gives traders access to cross-border markets, including those in the Maradi region, one of Niger’s major commercial areas.

For some women, the business has become an important source of income.

“I make approximately $50 a month,” said 30-year-old Karima Sule, who has lived in Jibia since fleeing violence four years ago. “When demand is high, I earn even more. I help my husband and pay the school fees for my two older children from this business.”

A business shaped by insecurity

But building a business in a conflict-affected area remains difficult.

Safiya said her biggest challenge is finding enough money to buy materials.

“Sometimes I run out of stock and don’t have the funds to buy more,” she said. “When that happens, I lose customers.”

Karima said violence continues to affect sales.

“Whenever violence happens, market activities slow down for days,” she said. “People stop buying, and we lose income.”

Their growing economic activity may also expose them to new risks, according to Abdussamad Ahmad Yusuf, a human security researcher at HumAngle, a Nigerian newsroom that reports on conflict.

“Kidnapping for ransom in that region is becoming more targeted,” he said. “Authorities should conduct regular conflict and security risk assessments to identify high-risk trading routes, markets and emerging threats before expanding commercial activities.”

The Katsina government established the Community Watch Corps in 2023, a local security initiative that uses community members to gather intelligence and support responses to attacks.

Officials said security has improved in some communities, but many families who fled violence remain uncertain about returning home.

An uncertain future

Safiya hopes to return home one day and reunite her children with their relatives.

But the livelihood she has built in Jibia has become a reason to hesitate.

The handbag business has allowed her to buy food, support her children and depend less on unstable work. Leaving it behind could mean losing the independence she has worked hard to build.

She has been told that conditions in her hometown are improving, but she remains unsure whether she could rebuild the same source of income there.

For Safiya, returning home is not only about finding safety again. It is also about whether she can continue providing for her family.

“I want to go back home because my children need their relatives,” she said. “But I am afraid of losing this business. If I cannot continue it there, how will we survive?”

It was at 11:21 a.m. on Sunday, June 21, that things started to fall apart. Aliyu Muhammad was in the Malali area, Kaduna, northwestern Nigeria, working underneath a car when he missed a call from his wife. When he called back, someone else answered and asked him if he knew the owner of the phone. 

“He said whatever he would tell me are just unconfirmed suspicions,” he recounted. “Then, he told me some women saw my wife and suspected she was a child kidnapper. I told him that I left her at home and she was supposed to attend an event. He said that’s exactly what she told them, but the people, seeing a stranger with a hijab and niqab talking to some children while there is a high rate of kidnapping, were suspicious. He asked me to send a representative since I wasn’t around.”

The man who called introduced himself as the Mai Anguwa (community head). Aliyu sent his friend, Suleiman Isa, to fill in for him. Fortunately, the man knew the friend.  

Ummulkhairi left her home in Sabon Gari Marraraban Jos, Kaduna, that morning to attend an Islamic lecture in Madrasat Tashiyhul Iman, an area she wasn’t familiar with. This led her to ask a group of children for directions. However, being a fully covered Muslim woman with a hijab and a face veil (niqab), some of the residents profiled her as dangerous. They mistook her for a child kidnapper. Within a short time, a mob gathered, and they eventually killed her, then set her body on fire, despite attempts to save her life.

The Kaduna State Police Command claimed that officers attempted to save her life, but the mob stormed the police station, overpowered them, and forcefully took Ummulkhairi out. However, eyewitness accounts tell a different story. 

Zainab Musa, Ummulkhairi’s sister-in-law, who was at the scene, said it was the Divisional Police Officer (DPO), CSP Abdullahi S. Akai, who handed her over to the mob, and that she tried to pull Ummulkhairi away from him but to no avail. Other witnesses, including Ummulkhairi’s co-wife, Hussaina Sani, corroborated this account. 

HumAngle visited the police station in Marrarraba Jos, where sources said the DPO “had been transferred to the Force Headquarters for investigation”. On the afternoon of Jul 16, we met DSP Mansir Hassan, the Kaduna Police spokesperson, who said he could not answer any questions because the case is under investigation and officers were not allowed to comment outside the earlier press statement.

After she was lynched, the DPO visited her house with some journalists, who interviewed him right in their compound at the centre of the family’s grief. 

“[The DPO] lifted his trousers to show us the injury he sustained from the mob. He even told us that his car was damaged, and all I could think was how any of that concerns us,” said Aminatu Isa Abdullahi, Ummulkhairi’s mother-in-law.  

On the day it happened 

As Aliyu struggled to reach the scene after the phone call, each passing second deepened his fears. “It was hard to get a bike from where I was in Malali Low-cost, so I had to walk,” he recalled. “While I was walking, I was anxiously calling my friend [Suleiman], but his number wasn’t connecting. I rushed to get my brother-in-law in Kawo Park, and we flagged down a bike.” He also called Zainab, his sister, who in turn contacted Ummulkhairi’s colleagues, who were also supposed to attend the event. 

The bike ride felt slow that day, and Aliyu’s anxiety worsened as he started receiving calls from people asking where he was as the crowd was becoming more erratic. When they reached the Marrarraban Jos Bridge, he saw cars and lorries parked on the road. The motorcyclist dropped them on the other side, and they continued on foot. 

He saw smoke from a distance. Then, as if on cue, his second wife called.

“They have killed her,” she said. 

Those words echoed in Aliyu’s head. He was struggling to hear what she was saying because she couldn’t stop crying, and when he started to ask questions, she couldn’t respond. Instead, she ended the call. 

“When I arrived there, I saw her friend. They were all crying,” he said.

Eventually, he saw his sister and second wife returning with a piece of clothing he immediately recognised as his wife’s hijab. The lemon-green fabric was torn. 

Aliyu had spent the previous night with Ummulkhairi. Every evening, even on the nights he stayed with his second wife, he would stop by to see her and the children. Every morning, before leaving for work, he did the same.

The evening before Ummulkhairi was killed was no different. She told him about her day, served him tuwo and vegetable soup, and they talked as they usually did. 

“I will always remember this as the last meal I had from her,” he said. 

The following morning, when he returned for his daily greetings, he found her seated at her favourite place, with her Qur’an open in front of her. “She reminded me to greet a sick neighbour who was her friend. I told her I would do so when I return,” he recalled.

It was then she informed him about the programme in Madrasat Tashiyhul Iman to which she was invited. He wished her well, and she asked the children to pray for him. 

Neither of them knew they were saying the final goodbye, nor did he know that hours later he would be standing at the police station, where her remains were. 

“I saw my wife’s body, burned and covered with a leaf,” Aliyu recounted. 

That day, he granted some interviews to journalists before the police released Ummulkhairi’s body to the family. “We returned her home and buried her,” he said. It was only afterwards, he said, that another loss struck him. “The phone you saw me give my daughter earlier was her phone, and something that further triggered me was when it was returned to me, I realised that I didn’t even think where her things were. The Mai Anguwa sent someone to give it to me, but he returned her shoes to me himself.”

Witnesses to tears 

When Suleiman Isa answered Aliyu’s call for help that morning, he didn’t know how the day would fracture his friend’s life. He arrived before the situation spiralled, helping to secure Ummulkhairi inside the police station. Believing she was safe, he stepped out to answer a phone call and meet a potential business customer. When he returned to the police station, he didn’t know she had already been dragged out and handed to the mob. 

“I started asking people where she was, and they told me that she had already been killed. At that point, my head turned, and I just started crying,” Suleiman recounted. 

He walked through the back entrance to the main gate, where Ummulkhairi’s body lay. “Some of us tried to stop the burning, after which we covered her body in leaves and put her on a stretcher,” he said. The family later took her home for burial. 

Although Suleiman and Ummulkhairi were not particularly close, he said the events of that afternoon left him shaken.

Grief was the last reason Ummulkhairi visited Hussaina Sani, her co-wife. Now, it is the reason Hussaina spends her day in the family compound, where Ummulkhairi lived, helping to hold together the space she left behind. 

Though the two women lived in different neighbourhoods and rarely saw one another, their relationship was warm whenever they met, Hussaina recounted. 

She had rushed to the police station after their husband called to tell her what had happened. When she arrived, Ummulkhairi had already been placed in a separate room. Inside the station, Hussaina encountered two women accusing her co-wife of being a child kidnapper. 

“They seemed angry, saying that they would not tolerate what happened. One of them got into a scuffle with the police officers,” she recounted. Unable to stay silent, Hussaina confronted one of the women herself. “I got upset and asked her if she saw her kidnapping any child. The woman said her child was kidnapped before. I asked her if it was Ummulkhairi who was responsible, and we kept going back and forth.” 

Outside, the crowd grew increasingly restless. Police officers fired tear gas over the station walls in an attempt to disperse them, but it did little to calm the situation. Soon, stones began raining into the compound. 

The officers moved the women into another room for safety and told them that reinforcements had been called. They also said Ummulkhairi would be transferred to Kaduna. Then the DPO arrived. 

“The first thing he said was, ‘Where is the culprit?’ Our sister-in-law then said, ‘Do you mean to say the suspect?’ and pointed to the room she was kept in. However, he came out dragging her, and my sister-in-law demanded to know where he was taking her. When she couldn’t stop her, she helped Ummulkhairi remove her niqab, and the DPO reached for her hijab, but Ummulkhairi held onto it tighter.” Despite the sister-in-law’s attempt to pull her back, he still pulled her outside and handed her to the mob. 

They heard her scream as the mob descended on her, but none of them could intervene because of the overwhelming crowd. Hussaina’s voice started rising as she recalled the events of the day.

She rejected the police’s account that the crowd had stormed the station. 

“I have no idea how many people there were,” he voice cracked. “There were hundreds, including men, women, and even children. At one point, both roads were filled with people; how could she even fight them?”  

Their sister-in-law, Zainab, ran into the streets pleading with the crowd to listen, explaining that Ummulkhairi was innocent. No one did. At one point, a police officer grabbed Zainab and warned that if she didn’t lay low, the mob might turn on her as well. Zainab was later taken out through a backdoor. 

The ones left behind 

On the morning of July 2, when HumAngle visited, Ummulkhairi’s home was thick with grief. In the midst of it, her children were playing about. Nearby, her mother-in-law, sister, and co-wife were moving around the hearth, trying to fill in the space her absence had left behind. The grief had thickened into the walls, but its weight was evident, even when they welcomed me with a warm smile. 

If Ummulkhairi were there, she would have woken up for dawn prayers, swept the house, and ensured her children were bathed and fed. She would have thrown danwake (bean dumplings) into a pot over the fire, like she did the day she was killed, and sliced pieces of onions into the hot oil. She would have plated it on the colourful plates her sister was now washing. 

Afterwards, she would have taken down her bag from the wall and revised what she would teach her students in her next class or left for school. If she did go to school, she would have returned around 2 p.m. Had I visited then, she would almost certainly have insisted on serving me a plate of food, even if it meant going without herself.

“Tell me about Ummulkhair,” I asked as I sat across from her younger sister, Ruqayyah Abbah, on the multicoloured mat in the sitting room. Ruqayyah had travelled from Gombi, Adamawa State, in northeastern Nigeria, after the news wrecked their home. She paused, as though weighing the question, before she started to speak. 

“Ummulkhairi had always taken care of the people around her. Ever since I knew her, she had always been one to feed and take care of any child. I can confidently say she is the kindest among us all,” she started. “But in a span of a day, all that was taken away when she was wrongly accused. I know she is innocent because I have known her all my life, and even if she wasn’t my sister, I would have said the same.” 

Ruqayyah recounted memories from when they were kids, how Ummulkhairi, who is fondly called Ummi by her family, always stayed away from fights, even when she was teased. As a child, she often preferred to play alone. 

Ummi Abba Gambo was her maiden name. She attended Gombi Primary School and Government Girls Secondary School, Gombi, for her secondary school. After marrying and relocating to Kaduna State, she enrolled in an Islamic school. Upon graduating, she was retained as a teacher due to her diligence. She taught both the children and adult sections. She last visited her family home nine months ago for her father’s funeral. 

“I would say she was the most easily terrified person I know. She always avoided things that would put her in scary or uncomfortable situations. After how she was attacked that day, even if they had left her alive, I don’t think she would have avoided being traumatised by the whole situation,” Ruqayyah said. 

When the news of Ummulkhairi’s death reached Gombi, it landed first in Ruqayyah’s ear. That morning, she and their mother had been trying to reach Ummulkhairi to talk about her youngest daughter’s education. 

“She hasn’t been put in school yet due to financial problems, and our mother wanted to send her the money. After Zuhr (midday)  prayers, I tried her number to let her know, but I couldn’t reach her,” she recalled. “I informed my mother, and we decided to call her later in the day, not knowing that she had already been killed at that point. By the time he called me, they were either about to go bury her or were coming back from it.” 

The details came in bits and pieces, because the grief hit before she could hear the rest of it. She learnt about the gut-wrenching details from their older sister, whom she called after she managed to stop crying. 

Ruqayyah arrived at Marraraban Jos on Tuesday, June 23, two days after the incident, but the reality of her sister’s death did not fully settle until she reached the family home. The first sign of absence was the lack of phone calls from her sister, who often called en route to see how her journey was going and to ask what she wanted to eat when she arrived. That had been the routine every time she travelled to Kaduna in the past. 

This time, the phone never rang, at least not from Ummulkhairi. 

“To think she couldn’t find safety in the police station. What’s the point of authorities that can’t protect someone in that situation?” The anger found its root in her voice. It wasn’t just that her sister died; it was that the system designed to protect her failed to. Her voice softened as one of Ummulkhairi’s daughters walked into the room. 

Seeing her nieces and nephews the day she arrived, she said, was the moment the reality of the loss finally overwhelmed her.

“I just hope the government gets us justice, so that these children and their father can get some peace. I feel so bad for the children. I know how much their mother loved them and how she could breathe for them if she could,” she added. 

Ruqayyah reached for a lemon-green storage box filled with the things her sister treasured. Inside were photographs from her youth and with her family. In one, she was holding one of her children, her eyes looking straight into the camera. In another, she was with friends, her face glowing with the promise of youth. 

As we looked through the pictures, three of her children gathered around, adding the little they knew to the history her sister was sharing. It was then that her second son, Usman Aliyu, brought me her favourite Qur’an, its battered pages, evidence of her love. 

Ummulkhairi is not the only victim of mob violence in Nigeria. It has become a recurring feature of public life in Nigeria, fuelled by distrust of formal justice systems and the widespread belief that communities must protect themselves. 

Suleiman Usman Yusuf, a security consultant and human rights advocate, said the roots of the problem lie not simply in public anger, but institutional failure. 

“The biggest reason is institutional failure compounded by deliberate impunity. When citizens repeatedly watch genuine criminals walk free, whether because evidence disappears, witnesses are intimidated, prosecutors receive phone calls, or judges grant bail to [people] who return to terrorise the same communities, a dangerous conclusion takes root in the public mind: that the formal justice system is not for them,” he said. 

He added that mob justice is not primarily a product of ignorance or barbarism. It is a deeply wrong response to a system that has consistently failed to deliver consequences. 

“People do not burn suspects because they enjoy violence. They do it because they have been taught, through repeated experience, that violence is the only language that produces results,” he added. “The second layer is impunity for the mobs themselves. When a crowd kills someone, and nothing happens, that crowd becomes a template. The next community that is angry enough simply follows the same script.”

He pointed to a pattern stretching across more than a decade. “We saw it with the Aluu Four in 2012. We saw it with Major General Idris Alkali in 2018. We saw it with Deborah Samuel in 2022. We are seeing it now with Malama Ummulkhairi in 2026.”

Although the incidents occurred years apart and in different parts of the country, he said, they shared a common thread. 

“Nobody was ever made to pay a price serious enough to deter the next mob,” he said. 

Suleiman believes legislation remains necessary, but it must be matched by visible accountability. He argues that Nigeria needs at least one high-profile conviction that would send an unambiguous message across the country to stop the cycle. He has been advocating for the Prohibition and Protection of Persons from Lynching, Mob Action, and Extrajudicial Bill passed by the Senate in 2017 to be signed into law. He has written formal letters to the House of Representatives, the President of the Senate, and others.

Amnesty International recorded at least 555 victims of mob violence in Nigeria between 2012 and 2023, with 33 people burnt to death. The regions with the highest cases were the North West (100) and the South West (98), mostly as a result of being accused of witchcraft, theft, blasphemy, or taking part in rituals. 

In Ummulkhairi’s family, however, mob violence is no longer a mere figure. It is a loved one, whose absence is felt every second. Her mother collapsed after hearing the news of her daughter’s death. Family members in Gombi said she remained in a state of deep distress, unable to eat or move normally after the incident. Due to pre-existing issues with hypertension and back pain, the journey was impossible for her to make down to Kaduna, but every time she remembered how her daughter died, the memories triggered another health crisis.

The last meal Ummulkhairi prepared for her family was danwake, but it was forgotten when the news reached the family. The next day, it was thrown into a basket as it had started to spoil. What happened next will haunt their paternal grandmother, Aminatu Isa Abdullahi, forever.

Twelve-year-old Usman, Ummulkhairi’s second son, attempted to eat the spoilt meal. “He looked at us and vowed that he must eat it even if it was spoiled,” Aminatu recounted. They watched him as he shoved handfuls into his mouth, an attempt to save his mother’s last meal, further breaking their hearts. 

“One day I was sitting with her youngest daughter, and she said to me: ‘Will you stay with us until our mother comes back?’” That was another exchange that shattered Aminatu’s heart, and recalling the memory made her break down in tears. She promised her she would stay as long as she was needed, not having the heart to explain that her mother was never returning. 

Aminatu called for justice. Her prayers echoed through the wall, her pain spreading through it. When she arrived at Marraraban Jos after she got the news,  the town was in uproar. As they tried to get a bike to take them to the house, someone warned her to stop crying so hard in case people suspect they are Ummulkhairi’s relatives and try to attack them too. 

“We couldn’t even do the funeral bath for her; we just had to sprinkle water on her burnt body,” Aminatu said. She had declined to see the body, afraid of what would stick in her memory. “They bought some security personnel with guns around the house, and all I could think was what they thought they were trying to protect when we had already lost her.” 

Hamza Dantani, a human rights lawyer, has since submitted a petition calling for a thorough investigation into the circumstances of this case. The alleged negligence contravenes the Police Act 2020 and violates Sections 33 and 34 of the 1999 Nigerian Constitution, which protect the fundamental rights to life and dignity. 

A history of violence 

About seven years ago, Marraraban Jos started having security issues; before then, stories like that were tales coming from far-away places. Sometimes, others from neighbouring villages would call residents to ask if they saw kidnappers approaching their side. This earned the neighbourhood its nickname, Sambisa. 

Things have eased up a little for the neighbourhood, as it was a lot worse three years ago. They hardly went a week without someone being kidnapped there. The men formed a night neighbourhood watch to protect what they could. The women at home live with anxiety every time their husbands and sons go out, not knowing how the night would end up for them. Aliyu was among the men who used to patrol the community.

Ummulkhairi’s family moved to the neighbourhood in 2020 and had lived in their current house for about two years. Right behind the house stretched acres of empty land, extending beyond what the eyes can see. 

“The men usually go out around 11 p.m. to start their patrol. Sometimes, they come back with wounds as a result of hiding in the bushes. I sometimes hear gunshots from my room, especially when one of our neighbours was kidnapped. I started to sleep fully dressed; I would wear trousers and keep a hijab beside me just in case I get kidnapped,” said Habiba Muhammad, Ummulkhairi’s friend and neighbour. 

Recently, residents said kidnapping rates had reduced, but cattle and animal rustling still happens often around that area. Still, they have never seen security personnel posted to their neighbourhood. Years of living with fear had made residents increasingly suspicious of strangers. There were times when people fled their homes simply because they feared an attack was coming.

“We can’t leave because we don’t have money to go elsewhere, and even if they kidnap us, they won’t get much. When we used to run, I would go to my grandmother’s place in Kaduna town. It disrupts our children’s education too; sometimes, they close up the schools when the kidnappings worsen. But now, I have accepted this fate; I don’t want to run anymore,” Habiba said. 

This anxiety is shared with several other people HumAngle spoke to in the area. However, some unanimously agreed that even though kidnapping was common in their part of Marraraban Jos, child kidnapping on its own rarely happens.

 “Sometimes when they can’t find the men, they will kidnap their wives, except in some circumstances where they would kidnap an entire family,” she said. Habiba recalled the experience of one neighbour whose family was attacked. “Because his wife was pregnant and couldn’t walk, they beat her up and abandoned her on the way. They also threw down one of her children when he peed on their body, and he even broke his arm.”

Retracing memory 

Aliyu has a lot to say about Ummulkhairi; her loss is overwhelming. 

“She was very kind to me, and there were many times I would be in distress, and she would offer warmth and support, even when we were going through hard times,” he recalled. “This place you are sitting in used to be her favourite place, and when she is not busy with other tasks, she prefers to sit there and study her books. Sometimes, other women from the neighbourhood come in so she can help them with theirs.” 

As he dug into his memory to answer the questions, his second son lay down the mat as he slyly tried to take his father’s phone as he spoke. When he succeeded, his legs swung in an upward motion as he lay on his stomach, playing with the phone as we spoke about his mother, a contrast from the young child who shoved pieces of spoiled food in his mouth over a week ago. 

“There are so many things I can tell you about Ummulkhairi, but I don’t even have the words. God knows I have suffered such a great loss; the only thing I can do now is pray for her,” he said. 

Uba Sani, the Kaduna State Governor, has claimed that “about 41 persons have been charged with culpable homicide. And about 41 went through investigation also; that’s 82. Thirty suspects have also been charged with unlawful assembly”. 

A June 24 report shows that 24 alleged suspects – 20 males and 4 females – have been arraigned on charges of criminal conspiracy, inciting public disturbance, mischief, mischief destruction of public and police property, and culpable homicide. 

This news reached Aliyu and his family through social media. “They said they were taken to court, but I don’t know much about that. The video I saw showed some people lined up, but I couldn’t really see their faces clearly; I only recognised one face, an old man that I see around,” he explained. 

The family, still waiting for answers about the circumstances surrounding Ummulkhairi’s death, felt excluded from the process meant to deliver justice. “No one briefed us; we have to depend on rumours for information. Her youngest son told me yesterday that if they get justice for what was done to their mother, he thinks he will be better, and I could only try not to cry,” Aliyu’s brother, Abubakar Muhammad, added. 

The recorded videos of the lynching are also a huge wound to the family, and they couldn’t bring themselves to watch them. “I cannot watch these kinds of videos. I avoid social media for that reason. I usually only go in to respond to condolence messages,” Aliyu said. He wished people cared more about how things like this would affect them.

Abubakar said Aliyu often told him that he was worried about his wife during the past few months due to the loss of her father, as it seemed to be taking a toll on her. But even then, she had continued to live life as she always had.

“The most painful part was hearing what the oldest son was saying about taking vengeance for what was done to his mother. I tried to placate him. I even tried to close his mouth, but he pushed my hand away. Things like this can only be solved by justice; only that can give us relief. And if this keeps happening, no one is safe,” Abubakar said. 

Ummulkhairi did not disappear with the smoke that burned her alive in broad daylight that day. She is present in the edges and corners of the house, on the walls where her bag lies, in the kit where she once kept everything that matters,  and in the memories of her loved ones.  

Telegram has removed accounts linked to a Hausa-language network that openly sold child sexual abuse material across northern Nigeria, following an inquiry by HumAngle, but the platform has not explained how the network survived repeated suspensions over three months before our investigation was published.

In an email response to HumAngle, a Telegram spokesperson confirmed that moderators had “processed the content reported and removed anything they could identify as breaching our terms.” The platform also provided a formal statement defending its broader moderation record, saying it had removed more than 305,000 groups and channels related to child sexual abuse material in 2026 alone.

“The distribution of CSAM  is explicitly forbidden by Telegram’s terms of service and we use industry-leading moderation techniques to remove it,” the statement read.

The response came hours after HumAngle published an investigation documenting a network of Hausa-language Telegram channels, X accounts, and TikTok profiles selling access to child sexual abuse material through paid VIP groups priced at up to ₦100,000, distributing non-consensual intimate videos of women, and advertising sexual services using photographs stolen from unsuspecting social media users. The investigation, published on July 23, traced two central operators identified through payment records as Fatima Mahmud, who used the name “Teema” or “TeemaTV,” and Khadijah Adamu, who operated under the identities “Khadeeja Deejah,” “Deejah,” “Nanadady,” and “Deharjah.”

Before publication, HumAngle sent Telegram a detailed request for comment, summarising the findings and posing specific questions about the platform’s moderation of Hausa-language content and its capacity to detect coordinated networks of replacement channels. The reply arrived hours after publication.

Alongside the statement to HumAngle, Telegram said it scans all media uploaded to its public platform against a hash database of previously removed Child Sexual Abuse Material (CSAM), supplemented with datasets from the Internet Watch Foundation and the Indian Cybercrime Coordination Centre. The platform added that it processes CSAM reports from authorities and NGOs around the world.

Those measures, if applied consistently, should in theory have flagged material within the network HumAngle documented. But the investigation found that administrators avoided posting child sexual abuse material directly on public channels, instead using screen records and screenshots of media catalogues as proof of possession before directing paying customers into private conversations. That structure, common across similar networks documented by investigations in India, Sudan, Malaysia, and Brazil, appears designed to stay one step ahead of hash-matching tools that identify known material rather than advertisements for it.

What was taken down

HumAngle’s own review found that most, although not all, of the accounts and channels documented in the original investigation had been taken down. Fatima Mahmud’s administrator account, @teematv2, was no longer active, along with several of her channels, including @teematv7 and @teematv9, and other successive replacements identified during the monitoring period. 

One channel, @teematv8, remained accessible after the takedowns, however. On X, Fatima’s account also remains active.

Within the wider network, HumAngle also identified accounts tied to Khadijah Adamu, including @Deekano and @realsadiyaharka, as well as channels operating as @arewagidanharka1 and @gidanharkaxx. HumAngle shared these identifiers with Telegram directly, while noting that the ecosystem documented in the original investigation was larger than what could be fully captured during three months of monitoring, and that additional accounts likely remain. At the time of publishing this report, Khadija Adamu remains active.

What the response does not address

Telegram’s statement points to a large-scale, ongoing moderation effort. They sit, however, alongside a specific finding from the original investigation: the network, monitored for three months, rebuilt through replacement accounts faster than individual removals could disrupt it, with no public indication that Telegram’s existing systems had identified it as a coordinated network rather than a series of isolated violations. 

Telegram did not address HumAngle’s questions about what proactive measures exist to detect coordinated replacement networks, the moderation capacity the platform applies to Hausa-language content specifically, whether any of the documented channels had been previously reported before HumAngle’s inquiry, or whether the platform coordinates with Nigerian authorities such as the National Agency for the Prohibition of Trafficking in Persons (NAPTIP) when CSAM-related accounts are removed.

HumAngle’s requests for comment to X and to NAPTIP remain outstanding at the time of publication.

Fatima ‘Teema’ Mahmud uploaded a short clip on her Telegram Status that morning; it showed a leaked intimate video involving individuals in northern Nigeria. The time was 8:13 a.m.; minutes later, she uploaded another one and another. By midday, she had uploaded dozens of similar pieces of content. By evening, there were hundreds.

Some of the updates advertised leaked, non-consensual intimate videos that had circulated across social media timelines in the region days earlier. Others promoted sex work services, paid erotic video calls, and private VIP groups featuring explicit videos of women, particularly northern actresses. Among them, and pinned prominently at the top of Fatima’s Telegram profile, were screen records of what she claimed were sexual and nude videos of children, advertised under paid access tiers.

The next morning, the cycle began again.

This reporting was never supposed to become an investigation into child sexual abuse material. It began with a simpler question: where do the leaked intimate videos that circulate on northern Nigerian social media end up?

Every few weeks, another such video appears. The names change, but the outrage follows a familiar script: WhatsApp groups begin asking for links, X users post screenshots before directing followers to Telegram, and Facebook pages recycle the same clips. For a day or two, timelines become courtrooms. Then attention shifts elsewhere, and the people at the centre of those scandals disappear from public conversation, but the links do not.

One such link appeared in May. An X account, now suspended, promoting what it described as a leaked intimate video involving a woman, instructed followers to continue on Telegram. Instead of downloading the material, HumAngle followed the trail, using a pseudonymous account to trace the same path thousands of other users take whenever another intimate video erupts across northern Nigerian social media.

For three months, HumAngle watched what that trail led to: an ecosystem that had evolved to survive platform bans, rebuild audiences almost overnight, and transform some of women’s most private moments into commercial products. Within that ecosystem, children appeared to have become one of its most valuable commodities.

Following the trail

It started with “Teematv” on X. HumAngle stumbled on the account promoting a teaser video following a scandal involving a Kaduna-based woman, whom HumAngle will not name to avoid re-victimising her. The X account claimed to have the “full video” and encouraged followers to access it on Telegram.

We created a pseudonymous account and followed the trail.

The first Telegram channel, “Teematv” (@teematv9), which is the main feeder channel and had over 40,000 subscribers before it got suspended in June, looked much as expected: pornography, leaked videos, and VIP subscriptions. But the longer the investigation continued, the less it resembled another anonymous pornography page. The channel did not exist in isolation. Every video and image posted linked to something else, and subscribers were encouraged to save the phone numbers provided by the administrators. “Add my contact,” she often tells subscribers. 

Once saved, these numbers unlocked Telegram Status updates, which promoted private VIP groups, which led to new administrators, who promoted replacement channels. When one account disappeared, another had already taken its place.

It felt less like browsing social media and more like walking through a marketplace where every stall owner knew the next. The journey was remarkably consistent, and the pattern held across every operator HumAngle traced; the public channels attracted attention, Telegram Status sustained it, and private conversations completed the sale. Each platform served a different purpose within the same business. X functioned as a storefront, where explicit clips and provocative teasers attracted attention and encouraged users to click through. Telegram became the marketplace itself, while WhatsApp and private Telegram conversations handled the transactions.

Looking closer, the structure reflected an operation built specifically to survive the content moderation it was navigating.

The pattern started with what appeared, and what did not appear, on X. Operators such as Teema used their X accounts to post pornographic clips into X’s video feed, content that the platform’s moderation has grown relatively permissive toward, and whose recommendation algorithm readily surfaces more of it once a user engages with it repeatedly. At no point during our three months of monitoring did HumAngle observe child sexual abuse material posted directly on X. 

Whether by experience or deliberate caution, the operators appeared to understand the distinction: ordinary pornography might slip through a platform that has relaxed many of its guardrails around adult content, but material involving children almost certainly would not survive there. The Telegram link attached to those X posts was, in turn, rarely the final destination. It served as an additional layer of security, requiring users to either save a phone number or send a private inquiry before anything further was revealed.

Only after that number was saved did the next stage begin, through Telegram Status. There, too, the same caution applied. Rather than posting material involving children directly, operators uploaded blurred collages or screenshots, with titles and scenes presented as proof that a fuller collection existed, along with a caption advertising group access and a price, directing interested buyers into a private conversation. Nothing that could be mistaken for the material itself appeared in a space Telegram or outside observers could easily flag; the proof of possession and the point of sale were kept one careful step apart. HumAngle observed screenshots of children naked and being abused.

The advertisements rarely remained online for long. Telegram Status updates disappear automatically after 24 hours, and the administrators appeared to exploit that feature deliberately, because the posts remain accessible on the profile itself to anyone who has saved their contact. On some days, one operator uploaded close to 200 Status updates, rotating through advertisements, teaser clips, and promotional graphics before repeating the process the following morning.

The result was a constantly changing catalogue. One day, the focus might be leaked intimate videos. The next, sex work services. Then paid video calls. Then another newly emerging leaked-video scandal that had just begun trending elsewhere on social media. The operators appeared to respond quickly to public attention: whenever an intimate video began circulating widely online, it often appeared inside the network within hours, repackaged as a commercial product, a short preview posted publicly with the full video available, administrators claimed, after payment. The scandals that dominated social media for a day or two became inventory.

Identifying the operators

There was one problem with Telegram usernames: they rarely lasted. By the time HumAngle finished documenting one account, another had often appeared. The usernames, invitations, and even profile photographs changed. But the people behind them did not.

To understand who was operating the network, our investigation moved beyond monitoring channels and focused instead on the digital traces the administrators had left behind, rather than the material they were advertising. The approach was deliberate: HumAngle had already decided it would not purchase access to private VIP groups or attempt to obtain any material advertised as involving children. 

Beyond the obvious ethical concerns, doing so could expose journalists to illegal content and compromise the investigation itself. Instead, we focused on the operators’ own mistakes, and the first was surprisingly ordinary: money.

Like any online business, the administrators eventually needed customers to pay. Across multiple Telegram channels and Status updates, Teema repeatedly instructed interested buyers to save a phone number before making enquiries or completing payments. Unlike her usernames, the number rarely changed. It became the first real-world lead.

A search through Truecaller, a popular caller identification service, returned the name “Fatima Mahmud”. One result was not enough, so the same number was cross-checked against Nigerian online banking applications, including OPay and PalmPay, both of which use registered phone numbers as account identifiers and display the associated account name before a transfer is completed. Both returned the same name. For the first time, the investigation had connected one of the network’s most active operators to a real-world name, confirmed through two independent verification methods.

Finding the person behind that name proved harder. Searching “Fatima Mahmud” and “Teema” on social media produced dozens of unrelated results, and many of the accounts connected to the investigation had already been suspended or had disappeared before they could be examined. So HumAngle changed direction, following relationships rather than names: Telegram usernames led to older accounts, older accounts led to replacement accounts, and replacement accounts led to suspended X profiles, each revealing another fragment of the same digital footprint.

The same process and the same dual verification through Truecaller and banking app records identified a second recurring figure in the network who used several online identities: Deejah, Nanadady, and Deharjah. Once again, the payment trail pointed to one name: Khadija Adamu.

Despite the frequent account suspensions and identity changes, traces of her activity remained visible. As recently as July 17, Khadija remained active. In a Telegram Status update, she told followers her phone had been damaged and appealed for financial support to replace it, posting her Union Bank account details. The account name she provided, Khadija Adamu Abubakar, was confirmed through a mobile banking application search, adding a third independent verification to the identity already established through Truecaller and her OPay and PalmPay records. Fatima’s administrator account was also active at the time of publication.

Khadija’s operation mirrored Teema’s in structure, but she operated across a considerably wider segment of the online sex trade, advertising leaked intimate videos, homosexual pornography, sex work, paid sexual video chats, sex toys, sexual stimulants, and VIP groups promoted as containing child sexual abuse material. Of that range, child sexual abuse material appeared to be one of her primary products, and her pricing across the board was consistently higher than Teema’s, with VIP access advertised at between ₦50,000 and ₦100,000. From what HumAngle observed, she made no attempt to obscure or apologise for any of it.

A further question remained: were the photographs attached to their profiles genuine? At first glance, they appeared convincing: young Hausa women in casual portraits and self-portraits, but reverse-image searches using Google Lens and facial-recognition software found that several did not belong to the account holders at all. Instead, they matched publicly available photographs of Hausa actresses and other individuals whose images had been lifted from elsewhere online. The people running the accounts had carefully concealed their own identities behind someone else’s faces.

Fatima addressed this directly in the description of her main feeder channel, Teematv (@teematv9), which had more than 40,000 subscribers before it was suspended on June 12. “I post pretty Hausa girls on my page. If you see your picture here, then know [that] you are pretty,” she wrote. “Some of you are complaining. I just leave compliments as the caption. I mean no harm. [It] is just for fun.”

A final search, this time relying on Facebook’s “People You May Know” recommendation feature after the administrators’ phone numbers were saved as contacts, surfaced a profile that strongly matched the identity already established for Khadija. Fatima’s case proved less conclusive; several profiles appeared, but none could be verified with sufficient confidence. The search stopped there. We do not possess the legal powers available to law enforcement agencies, but what the reporting established was enough: two operators had been identified through the payment infrastructure they themselves had created, and neither appeared to be working alone.

The product

The advertisements followed a consistent commercial logic, and the same pricing structure recurred across all operators and channels documented in this investigation.

Individual leaked Hausa intimate videos, after a short teaser had been posted publicly, typically sold for between ₦2,000 and ₦5,000. Buyers seeking larger collections were encouraged to pay for VIP memberships instead, which administrators claimed offered hundreds of additional videos. The advertisements suggested a tiered business: casual customers bought individual videos, regular customers subscribed, and those willing to spend more were offered access to increasingly exclusive groups.

At the top of the pricing structure were advertisements for group access explicitly involving children. Unlike the adult-content advertisements, which typically promoted individual clips, these posts promised something larger: a collection, membership, exclusivity. They were usually brief: a blurred collage or screen record, a short caption, sometimes only a few words, followed by a price. Most commonly, that price was ₦50,000, though some operators, like Khadija, advertised memberships as high as ₦100,000. The wording varied slightly from one administrator to another, but the sales strategy did not, and the same pattern appeared consistently across multiple Status updates, different administrators, and different channels over the three months of monitoring.

At first, HumAngle questioned whether the advertisements were genuine; exaggerated claims to lure paying customers are common online. But the consistency, repeated across unrelated administrators using nearly identical language, made coincidence difficult to sustain as an explanation.

Teema’s advertisements illustrated how the claims were built up over time. In a sequence of Status updates viewed chronologically, she claimed her VIP collection had grown from around 600 videos to more than 800, and eventually to over 1,200. HumAngle could not independently verify those figures, but documented them as part of the marketing strategy: growth itself had become a product, with a larger claimed catalogue used to strengthen the sales pitch.

The operators appeared to understand a basic principle of online commerce: that people rarely arrive intending to make their largest purchase but are guided towards it. Every stage encouraged the next. The channels resembled a subscription business more than an ordinary social media page. Only the product was different, and its advertisements did not appear hidden in obscure corners of the internet. They appeared alongside the same promotional posts advertising leaked intimate videos, prostitution, and paid video calls. Children were not presented as something separate. They were presented as another product category, another premium tier.

HumAngle also decided not to attempt to identify the children referenced in the advertisements. INTERPOL’s International Child Sexual Exploitation database, the tool specialist law enforcement units use to identify victims and offenders worldwide, treats abusive images and videos as evidence tied to real children, real locations, and real offenders, material to be handled by trained victim-identification specialists rather than pursued independently. Attempting to trace the children through the material risked compounding the harm the investigation was seeking to expose.

The network

For much of the investigation, Teema and Khadija appeared to be running separate operations: different Telegram channels, different X usernames, different pricing. It was easy to assume they were competitors. Then one Status update changed that.

While reviewing Teema’s Telegram Status one afternoon, HumAngle noticed she was no longer advertising her own channel, but Khadija’s. Only days earlier, one of Khadija’s Telegram accounts had disappeared or been removed before we could complete the documentation of its activity. The replacement account appeared almost immediately, and Teema introduced it to thousands of followers. Over the following days, the same promotion resurfaced repeatedly across dozens of Status updates before disappearing after 24 hours, only to return.

Tracing the followers who interacted with those promotions on X uncovered dozens of accounts exhibiting remarkably similar behaviour. When one profile disappeared, another announced its replacement. When Telegram removed a channel, fresh invitation links circulated through WhatsApp Status updates and newer Telegram accounts. The audience rarely needed to search; the network guided them. Investigators documented several accounts operating under different versions of Teema’s identity, including @teematv2 and @teematv3, with Khadija running parallel replacements under her own aliases.

Around them was a wider ecosystem. Channels such as AREWA GIDAN DADI, Arewagidanharkazallah, and Sadearharka surfaced repeatedly throughout the investigation.

HumAngle found no evidence that these accounts were all controlled by the same individual, nor could we establish that every operator knew every other one personally. What our investigation does establish is narrower but significant: the accounts consistently promoted one another, shared audiences, and directed followers towards replacement channels, forming a distribution network that platform bans repeatedly failed to disrupt.

The blind spot

The most surprising thing about the network was not that it existed, but that it appeared to operate in plain sight. The operators behaved less like people trying to disappear than people confident they would not be noticed. That raises a broader question: why did a network operating so openly prove so resilient?

Part of the answer may lie in language. Almost every account documented in this investigation communicated primarily in Hausa, and the cities referenced in conversations, such as Kano, Kaduna, Maiduguri, Katsina, Sokoto, and Abuja, pointed overwhelmingly to audiences in northern Nigeria. This was not simply a Nigerian online marketplace; it was a Hausa-speaking one. 

Researchers have increasingly warned that many widely spoken African languages remain “low-resource” from the perspective of artificial intelligence and automated content moderation. While Hausa is spoken by tens of millions of people across West Africa, there are comparatively fewer linguistic datasets and moderation tools to help technology companies automatically identify harmful content in the language, meaning abusive or exploitative content can be harder to detect at scale than equivalent content in English. 

Nothing in HumAngle’s investigation suggests the operators tried to hide the language they used; on the contrary, their marketing relied on local expressions and reflected the culture of Arewa social media. The same characteristics that made the network accessible to its intended audience may also have made it less visible to moderation systems built primarily around better-resourced languages.

This is not a uniquely Nigerian, or even uniquely Hausa-language, problem. Investigations in other parts of the world have documented strikingly similar patterns, in which mainstream platforms funnel users toward Telegram-based child sexual abuse material (CSAM) marketplaces that survive enforcement through rapid replacement. 

A BBC Eye investigation published in July found that Instagram’s advertising system in India was itself directing a test account toward paid child sexual abuse material sold through Telegram channels, with material advertised for as little as the naira equivalent of one US dollar; Meta’s own moderation team initially cleared one flagged advertisement as compliant with its policies, and only acted once BBC journalists sought formal comment. 

A separate investigation by Sudan’s Ayin Network documented Telegram channels operating an almost identical structure to the one described here: administrators charging roughly $30 for VIP access to material described as exclusive, channels going dark after reports only to be quickly recreated with subscribers migrated across, and content sourced from economically vulnerable communities with little legal recourse. 

Malaysiakini’s Kini News Lab has separately described Telegram as functioning as a “dark mall” for this kind of material, in which promotional content on more visible platforms consistently routes interested users toward Telegram, where moderation is comparatively lighter. 

Another investigation, conducted by the Brazilian outlet Núcleo with the Pulitzer Centre’s AI Accountability Network, found dozens of Telegram bots capable of generating AI-manipulated child sexual abuse imagery, most operating despite Telegram’s own public commitments on child safety.

These investigations point to a recurring global pattern. Broader research suggests the problem extends far beyond the networks examined in any single investigation. Research conducted by UNICEF Innocenti, ECPAT International, and INTERPOL across 13 countries in Africa and Southeast Asia found that, depending on the country, up to one in five internet-using children aged 12 to 17 had experienced online sexual abuse within a single year. Social media platforms were among the environments where children most frequently encountered the abuse. 

Nigeria was not included among the countries studied, leaving no comparable national estimate of how many Nigerian children may be affected. UNICEF and the WeProtect Global Alliance have warned that online child sexual exploitation is becoming increasingly complex as offenders adapt quickly to new technologies, encrypted platforms, and gaps in national responses, arguing that effective responses require cooperation between technology companies, law enforcement, child-protection organisations, and governments, rather than isolated moderation decisions by individual platforms. UNICEF Nigeria has separately noted that violence against children increasingly occurs in both physical and digital spaces, while support for victims remains limited.

As we identified the operators of these accounts, an obvious question emerged: if journalists could trace those digital footprints using publicly available tools, what prevented authorities from doing the same?

Nigeria does not lack the relevant laws. The Cybercrimes (Prohibition, Prevention, etc.) Act criminalises the production, distribution, and possession of child sexual abuse material, alongside offences relating to the use of digital platforms to facilitate unlawful activities, including the non-consensual distribution of intimate images.

The Violence Against Persons (Prohibition) Act recognises image-based sexual abuse, and children receive further protection under the Child Rights Act and the Trafficking in Persons (Prohibition) Enforcement and Administration Act. 

The activity documented in this investigation appears to fall squarely within conduct already prohibited under Nigerian law. Over three months of monitoring, HumAngle found no public record of investigations or prosecutions specifically targeting the Hausa-language Telegram ecosystem documented in this reporting, even as channels disappeared, replacement channels emerged, subscribers migrated, and the marketplace continued operating.

The threat was not entirely new to Nigerian authorities. In 2023, the National Agency for the Prohibition of Trafficking in Persons (NAPTIP) said it had observed increasing cases involving child sexual abuse material, sextortion, and revenge pornography, and had established a Cybersecurity Response Team, in partnership with organisations including Meta and the United States National Centre for Missing and Exploited Children (NCMEC). That year, the agency said it was investigating six cyber-tip reports involving online child exploitation and sextortion, drawing on NCMEC’s CyberTipline, the centralised reporting system through which tech companies and the public flag suspected child exploitation to law enforcement worldwide. What remains unclear is whether the Hausa-language network HumAngle documented had ever entered that reporting system.

The network appeared to exploit precisely the jurisdictional and institutional gaps that researchers have long warned about: Telegram channels directed users toward WhatsApp, WhatsApp conversations led back to Telegram, and X attracted new audiences, with each platform seeing only one part of the picture while the operators appeared to see the whole. Platform enforcement removed accounts. Law enforcement, at least publicly, appeared largely absent, aside from the small number of cases NAPTIP said it was already investigating. 

What follows

Before publication, HumAngle shared its findings with Telegram and NAPTIP, seeking answers about the network, its operators, and the apparent gaps that allowed it to persist. The advertisements, the Telegram links, the payment instructions, and the phone numbers had all been public. The operators had made no effort to hide them.

The attacks reflect a surge in violence as armed gangs continue raiding villages in northwest and central Nigeria.

At least 20 people have been killed in northwest Nigeria after armed gang members attacked villages in Zamfara State, according to the AFP news agency.

“Today, between 3pm [14:00 GMT] and 4pm [15:00 GMT], a large number of bandits have invaded our communities, targeting all the people they meet,” Nasiru Lauwali, the representative of the Sauna district in the local government zone of Talata Mafara, told AFP on Wednesday.

The attacks come amid increasing violence in northwest and central Nigeria, where armed gangs or bandits have raided villages in recent weeks. They are accused of stealing livestock and kidnapping residents for ransom.

Late on Tuesday, at least three suspected bandits were killed by security forces in the country’s Kwara State, according to Nigeria’s The Punch news website. The news service said that security forces managed to rescue a businessman, Tuhkur Sanni.

Kidnappings have become common in Nigeria, as armed groups seek large ransoms from the government and citizens.

The situation has been worsened by a security crisis, partly fuelled by the Boko Haram rebellion in the country’s northeast. In 2024, attackers earned more than $1.6m in ransom payments, according to SBM Intelligence.

Dozens of students and teachers were rescued earlier this month, 56 days after they were kidnapped from three schools in the southwestern state of Oyo.

Eight of the suspected kidnappers were arrested and an unspecified number were killed, according to a statement issued by President Bola Tinubu.

Defence Minister Christopher Musa said the suspects planned to use the hostages as leverage to pressure the government to release some of their commanders from prison.

HumAngle Foundation gathered students, professors, and community journalists on Tuesday, June 21, at the University of Maiduguri in northeastern Nigeria to hold timely conversations around ways to strengthen community journalism in Nigeria.

The event, which also featured the launch of a guide to community journalism, is part of the Strengthening Community Journalism and Human Rights Advocacy in Northern Nigeria (SCOJA) project, implemented with support from the Embassy of the Kingdom of the Netherlands in Nigeria. Through a fellowship, the project has trained 90 journalists and human rights defenders in the past year. 

During the event, three SCOJA Fellowship alumni reflected on the journey so far and called on relevant organisations to commit to similar projects. The session had Yahuza Bawage, Faiza Jibrin, and Nathaniel Ishaya in attendance. 

“There aren’t many trainings that focus on the ethics of journalism in a very practical way,” Yahuza said. “One of the sessions we treated during the three-day workshop in Plateau State was Journalism Ethics and Standards, and that taught me a lot. I was able to learn about minimising harm.”

The same sentiment was echoed by the other fellows. They highlighted that interviewing vulnerable people is a delicate skill that not many journalism training programmes cover in depth, and that they were happy to have learned it during the fellowship.

“One skill I sharpened during the fellowship was my interview skills. I learned about building connections with the subjects first, and I practised it. It really works because instead of sticking strictly to my interview guide, I connected first, and the person became eager to share [their] experience with me. I also learned about not re-traumatising my sources through the questions I ask,” said Faiza. 

They also offered some advice and encouragement for fellow young journalists trying to find their feet.

“One thing I will tell student-journalists is that they should not allow fear to hold them back. They should try out new opportunities, and with mentorship, they can do so much,” Nathaniel added. 

During another session at the event, Hassana Danyerwa, a SCOJA Fellowship alumnus, talked about the elevation she experienced as a result of the fellowship.

“Although I am not a journalist and I joined the SCOJA Fellowship as an advocate, my experiences from the fellowship set me up for a global experience where I was the only Nigerian selected. The mentorship aspect of the fellowship helped me and opened a new professional pathway for me.”

She offered some words of advice on the conditions necessary for journalists to do their work.

“Sometimes, we do not know what we need until we are given it, but one thing community journalists need is mentorship. Also, trust and avoiding micromanagement so journalists can express themselves and explore different topics is important.”

During the six-month fellowship, the fellows produced several investigative reports and carried out advocacy activities on various issues, including human rights, gender-based violence, and climate change. In Kano, northwestern Nigeria, some of the fellows launched the Kano Climate Change Journalists’ Network as a direct result of their fellowship.

Labaran Kaduna says his son, Desire, was unlucky in life. Two months after Desire’s white wedding in Rigange, a small Bachama community in the Lamurde local government area of Adamawa State, northeastern Nigeria, his newly built house was burnt to the ground when the Tshobo and Bachama tribes first clashed in July, 2025. A year later, Desire himself was killed in the same conflict that remains unresolved. 

Desire had provided HumAngle with materials and information about the conflict last year, in an effort to bring awareness to the violence, as though he knew that it would one day claim his life too.

Labaran speaks about his late son with a sad smile on his face and pride etched in his voice: “He was a university graduate. Since he was yet to secure a white-collar job, he joined me in farming and soon had his own large farm.”

Desire was 36 years old.

“He had a bad leg which made it difficult for him to walk very fast or run, so when our community was attacked that night, people fled and left him behind,” said Labaran. 

HumAngle gathered that a group of armed men stormed the Rigange community on the night of June 27 and opened fire on people. Labaran believes the men were members of an armed militia and that several of them had been storming the area to wreak havoc since the communal crisis began. That night, many fled, leaving Desire limping behind. 

“His brother survived the attack, so he ran home to inform us. When we reached the spot, we realised that he had been shot dead, and after shooting him, they took all his belongings, like his phone and wallet. They even took his shoes,” the grieving father said. 

A lot can happen in a year 

Desire is one of the many who have lost their lives in the Lamurde communal clash. HumAngle has been unable to obtain the total number of casualties, as efforts to reach Suleiman Nguroje, the Adamawa State Police Public Relations Officer, have failed. He has neither responded to phone calls nor replied to text messages sent to his phone.

In 2025, HumAngle extensively documented the violent land dispute that shattered daily life in Lamurde. The clash, which began in July 2025, forced many locals to flee the area, while those who remained lamented being trapped in their communities, unable to move freely. Access to healthcare and other social services became difficult, especially for Tshobo communities, which had long depended on clinics in Lamurde town, a Bachama stronghold. The most affected communities remain Rigange, Waduku, Wammi, Sabon Layi, and Sikori. A total of 53 houses were destroyed that year while 170 homes were partially damaged.  Despite several peace talks and reconciliation efforts by the government and stakeholders, both tribes continue to clash. 

“Desire was kind and hardworking. He had two little children. Last year, he married their mother in church, but unfortunately, he was not lucky to see them grow,” Labaran said. 

Rosaline Danladi, a Tshobo woman from Anguwan Baki, one of the affected communities in Lamurde, bears the scars of the year-long conflict. Her husband, Danladi, was killed when the tribes clashed in December 2025. Danladi was a farmer who left behind his wife and seven children. 

“We were in the room that night when we heard gunshots, so my husband stepped out while I ran with the children in another direction. We waited for his return, but he never came back,” Rosaline recalled.

Danladi’s remains were later found, and he was buried. Rosaline explained that she has been struggling to keep up with her children’s needs months after his demise because she was a full-time housewife who had always relied on her husband. 

“I am just managing to take care of the children. Two were in a boarding school in Numan while the smaller ones were in a private school here, but they have all recently dropped out,” she said. 

Rosaline said 2025 had been an unfortunate year for her and many in the Lamurde area. Sadly, the conflict has persisted into 2026, and new waves continue to rise. 

Speaking to HumAngle, Jonah John, a security analyst in Adamawa, stressed that the impact of the crisis can not be overemphasised. Apart from deaths, property losses, and displacement, he noted that the closure of the famous Tingo market in the region has affected businesses, leading to a hike in the cost of foodstuffs across Adamawa. 

Fallen classrooms

When both tribes started clashing in June 2025, schools, clinics, and other social services closed temporarily across the affected Lamurde communities. Even though clinics and administrative activities have now resumed, children in communities such as Tingno and Rigange remain out of school. 

HumAngle spoke to Celestine Bafyau, the principal of the Government Day Secondary School in Rigange. He said the school serves almost 300 students from both Bachama and Tshobo communities. 

“We have students from Bashaka, Lamurde, and other Rigange areas,” he stated.

The school was burnt down during the July 2025 clash and has remained deserted to date. To ensure the children don’t miss out on learning, Celestine said, teachers utilised the nearby primary school, but with many students displaced and others who had completely fled town, it became hard to keep up.

According to the principal, students from JSS 3 and SS3 are currently using the primary school block to write their final examinations, and, due to the large number, some are writing theirs under a nearby tree. At the same time, those in JSS1, JSS2, SS1, and SS2 remain out of school. 

“I have taken pictures of the school attached to a report and submitted it to the education board in Yola because we need help,” he stated. 

Celestine noted that teachers are eager to resume teaching.  “Honestly, my staff are ready, and they are disturbed. We do go to school sometimes to check it, but most of the students have relocated to other communities. If there’s peace, we will call them so we can teach them,” he said. 

When the crisis began in July, several people were killed, and many were displaced. In December, another bout of violence erupted between the two tribes and eight people were killed in Lamurde town. Despite three peace deals, a fresh wave of terror occurred in January when three women in the area were attacked and killed on their farm. On June 27, the attack that claimed Desire’s life happened. 

According to the security analyst, Lamurde’s security architecture is very weak. 

“The deployment of the security forces should be treated with a great sense of importance, looking at the fact that it’s the sole responsibility of the government to safeguard and to protect the lives and property of its citizens, but the government has failed totally. That is the only reason why things keep repeating themselves over and over again,” he stressed.  

Locals told HumAngle that security officers deployed to the area had since withdrawn. Youths and local vigilante groups now take turns to patrol the area. 

Both parties have accused each other of using armed militias to fight. Jonah, the security analyst, explained that both parties illegally acquired rifles and other unlicensed weapons to intimidate each other. 

“If they cannot stand the pressure or tension on the other hand, they will have to employ the service of militia,” he warned.

The cause of the Lamurde clash has been linked to land ownership, with both tribes claiming possession of the same land. HumAngle gathered that both parties were instructed by the state government and members of the peace committee to forfeit the land. Yet, the clashes continued. 

There are claims across social media that the land both parties have been clashing over contains mineral resources. While some claim it is gold, others call it ‘mineral’. HumAngle learned that it is clay-like in nature.  

“They brought it home as a sample for me to see. So, it’s like clay. Even if I see it, I can just pass. I wouldn’t even know that it’s important or something. So, they say the men have been packing them in large quantities. And then, actually, Tshobo has never been benefiting from it at all,” Hyginus Mangu, the Tshobo community leader, told HumAngle. 

The controversial mine 

Hyginus said the mine in question lies far away from the town and is in no way affiliated with the land in dispute.  “For me, personally, I don’t know where the spot is, but I do know that there are some people who used to do some mining there, and the people are not Tshobo people. I don’t know how they get to that area to mine,” the Tshobo community leader said. 

He added that the miners were from Gombe State and had been mining in the area before the crisis began.

Jacob Bawa, the Youth leader of Rigange, a Bachama community in Lamurde, corroborated Hyginus’s claim. According to him, the mine is far away from the main town and is not affiliated with the disputed land. Jacob also claimed that locals from the Bachama community do not benefit from the mine. 

Jacob maintained that he had never been to the mine, as it was only recently publicly discovered, even though it had been operating illegally for years. 

HumAngle could not access the mine or obtain pictures of the mineral, as access is highly restricted.  

On June 30, Adamawa State Governor Ahmadu Fintiri banned illegal mining in Lamurde Local Government Area following speculations that the mining was fueling the crisis between the two tribes. Security agencies were directed to ensure strict compliance. The Governor assured locals of securing sustainable peace and addressing the root causes of the Lamurde conflict. 

Jonah, the security analyst, emphasised that allegations that the mine is driving the recurring conflict in Lamurde should be taken seriously by the government and other relevant stakeholders. Although most miners come from Gombe State to extract the minerals, Jonah believes the illegal miners engage Lamurde residents as labourers, who end up clashing over land and resources. He called on locals to shun violence and desist from being used as puppets by the miners who are taking advantage of their home. 

Even though access to farmlands and clinics has improved for the Tshobo people, Hyginus said they still don’t have access to administrative and business services in Lamurde town due to fear of being attacked. 

In Rigange, Jacob Bawa, the youth leader, says life is hard for Bachama locals who stayed behind because they have nowhere else to go. “We are suffering because most of the people have run to neighbouring communities like Numan and Yola. Also, we don’t have mosquito nets or tents because most of the houses here were burnt down,” he said. 

HumAngle gathered that the Lamurde main route is partly closed, and travellers can barely access the area. 

According to Jonah, the use of social media by both parties to spread hate speech and misinformation also re-fuels the crisis. 

“So if the government can put an order, just like the federal government did, any hate speech from each other should equally be dealt with,” he said. 

What lies ahead?

The security analyst calls on the government and stakeholders to secure the people of Lamurde. He also advised the locals to embrace peace and live together as they’ve always done, especially with intermarriages that have occurred between them for centuries. 

“All those people that are hiring all these militias or whatever, please, they should stop that. At the end of every crisis, only the women and the children suffer the most. So honestly, they should look at the future of their children, the future of their local government and the future of their tribes,” he said. 

While Rosaline and Desire’s father continue to bear the burden of grief, they are uncertain of what lies ahead for other grieving families and displaced locals of Lamurde. Rosaline says she’s struggling to get by each day and is doing her best to make sure her children are provided for.  However, she fears another night might come when the clashes will recur as the matter remains unsettled and with her husband gone, she’s not sure if she could cope with another attack.

Labaran (Desire’s father) has a large family. With four wives, 16 children and many grandchildren, he said the family had never been apart. They lived together in their large family home in Rigange. Now, he says, his family is scattered because some of his daughters-in-law had gone to their families for safety. While some of his sons remain in Rigange, guarding what’s left of their household, Labaran has moved with the others to Numan local government, where they are currently staying with a relative. 

“My children built a big apartment, and it was all burnt to the ground. My son-in-law then built a new house for me, and it was burned too. Approximately 13 houses were burnt in my extended family,” the man said. 

But none of those losses, he said, can be compared to the loss of his son, Desire. 

“Just peace. I want peace. We are in a difficult situation at the moment,” he said.

HumAngle Foundation, in collaboration with the Embassy of the Kingdom of the Netherlands, has launched a guide for community journalism, as part of the Strengthening Community Journalism and Human Rights Advocacy in Northern Nigeria (SCOJA) project. The project, which started in 2025, has trained 90 journalists and human rights advocates so far, and their work has recorded some impact in their communities. 

The launch was held on Tuesday, July 21, at the University of Maiduguri in Borno State, northeastern Nigeria, and was hosted by the Faculty of Communication and Media Studies. Angela Umoru-David, HumAngle Foundation’s Programme Director, welcomed dignitaries, students, and speakers to the gathering. In her remarks, she noted that partnerships like these were instrumental in ensuring the reach of journalism resources to those who need them the most. 

“We developed this manual to serve as a guide for community journalists in Nigeria,” she said.

HumAngle’s Founder/CEO, Ahmad Salkida, noted in his introduction to the manual that the role of community journalists was crucial to social cohesion. “Community journalists, often the first witnesses to crises and transformation, are the unsung custodians of enduring social realities,” he wrote. “Their proximity to the people and understanding of local realities make them indispensable to the national narrative… We hope that every journalist who engages with this manual will find in it a field companion, a guide, and an inspiration to tell deeper, more authentic stories, to stand firm in truth, and to amplify the voices that matter most.”

Jessica Odudu, Senior Policy Advisor on Human Rights and Public Diplomacy at the Embassy of the Kingdom of the Netherlands in Nigeria, reiterated this point in her welcome remarks.

“While information has become abundant, trust is increasingly scarce. In moments like these, the role of journalists becomes even more important. Community journalists are often the first to report conflict. They understand the realities in their communities in a way outsiders don’t. Yet, many do this work with very few resources. Over the past year, the Embassy of the Kingdom of the Netherlands has had the privilege of strengthening community journalists’ capacity to do their work,” she said. 

During the keynote speech, Prof. Mu’azu Abubakar, Dean, Faculty of Communication and Media Studies, University of Maiduguri, emphasised the importance of viewing ‘community’ as an expansive and diverse concept. On his behalf, Mohammed Auwal Umar delivered a paper they co-authored, which sought to understand the fragile conditions in which community journalism must thrive. 

“Community journalism curates content, generates it, and develops it in a way that is relevant to the community we are serving. It is not meant to serve a classical divide,” he said.

The event also featured a panel discussion with Dr Abdulmutallib Ado Abubakar, Head of the Department of Mass Communication, University of Maiduguri; Abdulhamid Al-Gazali, Editor-in-Chief, Yerwa Express; Hauwa Shaffii Nuhu, Managing Editor, HumAngle Media; and Hassana Danyerwa, Founder, FeelandHeal Initiative and SCOJA Fellowship alumna. The discussion, which focused on strengthening community journalism in Nigeria, was moderated by Abdussamad Ahmad Yusuf, HumAngle Foundation’s Human Security and Policy Analyst. 

Speaking during the discussion, Abdulhamid said, “We have to understand that as a people, the most important aspect of our society is the kind of information our people consume. Communities must have media that understand their fundamental issues, curate relevant information, and take responsibility for disseminating the right information. If we do not take control of what we consume, it affects society.”

Hassana, while reflecting on the impact of the SCOJA Fellowship, said, “Although I am not a journalist and I joined the SCOJA Fellowship as an advocate, my experiences from the fellowship set me up for a global experience where I was the only Nigerian selected. The mentorship aspect of the fellowship helped me and opened a new professional pathway for me.”

Other past SCOJA fellows, including Faiza Jibrin, Yahuza Bawage, and Nathaniel Ishaya, also shared their experiences with attendees. 

As the guide was formally launched, Angela Umoru-David announced the donation of copies to the University of Maiduguri. The guide, available in both Hausa and English, can be downloaded here for free.

Chellu Masaram’s shelter stands on a patch of land in Goniri, a community a few kilometres from Bama town in northeastern Nigeria.

At 85, she does not have the strength to build a house. So when she and her grandchildren arrived after the closure of the Government Senior Science Secondary School (GSSS) camp in Bama, one of the largest displacement settlements in Borno State outside Maiduguri, they used the only materials they had. 

“We still do not have a room,” Chellu told HumAngle. “We made a room out of the tarpaulin we brought from the camp. The room leaks when it rains.”

For more than a decade, displacement has shaped her life. She fled Sabsabwa, a town in Bama, in 2014 when Boko Haram terrorists attacked the community and killed her son. Since then, she has raised his three children alone: a year at the Bama General Hospital camp, then ten years at GSSS.

Now she is displaced again.

On June 25, Borno State announced the closure of the GSSS camp as part of its broader policy of ending camp-based displacement and resettling people to their communities of origin or nearby settlements. The announcement was made by Dauda Iliya, spokesperson to Governor Babagana Umara Zulum. The exercise was described as the relocation of about 3,000 households to settlements including Abbaram, Darajamal, Mainti, and Goniri, though the actual number of individuals moved remains unclear. Authorities also indicated that the displacement camp in Gwoza could be among the next to close.

The numbers associated with the GSSS camp have varied considerably over the years. In 2023, the camp’s own management estimated it was hosting more than 100,000 people, four times its designed capacity of 25,000. Government statements on the recent closure referenced approximately 3,000 households being relocated to surrounding communities. But that figure came with its own complications. During the closure announcement, Governor Zulum noted that a year earlier the camp had held no more than 400 households, and expressed surprise that the number had risen to 3,000 shortly before closure. “Most of them are residents living within the town,” he said, suggesting that a significant share of those counted at the end were not long-term displaced persons but local residents who had re-entered the camp, most likely to access aid distributions. If that is accurate, the 3,000 figure may overstate the number of people who were genuinely in need of resettlement support, while simultaneously obscuring how many actual long-term IDPs were moved and to where. Humanitarian and official figures detailing the exact number of individuals relocated have not been publicly released. 

HumAngle wrote to the Borno State Emergency Management Agency (BOSEMA) seeking clarification on the number of households and individuals relocated, the preparedness of receiving communities, and plans for future camp closures. The agency had not responded by the time of publication.

What is emerging from Goniri and other receiving communities is a more complicated picture than the language of “camp closure” suggests. For some families, displacement may not have ended. It may simply have changed location.

From Camp Residents to Makeshift Settlers

Chellu and her grandchildren left the camp in the evening, a truck transporting their belongings. “We paid ₦7,000,” she said.

The move brought them to Goniri, one of the communities receiving former camp residents. The grandchildren she cares for are now 17, 15, and 12 years old. None attend formal school. The oldest studies at a Tsangaya school in Bama and returns there to sleep each night. The two girls remain with their grandmother.

The family survives through a combination of small trading and firewood collection. Chellu sells groundnuts when she can. The more demanding work falls to her granddaughters. “The girls go to the bush to gather firewood to sell,” she said. According to her, they spend up to three hours walking into surrounding bush areas before returning with wood that earns around ₦2,000 daily. “This is what we depend on majorly.”

The arrangement is not unusual. Across displacement settings in Borno and the wider North East, firewood collection has become one of the primary survival strategies available to women and girls. In 2020, HumAngle reported how this burden traps women in a cycle of poverty that limits access to education and economic opportunity while increasing exposure to violence.

For Chellu’s granddaughters, the hours in the bush are not a choice. They are an economic necessity shaped by the inadequacy of humanitarian support and the absence of alternative livelihoods. But in Borno, those hours carry a risk that goes beyond physical exhaustion.

Firewood collection in conflict-affected parts of the northeast has long been documented as a moment of acute danger for women and girls. A 2018 World Food Programme survey found that 85 per cent of women in four local government areas of Borno feared rape, murder, or abduction while collecting firewood. UNHCR protection monitoring reports have recorded incidents of rape during firewood collection, alongside the persistent threat of abduction by terrorists. In March 2024, more than 200 internally displaced women were abducted in Ngala, Gamboru Ngala LGA, while collecting firewood in the bush around Jillam and Wurga villages, approximately 15 kilometres from town. Older women and children under 10 were reportedly released; scores of others remained unaccounted for. In August 2023, at least 42 women were abducted by suspected Boko Haram terrorists while gathering firewood in Mafa. This often forces relatives in camps to crowdsource ransom.

In Goniri, Chellu’s granddaughters are navigating that same risk. They go anyway, because the family has to eat.

The broader consequences of this dependence extend beyond the households bearing it.

As hundreds of families like Chellu’s converge on Goniri and surrounding communities, demand for firewood is rising sharply in an environment already under significant ecological pressure. The Lake Chad Basin, of which Borno is a part, has experienced accelerating deforestation driven by displacement, conflict, and climate stress. A study examining the impact of internally displaced persons on forest cover in Jere LGA found that displaced populations destroyed approximately 12 square kilometres of forest and vegetation. Research on the Lake Chad Basin has found that competition between displaced populations and host communities for firewood is driving deforestation and natural resource degradation, reducing the resilience of both groups. Governor Babagana Zulum has acknowledged that displacement-linked deforestation in Borno is contributing to soil erosion, reduced water availability, and increased vulnerability to climate change.

“It was not like this at the camp,” Chellu said.

Food worries now dominate her thoughts. She said she recently cried because she did not know how she would provide enough. For water and medical care, she and the children walk to Bama, a journey she estimates at over an hour on foot. “As old as I am, I must trek with the children for at least an hour daily,” she said. The move has also introduced tensions with neighbours. A nearby resident has repeatedly told her family they are not welcome. “He said he does not want us beside him,”  she said. She says the man has attempted to physically attack her and her granddaughters on multiple occasions, and that complaints to local leaders have produced no resolution.

“I wish the government would intervene.”

The uncertainty surrounding shelter, water, food, and social acceptance has left her wondering what exactly changed when the camp closed. For a woman who has spent 11 years moving between displacement sites, the answer is not obvious.

The shelter gap in Goniri

The Borno State government has long argued that prolonged camp life is not a sustainable solution. Camp closures form part of a broader strategy aimed at restoring communities, reducing dependency on humanitarian assistance, and facilitating recovery from years of insurgency. But interviews with former camp residents in Goniri suggest the transition has been uneven.

Abubakar Mohammed, 36, arrived in Goniri after years in displacement. He first fled Alagarno in Damboa Local Government Area when insurgent attacks devastated the community, spent three months at the Bama General Hospital camp, and then moved to the GSSS camp, where he remained for several years. Like many residents, he said the relocation came with little explanation. “We were asked to relocate two weeks ago,” he told HumAngle on July 7. “We were not given any reason.”

Before departure, he received a token card later exchanged for a document used during aid distribution. The government distributed ₦30,000 to each household that held a token, along with 25-kilogram bags of rice and maize flour. “Only those who had tokens got the money,” he said. Even so, the assistance did not resolve the housing challenge. “The government constructed some shelters before asking us to relocate,” he acknowledged. “But it is not sufficient.” He now lives in a makeshift tarpaulin shelter on land temporarily provided by community heads. “The Aja [District Head] said, ‘You may live here pending when you find your own place,’” he recalled. His wife and children share the structure with him; his mother and three sisters are staying elsewhere in Goniri with a friend. Many other households have improvised similar arrangements, renting accommodation or relying on relatives. Some remain more exposed. “Other people could not even afford to set up shelters,” he said. “They sleep in the open.”

The experience of Babagana Ali, 38, illustrates how unevenly the same process was administered.

His displacement history spans multiple locations. He first fled Warafaya in 2017 and settled in Kumshe, both in Bama; in 2022, violence displaced him again, eventually bringing him to Bama town and the GSSS camp. When officials announced the closure, residents received approximately one week’s notice. “They came on a Thursday and gave us a week’s notice,” he said. Unlike Abubakar, Babagana never received a ration card. He was working on his farm when distributions took place and as a result received none of the food items, zinc sheets, or money given to other households. Without money for a truck, he rented a pushcart for ₦1,500 and made two trips to move his belongings. Today, he shares a single tarpaulin shelter with two wives, six children, and four children belonging to his late brother. When it rains, water enters through the roof.

His experience points to a concern emerging across interviews: the closure of the camp may have reduced the visibility of displacement without resolving the housing deficit it created.

Earlier, humanitarian actors have made appeals for emergency shelter interventions in Goniri and Abbaram following the influx of relocated households. Those appeals suggest that aid agencies themselves recognised accommodation gaps after the movement began. This pattern is not new to Borno’s camp closure process. A 2022 Human Rights Watch report documenting earlier rounds of camp closures found that housing, water, healthcare, schools, and other infrastructure necessary to meet basic needs were lacking in many receiving communities, and that the closures had stripped over 200,000 displaced people of food and shelter without adequate alternatives. 

Residents gave varying estimates of how many people have arrived in Goniri since the closure. Chellu believed there could be about 3,000 people in the settlement; Abubakar estimated as many as 6,000, with roughly half lacking adequate shelter. HumAngle could not independently verify these figures, but both accounts point to the same reality: Goniri’s population has grown rapidly, and the question is whether the community has the infrastructure to absorb it.

Life beyond the camp

For government officials, the success of relocation will ultimately depend on what happens after families arrive. Housing is only one part of that equation. Access to livelihoods, water, healthcare, sanitation, education, and social acceptance all determine whether a relocation becomes sustainable. In Goniri, many of those systems remain under pressure.

Water emerged repeatedly during HumAngle’s reporting. Chellu, Abubakar, and Babagana all described the same daily routine: a walk to Bama that can take up to an hour. OCHA’s 2025 Humanitarian Needs and Response Plan identifies overcrowding in camps and receiving settlements, alongside lack of access to clean water and sanitation, as conditions that have worsened as a direct result of IDP movements linked to camp closures in Borno. Healthcare follows the same route as water. Abubakar estimated transportation costs at about ₦300 per trip, a burden that falls hardest on older residents, pregnant women, and households without steady income. 

Sanitation presents another strain. Babagana said the communal latrines built for an earlier displaced population are now being shared by hundreds of newly arrived households. “There are insufficient toilets,” he said. “We have to queue. It is also dirty.” He estimated that only five fenced latrines serve the settlement.

Livelihoods present a different challenge. Before the closure, many residents relied on a combination of humanitarian support and informal income. Outside the camp, they face greater pressure to generate income independently. Abubakar is a farmer by training, but insecurity has limited access to agricultural land this season. “I now do menial jobs,” he said, earning around ₦3,000 on a good day. Babagana manages similarly. “Anything that my strength can do,” he said, with income averaging around ₦2,000 daily. Neither considers it sufficient for households of their size.

For children, the transition raises additional concerns. None of Chellu’s grandchildren attends formal school. Their days revolve around religious education and income-generating activities, the girls spending long hours collecting firewood that contributes directly to household survival. They are not alone in this. UNICEF estimates that 56 per cent of displaced children across Borno, Adamawa, and Yobe states do not attend school, with roughly two million children out of school across the three states. The situation in Goniri illustrates how economic hardship reshapes childhood after displacement, turning survival into a full-time occupation. 

Social integration remains unresolved. While some host community members have provided land and accommodation, not all relationships appear harmonious. Abubakar said some residents blame the displaced for ongoing insecurity. “They say we caused the ongoing insecurity,” he said. Such perceptions breed friction in communities already stretched by scarce resources and years of conflict.

A state moving toward more closures

The debate over Bama is likely to intensify as the camp in Gwoza is expected to be the next major closure.

Many residents of Borno also want to leave camps behind. After years of displacement, the idea of living in a community rather than a crowded camp carries real emotional weight.

 “I expected the government to wait for peace before asking us to relocate,” he said.

That concern reflects a broader uncertainty in Bama and surrounding areas. Several communities continue to experience insecurity, farming restrictions, and periodic displacement linked to insurgent activity and military operations. Earlier in 2024, OCHA conducted area-based assessments of both the GSSS camp in Bama and the camp in Gwoza, both of which document the fragility of receiving communities and the scale of unresolved displacement needs. Sabsabwa, from which Chellu was displaced in 2014, experienced renewed disruptions in late 2022 and 2025. Warafaya, where Babagana once lived, was emptied by violence years ago. Alagarno, Abubakar’s hometown, was devastated by insurgent attacks. For many families, displacement has not been a single event but a series of movements from one place to another.

Without clear data from BOSEMA, several questions remain unanswered. How many people were actually moved from the camp? How many houses were completed before the relocation? How many households are still living under tarpaulins or in the open? What support is planned for communities such as Goniri and Abbaram as their populations grow? Those questions matter not only for Bama but for every future camp closure in Borno.

As evening approaches in Goniri, Chellu’s grandson leaves for the Tsangaya school where he sleeps, her granddaughters prepare for another trip into the bush to gather firewood, and the tarpaulin roof remains patched against the next rain.

Artificial intelligence is steadily changing how the world responds to crises.

Governments use it to analyse satellite imagery after natural disasters, humanitarian agencies are testing AI to anticipate displacement before it overwhelms fragile communities, and researchers are applying machine learning to uncover patterns buried inside millions of records that no human could process alone.

These advances, while useful, expose a problem worthy of scrutiny.

Most AI systems are built on data that tells only part of the world’s story. Since they are trained largely on information from North America, Europe, and parts of Asia, they know relatively little about the realities of conflict in parts of Nigeria like Borno, Zamfara, Katsina, Diffa or the wider Lake Chad Basin. They struggle with Hausa, Kanuri, Fulfulde, Igbo and hundreds of other African languages. In addition, they often miss the informal power structures, survival economies, historical grievances, and social relationships that determine whether a community remains stable or slips into violence.

For example, despite advancements in AI content flagging on social media platforms, HumAngle’s reporting and research have consistently found that moderation systems that perform effectively in English often fail to detect incitement expressed in Hausa, Kanuri, Igbo, and other Nigerian languages. Language models frequently miss local expressions, figurative speech and cultural nuances, allowing harmful content to evade automated moderation. That is not simply a technical limitation. It is a human security challenge.

Africa has long faced a deficit in research, reporting, documentation, and structured knowledge about local realities. That gap is becoming one of the continent’s biggest constraints in the AI era. Large language models (LLMs) can only learn from information that exists. If communities, conflicts, languages, histories or ecosystems remain poorly documented, those blind spots are carried directly into the systems built on them. Building culturally informed and representative AI therefore begins long before model development. It begins with producing more reliable knowledge.

Kunle Adebajo, editor of Code for Africa’s African Academy for Open Source Investigations (AAOSI), has this to say: “Artificial intelligence companies have successfully scraped most of what exists on the Internet to train their models. But a vast amount of data lives outside of the shores of the Internet, especially in Africa. AI systems, for example, will struggle with geolocation because many parts of Nigeria are still not properly mapped. They will struggle with translating languages spoken by minority ethnic groups. Even languages spoken by tens of millions of people, like Amharic, are considered low-resource by AI companies and therefore aren’t prioritised, let alone those spoken by only a few million. There’s, of course, also the lived experiences of conflict victims, which aren’t reported online and which you can only understand through fresh field interviews. Even when all this information is integrated into the AI systems, we still have the risk of hallucinations. In matters of security, we cannot take any of these shortcomings and risks lightly, because lives are at stake. Security actors who are incorporating AI tools into their operations must do their due diligence and maintain strong human oversight over the processes.” 

The decline in funding for research and investigative reporting therefore comes at a critical moment. Every research project left unfunded, every environmental change left undocumented, and every local story that never enters the public record represents knowledge that remains unavailable not only to policymakers and researchers today but also to the AI systems increasingly shaping future analysis. The quality of future AI will depend, in part, on the quality and diversity of the knowledge produced today.

If the data is incomplete, the analysis will be incomplete. If the context is missing, the conclusions may be wrong. In fragile environments, inaccurate conclusions can delay humanitarian assistance, distort policy responses and, in the worst cases, cost lives.

Communities see the signals first

Conflict rarely arrives without warning, and the warning signs are rarely dramatic. They are usually ordinary changes that occur over time, not all at once. A weekly market suddenly stops operating, or fishermen abandon parts of Lake Chad. Parents stop sending children to school weeks before an attack while farmlands expand into traditional grazing routes, or herders begin avoiding ancestral migration paths that have remained open for generations. HumAngle’s reporting has repeatedly documented these patterns.

Months before major offensives around the Lake Chad Basin, local communities described unusual restrictions on fishing, increased taxation by armed groups after governments introduced ransom-payment restrictions, shifting movement routes, and growing pressure on traders. These were not isolated observations. They formed part of a broader pattern.

In northwestern Nigeria, our reporting has shown how armed groups shifted from pickup vans to motorcycles when security operations disrupted their mobility. We documented how kidnapping networks increasingly demanded ransom in CFA francs after Nigeria’s cashless policy disrupted access to large amounts of naira. We traced the emergence of new ungoverned forest frontiers, the expansion of illegal mining sites and the growing links between critical minerals, transnational migration and armed violence. These adaptations rarely appear in conventional datasets, yet they are recognised by communities living with insecurity every day.

Researchers increasingly argue that AI systems become more reliable when such verified local observations are analysed alongside conventional datasets, helping analysts identify patterns that would otherwise remain fragmented. 

Joshua Olufemi, Founder of Dataphyte, a data and research analytics company, believes that agenda-setting is critical to this. Speaking to HumAngle about some practical pathways, he mentioned “Multistakeholder agenda setting and strategic partnerships on critical infrastructure and local data modelling and innovation. ⁠Newsroom Viability and business case initiatives to build and sustain the ecosystem.”

Building AI that understands fragile societies

The proposed HumAngle AI and Human Security Lab is designed to explore how verified field reporting, historical conflict data, humanitarian information, environmental indicators, satellite imagery, where appropriate, and open-source intelligence can be organised to identify areas where risk is changing.

The objective is not to predict the exact time or location of an attack. Conflict is too complex for deterministic prediction, and responsible AI requires transparency about uncertainty. Instead, the approach focuses on identifying shifts in risk while ensuring that assessments remain explainable, transparent, and subject to human review.

For humanitarian organisations, even a few days of additional warning can allow food supplies to be prepositioned before roads become inaccessible, schools to strengthen protection measures before attacks occur, vulnerable communities to relocate before violence escalates or emergency resources to reach areas before displacement intensifies.

Journalism is structured evidence

Journalism is often viewed as a record of past events. Increasingly, it also provides structured evidence that can help explain how crises evolve over time.

For more than six years, HumAngle has reported on insurgency, communal violence, kidnapping, humanitarian crises and governance failures across Nigeria and the Lake Chad region.

Its investigations have exposed mass arbitrary detentions, documented attacks on schools, mapped displacement, tracked ransom economies and examined the evolution of Boko Haram, ISWAP and other armed groups.

Reporting on school attacks has gone beyond casualty figures to examine how fear empties classrooms, deepens inequality and reshapes communities. Investigations into kidnapping networks have documented how criminal economies evolve, how ransom systems adapt and how insecurity expands into areas once considered relatively stable. Each story contains verified interviews, timelines, locations, local terminology and community knowledge. They represent one of Africa’s richest public interest records documenting how insecurity has evolved across the Lake Chad Basin and the wider Sahel.

Adebajo argues that this type of journalism becomes even more valuable when its evidence is intentionally structured for computational analysis.

“Credible investigative journalism products and community knowledge can be used to train AI models that provide intelligence for crisis signalling and data-driven predictive research. But it has to be structured. The good thing is that AI tools can help with that structuring, so it doesn’t consume as much time. However, collecting information for AI training and collecting information for Investigative reporting are not the same thing.”

According to the investigative journalist and AI researcher at Code for Africa, “if you set your mind on achieving both objectives, it’ll also inform the kind of data you collect and how you standardise the process and schema across different scenarios. When you have such a big dataset from years of journalism, you can combine it with other security, satellite, and reporting datasets to draw out patterns and outliers. You can determine which areas are more susceptible to attacks and multiple displacements, which seasons, what time of day, etc.”

Beyond the statistics of political violence, you can also draw out patterns in the nature of the attacks and the experiences of victims. All these can help with better allocation of scarce resources in tackling the problem of insecurity, Adebajo argued.

Kofoworola Odozi, a media analyst and AI hobbyist, agrees. She believes deliberate archiving is central to this work. “Newsrooms and CSOs have to build a digital library that has local information and that they completely own and control. What this would do for us is that instead of relying on data that big tech companies gather, we collect more materials like notes from townhalls, local newspapers, budget hearing notes–things like that that you would not typically find in the data that big tech companies have. CSOs and newsrooms can gather that and use open source to document them.”

The media analyst also believes that media and CSOs have to move to a unified digital infrastructure. “Media and CSOs are very individualistic in the ways we work, even though we are all working towards the same thing. We should work towards an industry-wide consortium.”

Adebajo says there are some strategies working at Code for Africa.

“One thing we’re doing at Code for Africa in our fight against information disorder is to go beyond fact-checking to train people who edit Wikipedia articles and train AI models, so that we can put the fact-checks into a pipeline that feeds into quality AI data, because we understand that more and more people are getting their information directly from these models,” he said. “That’s another thing to consider when reporting on conflict, especially in the fight against misinformation and conspiracy theories. How do we get these dozens and hundreds of reports to be assimilated reliably into AI systems, which are not only disseminating information directly to people but are also feeding indirectly into other knowledge production mechanisms?”

Context matters more than computing power

Much of the AI conversation focuses on larger models, faster processors, and bigger datasets. Yet model performance ultimately depends on the quality and relevance of the information used to train it.

A global AI system may recognise the word “flood.” It may identify references to drought, migration or armed conflict. Yet it may completely miss why a cash policy disrupted kidnapping networks, why changes in seasonal border patrols altered irregular migration routes or why the discovery of lithium, gold, and other strategic minerals reshaped local security dynamics.

It may recognise extremist vocabulary without understanding how concepts such as hijrah, bay’ah or takfir carry different meanings depending on who is using them, where they are used, and the historical context in which they are invoked.

It may classify a dispute as ethnic when local communities understand it primarily as competition over grazing routes, irrigation access, taxation or political representation.

Without local knowledge, AI systems risk misunderstanding complex societies despite increasing computational power.

The next battlefield is information

Conflict no longer unfolds only on the ground. It also unfolds across phones, messaging platforms, and social media.

False rumours spread within minutes as old videos are recycled as evidence of new attacks. AI-generated images and synthetic audio are becoming increasingly difficult to distinguish from authentic documentation, and armed groups continue adapting their propaganda while misinformation and disinformation deepen mistrust between communities and weaken confidence in legitimate institutions.

HumAngle has documented how Boko Haram and ISWAP compete not only through violence but also through narratives that seek legitimacy, exploit grievances and shape public perceptions of governance, justice and religion.

Understanding these information ecosystems is becoming increasingly important for humanitarian response and conflict analysis.

The proposed HumAngle AI and Human Security Lab also explores how publicly available information can be analysed to better understand AI-enabled misinformation, extremist narratives, and digital conflict across African contexts, while respecting privacy, freedom of expression, and the principles of independent journalism.

Human judgement must remain at the centre

The growing use of AI in humanitarian and security settings has been accompanied by claims that algorithms will predict wars or replace analysts. Current evidence suggests a more limited role.

AI can support human decision-making by organising large volumes of information, identifying patterns and highlighting anomalies. Human judgement remains essential for interpreting those findings, questioning assumptions, and understanding context. Transparency about uncertainty, limitations, and data quality remains fundamental in fragile environments where analytical errors can carry significant consequences.

Africa and the future of humanitarian AI

The debate over AI in Africa has increasingly shifted from digital access to questions of data, governance, and representation.

Africa possesses extensive community knowledge, linguistic diversity, and historical experience that remain underrepresented in many AI systems. As governments, humanitarian organisations and researchers expand the use of AI in crisis response, these forms of knowledge are becoming increasingly important sources of evidence.

The proposed HumAngle AI and Human Security Lab’s focus is not AI for its own sake. It is the development of analytical tools that help humanitarian organisations act earlier, journalists identify emerging patterns, researchers organise complex evidence and policymakers make better-informed decisions.

If these approaches prove effective, AI may contribute to more timely humanitarian action, stronger evidence-based policymaking and improved protection for vulnerable communities.

For nearly two decades, Nigeria fought Boko Haram and its offshoots, the Islamic State West Africa Province (ISWAP) and Ansaru, largely with bombs, bullets, and casualties announced in press briefings. However, the slow process of delivering justice through prosecution was the part of the counterterrorism machine that never quite got built properly. 

Thousands of suspects, many of them innocent, disappeared into the barracks and detention facilities of Giwa, Wawa, and the Borno Maximum Security Prison, some for a decade or more, without ever seeing a judge. HumAngle has reported extensively on that. Now, that is visibly changing.

At least 865 convictions were secured between January and July 2026 alone, according to Nigeria’s Office of the National Security Adviser (ONSA). The convictions are part of the country’s Mass Trial Programme, a series of tribunal sittings. That figure represents more than half of all terrorism-related convictions the programme has produced since its inception, according to Zakari Mijinyawa, the ONSA’s Director of Legal Services.

However, ONSA has not released comprehensive data on acquittals, dismissals, plea agreements, or pending cases within this period, making it difficult to assess the programme’s overall prosecutorial performance or conviction rate.

In April, a federal court in Abuja convicted 386 people in a single sitting after four days of hearings before a panel of 10 judges, with sentences ranging from five years to life. In June, 12 more defendants were sentenced to death by hanging in cases spanning terrorism financing, kidnapping, and the 2022 massacre at St. Francis Catholic Church in Owo, Ondo State, where terrorists killed more than 40 worshippers.

The charges themselves read like a mirror of how an insurgency actually sustains itself: not only fighters but financiers, couriers, and suppliers. One man was sentenced to 20 years for selling cattle and goats to Boko Haram; the presiding judge, Justice Binta Nyako, called the offence “so gruesome” and rejected pleas for leniency. Another received ten years for exchanging roughly ₦750,000 with the group. A woman was convicted for ferrying hundreds of rounds of ammunition to a terror leader in the country’s northwestern region. 

This is prosecutorial attention to the economic scaffolding of terrorism – financing, logistics, and information-withholding; rather than a fixation on the terrorist with the gun, which has historically been the easiest and least useful person to punish.

Justice delayed – now being served 

Just as significant, though less publicised, is what has been happening on the other side of the ledger. The Department of State Services, under its current Director-General, Oluwatosin Adeola Ajayi, has spent the past year and a half reopening what officials describe as “inherited” detention files, including cases dating back to 2021 and 2022 involving people held for years on suspicion of terrorism before internal review panels ultimately found the allegations baseless.

A Kaduna farmer and herder, Nura Idris, arrested in 2024 over alleged Boko Haram links, was cleared and paid ₦3 million. A Yobe State resident, Ya’u Mohammed, received a similar package after two years in custody. Perhaps the starkest case is that of Sunday Ifedi, arrested with his wife, Calista, in 2021 over alleged links to the separatist group IPOB; Calista died in detention before either of them was ever tried. Sunday was released in December 2025 and paid ₦10 million, and the DSS says it now intends to rebuild the restaurant Calista once ran, in her name. Agency sources say more than 30 such cases have been reviewed and over ₦300 million has been paid out in total.

None of this restores what was lost. Years of a life lost, families destroyed, or a wife who did not come home. But as a matter of institutional behaviour, it is a genuine departure. Public compensation for wrongful terrorism detention remains unusual among West African security services. 

Even though it comes after years of pressure from human rights groups and media organisations, the reviews suggest a shift in institutional practice under the current DSS leadership, in which “we got this wrong” is no longer an unspeakable sentence inside Nigeria’s intelligence services. However, it is too early to know whether the approach will endure. 

For a country whose counterterrorism record has been shadowed for years by allegations of arbitrary detention, torture, and enforced disappearance in military custody, allegations HumAngle and other outlets have documented extensively, that is not a small shift.

Communities in the North East, particularly in Borno and Yobe, where terrorism has been ravaging lives, have long complained that indiscriminate sweeps net far more innocent men than actual insurgents. In 2014, for instance, 42 men from Gallari, a community in Borno State, were arbitrarily arrested and detained by the Nigerian Army. By 2025, more than a decade later, only five were still alive. Of those five, only three were eventually released. 

Each acquittal or compensation payout, in theory, is a data point against that particular grievance, and a small deposit into public trust that has been overdrawn for a generation. 

Still, an important puzzle remains why this shift is happening, and if there are measures in place to prevent further arbitrary or illegal arrests and detention of innocent citizens. An official with the DSS, who pleaded anonymity because they were not authorised to speak to the media, offered some insight into this. 

“The Director-General, on assuming office, directed that no arrest is made until all reasonable evidence is gathered about the offence being committed or believed to be about to be committed and the evidence is substantial enough to secure conviction in court,” they said. 

The halt of Operation Safe Corridor? 

It is against this backdrop that the Senate’s intervention on July 8 lands. Meeting to discuss a wave of attacks on military personnel,  prompted by the abduction and death in captivity of retired Major General Rabe Abubakar, the Senate adopted a resolution urging the federal government to halt Operation Safe Corridor (OPSC), the decade-old programme that screens, deradicalises, and reintegrates former Boko Haram terrorists who surrender rather than fight to the end. 

In July, Senator Joseph Ikpea, who represents Edo Central Senatorial District, made an additional prayer, seconded by former labour leader and Edo North Senator Adams Oshiomhole, arguing that pardoning and rehabilitating people responsible for atrocities makes no sense while their victims and the families of fallen soldiers receive comparatively little. The Senate wants surrendering fighters prosecuted instead, and “made to face the full wrath of the law”. 

The instinct is neither irrational nor new. Communities that watched OPSC graduates return home with vocational grants while widows of soldiers got condolence visits have voiced exactly this complaint for years. HumAngle’s own reporting from Borno has documented residents’ fury, alongside cases of the programme’s supposed “clients” turning out to be non-combatants swept up in raids and warehoused there simply because army cells were overcrowded. 

HumAngle understands that not everyone who goes through a deradicalisation programme was once a terrorist. Some of them can, in fact, be described as victims. Sources confirmed to HumAngle that whenever Boko Haram or ISWAP terrorists storm a village, they often prevent anyone from leaving and force residents to choose between joining the insurgents or being killed. For some people, the instinct to survive leaves them with little choice but to go along with the terrorists, hoping they will eventually find an opportunity to escape and surrender to the military. 

Even after surrendering, such individuals are usually required to undergo the deradicalisation process because of the time they spent under the control of the insurgents and the possibility that their beliefs or worldview may have been influenced.

There are also people who are made to undergo deradicalisation because they spent long periods in military detention facilities or prisons alongside high-profile terrorist suspects. The concern is that prolonged exposure to extremist inmates could have affected their thinking, even if they are later cleared and released. That was the case for Abubakar, a man who was once accused of belonging to Boko Haram but was later freed after authorities established that he was innocent. He told HumAngle that because of the years he spent in detention, he was still required to pass through the deradicalisation programme at Mallam Sidi, a facility in Gombe State that serves as the OPSC rehabilitation centre.

However, civil society groups such as the Civil Society Legislative Advocacy Centre (CISLAC) and the CREAP Africa Initiative, in response to the Senate’s move, called for something more surgical: an evidence-based review of the programme’s screening and transparency, not its abolition.

“CISLAC commends the Senate for responding to earlier calls drawing national attention to the worsening security situation and reiterates that protecting the lives of Nigerians, upholding justice, and restoring public confidence in national security institutions must remain central to all government responses to terrorism and violent extremism,” stated its director, Auwal Rafsanjani. 

But the Senate’s prescription runs into an operational reality that the mass trials should make obvious: Operation Safe Corridor and the tribunal system are not rivals competing for the same defendants. They were designed, from the start, to sort two different populations: hardened commanders and financiers who should be prosecuted, and conscripted or coerced low-level members whom the military itself has long argued should not be, because there would be nowhere to put tens of thousand of them, and because the promise of a “safe corridor” home is one of the few incentives that reliably pulls terrorists out of the bush faster than bullets do. 

Babayo Sule, a security analyst, put it this way in response to the resolution: the programme exists precisely because years of a purely kinetic strategy failed to end the insurgency on its own; scrapping it removes one of the few levers that can shrink Boko Haram’s manpower without a single shot being fired.

“The Nigerian government will not have opted for the choice of deradicalisation except that Nigeria’s security architecture is overwhelmed by the multi-pronged and multidimensional challenges of insecurity across the country,” he said.

There is also a due-process irony the Senate seems not to have registered. The same week lawmakers called for suspending rehabilitation in favour of prosecution, courts were demonstrating, at unprecedented volume, that prosecution is now genuinely available and increasingly being used. 

The danger of the Senate’s resolution, then, is less that it is emotionally wrong (grief for a murdered general and for civilians killed for a generation is entirely legitimate) than that it collapses two distinct instruments into one, at the exact moment when both are showing, separately, signs of working. 

That distinction has, in fact, just been reinforced by the federal government itself. On Monday, July 13, the ONSA, through the National Counter Terrorism Centre (NCTC), unveiled a comprehensive set of Standard Operating Procedures (SOPs) for Nigeria’s Disarmament, Demobilisation and Reintegration (DDR) programme. Rather than expanding eligibility for rehabilitation, the framework seeks to formalise a process that has often been criticised as opaque by defining institutional responsibilities, referral pathways, case management procedures, human rights safeguards, and mechanisms for inter-agency coordination.

Perhaps more importantly, officials were explicit that DDR is not intended to replace criminal accountability. Abimbola Wońosikou, the NCTC’s Director of Preventing and Countering Violent Extremism, stressed during the validation workshop that individuals accused of serious crimes would continue to face prosecution through the appropriate legal processes, while only those who meet established eligibility criteria would proceed through rehabilitation and reintegration. 

In effect, the SOPs are intended to codify the distinction between those who should stand trial and those whose circumstances warrant disengagement and rehabilitation, an area critics have long argued lacked sufficient clarity and transparency.

“What needs to be done is to look at what is wrong, how to amend it and how to make it better. It is even better to expand the programme rather than discard it,” Babayo said.

This, HumAngle gathered, could include reforming screening, introducing tighter oversight of who qualifies as a “low-risk” defector, and ensuring faster referral of the genuinely culpable into the tribunal system. The newly adopted DDR SOPs appear designed to achieve many of these objectives by clarifying institutional mandates, strengthening oversight, and embedding human rights safeguards throughout the process. Such measures would address almost every grievance the Senate raised without discarding the one mechanism that has, for a decade, given terrorists still in Sambisa and the Lake Chad Basin forests a reason to walk out instead of dig in.

Whether these safeguards restore public confidence will depend less on the existence of the SOPs than on how consistently they are applied, particularly in deciding who qualifies for rehabilitation and who is referred for prosecution. 

Nigeria’s position on ransom payments rests on a sound principle: Every ransom paid strengthens criminal organisations by financing the purchase of more weapons, and encouraging more kidnappings. Every naira handed to kidnappers today may finance tomorrow’s abduction.

Yet, another reality is far more uncomfortable. It is a reality experienced daily by families whose loved ones have disappeared into forests, insurgent camps, and criminal enclaves across Nigeria. The state asks them not to pay. The same state often cannot prevent the abduction nor guarantee the rescue of the victim.

For years, successive governments have urged Nigerians to reject ransom payments as a matter of national security. The argument is strategically sound. Kidnapping has evolved into one of Nigeria’s most profitable criminal economies, sustaining terrorist groups, insurgent groups, and organised kidnapping networks across several regions. Every successful payment reinforces that economy and makes future attacks more likely.

But public policy cannot exist only in theory. It must also survive contact with human reality.

For many women and girls held captive, every additional day increases the risk of rape, forced marriage, sexual slavery, and repeated abuse. Men and boys frequently endure forced labour, torture, starvation, beatings, and execution. Children lose months or years of their education while entire families descend into financial ruin attempting to negotiate for survival.

For parents, spouses, and siblings, this is not an abstract debate about national security. They know that every phone call may be the last and that every delay may carry irreversible consequences. It is therefore unsurprising that many families choose life over policy.

Critics often ask why families continue paying ransom despite repeated warnings, but the more humane question is whether society has offered them a credible alternative.

Military rescue operations have succeeded in some high-profile cases, and security forces continue to make sacrifices under extremely dangerous conditions. However, they remain the exception rather than the experience of most victims. Across vast areas of Nigeria, rescue is uncertain, negotiations are prolonged, intelligence is limited, and families are frequently left to navigate kidnappers alone. That gap creates an impossible moral burden.

The law tells a father not to pay, but his daughter remains in captivity and the government cannot tell him when, or whether, she will come home. What should he choose?

Many policymakers evaluate ransom through the lens of national security. Families experience it through the lens of survival. Both perspectives are legitimate, but they collide in painful ways.

The contradiction becomes even sharper where governments contemplate criminalising ransom payments. Such laws may satisfy an important strategic objective, but without dramatically improving prevention, intelligence, rapid response, and hostage rescue capability, they risk punishing victims twice. First, by failing to protect them. Second, by denying them the only option they believe remains.

No family should ever have to choose between financing organised crime and abandoning someone they love. The responsibility for breaking this cycle belongs to the state, not to traumatised families.

A credible anti-ransom policy requires far more than a legal prohibition. It demands professional policing, intelligence-driven operations, rapid hostage recovery capabilities, functioning emergency response systems, stronger border control, disruption of kidnapping finances, and sustained prosecution of those who organise and profit from this industry.

Only then can the government reasonably ask citizens to bear the enormous moral cost of refusing to pay ransom. Until that day arrives, Nigeria’s ransom debate will remain trapped between principle and reality. Ending ransom payments begins with ending the conditions that make ransom appear to be the only path home.

Across Africa, the ability to defend borders, monitor territory and protect critical infrastructure remains heavily dependent on foreign suppliers. Turkish drones patrol borders, Chinese surveillance systems monitor cities and Russian fighter jets form the backbone of several air forces.

For decades, African militaries have turned abroad for critical defence technologies, leaving the continent largely positioned as a buyer rather than a producer.

An Abuja-based start-up is attempting to change that equation.

Terra Industries, founded in 2024 by Nathan Nwachuku and Maxwell Maduka, both in their early twenties, designs and manufactures drones, autonomous surveillance towers and unmanned ground vehicles from facilities in Abuja and Accra.

Unlike companies that primarily assemble imported components, Terra says it develops its own software, airframes, propellers and lithium-ion battery packs, with more than 70 percent of its inputs sourced locally.

The company says its systems are currently used to protect infrastructure valued at approximately $11bn, including power plants, lithium and gold mines, oil refineries and other strategic assets across eight African countries and Canada.

Building capability

The shift from importing security technology to producing it locally has become an increasingly important debate across Africa. Governments facing armed groups, porous borders, maritime insecurity and attacks on critical infrastructure are searching for faster and more adaptable solutions.

Terra’s move from private infrastructure security into engagements with Nigeria’s defence institutions reflects that changing environment. The company says its systems are designed to address challenges ranging from maritime surveillance and border monitoring to the protection of energy and mining assets.

“Coastal states in West Africa are focused on maritime surveillance because of piracy and illegal fishing in the Gulf of Guinea,” chief executive Nathan Nwachuku told Al Jazeera. “States dealing with insurgency and porous borders want persistent aerial surveillance and a rapid-response capability. Others are looking at protection for pipelines, power and energy infrastructure, and mining assets, the same problems we started solving in Nigeria.”

The company is now preparing for a larger regional footprint. Nwachuku confirmed that Terra’s second production facility in Ghana will become Africa’s largest drone manufacturing hub, with an annual production capacity of 50,000 units by 2028.

“Our long-term ambition goes beyond the continent because the threats our systems are designed to address exist across the Global South,” he said. “Governments in South Asia and South America face them too, and they face the same dependency on foreign suppliers. We intend to serve them as we grow.”

Investor confidence

The scale of investment behind Terra reflects growing interest in Africa’s emerging defence technology sector. The company has raised $34m in seed funding, which it describes as one of the largest early-stage funding rounds in African technology.

The investment was led by 8VC, the venture capital firm founded by Palantir Technologies co-founder Joe Lonsdale, alongside Lux Capital and Valor Equity Partners, investors behind companies such as Anduril and SpaceX.

“The round closed in under two weeks, which is rare even by global standards,” Tage Kene-Okafor, Terra Industries’ director of communications, told Al Jazeera. “But what has been more exciting is our cap table, where we have the likes of 8VC, Lux Capital and Valor Equity Partners, investors that have backed companies shaping the future of defence and advanced manufacturing globally.”

Security imperative

The interest in companies like Terra comes as drones become increasingly central to conflicts across Africa. In the Sahel, inexpensive commercial drones have moved from surveillance tools to weapons used on the battlefield, creating new challenges for militaries that often lack effective counter-drone capabilities.

According to the Armed Conflict Location and Event Data (ACLED), Jama’at Nusrat al-Islam wal-Muslimin (JNIM), the al-Qaeda-linked coalition operating in Mali and Burkina Faso, has carried out more than 100 drone attacks since 2023, with 2025 recording the highest number to date.

Terra says its Kama interceptor drone was developed in response to this changing threat environment. The company says the system can reach speeds of up to 300kph and is designed to counter hostile drones in environments where traditional air defence systems may be unavailable or too expensive.

Building defence technology, however, is not the same as achieving defence sovereignty.

Sovereignty question

While a country can build manufacturing capacity through investment, engineering talent and industrial policy, defence sovereignty requires institutions capable of managing procurement, ensuring accountability and sustaining strategic industries over the long term.

Janice Greaver, director at the Pan African Sustainable, Innovation and Development Associates (PASIDA), argues that local production alone cannot answer those questions.

“Seventy percent local sourcing means little until we know who controls the intellectual property, who is employed and who is left out,” she told Al Jazeera. “And when private capital arms the state with no visible civil society oversight, we are simply trading one dependency (on foreign suppliers) for another (on unaccountable domestic capital).”

Terra Industries has demonstrated that sophisticated defence technologies can be designed and manufactured in Africa. Its rapid rise reflects both growing technical capability on the continent and the pressure created by worsening security challenges.

Whether that becomes genuine defence sovereignty will depend on what happens beyond the factory floor: how governments buy, regulate and oversee the technologies they increasingly seek to build themselves.

As Greaver cautions: “Its manufacturing capacity is being built, sovereignty requires the accountability structures that do not yet exist”.

Nigerian security forces have rescued 39 schoolchildren and five teachers abducted nearly two months ago in Oyo state. Authorities say eight suspected kidnappers have been arrested.

On Tuesday, June 9, a disturbing incident left many locals mourning in the rural areas of Zamfara State, in northwestern Nigeria. An improvised explosive device (IED) detonated along the Anka-Bagega road. When the news reached Sadiq Sulaiman, he anxiously waited for hours to learn the fate of his brother, Yusuf Sulaiman, who had travelled by road in a commercial vehicle that same day. 

Family members began frantically calling one another to search for their relatives. As photos from the scene started to emerge on social media, security agents and health workers rushed to rescue the victims. At first, only one man, Sama’ila Muhammad, was identified and his body brought before the grieving crowd. Sadiq clung to the slightest thread of hope, praying that his brother was not involved. A few hours later, his worst fear came to pass, as he learned that Yusuf died in the incident. 

“My heart is heavy,” Sadiq, who was in Abuja when the incident happened, told HumAngle. “I cried for hours because the loss cannot be imagined. I’ve lost more than a sibling.”

Since Yusuf’s death was confirmed, Sadiq has repeatedly checked his last conversation – a WhatsApp chat – with his brother. The messages were short and “unserious”, a brother checking on his brother. In an earlier message, Yusuf had told Sadiq that terrorists had stolen his phone when they attacked the Bagega community of Zamfara on Saturday, May 3. He said in the message that he had since gotten a new phone and would stay in touch with him.

With his brother’s body found and buried, Sadiq felt a little relieved that he wouldn’t be trapped in the uncertainty of not knowing what happened to his brother. He says he feels double pain: losing his brother to the terrorists and not being able to pay his last respects by participating in burying him. 

That morning, Yusuf boarded one of the two Golf saloon vehicles that were headed to Anka town from Bagega community when it struck the buried IEDs. Ten people died in the resulting explosion, including a three-year-old girl travelling with her uncle. Four people survived but were seriously injured. 

The Anka–Bagega Road has become a recurring site of tragedy; IED explosions on the route have turned it into one of the deadliest routes in the region. On the afternoon of June 15, three police officers attached to the Zamfara State Command’s Explosive Ordnance Disposal Unit died in an IED blast on the same road when their armoured vehicle struck an explosive device during a routine clearance operation. The officers were Abdulrazak Musa Hassan, Auwal Ahmad, and Murtala Musa Abdurazak, a superintendent of police who was the officer in charge of the unit. 

Earlier on May 7, seven residents of Bagega were killed in an IED explosion on the Anka-Bagega road. Eight persons were also seriously injured. The incidents have cast the community into mourning and fear. 

Buried bombs

Armed violence has persisted for over a decade across northwestern Nigeria, with thousands of people killed and displaced. As the government struggled to protect civilians and their communities, the terrorists grew stronger, accumulating illicit wealth through their kidnapping-for-ransom operations, collection of so-called “farming and protection taxes”, and illegal gold mining. In the past months, however, terrorists have increased the deployment of IEDs to target civilians and security personnel, specifically in Zamfara and Sokoto states. 

Since the beginning of May, at least six IED explosions have been recorded in the two states, while the seventh attack was averted when police officers found and destroyed the buried devices.

The proliferation of IEDs by terrorists in the region can be traced to 2024 when civilians fell victim to the buried explosives in Zamfara’s Maru Local Government Area (LGA) on two different occasions. The first IED incident occurred on Yar Galadima Road, followed by another on the Dansadau-Magami Road. Before then, IED attacks by terrorists had been relatively rare in the region.

By late 2025, that shift had become more pronounced. In December of that year, an IED blast unsettled civilians in Maru. According to sources familiar with the operations of the armed groups in the area, the attack was masterminded by Abubakar Abdullahi, also known as Dogo Gide, a terror group leader with strong influence in the region. That same month, another terror group loyal to Ado Aleru, an infamous criminal mastermind, also planted an IED on the Funtua-Tsafe Highway in an attempt to target soldiers at several military checkpoints.

The tactic persisted into the following year. In February 2026, 11 terrorists were killed while attempting to plant an IED in the Babbar Doka community of Maru. These incidents threw locals of the areas into panic, but more IED explosions would follow, especially in May and June, the same period when Sadiq’s brother and the three police officers were killed. 

The buried explosive devices have become some of the terrorists’ most dangerous weapons against locals and security agents in the northwestern region. On June 20, a military armoured personnel carrier was also hit by an IED on the Isa-Bargaja road in Sokoto State. The explosion killed three soldiers who were in the armoured vehicle, while several soldiers got injured. 

Barely eight days later, on June 28, thunderous explosions shook Kurawa, an area in Sabon Birni in Sokoto State. A commercial vehicle travelling along the Sabon Birni-Hurawa road accidentally stepped on a buried IED planted by terrorists. Although nobody died, the passengers were badly injured.

“We believe the terrorists planted the IED to stop soldiers from repelling their attack,” Lauwali Rabiu, a resident of Kurawa, told HumAngle. He said the terrorists attacked the community in the night and killed a civilian simply identified as Sabiu. “We suspected that the terrorists planted the IED before they went into the community so that soldiers coming to fight them would step on it.”

Just two days later, on June 30, terrorists planted another IED on the Tidibale–Tagirke road in the Isa area of Sokoto, and two soldiers were killed in the resulting blast. 

These IED incidents represent a shift in the operational capacity of terrorists in the northwestern region; they also pose an expanding threat in a region that has been witnessing violence since at least 2013. 

Historically, the use of IEDs in Nigeria has been associated primarily with extremist groups operating in the North East. Security experts believe there is a disturbing collaboration between extremist groups from northeastern Nigeria who have been moving into North Central and North West regions, and the terrorists operating in Sokoto and Zamfara. 

James Barnett, a Nigerian-based conflict researcher, told HumAngle that the jihadists, especially Ansaru and Jama’atul Ahlis Sunnah Lidda’awati wal-Jihad (JAS), have sought alliances with local terrorists in the northwestern region. Despite the alliances, the insurgents tried to maintain the upper hand in those relationships, James said.

“To that end, jihadists have typically tried to maintain a monopoly on IED manufacturing and supply so as to maintain a comparative advantage over the more numerous bandits (terrorists). This has involved supplying limited numbers of IEDs or employing IEDs in joint operations as a means of winning [terrorists’] favour while keeping them dependent on the jihadists’ technical know-how and supplies,” James noted, adding that it is now harder for the northeast-bound terrorists to control the manufacturing and supplying of the IEDs in the northwestern region.

“A number of [terrorists] have developed those skills within their gangs, sometimes by luring explosives specialists from jihadist groups. Banditry has become a lucrative enterprise, and some gangs therefore have the capital to invest in these deadly technical skills,” he added.

IEDs on the prowl

The unholy alliances between the extremists and northwestern terrorists have fuelled the proliferation of IEDs, turning public roads into death traps for unsuspecting civilians.

On the day of the June 9 explosion in Bagega, Hassan Ibrahim sat outside his house with friends and neighbours. He had gone to the motor park to buy fuel for his power generator, but he was the only black-market vendor who had run out of stock. He wanted to ask someone travelling to Anka town to buy fuel for him, but was told that vehicles were not available. 

“A few minutes later, the news came in that a bomb (IEDs) planted on the road by terrorists had gone off. Someone said two cars from here (Bagega) had left and were possibly caught in it,” he told HumAngle. 

Hassan and his friends immediately headed to the scene, where they saw the vehicles, including two military trucks almost reduced to dust. Residents from neighbouring communities trooped out to confirm the story. Hassan said he felt he knew some of the victims. He would later realise that his father-in-law, Salisu Minyama, was there, as was his nephew, Sama’ila Muhammad. 

“It dawned on me that yes, this is real. How do you start to explain to their families? I was with Alhaji (Salisu) in the morning, and he told me he would be travelling. I saw his children, and then my nephew, Sama’ila; I spoke with him. How would you feel if you spoke with someone, and minutes later they tell you he is dead?” he wondered. 

The victims of the IED, according to residents, were Alhaji Salisu Minyama, Abba Salisu Minyama, Abdurashid Salisu Minyama, Yusuf Sulaiman, Babangida Mika Sunke, Sama’ila Muhammad, Sabiu Mallamawa, Ashiru Mallamawa, and Nana Mallamawa.

Disturbing pattern

Although the infiltration of terrorists into the North West from the North East is blamed for the proliferation of IEDs, some locals and security experts believe several homegrown terrorists now produce IEDs on their own. Abubakar Dan-iya, a conflict researcher in Zamfara, told HumAngle that IEDs are now being produced by the terrorists mostly under the guidance of Dogo Gide, the terror group leader with known ties to jihadists from the northeastern region.

“The resurgence of Dogo Gide in the criminal circle ignites recent IED incidents recorded in the areas of Bagega, Gwashi, and Dansadau axis. He remains the only merchant and supplier of explosive devices, dynamites, and coil detonators in Zamfara. Dogo Gide has recently been touring areas in Tureta, Shagari, Gummi, Anka, and Bukkuyum both in Zamfara and Sokoto states,” Abubakar said, adding that some of the raw materials needed for making IEDs are found in Zamfara.

Abubakar noted that some public transport parks are now being used by terrorists’ collaborators to source the raw materials and move them to areas where terrorists use them to assemble IEDs. Local markets like Polo Club, Old Market, Garejin Mailena, all in Gusau, are points where coil detonators, wire cables, dynamites, and other IED-related accessories are loaded onto the vehicles for movement to Bindin, Bagega, Dansadau, Magami, Faikai, and other communities across Anka, Maru, Shinkafi and Bukuyum LGAs, as well as the Tsafe axis.

While some of those sourcing the raw materials may not know how they will ultimately be used, Abubakar alleged that some of the drivers transporting them are collaborators. HumAngle could not independently verify these claims. 

Avoidable tragedy

Describing the IED blast that killed his brother as an “avoidable tragedy”, Sadiq says the security situation in Zamfara has gone way too bad. “This is on the government,” he lamented. “We know that it’s the government that should protect citizens, so why are we not being protected? The road from Anka to Bagega has always been in terrible shape; the situation would improve with a good road and enough security.”

Isa, another resident of Zamfara who asked to be identified only by his first name, told HumAngle how he lost his bosom friend to the recent IED attack. He was listening to the radio in his room when his wife broke the news about the explosion. His friend, Abba Salisu, had informed him that he would be going to Anka with his father and brother. They wanted an early trip so they could return to Bagega in time. That morning, Isa’s wife heard a neighbour crying. When she went to find out what had happened, she was told about the explosion.

“I didn’t want to believe it at first, so I put on my shirt and went out,” Isa said. On his way, he called Abba’s number, but it was unreachable; he convinced himself that the network was poor. 

He wanted to know whether his friend was really involved. As he moved from one person to another, his heart rate increased. That was when someone told him they had seen Abba and his father in one of the cars. “In the end, you can do nothing since it’s their time; it’s what God decided; we can only pray for them to be accepted as martyrs,” he said in a broken voice. 

Residents who spoke to HumAngle said the recent explosion has not only killed 10 persons they have known for years; it has also instilled fear in their minds. The community’s economy has broken down as more people avoid the weekly market for fear of attacks.

“It goes beyond this particular incident,” Bilyaminu Abubakar, a resident of Bagega, told HumAngle. “For over two months, the people of Bagega have been completely abandoned. We are facing a severe security crisis, yet those in power behave as though we don’t exist. These explosions have taken the lives of our beloved ones, shattered families, and trapped us in constant fear.”

When contacted by HumAngle, both the Zamfara and Sokoto States Police spokespersons, Yazid Abubakar and Ahmad Rufai, did not respond to messages and calls placed on their lines for reactions over the trend of IED deployment by terrorists. HumAngle also contacted Sulaiman Bala Idris, the spokesperson for the Zamfara State Governor, but he did not respond to our messages. Sambo Bello Danchadi, the Sokoto State Commissioner for Information, also did not respond to queries about measures being taken to address the growing IED threats.

There is almost no landscape across the West African Sahel that cannot be accessed from the back of a motorcycle. That is why terrorists operating in the region prize them so highly. In various terror operations, motorcycles are used not only as vehicles, but as weapons, and even as a form of currency.

In April, terrorists abducted five residents from their farms in Anka, Zamfara State, in Nigeria’s North West, and demanded a ₦3.8 million ransom. After the affected families managed to raise the money and paid it, the abductors issued another demand: they were to return with motorcycles before the hostages would be released. 

“They told the families that they would kill the victims if they did not bring a motorcycle,” Ciroma Ade* said. He was tasked with travelling to parts of Sokoto, or somewhere else, to buy the motorcycles and deliver them to a location that would be communicated to him later, in his experience, usually around Gurusu Forest between Anka and Gusau. 

It was not the first time he had made the run. Over time, he unintentionally became a ‘middleman’ in the motorcycle ransom economy. He was also one of its victims. In 2024, he bought motorcycles to secure the release of many of his relatives. Buying a ransom vehicle is never straightforward because the region is now more conscious of its purchase, and many vendors will no longer sell the vehicle in that part of the country. 

Sometimes the terrorists arrange for an anonymous ‘middleman’ to travel far, often to the trading hubs in Kano, to source motorcycles on their behalf. Ciroma has his own networks. He knows which traders to approach in Sokoto or Zuru, in Kebbi State, despite the growing difficulty of buying the machines. 

Over the years, he has repeatedly relied on those contacts to secure abducted villagers, including many of his relatives. Once the motorcycles were purchased, the terrorists would arrange a meeting point for delivery. He did the same this time. Most of the time, the hostages returned alive. The terrorists appeared to understand the continuing value of keeping captives alive; they were useful leverage for future negotiations. 

This time was different. The victims were killed anyway.

An emerging trend has taken hold across parts of northern Nigeria. Terrorists have created a self-sustaining system in which motorcycles have become a form of ransom. Each abduction helps replenish the very machines used to carry out the next one. The motorcycle has become both the means of violence and its reward.

HumAngle learned that terrorists in the region frequently use commercially available motorcycles, especially Honda models, for their durability, availability, and suitability for rough terrain. They ride them into battle, use them to swarm a target, and conduct large-scale operations like mass abductions. 

Ciroma, for one, knows this too. As one of the reluctant middlemen who helped bring ransom motorcycles into the system, he believes his community has become both a source of motorcycles for terrorists and one of the least safe places in the country.

While researching how motorcycles have become inseparable from conflict in the Sahel, I could not find many stories that told the tales of war from the motorcycle’s perspective. Almost every day brings reports of non-state armed groups using motorcycles to attack villages, ambush troops, abduct civilians, or simply move from one place to another. Yet the motorcycle itself rarely occupies the centre of those stories. 

Conflict reporting understandably focuses on bloodshed, casualties, military operations, and the growing sophistication of insurgents’ weaponry. Compared with assault rifles, rocket launchers, or improvised explosive devices, motorcycles appear almost mundane. But this overlooks one of the constants of modern insurgency.

Across Nigeria’s conflict theatres, and much of the wider Sahel, the motorcycle is present regardless of the group, geography, or operation. It functions simultaneously as a transport, a logistics platform, an escape vehicle, and a weapon. There should be a literature that treats it as the protagonist rather than merely part of the scenery.

This is what we are attempting to do. 

Ciroma had just returned from the cemetery, where he and other villagers buried five people killed by the terrorists, when he heard that a journalist wanted to know about the motorcycle ransom economy. He spoke passionately about the suffering of his community. 

During his final assignment, he deliberately delayed delivering the motorcycles until every option had been exhausted. After the victims were killed, he sold the motorcycles and distributed the proceeds back to their families. 

As he told members of his community, he wanted nothing more to do with the “thieves”, including playing a part in the supply chain that sustained them.

If soldiers were willing to follow the motorcycle tracks into the forests, he said, he would guide them himself. He knew the routes. He knew the delivery points. Together with the local vigilantes, they could reach the camps where he had previously delivered motorcycles. “They could clear the thieves out,” he said. 

The rider 

Back in Abuja, I needed more perspective if I was going to write this story. 

I left my estate and approached a commercial motorcyclist waiting by the roadside. He eyed me suspiciously. He wanted no association with terrorists, even if it meant nothing more than answering a journalist’s questions.

Standing nearby was another rider, Musa Abba. He waved me over, introduced himself, and agreed to speak, but only off camera. I asked him what it felt like to ride his bike every day. 

“There is no place I cannot reach with this machine,” he said. 

Musa trusts his motorcycle more than anything else. He kicked the engine to life and gestured for me to climb on. He had decided the interview would be better conducted while we were moving.

As I settled in behind him, my thoughts drifted, not to motorcycles, but to horses. I found myself thinking about how civilisations across the ancient world discovered the extraordinary power of a mounted rider. Horses became indispensable: first for farming and transport, then, most significantly, for war. They were the all-important multipurpose machines of their age.

They could hardly have imagined that one day a two-wheeled machine would replicate the power of a cavalry many times over. Perhaps they wondered about it. Back then, even with other machines of war, such as the horse-drawn cart, the camel caravan, and eventually some mechanised infantry, the role of the rider in battle remained central.

Motorcycles have inherited that role.

Some recent research has begun to recognise this. Analysts have documented the emergence of a ransom economy in which insurgents increasingly demanded motorcycles instead of cash. Communities are taxed to replace bikes lost during military operations. The most in-depth literature was compiled by the Global Initiative, an international think tank that interviewed people across the West African Sahel and found that motorcycles were stolen and trafficked over the years to sustain transnational criminal operations in Mali, Niger, Burkina Faso, and the Republic of Benin.

Not much was said about Nigeria in the report. However, the Nigerian Army has, in press statements, documented the seizure of thousands of motorcycles in counterinsurgency operations in Nigeria. Beyond those records, evidence also lies along the routes connecting illicit smuggling and trafficking hubs, with networks tracing back to the organised trans-Saharan trade from the 8th to the 16th centuries. Today, those same corridors still carry motorcycles used for smuggling and for slipping along clandestine routes that let riders avoid conventional roads and border checkpoints.

The motorcycle is now so woven into life across West Africa, the Sahel, and the Lake Chad Basin that the mobility it provides sustains entire communities, and many people in the lower and middle classes cannot imagine life without it.

As we continued the ride, Abba said, “When it is time to work, the only road I cannot enter is a place I am not allowed to work.” 

The war machine

How does a bike measure up to the cavalry? Scottish engineer James Watt coined the term ‘horsepower’ in the late 18th century, defining one horsepower as the daily output of a strong working horse. In reality, a horse sustains only about half that output over the course of a day. 

I wondered whether the rider ever feels limited by terrain, and what it must feel like to have such command of the road. 

“Surely you cannot climb rocks with it,” I said in Hausa, pointing at a hill we were riding past. “There is no place I cannot reach with this machine,” he repeated over the soft rush of wind. “Wannan karfe ne,” he continued. This is metal. 

His Hausa made the argument sound more emphatic.

“It is not like rubber-rubber,” he went on, referring to the flashier plastic-bodied motorcycles. “A bike like this,” he said, gesturing at his motorcycle, “is the most durable of them all. You don’t need to maintain it much, and it doesn’t consume as much fuel as most other brands. You can change the oil just once in a while if you like. It can go anywhere, enter almost anywhere, and its second-hand value is even better than rubber-rubber [brands].”

Abba went on and on about what makes a motorcycle valuable in everyday life, and in doing so, he laid out exactly what makes it valuable to a terrorist across the conflict zones of Nigeria.

Measured by sustained power output, a Honda CG125 delivers roughly the equivalent of about 16 working horses. By that measure, a single terrorist on a motorcycle is riding with the power of about 16 horses at a time. 

What we found

Over months of work, we built a database by measuring hundreds of military operations conducted over the past decade, logging every reported incident of motorcycle seizure and the count attached to it. Between February 2015 and November 2025, the Nigerian Army reportedly seized at least 2,607 motorcycles across 300 separate encounters. Taken together, this aggregated press data describes the logistical philosophy of the terror groups that the troops fight. 

The seizure records also reveal distinct phases. At various points, different armed groups appear to have dominated motorcycle use, and there were periods when almost every operation reported by the military involved recovering bikes. Yet the headline figure of 2,607 motorcycles over ten years tells only part of the story.

In the early years of military engagement in the insurgency, the totals were driven by a handful of major discoveries, followed by long runs of tens of operations, each yielding only a single vehicle. These recoveries were not sustained by patrol pressure; they came when a campaign stumbled on a cache. 

Over time, however, the army evolved its tactics. It pushed deeper into the terror enclaves in the forests, adopting specialised strategies, including the so-called strangulation strategy of the late 2010s, which was designed to starve the groups of the fuel and resources that kept their motorcycles running, and in many ways they set up the clearance operations that produced the few thousand vehicles in the record.

The earliest phase of this campaign against the motorcycle is unclear in the data. In late 2015 and 2016, at the peak of the Boko Haram insurgency, motorcycles were still being treated as secondary characters in the war. At the time, Boko Haram could field a 15-gun-truck convoy against a Forward Operating Base in Borno, sustain multi-wave assaults with machine guns and specialised Type-36 hand grenades in a single engagement, and then publish videos of the attack to showcase its strength and firepower.

Counterinsurgency reports from the period mention motorcycles only in passing. The focus was on weapons recovered, fighters neutralised, and territories retaken. But the bikes grew more prominent as larger caches began to appear in the record around 2017. Most seizure events still involved a single motorcycle, but occasionally the numbers jumped to a few or to a large cache, almost always the product of a one-off encounter or an ambush on a terrorist base. 

As the military expanded its operations deeper into the forest to dislodge the groups, recoveries increased, especially in the northeastern region. I designate this as the first of two eras of riders, as the aggregated data reveal the core role of motorcycles in the wars.

The era of riders

On Feb. 17, 2016, soldiers of the 7 Division Garrison, on a clearance mission, entered Gulumba in Bama Local Government Area in Borno State. They found what they described as a small city where they had expected a makeshift camp. Inside were medical supplies stored in a field hospital, a sizable market, two logistics trucks, a grinding machine, and an industrial 100KVA Mikano generator. The most important find, though, was the transport garage of 180 motorcycles and 750 bicycles. In a single operation, at least 930 potential combatants were denied transport that day.

The period between 2016 and 2017 belonged to Boko Haram’s riders. Operation Lafiya Dole, a counterinsurgency operation of the Nigerian government, alone accounts for 57 per cent of all seizures in the dataset, with 1,792 motorcycles across 96 records, almost all recovered during camp-clearance operations in Borno. That works out to an average of 19.7 motorcycles per recorded operation. 

Viewed over the full 2015–2025 period, the distribution of motorcycle seizures tells the story of two distinct conflicts. The first peaks in 2016; the second begins to emerge after 2022. 

The defining year is 2016. Alone, it accounts for almost half of all motorcycles recorded in the dataset: roughly 1,300 bikes recovered across just 86 records, an average of 17 per record, far above any other year. This was the peak of Operation Lafiya Dole’s deepest push into Boko Haram’s territorial strongholds in Borno, where large-scale camp clearances dismantled the insurgency’s mobile logistics in bulk. 

The pattern continued into 2017. Although the database contains only 10 records for that year, it accounts for 331 bikes, carried almost entirely by a single cache of 301 bikes recovered at Njibulwa, an insurgent enclave in Borno State.

After that, the numbers collapsed. Between 2018 and 2022, annual recoveries averaged just 49 motorcycles. 

The second era of riders

Then there was another uptick in 2023, but it is a different case from 2016. This time, the centre of gravity shifted westwards. Kaduna led the increase, accounting for 88 recovered motorcycles, mostly linked in military reports to “terrorists”. The change reflected the growing prominence of motorcycle-riding armed groups in north-western Nigeria from around 2020 onwards.

Unlike the Boko Haram years, recoveries were no longer dominated by massive camp clearances. Instead, the database settles into a consistent pattern of around five to eight motorcycles per record, with a steady climb. The groups they were recovered from were labelled by the security forces as “bandits”, not Boko Haram. 

After 2022, the number of seizure records rose sharply, even as the number of motorcycles recovered in each operation remained relatively low. Instead of discovering large transport depots, security forces were finding motorcycles in small clusters during repeated engagements. Operation Shaaran Daji became the leading source of recoveries in the northwestern region, signalling that the motorcycle had become embedded not in large insurgent camps but in dispersed, highly mobile armed networks. 

The informal motorcycle networks through the Sahel

There are dirt roads in the desert that cross international borders and run through the Sahel’s sands, following routes that have connected communities for centuries. Many trace the arteries of the trans-Saharan trade, linking illicit hubs of smuggling and trafficking through networks first established hundreds of years ago. These pathways did not disappear as modern states emerged across the Sahel. Instead, they evolved alongside them. Most still exist today, at least as part of a broader web of formal and informal routes connecting contemporary roads to historical trading corridors that continue to facilitate cross-border movement.

Consider the recent ruins of Metele, which is comparatively recent than the historical networks, a Borno town brought down to rubble by the Boko Haram insurgency and abandoned for years, and crumbling into building blocks. After a decade of silence, the one thing that has only grown more visible is the roads, and in particular the ones made by motorcycle tracks. These have deepened with continued use, suggesting activities likely by insurgents operating in the area. 

Metele and hundreds of villages in northern Borno around it have been abandoned, leaving only insurgent camps and military bases that occasionally clash in the parts where these routes link them. Yet the old roads have only grown deeper, and new paths have opened across the empty ground, as seen in the satellite imagery below.

Let’s follow the Metele tracks eastward and see where it leads. It runs for about eight kilometres of the bike route, crossing onto the shore of an island in Lake Chad, and continuing from there across the flat terrain of the island, with many sub-tracks splitting off toward different corners, while the main track presses on east, along the shore and onto a much larger island with road networks also branching off on every side and onto other islands. We stop here because this island matters for a particular reason. Among its thousands of tracks sits a largely isolated compound in the island’s north.

In May 2026, US forces, working with Nigerian Army intelligence, carried out an airstrike on that compound and killed a senior ISWAP commander, Abu Bilal Al-Minuki. The site was geolocated using video of the strike released by United States Africa Command (AFRICOM). 

Al-Minuki served as a liaison between ISWAP’s various commands across the Lake Chad Basin and the wider Islamic State organisation. Different factions of the group operate on multiple fronts, with administrative functions carried out in locations such as this island. Senior commanders often gathered in secluded places like these, whether in forest compounds in Sambisa or in camps scattered across the islands of Lake Chad.

When fighters enter Nigeria, they may arrive by boat from neighbouring islands, or blend in with ordinary travellers using the road network. Once inside the theatre of conflict, however, the motorcycle becomes the preferred means of movement. It allows commanders to visit training camps, inspect fighters on different fronts, and travel rapidly between operational bases.

These tracks travel far and wide, meeting at certain points across the Sahel. They run north into Lake Chad, or northwest toward the Niger Republic. Cross-border routes make neighbouring communities, places like Diffa in Niger, feel as close as the other side of the street. The motorcycle gives its riders command at border crossings, and they hardly worry about checkpoints on official roads unless they intend to attack the location and run into state forces on either side. 

Here, the border itself counts for far less. This indistinguishable, landlocked frontier has been reshaped by centuries of informal movement, by daily life that transcends the very idea of nationality. These places have long borne the brunt of regional security forces unable to fully command the area, and in a geography this vast, with so many options and pathways, smuggling and trafficking are barely a challenge.

The network of informal motorcycle routes is still more intricate. Some lead into the ruins of the hundreds of villages, like Metele, abandoned across the area. The ruins of Metele is within 50 kilometres of the nearest fringe of communities where people still live. The tracks also connect to minor and major roads leading to inhabited areas, giving the motorcycles access for incursions. 

Eventually, these routes connect to every community in the region. Across the flatlands of Metele and Lake Chad through the desert of the border country, the motorcycle is highly effective, and this is why it is such a powerful weapon in the typical insurgent arsenal, despite the secondary attention it tends to receive next to the AK-47s and rocket launchers recovered alongside it in a raid.

The forest route 

You will rarely hear about motorcycle–riding terrorists being caught at a military checkpoint, on their way to an operation or simply travelling. For anyone who knows the terrain, there is often no need to cross a major road on most journeys in the region. 

The forests of Sambisa, Kyumbana, Mando, and the Mandara Mountains welcome the tyres of the war machine. HumAngle has previously reported on fighters travelling, moving, even migrating to another state through the interconnected, ungoverned forest reserves of the region, which give them multi-state reach and the ability to turn up in almost any part of the country.

Once through the forests and the mountain wilderness of the northeastern region, riders reach the other end of the country, though not necessarily in one go. They drop down now and then onto the main road, sometimes to refuel; there are reports of the military intercepting them and warning filling stations not to serve them. They settle for a while in certain towns, or in camps near towns, using the towns as supply bases before picking up the trail back into the wilderness and on toward their destination. 

The machines are useful throughout the journey, should they wish to travel from the northeast to the northwest. In 2022, HumAngle reported how fighters from the forests of the northwestern region, such as the Birnin Gwari and Kamuku forests, often travel through towns, stopping at communities where they are repeatedly reported to assault local residents, particularly women, often sexually, before continuing toward an operation elsewhere. The very sight of them on their bikes has already terrified those communities into compliance with whatever they demand. It has become a kind of tradition in Kaduna, in Niger, and even in Kwara State when these riders come into town.

From this end, too, groups like the Lakurawa have been reported riding into Nigeria. Locals often describe them as Arab-looking non-Nigerians entering through the porous borders in the northwest, and a similar pattern is evident along the Lake Chad Basin on the other side of the north. Recent reporting has confirmed the group as a faction of the Islamic State operating in West Africa, and in Nigeria in particular. 

They move through the Sahara along a network of ancient routes and illicit hubs where trafficking and underground resources are available to anyone on the road. This underworld of hubs and crossings is what lets riders pass between countries.

The Sahel underworld

When the collapse of Muammar Gaddafi’s regime released Libya’s vast weapons stockpiles into the region, it was this same illicit Sahelian underworld that carried many of those weapons into West Africa, including Nigeria.

Before he was killed, the terrorist kingpin Halilu Sububu was reported to ride with his gang across this terrain, loaded with gold sourced from the artisanal mining pits they controlled, and to return to Nigeria with weapons traded for that gold. Those weapons became the lifeblood of banditry in the country’s northwestern region and made Sububu the chief arms supplier to the various groups there. 

His advantage was not simply access to weapons, but access to the routes. He reportedly knew how to travel to the Sahel and return with arms without significant interference. His command of the motorcycle corridors enabled his network to move across borders with relative ease. The same routes connected him to weapons originating from the post-2011 Libyan arms outflow, and even allowed combat vehicles acquired by his organisation to be delivered through the network.

Critical transit and logistics networks span multiple border regions across the Sahel and West Africa, including the Burkina Faso–Côte d’Ivoire border, the Côte d’Ivoire–Mali–Burkina Faso tri-border area, and the Ghana–Burkina Faso frontier, where Hamile, Tumu, and Bawku serve as key crossing points. Further north, Ansongo in Mali, Arlit and Agadez in Niger, and numerous settlements across the Mali–Niger–Burkina Faso tri-border region function as centres for acquiring, consolidating, and redistributing illicit resources.

Perhaps the most famous network that leads into northern Nigeria is the one from Libya. It crosses through illicit hubs and artisanal mining sites, most of which are controlled by armed groups. The network of arms smuggling runs from Libya, usually from the desert oasis of Sabha; the journey flows through Fazzan in southern Libya and crosses the infamous Salvador Pass into the Republic of Niger, where illicit hubs and mining networks link to Sokoto, Borno and Zamfara states, connecting through Niger Republic routes from Agadez, Maradi, Tahoua, following ancient trade routes that continue to shape movement today.

These hubs share a profile of remote geography, thin state presence, weak governance, and established illicit trade networks that move goods and people across borders.

Motorcycles rule in this terrain.

Of middlemen and motorcycle bans 

We met another middleman, Abu Dogara*. Unlike Ciroma, he was not interested in sharing his experience, as his job still leaves a bad taste in his mouth. He answered mostly with short replies, with the occasional long clarification about the details of his involvement in the motorcycle ransom economy. 

Earlier, we talked about the middlemen: the mostly anonymous intermediaries who know how to secure the motorcycle for victims’ families when all other options are lost. Abu was a middleman, at least until terrorists abducted his sister-in-law. He wanted me to understand that the last time he was on the job, he had not dealt with the terrorists himself. They had taken his younger brother’s wife, so it was his brother who spoke to them. He had played the same role as always, travelling to buy the motorcycles.

As awareness of the terrorists’ reliance on motorcycles has grown, buying one anywhere near the axis has become increasingly difficult. Most of the people we spoke to about sourcing a ransom vehicle named far-off places like Kano, Kebbi, and even Lagos. This is part of what has driven the rise of the anonymous middleman, sometimes known to the kidnappers, and sometimes hired by the victim’s family. 

Abu travelled to Sokoto to buy the bikes. He searched and found nothing. An issue he hadn’t faced before. But finally, he met a vendor with a single one in stock, a Honda, exactly the kind the kidnappers wanted. The vendor let him have his last one, but warned that they were getting harder and harder to find in the area.

Across northern Nigeria, state governments have introduced strict motorcycle bans and usage restrictions to counter-terrorism and “banditry”. Niger State went so far as to ban motorcycle sales outright, specifically targeting high-capacity models such as Hondas, which are frequently demanded as ransom. Elsewhere, the measures range from outright commercial bans to localised movement restrictions, all intended to disrupt terrorist logistics. Katsina and Zamfara states have also introduced night-time curfews and complete movement bans in forested areas.

Abu does not like to dwell on the last job. He remembers only that the motorcycle cost more than ₦2 million, and that finding it was painfully difficult. At one point, he even asked his brother to persuade the kidnappers to accept cash instead. They refused. In the end, the Honda he bought in Sokoto secured his sister-in-law’s freedom. 

In Kano and Kebbi, the approach moved away from banning sales altogether, focusing instead on restricting how the bikes can be ridden to stop criminals from using them for quick getaways and remote logistics. Many sources we spoke with named Kano, Kebbi (Zuru), and Sokoto as sources for the machines, with Kano and Kebbi most consistently described as the last resort.

The machine they cannot beat 

To replace the motorcycles seized by the troops, terrorist groups tax the very communities near where those seizures take place. In one incident, terrorists taxed a community that had narrowly escaped a planned terror attack, saved only because soldiers happened to be in the village at the time. In another, one kingpin abducted a district head and party chieftain in a village in Zamfara, saying that his confiscated motorcycles were the reason for his actions, and he must be compensated.  

The military, meanwhile, has continued its effort to take this logistics core out of play. Beyond the strangulation strategy and the more than 2,600 confiscated motorcycles, different state security forces have also made a show of their counter-insurgency, such as setting whole sets of captured bikes ablaze to send a message, and recording large-scale successes in neutralising entire gangs and seizing hundreds of machines at a time. The groups have only pushed back harder, embedding motorcycles into ransom negotiations to secure both the financing and the means to replace whatever war machines they lose.

Across much of Nigeria’s North, attacks launched from the back of a motorcycle are becoming more common. The country is still dealing with motorcycle-facilitated crises at both extremes. It is the one insurgent tactic the Nigerian security forces have not been able to beat. Not with trenches on the battle fronts of the northeastern region, nor in the communities across the country where these raids have become a regular part of recent reporting.

The Nigerian Army has itself adopted motorcycles for parts of the same war. Boko Haram deserters recruited to support counterinsurgency operations ride ahead of advancing troops on motorcycles, scouting for ambushes, improvised explosive devices, and landmines. The machine has become indispensable to both sides.

For many survivors, the sound of a motorcycle engine will always bring up the worst of their memories.

The names of the middlemen have been changed to protect their identities.

Joy Oga, a pregnant woman in her second trimester, was harvesting yams on her farm in Kwanta/Dooshima area when armed men attacked. The 31-year-old farmer had gone out with three others from her community on June 16 to harvest the farm she had been unable to reach since her village was invaded in September 2025. She never finished the harvest. 

“I went to the farm to pack yams when I was attacked,” Joy told HumAngle. 

Joy had farmed in her village in Chanchanji, Takum Local Government Area, in Taraba State, northeastern Nigeria, for five years, and farming is her only means of livelihood. After enduring months of hardship in a displacement camp in Chanchanji town, she was eager to resume farming as soon as she and other residents were asked to return home. On the day of the recent attack, she was there to also clear the land for a new planting season. 

Joy said the attackers, whom she claimed were herders, confronted her and the other people that were with her, and immediately started hacking them with the machete. She ran back to the community with a cut on her face, wrist, and legs.  

The attack came barely two months after a peace deal was struck between the Fulani and Tiv communities of southern Taraba, and has raised questions about the restoration of peace and the fate of residents who rely on farming for survival in the area. 

In April, a peace dialogue organised by the Taraba State government, northeastern Nigeria, brought together leaders of the Fulani and Tiv ethnic groups to put an end to the series of clashes that claimed lives and properties in communities within southern Taraba. The Fulani in the area are predominantly nomadic herders, while the Tiv are mostly farmers. During the dialogue in Jalingo, the state capital, both parties agreed never to raise arms against one another. 

The government also instructed displaced residents across the affected areas to return home. Weeks later, some residents began to exit the displacement camps in Chanchanji and Amadu for their hometowns after months of facing terror attacks, mass displacement, and food shortages. Three committees were set up by the government to manage the displaced persons’ return, inter-boundary and migration control, and boundary assessment and settlement. 

A multitude of motives

Southern Taraba has witnessed recurring violence involving farming and pastoralist communities for more than two decades. The area comprises five Local Government Areas (LGAs): Donga, Ibi, Takum, Ussa, and Wukari. Researchers say the conflict is driven by a complex mix of competition over land and water, population growth, the proliferation of small arms, weak law enforcement, and criminality. While these clashes are often described as “farmer-herder conflicts”, several studies caution that they increasingly involve organised armed groups whose activities go beyond disputes over grazing routes. Indigenous Tiv communities in Taraba and neighbouring Benue State also say the attacks are a strategic move to take over their lands and resources. 

A security expert, who has also worked as a police officer in the area, told HumAngle that the crisis goes beyond ethnicity. “This is terrorism, because the attackers come into town, destroy property, and run back. They do not have a settlement around that area, and whenever they come to Chanchanji, it does not only affect one tribe — it affects other tribes living in Chanchanji too,” the source, who pleaded anonymity, noted. 

He argued that terrorists are exploiting the unresolved ethnic clash between both parties to infiltrate the area, particularly in ungoverned spaces, adding that if it were purely an ethnic conflict, only the Tiv and Fulani would be affected; since every tribe in the area suffers during the attacks, he believes it is more accurate to describe the situation as terrorism.

Other claims about the motive of the attacks have been circulating; one of them originated from the deceased leader of a criminal gang that operated along the border between Benue and Taraba. Before his death in the hands of the Nigerian Military in September 2020, Terwase Akwaza, known popularly as Gana, a notorious criminal gang leader in Benue, claimed during an interview that armed groups posing as herders had approached him and asked him to carry out attacks in “about three states they want to [capture], being Plateau, Taraba, and Benue.” Joy, like many other residents, believes that the attacks were carried out by these armed groups.

After Gana’s death, his allies fractured into rival factions, with the most prominent ones being led by Fullfire and Chen. Despite attempts by community leaders urging these groups to cease fire, they have continued to operate violently in the region.

On the allegations from both parties about the hiring of militias, the security expert acknowledged that “in an environment where there is crisis, there are people who try to bring up some things to justify their actions”, adding that parties might exaggerate casualties or incidents.

A blow on both sides?

Benjamin Kwazza, who also survived the June 16 attack, told HumAngle that the attackers were tactical, targeting their heads and necks with the intention of causing instant death. “They pursued us, and along the line when they got us, they started to cut my neck,” he said, adding that he sustained a deep neck wound. 

When Joy, Benjamin, and the others returned to the village, residents organised a search party, but the attackers had already fled. 

The following day, June 17, two other farmers were attacked on their farmland in the same community. While the other farmer managed to escape untouched, Terkura Mathew was brutalised and left in his pool of blood. Locals found him and brought him back to the village. His condition remains critical. 

HumAngle reviewed videos and photographs of the June attacks, which showed visible wounds sustained by survivors, including deep cuts and injuries consistent with machete assaults. 

Bello Mbela, the Taraba State chairperson of Tabital Pulaaku International, an organisation that serves as a unified voice for Fulani communities across the continent, explained that the southern Taraba crisis is a blow to both sides. Tabital Pulaaku represented the Fulani community during the signing of the peace deal in Jalingo. 

According to him, Fulani people who live around Southern Taraba communities like Kofai Amadu, Tor Damisa, Kurmi and other areas are always caught up in the violence, which has led to loss of lives, cattle, and properties, with many who are currently displaced.  

Bello said the most recent incident occurred in February. “In Kofai Amadu under Takum Local Government Area (LGA), several women and children. The children were grazing when they were attacked, and their necks were snapped,” he stated. 

The Tabital Pulaaku leader also stressed that the herder communities in the region were set ablaze by aggrieved locals multiple times. “Also, around Kurmi LGA, there were rape cases. When a young woman sets out, she’s captured, threatened with a knife and raped.  Especially those who go to hawk Fura da Nono,” Bello claimed. 

Although he did not provide visual evidence of the alleged violence, he said attacks against herders and their families often go unreported and undocumented. “We do not record their deaths. We bury them instantly and keep moving. Most of the deaths are common among the elderly, disabled, pregnant women, and children,” he told HumAngle. 

Bello added that the affected herder communities are afraid of seeking shelter in temporary displacement camps in the towns due to fear of being profiled. Hence, they retreat farther into the bush for safety when their homes are razed. “Some of them come to Jalingo where they are sheltered by the Muslim council,” he said. 

Similarly, farming communities report a similar pattern of targeted abuse. Uzaki Peter, a local leader in Bachula, a community in southern Taraba that was displaced by attacks, told HumAngle that farmers have been experiencing a series of fresh attacks since they resumed farming in June. According to him, locals were adamant about returning home despite the hardships in the camp, but the peace meeting in April gave many hope. 

HumAngle learnt that locals and herders lived together in the region for years until clashes started recurring in 2025. “We always meet with the herders. They were telling us there is no problem. We should invite our people to come back. So, we started feeling like there was a solution, so our people started going back,” he said. However, Bachula is currently experiencing the same pattern of attack that occurred last year, according to Uzaki. “They will come and attack you. If you have a phone, they will collect it, and if you have money, they will collect it. They were sleeping with our women who were going to the farm,” the community leader said. 

Despite the peace dialogue 

Bello, who was present during the peace dialogue, told HumAngle that both parties have been trying to abide by their agreement that no party must attack the order. However, new cases are coming up. “In May, two women went to the Chanchanji area and did not return. They were killed.”

He explained that the incident sparked outrage and nearly led to fresh clashes. Since there was a peace dialogue, the issue was reported to the police station, and an investigation began. To date, none of the perpetrators has been caught. 

“If someone goes to the bush to graze alone, he does not return,” Bello gave another instance, stating that they are probably killed because such incidents took place in the past. 

When HumAngle reached out to James Lashen, the Taraba State Police Command’s Public Relations Officer, regarding the recent attacks in the region, he said that Kwanta/Dooshima and other areas in Chanchanji that are constantly under attack fall under “ungoverned spaces”.

“Taraba is the third largest in landmass in this country after Borno and Niger,” he stated, explaining that the landmass affects security response and patrol. “But for now, Chanchanji, Amadu and other areas, there is peace. There is a sustained patrol. We would like to embark on a convoy patrol due to the length of the road. You know, from Takum to Wukari, it is a long distance. And that is where they normally perpetrate. But for now, we have already taken charge of that area. For now, no incidents are taking place there,” he asserted. 

When asked about the recent incidents in the area, despite his assurance of peace, Lashen said it is quite common during the farming season and that it is the responsibility of the Divisional Police Officers to report to the command. However, he noted that he had yet to receive a report of the incident in Kwanta/Doorshima or Bachula at the time of our communication. 

The PPRO stressed that the Taraba State Police Command has ensured displaced communities returned home. “Everybody has been back. Policemen are stationed there. We have posted tactical teams there in that area. Everybody has gone back to his house,” the officer said. 

However, some residents disagree. Uko Moses, a farmer and resident of Peva, another affected area in the region, told HumAngle that the Peva community remains deserted to date, and locals are still in displacement camps in Amadu and Chanchanji town due to recurring attacks and unresolved tension. He also noted that areas such as New Gboko, Demavaa, and other southern Taraba communities remained abandoned. 

“Those who try to access their farmlands are being hurt on a daily basis,” Moses said. 

According to him, food, clothing, and healthcare are the basic challenges faced by displaced people still in camps due to fear of returning home. Also, children have been out of school for over nine months. “We depend on the government, humanitarian organisations, and philanthropists. The insecurity has made us become beggars,” he stated. 

To cushion the suffering of displaced persons in the displacement camps, HumAngle learned that Kefas Agbu, the Taraba State Governor, donated bags of rice and other relief items across the camps in March. Also, Benue State Governor Hyacinth Alia visited the displaced and assured those living along the Benue border that they would soon be able to return home.  

“His words were full of hope. According to him, it will not take long for the people to return to their communities and continue with their daily business.” Moses spoke of the Benue State Governor’s promise.

However, locals remained in the displacement camps, and despite the hardship, Moses said they prefer to stay in the camps rather than come home where their safety is not guaranteed. 

“The security architecture there is very poor. In some of the villages, there are no checkpoints close by or police stations built there,” he said. 

Uzaki, the Bachula caretaker, echoes Moses’s security concerns in the area. “Yesterday [June 16], I reported a case of three people. They were admitted to the hospital, and the day before yesterday [June 15], I reported a case involving two people. They are also here. And today [June 17] two have been brought out that have been matcheted,” he said. 

Lashen, the police spokesperson, said officers in the region cannot be everywhere. “So that is why we always engage with the stakeholders within the community to talk to their people. Because the police cannot be everywhere. Because of this landmass,” he said. 

Herder communities are also grappling with another crisis. According to the Tabital Pulaaku leader, herders are often segregated in local healthcare facilities when it comes to receiving treatment for injuries sustained during clashes. “Some of them are even arrested on the spot. This has made some of them stop accessing healthcare centres and rely on home treatment, which leaves them dead,” he said. 

What now?

During a summit in 2025, the Federal government described Taraba state as “a cornerstone of Nigeria’s agricultural and industrial future”, owing to its agricultural potential. The state was also hailed as a major producer of export-grade tea, coffee, and livestock for the meat industry.

A recent study by socio-political science researchers in the country’s northeastern region found that the majority of the population in IDPs camps and those killed, injured and displaced due to the conflict are farmers. While the rate of the clashes is said to be high, the impact on food insecurity in the region is also high due to the magnitude of the attacks on farming communities. 

Felix Ashe, a farmer from Chanchanji, told HumAngle that the most recent attacks in the area occurred on farmland, prompting locals to abandon their farms. He says hunger now shapes the lives of many who usually depend on farming for survival. 

“We planted yams, groundnuts, benniseed and so on. The yam that was planted last year was not able to be harvested, and those who tried to harvest them are being attacked,” he said. 

In the Peva and Amadu communities, which are known as agrarian areas, Moses said locals are facing food scarcity. “Seriously, we are living at the mercy of God, because predominantly, we are farmers and we started receiving these unprovoked attacks since last September, and till today, we are still receiving attacks. We don’t have access to farms, and farm produce has been destroyed. We are facing the challenge of hunger,” Moses said. 

If the attacks persist, local farmers in the region say they fear for their future. 

“The most important thing we need now is peace. That is the restoration of peace in the area. If we’re able to get peace, everything will come back gradually,” Moses said. 

While peace efforts are being made, the Tabithal Pulaaku leader said most of the herders around the affected Southern Taraba communities are still displaced, while some remain missing. Through stakeholder engagements and awareness-raising campaigns, Bello said leaders of the Fulani community are sensitising locals to shun violence and embrace peace to resolve the crisis. 

To permanently break the cycle, the security expert calls on the government to move beyond temporary peace declarations and to continue engaging local leaders and stakeholders from both ethnic groups, formally entrusting them with responsibility for maintaining peace among their people. He strongly advocates for the establishment of modern ranches and clearly designated grazing routes for herding communities. 

“They don’t have a route to follow with their cattle, so they follow people’s farmlands, and that causes a lot of issues. There should be a dedicated path for them,” he said. “The herders should maintain their particular axis and also, people should be notified not to go there and farm.”

He also emphasised the need for a visible security presence in those areas and for constant patrols. “The security agencies should be well equipped and motivated to be very active at work,” the expert added.

South Africa’s government has been accused of not doing enough to crack down on xenophobic attacks.

The safety of African immigrants in South Africa is deteriorating, Nigeria’s foreign minister has warned, after two Nigerians were killed in disputed circumstances during anti-immigrant protests.

“There are no signs that the situation is improving,” Bianca Odumegwu-Ojukwu said on Monday, while announcing more evacuation flights.

The minister demanded South African authorities investigate the deaths of two Nigerians, Musa Yunana Joe and Charles Iroegbu, killed amid “the ongoing xenophobic protests and attacks on migrants”.

South African police said Joe’s killing did not appear to be related to the protests, but could not immediately comment on Iroegbu’s death.

Nigeria’s foreign ministry says Joe was killed in front of his shop in the northeastern city of ⁠⁠eMalahleni by unidentified criminals on June 28 , while Iroegbu was killed by South African police during interrogation in Pretoria on the same day.

In a statement on Sunday, the ministry said: “We wish to place the Government of South Africa on ‌‌notice that if the situation continues to persist, all options remain on the table, some of which will be activated if the uncultured and provocative trend of intolerance… against foreigners is not addressed”.

South African foreign ministry spokesman Chrispin Phiri said the government had asked Nigeria’s High Commission to submit “any actionable information to our law enforcement authorities, which will enable a thorough, objective investigation in accordance with the rule of law”.

Weeks of anti-immigrant marches

There have been weeks of protests against undocumented migrants, with many South Africans blaming workers from other African countries for taking their jobs and putting a strain on their social services.

South Africa’s government has been accused of not doing enough to crack down on the violence, which has claimed the lives of several foreigners and seen shops owned by immigrants looted and torched.

Mozambique said that five of its citizens were killed in xenophobic attacks in late May. South Africa ⁠⁠said the number was only two.

Ghana and South Africa were embroiled in a diplomatic row last week, following the killing of a Ghanaian national. The South African government said the death of Bashiru Isak was not linked to anti-immigrant protests.

Hundreds of Nigerians, among tens of thousands of foreigners, have already left South Africa, once a popular destination for documented and undocumented African immigrants due to its relatively strong economy.

Uganda’s High Commission in Pretoria announced on Monday that a fourth group of Ugandan nationals were voluntarily repatriating.

South Africa has had a longstanding violent crime problem that precedes the outbreak of xenophobic violence.

On a hot Tuesday afternoon in Yola, Adamawa State, in northeastern Nigeria, 32-year-old Fidelis Mbai walked to a point-of-sale (POS) stand to withdraw ₦35,000. The POS operator, Abu Sani, collected his Automated Teller Machine (ATM) card and inserted it into a POS terminal. Fidelis entered his Personal Identification Number (PIN). Within seconds, he received a debit alert. The money had left Fidelis’ account, but Abu’s terminal showed that the transaction had not been completed successfully.

The two men stared at their screens. One had seen ₦35,000 withdrawn from his account; the other had received nothing. For nearly 30 minutes, they kept refreshing their mobile bank apps. “I was angry because the money had left my account immediately,” Fidelis said. “As far as I was concerned, the transaction was successful.”

Abu understood the frustration, but he had a problem of his own. “The customer was debited, but I didn’t receive the money,” he said. “If I gave him cash and the transaction eventually failed completely, the loss would be mine.”

Eventually, Fidelis left without cash. His money would later be reversed. But for several hours, ₦35,000 simply disappeared into Nigeria’s digital payment infrastructure. 

This experience has become familiar to many Nigerian residents. As digital payments increasingly replace cash, it is ordinary citizens, not institutions, who bear the cost of failed transactions. The consequences often extend beyond the value of the failed transaction itself. Delayed payments can prevent traders from restocking goods, force customers to borrow money while waiting for reversals, disrupt access to healthcare, transport, or other essential services, and erode trust in digital financial systems. For small businesses and low-income households that depend on immediate access to funds, even a short delay can translate into lost income, missed opportunities, and significant financial stress.

Nigeria’s digital payment revolution

Nigeria’s digital payment ecosystem has expanded rapidly over the past decade. According to data from the Nigeria Inter-Bank Settlement System (NIBSS) – which operates the core infrastructure that processes and settles electronic payments and fund transfers between banks, discount houses, and card companies in Nigeria, and is jointly owned by the Central Bank of Nigeria and all licensed banks – the value of instant digital payments reached ₦1.07 quadrillion in 2024, up from ₦600.36 trillion in 2023. The data also showed that Nigerians conducted 1.38 billion POS transactions worth ₦18.32 trillion during the same period. 

These numbers reflect one of the most successful examples of digital public infrastructure (DPI) in Africa. At its core, DPI refers to the digital rails that allow citizens to identify themselves, make payments, and access services. In Nigeria, these rails include bank transfer systems, mobile money platforms, POS networks, identity systems such as BVN and NIN, and shared payment infrastructure.

Together, these systems enable millions of transactions every day. For most users, the process appears simple: send money, receive money, and move on. But when something goes wrong, the burden often shifts away from the infrastructure and onto the people who rely on it.

While there is no official national estimate of the total amount Nigerians lose annually to failed digital payment transactions, the scale is substantial. During the 2023 cashless transition, industry reports indicated that as many as 40 per cent of failed e-payment complaints remained unresolved for extended periods, with affected transactions running into millions of naira. 

Given that Nigerians processed over ₦1.07 quadrillion in instant payments in 2024 alone, experts say that even a failure rate of less than one per cent could leave billions of naira temporarily trapped in failed, delayed, or disputed transactions each year.

The last mile bankers of Nigeria

Every morning, Abu begins work with a few simple calculations. How much cash does he have? How much electronic value is in his account? And how much of that money is trapped in pending transactions?

“Almost every week, we experience failed transactions,” he said. “Sometimes two or three times. During network problems, it can happen many times in one day.”

Officially, Abu’s role is to provide financial services. Unofficially, he has become something else: a lender, a mediator, and a shock absorber. He is one of an estimated 1,600 POS operators per square kilometre in Nigeria, according to the International Monetary Fund (IMF). As banks have reduced their physical footprint in some communities, these agents have become the last-mile providers of financial services, connecting millions of Nigerian residents to the formal financial system.

One afternoon, a regular customer named Musa Ibrahim arrived to withdraw ₦50,000. The debit alert arrived immediately, but Abu’s account was not credited. Musa needed the money urgently for a hospital bill, and Abu had to choose between trusting the system and trusting the customer. “I knew him very well,” Abu said. “So I gave him the money from my own cash.”

The confirmation took two days to arrive. For 48 hours, Abu had effectively given Musa an interest-free loan. Nobody paid him for the risk. Nobody compensated him for the anxiety. Yet this informal lending happens every day across Nigeria. Thousands of POS operators use their own money to bridge gaps created by delayed transactions. 

At Jimeta Modern Market in Yola, 38-year-old Aisha Mohammed sells food items. More than half of her customers now pay by bank transfer. Like many traders, she has adapted to Nigeria’s cash-light economy, but that adaptation comes at a cost. Several months ago, a customer purchased a bag of rice worth ₦80,000. He presented a transfer receipt. The money did not arrive. 

“The customer looked genuine,” Aisha said. “He showed me everything on his phone.”

She released the goods. The payment did not arrive until the following day. That night, she barely slept. “You start asking yourself whether you have been scammed,” she said.

Delayed transactions create a dilemma for traders like Aisha. If they reject digital payments, they risk losing customers; if they accept them, they risk losing money. Many solve the problem through selective trust. “If I know the customer, I may release the goods,” she explained. “If I don’t know them, I wait until I see the money myself.”

This has created a parallel trust economy operating beneath Nigeria’s digital economy. In theory, transactions are guaranteed by technology; in practice, they are often guaranteed by relationships.

Dr Ibrahim Sule, a financial inclusion expert at the Adamawa State Ministry of Finance described it as a hidden feature of Nigeria’s digital economy. “It shows that people are finding ways to compensate for weaknesses in the system. Personal trust often fills the gaps where technology falls short,” he said. 

Borrowing money while waiting 

For Ibrahim Yusuf, a resident of Damilu, a community in Jimeta, the consequences were far more serious. In October 2025, he transferred ₦43,000 to a shop owner as payment for foodstuffs he had purchased. The money left his account instantly, but the shop owner never received it.

One day passed, then two, three, four, five, and six. During that period, Ibrahim had no extra money with him. “The money was meant for foodstuffs, but I couldn’t leave the market with what I bought because the shop owner didn’t receive an alert,” Ibrahim said.

By the third day, Ibrahim borrowed ₦20,000 from a friend. The irony was difficult to ignore. His own money existed somewhere inside the banking system, yet he needed someone else’s money to survive. “It wasn’t even the financial loss that hurt the most,” he said. “It was the uncertainty. Nobody could tell me exactly where the money was.”

His experience illustrates a hidden cost rarely captured in transaction statistics. When payments fail, people do not simply lose access to money. They lose opportunities, business deals collapse, and relationships become strained.

The financial system eventually restores the funds. But it rarely restores the time, trust, or opportunities lost along the way.

How the money moves

While a bank transfer feels like a simple process for customers, financial experts say that transactions often travel through multiple systems. According to Hakeem Abdulkareem, a tech expert at NIBSS, “When you initiate a transfer on your bank app or through your bank, your bank first authenticates the transaction and verifies the beneficiary’s account details. The payment instruction is then routed through the NIBSS Instant Payment (NIP) platform to the receiving bank, which validates the request before crediting the beneficiary’s account. For the transfer to succeed, each of these systems – the sending institution, the NIP switch, and the receiving institution – must exchange information correctly and in real time,” he explained. “Each stage must communicate properly for the transaction to be completed.”

Any disruption along that chain can create problems. Not every failed transfer originates from NIBSS. Payment experts note that delays can occur at the sending bank, the receiving bank, a fintech platform, telecommunications networks, or the central payment switch. One way to determine where a transaction stalled is through the unique ‘Session ID’ generated for every transfer, which allows institutions to trace the payment through the system.

“Delays often occur when there are network issues, system outages, or communication problems between institutions involved in the transaction,” Hakeem added, noting that NIBSS continues to work with banks and fintech companies to improve transaction monitoring, automate reconciliation processes, and strengthen the resilience of the NIBSS Instant Payment (NIP) platform as transaction volumes continue to grow.

In the first quarter of 2025, electronic payment transactions reached ₦284.99 trillion, a 17.7 percent increase from ₦234.49 trillion recorded during the same period in 2024. POS transactions alone rose to ₦10.45 trillion during the same period, more than double the ₦3.62 trillion recorded in the first quarter of 2024. 

While these figures highlight growth, Hakeem noted that “as transaction volumes increase, maintaining system efficiency becomes even more important.” 

The institutions behind Nigeria’s digital payment system agree on one point: public confidence depends on reliability. As transaction volumes continue to grow, banks, fintech companies, and regulators say they are investing in infrastructure, monitoring systems, and consumer protection to reduce delays and strengthen trust.

Adi Dansanda, Customer Protection Officer at the Central Bank of Nigeria, Yola branch, told HumAngle that “Consumer confidence is critical to the success of Nigeria’s digital payment ecosystem. We continue to work with financial institutions and payment service providers to strengthen compliance, improve service quality, and ensure that customer complaints are resolved within established timelines.”

Despite these commitments, the experiences of everyday Nigerian residents suggest that the gap between policy and practice remains significant. For them, confidence is built every time a transfer arrives on time, every time a complaint is resolved quickly, and every time money moves when it is needed most.

Lessons from elsewhere

Building a reliable real-time payment system is not unique to Nigeria. Countries with some of the world’s most advanced digital payment platforms have also experienced outages and technical failures as transaction volumes increased.

In India, the Unified Payments Interface (UPI), which processes more than 18 billion transactions each month, experienced several nationwide outages in 2025. An investigation by the National Payments Corporation of India (NPCI) traced one of the largest disruptions to excessive transaction-status requests from participating banks that overwhelmed the system. In response, the regulator tightened technical protocols, limited repeated status checks, and strengthened monitoring to reduce the risk of similar failures.

Brazil’s Pix platform has also experienced periodic service disruptions linked to participating financial institutions and network issues. Rather than eliminating failures entirely, authorities have continued to improve interoperability, operational resilience, and incident response as usage has expanded.

Nigeria has already built one of Africa’s largest real-time payment systems through the NIBSS Instant Payment platform. Experts who spoke to HumAngle say the lesson from other countries is not that payment systems can avoid failures altogether, but that maintaining public trust depends on continuously strengthening infrastructure, improving coordination among participants, and responding quickly and transparently to disruptions.

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

The Benin Bronzes are a broad term used for the carved ivory, wooden works, metal sculptures and plaques looted by British troops during the Punitive Expedition in 1897.

Scholars estimate that more than 5,000 artefacts were stolen, some of which were gifted to Queen Victoria, others sold in auctions, held in private galleries or donated to museums across Europe and elsewhere.

The call to return the art, which began in the 1930s, intensified in the recent decade, inspired by growing pressure, repatriation activism and the relentless effort of the Benin Dialogue Group, a multilateral stakeholders’ group.

As momentum built at the peak of the homecoming of these arts, Igun Street unexpectedly found itself in the global spotlight. Diplomats, state officials, museum curators and researchers began arriving in numbers local artisans say they had never witnessed before.

This noon, Double Chief’s voice brims with pride as he points to a recently completed sculpture resting on a wooden bench. The bronze figure, a man in a suit and tie, had received its final polish only that morning after months of work.

Yet for many bronze casters, the attention has done little to solve underlying concerns.

“We are struggling to keep the industry alive,” says Oriakhi Osazee, who sits on a wooden stool at the entrance of a store in Igun. A sculptor whose mediums are clay, fibre, brass and bronze, Osazee has been in the craft for more than 35 years. He speaks with depth and conviction, drawing from vivid dates and past events to reinforce his ideas.

Efforts to recruit apprentices have stalled, he says. Young people, on whom the future of the craft depends, are increasingly leaving in search of what he calls “quick money” in other professions, cities and countries.

When their ancestors began, he recalls, their craft extended beyond bronze casting. There were, among the Iguns, men who had a gift in ivory carving. Long before the global ban on ivory trade was made official, that layer of art, without heirs and hope of continuity, had died.

For Agbonmwenre Alex, the subject of heirship within the craft is a matter of personal pain.

Alex, who was taking a tour of his workshop, began learning the craft at the age of eight under the guidance of his father. He started with errands and light tasks before progressing to kneading clay pottery. Over time, he learned every stage of the casting process, from preparing moulds to the final polishing of finished works.

Today, he is the only one of his father’s seven sons who remains in the profession. But uncertainty now hangs over the next generation.

“I would like my sons to take after me,” Alex says. “Unfortunately, I started exposing them to this craft so late. They literally see this work as outdated, archaic, and dying. The zeal, the love for the job, is dead.”

I would like my sons to take after me. They see this work as outdates, archaic, and dying. The zeal, the love for the job, is dead.

by AGNONMWENRE ALEX, BRONZE CRAFTSMAN

His first son chose to study law. His second is pursuing a degree in healthcare. Despite repeated efforts to pique their interest, including offering workshop space, raw materials and financial support to start a business of their own, neither accepted.

“The number of youths is declining drastically. It [the craft] is at risk of going into extinction. Apprentices are so scarce,” says Osazee. “We used to have a lot of apprentices in the past.”

In the afternoon of May 31, 2026, the Anguwan Hausawa area of the Mokwa Local Government Area of Niger State, North-Central Nigeria, was thrown into mourning. The news of Abubakar Usman’s death in the lodge water had spread through the area, and people were trooping to the house to extend their condolences to his parents.

Abubakar, a 13-year-old, had gone out to play with his friends. Hours later, he was brought back lifeless while his other friend was rushed to the hospital, having drowned in floodwaters caused by a blockage the construction workers working on a culvert had put in to hold the water as they worked. 

As the lastborn of his parents, Abubakar was the kind of boy whose presence lit up every corner of the community. He attended the Islamic school close to his house, and his teachers admired how brilliant he was. Residents say he was respectful, and the elders in his community often praised him as he never passed by without greeting people warmly—a rare quality that made him beloved by all.

His father, Usman Shekare, an elderly man in his late sixties, stood heartbroken at the sight, lying on a mat, fixing his gaze on his beloved son. The only words he had the courage to utter were, “God gave him to me, and He has collected him back.”

What broke him further was a simple question: “What message do you have for the government?” He instantly broke down in tears, unable to speak further.

This tragedy is not an isolated incident. Just weeks earlier, residents told HumAngle that three boys fell into the clogged waters and were luckily rescued. The water continues to gather at last year’s Mokwa Flood site, fed by the heavy downpour flowing from the Zugurma and Yagbagba axis, and worsened by another source from gully erosion sites in nearby communities. 

Hussaini Ibrahim, the Spokesperson of the Niger State Emergency Management Agency (NSEMA), told HumAngle almost a month after the incident that the agency is not aware of any loss of life due to the blockage but will reach out to the community leader and affected family for further actions.

In Mokwa, the echoes of last year’s devastating flood still haunt the community. Residents told HumAngle that farmers had raised alarm before last year’s disaster, warning that water was accumulating, but their concerns were ignored until after the flood struck. Now, the same warnings are being repeated, with little sign of preventive action.

“Barely a year after the flood, Mokwa is once again staring at water lodging in the same vulnerable zones,” Isah Mokwa, a community leader and activist in the community, told HumAngle. “The bridge and waterway reconstruction, meant to symbolise recovery, has inadvertently blocked water channels, creating a dangerous buildup. As we speak, the town is sitting on a ticking bomb.”

Residents told HumAngle how the first rainfall they witnessed in May made them apprehensive. That evening, they revealed, the sound of rushing water sent shivers down their spines. Mothers were seen rushing to gather their children as fathers stood at the site of collapsed structures, staring at the lodging of water in the same flood-prone channel that swallowed over 150 lives and many homes last year, with hopes of it not wreaking havoc again. 

Studies indicate that the mental health and wellbeing of individuals, especially children affected by flooding in Nigeria, can deteriorate for extended periods, often lasting months or even years after the event.

The cumulative stress of rebuilding homes, restoring livelihoods, and coping with displacement has been shown to exert a heavier toll on affected populations than the initial impact of the flood, underscoring the need for comprehensive psychosocial support in disaster management strategies.

“The water was coming right from Yagbagba,” Ndako Usman, a resident, said. “It’s accumulating just behind the blockage. Once it gets bigger and more powerful, it could hit our homes again.” 

Hussaini told HumAngle that the blockage was caused by construction workers working on the ongoing drainage construction, and the management has taken swift action to address the issue.

“During last year’s flood, we were taken unaware, but we have taken proactive measures to ensure that it does not repeat itself this year. We have a monitoring team, and also volunteers who constantly update us on the flow of water so that we take immediate action.”

“Regarding the culvert, we have written to relevant stakeholders, including the Ministry of Water Resources, to study and assess the situation of the culverts to see if they can handle the water volume in case of a flood-related disaster and advise appropriately,” Hussaini added.

A catastrophe remembered

The fear is not irrational. In May 2025, Mokwa was the epicentre of one of Nigeria’s deadliest flood disasters in recent memory. Torrential rains combined with structural failures to unleash devastation that claimed hundreds of lives, displaced thousands, and left the town grappling with hunger and grief. 

Flooding has become one of Nigeria’s most persistent natural disasters, wreaking havoc on communities across the country almost every year. Heavy rainfall, poor drainage systems, deforestation, and the release of water from dams often combine to create devastating outcomes. 

In 2024 alone, floods claimed over a thousand lives, displaced millions, and destroyed farmlands and infrastructure worth billions of naira, but the situation dropped in 2025, according to the National Emergency Management Agency (NEMA). 

The agency revealed that floods killed 241 people and affected 459,995 residents across 27 states and 128 local government areas. Also, the disaster displaced 158,588 people, injured 839, and damaged 54,684 houses while destroying 96,649 farmlands. 

Early warnings had been issued by the Nigerian Meteorological Agency (NiMet), but local authorities failed to act.

The disaster struck suddenly. Heavy rainfall battered Mokwa, but the real trigger was the collapse of a railway embankment and blocked drainage channels that redirected torrents into residential areas. 

Within hours, homes were submerged, bridges collapsed, and farmlands were washed away. Reports varied, but estimates suggested between 200 and 700 people lost their lives, and about 3000 houses and properties were destroyed, leaving families stranded in makeshift camps.

In the wake of the disaster, the Minister of Information and National Orientation, Mohammed Idris, revealed that President Bola Tinubu approved the release of ₦16.7 billion for the immediate reconstruction of the Mokwa Bridge, which was destroyed by flooding, noting that the project would involve constructing a bridge with 10 spans. 

In the months that followed, HumAngle published a damning investigation into the Mokwa flood, among other issues. Our findings painted a picture of systemic neglect. The investigation established that gully erosion in Mokwa has remained a destructive force despite years of significant financial allocations. The erosion continues to expand, damaging infrastructure and farmland and worsening during rainy seasons. 

Equally, the report uncovered that billions of naira from ecological funds and World Bank loans were earmarked for erosion control, yet no substantial work has been executed. While officials claimed contractors were engaged, there was no evidence of transparent bidding processes. Field assessments confirmed that erosion control activities remain absent, exposing a gap between official pronouncements and actual implementation.

Last month, NEMA listed Mokwa among high flood-risk local government areas in Niger State for 2026. Yet on the ground, little seems to have changed. 

Isah Mokwa, the activist based in Mokwa, confirmed to HumAngle that the bridge constructed to contain the water has proven inadequate. According to him, the community braces for the worst, fearing that heavier downpours could unleash destruction far greater than before.

“Nothing has changed. In fact, the situation has deteriorated even further. In the same direction where the water started gathering before the flood, farmers have raised the alarm that water is already accumulating,” he said.

“We believe there is no accountability for the funds contributed to the state government. What happened to the billions donated after the 2025 flood? Even the shelter that was promised for victims of last year’s flood has not been provided. Just recently, there was a flag-off ceremony, but no contractor has been mobilised to the site, no details were given about the number of houses to be built, and no project timeline was shared,” he said.

According to residents, some of the affected families who were lucky to receive ₦500,000 ($360) in financial support last year to rent houses have exhausted their funds, and the majority are now struggling to renew their rent. 

For many in Mokwa, the suspicion is that the tragedy of 2025 has been reduced to a political talking point, while the lived reality of survivors remains ignored.

However, experts warn that Mokwa cannot afford another disaster. 

Abbas Idris, the president of the Risk Managers Society of Nigeria (RIMSON), in an interview with HumAngle, said that before now, the government should have taken a proactive disaster management approach through risk assessment and hazard categorisation.

This, according to the risk expert, would help not only the government and state emergency management agency but also residents to put in place measures or tackle the disaster even before it strikes.

In the longer term, Abbas revealed that the Niger State government must enforce urban planning regulations, preventing construction on floodplains and investing in climate adaptation strategies. 

“Neglecting risk assessments leaves communities defenceless when disaster hits,” Abbas stressed. “We must address corruption, weak governance, and poor ecological management as root causes of the crisis and pave the way for transparent, science-driven interventions to mitigate future disasters.”

It has been a year since the flood, and despite repeated appeals from the community, the state government, under the leadership of Umar Bago, has yet to provide a lasting solution. Families like the Shekare’s are still left to brace for waters that rise too quickly and claim too much.

And until their demands are met, Mokwa remains vulnerable — a place where the memory of one brilliant boy reminds everyone of both the fragility of life and the urgency for change.