Nigeria

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.

“I am temporarily relocating to Kumalia.”

When Kaka Ali said those words over the phone on June 8, I nearly asked him to repeat himself. I had been speaking to him about farming and survival in northern Borno for nearly two years. Kumalia was where he was born, but it was also a place that most people had long stopped calling home.

The community is located within Monguno Local Government Area (LGA) in Borno State, northeastern Nigeria. The Boko Haram insurgency had emptied it in 2016, forcing residents to flee to Monguno town and Maiduguri, the state capital. The government never formally reopened the community. In the years that followed, its name surfaced mostly in conversations about what the insurgency had taken.

“Why would you go back there?” I asked. 

“The negotiations did not go through,” Kaka replied. 

I did not fully understand what he meant until weeks later.  

On June 21, I reached him again. I learnt that he had returned to Monguno to attend the funerals of four friends who were killed the previous day by suspected Islamic State West Africa Province (ISWAP) terrorists while working on a farm near Kartari, a remote settlement close to Cross Kauwa town in Kukawa LGA, on the shores of Lake Chad. Twelve other farmers were also killed in the incident. 

The men had travelled to Kartari from different parts of northern Borno, drawn by the search for land to cultivate after farming had been disrupted closer to home. That same day, in Zabarmari, a farming community in Jere LGA, another 11 farmers were reportedly killed. By then, Kaka’s explanation about Kumalia finally made sense.

The warning had come months earlier at the onset of cultivation in February, when farmers across parts of northern Borno began receiving warnings from ISWAP terrorists not to farm this season. The message spread among returning farmers and community leaders through word of mouth.

“They approached farmers who had gone to Kartari and told them we must not cultivate this year,” said Musa Abubakar, a farmer from Cross Kauwa. “They also informed community leaders in villages close to them, and those leaders passed the message to us in other towns,” he said. 

According to Musa, farmers who wished to cultivate were instructed to relocate with their families to terror-controlled territories, locally known as Daula, and farm there instead. Many initially assumed it was another extortion attempt because for years, cultivating in parts of northern Borno had meant paying terror groups for access to land. In 2024, HumAngle documented how farmers in the region paid millions of naira in levies and so-called farming permits to ISWAP. This season, farmers pooled their money together, some contributing at least ₦50,000 each, hoping to negotiate their way back to their fields. However, the effort failed, and the warning held.

So they began looking elsewhere. Some moved toward the Lake Chad region. Others returned to abandoned communities. More than 100 farmers from Monguno, according to Kaka, relocated to Kumalia, where they erected makeshift shelters from sticks and dry grass to plant their crops. They plan to stay until the harvest season in November or December.

The women were not left behind either. 

“My sister is there,” Kaka, the 30-year-old father of two, said. “Many women went with their children. The older ones trekked with their parents. The younger ones are carried on their backs or transported in push carts.” 

Kaka’s older sister, Yabusam Ali, travelled with one of her children and left the others with their grandmother in Monguno. Other women made similar calculations, weighing which children could endure the walk and which would be safer left behind. Yabusam said conditions remain basic but manageable. 

“There is drinkable water there,” she told HumAngle. 

For now, that is enough. Kumalia has no schools, no health facilities, and no visible state presence. It is a settlement held together by necessity. Over the coming months, the community will once again have residents, not because it is safe, but because it has become the least dangerous option left.

Across Borno, the farming ban, enforced through violence and the threat of it, is reshaping how rural families survive. Some have abandoned cultivation entirely. Others have confined themselves to plots within sight of military positions. A growing number are returning to communities the state had given up on, betting that the promise of a harvest is worth living beyond its protection. Together, these choices are accumulating into something larger than disrupted planting seasons: a food security crisis taking shape incrementally, in the daily calculations of people who can no longer be certain what the harvest will bring, or whether there will be one at all.

The consequences extend far beyond the communities where cultivation has been disrupted. Agriculture remains one of Nigeria’s largest employers and a critical source of food for millions of households. The World Bank estimates that nearly four in every five rural households in Nigeria depend on farming, while livestock rearing is especially common across the country’s northern regions. When insecurity forces farmers off their land, harvests decline, market supplies tighten, and food prices rise.

The Famine Early Warning Systems Network (FEWS NET), a food security monitoring and forecasting initiative, estimates that between 21 and 22 million people across northern Nigeria will require humanitarian assistance during the June-to-August lean season, driven by escalating conflict, lower-than-expected household food production, and constrained access to food. The Integrated Food Security Phase Classification (IPC) similarly projects that more than six million children across northern Nigeria will experience acute malnutrition this year, with conflict, displacement, and reduced access to food among the principal drivers.

Kaka had already made these calculations. “Are you not afraid of attack from the terrorists, or of being mistaken for one by troops?” I asked him. “We will die even if we don’t go,” he replied. “So, it is all the same.”

Flags on the farm

Just as Kaka mentioned, several farmers in northern and central Borno say the people who first heard the warnings were often those who had gone ahead of the rains to clear their fields. 

In Monguno, Koso Abubakar said farmers preparing their land were approached and warned against cultivation. They returned to town carrying the news, and from there, the message spread from household to household. In Cross Kauwa, a farming and fishing community on the shores of Lake Chad, the warning reached those working near Kartari, a remote settlement under Kukawa LGA. Community leaders received it and relayed it to surrounding towns.

In Lassa, a farming community in Askira-Uba LGA in southern Borno, it arrived with violence. Andrew Adamu, a farmer there, said suspected terrorists attacked and flogged women they found working on their fields at the beginning of the season. “They said nobody should farm there,” he said. “They [the women] said they had mounted their flags on those lands.” 

The flags, a territorial marker used by terror groups across the region to signal control, were understood immediately. Few people in Lassa are now willing to venture beyond the land immediately surrounding the town.

Musa, a farmer in Cross Kauwa, said the warning came with an additional condition in the northern Borno community. He said that farmers willing to cultivate were instructed to relocate permanently with their families to terror-controlled territories and continue to farm there while paying levies instead. The requirement to relocate permanently was new. The levies were not. But this time around, levy negotiations failed in some places. 

However, in parts of southern Monguno, some farmers were reportedly permitted to cultivate after paying ₦50,000 each. The inconsistency stirred speculation that the restrictions reflected internal disagreements among ISWAP commanders rather than a unified policy. 

“It was said that two Amirs controlling two farming villages had a dispute over farming fees,” Kaka explained. “The Amir controlling where we farm said he would not allow anyone to farm this season. The other Amir said farmers were welcome to cultivate in his territory after paying this year’s levy.”

HumAngle could not independently verify the claim.

When negotiations collapsed, the consequences began to accumulate. In Lassa, Andrew said, women were beaten while working on their farms. In Auno, Konduga LGA, a 55-year-old farmer was attacked and killed while working on his land earlier in February, according to residents. News of his death, Aja Bukar, another farmer, said, spread quickly through surrounding communities, confirming what many had hoped was merely a threat. 

Then, on June 20, 15 farmers were killed near Kartari while working on their fields. Bashir Suleiman, a farmer from Doron Baga, said the victims included four farmers from Monguno, six from Kukawa town, three from Baga, and two from Cross Kauwa. 

In Cross Kauwa, Musa said most farmers have stayed away from their fields since. The few still cultivating have been permitted by the military to plant low-growing crops, such as beans and groundnuts, within a fixed distance of the community’s defensive trench. Beyond that line, he said, most no longer believe the harvest is worth the risk.

The return to Kumalia

For the first time in nearly a decade, Kumalia has residents again. Not many, and not enough to resemble the farming community it once was before the insurgency emptied it in 2016, but enough to bring movement back to a place which has long given up — children’s voices have returned. Smoke rises from cooking fires in the morning. The fields are being planted. And temporary shelters made from sticks, ropes, and dry grass stand across parts of the settlement. 

Getting there, however, is not easy. According to Modu Baluye, a farmer who also relocated to Kumalia, reaching the settlement takes five hours of walking over terrain most vehicles cannot cross. “We travel by foot,” he said. “There is no means of transportation except push carts.” The shelters, he said, are simple: stick frames with dry grass roofing, which offers little protection from rain or wind, but they are enough to house families for the months between planting and harvest.

For years, displacement pushed families out of places like Kumalia and into towns where security forces could better protect them. Now, insecurity around farming is pushing some of those same families back, not into safety but into a different kind of exposure: too far from the state to be protected, yet close enough to armed groups to be noticed.

Communities across northeastern Nigeria have learned, often through grief, that living or farming in remote and ungoverned territories can attract a different kind of violence during military operations. Aerial surveillance, in vast terrains where terror groups move through civilian spaces, collect levies, and use local markets, must be able to distinguish between farmers and fighters. In places like Kumalia, unrecognised by the government, absent from any official resettlement record, populated by people living in makeshift shelters on cultivated open land, that distinction is not guaranteed.

In April 2026, reports showed that more than 30 civilians were killed when a Nigerian Air Force strike hit a village market in Jilli, a remote settlement between Gubio LGA in Borno State and Geidam LGA in Yobe State. Military authorities described it as an active terrorist enclave. Borno State Governor Babagana Zulum later acknowledged that the area’s market had been officially closed due to terrorist activity, yet civilians were among the dead. It was not the first such incident. In 2017, a military aircraft bombed a displaced persons camp in Rann, Kala-Balge LGA, killing more than 100 people including aid workers. And in 2024, HumAngle documented cases in which fishermen around Lake Chad were reportedly misidentified during military operations.

Farmers in Kumalia are aware of this history. It sits alongside the warnings from ISWAP, the distance from town, and the inadequacy of their shelters. It is part of what they weighed before they went.

The price of survival

Every morning before sunrise, Esther Danjuma sets up her stall on the roadside outside the Divisional Council Church (DCC) Internally Displaced Persons’ camp in Shuwari, Maiduguri. She heats cooking oil, prepares her bean paste, and waits for the first customers. By the time most people in Maiduguri are awake, she is already working. 

The 26-year-old was displaced from Amuda in Gwoza LGA years ago. Until recently, she measured time by farming seasons, not calendar months. Before the warning reached Chabbal, a farming community in Magumeri LGA where she and thousands of others from the DCC displacement camp cultivate each season, she grew sorghum, sesame, and groundnuts. Last year, she harvested five bags each of sorghum and sesame and three bags of groundnuts. This year, she planted nothing.

“I never thought I would sell kosai,” she told HumAngle. She earns at least ₦3,000 daily. This helps her care for herself and her elderly grandmother at the camp, she said.

A few shelters away from Esther lives Andrawus Yakubu. While Esther replaced farming with a small business, Andrawus has replaced it with whatever work presents itself each day. On some days, he works at construction sites. On other days, he digs pits, cuts logs, or takes on manual labour wherever opportunities arise. The work is irregular and physically demanding, but Andrawus says he cannot afford to be selective. “I will do whatever legal thing that my strength can do,” the father of nine told HumAngle.

For years, Andrawus supplemented his household income through farming in Limanti, a rural community in Konduga LGA. Like many displaced residents of the DCC Shuwari camp, he relied on the farming season to feed his family and reduce their dependence on the market. Last season, he cultivated four hectares of land, harvesting five bags of millet, 12 bags of groundnuts, and eight bags of beans. This season, however, the farming restrictions have forced him to abandon farming. 

Others have chosen to leave Borno altogether. In Auno, Aja Bukar said the killing of a farmer earlier this year convinced many residents that remaining in the area was no longer worth the risk. Some households, including his, have since relocated to Damaturu in neighbouring Yobe State, hoping to find safer opportunities elsewhere.

These different responses – the roadside stall, the day labour, and relocation to another state – all lead back to the same question: what can replace a harvest, if anything?

Agriculture remains the backbone of rural livelihoods across Borno and the wider North East. In Borno, farming is not only an occupation but also a source of sustenance for families; it is how they feed themselves, pay school fees, buy medicine, and prepare for the long dry season. Yet years of conflict have steadily eroded that foundation, limiting access to farmland, disrupting markets, and deepening food insecurity.

When farmers abandon their fields, the consequences ripple far beyond the households directly affected: Harvests decline, local markets receive fewer supplies, and children and other vulnerable groups bear the greatest nutritional burden. The effects are felt not only in the villages where cultivation stops, but across communities that rely on those harvests for food and trade.

The region has been here before. In 2023, HumAngle documented how repeated attacks on farming communities forced many residents to abandon cultivated fields, leaving crops worth millions of naira to wither or be destroyed. A year later, the trend persisted, contributing to worsening food insecurity and malnutrition among vulnerable households, particularly children.

What is unfolding this season is not unique to Borno. Across the North West and North Central, terror groups have used similar tactics to control access to rural farmland, taxing farmers, threatening communities, and displacing those who resist. In Zamfara, HumAngle reported in June that farmers were displaced despite paying millions in levies. Another report the same month showed that 17 farmers were killed in Maradun while working their fields. In 2024, Reuters reported from Katsina that attacks on farmers were driving up food prices. According to SBM Intelligence, a Lagos-based consultancy, 1,356 farmers have been killed across Nigeria since 2020.

The scale of what is at stake is significant. UNICEF estimates that around three million children may require treatment for severe wasting in 2026, with conflict-affected northeastern states carrying a disproportionate share.  

Across Borno, people are making decisions whose consequences they cannot yet fully see.

The attacks targeted a secondary school in the northeastern town of Lassa, in Borno State.

At least 37 students remain missing after gunmen raided their school in northeast Nigeria, according to local officials.

The attack occurred on Monday when assailants from the Islamic State West Africa Province (ISWAP) group stormed a secondary school in the town of Lassa, in Borno State, which has faced years of violence by armed groups.

The AFP news agency reported on Tuesday that at least 37 students remain missing following the attack, which occurred while they were sitting exams.

At least three people were killed in the attack, including a soldier and a teacher, according to the military, who initially said that authorities had rescued 10 of them and that only one remained missing.

The “list of students in captivity”, showing the students’ genders and their parents’ mobile phone numbers, was shared with journalists by the area’s local government councillor, Ijagla Ijabila.

An intel source also showed AFP the same list.

Borno Commissioner for Education Lawan Abba Wakilbe told reporters in Lassa that 25 female students, 11 male students and one staff member were still being held, reported the Reuters news agency.

Abba Wakilbe added that eight people, including the school’s vice principal, have been freed.

Kidnapping for ransom, especially of students, has become a common tactic for both armed groups and non-ideological “bandit” gangs operating across the country’s conflict-hit north and centre.

While the 2014 kidnapping of hundreds of schoolgirls from the town of Chibok by members of Boko Haram remains Nigeria’s most infamous, school abductions continue to be prevalent across the country.

In May, gunmen kidnapped more than 40 pupils – who remain in captivity – from Borno State’s Mussa village.

That same month, armed men rounded up dozens of schoolchildren from three schools in Oyo State – a rare attack in southwest Nigeria, considered to be the safest region in the country.

Nigeria has been fighting an armed uprising since 2009, concentrated in the northeast.

While violence has waned since the peak of the conflict a decade ago, analysts have warned of an uptick in attacks since last year.

Students at Government Day Secondary School in Lassa, Askira-Uba Local Government Area of Borno State, northeastern Nigeria, were preparing to sit for their National Examinations Council (NECO) Biology paper on the morning of Monday, June 29, when terrorists stormed the school, killing at least one teacher, abducting staff and students, and forcing another disruption to education in a community still reeling from a school abduction barely a month ago.

The attackers struck shortly before 9 a.m., according to school officials and residents, arriving on more than 40 motorcycles, many dressed in military camouflage and armed with AK-47 rifles. Witnesses said the assault lasted about 20 minutes before security personnel pursued the attackers into nearby bushland.

The exact number of abducted students remains unclear as authorities and school officials continue compiling names.

Imperiju Mamza, the school’s examinations officer, told HumAngle that the senior students had assembled for their Biology paper, scheduled to begin at 10 a.m., when the attackers arrived. “They invaded the school some minutes to 9 a.m.,” he said.

“Only one student who is sitting for the exams was abducted. She came very early and was, unfortunately, abducted alongside the other students who were from other classes. The others are safe and are currently writing their paper,” he said.

The ongoing NECO examinations began on June 23. According to Mamza, 243 candidates registered for the examination. “Apart from the one abducted, 242 are currently writing their exams,” he said. “I am trying to compile names of those abducted and cannot yet confirm how many were taken.”

Following the attack, candidates were relocated under armed protection to Government Girls Secondary School, Lassa, where the Biology examination continued.

Teachers killed, others abducted

Residents who witnessed the aftermath said the attackers appeared to target the school directly rather than the wider community.

Timothy Apagu, whose shop is located near the school, said the community had received reports as early as 7 a.m. that armed men had been sighted around Muthalavu village on the outskirts of Lassa. Community vigilantes were deployed towards the Dille axis after residents raised the alarm, believing the gunmen were approaching from that direction.

“Unfortunately, another team of terrorists followed a different route and attacked the community,” he said.

Apagu said the attackers went straight into the school. “They did not enter the community. I suspect it was a targeted attack.”

He said more than 40 motorcycles participated in the raid. “Most were wearing military camouflage. Others were wearing black trousers. Some wore boots while others wore bathroom slippers. From afar, you would know they were terrorists.”

According to Apagu, one teacher died at the scene while another, who sustained gunshot injuries, later died at the Lassa General Hospital.

He said two teachers, a male Vice Principal identified as Mr Paul and a female teacher popularly known as Madam Angelina, were initially abducted alongside students. The Vice Principal was later rescued after security personnel pursued the attackers, while the female teacher remained in captivity at the time of reporting.

Another resident, Andrew Adamu, gave a similar account, saying security personnel rescued one teacher and five students during the pursuit and recovered six motorcycles abandoned by the fleeing gunmen.

He added that one female student escaped with gunshot injuries. HumAngle could not independently verify these rescue figures.

Security response

The military and local vigilantes immediately pursued the attackers into nearby bushland, residents said. Adamu said one soldier and one vigilante were killed during the pursuit.

“There is a military base here, but the soldiers are few. They are not more than 50,” he said. “The school and the military base are less than a kilometre apart.”

The Borno State Police Command confirmed the attack but said the number of abducted students remained unverified. Nahum Kenneth Daso, the Police Public Relations Officer, said the Area Commander for Askira-Uba had deployed to the scene alongside other officers.

Asked what security measures had been introduced after last month’s abduction of more than 40 schoolchildren in nearby Mussa, Daso said police deployments around schools in the area had been increased.

“The challenge we had in Lassa is that the school does not have a fence,” he said. “When the invasion happened, they took advantage of that.” 

Mamza said school authorities had repeatedly raised concerns about the absence of perimeter fencing following the Mussa attack. “The Government Day Secondary School has no fence, and we have complained to the government following the Mussa incident,” he said. He explained that the school is located about a kilometre from the town centre and shares a boundary with the Lassa Vocational Training Centre.

When contacted, Mada Saidu, the Chairperson of Askira-Uba LGA, declined to discuss the attack, saying he was channelling his time and efforts into coordinating the emergency response, which he felt was more important than speaking to journalists.

The latest attack comes barely a month after dozens of schoolchildren were abducted in neighbouring Mussa, also in Askira-Uba LGA, renewing fears over the security of schools across southern Borno despite assurances that protective measures had been strengthened.

Even before the first naira changes hands or the first customer calls, Musa Lekki reaches for his phone. It is 5:32 a.m. on a Tuesday, and like many smartphone users, he begins his day with a glance at his phone screen. The 42-year-old provisions trader lives in Yola, northeastern Nigeria, and runs a small wholesale business supplying neighbouring shops and customers with rice, beverages, and household goods. 

As he unlocks his phone, there is already work waiting for him. A supplier has sent a voice note. A customer wants to confirm a payment. Another customer has placed an order. Before he has even left his bed, Musa is responding to messages and preparing for the business day ahead.

What appears to be a routine start to the morning is also a series of digital interactions. Within minutes of waking up, Musa has engaged with systems that recognise his phone number, device information, account credentials, and network location.

Each interaction leaves a data trail. A phone call generates telecommunications records. A bank transfer creates transaction logs. A utility payment produces another digital entry. Individually, these fragments may seem insignificant. Together, they form an increasingly detailed portrait of everyday life, which is increasingly mediated and supported by Digital Public Infrastructure (DPI) rails, a set of foundational digital systems that form the backbone of modern societies, enabling secure and seamless interactions between people, businesses, and governments. 

Musa does not think about any of this. Most mobile phone and internet users do not. 

“During the day, I use my phone for transfers, calls, and ordering goods, and by night I check my account balance before closing for the day,” he said.

As Nigeria expands its digital identity and payment systems, everyday activities such as making calls, sending money, paying bills, and accessing services are becoming increasingly dependent on interconnected digital infrastructure. Musa’s daily routine shows how Digital Public Infrastructure is reshaping daily life, expanding access to services while also raising questions about privacy, transparency and accountability.

What Musa sees is a phone. What he does not see is an invisible infrastructure that increasingly determines who can communicate, who can make payments, who can access services, and who can participate fully in modern economic life. By the time he goes to bed, several institutions will have processed fragments of his personal information. Many of those interactions will happen without him ever knowing.

This is how millions of Nigerian residents increasingly navigate life as data points within systems they rarely see.

The identity that travels ahead

At 6:45 a.m., Musa calls a supplier in Kano. The conversation lasts less than three minutes. It is a routine business call, yet that call depends on a national identity system. In 2020, the Nigerian Communications Commission (NCC) directed all mobile network operators to link users’ Subscriber Identification Module (SIM) cards to their National Identification Number (NINs) and to bar those who did not comply. Musa’s line was among those affected. 

“There was a time my SIM was restricted because of an issue with my NIN linkage,” he recalled. “I couldn’t make calls for some days and also lost customers, until I sorted it out.”

The experience taught him something many Nigerians have learned: The ability to make a phone call increasingly depends on proving who you are. Identity is one of the key layers of a DPI. In Nigeria, the NIN is the foundational identity document, managed by the National Identity Management Commission (NIMC).

As of December 2025, the NIMC reported more than 127 million NIN enrolments nationwide, making it one of Africa’s largest digital identity databases, while over 172.67 million SIM cards had been linked to NINs. 

Nunaya David, a senior enrolment officer at the NIMC, Yola, said, “NIN is increasingly required for banking, telecommunications, social programmes, and several government services.” Identity is no longer simply something Nigerians carry in a wallet; it is increasingly verified continuously in the background.

The money moves, the data moves too

Shortly after 7 a.m., Musa pays ₦45,000 to a supplier. The transfer takes less than a minute. Money leaves one account and appears in another. With a few taps, Musa has interacted with another stack of the DPI: the payment layer. Behind that transaction, the payment infrastructure operated by banks, fintechs, and the Nigeria Interbank Settlement System (NIBSS) performs multiple checks.

“Once a transfer is initiated, the request passes through several systems before reaching the recipient,” Hakeem Abdulkareem, a tech specialist with NIBSS, explained. “These systems communicate with one another to confirm and complete the transaction.”

Identity verification, fraud screening, account authentication and transaction routing all happen in the background. Most of it occurs within seconds. The customer sees only a debit alert while the infrastructure works in the background. 

According to the Central Bank of Nigeria, electronic payment channels now account for the majority of retail payment activity, with internet transfers, mobile payments and point-of-sale transactions becoming increasingly dominant. Data from NIBSS show that Nigeria recorded ₦284.99 trillion in electronic payment transactions in the first quarter of 2025, representing a 17.7 per cent year-on-year increase compared with ₦234.49 trillion recorded in the same period in 2024. This reflects how deeply electronic payments have become embedded in everyday economic activity. Each transfer generates records that move across banks, payment switches, and settlement systems, creating the digital trail that allows modern commerce to function.

A market built on digital trust

For Musa, these systems are largely invisible. What he sees are payment alerts arriving on his phone and customers walking through his door. By mid-morning, those customers have started to arrive. One of them is Aisha Bello, a 21-year-old student at Modibbo Adama University, preparing for a new academic session. Like Musa, she relies on digital systems she rarely thinks about.

Her school registration requires identity verification. Her bank account relies on Bank Verification Number (BVN). Her mobile line and BVN are all linked to her NIN. 

As she pays Musa electronically, two very different lives intersect through the same digital infrastructure. Neither sees the systems operating behind the scenes, yet both depend on them.

The same is true for Grace Ezra, a nurse at Modibbo Adama University Teaching Hospital in Yola. Like Musa and Aisha, she increasingly relies on digital systems to manage her salary payments, telecommunications services, tax records, and pension contributions.

Frank Akabueze, a digital identity expert, describes Nigeria’s journey as a gradual shift from fragmented systems to interconnected ones. “We have moved from having several disconnected identity systems toward greater integration.”

Increasingly, a person’s ability to study, work, save, communicate, and transact begins with a digital identity record. This speaks to the third layer of DPI, interoperability, the ability of different digital systems to speak to each other securely. 

The invisible checks 

Around noon, Musa buys airtime through a mobile app. Moments later, he pays an electricity bill. The transactions feel routine, but each leaves a digital footprint. Each creates records, generates data and triggers some form of verification.

Airtime purchases, utility payments, transfers and merchant payments may appear unrelated, but increasingly they travel through interconnected platforms that rely on identity verification, payment infrastructure and data exchange mechanisms working together in the background. The power of DPI lies in the ability of these systems to communicate with one another. This interoperability allows a verified identity, a payment instruction and a service request to move across different platforms within seconds.

Esther Kolo, a staff member at Opay, a leading digital financial services provider in Nigeria, explains that many customers only notice verification during registration. “Most people notice identity verification during account registration, but checks can also happen when account details are updated or when unusual transactions are detected. In many cases, these checks happen in the background.”

The reality is that verification does not end after account creation. It becomes part of daily life. The systems simply become invisible. Every interaction leaves behind another record. Those records may sit in various databases, often connected in ways users never see. By midday, Musa has become far more than a trader buying and selling goods. He is part of a growing collection of records moving across this ecosystem. 

When identity becomes the gatekeeper 

Later in the afternoon, Musa receives a call from his younger brother. He is trying to resolve a problem involving identity records required to open a bank account. 

Across Nigeria, mismatched records, incorrect dates of birth, missing details, and verification failures have become common sources of frustration. As systems become more interconnected, a discrepancy in one database can sometimes affect access to services that depend on another.

Such complaints have become familiar in identity management centres and online forums, where citizens report problems ranging from incorrect personal details and outdated biometric records to difficulties validating identity information across different systems. According to Nunaya of NIMC, “The person may experience delays in accessing certain services until the issue is resolved.”

As more services become interconnected, identity functions as a gatekeeper. When systems work properly, access becomes easier. When records fail, opportunities can disappear, sometimes without warning. The same infrastructure designed to enable inclusion can also create new barriers. 

For instance, in August 2025, Catherine Bello, a beneficiary of a humanitarian cash assistance programme in Adamawa, was unable to receive support because a minor discrepancy between her name on the beneficiary list and her National Identification Number (NIN) record caused the verification process to fail. Similarly, others have recounted losing access to mobile services and facing banking restrictions because their NIN, BVN, and SIM records did not match across government databases.

Who is watching the data trail?

As evening approaches, conversations throughout the day prompt Musa to reflect on something he rarely considers: who actually has access to all this information? His answer is uncertain. “I know my bank, telecom company, and government agencies have my details. Honestly, I don’t really know who else can access the information or how it is being used.”

Digital rights advocates say Musa’s uncertainty underpins the challenges facing millions of Nigerians. As more services become digital and become interconnected through digital identity and payment systems, citizens often have little visibility into how their information is shared, stored, or processed across institutions.

Gbenga Sesan, Executive Director of Paradigm Initiative, a digital rights advocacy organisation, said the challenge is not only the collection of personal information but the lack of transparency surrounding its use. 

“Many people provide information to access essential services without fully understanding where that data goes, who can access it, or how long it may be retained,” he said, adding that public trust in digital systems depends not only on efficiency and convenience but also on clear safeguards, transparency and accountability.

As identity systems, payment systems, and service delivery platforms become more interconnected, questions about transparency become increasingly important. 

According to Vincent Olatunji, the Nigeria Data Protection Commission (NDPC), for identity management to be effective, there is a need for harmonised policies, secure technologies and inclusive systems. “The more systems are connected, the greater the impact if information is mishandled or exposed,” he noted. 

Reports have shown how vulnerable these systems can be when safeguards fail. In 2025, the Foundation for Investigative Journalism uncovered websites that offered access to Nigerians’ sensitive personal information, including NINs, BVNs, photographs, and other identity records, for small fees. One platform reportedly sold access to personal records for ₦70-₦150, while another provided unauthorised identity-related services despite not being licensed by the NIMC. 

These incidents illustrate the risks that emerge when large volumes of personal data are concentrated within interconnected digital systems without proper safeguards. 

Olatunji of NDPC noted that the Nigeria Data Protection Act has established rules governing how personal information should be collected, processed, stored, and shared. Citizens have rights and organisations have obligations, but awareness is limited. “Organisations are generally expected to explain why information is being collected and how it will be used,” he explained. 

Under the Act, citizens have several rights over their personal information. These include the right to know why their data is being collected, the right to request access to personal information held about them, the right to seek correction of inaccurate records, the right to withdraw consent for certain forms of data processing, and the right to seek redress when their information is misused. The law also requires organisations to explain how personal data will be used and gives individuals the right to lodge complaints with the NDPC when they believe their rights have been violated.

In practical terms, these rights mean that citizens are not merely sources of data, but they are entitled to ask questions about how their information is used, request access to records held about them, and challenge organisations that fail to protect their information. Yet awareness of these protections remains low among ordinary users.

Musa says he has heard of data protection laws but does not know what rights they give him. Like many Nigerians, he uses digital services every day without fully understanding who controls the information he generates.

Before bedtime, by 9:45 p.m., Musa checks his account balance for the final time. The day is over. He has made phone calls, received payments, sent transfers, paid utility bills, purchased airtime and verified identities. Each action took only seconds. Each left a record somewhere. Some records sit inside telecom databases. Others exist in banking systems, payment switches, identity registries and government platforms. Together they form a digital version of Musa’s day, one that is often more detailed than he realises.

“Many people do not realise how often their identity is being checked behind the scenes,” Frank noted. 

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

When the first three people fell sick on Thursday, June 11, residents of Doron Baga were unsure what was happening. The symptoms – vomiting, diarrhoea, and weakness – were familiar enough in a rural community where access to healthcare is limited, and illnesses are often treated at home or by local patent medicine vendors. However, as more people began showing the same signs, and deaths followed within days, concern spread across the community.

Ahmadu Haruna watched the disease move rapidly through his household. He is the community leader of Randa, an area within Doron Baga, a fishing and farming community on the shores of Lake Chad, less than three kilometres from Baga town in Kukawa Local Government Area (LGA) of Borno State, northeastern Nigeria. 

He lives in a large compound that houses nearly 150 people, including his four brothers, their wives, children, and grandchildren. Within seven days, he said, at least 20 people living in his compound became ill. Seven died. “It started with three people,” Ahmadu recalled. “One of my brother’s children and another brother’s wife were the first to be infected.”

As cases multiplied, residents began drawing connections to reports they had been hearing from Maiduguri, the state capital, where a cholera outbreak had already overwhelmed health facilities and infected thousands. “We knew it was cholera because the symptoms matched what we heard on [the radio] about the outbreak in Maiduguri,” said Bashir Suleiman, a resident. “The people there were vomiting and having diarrhoea, and that was exactly what we were seeing here.”

The outbreak has unsettled Doron Baga, a community that has spent the last six years rebuilding after it was displaced by the Boko Haram insurgency. Residents were officially resettled in September 2020 by the state government. Many residents say that returning home symbolised the beginning of recovery. Families rebuilt their houses, fishermen returned to the lake, and farmers reclaimed their fields. Gradually, life appeared to be returning to normal. The cholera outbreak, however, has revealed how incomplete that recovery remains. 

Cholera, according to the World Health Organisation (WHO), is “an acute diarrhoeal infection caused by consuming food or water contaminated with the bacterium Vibrio cholerae”.WHO), is “an acute diarrhoeal infection caused by consuming food or water contaminated with the bacterium Vibrio cholerae”.

The disease is not new to communities along the Lake Chad shoreline. In 2018, the Borno State Ministry of Health recorded 502 cases and one death across Baga, Doro, and Kukawa wards. Doro accounted for the highest burden, with 254 reported cases. Response efforts at the time involved the Ministry of Health, WHO, and the Alliance for International Medical Action (ALIMA). Six years later, residents of Doron Baga say many of the conditions that enable cholera transmission remain unresolved.

Access to healthcare remains limited, many households depend on self-built water sources, and sanitation challenges persist in parts of the community.

Unlike many urban households, Ahmadu’s home is a large family compound that functions almost like a small settlement. At its centre is a manually operated hand pump, and near the entrance sits an open well. Built by the family years ago, the two sources continue to supply most of the household’s water needs. “Our main source of drinking water is the hand pump and the open well,” Ahmadu told HumAngle.

The compound also relies on pit latrines. Each household maintains its own facility, while another serves as a communal latrine for residents and visitors. 

The source of the infection has not been established. But in a compound where dozens of people share water sources and common spaces, many residents may have been exposed to the same source of contamination. The outbreak also comes during the rainy season, a period when cholera cases often increase as flooding and runoff can contaminate drinking-water sources.

From Maiduguri to Lake Chad

The outbreak that has now reached Doron Baga began hundreds of kilometres away in Maiduguri, where it was first detected in early May. Health authorities had reported more than 2,700 suspected cases and 39 deaths across eight LGAs by mid-May, with Maiduguri Metropolitan Council recording the highest burden.

The spread, according to the international medical humanitarian organisation Médecins Sans Frontières (MSF), overwhelmed treatment facilities, prompting an emergency response from the state government and humanitarian organisations. 

As the days went by, the numbers continued to climb. By June 7, Borno had recorded 7,850 suspected cases and 74 deaths across 14 local government areas, according to figures cited by MSF and state health authorities. MSF alone said it had treated 7,439 patients between May 1 and June 7. 

To contain the outbreak, the Borno State Ministry of Health and Human Services said it is implementing emergency health measures, improving sanitation, and increasing public awareness. In addition, humanitarian organisations such as MSF and Save the Children have activated emergency responses that include cholera treatment centres, oral rehydration points, surveillance, hygiene promotion campaigns, and water, sanitation, and hygiene interventions. MSF expanded treatment capacity in Maiduguri and opened additional cholera treatment units as admissions surged. 

At the height of the outbreak, between June 5 and 7, MSF reported treating as many as 500 patients in a single day. Another organisation, Save the Children, said it was responding to more than 7,000 suspected cases reported across the state. The Nigerian Red Cross also supported awareness campaigns, case management, community sensitisation, and emergency response activities. 

For weeks, the outbreak appeared largely concentrated in and around Maiduguri and other major population centres. Then it reached Doron Baga.

The unfinished work of recovery

As cases spread through Doron Baga, residents and health workers say longstanding challenges in healthcare, water access, sanitation, and public infrastructure have complicated efforts to contain it. 

Many residents did not consider the local health facility a realistic option. When HumAngle asked why his family did not immediately seek treatment at the hospital, Ahmadu laughed. “Hospital?” he asked. “Do you expect us to take our sick relatives to a hospital without doctors and drugs?”

Residents say the Doron Baga Primary Healthcare Centre suffers from chronic shortages of personnel and medicines. “There are no staff, too,” Bashir said. “Those coming from Baga don’t spend more than an hour.” As a result, many families depend on patent medicine stores as their first source of treatment.

The nearest alternative is Baga town, but the cost of transportation, combined with the expense of purchasing prescribed medicines, often places formal healthcare beyond the reach of many households. “We usually take sick relatives to Baga,” Ahmadu said. “However, we did not take these ones there because it is expensive.”

Residents’ complaints come despite years of government investments aimed at improving healthcare services in the area. During a visit to Baga in July 2023, Borno State Governor Babagana Zulum ordered the rehabilitation of the Baga General Hospital and Doro Primary Healthcare Centre. Residents confirmed that the rehabilitation was carried out.

More recently, in May, Kukawa Local Government Chairperson, Mustapha Kukawa, distributed drugs to healthcare facilities across the LGA and warned against the diversion or mismanagement of medical supplies. At the state level, the Executive Secretary of the Borno State Contributory Healthcare Management Agency (BOSCHMA), Saleh Abba, said on June 4 that the agency had disbursed more than ₦400 million to 171 primary healthcare centres and nine secondary health facilities providing free treatment to vulnerable persons across Borno.

Yet residents of Doron Baga say shortages of staff and medicines persist, raising questions about the extent to which investments in infrastructure, medical supplies, and healthcare financing are translating into accessible services in some resettled communities.

Their concerns reflect a broader pattern documented across conflict-affected communities in Borno. In 2023, HumAngle reported that residents of Kirawa, a resettled border town in Gwoza LGA, frequently crossed into neighbouring Cameroon to access healthcare services. In 2024, residents of Baga and Dalori, another resettled community in the Konduga LGA, similarly complained about inadequate drug supplies and limited healthcare services. That same year, a Premium Times investigation found that despite significant investments in rehabilitating primary healthcare facilities across rural Borno, many communities continued to struggle with staffing shortages and inadequate medicines.

Together, these accounts suggest that while reconstruction has improved physical infrastructure in many communities, ensuring consistent access to healthcare workers, medicines, and essential services remains a challenge in parts of the state.

Faced with these realities, many residents turn to informal healthcare providers. One of them is Kasim Muhammad Auwal, a patent medicine vendor and community health worker who has operated in Doron Baga since the community was resettled.  

“I have recorded 40 cases so far,” Kasim said. “Most have recovered. Four have died.”

Kasim holds a diploma in community health from the College of Health Technology in Maiduguri and believes that sanitation may also be contributing to the outbreak. “One major thing I have observed is increasing open defecation in the community,” he said. “This, I suspect, is the leading cause.”

According to him, the practice is particularly common among children, residents living on the outskirts of the settlement, and visiting fishermen from neighbouring communities.

Public health research supports concerns about the relationship between water, sanitation, and cholera transmission. The WHO identifies contaminated drinking water and inadequate sanitation as major drivers of cholera outbreaks, while studies have linked unprotected wells and poor sanitation practices to increased infection risks. 

Like Ahmadu’s household, many residents rely on self-built infrastructure, including open wells and manually operated pumps, to meet their daily water needs. Although these sources may serve communities for years, they can become significant public health risks during disease outbreaks. Studies consistently show that communities dependent on untreated water and limited sanitation infrastructure face a higher risk of waterborne diseases.

As cases spread through the community, humanitarian organisations also began carrying out preventive measures. Residents said volunteers from the Nigerian Red Cross and other organisations had conducted sensitisation campaigns, educating households about cholera symptoms, hygiene practices, and ways to reduce transmission.

A Red Cross volunteer in Kukawa confirmed that awareness activities were ongoing in the community but declined to comment officially, saying he was not authorised to speak on behalf of the organisation.

As of June 23, residents said new suspected cases were still being recorded in the community and that additional deaths had occurred in recent days, indicating that the outbreak had not yet been fully contained. They also said at least 11 patients were receiving treatment at the Doro Primary Healthcare Centre. HumAngle could not independently verify a community-wide death toll.

For many residents, the persistence of new cases points to challenges that extend beyond emergency response efforts. Community leaders like Ahmadu say the conditions facing Doron Baga are rooted in a longer history of conflict, displacement, and uneven recovery.

The community was among several settlements around Lake Chad that were emptied by years of insurgency before residents gradually returned under the state’s resettlement programme. Yet rebuilding communities after conflict involves more than restoring security. Across Borno State, reconstruction projects have frequently been disrupted by insecurity, while healthcare, water, and sanitation infrastructure have not recovered at the same pace as population returns.

Studies of recurrent cholera outbreaks in northeastern Nigeria have identified weak water infrastructure, sanitation gaps, poverty, displacement, and fragile health systems as recurring risk factors. Researchers argue that outbreaks often reveal deficiencies that remain hidden until disease transmission occurs.

In Doron Baga, the current outbreak has done exactly that.

Every Thursday, 35-year-old Fatima Sani joins hundreds of other women from neighbouring communities across Demsa, a local government area in Adamawa State, northeastern Nigeria, to obtain Ready-to-Use Therapeutic Food (RUTF) for her one-year-old malnourished daughter at the Demsa Primary Healthcare Centre. The mother of nine has made several trips to the centre to ensure her daughter recovers from malnutrition. Her treatment includes RUTF, a paste made from powdered milk, peanuts, butter, vegetable oil, sugar, and a mix of vitamins and minerals. A sachet contains 500 calories and essential micronutrients. 

“My youngest children are twins, and both of them were diagnosed with malnutrition,” Fatima told HumAngle. “One of them has been declared healthy and discharged by the centre, so I no longer bring him here, but I come to obtain RUTF for his twin, and hopefully, she recovers and gets discharged too.”

She noted that the twins were the only children in her household ever to be diagnosed with malnutrition in her household. When asked what the cause might be, Fatima replied: “Hunger.” 

She sells fresh vegetables at the local market in Demsa, and her husband, whom she referred to as Sani, is a rice farmer. She explained that most of his harvest is kept for household consumption, while the rest is sold to meet other needs. Then, a disaster repeatedly washed away his produce. 

“For three years in a row now, floods have been destroying my husband’s farm,” she said, adding that the destruction in 2025 left him devastated. “The rice had reached maturity, but on the expected day of harvest, the flood came and washed everything away.” 

‘Food is scarce’

UNICEF, in its 2025 report, highlighted that flooding is worsening the nutrition crisis in Adamawa, as the destruction of farmlands, disruption of livelihoods, displacement of households, and damage to health and nutrition facilities have all contributed to reduced access to food and essential nutrition services in the state. This has led to a surge in malnutrition levels, doubling the previous year’s estimates and placing children, pregnant women, and lactating women at increased risk. 

After the flood ravaged her husband’s farm, Fatima said, feeding her family became extremely difficult. “We now eat once or twice a day. Some days, there is nothing at all,” she said.  She added that her husband, Sani, left Demsa about two months ago in search of greener pastures due to feeding difficulties in their household. 

Helen Daniel, another woman who collects RUTF for her malnourished granddaughter at the healthcare centre in Demsa, told HumAngle that the 20-month-old child was almost dying when she first saw her. “I had gone to the village to check on my daughter when I noticed that my granddaughter’s ribs were visible. At close to two years, she could barely stand, and she was struggling to keep her head firm,” Helen said.  

Her daughter and son-in-law are full-time farmers in Wuro-Laka, a nearby village in Demsa, so when floods ravaged rural communities around their area, including their farmland, they lost their only means of livelihood.

“Food is scarce, and they only eat what they can get,” Helen said. 

Since she had seen women trooping into the Demsa Primary Healthcare Centre with their children who exhibited the same symptoms as her granddaughter, Helen returned to Demsa town with the child after her visit and headed there too. There, the child was diagnosed with malnutrition in March.

“This is my sixth trip to the centre, and I can boldly say there has been a significant improvement in my granddaughter’s health since I started feeding her the RUTF. She has gained weight, and I can’t wait for her to start walking,” Helen said. 

Dr Innocent Agaba, Senior Registrar at the Department of Paediatrics, Modibbo Adama University Teaching Hospital, Yola, explained that malnourished children who are left untreated do not attain their full intellectual potential and may eventually die. “They will be duller than their peers, and they are literally going to be shorter and smaller than their peers,” he said. 

His observation is consistent with global research. Studies by the World Food Programme, World Health Organisation, and UNICEF have found that childhood malnutrition and stunting are linked to poorer cognitive development, reduced educational outcomes and delayed physical growth, with long-term consequences that can persist into adulthood.

The paediatrician also noted that malnourished children are prone to health complications and organ failures. 

Across flood-prone areas 

According to the Integrated Food Security Phase Classification, armed conflict, inflation, and extreme weather are the main drivers of acute malnutrition in Northern Nigeria, which is affecting about 6.4 million children aged 0 to 59 months, as well as 786,000 pregnant and breastfeeding women. 

The 2025 analysis shows that, of the 21 local governments analysed in Adamawa State, the malnutrition rate was reported to be in the Alert Phase (Phase 2), indicating a deteriorating nutrition situation requiring close monitoring and targeted interventions. Meanwhile, some LGAs in Borno were in the Critical Phase (Phase 4), meaning malnutrition levels had reached an emergency threshold, with a high risk of illness and death among affected children and urgent action was needed to prevent further deterioration.

The effects of repeated flooding on child nutrition are not limited to Demsa. Across Adamawa State, other flood-prone communities are facing similar challenges. In Imburu, a community in Numan Local Government Area of Adamawa State, families are also grappling with rising cases of malnutrition linked to the loss of farmland and livelihoods.

Twenty-one-year-old Shaawalatu Yakubu is one of the RUTF recipients at the primary healthcare facility in Imburu. She told HumAngle that her family is yet to recover from the devastating impact of last year’s flooding. The family relied on produce from their maize farm. Before the damage, she explained, her family’s needs were fully met, and her daughter was on a different meal plan that included soya beans and custard pap with milk, but now, the child is fed whatever is available.

“The flood washed away our maize farmland that reached maturity, including other farmlands and households in the area,” she said. 

Shaawalatu, who resides in Ngbalang, a neighbouring community around Imburu, receives RUTF for her malnourished daughter every Wednesday. “The RUTF is free, and I have seen changes in my daughter since I started feeding her with the supplement,” she said. 

Aisha Musa, whose son is being treated at Imburu Primary Healthcare Centre, said that the prices of foodstuffs in the area had gone up because most farmers are trying to make up for losses incurred in the previous flood. “One mudu of maize was ₦550 Naira, but now, it’s ₦750,” she said.  To help her son tackle the crisis, she feeds him soya beans and guinea corn pap alongside the RUTF supplement. 

An assessment conducted by the National Emergency Management Agency (NEMA) and the Adamawa State Emergency Management Agency (ADSEMA) in June 2025 found that over 9,000 hectares of farmland were destroyed by floods across Adamawa State, while over 23,000 people were displaced. Communities in Numan, including Imburu, Ngbalang, Lure, and Zangun, were severely flooded. Farmlands were submerged, and residents were forced to seek shelter in makeshift homes. 

Still, there’s a challenge 

Every registered woman receives 14 packs of RUTF per child each week across the state’s nutrition centres. Two sachets are to be administered daily. However, there are times when supply is inconsistent, and the children don’t meet the feeding standard.

Norah Noel, a healthcare provider at a nutrition centre in Fufore, another flood-prone local government area in Adamawa, said that RUTF shortages affect recovery rates among malnourished children in the region and that, despite assistance from the Adamawa State government and humanitarian agencies, these shortages persist. 

“Since last October, we haven’t had RUTF on the ground. The rate of malnutrition is increasing because we have plenty of cases that are coming,” she told HumAngle. 

Norah stressed that children aged six to 10 months are among the most affected in the region, adding that more cases are recorded during the rainy season because repeated flooding in the area causes food scarcity. 

The healthcare provider also explained that the Fufore facility, located in the town centre, is always overwhelmed with cases from neighbouring villages. Since there is a shortage of RUTF, Norah stated that the centre is seeking alternative measures to provide care for those affected, while critical cases are referred to larger healthcare facilities. 

She explained that some people spend an average of ₦6,000 to ₦10,000 on transport to reach the centre, only to be disappointed by RUTF shortages. 

“What we do is show them how to make Tom Brown,” Norah said. Tom Brown is a locally produced flour mixed with grains to prevent relapse in malnourished children. 

While the healthcare centre carries out outreach in some of the rural communities in order to reach the malnourished children, Norah believes some children might never make it to the facility, especially those in inaccessible areas. 

In June 2025, UNICEF revealed that over 400,000 children in Nigeria’s northeastern and northwestern regions would be at risk of imminent nutrition stockouts. This means a shortage of RUTF and Supplementary Food, with data indicating a reduction in overall partner and financial volume.  

According to the paediatrician, it is important for malnourished children to complete their full course of RUTF, which can last several weeks or even months. Recovery is considered complete only when a child reaches the recommended weight-for-height Z-score or when their Mid-Upper Arm Circumference (MUAC) returns to a normal range. 

Stopping treatment too early can undo any progress that has been made. “If a person begins to enjoy some benefits from some recovery and then stops, he just reverses back to his initial stage and returns to a pre-morbid state,” he said. 

Yet for many families in rural Adamawa, completing treatment is often easier said than done. During the rainy season, flooding frequently cuts off access to healthcare facilities, making it difficult for caregivers to obtain RUTF or attend follow-up appointments.

Smith Jocthan, the Facility Manager at Demsa Primary Healthcare Centre, told HumAngle that residents from communities like Kodomun, who rely on the facility for RUTF, do not usually show up during the rainy season. Other residents in Fufore raised a similar concern. 

“Their culverts have a problem. When it is flooding season, it’s not easy for them to come to the facility,” he said. 

For health workers on the frontlines, these access challenges underscore a broader problem. Both Jocthan and Norah identified flooding as a major driver of the malnutrition crisis in Adamawa. In Demsa, Jocthan said, repeated flooding is affecting children’s well-being.

Beyond the physical barriers created by flooding, health workers say social and cultural factors also hinder efforts to tackle malnutrition. Jocthan noted that certain misconceptions also contribute to the slow recovery rate in the region, which leads to low rates of discharge among the malnourished children in Demsa. “One such tradition among some people is that a child under five years should not eat eggs. Because if they do, they will become thieves. We know eggs are a source of protein, but most children are denied the opportunity of getting that protein,” he said.

Despite the setbacks, he said the facility is making progress. “This is because many are educated on how to prepare local foods. Before, there was no knowledge of that,” Jocthan said.

In May, Médecins Sans Frontières (MSF), an international humanitarian organisation, warned that malnutrition is no longer a seasonal emergency but a permanent feature of Nigeria’s humanitarian landscape, especially in the northern region, where cases are extremely critical. 

Dr Agaba stated that RUTF supplementation alone is far from enough. “One of the biggest challenges to dealing with malnourished children, especially in impoverished settings, is that people assume RUTF is enough,” he said. The paediatrician stressed the importance of other aspects, such as a healthy, well-fed mother, understanding of a balanced diet, and exclusive breastfeeding.

What to do with the floods?

A study on the causes and effects of floods in Adamawa State has identified the opening of dams, excessive rainfall, rising water levels, and poor drainage as major factors.

When floods pushed families out of their homes in the Benue River Valley in 2025, Agoso Bamaiyi, an environmental scientist, noted that the overflowing of the Benue River through its tributary, the Gongola, is the main driver of flooding in the region. Even though the expert acknowledged climate change and global warming as contributing factors to the rising frequency and intensity of floods, he argues that the Benue’s overflooding remains the central cause in Adamawa. He says dredging the Benue River and constructing a reservoir dam will address the flooding situation. 

In May, the National Emergency Management Agency (NEMA) met with the Adamawa State Governor, Ahmadu Fintiri, as part of its response to rising climate-related threats. Zubaida Umar, NEMA’s Director-General, disclosed that no fewer than 33 states are at risk of flooding this year, with Adamawa listed among the most vulnerable according to projections. 

Governor Fintiri has said that his administration is preparing ahead of the disaster. While measures such as monthly sanitation and drainage clearing are already in place, he emphasised the need for continuous sensitisation of residents in high-risk areas and revealed the government’s plan to establish temporary shelters to accommodate displaced persons in the event of flooding. 

Fintiri also advocated for stronger federal support so as to ease the impact of the flood on affected communities.

HumAngle reached out to the National Emergency Management Agency (NEMA) and the Adamawa State Management Agency (ADSEMA) for comments on their efforts to address the root causes of the flooding, but has not yet received a response. 

With little clarity on what is being done to prevent future flooding, families continue to grapple with its consequences on their own. Helen is determined to nurse her granddaughter to full health. “I will make sure she eats well and is taken care of, and once she recovers, I won’t send her back to the village but will live with her instead. I’m not sure she can survive another cycle of hunger,” she said. Fatima shares a similar hope for her child. She wants her daughter to fully recover and eventually get cleared of malnutrition, just like her twin brother. 

Nigeria’s security crisis is not only unfolding in forests, highways, villages and cities. It is unfolding inside the institutions responsible for confronting it.

The Nigeria Police Force faces a threat that receives far less attention than inadequate funding, obsolete equipment or personnel shortages: the gradual erosion of merit as the basis for advancement.

Every institution reveals its values through what it rewards. When competence, courage, and sacrifice are rewarded, then professionalism grows. But when proximity to power is rewarded, a different culture emerges.

Across Nigeria, police officers are risking their lives daily against insurgents, terrorists, organised armed groups, kidnappers, and violent criminals. Yet many are watching a different reality unfold. They see colleagues whose careers were built around powerful politicians, governors, ministers, and other influential figures rise rapidly through the ranks, often ahead of officers who spent years in dangerous operational theatres.

Some officers remain Superintendents of Police (SPs) while coursemates have risen to Assistant Commissioners of Police (ACPs). Similarly, some officers are Deputy Superintendents of Police (DSPs) while their contemporaries have become Chief Superintendents of Police (CSPs), largely as a result of special promotions granted at different times. Due to these irregularities, an Assistant Commissioner of Police who has spent years on the frontlines can find themselves taking orders from a coursemate who has advanced higher than them, largely because of political connections and privileged appointments rather than demonstrated operational excellence.

Promotions signal to young officers and the outside world what behaviour the institution values. If political visibility matters more than operational excellence, ambitious officers will pursue access instead of experience. Dangerous assignments become career risks rather than opportunities for leadership. No security institution can survive such incentives.

This is not the time for a leadership pipeline shaped by patronage, but a time for leaders tested under pressure and promoted because they have demonstrated competence.

The Police Service Commission exists to protect the integrity of promotions and shield them from political influence. That responsibility has never been more important. The Commission has tried to tie promotion to examination, but has not been able to completely resist the pressure to award “special promotions”. Consequently, officers have questioned promotion outcomes that appear disconnected from performance, operational achievements and professional record. Whether every complaint is justified is not the point. Confidence in the system is eroding.

As thousands of police officers converge in Abuja for promotion examinations, this conversation must be a wake-up call for the institution. The credibility of the process matters as much as the process itself.

The consequences extend beyond morale. A police force that ceases to reward merit eventually ceases to attract and retain its best leaders. When this happens, strategic thinking suffers, professional standards decline, operational effectiveness weakens, and public trust erodes.

These concerns are compounded by longstanding allegations of corruption, extortion, abuse of authority and weak accountability. The EndSARS protests reflected years of public anger over police brutality and impunity. Although reforms were promised, many Nigerians remain unconvinced that accountability has become deeply embedded within the institution.

Merit is not only about promoting the best. It is about ensuring that leadership positions are occupied by individuals whose conduct strengthens public trust. Officers who demonstrate integrity, discipline, and excellence must see those qualities rewarded. Officers whose records are tainted by corruption, abuse, or chronic underperformance should not continue advancing without scrutiny.

Citizens are also noticing a troubling pattern. Some officers attached to powerful political figures are increasingly perceived as beneficiaries of privileges unavailable to most of their colleagues.

The reforms required are straightforward. Promotion criteria should be transparent and publicly accessible. Exceptional promotions should remain exceptional and be clearly justified. Service in high-risk operational environments should carry significant weight. Promotion records should face greater scrutiny. The Police Service Commission must demonstrate visible independence from political pressure.

Nigeria is moving steadily toward state police. If we do not fix the obvious gaps in the federal police before 36 states establish their own police services, the consequences could be chaotic. State policing requires a strong, disciplined, and professional federal police capable of setting standards, enforcing accountability and preventing abuse. A weak federal police cannot effectively keep state police in check.

The future leadership of the Nigeria Police Force is being determined today. Every promotion creates tomorrow’s commanders, investigators, and strategists.

A system built on merit produces leaders. A system built on influence produces loyalists. Nigeria cannot afford a police force where political proximity outranks professional excellence. The country is already paying too high a price for failure.

“Officer, abeg! I go tell you everything. Na my friend na him deceive me. E de Sapele, I go carry you go the place. I no know anything concern. Officer!”

These were the last words of 28-year-old Oghenemine Ogidi before he was shot at close range by Usman Nuhu, an Assistant Superintendent of Police (ASP), on April 26, 2026, in Effurun, Delta State, South South Nigeria. Oghenemine died instantly from the gunshot. 

A disturbing video had captured him speaking Nigerian Pidgin while begging for mercy from the police officer with his hands and legs tied. He was said to have visited the Effurun Main Park along the Warri-Sapele Expressway to collect a waybill for a friend. However, transport union workers intercepted the parcel, which allegedly contained a Beretta pistol and ammunition. The transport workers informed the Uvwie Area Police Command.

At the park, the police, led by ASP Usman, a former member of the disbanded Special Anti-Robbery Squad (SARS), arrived in a 2010 Toyota Sienna with other officers, supposedly to intervene and arrest the suspect, who had already been restrained by the transport unionists. The police whisked him away from the scene and took him to the front of the Ekpan Police Station in the state, where Usman allegedly shot him three times, while the other officers watched. 

The horrific incident triggered a cascade of criticism against the police on the internet, with many condemning the extrajudicial operations of ASP Usman and other officers in the country. Before his death, Oghenemine was an up-and-coming musical artist and the second child in the family to have been killed by the police. The mother of the slain artist said his elder brother was also killed in 2022 by a high-handed police officer.

Human rights defenders and lawyers have condemned the incident, stressing that it betrayed Nigeria’s judicial system. Abba Hikima, a human rights lawyer, told HumAngle that it is unjust for a police officer to execute the most severe form of criminal justice without a fair trial or proper judicial process in any case. He emphasised the need for swift justice for the victim.

“If someone is found culpable or liable for the allegations against him and a judgment of a death sentence is passed, even the court has to hand that out to the executors of the judgment, which is a department of its own; even the judge cannot do that. It is the sheriffs of the court and the executors that execute the judgment of the court,” Abba said, noting that Usman’s job was to arrest, investigate, and charge the suspect in court so that justice could be administered accordingly.

Oghenemine’s murder forms a part of the troubling pattern of extrajudicial killings that have plagued Nigeria for decades, eroding public trust in law enforcement and fuelling cycles of protest and repression.  

A disturbing pattern

Many civilian lives have been lost to police extrajudicial killings, ill-treatment, and abuse of power. Oghenemine only fell victim to a policing system enmeshed in impunity and brutality. Far worse cases have occurred in the past, and disturbing incidents of police officers unleashing cruelty against civilians continue to disrupt Nigeria’s civic spaces. 

In 2005, for instance, six young traders were killed by some police officers during a supposed anti-robbery patrol. The traders were said to be returning from a nightclub in Abuja, North Central Nigeria. One of them, Augustina, had allegedly rejected the advances of a senior police officer, Danjuma Ibrahim, leading to a bitter confrontation. The angry Danjuma then told officers at a nearby police checkpoint that armed robbers were approaching. When the group arrived in their car, the police blocked them and opened fire. Four died instantly, while two survivors were taken away and left to die. The police had reportedly planted weapons on their bodies to frame them as criminals.

The killings sparked outrage across Nigeria, with widespread condemnation of police brutality and impunity. Then-President Olusegun Obasanjo ordered a panel of inquiry, which confirmed that the victims were innocent traders and not armed robbers. Findings from the panel revealed the deliberate framing of the victims and exposed the systemic abuse of power within the police force. The case became emblematic of the dangers of unchecked authority and the lack of accountability in Nigeria’s law enforcement system.

It took more than 11 years for justice to be partially served. In 2017, two of the six policemen involved, Ezekiel Acheneje and Baba Emmanuel, were sentenced to death for their roles in the killings, while others were discharged. 

The Apo Six case remains a relevant example of extrajudicial killings in Nigeria, projecting a system that harbours police misconduct and the long struggle for justice faced by victims’ families. Between 2020 and 2023 alone, 848 Nigerians were victims of extrajudicial killings, according to Global Rights’ Mass Atrocities Tracker.

During the #EndBadGovernance protests in 2024, several protesters were killed in Kano, Jigawa, Katsina, and Kaduna, with experts raising concerns over growing police brutality. In Oghenemine’s case, however, the Nigerian Police Force seems to have moved swiftly to dismiss the officers involved and hand them over for prosecution. 

“The Force does not shield officers who violate the law. No rank, no position, and no circumstance will be permitted to place any officer above accountability,” DCP Anthony Placid, the Police spokesperson, said in a statement at the time. 

On June 1, a High Court in Delta State ordered the detention of five police officers over the alleged killing. The officers – ASP Usman Nuhu, ASP Onoloko Dauroupamo, ASP Okoh Kelechi, Inspector Goodluck Kingsley, and Inspector Omonigho Ahweyevu – were arraigned before Justice Marshal Onome Umukoro under Suit No. THC/ASB/CR/M/66C/2026. The court directed that they be remanded at the Ogwashi‑Uku Correctional Centre pending legal advice from the Directorate of Public Prosecutions (DPP) and adjourned the matter until June 15, 2026, for further proceedings. 

On the scheduled hearing date, Harrison Gwamnishu, a human rights activist who has closely followed the case and was present at the High Court in Asaba, revealed that the DPP had filed the necessary information before the court. He noted that the matter is now awaiting legal advice before proceedings can continue.

“The burial date has not yet been fixed, pending the conclusion of the trial,” he noted. 

The activist emphasised that the murder of Oghenemine symbolises Nigeria’s ongoing challenges with police reform, noting that this incident shows the critical need for reform, accountability, and the protection of human rights. He added that moving forward, the Nigerian police should begin to use body cameras, as they will help reduce the incidents of extrajudicial killings of suspects who are supposed to be charged in court in the country.

“Even though Nigeria stands at a crossroads, I believe that justice will be served, and the judge has ordered that some of the hearings be delivered online to avoid technicalities, even right from the correctional centre. When there is accountability, justice is possible,” the activist said.

‘Police your friend’

Nigeria’s policing system has long been associated with excessive use of force. SARS, for example, was established in 1992 as a branch of the police under the Criminal Investigation Department (CID) and was designed to find a lasting solution to violent crimes, specifically armed robbery, kidnapping, and carjacking across the country. However, it became notorious for torture, extortion, and unlawful killings. 

Despite repeated promises of reform, the culture of impunity persisted. Amnesty International, a global human rights organisation, described the promises of Nigerian leaders to reform the police as “ineffective”. In its 2016 investigation, the organisation painted a damning portrait of SARS, exposing how the unit had strayed far from its original mission of tackling violent crime. SARS officers were accused of turning torture and extortion into a profitable enterprise, routinely brutalising detainees to extract confessions or money. 

The report documented harrowing abuses, including beatings, shootings, starvation, and mock executions. Detainees were held in notorious centres such as the “Abattoir” in Abuja, where overcrowding and inhumane conditions compounded the suffering. Despite clear evidence, officers implicated in torture were rarely suspended or prosecuted; instead, they were transferred to other stations, perpetuating a cycle of impunity.

Beyond violent crimes, SARS extended its reach into civil disputes and business disagreements, exploiting its power to intimidate and extort. Victims reported theft of property, raiding of homes, and confiscation of valuables, with families describing how officers stole cars, emptied bank accounts, and looted homes during arrests. 

The #EndSARS protests of October 2020 were a watershed moment in Nigeria’s struggle against police brutality. Sparked by years of abuses by SARS officers, the protests drew thousands of young Nigerians into the streets, demanding an end to extrajudicial killings, torture, and extortion.  The movement culminated in the Lekki Toll Gate massacre, where security forces opened fire on peaceful demonstrators, killing and injuring dozens. According to Amnesty International, the government’s denial and lack of accountability deepened public mistrust. 

“These shootings clearly amount to extrajudicial executions. There must be an immediate investigation, and suspected perpetrators must be held accountable through fair trials. Authorities must ensure access to justice and effective remedies for the victims and their families,” Osai Ojigho, former country director for Amnesty International in Nigeria, said. 

The death of Oghenemine highlights the same issues that triggered the EndSARS protests: unchecked police violence, lack of accountability, and the erosion of public trust. However, extrajudicial killings are not confined to SARS alone. Regular police units, military detachments, and other security agencies have been implicated in unlawful killings during routine patrols, protests, and even minor disputes. 

For instance, in April 2026, Abdulsamad Jamiu, a youth corps member, was shot in Abuja by Guards Brigade personnel. A similar incident occurred elsewhere on January 1, when Timothy Daniel, a 13-year-old boy, was killed by a soldier in Akwa Ibom. In May 2025, Japhet Njoku, a security guard, died in police detention at Tiger Base, Imo State, after severe beatings. Experts say this systemic problem reflects weak accountability structures, inadequate training, and a justice system that rarely prosecutes officers for abuses.  

“If the lives of human beings can be taken by security personnel, whether or not they have been found guilty of any crime or not and no matter how harsh that crime is, someday somewhere, somebody may be framed for a similar offence, and his life will also be taken unjustifiably,” human rights lawyer Abba warned.

For years, the Boko Haram and the Islamic State West Africa Province (ISWAP) terror groups have told Muslims in Nigeria and the Lake Chad Basin that the world outside their camps is not merely corrupt, but that living in it constitutes unbelief. They reinforce this stance through the misinterpretation of scripture, selective history, and the authority of armed men. They use terms such as tawheed (monotheism), hijrah (migration), bay‘ah (allegiance), jihad, daulah (sovereign state), Darul Islam (abode of Islam), Darul Kufr (abode of unbelief), and takfir (excommunication). 

To the ordinary ear, it may sound like religion, but beneath the vocabulary is a hard political claim: only their authority can certify Islam. Through this doctrine, they decide who is allowed to live, who must die, who is Muslim, who is no longer Muslim, which land is pure, which land is condemned, which ruler is apostate, and why a farmer, teacher, cleric, trader, voter, soldier, journalist, or civil servant can become a target.

The Takfir

At the centre of this war is takfir, the act of declaring a professed Muslim to be an unbeliever. Mainstream Islamic scholarship treats takfir as a grave matter. It requires knowledge, evidence, context, intention, and due process. A Muslim does not leave Islam because he lives under a flawed state, or because he carries an identity card, works in a hospital, teaches in a school, votes in an election, or refuses to migrate to a forest camp – all of which the terror groups view as signs of belief in Western values.

Boko Haram, or Jama’atu Ahlis-Sunna Lidda’Awati Wal-Jihad, shortened as JAS, loyal to Abubakar Shekau, decreed that if you did these things, you were suspect. The most frightening part of Shekau’s doctrine was that he demanded others declare the same people unbelievers, too. If he declared a Muslim in Maiduguri an unbeliever because he lived under the Nigerian state, then ISWAP also had to declare that person an unbeliever. If ISWAP refused, Shekau’s logic turned against the group; they too became unbelievers because they failed to excommunicate those he had excommunicated.

This doctrine explains why JAS could kill villagers, denounce scholars, attack mosques, murder defectors, bomb displaced people, and fight ISWAP while still claiming to defend Islam. In Shekau’s universe, the circle of Islam narrowed until only his faction stood inside it. Everyone else stood outside the gate.

Colonial rupture and the question of authority

Abdulbasit Kassim, assistant professor of religion and classics at the University of Rochester, who specialises in the histories and cultures of Muslim societies in West Africa, places this doctrine inside a longer history. He argues that the question did not begin with JAS but reaches back into debates in Muslim West Africa over land, power, law, colonial rule, and the status of Muslims living under non-Islamic authority.

“Before colonial rule, much of what is now northern Nigeria, southern Niger, northern Cameroon, and western Chad belonged to a wider region known as Central Bilad al-Sudan. Muslim polities such as the Sokoto Caliphate and the Kanem-Borno Empire governed social, economic, political, and legal life through Islamic norms,” he said.

Colonialism disrupted that order. By conquering territory, the British introduced a hierarchy of laws in which Islamic law survived, but with a narrowed jurisdiction. Sharia courts continued in civil matters, especially marriage, inheritance, and family disputes. Criminal punishments under the Islamic canon became restricted, weakened, or rendered practically dormant.

“After 1999, when Zamfara State under Ahmad Sani Yerima revived the criminal aspect of Sharia, old tensions returned,” the professor added. “Some scholars and activists welcomed it as a restoration. Others argued that full Sharia could not operate inside a constitutional democracy where any law inconsistent with the 1999 Constitution could be struck down.”

JAS, evidently, did not emerge in a vacuum. Kassim said, “Mohammed Yusuf rejected Nigeria’s Sharia implementation because, to him, it remained trapped inside a secular constitutional order.” For him, it was not enough for a northern governor to introduce Sharia penal codes. The state itself had to be Islamic. Its sovereignty had to come from Islamic political precepts, not a constitution inherited from colonial rule. This is where the movement’s argument becomes more dangerous. It is not only saying that Nigeria fails to implement Sharia properly, but that the entire political foundation of Nigeria is illegitimate.

To Kassim, figures such as Ibrahim Zakzaky and Mohammed Yusuf shared one major point, even though their methods and movements differed. “They rejected the possibility of fully reconciling the Islamic juridical canon with Nigeria’s inherited secular constitutional order.”

This was the opening JAS exploited.

Nigeria as Darul Kufr

After JAS’s leaders convinced followers that the Nigerian state was illegitimate, the movement moved to the next step: migration. If Nigeria is Darul Kufr, the abode of unbelief, then Muslims had a duty to leave it, they said. If JAS’s territory was Darul Islam, the abode of Islam, then migration into its territory became a religious obligation. The group took an old legal category and weaponised it to control territory, Kassim argued.

This was not abstract in Borno, Yobe, Adamawa, Niger, Chad, and Cameroon. It meant families were pressured, threatened, abducted, or killed. Villages were told to submit. People who remained under government control became suspects; those who cooperated with the military became enemies; those who joined the Civilian Joint Task Force (CJTF) and their families became legitimate targets in the eyes of the insurgents; and traditional rulers, clerics, teachers, and government workers became exposed.

Shekau then stretched the doctrine further.

According to Kassim, “Shekau held that Muslims living under the Nigerian state were no longer Muslim if they refused to migrate into JAS-held territory. ISWAP contested this. It did not accept Shekau’s blanket takfir against all Muslims living in government territory. ISWAP argued that such Muslims became unbelievers only if they gave material support to the Nigerian state or its security forces in the war against the insurgents.”

This difference shaped the split between the factions. ISWAP still accepted the larger jihadist fiction that the Nigerian state was illegitimate and that true authority flowed from the Islamic State. It still treated soldiers, political rulers, security officials, and those directly supporting the state’s war effort as apostates. It still imposed taxes, punishments, surveillance, recruitment, and control over civilians. It still placed armed authority above the lived Islam of communities that had practised the faith for generations.

The difference between Shekau’s terror and ISWAP’s brutal governance is the difference between reckless excommunication and structured coercion. One faction burned the village and shouted scripture. The other taxed the village, citing the doctrine. Both denied ordinary citizens the right to live safely and peacefully.

The internal civil war

Kassim captured this danger years ago in his 2018 study, JAS’s Internal Civil War: Stealth Takfir and Jihad as Recipes for Schism. He wrote that the internal war between JAS factions could only be understood through “a close reading of the constant stream of primary sources produced by the two factions”.

Kassim wrote a sentence that still sits heavily over this conflict: “Those who kill know why they kill, but the majority of those about to be killed will hardly understand why they are being targeted.”

That is the tragedy of takfir in the Lake Chad war.

A farmer on his way to the field may not know the difference between JAS and ISWAP doctrine. A displaced woman in a camp may not know what Shekau wrote about Darul Kufr. A trader at a market may not have heard of Abu Malik al-Tamimi, Anas al-Nashwan, or the arguments ISWAP sent to Islamic State scholars. A village imam may know the Qur’an, but not the way and manner in which insurgents interpret it. Yet their lives can be judged based on those interpretations.

Shekau saw ISWAP’s caution as a compromise and that is where the blood began to flow inward. Kassim explains that Shekau’s rigidity helped push internal revolt. Ansaru had earlier objected to JAS’s killing of Muslims and the violation of what its leaders considered the ethics of jihad. Later, Abu Musab al-Barnawi and Mamman Nur moved against Shekau from within the Islamic State framework. They accused him of extremism, arbitrary killing, and corruption of the cause.

In the interview for this article, Kassim explained that Shekau was far more reckless on takfir than Muhammad Yusuf. Yusuf laid the ideological foundation for rebellion against the Nigerian state, but he was more cautious about excommunicating Muslims. Shekau removed many of those restraints.

Civilian life as suspicion

Kassim’s 2018 chapter recorded that Shekau viewed people living beyond JAS’s controlled territory as infidels and therefore legitimate targets within Darul Harb (abode of war). He also noted that Shekau’s position was harsher towards those who fled from JAS territory to areas controlled by the Nigerian state. In that logic, their camps, mosques, markets, and places of refuge could be attacked until they repented and returned.

ISWAP challenged part of this logic. Abu Musab al-Barnawi argued that Muslims who had always lived outside JAS territory could not be declared unbelievers merely for that reason. In his view, they crossed the line when they gave active or passive support to the Nigerian Army, the Civilian JTF, or other forces fighting the insurgents.

Abu Musab died in Kaduna, northwestern Nigeria, an area that both JAS and ISWAP consider Darul Kufr. This may partly explain ISWAP’s relative fluidity on the issue, compared with JAS.

HumAngle spoke to a former JAS shura member who later joined ISWAP. He subsequently completed the Nigerian government’s deradicalisation programme and now lives freely in Maiduguri. He says the Shekau faction does not recognise the Islam of Nigerians, Saudis, or anyone outside its creed. “To them, whoever is not with them is an unbeliever. Saudi Arabia is no different from a non-Muslim society in their imagination. It is simply another land of unbelief.”

He said ISWAP classifies Muslims living in Nigeria, Cameroon, Chad, Niger, and other states into categories. Those who can migrate but refuse to do so are sinners, not necessarily unbelievers. Their offence is treated as a major sin. The weak, the elderly, women, children, and those without means may be excused. Those who remain outside insurgent territory while openly challenging secular rule and calling people to Islamic governance may even be rewarded. In his telling, Mohammed Yusuf’s preaching before 2009 fits this category.

But those who join the democratic system, legislate, govern, enforce state authority, or fight under the security forces enter a more dangerous category. Politicians and legislators become tawaghit (false gods). Security officials become direct enemies. Soldiers, police officers, Civilian JTF members, and others who bear arms against the insurgents are treated as apostates whose blood is lawful to be spilt.

Doctors and teachers sit lower in ISWAP’s hierarchy of offence. They are not treated the same way as soldiers or politicians, but they still operate inside a system the group condemns.

This is the cold bureaucracy of ISWAP’s worldview. It sorts society by perceived allegiance, measuring sin by proximity to the state. The former Shura member called JAS a Khawarij-type movement because of its sweeping excommunication of Muslims. He said Shekau and his followers misused verses on oppression, migration, and disbelief. They took verses that classical exegetes treated with care and turned them into proof that any Muslim living in Darul Kufr had committed major shirk.

The key verse in their argument comes from Surah An-Nisa, where angels question those who wronged themselves and failed to migrate when Allah’s earth was spacious. ISWAP reads this as a grave warning against remaining in a land where Islam cannot be practised fully. Still, it leaves room for categories such as weakness, inability, and sin below disbelief.

The former shura member says Shekau’s faction then links this to another Qur’anic discussion of zulm (oppression), or wrongdoing, in which classical explanations connect the greatest zulm to shirk (polytheism). From there, JAS concludes that staying in Darul Kufr is not merely a sin but a state of unbelief. That leap is where the danger sits.

The former Shura member said JAS uses this belief to seize wealth, abduct people, kill travellers, attack farmers, and justify arbitrary violence. 

Why Hajj became secondary to war

ISWAP and the wider Islamic State network, the former shura member explains, take a more layered position on Hajj (pilgrimage to Mecca), which is generally regarded by Muslims as one of the five pillars of faith. “They still recognise Hajj as an obligation for Muslims who have the means. But they argue that tawheed has been corrupted worldwide and that restoring it through jihad takes priority. In practice, a wealthy fighter should not spend money on Hajj. He should donate it for weapons.”

Islam makes Hajj one of its five pillars. ISIS and ISWAP do not always deny that in theory, but they demote it in practice. They turn the battlefield into a higher obligation that suspends pilgrimage, family obligations, learning, work, charity, and ordinary religious life.

The anonymous source says senior Islamic State scholars issued rulings that no mujahid should spend his money on Hajj when he can spend it on arms. 

They take a religion structured around testimony, prayer, fasting, zakat, and pilgrimage, then reorder it around obedience to commanders and permanent war. The recruit is told that the world is corrupt, his parents are ignorant, his old imam is compromised, his country is unbelieving, his passport is a symbol of loyalty to kufr, and his only safe identity is inside the jama‘ah (the jihadists’ community). By the time he is asked to kill, the moral world that could have restrained him has already been dismantled.

Saudi Arabia and the battle for religious legitimacy

For Muslims around the world, Saudi Arabia holds Mecca and Medina, the two holiest sanctuaries in Islam. Millions perform Hajj under Saudi administration, yet jihadist ideologues have long denounced the Saudi state as apostate, accusing its rulers of alliance with Western powers, partial application of Sharia, participation in the United Nations system, and military cooperation with the United States and others.

Kassim points to Abu Muhammad al-Maqdisi, the Jordanian jihadist ideologue, whose writings attacked the legitimacy of the Saudi state. The argument is familiar in jihadist circles: Saudi rulers claim Sharia, but rule partly through artificial laws; they belong to the international state system; they support Western military campaigns; they host or cooperate with foreign military power; they have betrayed Muslims.

This is why jihadists can condemn Saudi rulers while still struggling over the status of Hajj. Some declare the rulers apostate but still accept that Muslims may perform Hajj because the holy places remain sacred. Others move closer to rejecting Hajj under Saudi authority or treating it as inferior to jihad.

The anonymous source says ISWAP and Islamic State circles call the Saudi royal and scholarly establishment “Ahl Salul”, a contemptuous distortion linking them to hypocrisy. They do not call them “A’l Saud” or “A’l Sheikh” with respect. They dismiss many Saudi scholars as apostates or compromised because they did not confront the Saudi state.

Who gets to define religion? The scholars of centuries? The community? The custodians of the holy cities? The legal schools? The state? The armed commander in the bush? JAS and ISWAP argue that authority belongs to the armed vanguard. That is why they reject Nigeria’s Sharia states, Saudi Arabia, Qatar, UAE, Afghanistan, Mali, Niger, Chad, and other Muslim-majority or Muslim-populated states. 

The third generation of war

Kassim warned in the interview that the conflict is entering a third generation, which JAS described in one of its propaganda videos as “Jiyalit-Tamkin” (reinforcement generation). Many fighters were born into war and therefore did not sit through the early debates or learn the tradition deeply. They inherited fear, slogans, weapons, commanders, and survival inside an insurgent economy.

The first generation, including Mohammed Yusuf, Shekau, Mamman Nur, and others, had some level of Islamic training. One may reject their interpretations, but they tried to ground their actions in texts. Shekau himself wrote books and cited Usman Dan Fodio, even if, as Kassim notes, the citations were often erroneous and shallow.

The current generation is different. For many of them, jihad is the only economy they know, and now functions as the road to food, wives, money, status, revenge, protection, and belonging. 

The former shura member says this is visible among the Shekau loyalists who remain under Bakura’s orbit. He says they suffer from a dearth of scholars and describes figures around the faction as lacking deep knowledge, with some retained by kinship, money, fear, or coercion rather than conviction. This is one of the most important revelations.

“The war is no longer driven only by men who believe they are restoring an Islamic order. It is also driven by men trapped inside a violent economy that needs theology to keep feeding itself,” the former shura member said. War has become a livelihood.

Ending the conflict requires more than defeating JAS’s ideology. Many actors are bound to the war by power, profit, survival, and identity, making violence harder to end than extremist beliefs.

Why the war endures

The state did not create JAS’s theology, but it gave the movement that emerged in northeastern Nigeria some of its most powerful stories. The killing of Mohammed Yusuf in 2009, mass arrests, military abuses, corruption, abandoned communities, failed justice, and the humiliation of civilians all became material for insurgent propaganda.

Across the Sahel, the same pattern repeats. Jihadist groups exploit weak courts, abusive soldiers, predatory officials, unresolved local disputes, ethnic suspicion, rural abandonment, and poverty. This is why Nigeria cannot bomb its way out of the conflict.

The anonymous former shura member rejected claims linking recent schoolchildren kidnappings in Oyo State to either ISWAP or JAS. According to him, the perpetrators are unlikely to belong to either group. Instead, they may be newly emerging terrorist cells, former Lake Chad insurgents, or criminal networks that have adopted the rhetoric, tactics, and imagery associated with the Lake Chad insurgency.

Nigeria now faces more than one threat. There are jihadist factions with doctrine, command structure, and transnational links. There are armed gangs with local motives. Some kidnappers borrow religious language. Some opportunists understand that the word Sharia can create fear, attract attention, or confuse investigators.

Bad analysis merges them all while good analysis separates doctrine, network, command, territory, language, and motive. 

The need for precision

Experts say mainstream Islamic scholars must speak with more precision and courage. They must confront takfir clearly and explain why residence under a secular state does not erase religion. They must explain why bad governance does not give an insurgent the right to cancel the faith of millions, why Hajj cannot be demoted by men who need money for weapons, and why Sharia without mercy, restraint, due process, and qualified authority becomes rule by fear.

It is not enough to say JAS has nothing to do with Islam. That may comfort outsiders, but it does not answer the recruit who has heard verses, hadith, juristic language, and historical references. 

Kassim admits he does not see a clear solution. The idea of restoring an Islamic state will remain as long as many Muslims see the Nigerian system as chaotic, unjust, corrupt, and unable to serve its people. The dysfunction of democracy strengthens the insurgents’ claim. 

The insurgents do not need Nigeria to fail. They only need it to be failed enough for a young man to feel humiliated and for a farmer to distrust soldiers. It was enough for a displaced family to feel forgotten. Every abuse becomes a sermon for them. 

Submission as the ultimate test

The fight against JAS and ISWAP is often framed as a fight to win back territory in Sambisa, Alagarno, Mandara, Marte, Abadam, Lake Chad, or the borderlands. But it is also about authority: Who defines religion? Who protects life? Who dispenses justice and punishes wrongdoing? Who can call another person an unbeliever?

This explains why the majority of JAS’s victims have been Muslims. The war has devastated Muslim villages, clerics, farmers, traders, women, children, and displaced families.

JAS and ISWAP are defending their monopoly over religion. And inside that monopoly, Daniel the priest, Ibrahim the imam, the displaced mother, the market trader, the farmer, the journalist, and the child on the road can all meet the same fate. 

When dozens of farmers bade farewell to their family members on the morning of Friday, June 12, and headed out in different directions to work on their farms, 17 of them were not lucky enough to return home alive. The farmers were killed after terrorists invaded their fields in the Maradun Local Government Area (LGA) of Zamfara, North West Nigeria.

Locals say 13 other farmers were injured during the attack, with three of them referred to the Usmanu Danfodiyo University Teaching Hospital (UDUTH) in Sokoto. A survivor of the attack, who identified himself only as Bello, told HumAngle that he was on his farm in the outskirts of Gora in the Maradun LGA, at around 9 a.m., when he heard the first gunshot. He said he thought it was one of the Yan Sakai local security guards, but it became clear that it was a terrorist attack when the gunshot sounded a second time. Yan Sakai security volunteers are young people carrying weapons to protect residents from terrorist attacks. 

Bello recalled that he was lying face down while others fled. As the gunfire persisted, he managed to pull himself to the other side of the road before running home. “I was lucky, my farm is right on the side of the road; most of those killed had their farms a little bit away from the road,” he said.

For over ten years, rural terrorism has become widespread and persisted in Zamfara and other northwestern states. In many ungovernable areas, farmers are compelled to pay a farming tax before they are permitted to work on their fields as the wet season arrives. The armed groups also require farmers to make payments running into millions to cultivate their crops. Even after paying, not all communities are granted access to their farmlands. Many communities have been displaced, and food stores have been torched because residents failed to pay the required farming tax.

HumAngle recently reported that about 40 leaders of a farming community were abducted at a peace deal meeting with a terrorist leader in a village in the Maradun LGA. The community leaders were lured into a meeting to discuss how much they would pay to a terror group, only for them to be abducted by the leader of the criminal syndicate. In a separate report, we also documented how farmers were being displaced after paying millions of naira as farming tax to terrorists in Zamfara.

“There were a lot of motorcycles with bandits on top, shooting sporadically, but I managed to escape. The bandits [terrorists] must have divided into groups because there were gunshots from all corners,” Bello said.

The chairman of the Maradun LGA, Sanusi Dosara, stated that the recent devastating attack reflects the ongoing efforts of terrorists to disrupt farming activities in the state. Since early June, there has been an increase in attacks aimed at farmers in Zamfara. 

Prior to the latest incident, two farmers were killed while tending to their fields near the Kaya community, not far from Gora in Maradun. Earlier, eight farmers were killed in an attack in Gima village, located in Anka LGA. According to locals, the farmers who lost their lives in the Gima assault were: Sani Kanen Tidurogo, Salisu Kadda, Bello Kyabe, Ibrahim na Yakubu Ziti, Yusuf Malan Rabi, Masaudu Sani Adake, Abdulmajid Sani, and Adamu Dungo.

“The terrorists are intentional about what they want,” Abdulmudallib Anka, a resident, told HumAngle. His house in Anka is filled with internally displaced persons from Gima and other villages. “The day of that attack, the terrorists circled a group of farmers working on their farms before they started shooting sporadically.”

Abdulmudallib noted that the recurring attacks have shown the terrorists are ready to continue their onslaught against the civilian population, so as to stop them from gaining access to their farms. There have also been reports of attacks in which farmers were killed in the communities of Kaura Namoda, Tsafe, Zurmi, and Birnin Magaji LGAs over the past few days.

Sulaiman Abdullahi, a youth leader in Birnin Magaji, said the situation has forced several farmers to stop going to the farm.

“Early June, farmers were attacked outside Tungar Danjuma and Gidan Kyafda, which led to the death of about six farmers with several others injured,” Sulaiman said. “That same day, farmlands on the Birnin Magaji – Kaura Namoda road were also attacked around 1 p.m.”

In Zurmi LGA, the terrorists struck on June 7 and invaded the outskirts of the town, along the road to Kaura Namoda, killing two farmers working on their farms. 

Jadon John keeps a diary in which he records reference numbers for government-mandated registrations. Based in Jimeta, a commercial district in Adamawa State, northeastern Nigeria, one page of Jadon’s diary contains his voter registration details and another lists his Bank Verification Number (BVN). The 34-year-old has also noted down his National Identification Number (NIN), records for Subscriber Identification Module (SIM) registration, and information for his driver’s licence renewal. 

All of these are national digital identifiers that Nigerians require for most official documentation. For him, these entries feel like variations of the same repetitive process. 

“It has been stressful from the beginning,” he said, sitting outside a phone repair shop near the Jimeta Modern Market in Adamawa. “I first registered for my voter’s card, then later did BVN at the bank, and after that, I spent almost two days trying to get my NIN. Every place asked for almost the same information and biometric capture.”

The queues were always long, he said, and sometimes the network would fail after hours of waiting. His experience has become a normal routine for many people in Nigeria, a country that has devoted years to developing digital identity systems aimed at modernising governance, enhancing financial inclusion, and minimising fraud. 

Experts have described the government’s efforts as Digital Public Infrastructure (DPI), which encompasses the collective digital frameworks that facilitate effective online interactions between governments and citizens. Despite the government’s investments in identity infrastructure, many citizens experience cycles of repeated registrations, record mismatches, and fragmented databases. At the heart of the problem is a simple contradiction: Nigeria now has multiple powerful identity systems, but they do not fully connect with one another.

One person, many registrations

Jadon, for instance, says he struggles to remember how many times he has submitted his fingerprints for similar digital identity registrations. “Every agency takes my fingerprints, passport photo, phone number, and address again, as if I have never registered anywhere before,” he complained, especially about how repetitive and tedious these processes can be.

Nigeria has multiple agencies managing different biometric databases for identity verification, banking security, voting, and driver licensing. The National Identity Management Commission (NIMC) manages the NIN database to build Nigeria’s foundational identity system. The Central Bank of Nigeria (CBN) introduced the BVN in 2014 to secure the banking sector and combat fraud. The Independent National Electoral Commission (INEC) maintains its own voter register for elections, while the Federal Road Safety Corps (FRSC) operates another biometric database for driver licensing. Each system has its own valid purpose, but when combined, they frequently function in isolation. Experts say this lack of coordination can sometimes lead to significant problems.

Jadon said that on many occasions, he has suffered service disruptions due to identity mismatches. His bank account was once restricted because his NIN details did not exactly match the BVN record. One system had his middle name fully written, while another used only initials. A similar incident occurred in 2020, when his SIM was blocked amid the government’s NIN-SIM linkage policy.

“When my SIM was blocked because of the NIN-SIM linkage issue, I lost customers because people could not reach me,” he recalled. “I could not receive calls, bank alerts, or access mobile banking for days simply because my records did not match properly across the systems.”

As with the NIN-SIM linkage policy, people also face difficulties linking their BVN to their NIN records. The BVN was introduced in 2014, when Nigeria’s national identity system was not yet fully developed for seamless nationwide interoperability. Abubakar Nuhu Buba, the Deputy Manager of the Currency Operations and Branch Management Department at the CBN in Yola, said the BVN emerged during a period when Nigerian banks urgently needed stronger identity verification systems.

“The original goal of the BVN system was to address the absence of a unique identifier across the Nigerian banking industry,” Abubakar noted. “The banking industry faced an urgent security crisis that the national identity system was not yet equipped to handle.”

The CBN official revealed that the current BVN-NIN integration presents a complex dual effect on financial inclusion. While it builds a more secure foundation for credit and digital banking, he said, it also creates significant friction that risks pushing vulnerable rural populations back into the informal sector. That friction is often felt most sharply in rural communities where internet access is weak, enrolment centres are scarce, and transport costs are high.

The unified identity dream

Nunaya David, a senior enrolment officer with NIMC in Adamawa, said the NIN is intended to serve as Nigeria’s official foundational identity number. Its primary goal is to establish a unique identity for every Nigerian and legal resident, serving as a central reference point across various platforms and services.

“The long-term goal is one person, one identity across all sectors,” he noted.

In theory, that would mean a citizen registers biometrics once, and authorised institutions securely verify identity digitally, rather than repeatedly capturing fingerprints and photographs. But in practice, the systems continue to function as separate databases.

Nigeria’s broader digital interoperability efforts are also coordinated by the National Information Technology Development Agency (NITDA), which has developed frameworks to improve secure data exchange and interoperability across government institutions. Through initiatives such as the Nigerian e-Government Interoperability Framework (Ne-GIF) and the Nigeria Data Exchange framework, NITDA seeks to enable Ministries, Departments, and Agencies (MDAs) to securely share and verify data across platforms rather than operate disconnected databases. The agency has repeatedly stressed that interoperability is essential to achieving Nigeria’s “One Citizen, One Identity” vision.

“The main reason citizens still repeat biometric registration is that most agencies still maintain independent databases and legal mandates,” Nunaya said. He identified several challenges affecting Nigeria’s digital identity systems, including varying database architectures, inconsistent data formats, outdated legacy infrastructure, network disruptions, and issues regarding data ownership.

“Many citizens have different names, dates of birth, or phone numbers across BVN, voter registration, passport, and NIN records,” he added, noting that minor spelling differences can prevent systems from recognising the same person.

Registration for a voter’s card through the Independent National Electoral Commission (INEC) also presents similar interoperability challenges. INEC officials in Yola told HumAngle that their biometric registration process serves a different purpose from the NIN database. Grace Akpan, an electoral officer in the state, said the electoral body is mandated to conduct its own biometric registration because the voter register is legally separate from the NIN and BVN databases. The commission also captures biometrics specifically for the Bimodal Voter Accreditation System (BVAS) used during elections.

“INEC currently does not use NIN as a mandatory verification requirement during voter registration,” Grace said.

Citizens can still register to vote without a NIN because the law allows other forms of identification, including passports, birth certificates, and driver’s licences. The official said that while discussions on collaboration exist between INEC and NIMC, real-time nationwide interoperability has not yet been achieved.

It is the same challenge of duplicated effort for Nigeria’s road safety administration. Samuel Danladi, an Assistant Corps Commander of the FRSC in Adamawa, said biometrics are collected during driver’s licence registration to prevent fraud and maintain unique driver records. Although most applicants already possess NIN or BVN records, the FRSC still performs separate biometric capture.

“Nigeria’s identity systems were developed independently by different agencies with separate mandates,” Danladi argued. “Systems are not fully interoperable, biometric standards differ, and agencies lack full real-time access to one another’s databases.”

Since December 2020, FRSC has made the NIN compulsory for driver’s licence applications and renewals, but citizens still submit fingerprints and photographs during the licensing process. “What exists now is mostly verification-based connectivity, not full data-sharing interoperability,” Danladi said.

The human cost 

For ordinary Nigerians, however, the consequences go beyond inconvenience. The burden often falls hardest on people who depend on daily income and cannot afford to spend days correcting identity records. Mercy Barka, a caterer in Yola, encountered an issue while attempting to transfer money to a supplier via her bank’s mobile app. The transaction repeatedly failed despite sufficient funds in her account.

When she visited her bank branch, she was told that her account name did not exactly match the name attached to her BVN records. One database contained her full middle name, while another used an abbreviated version. “The bank told me I needed to correct the information with NIMC first or obtain an affidavit before they could update the records,” she said.

What appeared to be a minor discrepancy eventually took five days to resolve. The resolution required Mercy to shuffle between the bank, a court registry, and the NIMC enrolment centre. “I spent money on transport, affidavit fees, and photocopies,” she said. “The amount I spent trying to correct the problem was painful because I was only trying to access my own money.”

Identity mismatches do not merely create administrative inconvenience; they can interrupt business activities, delay transactions, and impose additional costs on already strained incomes. “It affects everything,” Jadon said quietly. “I lose workdays anytime I have to visit these offices. I spend money on transport, passport photographs, and photocopies.”

Throughout Nigeria, individuals frequently undertake long journeys to resolve discrepancies in records between various databases. This can occur due to a missing middle name, an incorrect birth date, or issues with fingerprint synchronisation during verification. Sometimes, entire systems may just go offline.

“Sometimes one office tells you their server is down after waiting for long hours,” Jadon said. “Other times, they say your information does not match another system. You keep moving from one office to another, trying to correct problems you do not even understand.”

For Charles Anthony, a student who secured a scholarship under the Adamawa State Government, the frustration came during the renewal of his passport. Although immigration authorities already possessed biometric records linked to his previous passport, he was required to submit fresh fingerprints and another facial photograph during the renewal process.

“I thought renewal meant they would simply verify the information they already had,” Charles said. “Instead, it felt like starting the registration process from the beginning.”

The repeated capture was not unique to passport services. Charles noted that he had previously submitted similar biometric information during NIN registration, voter registration, and banking enrolment. “Sometimes it feels like the offices do not know that they are dealing with the same person,” he said.

The privacy question

Beyond the interoperability problem facing Nigeria’s digital identity systems, a growing concern over data protection has also emerged among citizens and digital governance experts. Different government agencies now hold enormous amounts of biometric and demographic information about citizens, including fingerprints, facial scans, phone numbers, home addresses, and financial records. Yet many Nigerians remain uncertain about how securely that information is managed.

“I worry about it sometimes,” Jadon said. “Different agencies already have my fingerprints, face, phone number, and personal details, but nobody explains clearly how the data is protected or who can access it.”

Data protection experts say the concern is legitimate. Vincent Olatunji,  the National Commissioner of the Nigeria Data Protection Commission (NDPC), believes that effective identity management requires “harmonised policies, secure technologies, and inclusive systems.” Vincent warned that identity systems must align closely with privacy and data protection frameworks to build public trust. He also said that disconnected databases can increase security vulnerabilities because agencies often duplicate sensitive information rather than securely verify identity through shared infrastructure. He noted that the risks include inconsistent records, unauthorised access, identity theft, and data breaches across multiple systems.

Mohammed Bello Buhari, a digital governance and democracy expert, noted that as Nigeria develops its Digital Public Infrastructure, the primary challenge is ensuring efficient information exchange across systems without repeatedly collecting the same personal data. Mohammed argued that the purpose of modern digital identity systems is not to create more databases but to enable trusted verification across institutions.

“The goal is not to collect more data about people, but to create trusted ways of verifying identity while minimising unnecessary data sharing,” he said, warning that when agencies continue collecting the same information independently, citizens are exposed to greater privacy and security risks because sensitive personal data is duplicated across multiple databases rather than verified through interoperable systems.

Alan Gelb, a senior fellow at the Centre for Global Development and a long-time researcher on identification systems, also argued that global digital identity systems create the greatest value when they are interoperable and trusted across sectors rather than operating as isolated databases. According to him, fragmented systems often increase costs for both governments and citizens while reducing the efficiency that digital identity programmes are meant to achieve.

The World Bank’s Identification for Development (ID4D) programme advocates that trusted digital identity systems should be accompanied by strong safeguards for privacy and data protection. The World Bank noted that digital identity reaches its full potential when combined with secure data-sharing frameworks that allow institutions to verify information without repeatedly collecting it from citizens.

For Jadon, however, those debates remain far from everyday reality. His concern is that several government agencies already possess the same fingerprints, photographs, and personal records, yet he is still asked to provide them.

Learning from other countries

Countries around the world have faced similar identity challenges, but several have moved further towards interoperability. In India, the Aadhaar system allows citizens to authenticate identity across banking, telecoms, and public services through a shared digital identity infrastructure. In Estonia, a European country in the Baltic region, the digital identity ecosystem enables citizens to access healthcare, taxes, voting, and banking through interoperable platforms connected by secure data-sharing systems. The ID4D programme also encourages countries to build interoperable identity ecosystems as part of Digital Public Infrastructure.  

As of early 2026, Nigeria had already issued more than 127 million NINs, according to figures released by NIMC, which shows the massive scale of the country’s digital identity expansion. Meanwhile, Nigeria aims to issue up to 180 million NINs by December 2026 and has begun upgrading its identity infrastructure under the NIMS 2.0 platform, which is supported by the World Bank. 

Despite the current frustrations, officials across agencies agree on one thing: the future lies in interoperability.

“The key reform needed in Nigeria’s identity system is establishing the NIN as the single foundational identity across government services,” Samuel of the FRSC said, calling for stronger interoperability standards, reduced repeated biometric capture, improved digital infrastructure, and stronger cybersecurity protections.

The CBN official also told HumAngle that Nigeria would soon achieve interoperable digital systems. “There are major plans to move towards a single, unified identity system by December 2026,” the official claimed. 

For citizens like Jadon, however, reforms cannot come soon enough. He says he is tired of standing in endless queues to repeatedly provide the same fingerprints. “If the government already has my information, why should I still start from the beginning every single time?” he asked.

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

It was midnight on April 12 when Modu Baluye woke to the sound of gunfire.

He was asleep with his family inside a classroom at Government Girls’ Secondary School (GGSS), in Monguno, Borno’s north, in northeastern Nigeria, which now serves as a temporary displacement camp, when the first shots rang out. Then came another burst, and another, cutting through the night in rapid succession.

“These people are attacking again,” he remembered saying.

He whispered a prayer and stayed awake. Around him, other displaced families were stirring as well. In the darkness, people listened without speaking, measuring the distance of the violence by the sound of the guns. The attack went on for hours.

By Modu’s account, the gunshots lasted about four hours. He later learned it was a gun battle between terrorists and military officers at the nearby Sector 3 base. As the troops pursued the terrorists along the exit route between Gana Ali, another displacement shelter, and the GGSS, they drove over buried explosives, which detonated and killed the commanding officer and six other soldiers.

By morning, fear had settled over the communities.

The military, residents said, became suspicious of the settlements around the base. The attackers had entered on foot under the cover of darkness, and the communities were not far from the military formation.

“They suspected we were hiding some of them,” Modu said. In the days that followed, soldiers raided Gana Ali and the GGSS camp. Residents told HumAngle that five suspected informants in the communities were arrested, and weapons were recovered. Then came an order for the communities to leave.

“They told us: leave or we will kill you all and burn down your houses,” Modu recounted. Within two days, families began dismantling their makeshift shelters. They packed what they could carry and left. Some were moved to a government settlement on the outskirts of Monguno, along the Monguno-Gajiram road, which is about a 30-minute walk from town.

“It is two weeks today,” Modu said when he spoke to HumAngle on May 10. “The place was torched after we left. I am not sure who torched the buildings.”

For Modu, displacement is not new. He fled Ala, his village in the Marte Local Government Area (LGA) of the state, in 2016 as insurgent violence spread across northern Borno. At the time, he was unmarried and found refuge with his parents at the ‘Water Board’ displacement camp in Monguno, where they lived for about six months. He later moved to the GGSS settlement after securing his own shelter and spent nearly a decade there. In 2024, he got married. By the time soldiers ordered residents to leave the community in April, he had begun building a mud house on a piece of land he purchased the previous year. It was there, in the unfinished house, that he and his family began rebuilding their lives after years of displacement.

A war returning to the bases

The Monguno attack came during a renewed wave of terror assaults on military formations and rural settlements across Borno.

In recent months, terrorists from Jama’atu Ahlis Sunna Lidda’awati wal-Jihad (JAS), commonly known as Boko Haram, and the Islamic State West Africa (ISWAP) have repeatedly targeted troops, bases, weapons, and supply routes. The attacks have killed soldiers, including senior military officers, and Civilian Joint Task Force (CJTF) members. 

In Nov. 2025, terrorists ambushed a military convoy along the Damboa-Biu road. Two soldiers and two CJTF members were killed. Brigadier-General M. Uba, commander of the 25 Task Force Brigade, was abducted and later killed.

On Jan. 26, terrorists attacked a military base in Damasak, killing seven soldiers and capturing 13 others, including the commanding officer. Eleven later escaped. Five days later, on Jan. 31, another terror attack on an army base in Sabon Gari killed nine soldiers and two CJTF members; about 16 injured security personnel were evacuated for treatment.

On March 10, a military base in Kukawa came under attack; the commanding officer, Lt. Col. Umar Farouq, and several of his soldiers were killed. 

On April 9, three days before the Monguno attack, terrorists launched a joint assault on the headquarters of the 29 Task Force Brigade in Benisheikh, killing its brigade commander, Brigadier-General Oseni Braimah.

The attacks have already weakened the military formations in rural areas. In some places, troops have withdrawn or consolidated around larger garrison towns, leaving smaller settlements more exposed. But when soldiers are killed, residents say the anger does not end on the battlefield. It returns with the troops.

The trails of suspicion

In rural Borno, civilians are often trapped between two armed powers. Terrorists demand information about troop movements, military positions, and security operations. Soldiers, in turn, demand information about insurgent hideouts, movements, and informants. Refusing either side can be deadly.

Those suspected of helping the military may be abducted or killed by the terrorists. Those suspected of helping terrorists may be arrested, detained, displaced, or punished by security forces. As a result, civilians often face impossible choices, with serious consequences regardless of whom they cooperate with.

Despite these risks, communities have at times provided intelligence to the military. In March, for example, residents of Doro, a rural community in Kukawa LGA on the shores of Lake Chad, reportedly alerted troops after observing suspicious insurgent movements, helping security forces prepare for an attack.

The consequences of such actions can be severe. In March 2022, ISWAP executed four civilians in communities within the same local government area after accusing them of spying for government troops. Residents said the killings were intended to deter others from sharing information with security forces. For many civilians, the message was clear: speaking to the military could carry a death sentence. 

The Chief of Defence Staff (CDS), Gen. Olufemi Oluyede, recently argued that residents in Borno and Yobe knew some of those behind the attacks during an operational visit to Maiduguri in March, reflecting a long-held security assumption that residents in affected communities often know more than they admit. The CDS said communities must take ownership of the crisis, citing Kukawa, where he claimed two of the attackers were from within the village.

But for many civilians, knowing does not mean consenting. They say  in places where terrorists move freely, buy food, collect supplies, and threaten residents, silence is often a currency for survival.

Professor Abubakar Mu’azu, former director of the Centre for Peace, Development, and Diplomatic Studies at the University of Maiduguri, said this suspicion has existed since the early years of the insurgency.

“Right from the start, there was suspicion by the security agencies that the people who are living in areas where these terrorist activities were happening are also supporting the terrorists,” he said. “They never considered the fact that there is a majority of people who disagree with these terrorists’ activities.”

Mu’azu said the reactionary nature of security operations has prevented the military from building a reliable system of trust with local communities.

“They assume that the locals are giving information to the terrorists willingly,” he said. “But they keep saying they want the people to give them information about the terrorists.”

For him, this contradiction is at the heart of the crisis.

The military needs civilian intelligence to fight terrorism, but if civilians fear that any contact with terrorists, even under duress, will be treated as collaboration, they may stop speaking altogether.

Life under duress

In Monguno, residents say terrorists still move in and out of town despite the presence of security forces.

Koso Abubakar, a displaced farmer, said the terrorists often enter on motorcycles, buy food items, and leave.

“They come and leave at will,” he said. “Sometimes, they come to kidnap people. They don’t attack the military, and the military does not confront them. But on other days, they attack the military. That is when the military retaliates.”

According to Koso, most residents live with the knowledge that they can be accused by either side at any time.

“People are living in fear because everyone is a potential target,” he said.

In many rural communities, even work has become dangerous. A farmer going to his field, a fisher heading towards the water, or a trader moving goods through bush paths may first have to pay those who control the routes. The payments are called taxes, levies, or sometimes simply “settlement”, but residents understand what they are: money paid under fear. To refuse is to risk punishment, in lighter cases, or killing and abduction, in extreme cases, from terrorists. To pay is to risk being seen by soldiers as someone sustaining the insurgency. In this way, even the small acts people perform to feed their families can become evidence against them.

Professor Mu’azu said this fear terrorists use violence to discipline communities.

“They are very good at setting a very deadly example by killing or eliminating people, with or without evidence,” he said. “If they are attacked by security agencies and they did not hear anything from people living in these settlements, they would assume the people gave information about their positions.”

This was what many residents believe happened in Ngoshe in March, when terrorists attacked the community, killed many residents, and abducted others, including women and children. The attack was suspected to be retaliation for a previous military operation in the Mandara Mountains that killed some terrorist commanders. The terrorists reportedly believed residents had given up their location.

For civilians, the lesson is brutal: giving information can kill you. Not giving information can also kill you.

When protection becomes punishment

The military has long accused some civilians of aiding terrorists.  In the early years of the war, many young men were arbitrarily detained. Some disappeared. Some were killed. In April 2014, soldiers arrested 42 adult men from Gallari, a village in the Konduga LGA of Borno, on suspicion of links to the insurgency. They were taken to the Giwa Barracks detention facility in Maiduguri. Twelve years later, only three have regained their freedom after years in detention and alleged torture. Through months of on-the-ground investigation and analysis of satellite imagery, HumAngle has also previously reported on disappearances and mass graves linked to military operations, while the wives of detained and disappeared men later formed the Knifar Women movement to demand justice.

For communities already carrying the memory of those years, new raids and forced evacuations reopen old wounds.

Mu’azu said security forces should approach communities with more care, especially when allegations of collaboration arise.

“One would assume that when security forces are dealing with situations like this, they would not come with the mindset that the people are sympathetic to the terrorists, or that all the people are giving information to the terrorists,” he said.

He added that soldiers have a difficult job and deserve sympathy for the burden they carry. But he argued that this does not justify indiscriminate punishment.

“They are the ones who are supposed to protect the civilians,” he said. “If there are people they suspect, they should arrest them and hand them over to the police for proper investigation, without compromising the little support they have in the community.”

When communities are burned or displaced after attacks, the consequences go beyond the immediate loss of shelter. Food stocks disappear. Children are pulled out of school. Families scatter. People who had already fled violence once are forced to flee again.

In resettled or displaced communities, where people have spent years coping, another displacement can mean the collapse of everything they had slowly rebuilt.

A dangerous silence

After the Monguno raid, Koso said some residents became so afraid of the military that they fled into the bush.

“Many people, about 30, also left for the bush,” he said. “Most of them fear the military. The military does not trust them.”

Mu’azu warned that this kind of fear can damage counterterrorism efforts.

“They will lose trust, respect, and block chances of receiving information,” he said. “This could also push them to be recruited by the terrorists.”

For Mu’azu, the solution is not to abandon intelligence work, but to make it safer and more systematic. He said the military should cultivate trusted informants within communities, create secure channels of communication, and protect residents when terrorists retaliate.

“This is the gap,” he said. “Oftentimes, communities are attacked after successful military operations. The patterns should be studied. They should do a statistical analysis. They should be mindful of the time and be prepared against such actions.”

He also called for stronger collaboration among the military, DSS, police, civil defence, and intelligence agencies in neighbouring countries such as Cameroon, Chad, and Niger, because terrorists move across borders.

But for Modu and others displaced from Gana Ali and the GGSS, these policy questions remain distant. What they know is simpler: they fled one danger and met another. They were told to leave the place they had made into a home. Then they watched, or heard, that what remained had been burned.

In Borno’s war, civilians are often asked to prove their loyalty to the state while surviving under the shadow of terrorists, and in that narrow space between fear and suspicion, many are losing everything.