Nigeria

In July, the humanitarian organisation Médecins Sans Frontières (MSF) revealed that Nigeria’s northwestern region is facing an alarming malnutrition crisis, with Katsina State at the epicentre, and is currently witnessing a surge in admissions of malnourished children. It was not the first time the organisation had raised the alarm. It had also done so several times in the past year. 

Against this backdrop, government leaders, international organisations, and civil society convened in Abuja, the federal capital city, on Thursday to mobilise against the escalating crisis in the region.

Hosted by the Katsina State Government, the Northwest Governors Forum, and MSF, the event drew participation from the Office of the Vice President, UNICEF, WFP, the World Bank, the INGO Forum, ALIMA, IRC, CS-SUN, and the European Union.

MSF’s country representative, Ahmed Aldikhari, noted that 2025 has been flagged as the worst, recording the highest cases of malnutrition in the last five years.

“We are here to highlight the situation and solidify commitments, collaborations, and engagement from all partners and government officials.”

He echoed a silent sentiment: “We acknowledge that resources are invested in conferences like this, but the real solutions lie within the communities. So, we must go beyond the hall and get practical in finding real solutions.”

HumAngle had reported the broader impact of this crisis, noting that displacements, armed conflicts, limited access to healthcare, and climate change have compounded the nutritional emergency. In one of our reports, we documented how 30 per cent of children under five in Katsina’s Jibia and Mashi local government areas are suffering from acute malnutrition. 

Most recently, HumAngle produced a 21-minute-long conversation via The Crisis Room, a monthly podcast series that focuses on crisis signalling and explores existing responses and solutions to crises in Nigeria. The conversation with the state’s MSF coordinator focused on the state’s malnutrition crisis—where aid workers fight to save lives on the edge.

Despite these reports, malnutrition in Katsina and northwestern Nigeria remains dire with limited systemic change.

While reacting to MSF’s latest report on the scale of the issue in Katsina state, the governor said he saw it as an opportunity to find feasible solutions to the crisis in the state.

“Instead of criticising the latest MSF report on malnutrition, my administration saw it as a call to action for confronting the crisis head-on. To address this challenge, we set up a high-level committee to investigate the root causes of malnutrition across the state,” he said. 

“We are promoting local production of therapeutic foods such as Tom Brown to reduce dependency on imports, distributing thousands of food baskets to at-risk families, and training hundreds of women to produce nutritious meals at the community level.”

However, the commercialization of Tom Brown and other therapeutic food is a present threat that has been documented all over the country, and was highlighted in his speech. This suggests that beyond making the foods available, the distribution process needs to be strengthened.

The federal government’s concerted efforts are also needed for an enduring impact, an area many, especially displaced people, have found insufficient. Uju Vanstasia Anwukah, Senior Special Assistant to the President on Public Health, who was present at the event as the Vice President’s representative, said the government was committed to fixing the issue. 

“This partnership with MSF and the convening of this high-level conference reaffirm the government’s understanding that real progress begins with the health and nourishment of every child,” she said.

Adding to the discussion, Nemat Hajeebhoy, Chief of Child Nutrition at UNICEF, outlined an affordable financing strategy.

“The global architecture of financing is changing, but there is still very much the recognition that there is a need to invest and support countries. UNICEF is here to partner with the government. They are our clients, so to speak, but children are our bosses.”

She introduced UNICEF’s Child buy-one-get-one-free-to-one match initiative: “It’s a buy one get one free. For every Naira the government invests—federal, state, or LGA—we will match it to help procure high-impact nutrition commodities.”

“But we need more. It’s not sufficient. This is the pavement for the future. It’s no longer just about aid—it’s about partnership.”

While commending the Katsina State government, Nemat emphasised the need for a 360 advocacy, involving bilateral engagement with governors, technical communities, media, and champions like actors.

“We also need communities to speak out and demand. There is hope. The Nutrition 774 Initiative, launched by the vice president in February, puts accountability and action at the LGA level. Nigeria is a big country, and unless we go ward by ward, we may not see change.”

Though the conference seems to have set the stage for concrete, coordinated action to protect the health and future of millions of vulnerable communities, citizens are eager to see improvement in the coming months and years. 

Bello Gambur dreads going to the stream before 2 p.m. 

Every morning, he leaves home with a herd of over 30 cattle, with his staff slung across his shoulders as they head into the bush. For about five hours, he watches them as they graze, rest, and wander, but none can drink. The only stream in the community lies just a short walk away, yet he must wait until 2 p.m. to take them there.

Going earlier, he says, could have deadly consequences.

All his life, the forty-year-old has lived as a herder in Mararaban Bare, a small community in the Numan Local Government Area of Adamawa State, North East Nigeria, where his ancestors migrated and settled a long time ago.  

Over the years, the herders lived in peace with their host community, but in 2017, violence broke out over water. The clash claimed many lives, and several properties were destroyed. In October, security operatives stepped in to quell a similar incident. 

So, Bello doesn’t mind his herd enduring hours of thirst if it helps keep the fragile peace.

He leads the cattle to the stream when most locals have finished using it and are back at their homes. Bello and the other herders go there between 2 p.m. and 5 p.m. to prevent coming in contact with the locals who visit the stream every morning to bathe, wash, and fetch water for domestic chores.  

The rationing also requires the locals to leave before 2 p.m. 

However, this arrangement has not ended the clashes between the groups, as locals believe it does little to address deeper grievances.

Tension keeps building 

“Irrigation farmers use the water from the canal to farm. And other community members drink the water, the cattle also drink from it, so this is a problem,” Alphonsus Bosso, a 55-year-old farmer and resident of Mararaban Bare, told HumAngle.

He said the tension is unlikely to end soon, especially with the dry season approaching. This competition for access to the stream intensifies during this period.

Alphonsus said a lasting solution would be to provide the herders with their own water source “because we no longer co-exist”. In some other Adamawa communities, humanitarian organisations have already supported the creation of alternative water sources, which have helped ease similar tensions, a model yet to reach Mararaban Bare.

“We used to have canals that served as water sources for our cattle, and we barely used the stream until the canals began to dry up,” said Muza Alhaji Shenya, a 37-year-old herder in the area. He linked the recent drying up of water bodies in the area to industrial expansion, particularly the construction of embankments to store water for sugarcane plantations. HumAngle saw some of these embankments during a visit.

However, environmental experts say the problem extends beyond industrial activity.

Hamza Muhammed Usman, the Executive Director of Environmental Care Foundation, a non-governmental organisation in Adamawa State that promotes a climate-friendly environment, food security, and peacebuilding, explained that prolonged dry spells, erratic rainfall, and deforestation, among other factors, are responsible for the shrinking water bodies in the state.

He said that overgrazing by livestock and human activities such as excessive farming on the same location and mining reduce vegetation cover, which disrupts the natural flow of water into its channels and bodies, especially in local government areas such as Numan, Fufore, some parts of Madagali, Maiha, Gombi, and the southern zone. 

Hamza also noted that migration and growing birth rates in the affected areas have increased the competition for water. “There are people from Borno, Gombe, Taraba, and other places trooping into Adamawa for greener pastures. This leads to overdependence on the limited resources,” he said. 

‘They pollute the water’

Locals insist that sharing the water with the cattle is unhealthy. 

“The cattle are polluting the water with mud and urine,” said Silas Simon, the community leader. “We dilute the water with alum when we want to consume.”

Even this treatment becomes difficult during the dry season, which starts in October. 

During the season, the herders in Mararaban Bare are left with two options: lead their cattle to the local stream or trek six kilometres into Bare, the nearest village with multiple water sources. The journey takes about six hours, making the local stream the closest option for many.

One herder, who treks to Bare to avoid being attacked by locals, said his cattle often drink water once a day, mostly in the afternoon, and sometimes, in the evening while returning to their settlement. There, water is provided for them in small containers, but much priority is given to the calves since the water is not enough. 

“The cows are getting thinner; their health has deteriorated over the years,” he said. “Every water source is drying up.”

“If we can have alternative water sources, then we won’t go to the stream for water where the people drink from,” Muza said. 

There is a borehole in Mararaban Bare, but it barely functions. 

Silas noted that if the borehole was functional, locals would use it as a water source and leave the stream for the herders, which would reduce the clashes.

“The borehole barely works. If it ever pumps water, it ceases at any time, so one has to wait for hours before the water runs again. Sometimes, people queue up from morning to evening and get unlucky because it ceases anytime,” he said. 

‘No agreement’

Several meetings have been held between the locals and herders to resolve the conflict, but no lasting agreement has been reached apart from a temporary water-use arrangement. Silas said tensions remain high, as youths from both groups often act as the main instigators during clashes.

“We do not wish to provoke anyone; we are only after the welfare of the cattle,” said Alhaji Ngala, the chairperson of herders in the community. He also noted that farms have taken over grazing routes, leaving them with “no freedom”. 

“If we can have access to grazing routes and enough water supply, then our minds will be at peace,” Ngala told HumAngle. 

Hamza, the climate-friendly environment advocate, urged the government to invest in solar-powered boreholes as a way of promoting clean energy and sustainable water supply across communities facing similar challenges. He also called for stronger conflict-resolution mechanisms across the state.

“Water scarcity is not just an environmental issue but a driver of insecurity, because in a place where there is tension, certain groups can take advantage of the situation to infiltrate such communities and cause problems,” Hamza said. 

Although the state government has collaborated with civil society organisations to adopt measures like afforestation, small-scale irrigation projects, and awareness campaigns, among other initiatives, to address the recurring clashes over water and limited resources. Hamza noted that many communities still lack the technical capacity and financial support to sustain these interventions.

“Some of the measures, like afforestation and proper waste management, are not owned properly by the locals,” Hamza said. 

He further called for integrated water resource management and inclusive governance to protect watersheds and prevent further land degradation. “Degraded lands can be restored through rotation. Herders should not graze on the same spot for more than five years, and farmers should do the same,” he said.

He also stressed the need for interdependence; farmers relying on cow dung as manure, and herders being granted access to reserved grazing areas.

In December 2014, an incumbent president lost a re-election bid for the first time in Nigeria’s history. 

It was a time characterised by widespread anguish and anger at how insecure the Nigerian life had become. Boko Haram, the extremist insurgent group fighting to establish what it calls an Islamic State, had intensified its violence, killing hundreds of thousands, displacing millions more, and abducting hundreds of teenage girls from school. Bombs were also being detonated in major cities at an alarming rate. For Nigerians, the incumbent President Goodluck Jonathan simply had to go. And so Muhammadu  Buhari was voted in with unflinching hope that things would get better. That hope quickly turned into disillusionment and, in some cases, anger as things began to take a different turn than was hoped for.

Today, July 13, the former president, Muhammadu Buhari, passed away at 82, signalling the conclusion of a significant political chapter. As tributes from dignitaries continue to emerge and headlines reflect on his ascent and legacy, HumAngle analyses the impact of his presidency on the lives of Nigerians beyond the halls of power, in displacement camps, remote villages, and troubled areas.

An examination of the security legacy

During his time in office from 2015 to 2023, Nigeria faced increasing violence on various fronts: the Boko Haram insurgency in the North East, a resurgence of militants in the Niger Delta, and the rising threat of terrorism and conflicts between farmers and herders in the North West and Middle Belt. 

Buhari’s administration initiated multiple military operations, including Operation Lafiya Dole, Operation Python Dance, Operation Safe Corridor, etc., yielding mixed outcomes and levels of responsibility. While some campaigns succeeded in pushing back armed groups, others faced criticism due to evidence of excessive force, extrajudicial killings, and displacements within communities. Non-kinetic counter-insurgency operations such as the Operation Safe Corridor, which was launched in 2016, also came under heavy criticism. Though the programme was designed for Boko Haram members or members of similar insurgent groups in the northeastern region to safely defect from the terror groups and return to society, HumAngle found that civilians were finding their way into these programmes, due to mass arbitrary arrests prompted by profiling and unfounded allegations. The International Crisis Group also found that, beyond innocent civilians being forced to undergo the programme, other kinds of irregularities were going on. 

“The program has also been something of a catch-all for a wide range of other individuals, including minors suspected of being child soldiers, a few high-level jihadists and alleged insurgents whom the government tried and failed to prosecute and who say they have been moved into the program against their will,” the group said in a 2021 report. At the time, more than 800 people had graduated from the programme.

The programme also did not – and still does not – have space for women, and HumAngle reported the repercussions of this.

During Buhari’s reign, terrorists were also forced out of major towns but became more entrenched in rural communities. The former president launched aggressive military campaigns against them, reclaiming villages and cities. Boko Haram retreated into hard-to-reach areas with weaker government presence, operating in remote parts of Borno, Yobe, and Adamawa States. In these areas, the group imposed strict rules, conscripted fighters, and punished dissenters, often with brutal force.

A HumAngle geospatial investigation also showed how insurgency wrecked hundreds of towns and villages in Borno state. Many of the rural settlements were overrun after Boko Haram lost urban ground under Buhari’s watch.

Even with significant investment in security, a large portion of rural Nigeria remains ungoverned to date. As the former president failed to curb the forest exploits of Boko Haram, the terror group expanded control over ungoverned spaces, particularly in the North Central and North East regions. In Niger State alone, terrorists took over communities in Shiroro, Rafi, Paikoro, and Munya LGAs, uprooting thousands and launching multiple attacks. The lack of accessible roads and communication infrastructure made rapid response nearly impossible, allowing the terrorists to operate with impunity.

HumAngle found that, under Buhari, Nigeria lost many forest areas to terrorists, especially in Niger state. In areas like Galadima Kogo, terrorists imposed taxes, enforced laws, and ran parallel administrations. The withdrawal of soldiers from key bases emboldened the terrorists. This shift from urban insurgency to rural domination underscores the failure to secure Nigeria’s vast ungoverned spaces. Analysts who conducted a study on alternative sovereignties in Nigeria confirmed that Boko Haram and other non-state actors exploited the governance gaps under Buhari’s administration to expand their influence, threatening national security.

Perspectives from areas affected by conflict

For individuals beyond Abuja and Lagos, Buhari’s governance was characterised more by the state’s tangible influence than by formal policy declarations.

In Borno and Yobe, civilians faced military checkpoints and insurgent violence. School abductions like the Dapchi abduction and many others were recorded..

In Zamfara and Katsina, the president’s silence on mass abductions often resounded more than his condemnations. In Rivers and Bayelsa, the Amnesty Programme faltered, and pipeline protection frequently took precedence over human security.

What remained unaddressed

While some lauded his stance against corruption, numerous victims of violence and injustice during Buhari’s time in office did not receive restitution or formal acknowledgement of the wrongdoing. The former President remained silent during his tenure, as significant human rights violations were recorded. The investigations into military abuses, massacres, forced disappearances, and electoral violence either progressed slowly or ultimately came to an end.

Police brutality was a major problem during his tenure, leading to the EndSARS protests that swept through the entire nation in October 2020, with Lagos and Abuja being the major sites. The peaceful protests sought to demand an end to extrajudicial killings and extortion inflicted by the now-defunct Special Anti-Robbery Squad (SARS). For two weeks, Nigerians trooped into the streets with placards and speakers, memorialising the victims of police brutality and demanding an end to the menace. The protests came to a painful end on the night of October 20, when the Nigerian military arrived at the Lekki Toll Gate in Lagos and fired live rounds into the crowd of unarmed civilians as they sat on the floor, singing the national anthem. It is now known as the Lekki Massacre. Though the government denied that there was any violence, much less a massacre, a judicial panel of inquiry set up to investigate the incident confirmed that there had, in fact, been a massacre. 

No arrests were made, and activitsts believe some protesters arrested then may still be in detention to date.

Five years before this, on December 13 and 14, the Nigerian military opened fire on a religious procession in Zaria, containing members of the Islamic Movement of Nigeria (IMN), killing many and leaving others wounded. The incident is now known as the Zaria Massacre. HumAngle spoke to families of some of the people who were killed and children who were brutalised during this time.

Though these massacres have all been well documented, there has been little to no accountability for the aggressors or compensation for victims and their families. 

“My life became useless, losing three children and my husband to soldiers for committing no offence…I have never gone three days without my husband and all my children. This has affected my last-born, who is now in a psychiatric facility,” Sherifat Yakubu, 60, told HumAngle. 

“I feel a great wrench of sadness anytime I remember the injustice against my people, and I don’t think the authorities are ready to dispense justice,” another victim told HumAngle in 2022, highlighting the gap and lack of trust in the system created by the absence of any accountability after the incident.

Key achievements 

Beyond the headlines, Buhari played a crucial role in establishing a framework for centralised security authority. Choices regarding law enforcement, military presence, and national security circumvented local leaders and established institutions, exacerbating conflicts between the central government and regional entities. This centralisation continues to influence Nigeria’s democratic journey, disconnecting many experiences from those who are supposed to safeguard them.

Buhari rode into power on a widely hailed anti-corruption campaign, a promise honoured with the swift implementation of the already-proposed Single Treasury Account (TSA). By 2017, the programme, which consolidated up to 17,000 accounts, had saved the country up to ₦5.244 trillion. Buhari’s Presidential Initiative on Continuous Audit (PICA) eliminated over ₦54,000 ghost jobs, and Nigeria reclaimed ₦32 billion in assets in 2019. Under the same administration, Nigeria got back $300 million in Swiss-held Abacha loot. 

From 2.5 million MT in 2015, rice production rose to four million MT in 2017. In an effort to deter rice, poultry and fertiliser smuggling, the former president closed Nigeria’s land borders on August 20, 2019, a move believed to have bolstered local food production significantly. His government’s Presidential Fertiliser Initiative also produced over 60 million 50 kg bags, saving about $200 million in forex and ₦60 million yearly.

Infrastructural achievements under the late president include the completion of the Abuja-Kaduna, Itakpe-Warri and  Lagos-Ibadan railway projects, as well as the extension of the Lagos-Ibadan-Port Harcourt rail line. Notably, his government completed the Second Niger Bridge and the Lekki Deep Seaport.

Fatalities from Boko Haram reduced by 92 per cent, from 2,131 deaths in 2015 to 178 in 2021. Under the same administration, over a million Internally Displaced Persons (IDPs) were resettled, and 13,000+ hostages, including some Chibok and Dapchi schoolgirls, regained freedom. The same government acquired 38 new aircraft and Nigeria’s first military satellite (Delsat-1).

In 2021, the Buhari government signed the Petroleum Industry Act (PIA), restructuring the Nigerian National Petroleum Commission (NNPC) into a commercial entity and setting the stage for significant transformation in the country’s oil and gas sector.

Confronting the past may be the path forward

The passing of a president demands more than mere remembrance or the crafting of political narratives. It should create an opportunity for national reflection. As Nigeria faces fresh challenges of insecurity, displacement, and regional strife, Buhari’s legacy presents both insights and cautions. 

As official tributes accumulate, Nigerians reflect not only on what Buhari accomplished but also on what remains incomplete.

Nigeria’s presidential spokesperson welcomes US assistance ‘as long as it recognises our territorial integrity’.

Nigeria says it would welcome assistance from the United States in fighting armed groups as long as its territorial integrity is respected after US President Donald Trump threatened military action in the West African country over what he claimed was persecution of Christians there.

In a social media post on Saturday, Trump said  he had asked the Department of Defense to prepare for possible “fast” military action in Nigeria if Africa’s most populous country fails to crack down on the “killing of Christians”.

A spokesperson for Nigeria’s presidency, Daniel Bwala, told the Reuters news agency on Sunday that the country would “welcome US assistance as long as it recognises our territorial integrity”.

“I am sure by the time these two leaders meet and sit, there would be better outcomes in our joint resolve to fight terrorism,” Bwala added.

In his post, Trump said the US would immediately cut off all assistance to the country “if the Nigerian Government continues to allow the killing of Christians”.

Earlier, Nigerian President Bola Tinubu pushed back against claims of religious intolerance and defended his country’s efforts to protect religious freedom.

“Since 2023, our administration has maintained an open and active engagement with Christian and Muslim leaders alike and continues to address security challenges which affect citizens across faiths and regions,” Tinubu said in a statement.

“The characterisation of Nigeria as religiously intolerant does not reflect our national reality, nor does it take into consideration the consistent and sincere efforts of the government to safeguard freedom of religion and beliefs for all Nigerians.”

Nigeria, a country of more than 200 million people, is divided between the largely Muslim north and mostly Christian south.

Armed groups have been engaged in a conflict that has been largely confined to the northeast of the country and has dragged on for more than 15 years. Analysts said that while Christians have been killed, most of the victims have been Muslims.

‘No Christian genocide’

While human rights groups have urged the government to do more to address unrest in the country, which has experienced deadly attacks by Boko Haram and other armed groups, experts say claims of a “Christian genocide” are false and simplistic.

“All the data reveals is that there is no Christian genocide going on in Nigeria,” Bulama Bukarti, a Nigerian humanitarian lawyer and analyst on conflict and development, told Al Jazeera. This is “a dangerous far-right narrative that has been simmering for a long time that President Trump is amplifying today”.

“It is divisive, and it is only going to further increase instability in Nigeria,” Bukarti added, explaining that armed groups in Nigeria have been targeting both Muslims and Christians.

“They bomb markets. They bomb churches. They bomb mosques, and they attack every civilian location they find. They do not discriminate between Muslims and Christians.”

Ebenezer Obadare, a senior fellow of Africa studies at the Washington, DC-based Council on Foreign Relations, agreed and said the Trump administration should work with Nigerian authorities to address the “common enemy”.

“This is precisely the moment when Nigeria needs assistance, especially military assistance,” Obadare said. “The wrong thing to do is to invade Nigeria and override the authorities or the authority of the Nigerian government. Doing that will be counterproductive.”

United States President Donald Trump has directed the Department of War to prepare for what he called “possible action” to eliminate Islamic terrorists in Nigeria, citing alleged widespread attacks on Christians. The directive, issued through his Truth Social media platform on Saturday, marks one of the most aggressive foreign policy statements by the Trump administration since returning to office.

In the post, President Trump accused the Nigerian government of “allowing” the killing of Christians and threatened to end all U.S. aid and assistance to the country if what he described as “Christian persecution” continued.

“If the Nigerian Government continues to allow the killing of Christians, the U.S.A. will immediately stop all aid and assistance to Nigeria, and may very well go into that now disgraced country, ‘guns-a-blazing,’ to completely wipe out the Islamic terrorists who are committing these horrible atrocities,” Trump wrote. “I am hereby instructing our Department of War to prepare for possible action. If we attack, it will be fast, vicious, and sweet, just like the terrorist thugs attack our cherished Christians! WARNING: THE NIGERIAN GOVERNMENT BETTER MOVE FAST!”

The remarks came barely a day after Washington redesignated Nigeria as a “Country of Particular Concern” (CPC), a status applied to nations accused of tolerating or engaging in severe violations of religious freedom. Nigeria was previously placed on and later removed from the CPC list under the Biden administration. 

Nigerian President Bola Ahmed Tinubu responds cautiously, “Nigeria is a Secular Democracy.” He rejected Trump’s claims and designation, describing them as “ill-informed and unhelpful”, adding that “Nigeria remains a secular democracy anchored on constitutional guarantees of freedom of religion and belief.”

The Nigerian presidential office said in a statement from Abuja, “We reject any characterisation that seeks to define our complex security challenges through a single religious lens.” The Nigerian government maintains that ongoing violence in the country’s Middle Belt and northern regions is driven by multiple intersecting factors—including poverty, criminality, land disputes, and weak governance—rather than a campaign of religious persecution.

Security analysts and conflict researchers have similarly warned against oversimplifying Nigeria’s insecurity as a Christian–Muslim conflict. “What we see in places like Plateau, Benue, Zamfara, and Borno are overlapping crises involving ethnic competition, resource scarcity, violent crimes, and terrorism,” said a recent HumAngle report.

The HumAngle analysis titled Nigeria’s Conflicts Defy Simple Religious Labels revealed that communities of both faiths have suffered from terrorism and violent crimes, and that attackers often frame violence around identity to justify or mobilise support for their actions.

While Boko Haram and its offshoot, the Islamic State West Africa Province (ISWAP), continue to target civilians and security forces in attacks that often include Christian victims, the violence has also claimed thousands of Muslim lives.

HumAngle’s investigations have shown that the narrative of a “Christian genocide” obscures the complex and fluid alliances that define local conflicts. Extremist groups, criminal gangs, and vigilante forces often operate with shifting motives, depending on context.

Analysts say Trump’s statement may reflect both foreign policy posturing and domestic political calculation. With the 2026 midterm elections approaching, evangelical Christian groups have increasingly highlighted claims of Christian persecution across the world, particularly in Africa and the Middle East.

United States President Donald Trump has announced that Nigeria will be placed on a watchlist for religious freedom, based on vague claims that Christians in the country are being “slaughtered” by Muslims.

In a social media post on Friday, Trump explained that the African nation would be added to a Department of State list of “Countries of Particular Concern”.

“Christianity is facing an existential threat in Nigeria,” Trump wrote. “Thousands of Christians are being killed. Radical Islamists are responsible for this mass slaughter. I am hereby making Nigeria a ‘COUNTRY OF PARTICULAR CONCERN’.”

The Nigerian government has denied such allegations in the past. But critics warn that designating Nigeria a “country of particular concern” could pave the way for future sanctions.

Trump also appears to have bypassed the normal procedure for such matters.

The 1998 International Religious Freedom Act created the category of “country of particular concern” in order to help monitor religious persecution and advocate for its end.

But that label is usually assigned at the recommendation of the US Commission on International Religious Freedom – a bipartisan group established by Congress – and specialists in the State Department.

In Friday’s post, Trump explained that he had asked the House Appropriations Committee and two congressmen, Representatives Riley Moore and Tom Cole, to “immediately look into this matter”. Both are Republican.

Trump’s claims appear to mirror language pushed by right-wing lawmakers, which frames fractious and sometimes violent disputes in Nigeria as a case of radical Islamists attacking Christians.

Experts, however, have called that framing largely inaccurate, explaining that strife in the country is not explained simply by religious differences.

Nigeria is divided between a majority-Muslim north and a largely Christian south. The country has struggled with violent attacks from the group Boko Haram, which has created turmoil and displacement for more than a decade.

Disputes over resources such as water have also exacerbated tensions and sometimes led to violent clashes between largely Christian farmers and largely Muslim shepherds. Nigeria has denied, however, that such clashes are primarily motivated by religious affiliation.

Still, Representative Moore echoed Trump’s assessment in a statement after Friday’s announcement.

“I have been calling for this designation since my first floor speech in April, where I highlighted the plight of Christians in Muslim majority countries,” Moore said.

He added that he planned to “ensure that Nigeria receives the international attention, pressure, and accountability it urgently needs”.

Senator Ted Cruz of Texas, another Republican, also applauded Trump’s decision. “I am deeply gratified to President Trump for making this determination,” he said in a news release. “I have fought for years to counter the slaughter and persecution of Christians in Nigeria.”

Since returning to office for a second term in January, Trump has sought to bolster his base among the Christian right in the US.

At a prayer breakfast in February, he announced his administration was establishing a task force to root out anti-Christian bias in the federal government.

Later, in July, his administration issued a memo allowing federal employees to evangelise in their workplaces.

While Trump denounced alleged anti-Christian violence in Friday’s post, his administration has also been recently criticised for its policy towards refugees: people fleeing persecution or violence in their homelands.

On Wednesday, Trump announced the lowest-ever cap on refugee admissions in the US, limiting entry to just 7,500 people for all of fiscal year 2026.

In a notice posted to the Federal Register’s website, he explained that most of those spots would “primarily be allocated among Afrikaners from South Africa” and “other victims of illegal or unjust discrimination”.

Critics were quick to point out that refugee status is awarded for fear of systematic persecution, not discrimination.

Still, Trump has continued to ratchet up diplomatic tensions with South Africa, falsely claiming that white Afrikaners are subjected to a “genocide”, an allegation frequently pushed by figures on the far right.

Earlier this year, Ya Jalo Mustapha stayed with her two sons, Ali and Bor, in Njimiya, a village in Sambisa Forest, Borno State, North East Nigeria, an area under the governance of the Islamic State West Africa Province (ISWAP). 

In Njimiya, as in other villages under its control, ISWAP’s authority is absolute — enforced through rules, fear, and constant surveillance.

One day, Ya Jalao’s sons went out and never returned. No one could say where they had gone or whether they were alive. In the weeks that followed, rumours spread that some men from nearby settlements had been seized by the military during raids.

Such disappearances are not uncommon in Borno State, where years of insurgency have blurred the lines between civilians and suspects. In one well-known case, 42 men from Gallari village were arrested by the military on suspicion of being Boko Haram members and detained for 12 years without trial; only three were recently released. Other times, the insurgents also abduct and forcibly recruit young men. 

In October, five months after their disappearance, Ya Jalo’s daughters-in-law remarried Boko Haram terrorists. 

Stranded with her four grandchildren, Ya Jalo knew she could not remain in Njimiya. Her eleven-year-old granddaughter, Magana, was next in line to be forced into marriage. “A suitor was already chosen for her,” Ya Jalo told HumAngle. “I was at the risk of losing her, too.”

Staying in the villages is rarely a sign of loyalty. For most families, it is because they risk execution if they flee, while staying at least allows them to eat from their farms.

Every day brought a deeper fear for Ya Jalo. She worried that her grandsons would slowly absorb the teachings of the insurgents. With no schooling except the sermons of Boko Haram, the risk of their indoctrination weighed heavily on her.

She kept her plan secret until the morning of her escape. That day, Ya Jalo informed neighbours that she was visiting a relative in a nearby settlement with her grandchildren. That began the three-day trek to Bama town. They travelled through bush paths, walking mostly at dawn and dusk until they reached the camp. 

“The journey was full of risks and uncertainty,” she said. “Even the children don’t know where we’re heading.” They eventually arrived. 

A different kind of struggle

For families fleeing Boko Haram-held villages, arriving at the Bama IDP Camp feels like stepping out of a nightmare. Many come with the hope that they are walking into safety, a place where food, shelter, and healing will finally be waiting. 

But what they find is a different struggle altogether. The displacement camp has exceeded its capacity, with hundreds of people living there. In early 2025, the government relocated about 3,000 persons to Dar Jamal, a small fraction that barely reduced the camp’s congestion. 

New arrivals, like Ya Jalo, often sleep in the open because no shelters are available. Since she was with children, Ya Jalo moved in with a relative who lives nearby. 

At the camp, individuals are required to register with the State Emergency Management Agency (SEMA), which forwards the information to ZOA International. The organisation provides breakfast and lunch for five days and a cash token of ₦11,450 per person for three months. 

However, there is no provision for education, healthcare, and psychosocial support.  

Several others who are fleeing their homes for refuge at the camps are confronted with this reality. “We thought this would be a place to rest, but it is only another kind of struggle,” Hajja Kura lamented. She fled Zarmari in October, another Boko Haram stronghold, in early July to the Bama displacement camp.

The absence of proper shelter and long-term care leaves many returnees questioning whether their escape was worthwhile. Some, disillusioned, quietly return to their villages, where the danger of insurgents still lurks.

Children at risk

In Bama, Ya Jalo’s fears for her grandchildren continue in new ways. She often worries about how years of exposure to insurgent preaching may have shaped their minds.

“The children are like wet clay,” said Abba Kura, a community leader at Bama. “Whoever holds them first will shape them. In many of those villages, it was Boko Haram who held them first.”

The effect is visible across the camp. When HumAngle visited, ten-year-old Modu Abbaye recalled lessons he learned in the forest. “Boko Haram are kind,” he said. “They always preach to us not to cheat people, to be kind, and not to insult others.”

Even though the group killed his parents and his friend’s father, a schoolteacher, Modu still speaks of them with a child’s innocence. He has never attended a formal school and insists he never will because “it is forbidden”.

“I don’t want to go to school,” said Modu. He lives with a relative at the camp.

Due to the absence of structured education and psychological support at the camps, many children remain caught between conflicting identities, victims and vessels of the very ideology that uprooted them.

“Children growing up in displacement camps or conflict zones suffer disrupted education, delayed development, and persistent anxiety. They often struggle to imagine futures beyond survival,” said Mohammad Usman Bunu, an educator at Future Prowess School for displaced and vulnerable children in Maiduguri.

For Ya Jalo, that future feels uncertain too. As she watches her grandchildren adjust to life outside of their hometown, she is haunted by the same questions: what kind of lives will they build without their fathers and mothers, and will they ever know peace again? Her thoughts often drift to Ali and Bor, the sons who vanished months earlier.

“I also came here to wait for news of my sons,” she said. “I feel closer to them in Bama. I believe they are with the military, and one day I will be reunited with them.”

In Borno’s camps, stories like hers echo everywhere. Families are displaced, divided, and still holding on to hope that the war has not taken everything from them.

Ngomari Costine has a terrible reputation. The area, in Maiduguri, northeastern Nigeria, is filled with delinquent youth popularly referred to as Marlians, named after a controversial Nigerian musician whose songs and style they imitate. 

Groups of young people in flashy clothes and elaborate hairstyles gather in front of shops and on benches outside houses in the area. But it’s not their dressing that worries residents; it’s what lies beneath: gangs ready to turn violent at the slightest provocation.

The same issue plagues Gwange 2, another densely populated neighbourhood where hundreds of teenagers roam the streets at almost every hour. Their presence alone sends jolts of fear down the resident’s spine; their actions do far worse than that. 

“Almost every day, there is a gang violence incident,” said Zanna Abba Kaka, the District Head of Ngomari Costine. “This made our community a highly unsafe place to live in.” 

The aftermath of the heydays of Boko Haram insurgency in Nigeria’s North East, particularly in Borno State, which is the epicentre of the violence, has left behind a generation of young people who have become psychologically accustomed to violence. 

When the insurgency began to wane and relative peace returned, new forms of insecurity started to take root. The easy availability of light weapons, coupled with limited education and shrinking economic opportunities, pushed many young people into drugs, theft, political thuggery, and the violent street gangs that now dominate several neighbourhoods.

Much of this violence, according to Zanna, stems from political manipulation. “These thugs regard themselves as employees [of the politicians] and they do as they wish.”

The consequences are visible in everyday life. In Gwange 2, community leader Alkali Grema recalled one day at the front of his house when an 18-year-old boy attacked his peer with a knife and slashed his neck before others could intervene. 

“It happened so fast,” he said. This was a reprisal attack and just one out of many. Unfortunately, the victim lost his life. Alkali said he had witnessed so many instances where the gangs wielded dangerous weapons; “shiny and can be as long as the length of an adult’s shin.”

‘Unity for Peace’

As such incidents became more frequent and brazen, the authorities began to act. Investigations traced the flow of these weapons to the city’s Gamboru Steel Market, prompting several crackdowns. But when blacksmiths were banned from producing them openly, many quietly moved their operations underground.

In 2019, a different approach emerged. The non-profit International Alert, known for its peacebuilding work, launched the Hadin Kai Domin Zaman Lafia (Unity for Peace) project with support from the US Embassy’s Trans-Sahara Counterterrorism Partnership programme. The initiative aimed to reorient the community through peacebuilding and vocational training.

At-risk youth were identified and trained in tailoring, painting,  and embroidery. To foster a sense of belonging between the disarmed youth and other members of the community, International Alert engaged local entrepreneurs to facilitate the training.

The non-profit also organised dialogue sessions between community leaders and young people. Gradually, results began to show. The programme inspired community-driven initiatives like sanitation and improved school enrolment for vulnerable children. 

“We were able to enrol more children in Gomari Costine Primary School than ever before,” Zanna said. “Sometimes the school accepts them without us paying for registration or other charges.”

A thug’s turnaround

Thirty-nine-year-old Sani Umar has spent most of his life in Gomari Costine. He grew up underprivileged, without formal education or marketable skills, and for 15 years was one of the most feared political thugs in the area. He led a group called “A dakatar da Mutane”, roughly translated as “People must be stopped”.

Sani was one of the 150 youths who participated in the Unity For Peace initiative. “During the programme, I learnt tailoring and ventured into the tailoring business, but it wasn’t moving well because people don’t really bother much about making clothes in this economy, so I switched to selling tea,” he told HumAngle.

These days, you will find him at his tea joint as he tends to his customers and earns an honest living. Three years ago, at this time, he would likely be at their popular gang joint in the community, where many youths like him, who were jobless, would gather to chat, argue, and fight.

While narrating his life in the last decade, Sani looked sombre, with a demeanour that screams regret, especially as he shared a particular incident that threw him into fear and isolation in 2015.

“We attacked a neighbouring community, where unfortunately, my friend stabbed an opponent who was pronounced dead,” Sani paused. “I was shaken and I had to go into hiding to avoid arrest, and I couldn’t be seen in the community, at places where I normally stay for a long time. I was very much disturbed by that.” 

The event haunted him for years, but it was not until 2019, after joining the reform programme, that he finally walked away from violence.

Women leading peace

International Alert is not alone in this effort. In Gwange 2, the Unified Members for Women Advancement (UMWA) implemented the Youth Peace Building Initiative with support from the European Union’s Managing Conflict in Nigeria (MCN) programme. The project targeted 20 gang leaders, training them to advocate for peace and reject violence.

According to Hassana Ibrahim Waziri, UMWA’s Executive Director, her team began by identifying at-risk youth and inviting gang leaders for open discussions. “We gradually introduced peace concepts before expanding to the wider community,” she said.

To win trust, they organised a mass circumcision ceremony for boys; a culturally symbolic act showing they had the community’s best interests at heart.

After weeks of training and sensitisation, the reformed youths were appointed as peace ambassadors. Among them was Hassan Kambar, also known as Go Slow. He used to be feared as the leader of one of the local gangs, “The Branch”. He joined the group as far back as 2000, working as a thug for one of the big political parties then. 

“When UMWA came, they made us realise that if we keep living this way, what future will our younger ones have? That touched me deeply, and I decided to quit,” he said.

Today, the 45-year-old serves as a chairperson in the Civilian Joint Task Force (CJTF) and earns a living as a carpenter.

Their transformation has had ripple effects. Ahead of the 2023 elections, some former gang members carried placards urging voters to reject violence. Others formed night-watch committees to guard their communities.

Many now dream of joining the police, army, or civil defence, determined to serve the same society they once harmed.

Peacebuilding also took a local turn. In Maiduguri, respected elders known as Lawan traditionally mediate disputes under a symbolic shed outside their homes. This same model was adopted in Gwange 2 and Ngomari Costine, where elders and youth now meet regularly to discuss issues.

“At first, the community leaders were afraid. They did not want to be involved with these boys, but they are our kids, there’s nothing we can do,” Dr Hassana. 

She explained that UMWA’s approach focused on changing mindsets as much as behaviour, as this goes with educating them that violence doesn’t equal strength as perceived by the gangs, rather it is about the capacity to organise and live peacefully with people, to move forward and foster development.

“We target the mindset… even though we do not give skill acquisition training, some of them reach out to us for recommendations when they want to join forces to do better with their lives,” Dr Hassana said.

Measuring change and facing limits

Community leaders who spoke to HumAngle said gang violence has declined noticeably. “Around 2020 and 2021, we used to get such cases every day, not only in this area but in Maiduguri generally, but it has reduced,” said the District Head of Ngomari Costine.

Yet the progress is fragile.

Zanna, who mobilised the youth to participate in the Unity for Peace programme, noted that only about 150 participants joined — far too few for a city the size of Maiduguri. Many young people remain outside the reach of these projects.

The sustainability of the programme poses another obstacle. While the programmes briefly expanded to London Ciki, Polo, and nearby communities, other hotspots such as Dala and Kaleri continue to struggle with gang activity.

And there is no system in place to ensure that these skills are transferable to the teeming upcoming youth. As much as the beneficiaries may want to help their community, they can only engage one or two people whenever they get a job.

According to UMWA, its Youth Peace Building Initiative lasted just one year due to limited funding. “Ideally, such projects should run longer to make the changes stick,” Hassana explained. 

Like most NGOs, both groups rely on donor grants. As funds shrink, their reach contracts, and the continuity of their work becomes uncertain.

A fragile peace

With non-governmental organisations stepping back, local authorities have become the last line of defence. Cases of conflict are now referred to the Lawan or CJTF chairmen, who attempt mediation before involving the police.

But sustaining peace comes at a personal cost. In Gwange, Lawan Grema said the absence of UMWA’s support has made his role harder. “Sometimes I remove money from my own pocket to settle small disputes,” he said. “People are no longer motivated to keep the peace.”

For these communities, the calm that has returned is hard-won but fragile. Without steady support, the cycle of neglect and violence that once defined them could easily begin again.

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

DAKAR, Senegal — Nobel Prize-winning author Wole Soyinka said his non-resident visa to enter the United States had been rejected, adding that he believes it may be because he recently criticized President Trump.

The Nigerian author, 91, won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1986, becoming the first African to do so.

Speaking to the press on Tuesday, Soyinka said he believed it had little to do with him and was instead a product of the United States’ immigration policies. He said he was told to reapply if he wished to enter again.

“It’s not about me, I’m not really interested in going back to the United States,” he said. “But a principle is involved. Human beings deserve to be treated decently wherever they are.”

Soyinka, who has taught in the U.S. and previously held a green card, joked on Tuesday that his green card “had an accident” eight years ago and “fell between a pair of scissors.” In 2017, he destroyed his green card in protest over Trump’s first inauguration.

The letter he received informing him of his visa revocation cites “additional information became available after the visa was issued,” as the reason for its revocation, but does not describe what that information was.

Soyinka believes it may be because he recently referred to Trump as a “white version of Idi Amin,” a reference to the dictator who ruled Uganda from 1971 until 1979.

He jokingly referred to his rejection as a “love letter” and said that while he did not blame the officials, he would not be applying for another visa.

“I have no visa. I am banned, obviously, from the United States, and if you want to see me, you know where to find me.”

The U.S. Consulate in Nigeria’s commercial hub, Lagos, directed all questions to the State Department in Washington, D.C., which did not respond to immediate requests for comment.

Mcmakin writes for the Associated Press.

The United States has revoked the visa of Nigerian author and playwright Wole Soyinka, who became the first African writer to win the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1986.

Speaking at Kongi’s Harvest Gallery in Lagos on Tuesday, Soyinka read aloud from a notice sent on October 23 from the local US consulate, asking him to arrive with his passport so that his visa could be nullified.

The author called it, with characteristic humour, a “rather curious love letter” to receive.

“We request you bring your visa to the US Consulate General Lagos for physical cancellation. To schedule an appointment, please email — et cetera, et cetera — in advance of the appointment,” Soyinka recited, skimming the letter.

Closing his laptop, the author joked with the audience that he did not have time to fulfil its request.

“I like people who have a sense of humour, and this is one of the most humorous sentences or requests I’ve had in all my life,” Soyinka said.

“Would any of you like to volunteer in my place? Take the passport for me? I’m a little bit busy and rushed.”

Soyinka’s visa was issued last year, under US President Joe Biden. But in the intervening time, a new president has taken office: Donald Trump.

Since beginning his second term in January, Trump has overseen a crackdown on immigration, and his administration has removed visas and green cards from individuals whom it sees as out of step with the Republican president’s policies.

At Tuesday’s event, Soyinka struck a bemused tone, though he indicated the visa revocation would prevent him from visiting the US for literary and cultural events.

“I want to assure the consulate, the Americans here, that I am very content with the revocation of my visa,” Soyinka said.

He also quipped about his past experiences writing about the Ugandan military leader Idi Amin. “Maybe it’s about time also to write a play about Donald Trump,” he said.

Nobel Prize winners in the crosshairs

Soyinka is a towering figure in African literature, with a career that spans genres, from journalism to poetry to translation.

He is the author of several novels, including Season of Anomy and Chronicles from the Land of the Happiest People on Earth, as well as numerous short stories.

The 91-year-old author has also championed the fight against censorship. “Books and all forms of writing are terror to those who wish to suppress the truth,” he wrote.

He has lectured on the subject in New York City for PEN America, a free speech nonprofit. As recently as 2021, he returned to the US to present scholar and former colleague Henry Louis Gates Jr with the nonprofit’s Literary Service Award.

But Soyinka is not the first Nobel winner to see his US visa stripped away in the wake of Trump’s return to office, despite the US president’s own ambitions of earning the international prize.

Oscar Arias, a former president of Costa Rica and the winner of the 1987 Nobel Peace Prize, also found his visa cancelled in April.

Arias was previously honoured by the Nobel Committee for his efforts to end armed conflicts in Central American countries like Nicaragua, El Salvador and Guatemala.

While the letter Arias received from the US government gave no reason for his visa’s cancellation, the former president told NPR’s Morning Edition radio show that officials indicated it was because of his ties to China.

“During my second administration from 2006 to 2010, I established diplomatic relations with China, and that’s because it has the second-largest economy in the world,” Arias explained.

But, Arias added, he could not rule out the possibility that there were other reasons for his visa’s removal.

“I have to imagine that my criticism of President Trump might have played a role,” Arias told NPR. “The president has a personality that is not open to criticism or disagreements.”

Soyinka likewise has a reputation for being outspoken, both about domestic politics in his native Nigeria and international affairs.

He has, for example, denounced Trump on multiple occasions, including for the “brutal, cruel and often unbelievable treatment being meted out to strangers, immigrants”.

In 2017, he confirmed to the magazine The Atlantic that he had destroyed his US green card — his permanent residency permit — to protest Trump’s first election in 2016.

“As long as Trump is in charge, if I absolutely have to visit the United States, I prefer to go in the queue for a regular visa with others,” he told the magazine.

The point was, he explained, to show that he was “no longer part of the society, not even as a resident”.

In Tuesday’s remarks, Soyinka reaffirmed that he no longer had his green card. “Unfortunately, when I was looking at my green card, it fell between the fingers of a pair of scissors, and it got cut into a couple of pieces,” he said, flashing his tongue-in-cheek humour.

He also emphasised he continues to have close friends in the US, and that the local consulate staff has consistently treated him courteously.

His work had long caused him to face persecution in Nigeria — though, famously, during a stint in solitary confinement, he continued to write using toilet paper — and eventually, in the 1990s, he sought refuge in the US.

During his time in North America, he took up teaching posts at prestigious universities like Harvard, Yale and Emory.

Targeting ‘hostile attitudes’

The Trump administration, however, has pledged to revoke visas from individuals it deems to be a threat to its national security and foreign policy interests.

In June, Trump issued a proclamation calling on his government tighten immigration procedures, in an effort to ensure that visa-holders “do not bear hostile attitudes toward its citizens, culture, government, institutions, or founding principles”.

What qualifies as a “hostile attitude” towards US culture is unclear. Human rights advocates have noted that such broad language could be used as a smokescreen to crack down on dissent.

Free speech, after all, is protected under the First Amendment of the US Constitution and is considered a foundational principle in the country, protecting individual expression from government shackles.

After Arias was stripped of his visa, the Economists for Peace and Security, a United Nations-accredited nonprofit, was among those to express outrage.

“This action, taken without explanation, raises serious concerns about the treatment of a globally respected elder statesman who has dedicated his life to peace, democracy, and diplomacy,” the nonprofit wrote in its statement.

“Disagreements on foreign policy or political perspective should not lead to punitive measures against individuals who have made significant contributions to international peace and stability.”

International students, commenters on social media, and acting government officials have also faced backlash for expressing their opinions and having unfavourable foreign ties.

Earlier this month, Panamanian President Jose Raul Mulino voiced concern that members of his government had seen their visas cancelled over their diplomatic ties to China.

And in September, while visiting New York City, Colombian President Gustavo Petro saw his visa yanked within hours of giving a critical speech to the United Nations and participating in a protest against Israel’s war in Gaza.

The US Department of State subsequently called Petro’s actions “reckless and incendiary”.

Separately, the State Department announced on October 14 that six foreign nationals would see their visas annulled for criticising the assassinated conservative activist Charlie Kirk, a close associate of Trump.

Soyinka questioned Trump’s stated motives for cancelling so many visas at Tuesday’s literary event in Lagos, asking if they really made a difference for US national security.

“Governments have a way of papering things for their own survival,” he said.

“I want people to understand that the revocation of one visa, 10 visas, a thousand visas will not affect the national interests of any astute leader.”

Following its call for applications for a three-day intensive fellowship on reporting conflict and missing persons issues in Nigeria, HumAngle, in collaboration with the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC), has selected 10 middle-career and senior journalists from across the country. 

The selected fellows were drawn from media organisations like Daily Trust, Reuters, Premium Times, DW, African Independent Television (AIT), and others. 

“We received over 200 strong applications during the two-week application window,” commented Hauwa Shaffii Nuhu, HumAngle’s Managing Editor. “After a rigorous shortlisting and interviewing process, the final 10 emerged.”

The selected participants are expected to arrive in Abuja on Nov. 3, ahead of the three-day fellowship program scheduled to be held from November 4 to 6, 2025. 

Over the years, the ICRC has continued to support missing persons in Nigeria by tracing and facilitating reunions while also providing psychological and economic support, especially to those affected by conflict. HumAngle has also carried out extensive work on the missing persons crisis in Nigeria, particularly in the northeastern region, documenting thousands of cases across various local governments in Borno state through its Missing Persons Dashboard. 

While focused on deepening the understanding and reporting of the missing persons crisis in Nigeria, the training also aims to equip middle-career and senior journalists with the skills to report on conflict issues thoroughly through a trauma-informed lens. 

During the 3-day fellowship, the fellows will participate in sessions on human-centred conflict reporting, ethical frameworks in journalism, psychological well-being for reporters, and more. These sessions will be facilitated by experts from HumAngle and the ICRC.  By the end of the training, fellows are expected to have gained deeper insights into the scope and dynamics of the conflict reporting landscape in Nigeria. 

Nigeria’s corridors of power are again trembling under the weight of suspicion. President Bola Tinubu’s dramatic overhaul of the nation’s military command has ignited debate, fear, and whispers of betrayal within the ranks, days after reports of a foiled coup attempt surfaced.

On Oct. 24, the President dismissed General Christopher Musa, his Chief of Defence Staff, replacing him with General Olufemi Oluyede, formerly Chief of Army Staff. Major General Waidi Shaibu now heads the army, Air Vice Marshal Sunday Kelvin Aneke becomes the new Air Chief, and Rear Admiral Idi Abbas takes charge of the navy. Only Major General Emmanuel Akomaye Parker Undiandeye, Chief of Defence Intelligence, retained his seat — a notable exception in an otherwise sweeping purge.

A State House statement signed by Sunday Dare, Special Adviser on Media and Public Communication, claimed the changes were made “to strengthen Nigeria’s national security architecture.” But some Nigerians are taking the government’s explanation at face value.

The shake-up comes amid rumours of an attempted coup — reports that Tinubu’s administration has tried to downplay but cannot entirely dismiss.

Although the Defence Headquarters did not directly acknowledge any intentions of a coup, Brigadier General Tukur Gusau, a representative of the organisation, mentioned on Oct. 4 that 16 officers were being investigated for disciplinary issues and breaches of service protocols. This situation arose a year after Nigerians demanded a military intervention in response to escalating economic difficulties.

However, sources within Nigeria’s corridors of power have told HumAngle that more reshuffling will occur in the coming weeks as the Tinubu-led administration fights to maintain its grip on democratic power. The sources stated that amid ongoing investigations, the service chiefs were rejigged to fill the gaps in the military intelligence system. 

Over 20 officers are now under detention following what officials described as “disciplinary breaches”. However, insiders suggest something deeper, pointing to a widening rift inside the armed forces and a purge disguised as reform.

“All the suspects are from one region,” a source familiar with the investigation said. “If this were really a coup, how could it have succeeded? What’s happening looks more like a purge than a coup plot. Perhaps they may be clearing the path for someone not yet in the picture.”

The officer added that growing grievances among northern officers have festered for months, notably since recruitment shifted from state-based quotas to geopolitical zones. “The north, which has three regions, has now been reduced to one,” another senior officer lamented.

For many within the ranks, the move feels political. Yet the government remains tight-lipped, neither naming nor prosecuting the detained officers. And “the evidence is sketchy,” one insider admitted. “In the end, what may happen is compulsory retirement for many of them, and rarely will there ever be a treason trial.”

Nigeria has experienced this troubling pattern in its history. The country’s modern timeline is marked by a series of military interventions, beginning with the first coup in 1966 and continuing through violent takeovers in 1975, 1983, and 1985, culminating in the Abacha dictatorship that suffocated the nation during the 1990s. Each coup was accompanied by promises of reform, yet the reality was one of repression, economic decline, and bloodshed.

What makes today’s situation chillingly familiar is the regional context. Across Africa, coups are no longer distant echoes of a troubled past; they have become resurgent realities. From Mali and Burkina Faso to Niger, Gabon, and now Madagascar, nine coups have shaken the continent since 2020, eroding democratic norms and emboldening soldiers who see themselves as saviours of failed civilian governments.

In Nigeria, where frustration is soaring over economic collapse, inflation, and insecurity, the thin line between democracy and disorder is wearing dangerously thin.

For President Tinubu, the latest reshuffle is both a desperate consolidation of power and an implicit admission of fragility. Analysts warn that internal divisions within the military, especially along regional lines, could prove explosive if left unchecked.

“There’s no better time to reform the armed forces than now,” one senior intelligence officer told HumAngle. “It’s far more important than even a constitutional review. We cannot afford a significant population bearing guns to remain aggrieved.” There are so many things wrong with the security sector that we must pay attention to, said the senior intelligence officer. 

South Africa, Nigeria, Mozambique, Burkina Faso removed from Financial Action Task Force’s financial crimes list.

A global money-laundering watchdog has taken South Africa, Nigeria, Mozambique and Burkina Faso off its “grey list” of countries subjected to increased monitoring.

The Financial Action Task Force’s (FATF), a financial crimes watchdog based in France, on Friday said it was removing the four countries after “successful on-site visits” that showed “positive progress” in addressing shortcomings within agreed timeframes.

The FATF maintains “grey” and “black” lists for countries it has identified as not meeting its standards. It considers grey list countries to be those with “strategic deficiencies” in their anti-money laundering regimes, but which are nonetheless working with the organisation to address them.

FATF President Elisa de Anda Madrazo called the removal of the four “a positive story for the continent of Africa”.

South Africa revamped its tools to detect money laundering and terrorist financing, she said, while Nigeria created better coordination between agencies, Mozambique increased its financial intelligence sharing, and Burkina Faso improved its oversight of financial institutions.

Nigeria and South Africa were added to the list in 2023, preceded by Mozambique in 2022 and Burkina Faso in 2021.

Officials from the four countries – which will no longer be subject to increased monitoring by the organisation – welcomed the decision.

Nigerian President Bola Ahmed Tinubu said the delisting marked a “major milestone in Nigeria’s journey towards economic reform, institutional integrity and global credibility”, while the country’s Financial Intelligence Unit separately said it had “worked resolutely through a 19-point action plan” to demonstrate its commitment to improvements.

Edward Kieswetter, commissioner of the South African Revenue Service, also cheered the update but said, “Removing the designation of grey listing is not a finish line but a milestone on a long-term journey toward building a robust and resilient financial ecosystem.”

Leaders in Mozambique and Burkina Faso did not immediately comment, though Mozambican officials had signalled for several months that they were optimistic about being removed.

In July, Finance Minister Carla Louveira said Mozambique was “not simply working to get off the grey list, but working so that in the fight against money laundering and terrorist financing, when the FATF makes its assessment in 2030, it will find a completely different situation from the one detected in 2021,” MZ News reported at the time.

More than 200 countries around the world have pledged to follow the standards of the FATF, which reviews their efforts to combat money laundering, as well as terrorist and weapons financing.

The FATF’s black or “high-risk” list consists of Iran, Myanmar and North Korea.

When conflict between the Sudan Armed Forces (SAF) and the Rapid Support Force (RSF) had reached its peak in early 2024, Saleh Iliyas and Abdurrahim, his friend-turned-family member, were doing the math: staying could mean dying at home, and leaving could mean dying on the road. But what becomes of a man whose world is torn in halves?  

The conflict in Sudan had caught Saleh unprepared. He was just a tailor with steady hands when the violence came without warning. He could remember when he heard the first gunshot in April 2023. It sounded like a joke, “but Khartoum breathed its last quiet breath before the storm then.”

Saleh never thought the recent tensions between the RSF and local communities in Khartoum would escalate into a full-blown war. Here he was now, not only consumed by the violence but also considering moving out. 

Deciding where to go was easy since he had lived part of his childhood in Nigeria. The difficult question was how to move out with a sick and ageing father, a young wife, and two children, including a newborn. 

Then a turning point came.

As he sat in front of his house for Iftar, the evening meal during Ramadan, one day, a rocket passed over his head and landed a few meters away. The result was a huge blast, fire, collapsed buildings, and many dead bodies.

“It was as if Khartoum stood still for a second, and then the screams from the women, children, and men who were either terrified or affected, followed,” he told HumAngle. 

Saleh had to leave. He spoke to his father and his friend, Abdurrahim. A driver who knew his way to safety said he needed three days to arrange it. 

Within the three days of waiting, violence intensified in Khartoum. Power lines were severed, the internet was disrupted, and rumours replaced news. The RSF and SAF engaged each other, and the war was everywhere.

Saleh’s house, where his wife, father, two children, and Abdurrahim had found safety, became both a refuge and a prison. Food dwindled. The markets were looted, and many high-rise buildings were targeted or destroyed.

“Do you think this will end soon?” his wife asked one night, her voice trembling over the silence.

He didn’t answer. He was thinking of the absurdity of the war — blood brothers from SAF and the RSF fighting each other with pride. He thought of how men killed for mere symbols and a warlord who didn’t care.

They did not sleep peacefully in the three nights before the driver decided they had to leave. “We’ll go west,” he said, “through Omdurman. Maybe reach some safe villages, then south. There are routes people are taking.” 

That night, Saleh stepped outside to see Khartoum one last time. The mornings that began with laughter and the Nile’s breeze were all gone. He remembered the faith that tomorrow would always come. Now, tomorrow was a ghost. 

And so began their exodus, not as wanderers seeking land, but as souls, as resilient individuals who believed that there was a life to continue elsewhere.

On the torturer’s fork 

To understand Saleh’s ruin, one must first understand the men who lit the match.

General Abdel Fattah al-Burhan, head of the Sudan Armed Forces, was a career soldier moulded by the doctrines of control and hierarchy. He rose through the ranks during Omar al-Bashir’s three-decade rule, loyal to the idea that the army was the soul of Sudan.

Mohamed Hamdan Dagalo, known as Hemedti, was his ally. He is a former camel trader from Darfur who built his power on the backs of Janjaweed militias that were once accused of all sorts of war crimes. Hemedti’s RSF, which was an offshoot of the Janjaweed, became an autonomous force, commanding men who were not new to violence.

When al-Bashir fell in 2019 after months of civilian protests, the two generals joined forces to secure the transition, but peace was only a mask. The revolution that brought them together also planted the seeds of distrust.

By early 2023, tensions over integrating the RSF into the regular army had boiled over. Hemedti refused to dissolve his forces, fearing subjugation; al-Burhan insisted it was necessary for a unified state. And so, the generals who once shared a coup became rivals in a war that would tear their country apart.

Abdulrahim and Saleh could recall that during the revolution that brought El-Bashir down, many people were supporting the army, “and then just a year into the regime, everything changed for the worse,” said Abdurrahim. “Inflation rose and prices skyrocketed five times.” 

Saleh explained that the size of bread that once cost 1 SDG (Sudanese pound) rose to 3 SDG under El-Bashir and led to protests, but it became about 15 to 20 SDG under al-Burhan. 

“So you could see why people were angry with al-Burhan, and when squabbles started between him and Hemedti, people like us were supporting the RSF because we thought he was doing a great job, not pursuing any selfish interest,” Saleh said. 

Hemedti won the hearts of the Sudanese by calling for a democratic transition. But as the tension rose, said Saleh, many RSF trucks were positioned “almost everywhere in Khartoum.” 

According to him, Khartoum residents are administrative people and are not familiar with seeing weapons and military personnel stationed on every corner. That situation led to lots of skirmishes between civilians and the RSF, which made the paramilitary lose its popularity. 

And then the war broke out. 

The first weeks were chaos. Khartoum became a battlefield, its neighbourhoods reduced to rubble of what once were. Jets roared over the city as SAF bombarded RSF positions, while paramilitary men seized streets, looted markets, and turned homes into barracks. 

Hospitals were shelled, schools attacked, buildings destroyed, and corpses lay unburied in the heat. Humanitarian corridors were promises that dissolved under fire.

“Every high-rise building, every mall, bank, or any empty building became a hideout for snipers or a target of bombs,” said Abdurrahim. “Lots of people were killed while attempting to run away.”

Despite that danger, more than 10 million Sudanese fled their homes, spilling into Chad, South Sudan, Egypt, and beyond. Refugee camps rose overnight. The United Nations called it “the world’s largest displacement crisis.” Families were separated, and in the chaos of the roads, mothers buried children without names. 

Saleh knew the stories before becoming one. He heard of those who died on the road to Port Sudan, those who drowned in the Nile trying to escape, and those who vanished into the desert.

And then foreign actors got involved. 

Egypt, with its close ties to the army, threw its weight behind al-Burhan’s forces, seeking a stable ally along the Nile. UN investigators accused the United Arab Emirates of backing the RSF, funnelling weapons through Chad and the Central African Republic, an allegation it has denied. 

Russia’s Wagner Group, long embedded in Sudan’s gold trade, was reported to have supported Dagalo’s men in securing mining sites. Countries condemned both sides, but diplomacy also took a bullet in the crossfire.

Long road to Nigeria 

One night in early 2025, Saleh, his father, his friend Abdurrahim, his wife, and their two children joined a small group of neighbours, eighteen in all, mostly women and children, to begin their escape.

They had been warned about the dangers. Snipers perched on rooftops, looters prowled the streets, and militias set up unpredictable checkpoints. 

“We had to move as one,” Saleh recalled. “If we walked separately or rode in a car, we might never make it out.”

They moved silently through the alleys of Khartoum. Behind them, the echoes of shelling rolled like distant thunder. Ahead lay uncertainty, hundreds of kilometres of dust, hunger, and fear. “But anything was better than staying,” said Saleh.

Abdurrahim, his childhood friend, walked beside him. “You know where you are going,” he said, “but you don’t know the road to follow. You just keep moving along the direction and stepping carefully to avoid danger.”

They reached the outskirts of the city by dawn, where they met the driver, a middle-aged man who had turned his pickup into a vessel of salvation amidst a war. He took what little they carried: documents, a few clothes, and “some stuff my father said was important,” recalled Saleh.

The drive southward revealed the full reality of the war. Buildings Saleh once admired — the glass towers, the university Abdulrahim attended, the small tea shops that once lined the streets — lay in ruins. Skeletons of burned cars littered the roads. 

They zigzagged across Sudan, avoiding the territories of warring factions, surviving on bread, water, and anything their small money could buy. The journey that should have taken days stretched into weeks. 

“We knew it wouldn’t be easy,” Saleh said, “but we didn’t imagine it would be this hard.”

When they finally reached the border with South Sudan, they rested for a day. They had thought they wouldn’t be welcomed, especially due to the recent history of conflict between North and South Sudan, “but were really supported there.”

“My son was even given water by one of their soldiers,” Saleh said. 

From South Sudan, they moved again, passing through the Central African Republic into Chad. They met others moving in the same direction on foot. One group of about ten told Saleh they had started the journey as more than thirty. “They looked haunted,” he said. “Their faces told stories the mouth could not.”

It rained the day they arrived in Chad. They were temporarily registered as refugees, yet Saleh felt restless after a few weeks. “You cannot live waiting for mercy every day,” he said softly. “You begin to forget who you are.”

Nigeria, where his late grandfather hailed from, seemed the next logical destination. Though Saleh himself was born in Saudi Arabia, he spent some of his childhood years in Nigeria.  

“I thought we could come here and start afresh before the war ended,” he said.

Now in Nigeria, the dust of the journey still clings to his eyes, the eyes of a man who has seen too much of the evil humans can do to one another.

Safety and its aftermath 

From the Chadian border, through Maiduguri, in Nigeria’s North East, they finally arrived in Kano, in the country’s North West. Saleh and Abdurrahim found a city that looked energetic, but beneath it ran a quiet struggle. They rented a small shop in Rimin Auzinawa and waited for customers who rarely came.

“The economy is choking everyone,” Saleh said. “People rarely bring new clothes, and when they do, the amount they pay is too small.”

They had imagined Nigeria as a place of opportunity, where hard work would bring dignity. But the naira’s fall made everything expensive. “You open the shop from morning to night,” Abdurrahim said, “and at the end, you barely earn enough for bread.”

Saleh and Abdurrahim told HumAngle that the money they had come with was about to finish, and they were not earning enough to sustain life. Now, as evening fell over Kano, Saleh and Abdurrahim sat outside their shop, their machines silent, their thoughts elsewhere.

“We will leave the families here,” Saleh said, his voice low. “Let them have stability, even if we don’t. Algeria is not home, but maybe there, a man can at least feed those he loves.”

And so, once again, the journey calls — not for safety this time, but for survival.

In Kwara, a Muslim-majority state in north-central Nigeria where religious traditions govern daily life, some young women are defying cultural expectations through football.

They have discovered the camaraderie, competitive spirit, and emotional journey of the sport, while facing disapproval from those who question its appropriateness for modestly dressed women.

When 17-year-old Maryam Muhammed heads to practise at the Model Queens Football Academy in Ilorin, she endures the intense heat — made more challenging by her hijab and leggings — and community criticism.

“They tell me I will not achieve anything. But I believe I will achieve something big,” she says, despite regularly encountering taunts on her way to training.

Though sometimes uncomfortable, maintaining modest dress while playing is non-negotiable for her.

“Sometimes it feels like I want to open the hijab, but I must not expose my hair,” she explained. “I have to put it on as a good Muslim.”

FIFA initially banned hijabs in 2007 on safety grounds, resulting in Iran’s women’s team being excluded from a 2012 Olympic qualifier. The restriction was eased in 2012 and fully lifted in 2014. Morocco’s Nouhaila Benzina made history as the first hijab-wearing player at a senior women’s World Cup in 2023.

Kehinde Muhammed, Maryam’s mother, has weathered criticism for supporting her daughter’s passion. “So many people discouraged me,” she admitted. “But I respect my children’s decisions. I support her and keep praying for her.”

She creates custom hijabs matching team jerseys, emphasising: “I counsel her that this is the normal way you are supposed to be dressed as a Muslim.”

Model Queens coach Muyhideen Abdulwahab works to change community perceptions. “We go out to meet parents, to tell them there are laws in place for modest dressing,” he said. “Despite that, some still say no.”

Nineteen-year-old team member Bashirat Omotosho balances her love for football with family responsibilities. She often misses training to help her mother sell puff puff, a fried dough snack, at their roadside stall to support the family.

“Training is often in the morning, but I have to be here,” she explained while serving customers, watching her teammates sometimes jog past during practice. “I cannot leave my mum — this is how I earn money.”

Titilayo Omotosho, Bashirat’s mother, initially opposed her daughter’s athletic ambitions.

“Why would a lady choose football?” she questioned.

Omotosho’s stance softened after her husband’s approval and seeing successful Muslim players like Nigeria star Asisat Oshoala. “Seeing other Muslim girls succeed, like Asisat, encouraged us to let her play,” she said, referencing the record six-time African Women’s Footballer of the Year. Oshoala, who plays without a hijab, comes from Lagos in southwest Nigeria, where Islamic practices are less conservative.

According to local football administrator Ambali Abdulrazak, despite growing interest, female participation remains limited in Ilorin.

The Nigeria Women’s Football League (NWFL) ranks among Africa’s strongest, dominated by southern clubs from Lagos and Port Harcourt, where infrastructure and social support are more established. Northern and central regions face cultural and religious barriers, though grassroots initiatives are expanding.

Nationwide, women’s football is gaining popularity, driven by the national team’s success, increased sponsorships, and development programmes. Since 2020, NWFL viewership has increased by 40 percent, with match attendance rising 35 percent in 2024, according to Nigerian media company iTelemedia, which monitors audience trends across local leagues.

During a recent training session, Muhammed and her teammates practised on a sandy school pitch as the sun set, their voices mingling with the muezzin’s call to prayer from a nearby mosque.

On August 29, Muhammed captained the Model Queens in a youth tournament final, which they lost. She high-fived teammates and celebrated as they received runners-up medals, but later cried alone in her room over the defeat.

Her family’s support and faith sustain her determination. “I really love this sport. I have a passion for it,” she said. “Since my parents support me, there is nothing stopping me. Football is my dream.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Years of darkness 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A shattered homecoming

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The brothers’ ordeal

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘When we saw them, we cried’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘A gross violation of the constitution’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Advisory: Some readers might find this story distressing as it details experiences of sexual violence.

Mardiyyah Hussein* had not yet learned to roll the word ‘virgin’ on her tongue when speculations started to spread about her purity and worth after she was sexually assaulted. She was six years old, publicly beaten and shamed, while the perpetrator, an older relative in his mid-teens, roamed freely.

“I could remember people were telling my friends to stay away from me, and other children didn’t want to play with me. To date, snide remarks are still made in reference to that incident. It was a very painful memory,” she told HumAngle. 

Years later, the 26-year-old started experiencing severe stomach aches and menstrual and lower abdominal pain. The pain, which slowly worsened over time, got so bad that she was admitted to the hospital and administered painkillers almost every month during her period. She lived in Sokoto State, northwestern Nigeria.

She finally sought medical help when the pain became unmanageable. 

“During a scan, the man [referring to the physician] kept asking me if I was sexually active, even though I kept saying I wasn’t. He turned to the other man with him and said some things… I heard the other man say, You can’t tell with women nowadays,” which she believed was in reference to her alleged sexual history. 

When she returned to the consultant with the result, he bypassed her and had a private conversation with her mother. “When he returned, he asked me again if I had regular sexual intercourse with someone, which I denied,” she recalled. Mardiyyah’s only sexual experience at that point was when she was abused; she didn’t think it was relevant to the conversation, and also didn’t feel safe enough to dig into that painful memory with him.

Nigerian medical practitioners are bound by the duty of professional secrecy or confidentiality, which obligates them not to disclose any information received in performing their duty to a third party, unless the patients waive that right or the law obligates them. And Mardiyyah, being an adult at the time, did not consent to that breach or waive that right. 

Her very conservative environment meant that Mardiyyah could end up facing social condemnations as a result of purity culture due to those insinuations. The creeping shame attached to sex in that moment mirrored what she experienced as a child. 

The consultant brought in another female consultant. After he excused himself, the woman asked her the same question, emphasising how she could be a safe space for her. 

“I eventually gave in and opened up about my sexual trauma because I really wanted them to leave me alone. I was in so much pain, I just needed the pain to go away, and if I had any sexual history, I would have divulged that. It was after that the doctor told me they suspected I had Pelvic Inflammatory Disease (PID),” Mardiyyah recounted. 

The doctor insisted she wouldn’t have contracted it if she had not had regular intercourse. It was five years later that she learnt that sexual intercourse was not the only way to contract PID.

PID, an infection that affects reproductive organs, can be transmitted through sex. However, other factors, such as appendicitis, endometrial biopsies, and placement of intrauterine devices (IUDs), can raise the risk of infection.

After the conversation, the doctor also said she suspected the presence of ovarian cysts in her system. However, she advised that if it really turned out to be cysts, it would be best for her to start treatment after she got married, as doing otherwise “might affect how her future husband may view her due to the intimate nature of the diagnosis and the social view of women who frequent gynaecologists in the community.”

“I remembered my uncle, who was also working in the hospital, even said they were giving me a deadline for December that year to bring a husband,” she said. 

Mardiyyah was admitted to the gynaecology ward; her pain was so severe that she couldn’t really sit down and had to be on her back constantly. The female consultant left her in the care of a younger male colleague and instructed him to complete her documentation.

She recalled him putting on gloves and asking her to lie down properly. When he told her to undress, she asked if it was necessary, and he said he needed to conduct an examination for the records he was preparing.

In pain and unaware of the correct procedure, she reluctantly complied.

She felt increased pain when his fingers penetrated her vagina,  after which he went on to check for “soreness” on her breast. She didn’t realise that he was running “a virginity test” until he said to her that he believed her hymen was intact. 

As she tried to process what was happening, he kept talking. “He was saying some things are not medical but rather spiritual, and I should pray about them,” she recalled. In that moment, Mardiyyah felt violated and disgusted. 

“Anytime a procedure involves private parts of the body, the doctor is required to explain exactly what will be done and why in accordance with the code of medical ethics in Nigeria,” Aisha Abdulghaniyyu, a medical doctor, told HumAngle. “Major red flags to watch out for include: inadequate or unclear explanation, absence of a chaperone, lack of privacy to undress or if the patient feels rushed into it. You shouldn’t have to expose more of your body than is necessary for the procedure.” 

Dr Aisha noted that a chaperone could be a nurse or another staff member of the same gender as the patient, who stays in the room during the examination. If none is available, she encourages patients to request a family member to stay with them. “You also have the right to ask questions until you’re satisfied with the explanation,” she said. “You can also ‘stop’ the procedure at any point if you feel uncomfortable, as stated in the code of medical ethics.” 

When the consultant returned, Mardiyyah informed her about what had happened. She ‘scolded’ him in front of her, but no serious action was taken. Mardiyyah later told her mother and her aunt and shared it with a close cousin. 

Her cousin was the only person who offered a solution. She urged her to write a petition, reporting the doctor who carried out the procedure to the hospital and the state branch of the Medical and Dental Council of Nigeria (MDCN). 

However, her mother and aunt insisted that opening up about the incident would affect her and her family’s reputation. It wasn’t just the lack of action, but also the dismissal of her pain that further scarred her. 

“The fact that they seemed to be more thrilled about my ‘intact’ hymen than concerned about the violation I experienced hurt me deeply,” she said. Some of her relatives even insisted that maybe the doctor just wanted to be sure to rule out other options, and maybe the procedure was required after all. 

Sometimes, she gaslights herself into thinking she could be exaggerating the impact on her. “I could remember my aunt saying I could be exaggerating how it happened or how violated I felt during the assault. I know he had no right to touch me in that way, no matter what anyone says. Even when I want to do a breast cancer screening,  if I realise the doctor is a man, I don’t let him touch me,” she said.

Mardiyyah is one of many women who have experienced this kind of violation across the country.

Uvie Ogaga* was just 19 when she experienced sexual assault in a public hospital in Port Harcourt, South-South Nigeria. Her memory of the experience was repressed until a conversation about sexual assault by healthcare practitioners came up in an all-women online group chat she was part of in 2025.

When symptoms of what she later discovered to be Polycystic Ovary Syndrome (PCOS) began to appear, she visited the hospital regularly between 2011 and 2014. However, in 2013, a male gynaecologist used his finger to penetrate her during a High Vaginal Swab (HVS) procedure, when he was supposed to collect a sample with a swab stick.

“I was a virgin then, and I told him this. Every time I’ve done that test before, they usually use a swab stick instead of a speculum to reduce the discomfort. On that occasion, he brought out the swab stick, but I was uncomfortable and started to fidget. He then forced his finger in, telling me to open my legs and asking why I was acting shy,” she recalled the painful experience.

Uvie felt helpless but didn’t report it due to the fear that she would not be believed. She also felt too exhausted by her health to pursue it further later on.  All she could do was cry. A few months later, she came across the gynaecologist on Facebook. 

“I  sent him a private message along the lines of, ‘Hi, it’s Uvie. Remember me? The patient you touched inappropriately when you were supposed to be taking a sample,’ but he never responded,” the now 30-year-old said.

Lingering trauma

According to Chioma Onyemaobi, HumAngle’s in-house Clinical Psychologist, violations like the one experienced by Uvie and Mardiyyah have psychological impacts.

“Patients can end up with betrayal trauma due to the violation of the duty of care relationship between patients and doctors, which can also discourage them from going to the hospital and seeking the care they need. This can also create feelings of distrust towards public figures extending to police, managers and other people in professional capacities,” Chioma explained. 

The treatment didn’t work for Mardiyyah, as her pain only persisted. She had to see another doctor, who diagnosed her with appendicitis, requiring an emergency surgery. 

The whole experience left her feeling hopeless. 

“I felt like they profiled me in their head, and that’s why they kept insisting on my sexual history, and I wondered about the insinuations that would have continued to be made if I did have PID instead of appendicitis,” she lamented. 

Mardiyyah felt violated all over again, not just within her physical body but also in the way she was made to run other STI tests because they refused to believe what she said. 

One of the scariest parts came after she found out that it happened to someone else: “I met a friend who shared a similar experience, and because I suspected it was the same doctor, I followed her to the hospital and discovered I was right when she pointed him out to me.” 

Her friend told her he also fingered her in the name of “running a virginity test” without her consent when she went to the hospital for a gynaecological issue. They wanted to take it up again, but other friends discouraged them, saying that this might affect their friend’s marriage prospects if word got out, because no man would want a wife who had “been fingered by another man”. 

Mardiyyah still experiences abdominal cramps and other gynaecological-related issues from time to time, but she prefers to find other pain management alternatives as she currently struggles with seeing male doctors, especially gynaecologists. 

Uvie also shared her own lingering trauma with the healthcare system as she developed anxiety and fear towards the medical system. 

“Even though before then I had never experienced sexual assault in the hospital, I recalled that since I was a teenager, every single time I ran a test that had to do with exposing any part of me, afterwards, the male specialists would usually ask for my number, every time, without fail. I used to do quite a few lower abdominal scans because of cysts,” she said. 

This led her to start avoiding hospitals, especially government facilities. One time, another doctor attempted to take her sample without a chaperone, and she screamed as loudly as she could until he had no choice but to call in another female doctor before the sample could be taken. 

“I still hate hospitals and do my research before visiting a new facility. Now I have a specialist I like, and the last two times I’ve moved houses, I made sure to stay within walking distance of that hospital,” Uvie said, adding that she feels safer with her decision, and the attempts to protect herself have proved helpful.

While Uvie’s experience highlights how vulnerable patients can be during medical examinations, younger women and girls face even more complex dangers — sometimes masked as care or kindness.

Grooming and statutory rape 

After a failed suicidal attempt that led to her being admitted to a hospital in Ogun State, southwestern Nigeria, 16-year-old Angela Adeshola*, who was diagnosed with bipolar disorder the previous year, met a doctor she believed to be kind. He was in his mid to late twenties, doing his housemanship at the hospital at the time, and living within the school accommodations.  

“While I was still on admission in the hospital, he kept on calling me. He asked me out a few times, but I told him I had a boyfriend. He even suggested that I break up with my boyfriend, which I refused,” she recalled. 

Chioma, the psychologist, describes this incident as grooming, especially considering the age and power dynamics between Angela and the doctor. 

“Grooming is a manipulative process an abuser uses to gain the trust and emotional dependence of a victim to exploit them. It can lead to sexual, verbal, emotional or physical abuse. They usually would identify the victim they want to exploit, they then try to gain the person’s trust, mostly to fill in the gap that is lacking in their lives, then they would try to fulfil that person’s need, and then they usually try to isolate the person, which gives them power over the victim,” she explained. 

Chioma added that most times, people don’t recognise they are being groomed, because the groomers tend to gaslight their victims, accusing them of overreacting or emphasising what they do for them. They also tend to give excessive gifts even when victims don’t need them.

“They also try to cross or disrespect your boundaries, and they will guilt-trip you into lowering your guard. Grooming is harmful because it gives room for exploitation, affecting your self-worth, trust, and self-esteem. Robbing you of your identity and genuineness, sometimes it doesn’t give room for you to see the world any differently than what they show to you,” Chioma noted. 

The doctor visited her often while she was still in the hospital, and the day she was discharged, he invited her to his place. At first, she refused, but he was able to convince her eventually. It was there that he raped her.

“I was telling him to stop and asked him what he expected me to tell my boyfriend, but he didn’t answer me,” Angela recounted. 

After that incident, she couldn’t walk properly, and he demanded that she try and “walk better” because of the school security officers around his accommodation. She forced herself to fix the way she walked, ignoring the soreness and pain. 

When they got to his car that evening, he began to make advances at her again. Due to what had happened earlier, she believed there was no point holding back on his advances and therefore agreed. For a long time, she held the belief that the latter incident was “consensual” despite her being underage at that time.

He then bought her an after-sex pill, took her to eat, and they “agreed”  not to tell anyone what had happened. He also insisted that she delete all their exchanged messages and encouraged her to meet again. At first, she didn’t recognise that what happened was statutory rape.  She even felt grateful for his “kindness” and sent him a “thank you” text afterwards. 

The second time it happened, his tone started to change.  “He started saying what we were doing was wrong, and he also deleted his number from my phone. He even said that I set him up, and he knows the truth would come out someday,” she recounted. 

Around that time, Angela brought up what happened with her psychologist, who demanded she tell her who the doctor was and informed her that what happened was statutory rape, as she was too young to give consent. At first, she did not feel safe enough to name him, but she was later pressured into giving in. However, she wasn’t sure how that was handled, as it wasn’t brought up again. 

When HumAngle reached out to the hospital to get their perspective on the issue, they at first claimed he never worked there, but later told us to “please find a way to contact the said doctor”, after we presented our investigations.

Section 31 of the Child’s Rights Act defines rape as unlawful intercourse with a child under the age of 18, where lack of knowledge of the child’s age is not a valid defence. Also, section 221 of the Criminal Code applicable to the southern part of the country defines defilement as sexual intercourse with a child between 13 to 16 years. In this case, “consent” cannot be claimed to be given if the child is underage, even if they seemingly “agreed” to it. 

“A few months later, my parents found out what happened to me, they refused to tell me how they found out and after another event happened to me in the school, they removed me from that university,” Angela recounted. 

She was later admitted to a different psychiatric hospital shortly after leaving the school. There, she told the psychiatrist about the incident, and the hospital wanted to take it up as a statutory rape case. It felt safer to speak out openly to this new doctor because it wasn’t her school environment where information could leak, especially after she confided in two people and they told others. 

“I really don’t know what happened, but what the doctors there told me is that they tried reaching his number for a long time, but he didn’t pick up, and when he eventually did, he denied it. I had to start over in a less reputable university after wasting two years in my previous school, and the whole event really damaged a part of me,” Angela lamented. 

The incident made her hate herself and affected her self-worth. She started to believe she was a terrible person and didn’t deserve anything, and it affected the way she perceived men, especially male doctors, leading to suicide attempts.  She texted him after the last  incident and told him to stop sleeping with his underage patients, among other things, but he only demanded to know ‘what she wanted from him.’  

HumAngle found that the doctor is still practising at a federal government-owned hospital in the country’s North West. 

During this investigation, HumAngle was able to track his identity and find details about him, including his LinkedIn account, using the details we got from the source. We also took steps to establish his identity by asking Angela to identify him among several other pictures of other people. She picked out his picture twice. 

When HumAngle reached out to him for clarification on the allegations, his legal representative sent a response denying the allegations.

A surgical violation  

For some survivors, the trauma happens not in secret meetings but in brightly lit operating rooms, where trust and vulnerability are most exposed.

In 2021, Firdaus Akin* found an unfamiliar growth in her right breast while she was lying on her chest one evening. However, she didn’t seek medical help until a year later.

Her mother first took her to a female doctor who said the diameter was big and needed to be removed through surgery. Naturally, she was worried, but she convinced herself everything would turn out right in the end. 

The female doctor could not do the surgery, and she struggled to get a female surgeon in her city. As a practising Muslim who covers from head to toe, it was not an easy decision to open up in front of a strange man, but she didn’t have a choice, as prioritising her health was paramount. 

The family doctor delivered all her mother’s children. As an adult, Firdaus visited his hospital only a couple of times and had no strong connection to him. Her parents’ financial situation was the main reason they used his hospital because he allowed them to pay back the amount over a stretch of time.

She innocently believed that his sharing the same faith would make him understand her awkwardness and reluctance better, but instead, he started making fun of her shyness, alongside comments that made her uncomfortable. 

“He would also ask stupid questions like if I have pubic hair, and would make reference to the hair on other parts of my body. I  returned home crying after the first check-up, but my mum was very dismissive. She even said my breast is not even that big or special for me to be making so much ruckus about nothing, and even asked if I would have preferred to die instead,” she recounted. Her mother’s reluctance to understand her hurt her deeply, even though she didn’t expect much from her due to their troubled history. 

According to Dr Aisha, “If the doctor touches areas not related to the problem or makes comments that feel personal rather than professional. Simply put: if something feels ‘off,’  it is important to take that feeling seriously. Trust your intuition and don’t feel threatened because the practitioner is a professional. If at any point you feel your boundaries have been crossed, you have the right to speak up and ask the doctor to stop immediately.”

She emphasised that doctors are only supposed to do what is medically necessary as regards the specific condition of the patient and what the patient has agreed to. 

“If a doctor tries to examine you without explaining why, or performs something you didn’t consent to, or if they seem evasive when you ask what the procedure is for or dismiss you when you raise concerns or show signs of discomfort, and the physician seems adamant without properly explaining why it’s needed, you should get concerned,” Dr Aisha explained. “Good doctors want their patients to feel safe and informed, not confused or pressured.” 

Firdaus said the first incident happened during the surgery. “I was put under anaesthesia, and at a point, it started to wear off. I regained consciousness for a bit, only to discover that my scrub was removed and I was left with nothing but my pants on. I later learnt that my scrub was stained with blood and they just made a decision to remove it instead of changing it,” she recounted. 

After the surgery, she had to return to the hospital a few times for post-surgery care and in a few instances during the course of examination, the family doctor would touch her inappropriately in places he didn’t need to touch, like her thighs. He would also make crass comments about her breasts. 

“One particular day, he ‘checked’ my navel, under my arms, and also proceeded to stroke my nipples in the name of examination,” Firdaus said, adding that she was shocked and didn’t know what to do. 

Another time, while changing her dressing after the surgery, he touched the nipple on her unaffected breast and claimed he was just trying to adjust it when she asked him why he was touching her in that manner. She didn’t understand it as harassment at first, but she felt violated and knew he was being unprofessional and crossing boundaries. 

Even though sometimes there were nurses around, they were usually focused on their own work, and nobody really paid any attention to them during examinations. 

“I am really trying so hard not to cry while recounting this experience because it’s very triggering. But I believe we have to say these things so that people will know what’s going on and so that women in the medical field can step up to those roles,” Firdaus added. 

There were times she couldn’t sleep well after the violations; sometimes she had nightmares of someone pulling at her nipples, and she would cry a lot. Even the stretch of time didn’t make that feeling go away, as the nightmares still pop up occasionally.

Fortunately, she hasn’t had more reasons to visit the hospital, and when a health reason pops up, she would rather go to the hospital at her university because she believes there would be more accountability there if something like that were to happen.

“Recently, I experienced anal prolapse. I was scared to go to the hospital because I was worried I would end up needing care or surgery from a male doctor, and I don’t feel safe with them. Instead, I spoke to my roommate, who is a nurse,” Firdaus said. She encouraged her to increase her fruit and fibre intake and also do Kegel exercises, which have been helpful.

Another time, she couldn’t visit a doctor for a menstrual issue because she was afraid she could meet a male doctor who would ask to see intimate parts of her body. 

“Some people may say it’s not harassment, but it is definitely unprofessional, and it made me feel violated. I know people may ask why I didn’t speak out, but in all honesty, I didn’t know what to do, and I still feel so stupid for not saying anything, even years later. And because he was an elderly man, I was confused and didn’t know how to react,” she added. 

Yet, the breach of professional boundaries isn’t limited to physical procedures. In mental health spaces, emotional manipulation and invasive questioning can be just as violating.

Left feeling violated and unsafe 

Even before inattentiveness started to interfere with her studies, 23-year-old Aria Dele* had always felt out of place in the world, but the interference pushed her to take the step to finally get a diagnosis for what she suspected to be Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD) at her school’s Teaching Hospital, in Ilorin, North Central Nigeria. The general doctor gave her a recommendation to see a psychiatrist at the hospital. 

It started with him inquiring about her background information, which she was willing to offer, but when the questions got to sexual history, she became uncomfortable responding and expressed that. “He was asking how many sexual partners I have had and if I had experienced sexual assault. He was even asking me how my sexual experience felt for me and so many other questions that felt invasive,” she said.

Even when he left the questions and asked other things, he still kept circling back to the same questions. As she expressed her discomfort, she noticed his demeanour started to change, and she could see the visible irritation on his face. Seeing how angry it seemed to make him made her feel more unsafe.

She answered a couple of them. Then, he wanted to know who had harassed her and how she had been harassed.  This was especially hard for her because she had lived most of her life trying to make herself smaller to avoid men’s attention due to her experiences with them in the past. “I would try to make my hips and waist smaller and stop them from swaying to protect myself from unwanted attention,” she said. 

According to Chioma, one reason that may lead a psychiatrist to ask a client about their sexual history is to rule out any case of abuse, lingering trauma, or understand behaviours or relationships, depending on the presenting complaints, which can be important. 

“However, the doctor has no right in that case to go further than that. It can also be seen as victimising the patient, which is unethical and can make them feel unsafe. It is also the wrong way to get the result they were aiming for,” the clinical psychologist explained.

Although Aria felt violated after the experience, she dismissed it and focused on the fact that she at least got it over with. 

During the course of her studies, she was required to take classes at different government organisations in the city. Her first place of assignment was the psychiatric clinic.

“This was the course with the most credits in my final year. We were made to observe how the doctors attended to patients to see in practice what we learnt in theory.” 

Unfortunately, the first psychiatrist she met that day was the doctor she had seen earlier; he kept staring at her in a way that made her uncomfortable, and she tried to avoid him as much as she could, which led to her missing so many classes.  

“I was also worried if he might get upset or vindictive and give a review that might impact my grades. And because I missed some classes, I got a B instead of an A. I never felt comfortable enough to talk about it because the power dynamics felt imbalanced, as he was a consultant. I only told my friend, who advised me not to return to him and to keep my head down in classes,” she said. 

The experience made her feel small and uncomfortable, and it triggered previous memories of being sexually violated in different ways in the past: “I felt like he was doing something to me I couldn’t pinpoint at that time, and it seemed to me like he was taking pleasure from hearing about my sexual history and kept trying to squeeze more information.” 

This experience made her feel more guarded when interacting with other healthcare professionals and wary of seeing other psychiatrists in the future. 

One time in a conversation with some friends who knew the doctor, she asked what they thought about that doctor, and the friend had a lot of good things to say about him, which made her feel more uncomfortable. 

“I believe sexual harassment could be what I went through. A small part of me feels like I am exaggerating how violated I felt, making me feel silly and guilty for seeing it as sexual harassment, just because he didn’t put his hands on me, even though I knew it was a very unsafe environment for me then,” Aria said.

This discouraged her from ever seeking a diagnosis again. However, she finally got her diagnosis when her sister paid for her to get one in a private clinic that was giving discounts at that time. 

Even routine medical processes, like scans or laboratory procedures, can turn dehumanising when consent and respect are ignored.

For Khadijat Alao*, a sickle cell crisis beyond what she usually experienced pushed her into seeking medical help in August at a government hospital in Kaduna, northwestern Nigeria,  where the doctor recommended a scan.  During the scan, a male lab technology student was present, and no explanation was given for that, which made her feel uncomfortable. She asked one of the women if he was supposed to be there, and she assured her that he would leave.

“They gave me a scrub to change into, only for me to come back and see him still in the room. I asked again, and the woman said I should not worry about it. But because I insisted, he started throwing a tantrum claiming that he cannot afford to miss the X-ray, that he has an exam or test, and he would be asked about it,” she recalled. 

Apart from feeling angry and violated, it also made her feel small and dismissed. “It made me feel like I wasn’t a human being. Like I was a specimen or something. They didn’t prepare me for this and didn’t ask for my consent. I insisted he leave.” 

They convinced him to move to a cubicle in the room, and if not for her underwear, the way she was angled would have exposed her vagina to the student: “When the procedure started, he came out of the cubicle, making me feel violated all over again. My leg was open, and one of the other women tried to drag him out, but he kept fighting to be there. I did not feel respected as a human, and that feeling followed me for a very long time.”

She believed she would have at least been mentally prepared if they had told her or asked her beforehand.

A system that fails to protect 

These experiences, though different in setting and form, reflect a troubling pattern: a health system where patients, especially women, often feel unsafe, unheard, and unprotected.

Dr Aisha encouraged patients who experience any form of violation in the hospital to write down the details of what happened, including time, place, and what was said or done. “Collect as much evidence as possible. You can report it to the hospital management or, if necessary, the medical regulatory body. If you can’t reach the body, you can report to another physician; they are obligated to report such cases to the medical body according to the code of ethics, which states, a physician shall deal honestly with patients and colleagues, and report to the appropriate authorities those physicians who practice unethically or incompetently or who engage in fraud or deception.”

“And don’t hesitate to seek emotional support or professional counselling from trusted people. No one should feel ashamed for speaking out. Healthcare is meant to protect you, not harm you,” she added. 

*All asterisked names have been pseudonymised to protect the anonymity of the victims.

A young Kelvin carries multiple identities. Today, he’s Kelvin, but that might change tomorrow, depending on the identity game he’s up to. For at least 14 hours a day, he describes himself as “Richard”, a stranded American engineer needing financial help from a sympathetic woman he met on a dating site. He’s always glued to his laptop, scheming to swindle his next target in his many romance tricks. 

Kelvin lives in a community in Asaba, South-South Nigeria. 

For him, the end justifies the means, as long as he amasses enough wealth to fund his exorbitant lifestyle. Internet fraud, colloquially known as Yahoo-Yahoo, is his ticket to the flashy cars and designer clothes he sees flaunted by mentors in “HK” – the local term for the Hustling Kingdom, a structured network of internet fraudsters in the state.

Just a few kilometres away, a mechanics workshop stands half-empty. Togolese artisan, Awe Gao, wipes grease from his hands and shakes his head. “Where are the Nigerian boys?” he asks. “Before, this workshop was full of apprentices. Now, they all want quick money from the internet. They call this ‘Yahoo’, saying it is better than dirty hands.”

This is the new reality in Nigeria’s oil-rich South-South region. A generation of young men is abandoning traditional vocations such as furniture making, tiling, automobile mechanics, and welding for the seductive, high-reward world of cybercrime. This mass gravitation is not just a social ill; it is creating a dangerous security vacuum, crippling the local skilled workforce, and ceding vital trades to a steady influx of skilled migrants from Togo and the Benin Republic.

Nigeria has an unemployment problem, and young people are desperately looking for an alternative way to make a living. While many have chosen artisanship to overcome their employment plight, others are resorting to cybercrime. With many youths taking pride in internet fraud as a way of life, Nigeria ranks 5th in the global report on sources of cybercrime activities, trailing behind Russia, Ukraine, China, and the United States. 

A report by the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission (EFCC) documented a significant increase in conviction numbers between 2020 (976) and 2022 (3,785), with a high percentage of these related to cybercrime, such as obtaining by trickery and impersonation. The EFCC authorities noted that, in 2022, the country lost over $500 million to cybercrimes, which contributes to the nation’s reputation as a significant source of cybercrime globally. 

While the EFCC claims to have improved measures to curb cybercrimes in Nigeria, the institution has been accused of being overhand in handling suspects and focusing too much on internet fraudsters rather than corrupt public officials and politicians. The agency has, however, defended its actions, stating that internet fraud is a major crisis linked to more serious crimes. 

“I want Nigerians to know that we are having a crisis on our hands. If you travel abroad with your green passport and stand in the queue among so many people, you will discover that by the time you present the passport, the people [immigration officers] will look at you with some reservation,” said Olanipekun Olukoyede, the EFCC chairman. “That is, if they don’t take you aside to carry out some special scrutiny. That is a national shame that some young Nigerians [yahoo-yahoo boys] have caused us.”

The cybercrime problem seems to carry a different weight in the South-South region, with many young people leaving artisanship for internet fraud. HumAngle spoke to multiple sources, including self-confessing internet fraudsters, cybercrime experts, and community leaders, to unravel the dangerous escapades of youths making internet scams a way of life in the region. The reporting revealed how youths have chosen to enrol in criminal hubs where they learn to swindle people online. One such criminal enterprise is HK, a sophisticated ecosystem operating on a structured mentorship model, where an established fraudster houses and trains five to fifteen apprentices.

“My Oga taught me everything,” explains Kelvin, who dropped out of a polytechnic where he was studying electrical engineering. “How to use VPN, how to create a fake profile, how to talk to these white women, how to make a sad story. For three months, I was just learning. Now, I run my own operations and give him 20 per cent of my ‘hit’.”

The training is rigorous. Recruits are schooled in the psychology of manipulation, the technology of anonymity, and the financial logistics of moving illicit funds. They learn to target vulnerable individuals abroad through romance scams and email compromises.

Another cybercrime apprentice, Franca, 24, from Warri, serves as a “picker,” using her female identity to receive funds through her bank account: “At first, I was doing it to survive after my NYSC. No job. But the money is fast. One transaction can give you what a hair stylist will earn in six months. Why would I learn a trade that pays peanuts?”

The consequence of this mass shift is starkly visible in the region’s industrial and commercial layouts. Workshops that once buzzed with the sounds of apprentices learning a trade now operate below capacity.

“Look around,” says Chinedu Okoro, the owner of an automobile spare parts shop in Benin. “The Togolese and Beninois are taking over because they are willing to learn. Our youths see manual labour as punishment. They point to the ‘Yahoo boy’ with a new iPhone and say, ‘That is my target’. We are losing our capacity for production and becoming a society of scammers.”

The region is becoming dependent on foreign nationals for essential services and skilled labour, from building houses to repairing vehicles. This creates economic leakage and reduces local resilience. Contrary to the illusion of widespread success, only a fraction of internet fraudsters make significant money. The majority live in precarious uncertainty. The abandonment of viable vocational paths means a growing pool of unemployed, frustrated youth who have invested their formative years in a criminal enterprise with a short shelf life.

As competition intensifies, many fraudsters are turning to money rituals, known as “Yahoo Plus”, incorporating spiritualists and, alarmingly, resorting to violence for “quick money”. This has contributed to a spike in mysterious killings and kidnappings, with body parts sometimes linked to ritual demands for “cyber charms”.

For 19-year-old Daniel from Bayelsa, the choice was simple. His father was a renowned welder, but he watched him struggle financially for years.

“My father’s hands were rough, his back was bent, but at the end of the month, what did he have? Nothing,” Daniel says. “Then I saw my cousin from the same HK. In one year, he built a house for his mother. He drives a Lexus. My father’s workshop is now closed. I am his only hope, and this laptop is my tool.” 

Ufoma Ighadalo, 27, told a similar story. His father worked for 35 years for the Delta State government and retired as a school principal. Within that period, he could only build one house at Ughell, Delta State, and buy an old Peugeot car.

“He trained five of us at the university level. But I don’t consider him a success,” Ufoma says in a conspiratorial voice. “In this line of business, I will achieve what my father achieved in less than two years. I already have a house of my own and a car as well. I plan to build my second house here in Asaba before the end of this year. Who says hustling doesn’t pay?”

This narrative is repeated across the region. The tangible, delayed gratification of vocational work cannot compete with social media’s viral, glamorous portrayal of cybercrime success. The HK offers money and an identity of instant wealth and societal validation.

Community leaders and security analysts warn that the situation is a ticking time bomb. “When you disconnect a generation from productive labour and orient them towards predatory online activities, you create a profound societal crisis,” notes Chioma Emenike, an Asaba-based sociologist. “We are nurturing a generation that believes wealth comes not from creating value, but from clever exploitation. The long-term effect on our social fabric and security architecture is devastating.”

Experts argue that the solution must be multi-pronged: aggressive vocational reorientation, government-driven investment in the digital economy to create legitimate tech jobs, and severe enforcement against the kingpins of the HK networks.

But for now, in the half-empty workshops of the South-South, the sounds of learning hammers and revving engines are being replaced by the silent, desperate click of keyboards, as a generation chooses the elusive kingdom of fraud over the solid foundation of a skilled trade.

After terrorists chased her from her home in Lungu village of Sokoto State, Saratu now sits in Jabo town, devastated after losing three of her own and two orphaned grandchildren who never made it out. The terrorists stormed their village in Sabon Birni, North West Nigeria. She ran barefoot to the bush, clutching a small wrapper, and never returned. For Saratu and countless others across the region, the statistics of killings, kidnappings, and cattle rustling are not just numbers. They are ruptured families, stolen futures, and a daily struggle to live with dignity in the reported violence.

Amidst shattered livelihoods and decades-long insecurity, people in Katsina, Zamfara, Kebbi, and Sokoto states have continued to push back with resilience that helps them survive, facing the violence that pushes them out of their houses and farmlands. 

HumAngle interviewed locals across the states, documenting what drives the violence, how the communities struggle to cope, and what a credible path to peace might look like. Those interviewed included traditional rulers, religious leaders, women’s associations, vigilante groups, civil society activists, and members of both herding and farming communities who shared experiences, human costs, and grassroots resilience.

For about one and a half decades, these people have been engulfed in a violence that ravaged many parts of the northwestern region. What began as disputes between farmers and herders has mutated into cattle rustling, mass killing and the scourge of kidnapping for ransom. These conflicts have seeped into every facet of their lives, displacing families, crippling agriculture, eroding trust, and gnawing at the very fabric of society.

Taxed by fear

Sokoto’s geographical misfortune is evident on a map. Nestled against the volatile Zamfara State and sharing a porous frontier with the Niger Republic, the state’s rural local government areas (LGAs) have become easy targets for well-armed groups. 

Sabon Birni and Isa LGAs, the worst affected, live under the shadow of Bello Turji, a notorious non-state armed group leader imposing “taxes” on villages, a perverse form of governance enforced through violence.

In Tangaza, Gudu, Binji, and Silami, locals now face an even deadlier menace. Their ungoverned frontiers with the Niger Republic have opened the door to the Lakurawa, a transnational terror group turning the borderland into its strongest foothold. Exploiting weak state security and the grinding poverty that traps many young men, the Lakurawa has embedded itself in local communities, luring recruits with promises of power, protection, or survival. 

What began as a shadowy infiltration has evolved into a full-blown insurgency. Today, the group wages a campaign of killings, livestock raids, and mass intimidation on both sides of the border, leaving residents of Sokoto and neighbouring Nigerien villages in constant fear.

The human toll is staggering. Farming, the lifeline of most families, has been disrupted. Thousands of cattle have been stolen. In Sabon Birni alone, an estimated 600,000 cattle and five million small ruminants were rustled between 2019 and 2024, while vast tracts of farmland remain in accessible. For those farmers who manage to reach their fields, access often comes at a heavy price.

Kidnappings have become routine. In the same Sabon Birni, reports suggest that more than ₦160 billion was paid in ransoms and so-called protection levies over the same five-year period.

According to Shu’aibu Gwanda Gobir, a community leader, about 528 villages were once under the control of armed groups. A day after the brutal killing of the Sarkin Gobir of Gatawa District, Isa Bawa, in August 2024, gunmen kidnapped 192 people in the Sabon Birnin area. At the time, over 600 people were already being held captive.

Children have been driven out of classrooms; many are now in displacement camps, while countless others roam the streets, begging in the city of Sokoto. 

Women recount harrowing tales of sexual violence, their trauma lingering long after the attacks, and hunger and malnutrition stalk villages already stripped of livelihoods, leaving communities in a state of protracted vulnerability.

For farming and herding families, the cost is measured not only in stolen cattle and abandoned fields but also in fractured trust, deepening poverty, and a sense of being abandoned by the state.

Beneath this devastation, communities are not merely passive victims; they also fight back for survival. According to Magajin Balle, the village head of Balle in Gudu LGA, “in some areas, youths patrol their own streets with locally purchased weapons. Vigilante networks such as the Vigilante Group of Nigeria and ‘Yansakai’ militias provide a semblance of security. Communities pool money to support local defenders.”

Elsewhere, however, resilience takes different forms. In rural parts of Isa LGA, attempts are made to negotiate fragile truces (Sulhu) with gang leaders. In rural areas of Balle, where Lakurawa terrorists have entrenched a stronghold, residents have been forced to submit to the directives of the group.

Armed groups continue to unleash relentless violence across Sokoto State, defying local resilience efforts. In recent weeks, waves of attacks have swept through Shagari, Isa, Sabon Birni, and Raba LGAs, with outlying villages in Dange-Shuni now also under siege. Entire communities have been uprooted, with women and children bearing the brunt. 

Many families are forced into a cycle of displacement, seeking safety in nearby towns before returning to their homes by day, while others have fled entirely. Thousands are now sheltering in Jabo, Dange-Shuni, and Rara, or across the border in Guidan Roumdji of the Niger Republic, highlighting the deepening humanitarian crisis.

Tension has also heightened in Shagari LGA’s rural areas after a series of attacks in Aske Dodo, Tungar Barke, Jandutse, Lungu, and Ayeri by armed groups, leaving several dead, scores abducted, and hundreds displaced to Jabo, Kajiji, and Shagari in search of refuge. According to a BBC report, this led to women seeking shelter in Shagari town to stage a protest against the government.

In Raba LGA, over 500 people were forced to flee from their homes across six communities on August 26. Most of them are women and children, now crowded into a school and market square in Rara village, where they seek safety and shelter.

In Sabon Birni and Isa LGAs, communities remain trapped between violence and hunger. This September, armed groups unleashed deadly assaults like never before, while floods destroyed roads, bridges and crops, cutting residents off from aid. With no safe passage and livelihoods washed away, many fled across the border into Niger in search of refuge. “People are being squeezed from both sides by the gunmen and by the floods,” says Sa’idu Bargaja, a lawmaker representing the Isa-Sabon Birni constituency. It is, he says, a crisis that leaves no room for escape.

In Shagari LGA, the anguish of displacement is written into women’s lives like Saratu Sode of the Lungu community. Now taking refuge in Jabo, she describes how violence has torn apart her family and her village.

“We fled when word spread that gunmen were coming. Those who could not escape that night were caught. Two of our neighbours were attacked; one was hacked with a machete and is in hospital, and the other was shot dead. Three of my relatives were seized before they could run, and they are still in captivity,” she recounts.

“Three of my children and two of my orphaned grandchildren, whose father was killed during an earlier attack, are not with me. I don’t know where they are. They might have been killed, or they may be in the hands of armed groups.”

Her neighbour, Hadiza from the Aske Dodo community, shares a similar story. Forced from her home three times, she now shelters in an abandoned building in Jabo. “On the last occasion, we woke in the night to the news that someone nearby had been slaughtered. At dawn, we fled. Our children no longer go to school. Our husbands have abandoned their farms, fleeing to save their lives. I do not sleep at night,” she says.

Their voices echo a broader crisis in Sokoto’s rural communities, where waves of armed violence have left families fractured, livelihoods destroyed, and children robbed of education. Beyond the numbers of the dead and displaced, the stories of women like Saratu and Hadiza lay bare the daily reality: survival in a landscape where the state is absent, safety is fragile, and tomorrow is uncertain.

Magajin Tsamaye, a village head in Sabon Birni, told HumAngle that peace deals and levies payments are not the best strategies. He urges the government to reform the social justice system and tackle root causes like illiteracy and youth unemployment. “People should be less fearful of death,” Magaji bluntly added, “so they can boldly repel attacks.”

Fighting without surrender

Kebbi’s experience mirrors Sokoto’s in many ways, but with one critical difference: communities here largely reject paying taxes to armed groups. While the LGAs of Fakai, Danko Wasagu, Zuru, Augie, and Yauri, which border the dens of armed groups in Sokoto, Zamfara, and Niger, face sporadic raids and kidnappings, an ethos of resistance endures.

In Augie, Arewa, and, to a lesser extent, Dandi, Bunza, Bagudo, Maiyama, Koko, and Fakai, the shadow of the Lakurawa looms large. Their presence causes sudden waves of violence that leave communities unsettled, never knowing when the next strike might come.

These unpredictable and ruthless raids have turned daily life into a gamble of survival. Farmers abandon fields, traders fear the open road, and entire villages, especially in Arewa and Augie, live with the gnawing uncertainty that their relative calm could be shattered at any moment. This unpredictability, the incessant rhythm of violence, cements Lakurawa’s grip.

In this year’s rainy season, vast tracts of land in Kebbi State have not been tilted because the Lakurawa declared them no-go zones. In the remote areas of Augie and Arewa LGAs, the group has marked out areas as “buffer zones,” warning through local agents that any farmer seen nearby would be punished. 

“In the remote villages of Garu, Kunchin Baba, Gumki, and Gumundai, farmers now live under these restrictions,” said a man known as Bello Manager, the Commandant of the Vigilante Group of Niger in the Arewa LGA.

“Farmers are forbidden not only from cultivating their land but also from adapting to change. The militants have blocked the sale of farming bulls for power tillers; machines many had hoped would ease labour shortages, and in some cases seized and destroyed the tillers outright,” the Bello added.

A resident of Goru, speaking to BBC Hausa on condition of anonymity, said: “The majority of communities where the Lakurawa have established a stronghold are living in fear and uncertainty. These include Goru, Malam Yauro, Goru Babba, Goru Karama, Gorun Bagiga, Gumki and Faske. In these places, the Lakurawa force herders to pay ₦10,000 per cow; they have banned women from farming, and traditional rulers are forbidden from wearing turbans. Across all these areas, there is no visible sign of state presence.”

This ban is devastating for communities already struggling with the steady depletion of oxen used for ploughing and harrowing. What should have been a season of renewal is turning instead into a season of fear and enforced stagnation.

In Bunza LGA, the Lakurawa have tightened their grip, launching repeated assaults and livestock raids that have crippled livelihoods and deepened fear. In just the past seven months, more than 1,000 head of cattle have been rustled beyond several cattle they extort as so-called zakat.

“The scale of the theft underscores the vulnerability of even the most prominent figures. Victims include retired Deputy Inspector General of Police Abubakar Tilli, who lost 110 cattle; Bello Mamuda, former chairman of Bunza, who lost 67; and a former member of the House of Assembly representing Bunza, whose herd of 49 was stolen. Altogether, over 1,000 cattle have been stolen by the Lakurawa in Bunza over the past seven months,” Yau Gumundai, a local in the area, told HumAngle.

But the damage goes beyond statistics. Markets have emptied, families have scattered, and fear has become part of daily life. “Recently, there has been an intensification of Lakurawa assaults in Bunza and neighbouring Dandi,” Gumundai explains.

“Their last attack in Bunza was on Friday, Sept. 19, when they opened fire at a security checkpoint. People fled the market in panic, leaving behind their belongings. Many were injured. They keep us in constant fear.”

The attacks illustrate a grim pattern: armed groups now challenge not only ordinary citizens but also security forces and political elites. As livestock raiding evolves from economic plunder into a tool of terror, communities in not only Bunza but also many other LGAs of Kebbi State are left with dwindling livelihoods, deepening insecurity, and a gnawing uncertainty about whether the state can protect them.

Local security has become a sophisticated patchwork of formal and informal alliances. Security outfits work hand-in-hand with trade unions; from motor transport workers to petroleum marketers to monitor public spaces, track suspicious movements, and alert communities. In every LGA, from ward level upwards, volunteer patrols are organised. Wealthy residents and the poor pool resources to fund the patrols in shifts from dawn to dusk.

While the rural communities of Tangaza and Gudu in Sokoto State have succumbed and remain defenceless, an investigation by HumAngle found that, in the face of Lakurawa incursions and raids, the people of Augie in Kebbi refuse to stand idle.

Until recently, as Lakurawa incursions continue, particularly in Arewa, Augie, and Bunza LGAs, locals argued that collaborative vigilance in Kebbi was what prevented the violence of armed groups from reaching the scale seen in Zamfara, Sokoto, and Katsina. But it is also draining; financially, psychologically, and militarily, particularly now that communities face mobile insurgents armed with military-grade weapons, including PKTs, RPGs, GPMGs, AAs, and AK-49s. 

Living and negotiating with the enemy

While Sokoto is taxed by fear, some of the most striking community-led peace deals have emerged in Zamfara. 

In Kaura Namoda, Maru, Bungudu, and elsewhere, communities have brokered localised truces with armed groups. The terms vary; in some cases, farmers pay “levies” to cultivate land; in others, both sides settle for a “peace” that often turns cold. When such agreements hold, people return to their fields, markets reopen, and a fragile semblance of regular life returns.

But peace is never absolute. A deal with one gang does not protect against another, and breaches, whether through real provocations or whispered rumours, collapse months of careful dialogue. The Yansakai’s actions, sometimes indiscriminate and retaliatory, also undermine trust.

A resident of Nasarawa Burkulu and a member of Miyetti Allah, speaking to HumAngle on condition of anonymity, paints a chilling picture of life under sustained attack in Bukkuyum LGA. He says that from the first assault in 2019 through to September 2025, thousands have been kidnapped, tens of thousands of ruminants rustled, and hundreds killed, while whole villages have at times fallen under the control of armed groups.

“Between 2019 and today, over 3,000 people have been taken, 30,000 livestock stolen, and more than 1,000 people brutally killed in Bukkuyum LGA,” the local told HumAngle. “Several settlements towards the Anka-Bukkuyum boundary: Ruwan Rani, Yashi, Zauna, Bardi, Kwali, Bunkasau, Kamaru, Gasa Hula, and Rafin Maiki are flooded with armed men, some of whom appear to be recent arrivals. Many villages are effectively under siege.”

The human consequences are stark. “In these communities, most men have fled their homes,” the source added. “Women and children run into the bush when armed men arrive at night.” The testimony underlines how insecurity has hollowed out normal life: farms lie untended, markets are disrupted, and entire families live in constant fear.

Another local source described the trauma of abduction, detailing how unarmed citizens were held captive for more than four months. Also a victim of abduction, the source was released only after her parents paid ₦430,000 in ransom.

“In captivity we were dehumanised,” she recalled. “I watched people being murdered in front of me. Returning home brought stigma; I often wished for death because I felt my life was worthless.”

These accounts expose a sustained campaign that is not merely criminal theft and occasional violence but a strategy that displaces communities, destroys livelihoods and inflicts deep psychological wounds. They also raise urgent questions about the state’s capacity to protect civilians in areas where armed groups can operate with impunity.

Armed groups continue to ravage communities, where killings and kidnappings for ransom have become routine. The crisis, analysts and statesmen say, has worsened under the so-called Sulhu dialogue strategy in Kaduna’s Birnin Gwari and Katsina, pushing armed groups into Zamfara in unprecedented numbers.

“Dialogue in Birnin Gwari has led to the intensification of violence in Sokoto, Zamfara, and Kebbi, as many members of armed groups move into areas not under the Sulhu regime,” says Murtala Rufa’i, a professor of peace and conflict studies at Usmanu Danfodiyo University, Sokoto.

“The truces struck with armed groups in Kaduna displaced hundreds of armed groups’ members into rural Zamfara and adjacent Sokoto, leaving villages under relentless assault while towns such as Gummi, Bukkuyum, and Garin Gaura in Zamfara, and Kebbe and Shagari in Sokoto, are overwhelmed by displaced families,” says Hon. Suleman Muhammad Abubakar, lawmaker representing the Gummi-Bukkuyum constituency.

The human toll is devastating. “Recently, a canoe carrying people fleeing Gummi and nearby villages capsized, killing 15,” Abubakar recounts. “They were escaping the siege of armed groups who had poured into Gummi and Bukkuyum after leaving Birnin Gwari, a direct consequence of the dialogue policy.”    

Despite this, there is an undercurrent of hope, as locals express the readiness of many communities to reintegrate repentant members of armed groups, provided the process is genuine and inclusive. Traditional authorities still hold moral sway, and even some armed groups’ leaders enforce discipline within their ranks to preserve deals.

Locals recommend empowering these traditional and religious actors, strengthening rural education, and ensuring government services reach neglected areas. “Peace is possible,” says village head of Birnin Magaji, “but only if we all talk honestly, and to everyone who holds a gun.”

Conflict on the city’s edge

Katsina’s pain is sharpened by geography. Not only does it border Zamfara and Sokoto, but its northern frontier touches the Niger Republic, a corridor for illicit arms. Some of the region’s most feared warlords, such as Dogo Gide and Ado Aleru, frequent the state, and in specific communities, non-state armed groups effectively govern in place of the state.

Rural violence’s evolution in Katsina follows a now-familiar pattern: resource conflict between herders and farmers, worsened by climate change and land encroachment, spiralling into cattle rustling, then into the kidnapping economy. Today, it is a fully fledged industry, drawing in disenfranchised youth as foot soldiers.

In Kankara District, Ibro Gwani and Rabi Usman Mani of Dannakwabo account for an unending ordeal of violence in Katsina State.

From 2011 to 2025, the district was scarred by killings, abductions and violent attacks that have left families shattered and entire communities traumatised.

Since the devastating blow of Dec. 11, 2020, which left over 300 boys kidnapped, waves of killings, abductions, and displacements have continued.

Ibro Gwani, for instance, was kidnapped three times for which he paid a ransom of ₦10 million. “I know that one of our community leaders, Mai Unguwa Babangida Lauwal, was kidnapped and had to pay ₦4 million,” Gwani adds.

Rabi Usman Dannakwabo was also abducted alongside her husband, Usman Mani Dannakwabo, who is a police officer. 

“Residents have been murdered in their homes, on their farms, on village roads and even on playgrounds. I know of dozens of men, women and children who have been shot dead,” she says. “Some of our relatives had also been gunned down, hacked with machetes, and some, including myself and my husband, have been dragged into captivity, many of us never return.”

The state government’s measures, from negotiations to fuel sales bans to military offensives, have had mixed results. While initial gains were sometimes significant, armed groups adapted swiftly, exploiting sophisticated communications technology and local networks and even controlling the sale of scarce commodities in some areas.

Communities often choose confrontation over negotiation. Informal militias are armed and funded by locals, and private gun ownership for self-defence is widespread. But there are costs: accusations of abuses by community militias against innocent Fulani have driven some into the arms of the very armed groups they once feared.

Past state-led dialogues faltered, partly due to the exclusion of affected communities from the process. A local tells HumAngle that effective dialogue should emphasise the need for inclusive engagement, economic empowerment, better governance, and border control to stem the flow of weapons.

Despite earlier peace deals, armed groups shatter the calm with fresh and increasingly brutal assaults. One of the most recent was on August 19, when gunmen stormed Unguwan Mantau in Malumfashi LGA. At dawn, they attacked a village mosque filled with worshippers. Young and old men were bowed in prayer when the shooting began, leaving many dead and others injured and rushed to the hospital.