Nigeria

Let us begin with what has been forgotten. 

There is a field, roughly 22 kilometres southwest of Sokoto, between the Dange Shuni and Bodinga local government areas in North West Nigeria, that carries no particular weight to the eye. Grass grows there. Wind moves through trees at predictable intervals. The surrounding bush is in full silence, neither mourning nor celebrating. Nothing marks what happened here, and that, of course, is precisely the point.

The place is called Satiru. Or was called Satiru. The grammar is slippery, because the British, when they finished with it in the spring of 1906, did not simply defeat it. They made sure to erase it – razing buildings, enslaving survivors, most of whom were women and children, and stripping the site with the cleansing method of an administration that understood that a crushed rebellion, left with a location, becomes a shrine. And shrines become consciousness and arguments. Better to leave nothing. Better to leave nowhere.

And then the Sultan of Sokoto, Muhammad Attahiru II, the Muslim ruler (Sarkin Musulmi) whose fighters helped carry out the slaughter, reportedly pronounced a curse on anyone who would rebuild or farm on the ground. As the British Resident Burdon telegraphed proudly to High Commissioner Frederick Lugard: “All Sokoto went out yesterday to inspect [the] battlefield and raze Satiru to the ground. No wall or tree left standing.” The scholars Paul Lovejoy and J.S. Hogendorn, writing in the Journal of African History, note that “the deserted site of Satiru is on the edge of a forest reserve. It has not been inhabited since its destruction and the official curse.” More than a century later, that is still true.

This is what erasure looks like when it succeeds. For 120 years, the ruins of Satiru have remained untouched, a vanished town erased by British colonial forces after a 1906 uprising led by poor clerics, fugitive slaves, and peasants challenging both imperial taxation and the aristocratic order of the Sokoto Caliphate. 

But this story is not only about a massacre buried in colonial archives. It is about how modern Nigeria inherited the use of overwhelming force to suppress communities marked as threats. 

The thing Satiru was

Before it became a problem requiring artillery, Satiru was an answer to a different problem. To understand it, you need to understand the particular moral atmosphere of the Sokoto Caliphate in its late decline – the spiritual hangover, you might call it, of a revolution that had once been genuine.

Usman Dan Fodio launched his jihad in 1804 with an argument that was partly political and partly theological, but entirely serious: that the Hausa rulers of the time had corrupted Islam, that the ordinary people – the talakawa, the poor commoners – were being ground down by a system that dressed itself in religious language while behaving in wholly irreligious ways. Dan Fodio and his followers built the caliphate on the promise that this would change. That Islamic governance would be just. That scholars who held power would be answerable to something beyond their own appetites.

By the end of the nineteenth century, that promise had curdled into something its founders would not have recognised. The Fulani aristocracy that administered the caliphate had made a comfortable accommodation with power. Tribute collectors arrived in the villages. The talakawa paid. Palace scholars – the senior ulama (religious scholars), with their elaborate networks of family and commerce – found, in the more elastic corners of Islamic jurisprudence, reasons why this was all acceptable. The poor continued to be poor. The aristocracy continued to wear piety as a garment while extracting what they could.

The scholars of Satiru – humble men, as Lovejoy and Hogendorn describe them, “poor Muslim scholars engaged in farming and teaching,” with origins far outside the Fulani elite – found different reasons. Malam Siba, who founded the Satiru settlement in approximately 1894, was of Nupe origin. A second key figure, Maikaho, came from Gobir, the country that Uthman Dan Fodio himself had subjugated. A third, Malam Bawa, was from Zamfara, which had revolted against Sokoto on several occasions across the nineteenth century. What distinguished these men from the mainstream was not their learning – they were, by caliphate standards, minor figures – but their refusal to make the peace that more successful scholars had made with power. As Lovejoy and Hogendorn paraphrase the alleged statement of Malam Siba himself: he “was fed up with the exactions of the ruling class and was not going to obey the instructions of anyone anymore… [but instead] was going to set up a new great regime.”

What grew at Satiru, on the frontier of four fiefdoms – Danchadi, Dange, Shuni, and Bodinga – was something the caliphate’s administration regarded as an irritant and then, gradually, as something worse. The community refused to pay taxes. It refused to provide unpaid labour. It attracted, in growing numbers, fugitive slaves fleeing from the plantations and estates of the aristocracy. This last detail matters enormously. By 1906, British Resident Burdon would report that the adherents of the Satiru cause were “nearly all run away slaves.” Local tradition in Satiru itself held, as recorded by A.S. Mohammad in his foundational social history of the revolt, that “the leaders of Satiru abolished slavery and as a consequence… slaves flocked to them. The freedom of these fugitives was effectively and strenuously guarded.”

This was, in other words, not an uprising of the godless. It was an uprising of the structurally abandoned — poor clerics, dispossessed peasants, and fugitive slaves –   against the two interlocking systems that were destroying them simultaneously: the late-caliphate aristocracy that extracted their labour, and the British colonial administration that had, since 1903, added new demands of jizya (poll tax) and jangali (livestock tax) to communities that had never before paid such taxes to Sokoto. As a Sokoto citizen wrote bitterly at the time, and as quoted in Lovejoy and Hogendorn’s account: “We have been conquered. We have been asked to pay poll tax and cattle tax. We have been made to do various things, and now they want us to fight their wars for them.”

The movement Satiru had built was, in the framework laid out by Lovejoy and Hogendorn, a form of revolutionary Mahdism – distinct from all the other currents of Mahdist thought that ran through the caliphate at the time. It drew its support from peasants, fugitive slaves, and subject populations. It had no aristocratic supporters, no wealthy merchants, and no members of the established ulama. It was ethnically diverse in a way that the aristocracy was not: Hausa from various origins, Zamfarawa, Gobirawa, Gimbanawa, Kabawa, and Azbinawa – but, strikingly, no Fulani. The battle lines, as Lovejoy and Hogendorn note, mapped onto class so precisely that “the ethnic dimension… reflected the class division.” On the day of the final battle, “all the faces on the battlefield had Gobir, Kebbi, Zanfara, Katsina and other such tribal marks. Not a single Fulani talaka [commoner] joined them.”

What Satiru wanted, ultimately, was the recovery of the original promise – the caliphate that Dan Fodio had said was coming, and that had not arrived. You can call this politics, or you can call it theology. At Satiru, they did not distinguish between the two.

The spark and the suppression

The movement had been building for years, connected by threads of correspondence and travelling clerics to similar currents of dissatisfaction across both the British and French colonial zones in are now Nigeria and Niger Republic. On the French side of the boundary, a blind Zarma cleric named Saybu Dan Makafo had been the central animating figure – charismatic, mystically inclined, and reportedly possessing gifts of ventriloquism that contributed to his reputation as a waliyyi, a saint. 

In December 1905, violence broke out at Kobkitanda, 150 kilometres south of Niamey, in French territory in today’s Niger Republic. Saybu and his followers killed two gardes-cercles (colonial police) from Dosso. The French responded, the Mahdists absorbed losses, and Saybu fled east – eventually arriving at Satiru, where the local community had already been living in a state of armed readiness and messianic expectation.

The revolt was supposed to begin on the Eid El-Kabir (Babbar Sallah), February 5, 1906. It was postponed – there was an internal dispute about the recognition of Isa, the village head of Satiru, as the messianic successor figure who would accompany the Mahdi. The Satirawa (people of Satiru) resolved the question on February 13, when they attacked the neighbouring village of Tsomau. Fourteen people died.

The British response was swift and catastrophically misjudged. Acting Resident H.R. Preston-Hillary moved immediately with a column of about seventy mounted infantry under Major Francis Blackwood, armed with a single Maxim gun. He appears to have been entirely unaware that the rising at Satiru was connected to the weeks of violence that had already convulsed French territory. He rode toward the village with the assumption of a man who believed the gap between his weapons and his opponents’ was so vast that the details of the situation hardly mattered.

He was wrong. 

The Mahdists attacked the British column. Hillary and Blackwood were killed, along with three other white officers and 25 African soldiers. The West African Frontier Force (WAFF) suffered such heavy losses that it was “forced to retreat in disarray.” It was, as Lugard would later acknowledge, “the first serious reverse suffered by the West African Frontier Force since it was raised in 1898.”

The Satiru Mahdists were also severely wounded — their leader, Malam Isa, was struck during the initial encounter and would die two days later, on the morning he was supposed to unfurl the green flag and declare the jihad formally. He did not live to see what his movement had achieved: a genuine military victory over the empire. For a brief, burning moment, the talakawa had won.

The British did not pause to understand what had happened. They regrouped.

The reckoning

On March 10, 1906, a combined force of the British-run West African Frontier Force (WAFF) troops and Sokoto fighters approached Satiru. The Satirawa had dug trenches. But they did not stay behind them. They charged, repeatedly, in massed formation, against troops equipped with Maxim guns firing destructive volleys. Historian Richard Dusgate would later call what followed “the most bloodthirsty expedition in the history of British military operations in Northern Nigeria.” Margery Perham, in her biography of Lugard, noted that subsequent reports – kept secret at the time – found that the “killing was very free, not to say slaughter,” that the soldiers “killed every living thing before them,” and that “the fields were running with blood.”

At least 2,000 Satirawa were killed. An estimated 3,000 women and children were herded to Sokoto, many distributed among the aristocracy as effective slaves – a thinly disguised reassertion of the master-slave relationship that the very people of Satiru had staked their lives on dismantling.

Saybu Dan Makafo, blind and wounded, survived. He was captured and brought to Sokoto, where he was tried. His boy guide, according to a story collected by H.A.F. Johnston, reportedly shouted at the trial that if Saybu was given water, he would vanish into thin air – an indication of the extraordinary tension surrounding the proceedings. The public executioner decapitated him on March 22. His head was mounted on a stake in the market. Four subordinates suffered the same fate.

The political accounting that followed the massacre revealed what the British understood the suppression to mean and to communicate. The Colonial Office initially received dispatches that accurately attributed the uprising partly to the fugitive slave crisis –  Lugard’s own initial cable described the rebels as “outlaw fugitive slaves.” A marginal note in the Colonial Office files, as documented by Lovejoy and Hogendorn, captures the official response with bracing economy: “Better say nothing of slaves.” By May 9, Lugard had incorporated a sanitised version of events into his official reports. The slave dimension was quietly removed from the record. The most dangerous thing about Satiru – that it had articulated a class argument, that it had offered sanctuary to the enslaved, that it had made the connection between colonial taxation and pre-colonial extraction explicit – was the thing the British were most determined to forget.

The Sokoto aristocracy was rewarded for its loyalty. Marafa Muhammadu Maiturare, the Sokoto official who had commanded the local levies and whose authority was partly credited with preventing a general rising, eventually became Sarkin Musulmi in 1915. Hassan, the sarki of Dange, the fief nearest to Satiru, who had greeted Burdon warmly in the hours after the Mahdist victory, would become Sarkin Musulmi in 1931. The collaboration was not forgotten. It was promoted.

What the grammar inherited

Nearly a century and two decades later, an eight-year-old boy named Sa’id watched through a crack in the wall of his grandmother’s hut as the men of his family were dragged outside and shot.

His village, Kajen Shuwa, sat in Marte Local Government Area of Borno State, northeastern Nigeria, a Shuwa Arab community of cattle herders and storytellers, ethnically and linguistically distinct from the dominant groups of the region. Between 2014 and 2015, at the height of the military’s campaign against Boko Haram, soldiers arrived looking for a Boko Haram cell in a village called Kajen Kanuri. The names were similar enough. No interpreter had been brought. No local guide accompanied the unit.

More than 40 men died.

“They had the wrong village,” Imam Abdulkarim, now living with displaced survivors at the Garin Shuwa IDP camp in Bauchi, told HumAngle. “It was later we realised they were sent to Kajen Kanuri.”

One of the survivors told HumAngle in 2026 how the events unfolded as he watched from where he had hidden himself in a tree. He said he was watching when the men were gathered and ordered to produce Boko Haram members. The people apparently did not even understand what was being said to them, so the soldiers simply lined all the men up in a place resembling a ditch and shot every single one of them. Just like that. No trial. No evidence. Nothing. Everyone was killed.

Sa’id is nineteen now. He teaches Quran to children at the displacement camp — children who have their own mornings they cannot stop replaying. He speaks slowly. He flinches at loud sounds. When he told his story to HumAngle, tears came before words, and other residents of the camp stepped in to complete the parts his voice could not carry. They knew the story. They had assembled it over the years, in the way that displaced communities assemble the things they are not allowed to say publicly – from fragments, from the accounts of those who were in different parts of the village when it happened, from the silence of those who were not there to tell anything.

“The families of the killed couldn’t even raise their voices,” Abdulkarim said. “Everyone was afraid that he might be targeted too.”

No soldier was prosecuted. No investigation was publicly announced. No family received notification, compensation, or the minimum of official acknowledgement that their men had been killed by mistake.

What happened to Kajen Shuwa is not exceptional in the region’s chronicle of the last decade. Amnesty International’s 2015 report documented execution-style killings, torture in detention, and mass graves of individuals who had never been charged, tried, or formally arrested — people killed not for what they did, but for who they resembled, where they lived, what language they spoke when soldiers arrived. The Nigerian military’s response to that report was not to open investigations. It was to call Amnesty International a liar.

And then the world moved on, as it always does – to the next atrocity, the next set of statistics that briefly animated international concern before fading into the background noise of a continent the world has learned to observe without fully attending to.

Zaria massacre 

If Kajen Shuwa happened in the shadows – a remote village, an Arabic-speaking minority, a story reaching the press years after the fact — then what occurred in Zaria, Kaduna State, in the country’s North West, in December 2015 happened in full view, and still went unanswered.

The Islamic Movement in Nigeria (IMN), led by Sheikh Ibrahim El-Zakzaky, was a Shia organisation with roots deep in Zaria’s social fabric. It ran schools and clinics. It was also an organisation that had long attracted the suspicion of the Nigerian state – not because it was violent, but because it was organised, independent, and loyal to a leadership structure that fell outside the state’s system of control.

On Dec. 12, 2015, an IMN procession blocked a road, delaying a military convoy carrying the then Chief of Army Staff. What followed, as documented in meticulous detail by both Amnesty International and the Kaduna State Government’s own commission of inquiry, was a massacre. Soldiers attacked IMN members across multiple locations. The Hussainiyya Islamic Centre was demolished. El-Zakzaky’s residence was destroyed. Three of his sons were killed. El-Zakzaky himself, elderly and partially blind – the parallel to the blind Saybu Dan Makafo feels almost too pointed – was arrested. He and his wife would remain in detention for years, their release ordered repeatedly by courts and resisted repeatedly by the government.

The Kaduna State commission produced a report of unusual honesty. It confirmed that at least 347 IMN members had been buried in a mass grave at Mando. It found the military’s response disproportionate. It recommended the prosecution of specific officers, and it named the mass grave by location. But not one recommendation was implemented.

The IMN was formally proscribed in 2019, an organisation that had existed for four decades and operated schools and hospitals, banned by the government that had killed hundreds of its members, as though the banning were the logical conclusion of the killing rather than an additional punishment for surviving it.

The grammar of impunity

There is a grammar to this. Lovejoy and Hogendorn identified it in the colonial records of 1906 in three steps: a community marked as dangerous, the deployment of force that is “excessive by design,” and the systematic management of the record. 

At Satiru, the British made the decision consciously – the marginal note that said “better say nothing of slaves” was an administrative instruction to suppress an inconvenient truth. The communities targeted after them have had to live inside the silence that administrative instruction created.

But this never worked permanently. What the scholars Godwin Odeh and Williams Efe argue, in their analysis of the Satiru uprising’s historiography, is that the episode was not merely a military or religious event but a demonstration of “the impossibility of subjugating a group permanently without facing a crisis of cultural relevance.” They invoke Amilcar Cabral’s formulation: that culture “is a means by which people assert their opposition to domination… one of the fundamental tools of struggle for emancipation.” The argument is that Satiru never fully ended – that its logic persisted, became available, got taken up again in different forms by different communities facing different versions of the same problem.

The circumstances were different, the enemies differently named, and the legal justifications modernised, but the underlying grammar remained recognisable.

This is not a metaphor. What the British established in 1906 and what successive Nigerian governments have absorbed so completely is a particular relationship between the state and the communities it finds inconvenient. The relationship has a fixed sequence: a community is marked; disproportionate force arrives; the record is managed; and then, reliably, comes the silence. The silence is not passive. It is constructed and maintained by the same institutions that produced the violence –  maintained through the denial of accountability, the obstruction of independent investigation, and the prosecution of those who speak too loudly about what they witnessed.

The families of Kajen Shuwa could not grieve publicly because grief, in that context, was dangerous. The IMN, after Zaria, could not even gather to mourn without risk of further confrontation with the same security forces that had killed their members.

But the cycle continues. 

Muhammed Kaumi had just stepped out of the mosque when his phone rang on the evening of Friday, May 29. He had recently returned from Dikwa, a town in Borno State, northeastern Nigeria, and assumed the call was from a relative checking on his journey home. Instead, the voice on the other end delivered news that left him numb.

“Bulama has been killed,” the caller said. “They have killed Bulama.” Muhammed felt his chest tighten. “I instantly felt a sharp pain in my heart,” he recalled.

Bulama Ali was his cousin, a farmer, a father of five, and one of thousands, like him, who have been displaced by the Boko Haram insurgency that has scarred the region for more than a decade.

Within minutes, Muhammed was on his way to the Custom House Internally Displaced Persons’ Camp in Muna, on the outskirts of Maiduguri, where Bulama had lived with his family for nearly a decade.

As he rushed there, questions flooded his mind: “What had happened? Who had killed him? Why?”

When he arrived, residents told him that Bulama had allegedly been beaten by men they identified as “repentant Boko Haram fighters”, locally known as “Hybrids”.

For many residents of Maiduguri, the allegation struck a painful nerve.

For years, former insurgents who surrendered to authorities have passed through government rehabilitation and reintegration programmes such as Operation Safe Corridor and the Borno Model, before returning to civilian communities. However, some have bypassed both interventions completely. 

The Nigerian authorities have involved some of these deserters in security operations, where they help troops with intelligence gathering, their knowledge of terrorist-held terrain, and even operational activities. The arrangement has remained controversial among many survivors of the conflict and among security analysts. 

Now, residents in these communities say their fears have been justified. 

They brought him back dead

Bulama’s final hours began shortly before the Friday Muslim congregational prayers.

Muhammed was told by relatives and eyewitnesses that “[Bulama] was on his way to the mosque on his bicycle when he received a phone call. He stopped by the roadside [close to Muna, on the Maiduguri-Gamboru highway] to answer it.” Behind him was a vehicle carrying armed men dressed in black uniforms. “They honked at him to move,” Muhammed said. “But he was speaking on the phone and did not hear them.”

Abbas Shettima, who witnessed the incident, said the confrontation, which occurred between 1:15 p.m. and 1:30 p.m., quickly escalated. 

“We were all heading to the mosque when we saw them beating him,” Abbas recounted. According to him, the group consisted of about ten men carrying guns and sticks. “They said he was blocking their way,” he said.

Bulama tried to explain. He apologised repeatedly, but his pleas fell on deaf ears. 

“He kept begging them to spare him,” Abbas said. “He crouched down and covered his head with his hands while they beat him.” When bystanders attempted to intervene, the armed men threatened them. Residents watched helplessly. Eventually, the men forced Bulama into their vehicle and drove away.

No one knew where he had been taken.

At the time, witnesses said they believed the group were members of the Civilian Joint Task Force (CJTF) because of their uniforms.

Hours later, shortly after 3 p.m., the vehicle returned. “They brought him back severely wounded,” Abbas recounted. “He could barely move.”

Residents rushed toward him to help, but within ten minutes, he died.

The incident was immediately reported to the soldiers stationed at the camp’s entrance. According to Muhammed, the soldiers said they had seen the vehicle dropping Bulama but did not know what had transpired. “They were the ones who told us the men were Hybrids and that they had come from the Maiwa axis,” he said.

Residents later learned that Bulama had allegedly been taken to Maiwa Kura, a remote village in Mafa Local Government Area, Borno State, where the group was reportedly stationed. 

Although “Hybrids” are often perceived as operating independently, they are typically attached to military formations and work alongside security forces, according to a member of a local volunteer security outfit involved in counterterrorism operations who spoke to HumAngle.

“The commanding officer of the military base gives instructions to the ‘Hybrid’ commander attached to that formation, who then relays orders to his men,” the source explained. “During broader operations involving multiple locations, they also have a state commander from whom they receive directives.”

However, this does not necessarily imply military involvement in the attack that claimed Bulama’s life, as Hybrid patrols sometimes operate independently.

Bulama’s family subsequently reported the matter to the police. 

Muhammed said that soldiers, police officers, and members of the CJTF later travelled to Maiwa, where they arrested three suspects, including a commander. “They told us the others had travelled to Mafa for an operation,” he said.

The suspects were taken into custody and transferred to the Borno State Criminal Investigation Department for further investigation.

According to family members, the suspects claimed Bulama died after jumping from the back of a moving Hilux vehicle. But the relatives remain unconvinced. “The doctors told us he had been severely beaten,” Muhammed said. “His hands were tied, and he had internal bleeding.”

The family retrieved the body on Saturday morning and buried him later that afternoon. When the body was prepared for burial, he said, blood continued to seep from his eyes, ears, and nose. “It stained the white shroud.”

When HumAngle contacted the Borno State Police Public Relations Officer, Nahum Kenneth Daso, he said he was not aware of the case and would make inquiries. As of publication, no official update had been provided.

The men known as ‘Hybrids’

In many communities across Borno State, the word “Hybrid” carries different meanings depending on who defines it. 

To security officials, they are a practical asset in a war that has stretched for more than 15 years. For many residents, they are former terrorists trying to rebuild their lives. To others, especially those who lost relatives, homes, farms, and livelihoods during the conflict, they are a constant reminder of wounds that have never fully healed.

The term is commonly used to describe some former Boko Haram members who surrendered and passed through official rehabilitation and deradicalisation programmes, and later became attached to security operations in various capacities.

Since they possess intimate knowledge of terrorist operations and hierarchy, security agencies have increasingly relied on some of them to help in identifying former colleagues, navigating difficult terrain, and providing information that security forces may otherwise struggle to obtain.

For authorities, the arrangement is often viewed as a necessary component of the counterterrorism campaign. However, many civilians find it deeply unsettling.

That is why, for some residents, the sight of former terrorists carrying weapons or working alongside security forces can be difficult to accept.

Bulama’s death has reopened those anxieties. Yet, the resentment many residents express today did not begin with his killing. It has been building for years.

In August 2021, as thousands of terrorist deserters began surrendering from the Sambisa Forest and the Lake Chad region, the Borno State Government convened a high-level stakeholders’ meeting at the Government House in Maiduguri. Government officials, security agencies, traditional rulers, religious leaders, civil society organisations, journalists, and community representatives gathered to discuss the reintegration of former insurgents into society.

At the end of the meeting, participants agreed in principle to forgive and accept these deserters back into their communities. Their acceptance, however, was not unconditional. The stakeholders insisted that surrendered terrorists must be thoroughly screened before reintegration. They also warned against the release of hardened extremists into the communities. They further called for meaningful reconciliation between victims and former terrorists.

The gathering was widely presented as a collective endorsement of reconciliation.

But beyond the conference hall, acceptance has proved far more complicated.

Many residents who had survived the violence felt they had not been part of that conversation. Some had lost parents, spouses, siblings, and/or children. Others had spent years moving between displacement camps, uncertain whether they would ever return home. For them, forgiveness was not a policy decision that could be reached through consensus among stakeholders. It was an intensely personal choice shaped by trauma, memory, and loss.

“The people making these decisions are not always the people who suffered directly,” Abba Gana told HumAngle.

Over the years, some residents have complained of harassment and intimidation by former terrorists and their families. Others say they simply feel the reintegration process has moved faster than community healing.

The debate became even more sensitive as some former terrorists began assisting security operations. To many survivors, the transformation can be difficult to reconcile: people who once arrived as attackers returning as neighbours and protectors, and in some cases, as men carrying authority.

Some government officials have repeatedly defended the reintegration policy. Recently, General Olufemi Oluyede, the Chief of Defence Staff and chairperson of the Operation Safe Corridor National Steering Committee, likened terrorist deserters to the biblical Prodigal Son, arguing that they deserve rehabilitation because they remain Nigerian citizens. 

Those concerns were further amplified by reports that not all former terrorists were passing through official rehabilitation channels. In 2025, a HumAngle investigation documented allegations that some defectors were quietly leaving the forest and reintegrating into communities without participating in formal deradicalisation programmes, raising questions about screening, accountability, and oversight.

Over the years, several incidents involving terrorist deserters have also contributed to public unease. In April, a former Boko Haram member allegedly shot and killed a CJTF member during an argument in the Mafa LGA. According to reports, the victim was rushed to the hospital but was confirmed dead on arrival, while the suspect was later arrested and handed over to the police.

Two years earlier, some deserters reportedly stormed a police station in Maiduguri in an attempt to secure the release of their colleagues arrested over alleged drug-related offences. In another case that generated public outrage in 2023, a deserter was accused of killing his wife at the outskirts of Maiduguri.

Concerns about the reintegration programme are not new. As far back as 2020, Ali Ndume, the senator representing Borno South Senatorial District, publicly criticised aspects of the government’s amnesty efforts, recounting the case of a deserter whom he alleged killed his father and later absconded with his property. The senator argued that the victims and survivors’ concerns were not receiving the same level of attention as the rehabilitation of the deserters.

Taken individually, the circumstances surrounding these incidents differ significantly from Bulama’s case. Collectively, however, they have helped shape public perceptions of the reintegration programmes and deepened anxieties among some residents about the monitoring, supervision, and accountability of deserters, particularly those involved in security-related activities.

For many survivors of the conflict, such incidents reinforce a lingering fear that rehabilitation alone may not be enough. Bulama’s death has now brought those long-simmering concerns into sharper focus. 

“The community is deciding on an action,” Abbas said.

Residents gathered after Bulama’s burial to discuss possible legal steps. Some suggested pooling money to hire a lawyer. Others proposed approaching human rights organisations.

“We are thinking of contributing money and hiring a lawyer,” Abbas said.

Justice and unfinished wounds

For Muhammed, grief and anger now coexist. His cousin survived displacement and years of uncertainty. He, however, did not survive a short journey to the mosque.

When asked what justice would look like for his family and the displaced community, Muhammed replied, “The law does not play by sentiments; it follows laid-down rules. I hope they will do what is right. If it is by my sentiments, I would not want them to be free. I would want them imprisoned for life.”

He paused.

“I don’t care about compensation. I don’t care about apologies. Justice for me is their imprisonment.”

A family left devastated 

Bulama was only 30 years old. He left behind two wives and five children.

He earned a living as a farmer. And before displacement forced the family from Boboshe in 2016, his father was killed. His elderly mother remains alive and still lives with them at the displacement camp.

The survival of his family, which was Bulama’s responsibility as the breadwinner, hangs uncertainly over relatives, who are also struggling to survive. “We are not rich people,” Muhammed said. “Caring for five children in addition to our own children will be difficult.”

Around the camp where he lived for over a decade, residents gather beneath makeshift shelters to rest, but the conversations about Bulama’s death remain on their lips. 

What remains immediate is his nuclear family, and the space left by a man who left home for Friday prayers and never returned.

The death of Abakar Minuki, one of the most influential leaders of the Islamic State West Africa Province (ISWAP), in a joint United States and Nigerian military operation, marks one of the most consequential blows to the insurgent group in recent years. Yet, analysts and insiders familiar with the terror group warn that history offers little reason to assume the killing will significantly diminish the long-term threat posed by the group.

Multiple sources familiar with ISWAP’s internal structure told HumAngle that Minuki’s most likely successor was Baba Shuwa, commonly known as Ba Shuwa. However, indications emerging from the aftermath of the operation suggest he may also have been killed. If confirmed, the simultaneous removal of both men would trigger the most significant leadership transition in the organisation since its emergence from Boko Haram’s internal schism nearly a decade ago.

For the first time, leadership could pass not to the insurgency’s founding generation, but to a second generation of fighters raised entirely within the movement’s war ecosystem. Two names have emerged as the strongest contenders: Abu Salem and Bana Chingori.

“This would represent a generational shift unlike anything the movement has experienced before,” a source familiar with ISWAP’s internal dynamics told HumAngle.

From village barber to insurgent leader

Known variously as Abu Bakr ibn Muhammad ibn Ali al Mainoki, Abor Mainoki, Abubakar Mainoki, and Abakar Minuki, the slain commander was himself a product of the insurgency’s evolution.

Born in 1982 in the village of Mainok, a settlement along the Maiduguri-Benisheikh corridor in Borno State, he adopted his nom de guerre from his hometown. Long before becoming one of the most feared figures in the Lake Chad Basin insurgency, Minuki was known as a young barber operating a modest salon in the village.

Those who encountered him during the rise of Mohammed Yusuf’s movement recall a quiet young man who blended into daily life. That anonymity would eventually disappear. By the time Boko Haram transformed from a fringe religious movement into a powerful insurgent force, Minuki had become part of its military structure.

Abu Mus’ab, Abu Fatima, and other Boko Haram leaders had to secure Minuki’s approval before finalising their escape from Abubakar Shekau in the Sambisa forest to the islands of the Lake Chad Basin, shortly before ISWAP split from Boko Haram. Minuki not only provided refuge for members of the newly formed ISWAP fleeing Shekau’s crackdown, but also protected them and facilitated their settlement in his territory, where he ruled as one of Shekau’s most formidable Amirul Fiya.

He belonged to the first generation of fighters who entered the organisation before the 2009 uprising that transformed the movement forever.

The last men of Yusuf’s generation

To understand what Minuki represented, one must return to Boko Haram’s earliest years. According to sources familiar with the group’s formative history, Mohammed Yusuf’s original armed contingent consisted of fewer than 100 members. These men were responsible not only for security but also for recruitment.

As the organisation expanded, Yusuf reorganised fighters into military formations named after prominent figures from Islamic history. Among them were the Zubair Ibn Awwam Battalion, Umar Farouk Battalion, Salmanu Farisu Battalion, Khalid Ibn Walid Battalion, and Salaudeen Ayubi Battalion.

Several battalions survived years of expansion, state crackdowns, factional disputes, and battlefield losses. Over time, however, only two retained their original lineage and remain operational: the Timbuktu formation, associated with Faruk, and the Buhairiya structure, which absorbed the remnants of several earlier battalions.

Minuki was already a Naqeeb, a junior commander, during the pre-2009 period. Ba Shuwa, by contrast, was merely a foot soldier. While Abu Salem, who is now touted as the likely successor of ISWAP, was still a child. That generational distinction highlights that few survivors remain from the movement’s founding era.

The rise of the second generation

If Minuki and Ba Shuwa are both dead, the succession process could elevate men who never knew the insurgency before it became a regional war. Among them, Abu Salem stands out. Sources describe him as both a military commander and a religious authority within the insurgency. He currently serves as Amirul Fiya, based in Krinua, a battlefield commander with influence extending beyond purely military affairs.

His biography mirrors the insurgency’s own evolution. The son of a respected first-generation Boko Haram member, Abu Salem benefited from mentorship by senior leaders from an early age. His pedigree gave him access to influential networks that many younger fighters lacked.

He also carries the scars of combat. During one battle with members of Nigeria’s armed forces, he sustained serious gunshot wounds to the lower abdomen. The injuries required long-term medical management involving a Foley catheter. According to sources familiar with his condition, he continued participating in military operations despite the injury for years.

Within ISWAP, Abu Salem has cultivated a reputation for bravery, clerical authority, and charisma. Several sources compared his influence to that once exercised by Abu Musab al-Barnawi and Minuki himself.

Another contender is Bana Chingori, regarded as Ba Shuwa’s closest deputy. Unlike Abu Salem, however, Bana faces a structural challenge: He does not originate from the Faruk battalion network, which sources estimate supplies approximately 70 per cent of ISWAP’s current fighters and leadership, including Minuki.

In an organisation where battlefield alliances and battalion loyalties remain deeply influential, that may prove decisive.

The ethnic question behind ISWAP leadership

Leadership succession inside ISWAP is not determined solely by military competence. HumAngle understands that ethnicity, lineage, dialect, and social hierarchy continue to shape power within the organisation.

Public portrayals often reduce Boko Haram and ISWAP to ideological movements driven exclusively by extremist interpretations of Islam. The reality is considerably more complex. The overwhelming majority of ISWAP’s estimated fighting force originates from the Kanuri ethnic nationality, which has historically been dominant across the Lake Chad Basin. Yet, the Kanuris are far from homogeneous.

They are divided into numerous dialect communities, clan networks, and social categories that carry significant political weight, all of which the insurgents take very seriously. These divisions influence recruitment, promotions, alliances, and leadership legitimacy.

Mohammed Yusuf, for example, belonged to the Manga dialect group, one of the most prestigious Kanuri communities. His lineage strengthened his standing within the movement’s formative years. Abubakar Shekau came from the Kaama-speaking Ngala’a community, often viewed as socially marginal within traditional Kanuri hierarchies.

Several researchers and former members argue that Shekau’s relationship with the broader movement was shaped partly by this outsider status. Minuki himself emerged from Borno Central, where multiple Kanuri dialect groups intersect. Ba Shuwa’s ancestry has also been the subject of internal scrutiny.

Sources say rivals occasionally questioned the purity of his Kanuri lineage, reflecting how deeply social stratification continues to influence perceptions of authority within insurgency networks in the Lake Chad basin.

For this reason, sources told HumAngle, the emergence of a non-Kanuri leader remains highly unlikely. Even if such a figure were elevated, sustaining authority would be extraordinarily difficult. “The movement talks about Islam and the caliphate,” one source familiar with internal deliberations said, “But when leadership questions arise, ethnicity still matters.”

The foreign fighters effect

The leadership transition unfolding inside ISWAP is taking place within an organisation that has undergone profound internal transformation in recent years. Sources familiar with the group’s operations told HumAngle that the growing presence of foreign fighters from across the Sahel and beyond has reshaped not only the movement’s military tactics but also its internal security culture.

As foreign fighters increasingly settled in the Lake Chad region, ISWAP imposed some of its strictest operational security measures to date. Members were ordered to delete existing photographs and cease documenting activities through images. The use of smartphones was largely prohibited, reflecting mounting concerns about surveillance, geolocation tracking, and intelligence penetration. 

The restrictions marked a sharp departure from earlier years when both Boko Haram and ISWAP routinely photographed preaching sessions, training exercises, weapon displays, and daily life in territories under their control. Such imagery formed a central component of the group’s propaganda and recruitment machinery.

According to sources, the new rules were enforced ruthlessly. Several fighters accused of taking photographs or retaining images on their devices were reportedly executed. The killings served as both punishment and deterrence, reinforcing a culture of secrecy that now permeates much of the organisation. 

“The message was simple,” one source familiar with the group’s internal directives said. “Any digital trace that could expose fighters, commanders, or locations became a security threat.” The arrival of experienced foreign fighters appears to have accelerated this shift. Many brought with them lessons learned from conflicts across the Sahel, where drone surveillance, signals intelligence, and electronic tracking have increasingly shaped the battlefield.

The influence of foreign fighters introduced a greater emphasis on counter-intelligence, operational discipline, compartmentalisation, and the elimination of digital footprints that could expose personnel, camps, supply routes, or command structures. The result is an insurgent organisation that has become considerably more cautious than its predecessors. While leadership losses continue to disrupt, ISWAP’s evolving security architecture suggests a movement increasingly focused on institutional survival rather than on dependence on individual commanders.

Fractured, not defeated

The killing of Minuki undoubtedly represents a serious disruption, and the elimination of Ba Shuwa, if confirmed, would considerably deepen that disruption. Yet, military and intelligence officials caution against interpreting the development as a strategic defeat for ISWAP.

“The organisation has experienced similar moments before with the deaths of Mohammed Yusuf, Mamman Nur, Abu Musab al Barnawi, Ba Idrissa, and several other senior commanders, each of which generated predictions of organisational collapse,” said Kyari Mustafa, a conflict researcher in Maiduguri.

Those predictions never materialised. Instead, the group adapted. The pattern has become familiar across the Lake Chad Basin.

HumAngle has documented a pattern where successful military campaigns weaken the insurgency. Communities experience a period of relative calm. The group regroups, reassesses, and eventually resumes attacks. This cycle has repeated itself for more than 15 years. What makes the current moment significant is the possibility that an entire generation of commanders may be disappearing simultaneously. If Minuki and Ba Shuwa are indeed gone, the future of ISWAP may soon be shaped by men who were toddlers when Mohammed Yusuf built the movement.

Whether that transition produces fragmentation, renewal, or further violence remains uncertain. What is clear is that the Lake Chad Basin has witnessed enough leadership decapitations to know that the death of a commander, however important, does not automatically mean the end of the war.

Two years ago, Bashir Muhammad received an invitation to attend a journalism summit in Niamey but declined. That decision, and the argument it provoked, told him everything he needed to know.

He runs one of the growing number of Hausa-language digital news platforms that have emerged across northern Nigeria in the past decade, serving local audiences that legacy English-language media have largely ignored. That profile made him a target. In 2024, Bashir was approached by Mariam Laouali – a woman known across West African Hausa media circles as Sarkin Abzin. She is a prominent Nigerien broadcaster and, as he would come to understand, a committed supporter of the military regime that had seized power in Niamey the previous year.

In July 2023, the military junta, led by General Abdurrahman Tchiani, overthrew the democratically elected President Muhammad Bazoum. The coup met with strong resistance from the international community, particularly the Economic Community of West African States (ECOWAS), under the leadership of Nigeria’s President Bola Tinubu. This led to severe diplomatic tensions between ECOWAS and the new military regime in Niger, culminating in threats of invasion from Nigerian leaders and ultimately the division of ECOWAS and the formation of the Alliance of the Sahel States (AES). While some diplomatic efforts have been restored, tensions remain, and the Niger Republic, supported by Russia and its AES allies, has been engaged in information efforts to attack ECOWAS countries, particularly Nigeria and Benin Republic. Bashir felt this approach could be part of the recruitment efforts. 

The pitch sounded professional. Sarkin Abzin told him of a pan-African summit of Hausa-language journalists to be convened in Niamey. It was the first of its kind, according to her. She described it as an exercise in cross-border media cooperation and a chance for journalists from across the continent’s Hausa-speaking belt to build something together. 

Bashir had questions, but he did not like the answers, so he declined.

Sarkin Abzin pushed back, insisting that he should consider it, but he became more suspicious. The conversation escalated. By the end, she was visibly frustrated. It ended there. 

“She didn’t take it well,” Bashir told HumAngle, sitting in his home office while casually scrolling on his computer, searching for her Facebook page. “The way she reacted told you this wasn’t just about journalism.”

He was right. It was not all about journalism. The summit in Niamey was just bait. What Sarkin Abzin and her sponsors in the Niger Republic seemed to want was access to northern Nigeria’s forty million Hausa speakers and to exploit their grievances and distrust of Nigerian leaders.

Many Nigerians were consumed by anxiety and bitterness over the country’s dire economic pressures. Many also harboured deep anger toward their leaders – particularly President Bola Tinubu, against whom protests erupted in August 2024, during which some demonstrators raised Russian flags and called for a coup. For that reason, this was a country where recruiting the discontented would come easily, because the grievances were already there, waiting.

Pro-junta actors and AES-aligned influence networks have been weaponising TikTok’s virality to erode confidence in Nigerian democratic leadership, particularly targeting President Tinubu and the broader ECOWAS establishment.

Online influencers and sympathetic media outlets, including some based within Nigeria itself, have circulated claims accusing Nigerian politicians of backing insurgent networks and conspiring with foreign powers to destabilise the AES states.

The recruitment drive

Sarkin Abzin’s tour of northern Nigerian newsrooms and radio stations in 2024 was, in retrospect, the visible edge of something much larger. She moved through Kano, through the northwest, knocking on the doors of editors and station managers, carrying the same pitch: come to Niamey, meet your counterparts, and build solidarity. Several journalists, like Bashir, declined quietly. A general manager at a prominent radio station in Kano, who pleaded anonymity, told HumAngle that Sarkin Abzin had reached him, but that he had turned her down.

“Looking at the timing when there was a diplomatic rift between Nigeria and Niger, and the suspicion of foreign influence, I felt it was unwise to join,” he said.

However, not everyone had the luxury of that suspicion, or the will to act on it. Musa Abba (not real name), a journalist at a private radio station in Kebbi State, saw a conference invitation and a chance to connect with Hausa journalists beyond Nigeria’s borders. His station was invited and the managers nominated him. Accommodation and food were covered by the organisers. The journey, according to him, was arranged through the Nigerian Union of Journalists (NUJ), in a vehicle shared with other attendees and, notably, with some politicians and government officials who had also been invited.

What he found in Niamey, however, upended the premise of the invitation entirely.

He concluded that “it was a sophisticated plan to form Hausa journalists who will be promoting the Nigerien junta and anti-West sentiment across Hausa-speaking countries.”

On her TikTok page, Sarkin Abzin does not hide her bias. She promotes Sahel juntas and specifically asks her followers to promote Tchiani. 

In a social media exchange with Fati Niger, a Kannywood musician originally from the Niger Republic who had called for a return to democratic rule, Sarkin Abzin’s response betrayed her sentiments. “We don’t care about entertainment,” she mentioned in a TikTok video. What mattered, she said, was building their country and confronting those she described as “hypocrites and oppressors within the West,” as well as “hypocrites among us here, those in exile in every country in the world, including Nigeria, and those Nigerians who support the old system [of democracy] and do not stand behind these soldiers under Abdourahamane Tchiani.”

The summit Sarkin Abzin organised had state backing, institutional cover, and a well-hosted programme. It had everything, in other words, that a genuine journalism conference would have – except genuine journalism at its centre.

The irony is that the junta in Niger has been repressing and arresting journalists in the country. Moussa Ngom, Committee to Protect Journalists (CPJ)’s Francophone Africa representative, explained that “arrest and detention have become tools of choice for Nigerien authorities to try to control information they find undesirable.”

Human Rights Watch (HRW) reported that in October 2025 six journalists were arrested in Niamey – Moussa Kaka and Abdoul Aziz of Saraounia TV; Ibro Chaibou and Souleymane Brah from the online publication Voice of the People; Youssouf Seriba of Les Échos du Niger; and Oumarou Kané, founder of the magazine Le Hérisson – over their alleged role in circulating a government press briefing invitation on social media, criticising the introduction of the mandatory payment for “Solidarity Fund for the Safeguarding of the Homeland”, a form of security levy in Niger. 

The conference that wasn’t

The organisation behind the summit, Kungiyar Yan Jarida Na Afrika Masu Magana Da Harshen Hausa or, in French, Résegu Africain des journalistes en langue Haoussa (Association of Hausa-speaking Journalists in Africa), was founded by Sarkin Abzin herself. She held a senior position at RTN, the Nigerien state broadcaster. Her organisation, she told prospective attendees, had the backing of the Nigerien government institutions. 

Inside the hall at the Centre International de Conférences Mahatma Gandhi in Niamey, when the summit was opened on Aug. 24, 2024, the keynote speakers were not press freedom advocates, editors or media economists. They were politicians. Prime Minister Ali Lamine Zeine appeared as Tchiani’s representative, delivering a speech whose original French had been translated into Hausa. He spoke about Niger’s exit from ECOWAS as a show of sovereignty.

The junta had, by this point, accused ECOWAS countries, particularly Nigeria and Benin, of colluding with France to destabilise Niger and sabotage its economy- allegations that, according to independent fact-checkers, had no credible evidentiary basis but which had proven effective at consolidating domestic support by replacing accountability with external threat. The Niamey summit was the moment that the narrative was offered to Nigerian voices who could carry it home.

Among those who spoke was Hamza Almustafa, a Nigerian retired general and a politician who used the platform to denounce the West. Najaatu Muhammad, a prominent northern Nigerian political figure, delivered what several attendees described as the most incendiary address of the proceedings. She told her audience that the Nigerian federal government was conspiring to sever Niger from Nigeria – to cut through bonds of religion and culture that no colonial border had ever truly divided. Abuja, she suggested, served Paris and Washington before it served Kano or Sokoto.

“It was not really a journalists’ meeting,” Musa told HumAngle, “By the time the politicians started speaking, those of us who understood what was happening knew we had made a mistake.”

Sarkin Abzin’s organisation had achieved, in a single day, what overt propaganda rarely manages: it had placed legitimate reporters in a room and given the junta’s narratives the texture of a press conference. The journalists went to Niamey to cover something. They came back as part of it. 

HumAngle reached out to Sarkin Abzin for comment. She did not respond. 

The Hausa messages 

The Niamey summit was not the opening move in this campaign. 

On Christmas Day of 2024, General Tchiani sat before the cameras of Radio-Télévision du Niger and delivered what a casual viewer might have mistaken for a holiday address. Although French had been Niger’s official language, he spoke in Hausa – a lingua franca in both Niger and most of northern Nigeria, spoken by millions across West Africa. 

His choice of language was deliberate. The message was not addressed to Niamey alone. It was addressed to Kano and other Hausa-speaking states, particularly in Northern Nigeria, where there is an already visible pro-Russian and anti-West sentiment, as reflected in 2024 when Russian flags were raised during a nationwide protest against insecurity and economic hardship.

The claims Tchiani made were engineered to sound verified. He alleged that France had paid Nigerian authorities to establish a military base in Borno State with the sole aim of destabilising Niger and its Sahel Alliance partners. He also accused France of supplying Boko Haram fighters in the Lake Chad basin with anti-aircraft weapons. He claimed that France and ISWAP had struck an agreement to establish a Lakurawa training camp in the Gaba forest near Sokoto, and that Nigerian leaders were aware. He named Nigerian security officials by name. He cited dates and operational specifics to express the grammar of verified intelligence, though deployed in the service of disinformation.

The hook embedded in the allegations was not entirely invented, which is precisely what made it effective. Nigeria’s Defence Headquarters had classified Lakurawa as a terrorist organisation with jihadist affiliations just weeks earlier, in November 2024. HumAngle’s own investigations had revealed the group had operated in the northwest for around six years, with local security authorities having previously and dangerously dismissed it as a harmless faction of herders from across the border. The name was already known. The fear was already settled. Tchiani simply attached a culprit to both.

In Sokoto and Zamafara, where communities had been facing terrorist violence for years, the allegation did not sound outlandish.

“People said, ‘We always knew France was behind this,’” a civil society worker in Kano who monitors social media, Muhammad Hamza, told HumAngle. “Tchiani just confirmed what they already believed.”

When BBC Hausa published testimonies refuting Tchiani’s claims, the reaction was contemptuous. “We know you won’t agree because you’re all on the same side,” one commenter wrote. “But we believe what he said. We have seen the signs.”

A survey conducted by HumAngle in Kano State found that 50 per cent of the respondents believed Tchiani’s claims, 30 per cent were undecided, and only 20 per cent rejected them outright. Many pointed to President Tinubu’s perceived closeness to France as a reason for suspicion. 

One respondent, Abubakar Saidu, explained his reasoning, “President Tinubu has been close to France since he assumed power, and we all know that France can create terrorists to attack Niger due to their diplomatic fallout.”

Nuhu Ribadu, Nigeria’s National Security Advisor, had attempted to refute the claim, but it was unsuccessful. According to him, “Nigeria has never given its land to any foreign troops—not even Britain. When the [United States] requested a military base, we denied them, but Niger gave them.”

In a country with an audience that receives official rebuttals as confirmation of the original charge, its psyche could easily be captured. Nigerians didn’t believe Ribadu. 

“This is the new reality of information warfare. It is no longer just about truth versus falsehood. It is about who controls the language in which truth is told. It is about who defines the enemy—and, ultimately, who is believed,” Kano-based security analyst Balarabe Ismail told HumAngle in April 2025.

Tchiani returned to the theme in June 2025, this time in a three-hour televised address delivered in Hausa, Zarma, and French, in which he again accused Nigeria of conspiring with France and the United States to sponsor terrorism, alleging a covert meeting in Abuja in December 2024 attended by CIA agents and Nigerian security officials who discussed arming groups targeting Niger. 

The headquarters of disinformation 

Analysts had already identified increased activity from disinformation networks affiliated with Russia in Niger following the coup in Niger. 

According to a report by Al Jazeera, since the July 2023 coup, Niger had become the latest hotbed of disinformation in the Sahel, with social media inundated by false rumours, misleading videos, and manipulated audio clips. The template, according to the report, was borrowed from Mali and Burkina Faso, where Wagner-linked networks had deployed online assets, locally cultivated contacts, and Russian state media to produce a sustained information environment that preceded, accelerated, and then legitimised military takeovers. In Niger, the same playbook ran faster because the infrastructure was already warm.

Following the death of Wagner Group founder Yevgeny Prigozhin in 2023, these operations were absorbed into two successor structures: the Russian Africa Corps, which provides military presence on the ground, and the Africa Initiative news agency, connected to Russian intelligence services and overseen from Moscow. Africa Initiative is an upgrade and institutional legitimacy that Wagner never possessed. With press credentials, cultural programming, and regional language capacity, it successfully dressed influence as media development.

The three Alliance of Sahel States junta leaders — in Niger, Mali, and Burkina Faso — have converged around a shared political project. They launched a joint television channel to promote a unified narrative across their territories, a regional media infrastructure whose audience mandate extends explicitly beyond their borders — into the Hausa-speaking communities of northern Nigeria, who share language, faith, and enough legitimate frustration to make the narratives land without the need for fabrication in every detail. 

Sarkin Abzin’s journalist recruitment initiative sits within this structure. The goal may not have been to turn Nigerian journalists into salaried agents but to create a class of northern Nigerian media voices who feel a degree of solidarity with the junta’s framing. 

A security analyst who works on influence operations in West Africa and spoke to HumAngle on condition of anonymity offered some insight. “What Niger and Russia are doing is not complicated,” he said. “They are creating the conditions under which Nigerian citizens begin to see their own government as the enemy.”

The operation has not yet achieved its full objective. Bashir Muhammad’s refusal was one of the resistance points among others. Some journalists who attended the Niamey summit have since spoken, cautiously, about the gap between what they were promised and what they found. The WhatsApp group formed after the summit, according to Musa Abba, the journalist who attended, had almost collapsed. 

“They promised to continue communicating via WhatsApp and to organise more summits in other countries, but more than a year later they said nothing and group members didn’t say anything either,” he said. Even Sarkin Abzin’s Facebook page is no longer active.  

This article was produced by HumAngle with support from the African Academy for Open Source Investigations (AAOSI) and the African Digital Democracy Observatory (ADDO) as part of an initiative by Code for Africa (CfA). Visit https://disinfo.africa/ for more information.

There are moments when nations move dangerously close to collapse before the public fully realises it. It begins with carefully framed messages that conceal or even deny a storm, then the country is described as dangerous, lawless, and extremist-tolerant. By the time formal consequences arrive, the political judgment has often already been made. By late 2025, Nigeria was approaching that threshold in Washington DC, the United States’ capital. 

Donald Trump was accusing the Nigerian state of failing Christians, and Republican lawmakers were describing the country as one of the world’s deadliest countries for Christians. Evangelical organisations in the United States were also mobilising around massacre narratives from Benue, Plateau, Southern Kaduna, and parts of the North Central region. These led to congressional pressure, visa restrictions, and discussions of sanctions. Later, Trump threatened military action and warned that the United States could move into Nigeria “guns-a-blazing” if the killings continued.

Inside sections of conservative American politics, Nigeria was no longer merely a troubled African country but was becoming a pariah state, a symbol of global Christian persecution, failed governance, Islamist expansion, and state weakness.

Then, the trajectory shifted. Within months, the same Trump administration that had threatened consequences against Nigeria began working with Abuja on counterterrorism cooperation. American intelligence support deepened, and US military involvement expanded, leading to widely criticised (for their lack of any real impact) airstrikes targeting Islamic State-linked and Lakurawa positions in northwestern Nigeria in December 2025. However, in May 2026, Trump publicly celebrated a successful joint Nigerian and American operation that killed Abu Bilal al-Minuki, described in both countries’ security circles as one of the most important Islamic State figures operating across Africa.

Nigeria had moved from an accused state to an operational partner, even though many have wondered what the cost might have been or continues to be. Behind that dramatic transition was one of the most consequential diplomatic-security campaigns mounted by Abuja in recent years. It involved diplomats, intelligence officials, military officers, embassy staff, policy advisers, lobbyists, diaspora actors, civil society networks, and security partners.

At the centre of this coordination stood National Security Adviser (NSA) Nuhu Ribadu, the coordinating figure who pulled the necessary elements together: the presidency’s political authority, the security establishment’s operational credibility, the embassy’s diplomatic access, the military’s counterterror capacity, policy networks in Washington, and a message that American officials could not easily dismiss.

Working with figures including a senior Nigerian career diplomat in DC, an influential woman at the NSA’s secretariat, senior defence and intelligence officials, foreign affairs officials, and other intermediaries, Ribadu helped steer Nigeria away from a potentially disastrous confrontation with Washington, DC.

The crisis Abuja could not treat as routine

Nigeria has faced criticism from the United States before on corruption, election disputes, human rights abuses, military excesses, and oil theft — all governance failures. None of those carried the same immediate danger as the late-2025 escalation. This crisis was different because it had moved beyond policy disagreement into moral accusation. The phrase “Christian genocide” changed the stakes.

Inside conservative American evangelical circles, Nigeria had already become symbolic before Trump’s escalation. Reports from groups such as Open Doors, International Christian Concern, Aid to the Church in Need, and Nigerian Christian advocacy organisations had repeatedly described Nigeria as one of the world’s deadliest places for Christians. Killings in Adamawa, Benue, Plateau, Southern Kaduna, parts of Niger State, and other flashpoints circulated widely through American church networks. 

Nigeria’s First Lady, Pastor Remi Tinubu, also operated far beyond the ceremonial margins. Using her deep evangelical and clerical networks, she became a decisive force in breaking resistance, opening doors that formal diplomacy and security channels could not. Her interventions softened hardened positions, clearing the path for diplomatic and security engagement to gain some traction.

“Nigeria is facing a complex security crisis that has sustained for over two decades and has currently metastasised into several violent crimes, including active insurgencies, farmer-herder violence, armed groups, gang violence, ethnic militias, and vigilantism, among several others,” Managing Director of Beacon Intelligence Consulting, Dr Kabiru Adamu, told HumAngle.

“While the triggers of the violence sometimes include identity such as ethnicity and religion, other factors, including socio-economic, political and environmental causes, are behind the violence.”

Amara Nwankpa, Director General, Shehu Musa Yar’Adua Foundation, argued that acknowledging complexity should not become a shield against responsibility.

“Nigeria is facing a complex security collapse,” he agreed. “But saying the crisis is ‘complex’ should not become a way to avoid the harder question of why some communities consistently suffer more than others.”

“The Nigerian state is weak. In many places, it genuinely struggles to protect people because of overstretched security forces, corruption, political fragmentation, and poor state capacity. That matters. A state that cannot protect is different from a state that deliberately chooses not to. But that distinction does not remove responsibility,” he told HumAngle.

“The mistake of the ‘Christian genocide’ framing is that it treats all the violence as one coordinated religious project,” he said. “The mistake of the ‘it’s complicated’ response is that it sometimes uses complexity as an excuse for inaction.”

Johnstone Kpilaakaa, an award-winning journalist who has closely followed the Middle Belt crisis, submits that the violence cannot be separated from the collapse of state protection across rural Nigeria. “Overall, the crisis reflects the broader failure of the Nigerian state to provide protection for its citizens,” he said. “Rural communities in the Middle Belt, many of which already experience a near-total absence of state presence, even in basic social services, have become especially vulnerable to terror attacks and organised violence.”

According to Kpilaakaa, the genocide narrative gained traction in the Middle Belt partly because many of the most devastated communities were Christian. “Historical memory also plays a role. The legacy of the 19th-century Sokoto Jihad, which faced resistance in parts of the region, continues to shape perceptions and fears today.” Children, he added, are raised with those stories, and those inherited fears continue to shape how violence is interpreted.

James Barnett, a fellow at the Hudson Institute, framed the crisis more as systemic collapse than coordinated extermination. “Nigeria is experiencing something more like a nationwide security crisis than a specific campaign targeted at one group,” Barnett said. “This is a collapse of state capacity that is felt in all corners of the country to different degrees, and it’s allowed militant and criminal groups of various stripes to kill, loot, and take over communities with significant impunity.”

He acknowledged that some armed actors operate with religious motivations. But much of the violence, he argued, is driven by opportunism, local disputes, criminal economies, and governance breakdown. That complexity became Abuja’s central diplomatic argument later in Washington.

The conservative machinery turns against Nigeria

Several American political actors helped turn the issue into a Washington crisis. Senator Ted Cruz became one of the strongest congressional voices accusing Nigeria of systemic anti-Christian violence. He introduced the Nigeria Religious Freedom Accountability Act of 2025 and repeatedly cited casualty figures involving Christians killed, churches destroyed, and communities displaced.

Congressman Riley Moore also became a central figure in the pressure campaign. He pushed the White House towards stronger action and publicly accused the Nigerian state of failing to protect persecuted Christians. But the deeper force came from evangelical networks. American evangelical activism is not simply moral advocacy but also an organised political ecosystem. It has media platforms, donor structures, church mobilisation capacity, congressional access, lobbying relationships, legal advocacy groups, and influence inside Republican politics.

Pastors, televangelists, diaspora activists, advocacy groups, conservative influencers, and social media personalities amplified reports from Nigeria, often portraying the country as the global epicentre of anti-Christian violence. Prayer campaigns followed. At the same time, misinformation and disinformation flooded digital spaces, blurring the line between verified atrocities and fabricated claims. Across Telegram channels, Facebook pages, WhatsApp broadcasts, podcasts, YouTube ministries, and conservative media networks, emotionally charged narratives circulated with little scrutiny, shaping international perceptions of Nigeria’s security crisis.

Yet even some analysts sympathetic to Christian suffering warned that the narrative was becoming distorted. “In attempting to draw global attention to the suffering of communities in the Middle Belt, some evangelical advocacy networks and social media actors have also oversimplified the crisis,” Kpilaakaa said.

“In certain cases, this has involved the circulation of half-truths, selective reporting, or sensationalised accounts that do not fully capture the complexity of the situation.” He stressed that multiple forms of violence were being collapsed into a single frame. “Beyond terrorist violence, the Middle Belt also faces attacks carried out by local militia groups and criminal networks, particularly in states such as Benue,” he said.

“Unfortunately, many of these distinct forms of violence are often merged into a single narrative of religious persecution, which can make the crisis more difficult to properly understand, analyse, and address.”

Nwankpa reached a similar conclusion, though he warned against dismissing the suffering that fuels those narratives.

“Some evangelical networks and social media platforms have distorted global understanding of the violence, but not by inventing suffering,” he said. “The suffering is real. Many Christian communities, especially in parts of the North and Middle Belt, have experienced terrible violence.”

According to him, the distortion emerges when an entire national security collapse is reduced to a single religious explanation.

“Incentives also drive that simplification. In the US, persecution narratives mobilise donors and audiences very effectively. Clear stories raise more money than messy realities.”

He added that diaspora activism had amplified simplified narratives globally, often detached from the wider context of Nigeria’s security breakdown.

Kabiru Adamu was direct. “Yes,” he said when asked whether evangelical networks and social media had distorted international understanding of Nigeria’s violence. “Their narrative of Christian genocide and the bandying of falsified figures contributed to the Trump administration’s earlier stance.”

Still, he warned against swinging to denial. “This is not to say Christians are not being killed. They are. But so too are Muslims.”

Christians had been killed, churches attacked, villages emptied, and priests abducted. But Muslims are also dying in larger numbers as Nigeria’s conflicts defy simple religious labels. Islamic State affiliates targeted Muslim communities, soldiers, traders, aid workers, schools, and transport routes. Armed groups kidnapped indiscriminately. Farmer-herder conflict, jihadist expansion, criminal economies, land pressure, governance failure, and communal grievances all overlapped. The genocide frame compressed those realities into one dangerous explanation. 

Trump turns pressure into a state crisis

In late 2025, Trump’s administration escalated pressure against Nigeria under international religious freedom frameworks, including the Country of Particular Concern designation. He accused Nigeria of allowing Christians to be killed by “Radical Islamists” and threatened possible military action. 

For Abuja, the implications were dire. They could bring about diplomatic isolation, damage to intelligence and security cooperation, and investor panic in an already fragile economy. This was where Ribadu’s office became central. The National Security Adviser understood that Nigeria could not defeat the pressure campaign through blunt denial.

So, Abuja adopted a more difficult strategy that involved acknowledging the insecurity while rejecting the genocide label and repositioning the crisis as part of a broader counterterror and state fragility problem.

Kpilaakaa argued that, “The absence of proactive state action, credible investigations, and timely justice creates space for speculation and mistrust, while trauma inevitably shapes the perceptions and judgment of survivors.” 

The Nigerian response, therefore, focused less on arguing morality and more on changing strategic calculations in Washington. The message became simple: weakening Nigeria would strengthen the so-called Islamic State.

Nwankpa believes Ribadu’s intervention succeeded not because it resolved the crisis, but because it changed how Washington interpreted it.

“Ribadu did not solve the crisis,” he said. “What he did was change the diplomatic framing, and he did it very effectively. He shifted the conversation from ‘Nigeria is allowing Christians to be killed’ to ‘Nigeria and the US are facing a shared terrorism problem.’ That helped cool tensions with Washington and turned pressure into cooperation.”

But he warned that the strategic success came with consequences.

“Once the relationship became centred on counterterrorism, the space for human rights and accountability pressure became smaller,” Nwankpa said. “The focus moved from protecting vulnerable communities to fighting shared threats. In that sense, the deeper issue of impunity remained unresolved. It was postponed.”

Ribadu’s reframing strategy

Ribadu’s role with coordination happened because many parts needed to move in specific directions. For example, the presidency had to provide political authority, the military had to provide operational credibility, diplomats had to reopen channels in Washington, intelligence officials had to frame the regional threat, lobbyists and intermediaries had to reach spaces formal diplomacy could not easily penetrate, and the central message itself had to remain consistent.

Nigeria was a battered state confronting overlapping extremist, criminal, communal, and regional threats, and if the state weakened further, Boko Haram and a confluence of other terror groups across the country would benefit.

Kabiru Adamu believes Ribadu deserves significant credit for the diplomatic de-escalation. “The NSA Nuhu Ribadu can be credited for de-escalating the earlier US stance when the Trump Administration, after designating Nigeria a country of particular concern due to perceived religious persecution and Trump’s threat to come ‘guns a blazing,’” he said. “Ribadu led a high-level delegation to the US and followed through with engagements that led to the creation of a joint working group between the two countries as well as deeper defence engagement.”

Barnett reached a similar conclusion. “The Nigerian government has responded pretty effectively on the diplomatic front so far,” he said. “After initially being caught unprepared for the Country of Particular Concern designation, it realised that it wouldn’t get very far by publicly protesting Trump’s narrative and instead sought to leverage Washington’s focus on Nigeria to secure new security cooperation.”

That recalibration reshaped the relationship because even though the United States still publicly raised concerns about religious freedom, Nigeria became increasingly valuable as a regional counterterror partner. Barnett noted that the new working relationship also elevated Ribadu internationally. “The US-Nigeria working group has boosted Ribadu’s profile internationally,” he said.

Kpilaakaa observed that Abuja’s strategy prevented a deeper rupture. “Despite recent joint military operations in Metele, Borno State, which reportedly led to the death of a senior ISWAP leader, some influential American politicians continue to frame US involvement as part of an effort to stop what they describe as a genocide against Christians in Nigeria only,” he said.

“That suggests the National Security Adviser has not fully succeeded in reshaping the narrative.” Even so, he argued that the cooperation itself remained strategically necessary. “Beyond the competing narratives, effective counterterrorism operations remain in Nigeria’s national interest,” he said. “If military cooperation is conducted professionally, ethically, and strategically, the outcome should contribute to greater security and stability for all Nigerians, regardless of religion or ethnicity.”

Why Trump changed course

Trump’s shift appeared dramatic from Abuja. One moment, he was threatening Nigeria. Months later, he was celebrating joint counterterror operations with Nigerian forces. But analysts say this logic was less ideological than transactional. “The change in stance by the Trump administration from declared hostility to now engagement is mainly because of the diplomatic engagements by Nigeria, including Ribadu’s engagements,” Adamu said.

“There is also the lobby group contracted by the Federal Government that may have played a role in supporting a de-escalation.” Barnett believes Nigeria itself was never central to Trump’s broader worldview. “Nigeria is not actually a foreign policy priority for Trump, despite how much it might feel to Nigerians like he is now a looming presence in their politics,” he said.

“The US government has dedicated much more time and resources to its Venezuela and Iran policies, for example, than it has to Africa. When Trump threatened to go into Nigeria ‘guns a blazing’ last year, he was essentially calling on the US national security bureaucracy to come up with ideas to ‘do something’ in Nigeria that would look impressive but not consume significant energy and resources or entail political risk.”

The solution Washington eventually settled on was a partnership rather than confrontation. “The US military, for its part, would always prefer to fight jihadists with the help of a capable local partner rather than opposition from the host government,” Barnett explained.

“So, when the Nigerian government signalled it was willing to work with the US military, that gave the Trump administration an opening to show its supporters that it was fighting terrorists, supposedly in defence of Christians overseas, without engaging in a messy humanitarian intervention or state-building exercise.”

Nwankpa argued that the political logic behind Trump’s shift reflected both American strategic interests and Nigerian sensitivity to external pressure.

“Trump changed position because the political framing changed,” he said. “Threatening Nigeria appealed to parts of his evangelical and religious freedom base. Working with Nigeria appealed to American security interests. Once Abuja accepted the counterterrorism framing, Trump no longer needed a public confrontation.”

But he also pointed to a deeper Nigerian calculation.

“Most Nigerians want stronger security responses, but very few want foreign powers taking over the process,” Nwankpa said. “There is a strong sovereignty instinct in Nigeria. External pressure that appears paternalistic often collapses domestic coalition support, even among people who agree with the underlying criticism… Ribadu’s approach worked partly because it allowed Nigeria to engage America as a partner, not as a country being lectured or managed from outside.”

Kpilaakaa argued that Trump never completely abandoned the persecution narrative. “I do not believe there has been a complete shift in position,” he said. “Even recently, Trump shared material on Truth Social that reinforced the same narrative that frames every attack as religious persecution targeting Christians alone.”

He added that religious framing remains deeply embedded in Trump-era politics. “The use of religion, in this case Christianity, as a framework for discussing political and security issues is synonymous with the Trump administration,” he said.

Yet, Abuja avoided turning the disagreement into a public confrontation.

“It is also significant that Nigerian authorities have largely avoided engaging in public confrontation with Trump or his allies,” Kpilaakaa said. “Instead, they have focused on maintaining cooperation around the shared objective of combating terrorism and protecting lives, irrespective of religion or ethnicity.”

The Sahel and Nigeria’s strategic value

Regional realities strengthened Abuja’s hand. The Sahel was deteriorating rapidly; Mali had drifted away from Western influence, Burkina Faso remained unstable, Niger’s political upheaval disrupted Western security architecture, and Russian-linked actors expanded across the region.

Washington needed a capable African partner, and Nigeria’s geography, population, intelligence infrastructure, military size, and position between multiple conflict systems made it indispensable. Ribadu’s team aggressively leveraged that reality.

Weakening Nigeria, they argued, would not save Christians. It would strengthen the very extremist groups killing Christians and Muslims alike. That logic resonated strongly inside American security circles because it aligned humanitarian concern with strategic necessity.

The limits of the recovery

None of this erased the suffering that produced the controversy. Benue, Plateau, and Southern Kaduna still bleed. Communities across Niger State, Borno, Sokoto, Zamfara, Katsina, Yobe, and Adamawa continue to experience displacement, extortion, killings, and fear.

The average Nigerian, irrespective of their faith and ethnicity, genuinely believes the Nigerian state has failed them and the state must do more, not only to save lives, but to regain their trust in governance. The deeper question now is whether security cooperation alone can sustain the diplomatic recovery if the violence continues unresolved.

Kpilaakaa warned that “military cooperation alone will not resolve the deeper structural issues driving instability in the Middle Belt.” “Addressing land disputes, prolonged displacement, impunity, and the absence of justice remains critical,” he said.

He pointed to one grievance. “One of the most persistent grievances among affected communities is that many victims have spent more than a decade in displacement, with little accountability for the violence they endured. Without credible justice, reconstruction, and long-term conflict resolution, security cooperation may contain the violence temporarily, but it will not produce lasting peace or stability.”

“No,” Adamu said when asked whether security cooperation could survive if killings and impunity continue. “Evangelical groups will continue to mount domestic pressure on the Trump administration should the killings continue.”

Barnett also cautioned that Abuja should not assume permanent stability in the relationship. “You can’t be too certain where things go from here as Trump is notoriously unpredictable,” he said.

“He might be satisfied with periodic strikes against the Islamic State that make for good Fox News content while the militaries engage in more routine behind-the-scenes coordination and training.”

But the pressure networks inside American politics remain active. “There is also a vocal American constituency on this issue,” Barnett warned. “Those folks can be highly critical of the Tinubu government, and they are likely to perceive any continued violence, particularly in the Middle Belt, as justification for sanctions or even more radical forms of intervention.”

His conclusion was stark. “Tinubu can’t be certain he’s out of the woods just yet.” That is the reality beneath Nigeria’s diplomatic recovery. Abuja escaped one dangerous moment in Washington, but it has not solved the crisis that created it.

Back in Abuja, Ribadu remains trapped in a far more complicated war. His growing influence has unsettled opposition figures, threatened entrenched interests within the ruling party, and fuelled quiet anxieties about his long-term political ambition, multiple sources within Abuja policy networks implied. “If Ribadu misreads that terrain, his ambition could become his greatest vulnerability.”

Before sunrise, Kellu Habila had risen from her mat in Mussa, northeastern Nigeria, and stepped into the kitchen, moving carefully in the dim light while the rest of the house slept. Outside, the dry-season dust had disappeared, replaced by the heavy stillness that precedes the rains in southern Borno. She prepared breakfast, then woke her four children one after the other: three boys and the youngest, a girl named Rifkatu.

It was early in the third term of the 2025/2026 academic session.

Unlike her brothers, who had resumed nearly a month earlier, Rifkatu was returning to school that morning for the first time because her old uniform was too worn to use. It was only the previous day that her parents had managed to buy another one.

“She was very happy,” Kellu recalled.

Four-year-old Rifkatu Habila and her friend, Alheri Olu, were both in Nursery One at Central Primary School, Mussa, a remote farming community in Lassa town, Askira Uba Local Government Area, Borno State. “The two girls were inseparable,” Kellu said. They played together, walked together, and often sat beside each other in class.

After the children left for school that Friday morning on May 15, Kellu headed to her farm on the outskirts of town. The farming season had begun, and like many residents of Mussa, she was trying to make use of the early morning before the sun hit hard.

Then the gunshots started.

“I hid inside a nearby stream when I heard them,” she told HumAngle. “It was a few minutes past 8 a.m.”

For a while, she remained there, crouched and listening. When the shooting eased, she ran back home.

By then, panic had already spread across Mussa. Parents were rushing toward the school. Some shouted their children’s names, while others disappeared into nearby bushes, searching for them. The gunshots, residents realised, had come from Central Primary School.

“We were told the children had been taken,” Kellu said. “So we started searching.”

She found her three sons hiding inside a nearby bush. But Rifkatu was nowhere to be found. Her voice broke when she spoke about what happened next.

“We kept searching. Later, her father and some men found children’s footwear outside town where the attackers had passed. He recognised hers.”

That was how they knew. Rifkatu and Alheri had been abducted together. That day, Friday, May 15, terrorists attacked Central Primary School, Mussa, abducting dozens of pupils. The exact number remains unclear. “Community leaders told us 43 children were taken,” Kellu recounted. But she believes the number may be higher. An official register recorded 40 confirmed names.

A pattern of attacks

Residents say the terrorists entered Mussa on motorcycles.

“Farmers running from the direction they came from said they also saw two Hilux vehicles parked outside town,” Emmanuel Hyarawa, Rifkatu’s uncle, said. “That was what they used to take the children away.”

No group has claimed responsibility, and no ransom demand had been made at the time this report was filed. But residents say the terrorists may be fighters from the Islamic State West Africa Province (ISWAP), a group that has repeatedly attacked communities along the southern Borno axis in recent years.

“They are the same people who attack soldiers here and abduct farmers,” Kellu said. “We recognised the way they dressed and moved.”

This was the fourth attack on Mussa within two months, according to residents. 

“Occasionally, they would attack the town, often focusing on the military. They would burn buildings, loot shops, and cart away military vehicles and equipment,” Emmanuel said. “They had come in early April and attacked the military. They killed four soldiers and a civilian.” A week before the Friday abduction, “They had attacked, looted shops, and carted away six cattle,” Kellu added.  In November 2025, Nigerian troops rescued 12 teenage girls abducted while working on farmlands in the area. 

But no school had been attacked before. “This is the first time,” Emmanuel said.

The gunshots from Friday’s attack were heard as far away as Lassa, a town nearly 20 kilometres from Mussa. “We heard them around 8:30 that morning,” Andrew Adamu, a resident of Lassa, said.

The two communities are separated only by a smaller village called Kelle. According to Kellu, the attackers arrived through the Damboa axis on nearly 40 motorcycles, each carrying at least two armed men.

There is a military presence in Mussa, but residents say the soldiers are few.

“They are not up to 30,” Emmanuel said. “And usually, they are outnumbered.” “When the terrorists entered, they used the pupils as shields. So, the military could not engage them,” he added.

Kellu said part of the school itself now serves as a military armoury. “The soldiers stay there during the day,” she said. “They have been using part of the school for years.”

Residents believe the timing of the attack was deliberate.

After the April assault that killed soldiers, reinforcements had arrived from Askira, the LGA headquarters, and remained in the community for more than two weeks. But on Friday morning, according to Emmanuel, the troops had only recently withdrawn.

“It was less than an hour after they left that the terrorists came,” he said.

When the shots were heard in Lassa, residents said security forces left the town immediately. “I didn’t see them leaving myself, but I saw their return in the evening,” Andrew said. “Often, when something like this occurs, reinforcement is sent from here, Lassa, or Dille, another village not far away, Askira, the local government headquarters, or Uba, another major town,” Andrew added.

However, as of the time this report was compiled, residents of Mussa said no reinforcements had returned to the community.

A police constable based in Askira, who asked not to be named because he was not authorised to speak, said, “Although Mussa is a Borno community, it is not under our coverage because of proximity. They are closer to Adamawa and, therefore, Adamawa forces are often the ones responding to situations there. We received a red alert about the abduction moments after it happened. However, on our end, no reinforcement was issued because it is not under our protection. Maybe the military went.”

Over 40 pupils and teachers abducted in Oyo

On the same day as the Mussa school abduction, terrorists, also on motorcycles, stormed three schools and kidnapped schoolchildren and staff in the Oriire Local Government Area of Oyo State, South West Nigeria. It was a coordinated attack across the three schools in Ahoro-Esinle, a community in the LGA. 

In the early hours of May 15, motorcycle-riding attackers invaded Baptist Nursery and Primary School, Yawota, near Alawusa, as well as Community Grammar School and the L.A Primary School in Esiele, all in the Ogbomoso axis of the state.

No armed group has claimed responsibility for the attack, but the invaders operated in a coordinated manner that suggests they belong to a terrorist syndicate. There had been no such mass abduction in the area before now, as locals describe the remote area as peaceful until recently. Witnesses said the terrorists spoke Yoruba, Hausa, and Nigerian Pidgin as they invaded the schools, abducting over 40 pupils swiftly in a matter of minutes. 

The principal of the Community High School, Alamu Folawe, was also abducted alongside the pupils, while two teachers were killed during the early morning operation. Locals in Ogbomosho town told HumAngle that the area has recently been experiencing attacks, which have been largely unreported in the mainstream media.

The terrorists marched the abducted pupils and teachers towards the Old Oyo National Park, causing a hail of pandemonium and panic for residents. “The axis is actually underdeveloped and is quite far from town,” said Qosim Suleiman, a resident of Ogbomosho. “They have no electricity, and no paved  road networks.”

Alamu had only been redeployed to one of the schools recently, sources said. Most teachers are deployed to the community schools on a rotational basis from Ogbomosho town because “no one wants to stay permanently in the satellite villages with very poor government control.”

Following the attack, however, the Oyo State Universal Basic Education Board (OYOSUBEB) has ordered the shutdown of schools in Oriire LGA due to fears of a possible recurrence of such incidents. In a statement obtained by HumAngle, OYOSUBEB also directed all primary schools in neighbouring communities, including Surulere, Oyo East, and Olorunsogo LGAs, to vacate their premises until further notice.

“This is a dark and painful moment for our education family in Oyo State, and our hearts are with the affected parents, teachers and the entire community,” said Nureni Adenira, the OYOSUBEB chairperson.

“We understand the fear and anxiety this situation has caused, and we want to assure our parents and stakeholders that the safety of our children remains our utmost priority.”

The Oyo Global Forum, a group of professionals in the state, condemned the attack, charging the government to rescue the abducted pupils and teachers from the hands of the armed assailants. The group said in a statement sent to HumAngle that “every hour of slow response emboldens these armed criminal groups and increases the risk of further attacks across vulnerable communities and adjoining forest corridors linked to Kwara and Niger states.”

“This must not be treated as an isolated incident. It is a clear national security threat requiring sustained military, intelligence, and community-based security operations,” said Taiwo-Hassan Adebayo, the chairperson of the group. 

“Beyond the immediate rescue efforts, the government must urgently establish a preventive security framework across the affected axis, including strengthened rural policing, coordinated forest surveillance, and a functional early warning and rapid response system developed in partnership with local communities.”

The Oyo State Commissioner for Information and Civic Orientation, Dotun Oyelade, announced in a statement on May 16 that the government has taken security measures to prevent the attackers from moving beyond the national park before they are accosted. He said security operatives have commenced a rescue operation in the axis, stressing that suspects’ movements have been restricted.

“Patrol operations also commenced this morning after intelligence indicated the suspects remained within the National Park in Oyo State,” Dotun said. “Three separate patrol teams, comprising Amotekun operatives and hunters drawn from seven local government areas in Oke-Ogun, were deployed through Igbeti towards Oloka and adjoining communities,” he added.

Amid the ongoing search for the missing pupils and teachers, footage of some of the abductees has surfaced. In one of the clips, Racheal Alamu, the Community High School principal, is seen speaking from captivity, pleading with Nigerians and the government to rescue them.

“I’m doing this video to ask for help from everyone, starting from the Federal Republic of Nigeria, the Oyo State government, the Christian Association of Nigeria and all well-meaning Nigerians, that they should come to our aid and settle this thing peacefully so that our lives will not be lost,” she said.

Another abductee, a woman with a baby strapped to her back, weeps heavily while asking for the government’s intervention. “We need your help so that these people will release us. Please help us,” she wailed.

HumAngle has also exclusively obtained the names of the abductees, including seven teachers and 39 pupils.

Names of Schoolchildren and Teachers Abducted During the May 15 School Attacks in Oriire LGA, Oyo State, South West, Nigeria

From Borno to Oyo: Resurgence of School Abductions Sparks New Terror Wave in Nigeria by IT HumAngle

The lingering memories of school abductions

For many families in southern Borno and, now, in some parts of Oyo State, schooling has become entangled with fear. Any attack involving schoolchildren in Borno, particularly, inevitably revives memories of the Chibok schoolgirls’ kidnapping, where 276 girls were abducted by Boko Haram from their dormitories in April 2014.

More than a decade later, some of the girls are still missing.

The abduction drew global attention to attacks on education in Nigeria, but it also marked the beginning of a broader wave of school-targeted kidnappings across the country.  

Even the Nigerian government’s multimillion-dollar Safe School Initiative, launched after the Chibok abduction to strengthen school security, has struggled to achieve its objectives and has been dogged by allegations of corruption, poor implementation, and inadequate protection for vulnerable communities.

In 2018, 110 girls were abducted in Dapchi, Yobe State. Two years later, hundreds of students were kidnapped in Kankara, Katsina State. Then came Jangebe in Zamfara, and later Kuriga in Kaduna State, where more than 200 pupils were abducted earlier in 2024. Subsequently, in November 2025, more than 300 schoolchildren and staff were abducted from St Mary’s School in Papiri, Niger State, in the North Central region. Some were later released in December, while others remain in captivity.

What began in the North East gradually spread into the North West and other regions, where armed groups increasingly adopted mass kidnappings for ransom and leverage. Over time, these attacks altered something less visible: the way families think about education itself.

In 2021, UNICEF warned that attacks on schools and kidnappings “discourage parents from sending their children to school and leave children traumatised and fearful of going to classrooms to learn.” That fear now shapes daily life in places like Mussa. “My boys will not return to school anytime soon,” Kellu said. “I don’t want to lose them, too.” The incident had left her devastated, Emmanuel said. “The three boys are in my house,” he added.

Mussa itself was once emptied under the weight of conflict. Residents fled in 2015 as insurgent violence intensified across southern Borno. Many only returned the following year. “When we first came back, we could farm far outside town,” Emmanuel said. “Now, we barely go beyond one kilometre.”

Even nearby communities remain tense. In Lassa, residents had already panicked before Friday’s attack fully became clear. The previous day, according to Andrew, gunmen had abducted a logger near the town, killed five others, and burned their vehicle.

Amid all this, schools still reopen every term. 

By the time the announcement that Abu Bilal Al-Minuki was killed reached the outside world, the strike itself was already hours old. In the early hours of Saturday, May 16, somewhere in Metele, in Borno State, northeastern Nigeria, a compound had been hit. 

First, US President Donald Trump posted a statement on Truth Social. Another came from Bayo Onanuga, Special Advisor to Nigeria’s president on Information and Strategy, on Facebook and X. Al-Minuki, described as one of the most senior figures inside Islamic State West Africa Province (ISWAP), was dead, both statements claimed.

“Tonight, at my direction, brave American forces and the Armed Forces of Nigeria flawlessly executed a meticulously planned and very complex mission to eliminate the most active terrorist in the world from the battlefield. Abu-Bilal al-Minuki, second in command of ISIS globally,” Trump said in the post.  

The Nigerian military said special forces were deployed to block escape routes while air components executed precision strikes against what was described as a “concealed and fortified terrorist enclave.” The mission was completed, the military added, “without casualties or equipment loss on the part of friendly forces.”

During a televised interview, the Director of Nigeria’s Defence Media Operations, Major Gen. Michael Onoja, explained that the US military provided intelligence and surveillance support, while Nigeria deployed boots on the ground for the operation. 

“There were no foreign boots on the ground during this operation. What we received were intelligence, surveillance, reconnaissance support and other force enablers,” he said.

There was only one problem: according to the Nigerian military itself, Al-Minuki had already been killed once before – in 2024.

For nearly two years, Al-Minuki’s name – also known as Abubakar Mainok or simply Abu-Mainok – had existed in the strange afterlife of Nigeria’s counterterrorism war; a conflict where terrorist commanders are frequently declared dead only to reappear later through propaganda videos, from Abubakar Shekau to Abu Mus’ab Al-Barnawy. 

“Our determined Nigerian Armed Forces, working closely with the Armed Forces of the United States, conducted a daring joint operation that dealt a heavy blow to the ranks of the Islamic State,” President Bola Ahmed Tinubu said in a statement issued from Aso Villa on Saturday. “Early assessments confirm the elimination of the wanted IS senior leader, Abu-Bilal Al-Manuki, also known as Abu-Mainok, along with several of his lieutenants, during a strike on his compound in the Lake Chad Basin.”

However, in the counterinsurgency operations in northeastern Nigeria, where insurgency and information warfare have become deeply intertwined, certainty is always expensive.

Strategic realignment 

Saturday’s strike was the first major public success to emerge from the military partnership between Nigeria and the US. The operation, designated under Nigeria’s existing counterterrorism framework as falling under Operation Hadin Kai, commenced at 12:01 a.m. and ended at 4:00 a.m. on May 16, according to a statement from the Joint Task Force North-East spokesperson, Lt.-Col. Sani Uba.

The operation reflects a rebuilding of the partnership after it had been almost damaged after a single catastrophic night on Christmas Day 2025, when Donald Trump ordered missile strikes into Sokoto State. Trump framed the strikes as retaliation against militants killing “innocent Christians”—a language that resonated with parts of his domestic base but landed badly across northern Nigeria, where the conflict is far more complicated than the religious framing imposed on it from abroad.

Several of the missiles reportedly malfunctioned. One strike landed near a civilian settlement with no known militant presence. Nigerian officials found themselves balancing two competing realities: the military needed American intelligence and surveillance capabilities, but the Nigerian government could not afford to appear subordinate to the US narrative of the war.

The months that followed produced a quieter arrangement. American military personnel arrived in northeastern Nigeria – eventually around 200 troops – under a structure designed carefully around optics as much as operations. Nigerian authorities retained formal command. The Americans supported intelligence gathering, aerial coordination, and technical operations around the A-29 Super Tucano fleet already deployed against insurgent groups in the Lake Chad Basin.

The choreography surrounding the recent announcement of Al-Minuki’s death was as deliberate as the operation itself. Donald Trump spoke first. Tinubu issued his statement a few hours after Trump posted on Truth Social. Major Gen. Samaila Uba, Director of Defence Information, released a detailed press statement under the Armed Forces of Nigeria letterhead, complete with Al-Minuki’s full array of aliases — Abu Bakr ibn Muhammad ibn Ali al-Minuki, Abor Mainok, Abubakar Mainok, Abakar Mainok — and a comprehensive accounting of his alleged roles. 

Everyone involved in the recent communication appeared determined not to repeat the Sokoto embarrassment on  Christmas Day, when Washington’s messaging had almost completely overshadowed Abuja’s.

“Nigeria appreciates this partnership with the United States in advancing our shared security objectives,” Tinubu said. “I extend my sincere gratitude to President Trump for his leadership and unwavering support in this effort. I look forward to more decisive strikes against all terrorist enclaves across the nation.”

The statement was noted for its tone and content. Tinubu’s public gratitude to Trump marks a significant shift from the friction that defined the relationship only five months ago, when parts of Nigeria’s political and diplomatic establishment, along with some ordinary Nigerians, were quietly furious over both the Christmas strikes and the framing of responding to the claims of Christian genocide that accompanied them. 

So who exactly was Al-Minuki?

Trump described him as “the second in command of ISIS globally.” AFRICOM called him “the director of global operations for ISIS”. The Nigerian Defence Headquarters offered the most specific claim: that as recently as February 2026, Al-Minuki “may have been elevated to the position of Head of the General Directorate of States, placing him as the second most senior leader within the ISIS global hierarchy.”

The same statement linked him to the 2018 Dapchi kidnapping of more than 100 schoolgirls, to the facilitation of fighters into Libya between 2015 and 2016, to weapons manufacturing and drone development, and to “economic warfare” coordination across the Sahel.

“His death removes a critical node through which ISIS coordinated and directed operations across different regions of the world,” the Defence Headquarters’ (DHQ) statement said.

Al-Minuki was a product of the insurgency itself. Born in 1982 in Mainok, a town along the Benisheikh axis of Borno State, he took his nom de guerre (pseudonym) from his hometown. Those who knew him in his early years, during the rise of Mohammed Yusuf, the founder of Boko Haram, told HumAngle that he was a young man who ran a small barbing salon in Mainok village, about 58 kilometres west of Maiduguri in northeastern Nigeria. Long before his name became associated with violence and insurgency, he was known simply as a village barber.

Before pledging allegiance to the Islamic State in 2015, he was a senior Boko Haram commander with a documented antagonism toward Abubakar Shekau. His split with Shekau was a result of competing visions of insurgency: Shekau operated through spectacle, brutality, and deliberate isolation from the Islamic State central command. The faction that became ISWAP sought structure, territorial governance, and integration with the IS international hierarchy. When IS reportedly requested fighters for Libya during the height of the Syrian conflict, Shekau refused. Al-Minuki, then commanding ISWAP’s Lake Chad division, complied — one reason, analysts say, he rose within IS’s provincial bureaucracy while Shekau remained suspect in its eyes.

The DHQ’s assertion that Al-Minuki served as “Nigeria-based al-Furqan GDP Office Emir” from 2023 onward is consistent with what analysts had been tracking for several years: his role as the connective tissue between ISWAP’s local operations and the IS’s transnational administrative architecture. His designation as a Specially Designated Global Terrorist by the US in June 2023 under Executive Order 13224, cited in Saturday’s military statement, reflected assessments that he had become central to ISWAP’s financial networks, weapons procurement, drone acquisition, and communications between the Lake Chad insurgency and IS-linked structures across West Africa and the Sahel. 

The “second in command of ISIS globally” framing is a political claim, pitched to an American domestic audience that requires a recognisable villain. Still, it doesn’t situate Al-Minuki well within ISIS’s formal hierarchy. 

Al-Minuki had long occupied a powerful position within the ranks of ISWAP, but his influence deepened after the deaths of Abu Musab al-Barnawi and, later, the death of Abu Rumaisa or Abba, both sons of Boko Haram founder Mohammed Yusuf in 2023, as reported by HumAngle. Their deaths created a vacuum at the centre of the ISWAP leadership structure and how it interacts with the Islamic State global networks, thrusting Mainok into a more strategic role in coordinating operations of the terror group across the Lake Chad region.

Al-Minuki was the man most responsible for keeping ISWAP wired into the Islamic State’s international infrastructure. His death is a meaningful disruption, but not the decapitation of a global terrorist hierarchy. 

ISWAP has repeatedly demonstrated that it can regenerate leadership after losses. It replaced leaders and survived the loss of top commanders. Its resilience has never derived primarily from any single commander; rather, it has stemmed from the political and economic conditions within Borno and across the Lake Chad Basin that continue to enable recruitment, taxation, and territorial control. The DHQ acknowledged as much, noting that “Battle Damage Assessment is ongoing, while follow-up exploitation operations are being conducted to clear remaining terrorist elements in the area.”

“Mistaken identity” 

The official statement from the Army said it was common for numerous terrorists to use the same names or aliases, suggesting that both the individual killed in 2024 and the commander killed in this strike shared the same name. It did not acknowledge any mistakes. 

“This time around, this individual [we killed] is the original owner of that name,” the Director of the Defence Media Operation said. 

Meanwhile, Bayo Onanuga, President Tinubu’s spokesperson, in a Facebook post on Saturday, claimed the discrepancy between the person killed in 2024 and the one killed now was due to a case of mistaken identity. He also warned that sceptics had “rushed to question the authenticity of the Nigerian-American joint military operation” and said the criticism was “premature and not grounded in the realities of modern counterterrorism operations.” He noted that Nigeria’s Armed Forces were “operating in one of the world’s most complex insurgency environments where targets often move across borders and use multiple identities.”

Nigeria has lived through this before. Shekau was declared dead multiple times across more than a decade until soldiers grew to distrust the announcements and civilians in Borno learned to reserve judgment until they saw real change on the ground.

The Presidency’s warning that “premature dismissal of military claims can inadvertently undermine operational morale and strategic messaging” is a legitimate concern. But it is also an argument for public deference rather than public accountability. 

For now, Trump has another example to point to as evidence that American military engagement abroad delivers results. Tinubu also has a successful joint operation that projects competence and international partnership without appearing commanded from outside.

The Armed Forces of Nigeria, in Major Gen. Uba’s words, have demonstrated “unwavering resolve to confront terrorism and deny extremist groups the ability to threaten national, regional and international security.”

But in the displacement camps and farming communities scattered across Borno State, the significance of Saturday’s strike will be measured differently. 

The presidents of Nigeria and the United States have announced the killing of Abu-Bilal al-Minuki, described as the second-in-command of ISIL (ISIS).

Donald Trump first made the announcement in a social media post on Friday, without disclosing when or where the joint Nigerian-US military operation happened.

On Saturday, Nigerian President Bola Tinubu said in a statement that al-Minuki, also known as Abu-Mainok, was killed “along with several of his lieutenants” during a strike on his compound in the Lake Chad Basin.

The Nigerian army described it as “a meticulously planned and highly complex precision air-land operation” carried out on Saturday between midnight and 4am (23:00 to 03:00 GMT) in Metele, in Borno state in northeast Nigeria.

Borno has been the epicentre of a long-running campaign by the Boko Haram armed group and its splinter faction, the Islamic State West Africa Province (ISWAP), which is linked to ISIL.

Who was al-Minuki?

Little is publicly known about al-Minuki, who had been under US sanctions since 2023.

Before pledging allegiance to ISIL in 2015, al-Minuki was a prominent Boko Haram leader, according to the Nigerian army.

An army statement described him as a “key” operational and strategic figure who provided guidance to ISIL entities outside Nigeria on media operations, economic warfare and weapons manufacturing.

“His death removes a critical node through which ISIS coordinated and directed operations across different regions of the world,” the army said.

It added that al-Minuki oversaw ISIL-linked operations across the Sahel and West Africa, including attacks against “ethnic and religious minority communities”. In 2018, he was linked to the kidnapping of more than 100 schoolgirls in Dapchi, in northeastern Nigeria’s Yobe state.

Emerging power

Al-Minuki is believed to have risen through the ranks of ISWAP following the disappearance of veteran commander Mamman Nur in 2018.

His reported ability to operate discreetly and avoid public attention helped him maintain influence over operations, while evading detection by regional and international security forces.

Cheta Nwanze, chief executive of the Lagos-based advisory group, SBM Intelligence, said al-Minuki had previously been declared killed in 2024 after a military operation in Kaduna state.

“That earlier announcement did not produce a lasting degradation of ISWAP’s capabilities,” he told Al Jazeera, warning that eliminating a single commander may have a limited impact.

Nwanze said the group will be able to recover as long as a growing “ransom economy” in Nigeria – which raised some $1.66m between July 2024 and June 2025, according to an SBM intelligence report – “remains intact”.

“The ultimate tool for control is the man on the ground with a gun, and the ultimate backing for that man is a functional social contract, which sadly Nigeria does not have,” he said. “Until the economic logic that feeds these groups is disrupted, the cycle will continue.”

Experts say leaders such as al-Minuki have been central to coordination between local fighters and ISIL’s broader network, but are not irreplaceable due to the group’s decentralised command structure.

“The killing of al-Minuki will disrupt ISWAP operationally in the short term,” Alex Vines, the Africa programme director at the European Council on Foreign Relations, told Al Jazeera.

“ISWAP has proven resilient to leadership losses, suggesting this killing will not be strategically decisive on its own.”

‘Inclusive governance reforms’

ISWAP has recently intensified attacks along the Nigeria-Cameroon border, targeting military outposts and humanitarian convoys.

These operations are seen as part of a deliberate effort to consolidate territory and demonstrate the group’s continued relevance despite ongoing pressure, including after Trump accused Nigeria of not doing enough to protect Christians in the country’s north from attacks.

The Nigerian government has rejected the claim, insisting that Muslims are also being targeted by armed groups. In recent months, dozens of US troops have been deployed to Nigeria to help in the fight against armed groups by providing intelligence sharing and technical support.

Tinubu said Nigeria “appreciates” the partnership with the US “in advancing our shared security objectives,” adding that he looked forward “to more decisive strikes against all terrorist enclaves across the nation”.

Vines said al-Minuki’s killing was “a tactical win” for the Tinubu administration, but ISWAP remains a “serious security concern”.

As for the US, eliminating al-Minuki is likely to be framed as a victory against ISIL’s Africa network. It will also reinforce Nigeria’s importance “as a key security partner and a reminder that bilateral relations are much better than a year ago”, Vines told Al Jazeera.

Nwanze said the joint nature of the strike signalled a deepening of US‑Nigeria security cooperation, but the collaboration “will face limits”.

“Washington’s willingness to engage is likely contingent on narrow counter‑terrorism objectives, not on a wholesale commitment to rebuilding Nigeria’s fractured security architecture,” he added.

Mubarak Aliyu, a political and security risk analyst, called the elimination of al-Minuki “a remarkable operational success”. He stressed, however, that “broader, inclusive governance reforms remain fundamental to solving the long-term security challenges in the wider region”.

Médecins Sans Frontières (MSF), an international humanitarian organisation, has released its 2025 activity report for Nigeria, and the findings are sobering. The medical emergency organisation, also known as Doctors Without Borders, unveiled the report during an event in Abuja, North Central Nigeria, on Wednesday, May 13, documenting the disturbing rise in malnutrition cases in the country’s northern region.

With more than 3,500 workers delivering essential healthcare services across ten states, MSF reported treating over 440,000 children for malnutrition, more than 300,000 individuals for malaria, and assisting with over 33,500 deliveries in 2025.

This surge, according to the humanitarian organisation, underscores the fragility of Nigeria’s health system and the growing vulnerability of women and children in conflict-affected regions.

The 2025 report shows that MSF recorded more than 600,000 outpatient consultations, 48,000 inpatient admissions, and treated 341,239 patients for malaria, 38,753 children for measles, 6,123 patients for diphtheria, and 985 others for meningitis across its facilities in the region.

These findings are specific to the ten Nigerian states where MSF has been operating since 1996, including Jigawa, Kano, Katsina, Kebbi, Sokoto, Zamfara, and Cross River. The organisation says it has provided a wide range of essential medical services, including paediatric and maternal health care, treating children with malnutrition, responding to disease outbreaks, caring for survivors of sexual violence, offering mental health support, and performing life‑saving surgical interventions. 

The MSF country representative, Ahmed Aldikhari, revealed that in 2025, the organisation observed a pattern consistent with that of previous years, starting in 2022. Aldikhari stated that malnutrition is one of the year’s greatest challenges, linking it to the region’s fragile conditions, which are severely affected by insecurity that has worsened food security.

“We are seeing a vicious cycle where malnutrition is both a cause and a consequence of diseases such as measles, malaria, and diphtheria, among others, which continue to affect vulnerable communities, especially when healthcare is delayed or inaccessible,” he said, suggesting that Nigeria might soon experience the peak of the malnutrition crisis. 

“That is why we are consistently working side-by-side with the ministries of health, humanitarian affairs, budget and planning at the state and federal levels, and also, with our Nigerian colleagues to ensure that efficient services are provided, but they are not enough.”

HumAngle has previously reported on the broader impact of the crisis, stressing how displacements, insecurity, and climate change, among other natural and human-induced disasters, have compounded the problem. In July 2025, MSF, in collaboration with the Katsina State government, mobilised state and non-state actors to address the escalating malnutrition crisis in the northwestern region. 

During the 2024 MSF conference in Abuja, organised in collaboration with the North West Governors’ Forum and the Katsina State Government, stakeholders emphasised that malnutrition in the northwestern region is no longer a seasonal emergency but rather a structural crisis that requires urgent mobilisation. The governors acknowledged that insecurity and climate pressures were eroding food systems, but MSF urged greater investment in therapeutic feeding centres and preventive programmes.

Northern Nigeria continues to face a critical malnutrition crisis, with Katsina particularly affected, according to MSF’s 2025 activity report. Findings reveal that since 2021, MSF has been present in the state, with the organisation’s leadership revealing that they have witnessed a sharp rise in the number of malnourished children since responding to the growing crisis in recent years.

In 2025, MSF reported treating the highest number of malnourished children in Katsina. With the support of the state Ministry of Health, the organisation focused on preventing illness and malnutrition to reduce mortality and morbidity among children suffering from acute malnutrition.

“Katsina State has faced a chronic malnutrition crisis for over a decade, driven by insecurity, climate shocks, limited primary healthcare services, and high birth rates,” the report revealed. “Throughout 2025, MSF admitted 26,445 patients for inpatient care, provided treatment to 146,301 children through its outpatient centres, and conducted 15,387 outpatient consultations for malaria.”

In response to this, MSF established a new Ambulatory Therapeutic Feeding Centre (ATFC) in Mashi and a second inpatient therapeutic feeding centre at the Turai Yar’aduwa Hospital to handle the increased patient load during peak seasons.

Beyond nutrition in Kebbi, the report states that MSF responded to multiple infectious disease surges and outbreaks by tackling the increase in meningitis cases from February to May, while supporting the Ministry of Health facilities in Jega, Gwandu, and Aliero with logistics, medical supplies, staff training, and facility rehabilitation.

Following the escalating insecurity in neighbouring Zamfara and Niger that led to mass displacement to the Danko-Wasugu areas of Kebbi State as of June, the humanitarian organisation provided basic healthcare and distributed non-food relief kits to vulnerable households.

In Zamfara alone, MSF admitted 47,164 children to inpatient therapeutic feeding centres and provided 14,167 outpatient consultations in 2024, with numbers continuing to rise in 2025. According to Aldikhari, this increase in admissions is due to multiple overlapping crises, including conflict and insecurity in the northwestern and northeastern regions, which have displaced thousands of families, cutting them off from farmlands. 

While the 2025 activity report warns that malnutrition is no longer a seasonal emergency but a permanent feature of Nigeria’s humanitarian landscape, it also highlights the fact that the sheer scale of admissions suggests the crisis is outpacing the humanitarian response. 

Istanbul, Turkiye – When investigations by Al Jazeera and other media outlets in 2024 revealed that Israeli-linked artificial intelligence (AI) systems such as Lavender and Gospel had helped generate thousands of military targets in Gaza, critics warned that warfare was entering a new era – one driven not only by soldiers and bombs, but by algorithms, data, and surveillance technology.

Then, in September 2024, thousands of pagers and walkie-talkies used by members of Hezbollah exploded in coordinated attacks in Lebanon, widely attributed to Israeli intelligence operations that had turned ordinary communication devices into weapons.

And, last year, reporting by Al Jazeera also raised concerns about the use of cloud and data infrastructure linked to major US technology companies in Israeli surveillance operations involving Palestinians.

For a growing number of scholars, economists and political thinkers, such developments reflect more than just the changing nature of conflict. They show how power in the modern world is increasingly exercised not just through military force, but through technology, finance and control over information.

That argument has revived broader debates around decolonisation – a term historically associated with the dismantling of European empires after World War II, when countries across Asia, Africa and the Middle East gained formal independence.

But many proponents of what is termed “decolonial theory” – a school of thought arguing that colonial-era systems of power and hierarchy still shape modern politics, economics and knowledge – argue that colonial power structures never fully disappeared. Instead, they evolved, embedding themselves in global financial systems, technology platforms, media networks and even the production of knowledge itself.

Dependence of Global South countries on Western technology, digital infrastructure and global markets can create new forms of political and economic vulnerability, particularly across the Global South.

“A generation may have grown up believing they had never experienced colonialism or exploitation,” Esra Albayrak, board chair of the NUN Foundation for Education and Culture and daughter of Turkish President Recep Tayyip Erdogan, told Al Jazeera during the World Decolonization Forum in Istanbul on May 11-12.

“Yet, mentally, they may still be living under colonial influence.”

The war in Gaza marked a turning point, Albayrak says, shining a spotlight on how international principles are not applied equally. Global institutions have so far failed to stop what many countries and rights groups have described as genocide against Palestinians.

“The world is sounding an alarm, and we can no longer afford to remain indifferent to it,” she said.

A techno-feudal era

Albayrak argues that a handful of technology companies are emerging as new, invisible centres of power, shaping how information is produced, circulated and consumed in the digital age.

She describes the digital sphere as the realm of what she calls “future colonialism”, warning that AI systems trained largely on Western-centric data risk reinforcing existing global inequalities.

“When AI systems are run by those tech companies and trained on Western sources, they risk carrying the hierarchies of the past into tomorrow’s digital world, as they now have personalised data, suppressing identity,” Albayrak said.

By this, she means that most major AI models are still trained largely on English-language and Western-produced data – a pattern critics say risks sidelining non-Western languages, cultures and perspectives.

On social media platforms, algorithms tend to amplify some conflicts while rendering others nearly invisible, effectively shaping what billions of users see, discuss and remember online.

Walter D Mignolo, professor at Duke University, argues that while what we historically see as “formal colonialism” may have largely ended, systems of Western dominance continue through economics, culture, technology and knowledge production.

“Coloniality is not over. It is all over the world,” Mignolo said, arguing that modern ideas of development and progress often have the effect of pressuring societies to conform to Western norms.

Rather than simply resisting those systems, he said, societies must find a way to “re-exist” by rebuilding intellectual and cultural autonomy outside dominant global frameworks.

Colonisers in the financial age

The March 2026 Global Debt Report by the Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development (OECD) reveals that 44 countries face severe debt burdens, often aggravated by global conflicts, forcing some governments to spend more on interest payments than on health or education.

This is not a new phenomenon, as developing countries have been labouring under the weight of foreign debt for decades.

But British political economist and author Ann Pettifor told Al Jazeera that modern forms of domination are now increasingly embedded not in empires or nation-states, but in financial systems operating beyond democratic oversight.

Pettifor points to the growing influence of “shadow” banking networks – financial institutions operating largely outside traditional banking regulations – and giant asset managers such as BlackRock, which manages $13 trillion in assets.

Much of the global financial architecture now functions largely outside the regulatory control of governments, she says, including that of Western states themselves.

“This is not a state colonising other states,” Pettifor said. “This is the financial system colonising the whole world, including my country and the US.”

She argues that elected governments increasingly struggle to control key economic realities – from energy prices to commodity markets – because those systems are dictated by global financial actors operating far beyond public accountability.

In Nigeria, for example, Pettifor says, efforts to expand domestic refining capacity continue to face pressure from international financial institutions and global energy markets to keep fuel prices tied to global markets and maintain reliance on imported refined oil products, despite its vast oil reserves.

Coordinated cooperation between developing nations may be necessary to challenge the dominance of Western-centred financial systems, Pettifor says, pointing to growing efforts across parts of West Africa to expand regional refining capacity and reduce dependence on imported fuel. Yet such ambitions can also leave critical sectors dependent on the decisions and influence of a small number of powerful private actors.

Global financial markets, algorithm-driven platforms, and foreign-controlled digital infrastructure increasingly define everyday life – from fuel and food prices to the information people consume online and the technologies governments and societies depend on, observers say.

A ‘mastery complex’

As wars become increasingly influenced by AI, digital infrastructure and financial dependency, debates around colonisation are focusing less on territorial control and more on who influences energy prices, lending systems, access to technology and the flow of information across borders, observers say.

Albayrak draws a parallel between today’s debates around technology and global power and Rudyard Kipling’s 1899 poem “The White Man’s Burden”, published as the US took control of the Philippines following the Spanish-American War. The poem framed colonial expansion as a moral obligation to “civilise” other societies rather than an exercise of domination.

Albayrak said such traces of “mastery complex” still survive today, though in different forms – not necessarily through military occupation, but through technological, financial and informational influence.

But what the world really needs, she argues, is a global order built not on hierarchy, but on shared responsibility.

“The burden should belong to humanity collectively.”

After successfully launching Nigeria’s only operational oil refinery in 2024, billionaire businessman Aliko Dangote has set his sights on East Africa as the next location for another mega refinery project, according to recent reports.

It comes as African countries are actively seeking ways to make energy more secure, following huge global disruptions amid the US and Israel’s war on Iran and Tehran’s subsequent closure of the Strait of Hormuz, through which about 20 percent of the world’s oil and natural gas is shipped.

Dangote, Africa’s richest man, appeared to be one of the winners from this fallout when his newly operational refinery, located in Nigeria’s commercial Lagos State, began selling large volumes of crude oil across the continent as the war on Iran escalated in March and global oil prices soared.

At present, West, South and East Africa rely primarily on importing refined petroleum products from the Middle East, meaning they are highly vulnerable to disruptions there.

Neighbours of Nigeria – Cameroon, Togo, Ghana and even Tanzania, further to the east – are among the countries that have turned to Nigeria as supplies from the Middle East dry up.

By the end of March, the refinery, which has the capacity to produce 650,000 barrels per day (bpd), reported it was also receiving orders from beyond the continent, especially for severely scarce jet fuel as hundreds of flights were cancelled across regions.

Supply from Dangote’s refinery has cushioned the impact of the war in terms of fuel supply for Nigeria and neighbouring countries, analysts say.

Nigeria is Africa’s largest oil producer, and the $19bn project in Lagos is currently the world’s largest single-train refinery, meaning it employs a single processing line rather than multiple units. But it hit full production capacity in February 2026, the same month the war with Iran started.

Nigeria has no functional state-owned refinery, so Dangote’s refinery is now positioning the country to be a net exporter of jet fuel and diesel.

Here’s why more refining capacity in Africa matters for the continent:

What is Dangote’s plan for an East Africa refinery?

In April, Kenya’s President William Ruto announced that East African countries were in talks to build a joint oil refinery at Tanzania’s Tanga port, which would have a similar capacity to Dangote’s Lagos operation.

“We do not want to be held hostage any more by the Strait of Hormuz,” Ruto said at a Nairobi business event in April, which Dangote was present at.

“We do not want to be held hostage by wars that are started by other people. We have our resources here, and we are saying we are going to use our African resources to industrialise our region.”

In an interview with the Financial Times on Sunday, however, Dangote said he would prefer to build the new operation in Kenya rather than Tanzania.

“I’m leaning more towards Mombasa because Mombasa has a much larger, deeper port,” the billionaire told the UK newspaper.

“Kenyans consume more. It’s a bigger economy,” he said, adding that “the ball is in the hands of President Ruto … Whatever President Ruto says is what I’ll do.”

He has projected construction costs of between $15bn and $17bn.

But venturing into East Africa, which has a very different commercial landscape from West Africa, could prove a challenge, analyst Dumebi Oluwole of Lagos-based intelligence firm Stears told Al Jazeera.

“Dangote has proven it [his operation] can build at scale,” she said. “The East African test will be whether it can also navigate the political and logistical landscape of a fragmented, multi-country market.”

Why aren’t African countries already producing more oil?

Despite having sizeable crude reserves, African countries only refine about 44 percent of the total oil consumed themselves, with imports making up the rest, according to a 2022 African Union report.

The top producers of refined oil are Algeria, Egypt and South Africa. There are about 21 refineries in North Africa.

Southern Africa has another seven, while West Africa has 14. However, most refineries in the two regions are either not operating or are producing below the capacity they are equipped to.

East Africa’s only existing refinery is in Mombasa, but it stopped operating in 2013 due to a combination of slow government policies and exiting investors, who deemed it commercially unviable as a result.

There is currently no refining capacity at all in East Africa, despite the region having about 4.7 billion barrels of crude reserves, according to the African Union, mainly in Uganda, South Sudan, Kenya and the Democratic Republic of the Congo.

Kenya imported 40 million barrels of petroleum in 2025. It regularly buys oil from the UAE, Saudi Arabia, India and Oman, all of which have been hampered by Iran’s closure of the Strait of Hormuz.

Nigeria itself is Africa’s biggest net crude producer with a 1.5 million to 1.6 million bpd capacity. The country has not refined meaningfully since 2019.

What difference will local refineries make for African countries?

Exporting most of its crude to then import refined products is expensive and puts Africa on the back foot, analyst Oluwole said.

More oil refined on the continent would mean lower petrol pump prices, lower transport costs, and more energy available for people and businesses, in theory. It would also mean greater access to by-products like fertilisers for farmers, for example, or petrochemicals for manufacturers.

“Dangote has demonstrated that a viable, scalable, intra-African energy supply option is possible – that proof of concept matters enormously,” said Oluwole.

“It reflects a growing continental conviction that Africa can provide for itself, and that this is no longer wishful thinking,” she added.

In Nigeria’s case, Dangote’s refinery is yet to ease pressures, though. Local airlines, for example, have complained about having to pay high prices for jet fuel even with improved local supplies. Analysts say that could be because Nigeria’s government removed fuel subsidies in 2023. Bureaucracy within the state oil company also forced Dangote’s refinery to import crude.

Still, the refinery is contributing to “a more transparent and competitive market”, Oluwole said, adding that results should eventually show.

Other countries are stepping up. Last week, Angola’s $470m Cabinda refinery began supplying domestic as well as foreign markets. The project is owned primarily by the United Kingdom’s Gemcorp Capital and has a capacity of 30,000bpd, with plans to double by the end of 2026.

Dangote’s planned refinery in Kenya, if completed, could also help to reduce East Africa’s reliance on the Middle East.

A separate, government-funded refinery project in Uganda’s Hoima region is also in the works. Authorities expect the project to be able to refine 60,000bpd when it starts operations in 2029. It will be fed by the joint Uganda-Tanzania East African Crude Oil Pipeline (EACOP), an ongoing project which will transport crude from Uganda’s Lake Albert to Tanzania’s Tanga Port.

Uganda also plans to produce diesel, jet fuel, kerosene and Liquefied Petroleum Gas (LPG).

With big plans in place, Oluwole says it’s now left to African governments to create enabling business environments for the private sector.

“Dangote has opened the door,” she said. “The question now is whether African institutions and governments will walk through it.”

Khadeejat Mohammed was only two years old when Mokwa’s gully erosion claimed her life in the Eti-Sheshi community of Niger State, North Central Nigeria. Bright, playful, and already piecing sentences together, she had just been registered for creche. “She was very smart,” Isa Sheshi, her grandfather, told HumAngle. “Even at two, she played around and was able to put sentences together. I loved her so much.”

On the day she passed away, Khadeejat had asked her grandfather for money to buy tofu, locally called awara. The tofu seller was just across the same bridge that the family had carved from felled trees. The erosion had long cut through their community, forcing residents to improvise crossings. 

“When the erosion began, we used wood to build a makeshift bridge,” Sheshi said. “But with time it got bigger, so we went to the bush to cut down 15 longer trees to create another bridge.” 

That makeshift bridge became Khadeejat’s final path. On her way back, holding the tofu in a transparent plastic bag with her elder brother, who was three years older, she slipped into the gully. 

“Her head went directly into a hollow hole filled with water in the gully,” Sheshi recounted, holding onto her picture. “She gulped that water before we could rush to the scene. When we brought her out and rushed her to the hospital, we were told she had a fractured skull.” 

She was rushed to the Mokwa General Hospital and later referred to the Federal Medical Centre, Bida. Unfortunately, Khadeejat died before the family could leave the motor park to travel to Bida.

“It’s been four years since the incident, but whenever I pass through that hole caused by gully erosion, my granddaughter’s thoughts always come to mind,” the man said.

Khadeejat’s death in 2022 was not just a family tragedy; it was a warning of what unchecked erosion has continued to do in Mokwa. 

Yet, years later, the gully remains, widening with each rainy season. Although figures of lives lost in these gullies are not publicly available, residents confirmed to HumAngle that a significant number of people have lost their loved ones in them, with some sustaining life-threatening injuries.

Despite the clear threats posed by the widening and deepening gullies, HumAngle’s investigation reveals that state and local authorities have failed to take effective action. The problem worsens with each rainy season, raising concerns among local communities. In 2024, the Niger State government secured World Bank ecological funds, specifically earmarked for erosion control projects. However, these resources have not translated into tangible solutions. 

The Federal Ministry of Information and National Orientation, led by Mohammed Idris from the Mokwa Senatorial District, announced in December 2024 that the Niger State government had secured a $10 million intervention from the World Bank. This funding is aimed at addressing gully erosion in Mokwa, an area increasingly susceptible to environmental disasters.

During his visit to the affected communities in Mokwa, Umar Bago, the state governor, confirmed that the gully erosion had posed serious threats to the communities and that “competent contractors with track records have been identified to handle the project, which will commence soon.”

The state secured World Bank funding after years of neglect to address the root causes of erosion, particularly in communities such as Eti-Sheshi, Kpege, and Anguwan Hausa.

In May 2025, just five months after receiving funding from the World Bank, Mokwa was hit by a devastating flood that resulted in the loss of hundreds of lives. This tragedy raised serious questions about why the government had not started the project, especially since they had already identified “competent contractors” for the job.

Once competent contractors have been identified, the process of publishing the contract bid is governed by law. At the state level, this is regulated by procurement laws specific to each state, which are based on the federal Public Procurement Act of 2007. Section 18 (1b and d) of the Niger State Public Procurement Law of 2020 states that, subject to exemptions allowed by this law, all public procurement shall be conducted by open competitive bidding in a manner that is transparent, timely, and equitable, to ensure accountability and conformity with the law. Based on the above, a national invitation to bid shall be advertised on “the notice board of the procuring entity, any official website of the procuring entity, at least two national newspapers, and in the procurement journal,” according to section 27(2b) of the same law. 

HumAngle did not find any instance of the state government publishing any contract bid for the $10 million World Bank ecological funds project in Mokwa regarding the gully erosion project. However, a contract bid was published in May 2025 by the state’s Ministry of Environment and Climate Change under the Agro Climatic Resilience in Semi-Arid Landscapes (ACReSAL) project, with the contract title: Construction of Storm Water Drainage Structures for Mokwa and Babban Rami Gully Erosion sites in Niger State.

They invited bidders for two contracts: construction of water-stormwater drainage structures for both Mokwa and Babban Rami, with bid security of ₦150 million and ₦200 million, respectively, for a 28-month construction period.

Further investigations by HumAngle revealed that the ACReSAL project (Agro-Climatic Resilience in Semi-Arid Landscapes) is a separate initiative from the World Bank Ecological Funds, which are commonly referred to as the Ecological and Natural Disasters Management Fund in Nigeria. Although both are World Bank projects, they serve different purposes.

While ACReSAL is a targeted World Bank loan facility for northern ecological resilience, the other is a national funding mechanism aimed at addressing nationwide disasters.

HumAngle confirmed, through field visits in February, that both the World Bank and the ACReSAL projects have not been executed. The bridge and culvert along the Mokwa-Jebba axis, damaged by last year’s deadly flood, are currently undergoing reconstruction.

When HumAngle visited the Eti‑Sheshi and Anguwan Hausawa areas in February, two of the three most devastating gully-erosion sites in Mokwa had deepened and widened, some plunging about 15 feet. Houses and even a mosque sat precariously on the edge, half‑collapsed into the earth.

Abbas Idris, the president of the Risk Managers Society of Nigeria (RIMSON), revealed that communities affected by gullies face the loss of arable land, damage to infrastructure, degradation of water quality, biodiversity loss, food insecurity, and displacement. More dangerously, erosion increases the risk of flooding, threatening lives and livelihoods.

“At the end of the day, this could give rise to conflict as a result of scarcity of land and resources, as people will be fighting over the land not affected by gully erosion,” he warned.

In March, after reviewing World Bank records for details on the Mokwa project, HumAngle submitted a request through the Bank’s information platform seeking clarification on the project and its operations.  

The World Bank responded by asking us to provide “a direct link to, or full citation of, the specific document or public reporting you referenced in your request.”  We explained that the inability to locate the specific document on its website—even after conducting a Boolean search—necessitated our request. We nonetheless provided links to public reports that referenced the funding.  

On May 4, a month after its initial response, the World Bank sent what seemed to be a generic status update, stating that the request was still being processed.

“In most cases, we can respond within twenty (20) working days from receipt of a request for information. However, we may need additional time in special circumstances, for example, if the request is complex or voluminous or if it requires review…,” they wrote.

Erosion tears school walls apart

Gully erosion in Mokwa is severely impacting the community by destroying homes and livelihoods and depriving children of the opportunity to attend school. Aisha Muhammad-Kolo, the founder of Gbastif Global Academy, the only affordable private school in the area, witnessed firsthand how erosion stripped the school bare.

“There is nobody in this house, and school is closed due to the impact of the gully erosion that has been affecting our community,” she told HumAngle. Each rainy season brought chaos. When the gullies filled with water, they burst into her compound, flooding classrooms and frightening parents. 

“People were afraid that their children were at risk, so they started removing their children from the school, which affected us greatly but also deprived the students of schooling,” she said. “This is the only private school in our community, and most parents prefer to enrol their children here because it is not only affordable but we ensure quality education as compared to our government schools.”

The collapse of Gbastif Global Academy is emblematic of how erosion has altered schooling in many Mokwa communities. Teachers struggled to keep children safe during storms, sometimes moving them into private rooms until the rains subsided. 

“Whenever it rained, and we were in session, I would have to take all the children inside my room to ensure they were safe. By the time the rain receded, it had washed off a significant part of our structures,” Aisha recounted.  

Although the school was later relocated to a safer site, the arrangement is temporary, and parents are concerned about the distance. Aisha told HumAngle that the landowner could reclaim the property at any time, leaving the school stranded. 

“I believe the impact of the gully erosion is enormous, especially on education. Also, we have been robbed of our source of livelihood and have not been able to recover,” she said. 

Her fears extend beyond the school to her own family. “I also have children, and the rainy season will soon be here. You can’t be everywhere at every time to monitor your kids. They are very young and do not understand the dangers in areas affected by gully erosion. I am afraid to lose any of my children and my house because of gully erosion,” she added.

While there are no publicly available data specific to Mokwa or Niger State, a 2024 UNICEF report reveals the scale of climate‑induced disruptions to education across Nigeria. The report found that 2.2 million Nigerian students experienced interruptions to their schooling due to disasters such as flooding and erosion, underscoring how environmental crises directly undermine learning. 

These disruptions compound existing vulnerabilities, leaving communities like Mokwa even more exposed when erosion destroys classrooms and forces children out of school.  This data situates Mokwa’s erosion crisis within a broader pattern of climate‑driven educational instability, showing that the loss of Gbastif Global Academy is not an isolated tragedy but part of a systemic emergency threatening children’s futures.  

A hospital in ruin

Mokwa General Hospital, intended to serve as an important resource for the community, is collapsing due to gully erosion and inadequate maintenance. The hospital’s buildings show clear signs of decay, including peeling paint, broken windows, and walls damaged by erosion. Some parts of the structures have already collapsed, creating unsafe areas within the compound.

Drainage channels around the hospital have fallen into deep gullies and are now clogged with waste and debris. Instead of carrying water safely away, they have become dumping grounds, worsening waterlogging and exposing patients and staff to health risks.  

The erosion has transformed the hospital environment into a hazardous zone. HumAngle observed that foundations are exposed, certain sections of the compound are unsafe to cross, and the surrounding land has eroded away. What should be a place of healing now mirrors the environmental collapse outside its walls, threatening public health and undermining confidence in essential services.

The situation at Mokwa General Hospital shows how unchecked erosion and poor ecological management are crippling critical infrastructure. 

When infrastructure such as roads, schools, and hospitals is destroyed, the consequences become catastrophic, said Abbas Idris, a risk and disaster expert, who also noted that the collapse of a hospital due to erosion could leave communities without access to healthcare, leading to preventable deaths. He stressed the importance of proactive disaster management through risk assessment and hazard categorisation.

“If there are no risk assessments, the coping capacity of the community will be very low when disaster hits them,” he warned. “Without urgent intervention, the hospital risks becoming unusable, leaving thousands of residents without access to healthcare.”  

Mokwa’s deadly deluge

In May 2025, Mokwa experienced a catastrophic flood that devastated the area, displacing over 3,000 people and resulting in more than 160 fatalities. This tragic event became the deadliest flood incident in the country that year. Entire families were wiped out as homes, schools, and farmlands vanished under torrents of muddy water. Hajara Malam Abba is one of those affected by this disastrous flooding.

For Hajara’s family, the devastation was deeply personal. “The things we lost from the flood incident in 2025 can never be recovered because we lost both lives and property,” she said. 

In their family, her elder sister bore the heaviest burden, losing 17 members of her household – 16 grandchildren and her child – in a single night of flooding. Alongside the lives lost, the family’s livelihood was swept away: six refrigerators, five grinding machines, rams, clothes, and appliances all destroyed.  

The aftermath forced them into precarious living conditions. Hajara’s sister rented another place to manage, while other family members who could not afford rent built makeshift tents on the same land where their homes once stood. 

“It’s been almost a year now, but they still sleep there in vulnerable conditions, hoping that the government will eventually intervene,” Hajara said.  “We can’t sleep in peace again because of the fear of the unknown, since the rainy season is almost here again.”

Alhaji Umar Sani, one of the flood victims, vividly remembers the morning the floodwaters came. 

“It was around 6 a.m., after we had just finished praying the Subhi [dawn] prayer, then we heard people shouting,” he recounted. “My son told us he saw people drowning in the massive flood waters sweeping through homes.”

“Before we could act, the water had reached my house. My wife, my children, and I couldn’t take anything. I was only wearing a jalabiya and trousers, while my wife wore a hijab and trousers – everything else was washed away. The water covered my house. I am grateful it didn’t claim any of our lives,” he said.

In the wake of the disaster, President Bola Tinubu approved the release of ₦16.7 billion for the immediate reconstruction of the Mokwa Bridge, which was destroyed by flooding. The Minister of Information and National Orientation, Mohammed Idris, stated this after a meeting with the Minister of Works, Senator Dave Umahi. He said the project would involve constructing a bridge with 10 spans.

As families cling to faith and resilience, scepticism lingers over government efforts as the drainage system under construction is seen as inadequate. “When the floodwater came, it was enormous. How then can this drainage contain the next flood? It ought to be bigger than this,” Hajara said.

Alhaji Umar, another victim of the gully erosion, echoed the same concern, noting that the project underway is “a culvert, not a bridge” and does not match the scale of the destruction. With over 250 people killed in Mokwa alone, residents fear the rainy season could bring another catastrophe. Idris, the risk and disaster expert, criticised the government’s reconstruction of the bridge in Mokwa, which was downgraded to a box culvert without a proper scientific assessment.

“Even in the reconstruction of the said bridge, the government failed to use experts to analyse the risk factors. The facility engineers were supposed to consider the disaster and suggest a suitable bridge model that can manage the floodwater. Instead, it was just constructed haphazardly,” he lamented.

Communities under siege

Each rainy season, the community around Mokwa General Hospital experiences severe erosion, causing families to lose their homes, crops, and peace of mind. Residents report that last year’s floods were particularly destructive, as water surged into the gullies and dangerously approached their homes. Several houses have suffered partial damage due to the erosion.

“We are not happy that this gully erosion has not been fixed,” Isa complained. “When there is heavy rainfall, the water finds its way to fill up these gullies, leaving us and our homes at risk. If the rainy season comes now, we don’t even know what will happen.”  

Ruqayyah Ismail, another resident, described how the rainy season signals fear for her and other families. “When the rain falls, the front of our house turns into a river. Everywhere is filled with water as we have to stay indoors for days with our children without crossing over to the other side of our house,” she said. 

The erosion has already destroyed her gate, and each year the water pushes further inside. Recounting a near-miss ordeal, she added: “An Okada rider had once fallen into the hole. On his way home, he slipped and fell into a ditch. He almost lost his life, but his motorcycle was found at the other end of the gully.”

Muhammed Jibril, whose family moved into their new house in 2006, told HumAngle that the erosion gradually worsened as the population grew. “From about five years ago, it became massive. Last year’s rainy season was the worst of all. We lost everything due to erosion. For more than six months, our neighbours were the ones feeding us,” he said. 

Stored food supplies, including 13 bags of maize, were destroyed alongside clothing, electronic appliances, and money. 

“Till today, we have not recovered from the disaster. I had to sell my motorcycle to build a buffer zone behind my fence to minimise the destruction,” he added.  

Over the years, the persistent erosion has reshaped the community’s daily life. For most communities, the rainy season serves as a source of growth and prosperity, but for this community in Mokwa, it signals fear and disaster.

He described climbing to the overhead tank to monitor water levels, warning his family to evacuate if the flooding became too severe. The erosion even brought down his main gate, forcing him to relocate it onto a neighbour’s property. 

“Fortunately, my neighbours understand that’s why they’ve been patient with us. Until they [government] construct a proper channel for the water to pass through, we have no choice but to remain like this,” he said.  

Jibril told HumAngle that beyond psychological trauma, the financial toll has been staggering. 

“Last year alone, if I recall the losses, it could make me cry. All of my harvests were destroyed, including sesame seeds, which were expensive in the market. In total, we lost about ₦4 million. But we were lucky not to lose any lives,” Jibril noted. 

After every flood incident, residents say people who identify as World Bank officials visited the community to take measurements and collect their details, only to remain silent afterwards. “We need assistance before the rains start. They should fix it so that we can have peace of mind. That is all we ask for now,” Jibril pleaded.  

According to the disaster expert Idris, the absence of adequate land management practices and unchecked deforestation are driving the crisis.

“Addressing gully erosion requires adequate land management practices, and if you look at Mokwa, that is absent,” Idris explained. “Deforestation has been thriving in the environment due to abject poverty, as people cut down trees for charcoal. Also, there has been little to no effort from the government to educate the community on erosion control measures.”

He called for accountability and a shift in leadership priorities.

“Unless we address corruption, unless our leaders change from their personal interests to that of the people, and unless they value the lives of those communities they are governing, we are not going to get it right.”

On April 7, HumAngle submitted a Freedom of Information (FOI) request to the Niger State government through the Commissioner for Environment and Climate Change, Hon. Alhaji Abubakar Musa. The request sought clarification regarding the $10 million World Bank-assisted fund earmarked for the Mokwa gully erosion control and also some ACReSAL projects in the LGA.  

The government has not responded to that request. This lack of response comes despite the stipulated timeframe (7 days, with an extension of another 7 days) for a reply, as outlined in Nigeria’s FOI Act of 2011.

It is Ramadan, and Bintu Suleiman, a 55-year-old mother and trader from Ngoshe in Borno State, North East Nigeria, is about to break her fast with her family.

Then, the gunshots begin, and within the hour, her home is on fire. As the terrorists round people up, she manages to slip away with her children and grandchildren into the bush. Later, she realises four of them did not make it with her. They are somewhere up in the mountains.

In this episode of #VOV, we see that, after the attack, Bintu, now displaced, is sheltering at a government primary school in Pulka and has no news of her children and grandchildren.

Reported by Sabiqah Bello

Voice acting by Rukayya Saeed

Multimedia editor is Anthony Asemota

Executive producer is Ahmad Salkida

On a hauntingly cold night in 2008, a 28-year-old impressionable fan of Mohammed Yusuf sat in the latter’s compound in the London Ciki area of Maiduguri, northeastern Nigeria, at 1 a.m., placed his hand in his, and swore to give his life for Boko Haram. He would advance to become a top commander in the terror group.

That night, the Man was accompanied by a few trusted friends, all of whom pledged their allegiance to the cause. Yusuf started by reciting eight commandments to the small group and asking that they swear to abide by them. He made it clear they could refuse to join the army, in which case, they were not to disclose any of the things that happened that night to another living soul. 

Many of them would die in battle in the years that followed, and Yusuf himself would be killed in a matter of months, but the Man would survive. He had been led there by his friend, who had also been led there by his own friend. 

Mohammed Yusuf, the founder of the Boko Haram terror group, was preparing to wage war against the Nigerian state and was assembling what would later become an army. This army would go on to kill over 35,000 people between 2009 and 2020, indirectly lead to the death of over 300,000 others, and displace over two million more. Through fieldwork involving extensive interviews with a few first-generation members of the terror group who are still alive, victims, and a review of nearly 100 archival materials, such as newspapers and videos, this report documents the strategy that made that army possible.

Since his preaching was still largely peaceful at the time, Yusuf recruited men covertly, so as not to alert the government to the war he was planning. 

But the story of the Man’s radicalisation began long before that night. As far back as 1995 and 1996, the Man, then merely a boy, had begun to listen to Mohammed Yusuf’s preaching, agreeing with a lot of the things he was hearing. But beyond Yusuf, the Man was also an ardent follower of Sheikh Jafar Mahmud, who had been schooled at the University of Madina, Saudi Arabia, a feat he found astonishing.

“That time, I was impressed with the way Malam [Mohammed Yusuf] was. He was a young man like me–he was just a bit older than me. But he was so educated, and that was my dream, too. To become so knowledgeable about the religion,” the Man told me one October afternoon in 2025 in northeastern Nigeria. We were sitting on a mat just outside a rafia hut.

“He had started becoming popular among the Izala and the Abba Aji students, just like how the likes of Gambo Kyari, Bukar Mustapha, Umoru Mustapha, and the rest were popular then. Like Malam Ibrahim Gomari, Bashir Kashara, who was killed, and so on. He [Mohammed Yusuf] was their peer when it came to Islamic scholarship.” 

His ideologies aligned with those of scholars like Sheikh Jafar, who was based in Kano but was preaching regularly at and leading prayers at the Indimi mosque every Ramadan in Maiduguri. In 1999, Yusuf’s fame began to rise beyond his immediate community, his words taking root in the minds of young men and women all across Borno State. The support and fandom were massive. The Man thinks this was due to two things.

“One, he was very young then. Two, he used to preach in both Hausa and Kanuri.” This enabled him to reach a wider audience without a language barrier, as these were among the most widely spoken languages in Borno State. 

Over time, around 2000 and 2002, his preaching began to diverge from that of the likes of Sheikh Jafar and other revered scholars popular at the time. He began to speak against Western education, voting, democracy, and modern science and civilisation. He preached about a radical form of religion that had total government control over the people’s private and public lives. 

In about 60 videos of him around this time that HumAngle reviewed, each 3-6 minutes long, he can be seen preaching against democracy and the West. “The thing the West brought is apostasy,” he said in one of them. “We reject it. This democracy is not good. These soldiers are not genuine soldiers–they do not protect the religion of Islam… God said we should kill them. Allah said in the Qur’an that he would humiliate the enemy by our hand. Did you think he meant our hands holding prayer beads?” and here he chuckles. “Of course not,” he answered himself to the ecstatic screams of his congregation. “He was referring to our hands wielding guns.”

At this time, many of the scholars he used to be known with began to withdraw from him. Rather than see this as the alarm that the larger public saw it as, the Man and many young people like him saw it as a sign of legitimacy. They saw Yusuf as brave, courageous, and unwavering. 

“We believed what he was preaching was the truth because what he was saying regarding the government, jihad, correlated with Qur’an verses and hadiths,” he said. He quoted verses from Chapters Ahzab and Taubah to back up his claim, saying that the scriptures had already said that nothing could change the world if not jihad, which he personally interpreted as war.

Islamic scholars have long disproved this interpretation of scripture and the word ‘jihad’. HumAngle shared the Man’s interpretation of the verses in Ahzab and Taubah with a prominent Islamic scholar, Prof. Ibrahim Maqari, who currently serves as the Chief Imam at the central mosque in Abuja, the federal capital. He said the interpretation was inaccurate. 

“Those verses have been taken out of context. Islam is very clear on there not being compulsion in religion,” he said. “Islam allows war only when war is brought upon you. In that sense, you have a responsibility to fight back in order to protect yourself. There are laws on how warring parties must treat even animals and trees–how can the same religion be used as an excuse to slaughter innocent, unarmed populations, if even animals and trees are expected to be protected even in times of war?”

He also offered an additional, but often ignored, definition of the word: restraint, whether emotional or mental. 

“To stay away from what one craves but has been outlawed by Islam could also be a form of jihad.”

The Boko Haram group views it differently. “Jihad means blood must be spilt,” the Man said.

Following his split with Sheikh Jafar, Yusuf stopped preaching at the Indimi mosque and began preaching in his home, then at the Al’amin Daggash Mosque for several months before he was kicked out again, before eventually establishing the Markaz (Ibn Taimiyya) mosque. 

“Only about 40-50 of us went with him then. That was 2002–2003. With the help of Allah, after like two years, Markaz couldn’t even contain people; we could not even count the number of students anymore.”

There were very few journalists or researchers at the time who were able to accurately document this sociological (and religious) revolution. One of them was Ahmad Salkida, who dispatched the first-ever news article on Mohammed Yusuf in 2006 and was the first to alert the public to what was brewing. He observed in one report that Yusuf enjoyed wide acceptance from young people at the time because of the effects of bad governance and the resulting socioeconomic inequalities—corruption, rampant inequality, lack of education. 

By appealing to a shared victimhood philosophy, he created an Us (victims) Vs Them (the government/the oppressor) dichotomy and garnered a large following. The weaponisation of a sense of community to further genocidal violence is a tactic that is recurring in speeches of warlords or leaders of violent movements. It was apparent in the popular 1943 speech made by Heinrich  Himmler, one of the key military leaders who executed the Holocaust. In it, he frames the killing of jews as a moral obligation, while making the Nazis out to be the victims.  “We have a moral right, we had the duty to our people to do it, to kill [some use the word ‘destroy’ here as the original speech was in German] these people who would kill us… We have carried out this most difficult of tasks in a spirit of love for our people,” he said in the speech. 

As the number of his students and followers began to increase, Yusuf decided it was time to take his message beyond his house and Maiduguri. He began to travel to Konduga, Bama, and Gwoza. He soon went beyond Borno State into Yobe State, to places like Potiskum, Gashua, Geidam, and others. He also went to Bauchi. 

“We started getting senior students like Abu Mohammed Bauchi, Abu Maryam, etc. It later crossed to Kano, and there, we got senior scholars, even though they later withdrew.”

It was at this time, when his preaching became regular in Bama, that Fatima, another first-generation member of the group, began to attend. Alongside her entire family, she became a loyal follower of Yusuf. She took the bay’ah in a way that resembled what the Man described. 

“We were gathered around 4 p.m. and then separated into men and women, then took the oath,” she recalled. At this time, the preaching was mainly that the government did not have their best interest at heart, and did not care about Islam. Fatima went alongside her parents and husband. She remembers being told that the Nigerian constitution was forbidden for them to follow or abide by. They also told them that they might be killed, but they should rest assured that they would go straight to paradise if that happened. 

“There are people, these days, who claim that the drinking of blood is somehow part of the oath-taking process. This is not true. At least, not during our time,” she said.

The preachings, at this time, had started to grow more and more radical and inciting.

“This caused some people to lose their wives, some their parents, some their trading partners, and some to destroy their school certificates,” the Man said. Young people, in compliance with the very foundation of Boko Haram, which directly translates to “Western education is forbidden”, began to publicly burn school certificates that they had already acquired before they became radicalised.

“We all knew this was going to happen; it wasn’t a secret,” the Man said of the eventual uprising. “There are scholars who would preach saying we have to shed blood in this country, but once they are done preaching, you will see them with the same government they are criticising in their houses, with cars given to them. But Malam was never like that. He was never in cahoots with the government, so we all believed in him and that he was going to carry out what he had intended–the war.”

The early army

The Man claimed that Yusuf first appointed 11 close friends, whom he termed his commanders. They were the first members of the Boko Haram army. He sat with these 11 and explained the reason for the war, assuring them it would happen soon. He told them they each must be willing to sacrifice their lives if it came to that, and also bring men who believed in the cause and would be willing to do the same. 

He trained them for an initial period of nine months. Some CDs were played for them on war preparation. There were long periods of preaching and indoctrination. 

“Some of these men are in prison, but most of them have died. The only person who is not in prison and is alive was released from prison two years ago: Mohammed Idris. He was imprisoned in 2009. There is Usman Sidi in the Malam Sidi deradicalisation centre in Gombe, and Ibrahim Agaji, who is still in prison. And so on.”

It was one of these first 11 commanders who reached out to the Man, inviting him to join the army. Yusuf had mandated that each of them come with three trusted men who could join. This was not as easy as it sounded, especially because speaking to the wrong person could jeopardise the entire plan if they chose to go to the authorities with what they knew. When the commander reached out to the Man, he explained this, adding that he himself did not know up to three people he could trust, only the Man. He asked the Man to bring the other two. He, too, only trusted one person and asked that person to bring one person as well. In that way, the commander fulfilled his assigned quota of three. Soon, the 11 commanders and their individual recruits totalled 40. Together, they formed the first version of the army, gathering in Yusuf’s house that night in the London Ciki area of Maiduguri and taking the bay’ah after listening to the commandments.

“The first commandment was that we must agree to give our lives if it came to it; then, seeking Islamic knowledge to understand our ancestors; we must also not do things except as stated in the books, whether we like it or not; then, there was confidentiality. I have forgotten most of the conditions. There were like eight conditions. If you agree to them, Malam would take your hand and hold it as you took the bay’ah. You would promise never to discuss it with anyone. If you do, it’s like you have betrayed the religion.”

After that night, they proceeded to undergo a four-month intensive period of prayer and training. They had access to one man, Habib, who used to be a sergeant in the Nigerian Army but whom Yusuf had won over with his preachings. He trained them in combat. Yusuf had also won over one medical doctor, a prominent consultant from Yola known as Abu Adam. He equipped them with basic medical skills, including how to remove a bullet lodged in a wound and how to stitch a wound.

“To this day, whenever my kids get sick, I am able to administer injections for them once they are prescribed and I buy them, because of the skills I learned from that doctor,” the Man said. 

The initial group of 40 was also mandated to come with recruits – some were mandated to come with up to 10 recruits each, others were mandated to come with only three – and in that way, the army expanded little by little. Once they were in their hundreds, Yusuf broke them into battalions and named each battalion after an Islamic historical figure. The Man was under the Zubair Ibn Awwam battalion. Those who later moved to the Timbuktu triangle were named after Umar Farouk. Each of the 11 commanders was also assigned four sub-commanders known as Munzir. The Man was a Munzir at this time. Each Munzir was in charge of about 70–100 people. The Munzirs, in turn, appointed people they called the Naqeeb, each of whom had 25 people under their care. This system made organising easier. 

“Whenever Mohammed Yusuf says to the leader of Zubair Ibn Awwam battalion, ‘I want you to gather your people for me,’ the leader would look for other Munzirs and me. At that time, four of us were Munzirs under that battalion: Mohammed  Sani Tela, Bako Mai Madara, Abdullahi, and me. So, when Malam says to our commander, ‘Gather your people for me,’ he would just call us (the Munzirs) and say, ‘Gather your people.’ If, for example, I have 100 people under my care, how would I reach them? They’re too much for me, so I would call my Naqeeb and tell them to each bring the 25 people under their individual care. You see, this way it is easier for both me and my superior because 25 people are not a lot to gather.”

“That time, we had not yet relocated to the forest. This all happened in Maiduguri,” he clarified. 

There were several locations used for training in Bauchi and Biu in Borno. As things began to heat up, with preparation for the war being heavily underway, Yusuf got word that the government suspected a war was brewing and planned to attack him and his followers. He was invited multiple times by the DSS and the police in both Maiduguri and Abuja, where he was detained briefly and interrogated over those allegations. He denied arming or preparing for war.

“Since they were planning to attack us, we were supposed to also get ready for them. Before they attack us, let’s attack them. We should just be prepared. So we got ready as much as we could. We got our war arms–Malam and a few people had been getting the arms ready all this time with the help of the former sergeant in the Nigerian Army.”

Just then, they began to face some logistical challenges. Some members of the group who had been entrusted with guns in the past few months of preparation and had been told to bury them for safekeeping suddenly said they no longer remembered where they had buried the guns. This caused a setback with planning, and Yusuf, at first, found it puzzling. 

“But he later said we are going to be optimistic, whether they did not buy it, whether they cheated, or they did buy it and truly couldn’t find the place they buried it, it was still amusing. But he said we will not dwell on this, we will just seek Allah’s help with what we have with us.”

According to another source, another setback in the arms gathering department involved a man known as Aliu Tashaku, whom Yusuf met and presumably radicalised during one of his detentions at the Police headquarters in Abuja. Tashaku was later accused by Yusuf and several Boko Haram leaders of defrauding the group. They say he collected millions of naira with a promise to deliver dozens of AK-47 rifles, which he never fulfilled.

Still, plans continued. From Friday to Sunday, dawn till dusk, they were trained to use the guns they did procure: how to cock and shoot them. “Only a few of us were taught how to wield guns. Just the leaders. Not everyone.”

Finally, on that fateful day in June 2009, the ‘helmet’ incident happened. The incident has since been regarded as the beginning of the war. Some even say it was what caused it.

“I need you to understand,” the Man said, “that the helmet incident was not what led to the war. We had already assembled the army, gathered arms and supplies, and put the structure in place.”

What the incident did was accelerate the inevitable.

The helmet incident

In January 2009, authorities in Borno announced that anyone wishing to ride a bike in Maiduguri must wear a helmet as a safety precaution. The Boko Haram group did not agree with the rule (“how dare an illegitimate body tell us what to do?”). And so on that fateful day in June 2009, they came out en masse to bury four members who had died in a motor crash, flooding major roads. Many of them rode on bikes, and there was not a single helmet in sight. The police formed a blockade and refused to let them through, daring them to cross a particular line. They crossed the line, literally, and the police opened fire on the unarmed crowd. It was an act of extrajudicial violence, but for a people who already fancied themselves a parallel and legitimate government, the sect saw it as an act of war. And so they responded, warring for five days and killing indiscriminately across Borno, Yobe, and Kano. A review of Daily Trust newspapers during the whole week showed that the war dominated its front pages from July 27 to July 31 2009. Reports say that up to 800 people were killed. Abubakar Shekau, who was second-in-command at the time and would later lead the violent group after Yusuf, was wounded.

Yusuf himself was in Kaduna, northwestern Nigeria, on the day of the helmet incident. Sources say he flew into a rage when he learned of it. It was when he returned that he became more public and explicit about the war that must be fought, since the state, he said, had drawn first blood.

“He preached that if we didn’t do anything about these soldiers talking about helmets, there wouldn’t be peace, so at that time, he had not yet been captured. It wasn’t long after that the war happened in July, when everything became messy in Markaz. He spoke during evening prayers that this war was beyond us. For three days, it was like victory was on our side, but now security forces were well prepared, planning to attack us, and the little we had was already finished, and our senior commanders were all dead, so he said everyone should just find their way. That was when we went out, that was when he was arrested.”

The last time the Man saw Yusuf, they were trying to escape from their location as authorities advanced. One of his students insisted that Yusuf hop in his car so they could leave together, but Yusuf refused. By this time, he had sustained a bullet wound to the arm. And so when news of his capture and eventual summary execution arrived, it did not come entirely as a shock to the Man.

Ahmad Salkida, who was being held in a cell at the police headquarters at the time Yusuf was killed there, wrote that over 50 policemen emptied bullets into his body, making sure to avoid his head so that his identity could never be disputed. 

In a video of Yusuf’s remains that HumAngle obtained, there were tens of bullet wounds, his body mangled as though slashed open repeatedly, the inner bloody flesh hanging out in several places. The only body part that remained unwounded was his head. His eyes remained open, as though staring straight ahead. In the background, voices could be heard worrying about the stench. In another video I reviewed, this time of Yusuf being interrogated after he was arrested, he was questioned about medical supplies and arms being found in his home. This corroborates the Man’s accounts about medical supplies and arms having already been gathered. 

Later, the government claimed he had been trying to escape when he was shot and killed. The execution drew nationwide condemnation, and the then-President Umaru Musa Yar’adua ordered a probe into the officers responsible.

In the immediate aftermath, authorities went on a hunt for all members of the group. So the premature army and other followers of the group dispersed, and the Man himself relocated to Gwagwalada in Nigeria’s federal capital, Abuja.

He lived there for about two years with his wives and children, until one day, when former associates found him. Abubakar Shekau had healed, emerged from hibernation, and was ready to lead the army into war, the associates told him. He had sent them to him to deliver the message, and they would do so to as many key members of the army as they could find. They put him in touch with Shekau on the phone. 

“We spoke, and he said he was in good health, and he tasked me with gathering the people from my battalion and to lead them since our leader, as I told you, got captured and was only released last year. That was when I felt the weight of the world on my head because we were in hiding, and now we were being told we were to continue with operations.” 

And so the work of regrouping commenced. The structure that Yusuf had put in place helped in this process. Each commander searched for his Munzirs, and each Munzir searched for his Naqeebs. It was not as easy as it would have been were they all still in Maiduguri and not in hiding, because now they were scattered everywhere, and some people had even died.

HumAngle gathered that at this time, several members whom Yusuf facilitated in their travels to North Africa for arms training and other terrorism-related operations, a clear signal that preparations for war were underway long before the July 2009 ma’araka, returned to boost the army Shekau was assembling. Many of them were unable to return by the time the conflict erupted.

Once they had regrouped, the strategic efforts to topple the Nigerian government and establish what they believed to be an Islamic state started. This strategy, mainly, had to do with bombings, abductions, assassinations, and taking control of certain villages and towns to be able to forcefully radicalise and loot.

“We bombed towns, mosques, markets, and churches, too. We were the ones who put everything together. We later realised staying in town would not work because they started arresting our people. So we went to the forest.”

When the group migrated to Sambisa Forest, they turned it into their daulah – the “sovereign territory” – and operated fully from there. But this, in no way, lessened the brutality of the operations. This brutality was due, in part, to the fact that they had run out of supplies and money and were frantic. The Man had sold the lands he owned and used the money to purchase arms, and so had many others. Yusuf’s death had decimated a lot of plans. So they began to take villages.

On the surface, when villages fell to them, it was because they wanted to recruit or radicalise. But they were aware that no village or town could stay in their grip for long, as the Nigerian Army would eventually take it back. So, the more urgent reason was to loot the banks in the villages as soon as they took possession. 

“We held towns for months, except for places like Mubi, which wasn’t held for long but which still yielded us a lot of money because it had like nine to ten banks then. Only three banks were looted before the soldiers came and took over the town. So we started using the money, though a jet came and burnt down the money later on.”

HumAngle has interviewed dozens of people who were stuck in villages like Bama, Kirawa, Gwoza, Kumshe, Boboshe, Andara, and many others, during the periods when Boko Haram held the villages hostage. They described a heavily militarised setting, with people being killed on often unfounded allegations of spying. Baana Alhaji Ali, a man who used to be a trader in Andara before it fell to Boko Haram, told me that many of the laws sought to take complete control of their lives. “They refused to let us go out of the village; they imposed their laws on us; they said we shouldn’t allow our women to fetch water, gather firewood, and that we should be doing all that for them. Our women were never to be seen publicly. They took foodstuff away from us.”

During this time, the government was announcing on the radio that if anyone was brave enough to escape the villages and make it to Maiduguri, the capital city, they would be safely accepted and put into Internally Displaced Persons (IDP) camps. Thousands of people took the risk. Some were caught by the terrorists and brutally killed, but others made it out safely. Tragically, many of them were intercepted on the road and profiled by the Nigerian Army as members of the terror group. They went on to be detained without trial at detention centres like Giwa barracks, Borno Maximum Security prison, and Wawa military cantonment for about a decade. Some of them died. Others disappeared and have never been seen again. Baana and his family made it to Cameroon, where the local army transferred them into the hands of the Nigerian Army in Banki, a border town. While his wife and children were allowed to go, Baana was detained on allegations of being part of the terror group and held for seven years in conditions that bring tears to his eyes to recount. 

“We didn’t get enough water … some people died of thirst,” he said. “There were about 400 people in one cell, and people died from the heat … We didn’t have proper toilets at first, just plastic buckets to urinate and defecate. People would take them out when they were full and empty them.”

Amid all these, when taking villages became no longer sustainable, the Man said, they began to abduct for money. Though the Chibok abduction of 276 schoolgirls, as has already been extensively reported, was not planned but executed by lower Boko Haram members on their way back from a different assignment, it turned out to be one of their most successful money-making attempts. The Man says up to ₦300 million was paid as ransom for each girl who was released. Reports show that between 2016 and 2018, 103 girls were released, with the BBC reporting that $3.3 million was paid for them. The government, officially, insists that no ransom was paid.

“Abducting the Chibok girls became a blessing for us all in the forest because it touched the whole world. We got a lot of money. Money was made that time! At the time, the group was already facing financial difficulties. You know, when we first migrated to the forest, we would go and break into a shop and steal money, or steal cows and sell. We were struggling financially.”

The Man lived in Sambisa for over a decade with his three wives and nine children. He held numerous positions, including commander, judge, and, later, member of the Shura council.

Once in Sambisa, under the heavy-handedness of Shekau, he began to find ideological differences between what Shekau was doing and what he himself believed the scriptures said to do. This is a popular complaint among members of the group. Shekau believed deeply in violence and had no patience for negotiations. He believed that anyone who did not live in the daulah deserved to be killed. Hence, the bombing of markets, motor parks, mosques, churches, and other public places within state-controlled territories.

“We, on the other hand, believed our target was the Nigerian security forces and those who deserved it. We all agreed on that, but carrying out attacks on mosques, churches, motor parks, and killing children? We were not in support of Shekau doing that,” the Man said of himself and a growing group that had begun to plan to rebel.

“With Shekau, anybody that does not live within those forests, even if he prays, even if he goes to the Holy Ka’abah in Saudi Arabia to pray, then comes back every day, he sees him as a non-believer. He can be killed, and his money or belongings can be collected.”

There were also allegations of witchcraft against some elderly women in the group, who would then be stoned to death and sometimes beheaded. According to Fatima, the follower from Bama, things escalated wildly during that time and caused many people to fear. 

And so in 2016, a faction led by Mamman Nur, another high-ranking member, decided to break away into what is now known as the Islamic State West Africa Province (ISWAP), linked to the global Islamic State (IS) group.

ISWAP, at the time and perhaps even now, fancied itself purer and less violent than the Shekau-led sect. Still, over time, the Man began to feel as though even they were “not honest about the work they were doing.” 

As he spoke, it became clear to me that though he was no longer part of the group, he still believed in the cause and thought there was an “honest” or “right” way to do it. And so I asked: Why did he leave the terror group and return to state-controlled territories?

He paused for a moment, then asked, “Are you a Muslim?”

I said yes.

“So you know about the Islamic Khalifs?” he enquired. 

“Yes, Ali, Umar Ibn Khattab, Usman Ibn Affan and the rest?”

He nodded in satisfaction. “Those people you mentioned were among the Prophet’s most knowledgeable and trusted advisors. So, whenever they spoke or offered counsel during that time, they were listened to and taken seriously. We were supposed to be that for ISWAP, but whenever we spoke up against things that were wrong, nobody listened to us. It was made as though we were the ones spoiling people, even when all we were doing was finding them ease.”

He explained that his decision to leave was the culmination of many things, not just one, but the refusal to listen to him and his peers made it clear that the original cause, which he believed in and was once prepared to lay down his life for, no longer existed.

Leaving was risky because he was very high-ranking, he said. It meant that he could never just change his mind and decide to go back because he would be executed. It meant he would leave behind all the wealth he had acquired over the past decade. It also meant he would leave behind a life of status and comfort and take on an uncertain future, doubtless filled with hardship. 

Finally, in 2024, less than two full years ago, he defected with his entire family and surrendered to the Nigerian state. He underwent the Borno state-modelled deradicalisation programme – which is different from Operation Safe Corridor – and offered up his services to the state to aid its fight against the insurgency. He provides regular high-level intel to the government, remains a law-abiding citizen, and in return, the state pays his house rent.

“They paid last year, and they just renewed it this year,” he said.

Towards the end of our interview, I asked what he would do if a young man came to him today seeking guidance on how to join Boko Haram. 

“Kai. I’ll stop him!” he said immediately. “I can’t tell anyone to go, I am even trying to tell those there to come back. I won’t advise anyone to go because if that’s the case, I wouldn’t have come back.”

His own children now go to school. I ask what has changed to make him agree to them going to school, especially since the very foundation of the insurgency was that school was forbidden.

“There were a lot of mistakes I made from the start, and I admit this without shame. One thing we didn’t understand then was that, despite our fears about the ills of Western education, it was still useful. Now, I have come to understand that I only need to arm my children with a good upbringing at home and Islamic knowledge, so that when they come across any harmful teachings in school, they would have the sense to not take them to heart… I have a daughter who has graduated from secondary school, a son who is now in SS1 and another who is going to JSS1 soon.”

I spoke to several other former members whose children are now in school and who now share the same line of thinking.

The Man is now engaged in efforts to deradicalise young people at risk of falling into the same errors he made many years ago. Sometimes, he posts videos on TikTok, countering violent extremism and challenging violent interpretations of scripture. 

Researchers insist that accepting surrenders from people like the Man has always been integral to counter-terrorism efforts worldwide. But many Nigerians, especially those who have lost loved ones, feel differently, because there is still so much suffering, there is little justice and chance of reparations to those who have been wronged, and the institutional failures that led those young boys to Yusuf’s house that cold night in 2008 to take the bay’ah still remain.

Before the war, Baana Alhaji Ali, the man who fled with his family when Boko Haram attacked his village and was subsequently held for seven years in detention, was a trader who lived peacefully with his family. Now, he lives in a tarpaulin tent in Nguro Soye, cramped with his family, with no access to education, healthcare, or basic amenities. The past decade has seen him in prison, in a camp for internally displaced persons, and now in a resettlement site. 

When I talked to his wife about their feelings about former combatants being allowed back into the community, she was angered.

“All I can say is that we have been cheated, we have been violated, and we have been dehumanised.”

HumAngle has chosen to use the phrase “the Man” to anonymise the central source for this story in order to protect him from harm. 

In one of the world’s most deprived and volatile regions, HumAngle’s reporting and experience reveal that journalists in Nigeria are not just observing suffering but are pulled into it as they try to report it. Consequently, they say, they find themselves paying out of pocket to feed the people whose stories they are trying to tell.

In theory, the profession is expected to observe some emotional distance from its sources and the stories they tell. However, that model is inoperable in conflict-affected regions of northern Nigeria and the Sahel.

Journalism here is embedded in environments shaped by violence, poverty, and dense social networks. Since these variables affect people at random, the reporter is not an outsider; sometimes, the conflict directly affects them as well. Ethical decisions are then made under pressure, repeatedly, and often without the comfort of certainty.

HumAngle operates in this space. Its work across Lake Chad, Central Africa, Nigeria’s Middle Belt, the North West, the South East, and other conflict zones forces a confrontation with a difficult question: What does ethical journalism look like when the people you report on are not just sources, but individuals whose survival may intersect directly with your presence?

The limits of imported ethics

Global journalism standards discourage payment for information, and while exceptions exist, they do so under strict editorial oversight, a clear public-interest justification, and transparency. Journalism teachers say that, though these frameworks are expected to provide clarity, they don’t in conflict-affected Nigeria, where the assumed context doesn’t apply. The ideal context has clear distinctions between sources and service providers and functioning identity systems. This is hardly obtainable in conflict-affected environments.

Dr Kabiru Danladi, a Mass Communication scholar with the Ahmadu Bello University in northwestern Nigeria, says, “Our curriculum borrows heavily from Euro-American ethical frameworks – objectivity, detachment, neutrality – principles rooted in relatively stable societies. The failure becomes evident when our graduates are deployed to cover issues that weren’t directly taught in class, or they are sent to cover conflicts in places like Zamfara, Sokoto, Kebbi, Borno, Yobe or Benue, where journalism is not just a profession but a survival exercise.”

Dr Obiora Chukwumba, a researcher and media expert in Abuja, identifies the same problem in the moral obligation created by field contact. “There is no ethical barrier to a journalist intervening on grounds of goodwill to assist a source who is in a vulnerable position,” he said.

The reality of field reporting

A fixer in Zamfara, where terror groups continue to kill, abduct, and loot, is not simply an access broker but may also translate, assess risk, and act as a negotiator in certain environments. A driver in Borno, North East Nigeria, may carry more situational intelligence than any formal briefing. An intermediary in the southeast may navigate relationships across vigilante groups and separatist networks.

These individuals are essential. Without them, our reporters’ access vanishes. But they are also embedded in the same systems the journalist is trying to understand, which creates layered risks, including legal risks that emerge when payments made for legitimate services are later interpreted as material support. 

Barrister Joseph Danboyi, a senior lawyer in Jos, North Central Nigeria, says, “Payment to a fixer creates liability if the journalist knew his connection with criminals. Ordinary payment for information is insufficient. The journalist will be aiding and abetting when payment is purposefully linked to criminal conduct.”

He goes further to add, “The practical bottom line is that a journalist who unknowingly pays a criminal for information is generally not liable… liability requires knowledge… and intent to help or further it.”

This distinction between knowledge and intent anchors the legal reality that sits beneath field decisions. 

Dr Obiora also treats fixers and access arrangements as part of newsroom operations, not automatically as ethical breaches. “Parts of the routine (investigative) costs tied to the operations of a newsroom include such services as engaging fixers, obtaining access to a reasonably considered newsmaker, and appreciation handouts,” he said. “They are all legitimate operational costs.”

There is no procedural checklist that eliminates these risks. What exists instead is a need for structured awareness and disciplined judgment in newsrooms.

The Knifar women: A case that reshapes the debate

HumAngle’s engagement with the Knifar movement brings these tensions into focus. The Knifar women are part of a grassroots movement shaped by prolonged suffering. Their husbands, sons, and brothers were detained during military operations, often for years, without trial. In many cases, these men were the primary providers, and so their absence triggered cascading consequences for these women, including food insecurity, poverty, and social fragmentation. The women organised into a pressure group to demand accountability for the detention of their male relatives.

HumAngle’s reporting amplified their efforts, influencing outcomes that ultimately led to the release of over a thousand men that the women were advocating for. 

Our work required prolonged engagement with the women, whose daily reality was defined by deprivation. In some instances, our journalists provided stipends. In other cases, some of these women became part of the reporting process as fixers and contributors with fixed incomes in our newsroom. We have even given some of them ‘additional reporting’ credit for their work. Since they are both sources and resource persons for our newsroom, we are often clear about what we are paying them for – their work, not their information. We have spoken publicly about the dynamics of our relationship with these women, including in a Pulitzer Centre-supported documentary.

Kunle Adebajo, a renowned award-winning investigative journalist, reflects on his own experience in being moved to provide money to vulnerable sources: “I’ve often had to pay vulnerable sources. This is because the majority of them live from hand to mouth and rely on wages from daily labour to get their sustenance, and so such interviews could be very disruptive and uncomfortable for them. Oftentimes, they also have to transport themselves to meet at the interview location. The sums given were trifling, and there was never an understanding that the interview itself was transactional. 

Dr Obiora agrees that the understanding must always be clear. “If the source or interviewee presents the personal need to overshadow the reason for the meeting with the journalist, then that could be a red flag,” he said, “pointing to potential compromised narrative or ‘adjusted facts’ from the source or interviewee.”

When observation is not enough

Journalists are trained not to pay sources because it could risk distortion and affect credibility, but what happens when the people you are interviewing live in destitute conditions?

“I met residents, elderly men and women who could not feed themselves, who could not afford basic healthcare. I met a father who lost his wife to a particular ailment, and whose two kids are still suffering from the same ailment. Yet, he could not help.”

The award-winning journalist said he felt compelled to help. “I offered to buy meals for some of them through my fixer. Yes, I offered them some cash to buy what they needed. When I got back to my hotel room that evening, I actually cried. I felt the depth of these people’s suffering.”

He is not unaware of the ethical grey spots in giving money to sources. “Ethically, I did not really care at that point whether offering them some cash would be seen as an inducement. I told myself that I had to act as a human being at the moment and drop the toga of ‘a journalist’ at that point.” 

Dr Danladi understands this and says that “Students must be taught that they are a journalist, yes – but they are also human beings. Refusing to help in the name of ‘objectivity’ can itself be an ethical failure.” He says that liability only becomes possible “where the journalist knows or is willfully blind to criminal activity… or where the payment itself is tied to illegal conduct.”

Another journalist from southwestern Nigeria, who declined to be named, described facing similar situations in which his sources were suffering. 

“They had had to eat rotten food sourced from the nearby markets, and sometimes they went days without eating anything because their husbands, who provided for them, had been killed. I saw that most of their children were malnourished and looked so skinny. It was such a touching situation, and I couldn’t help but give them some money that I had with me so that they could buy food and cook.”

The practice of support

Payment for content implies a transaction because it links money to information, but support that exists independently of reporting is different. It protects the integrity of the story while still acknowledging the reality of the environment.

Hauwa Shaffii Nuhu, an award-winning journalist and newsroom manager, said that though in her early days as a journalist, she could not resist the urge to help vulnerable sources, she has now learned to favour long-term external support. “Now, I connect them [the vulnerable subjects of her story] with NGOs… or make it possible for society to donate directly to them or through an independent third party like a fixer.”

In cases where reporters have to provide any form of support, journalism scholars like Obiora say documentation matters. Record decisions and rationale for such actions while in the field. According to Obiora, “one of the most important structures for documenting and reviewing ethical footprints in the newsroom is within the internal editorial space.” He proposed an Editorial Board of Line Editors, chaired by the title editor, and another layer through an Editorial Advisory Board, where “it would be necessary to bring the platform’s legal advisor as a member.”

“These steps will not protect you from state action if authorities choose to act,” a senior security official said. What they only do is to protect the integrity of your journalism, he implied. They help you draw a line between necessary support and inducement, between humanitarian assistance and conduct that could be interpreted as enabling someone directly or indirectly tied to the crime you are investigating.

The unresolved tension

Speaking more to the legal position of a source, unknown to the journalist, being tied to criminal activity, Danboyi reiterates that a journalist who unknowingly pays a criminal is generally not liable, as exposure begins when there is knowledge, or when you consciously ignore signals that should raise concern.

Consider the fixer a journalist has worked with closely. Not a transactional contact, but someone embedded in the reporting process, with days, sometimes weeks, spent together. The journalist has covered his meals, made stops at his home during fieldwork, supported him beyond the assignment, helped with school fees, and contributed when his child was ill. Then, months or years later, the fixer is named in a crime. The record of the journalist’s relation with him exists: Transfers, messages, shared locations. A traceable history of proximity that can be turned into proof of complicity.

A different kind of responsibility

The Knifar women’s story forces a reconsideration of responsibility and demands a different approach to how journalism ethics is taught and judged. “We graduate students who know the code, but cannot survive in the field,” says Dr Danladi.

Dr Obiora returns the question to dignity. “A journalist whose interaction with a source contributes to lifting the source’s dignity has discharged his or her obligation professionally.”

In environments where silence sustains suffering, the act of telling a story, and the way that story is told, carries consequences beyond journalism.

In Nigeria’s North East, the Boko Haram insurgent group once carved out territory and declared a caliphate. In the North West, terrorist groups operate as fluid, profit-driven networks, embedding themselves in local economies. In the Middle Belt, communal violence reflects deeper contests over land, identity, and survival. In the South East, separatist agitation by the Indigenous People of Biafra (IPOB) has fused with armed enforcement and criminal opportunism. Along the southern waterways, oil theft and piracy threaten economic lifelines.

Across all these theatres, one institution has remained consistently engaged: the Nigerian military, often as the default responder in the absence of effective civilian governance. Public perception often frames this engagement as a failure as attacks continue and civilians remain vulnerable. A closer, evidence-based reading tells a more complex story, however, though available data remains incomplete and, at times, contested. 

The Nigerian military appears to have adapted under pressure and recalibrated aspects of its doctrine, and, in key moments, helped reverse trajectories that once pointed toward state collapse. It has delivered tangible gains, some strategic, others tactical, many costly. Still, those gains sit on unstable ground because governance gaps, political interference, corruption, and weak institutional follow-through have repeatedly blunted them. Communities liberated from one threat find themselves exposed to another. 

The North East war: reversing a collapse

By early 2015, Nigeria was on the brink of losing control in the North East. Boko Haram had evolved from an insurgent group into a territorial force controlling large swathes of Borno State and parts of Yobe and Adamawa. It administered territory, collected taxes, and imposed its authority over local populations. Gwoza was declared the headquarters of a so-called caliphate. Entire communities were displaced, and military formations overrun.

The turning point came with a shift in military posture, in which command structures were reconfigured, and the operational headquarters was relocated to Maiduguri, the Borno State capital, bringing leadership closer to the frontline. Coordination with regional forces under the Multinational Joint Task Force (MJTF) also intensified as air and ground operations were synchronised.

The results were immediate and significant, though the durability of these gains has varied across locations. Key towns like Monguno, Bama, Dikwa, and even Gwoza, the symbolic heart of Boko Haram’s territorial claim, fell back under government control in rapid succession. Data from ACLED shows that between 2015 and 2025, the military recovered at least 259 territories. 

With this territorial success, supply routes were disrupted, and fighters were killed in large numbers. Civilians began to return to these areas, in some cases under fragile security conditions. 

It marked the collapse of Boko Haram’s experiment with territorial governance, and the battle for Sambisa Forest reinforced this shift.

For years, Sambisa had functioned as a strategic sanctuary where fighters trained, hostages were held, and leadership structures operated with relative security. It also carried psychological weight. As long as Sambisa remained intact, Boko Haram retained a sense of permanence.

The military’s assault on the forest required sustained effort involving navigating difficult terrain, dealing with improvised explosive devices, and confronting entrenched fighters. Airstrikes softened targets while ground troops advanced in phases, enabling special forces units to penetrate deeper into the forest.

The symbolic impact was significant, though not decisive in ending insurgent capacity. Boko Haram could no longer claim a fixed territorial base for as long as was once the case. Its command structure was disrupted, and its image of invincibility weakened.

And so Boko Haram fragmented into factions. The Islamic State West Africa Province (ISWAP) emerged as a more structured and strategic actor while the Shekau-led faction became more erratic, marked by extreme violence and unpredictability.

The military adjusted again.

Operations shifted from territory holding to mobility and disruption. Intelligence-led raids targeted leadership and logistics. Airpower became central to deep strikes in difficult terrain. Operation Lafiya Dole, the codename for the counter-insurgency operation, transitioned into Operation Hadin Kai, reflecting a recalibrated effort.

Today, the insurgency remains active, particularly in remote areas and along the Lake Chad basin. But the scale and nature of the threat have changed.

The North West: fighting a war without frontlines

The North West posed a different challenge. Armed groups here are diffuse. It lacks a central command and is driven by economic incentives rather than ideology, so groups form, splinter, and realign quickly. Local grievances and criminal enterprise also intersect here.

Estimates suggest tens of thousands of terrorists operate across this region, covering multiple states including Zamfara, Katsina, Kebbi, Sokoto, and Kaduna. This fragmentation complicates the military response, as frontlines, headquarters, and leadership structures (the usual strategic targets) are not clear. The military has responded by leaning heavily on airpower and targeted ground operations. This has not gone without major problems, such as the repeated “accidental bombing” of civilian populations, which have drawn criticism from rights groups and affected communities. 

Still, airstrikes have been used to hit camps deep within forested areas that are difficult for ground troops to access. Intelligence plays a critical role in identifying targets. Data shows that the sustained air campaign has yielded at least 909 strikes and 10,237 fatalities in 10 years. ACLED data shows that about 560 of these fatalities were civilians.

Ground forces usually conduct follow-up operations to recover weapons and temporarily secure areas.

Large numbers of kidnapped victims have been rescued during coordinated operations. Livestock, often a key economic asset for communities, has been retrieved. Such attacks have also killed some high-profile terrorist leaders, but they have also led to the loss of officers. 

In some areas, these operations appear to have had a temporary stabilising effect, though violence frequently resurges. Communities report periods of reduced attacks, farming activities have resumed in limited corridors, and confidence in security presence has improved, though often temporarily. 

Still, armed violence regenerates as the effects of weak governance in the North East are the same in the North West: new leaders emerge, and fighters disperse and regroup. Economic incentives remain strong. 

The Middle Belt: stabilising a political conflict

Violence in the Middle Belt is often described as a farmer-herder conflict, but the region’s violence reflects a complex mix of land disputes, ethnic tensions, and environmental stress. Armed militias operate alongside opportunistic criminal actors, while cycles of reprisal deepen mistrust between communities. 

There are too many dynamics in play here to reduce the crisis to a “military versus any specific group” conflict. Most of the time, softer kinetic actions, such as arrest and deterrence, are used. 

In certain corridors, the presence of military forces has reduced the frequency of mass casualty events. But the limits are clear. Several parts of the region still depend on self-help vigilante groups, who are often outgunned during terror attacks. 

There is also a growing distrust between communities and security operatives, who are sometimes accused of slow response and complicity. In April, residents of Gashish, a rural community in Barkin Ladi Local Government Area of Plateau State, staged a protest over continued attacks in the community despite military presence. A checkpoint manned by troops of Operation Enduring Peace was destroyed during the demonstration. 

The military has denied such accusations, but independent verification remains limited. 

However, in other areas, the visibility of armed forces has also had a deterrent effect on opportunistic attacks. 

At its core, the conflict in the region is driven by political and environmental factors. It revolves around identity and access to land and water. While military deployments can suppress violence temporarily, they cannot resolve competing claims or rebuild trust between communities. Without political solutions, stability remains provisional.

The South East: managing a hybrid threat

The South East presents a hybrid security challenge. Separatist agitation, particularly linked to IPOB, has evolved into a mix of political mobilisation and armed enforcement. The group has enforced sit-at-home orders through violence and intimidation while the Eastern Security Network (ESN) operates in forested areas.

The military’s response has been presented as targeted and intelligence-driven. Operations focus on dismantling camps, intercepting arms, and arresting key figures. Urban centres are secured to prevent escalation into wider insurgency.

Yet the approach carries risks.

Heavy-handed operations have generated grievances. Allegations of abuses have eroded trust in some communities. This complicates intelligence gathering, which is critical in a conflict where fighters blend into civilian populations. 

The Niger Delta and maritime domain: securing economic lifelines

In the South South and along Nigeria’s maritime corridors, the military, particularly the navy, has delivered some of its most visible successes. A decade ago, the Gulf of Guinea was a global hotspot for piracy. Sustained operations, including improved surveillance, increased naval patrols, and collaboration with international partners, have changed that landscape. These have led to the destruction of illegal refining sites and to arrests that disrupt networks involved in oil theft.

These gains have helped to protect revenue streams, stabilise energy production, and reinforce Nigeria’s position in regional maritime security, although illegal activities have not been fully eradicated. 

“The Nigerian military is overstretched”

According to World Bank data collected from development indicators in 2020, Nigeria has roughly 223,000 active personnel across the army, navy, and air force. The army, which carries out most internal operations, has about 140,000 to 150,000 troops.

In the battlespace, there are simultaneous operations in at least six theatres. That constitutes multi-domain internal security warfare. Nigeria has about 0.1 per cent of its population under arms. When compared to countries facing sustained internal conflict, which often exceed 0.3 to 0.5 per cent, the country is operating below the threshold needed to dominate territory.

On the geography front, Nigeria is over 923,000 square kilometres, with vast forests, porous borders, and ungoverned rural space. It is impossible to hold ground everywhere with the limited available personnel. So troops are cycled, which then leads to fatigue because units stay deployed for long periods with limited rest.

Retired Lt. Gen. Tukur Buratai, the country’s former Chief of Army Staff, recently said, “The military is overstretched, defence budgets are diverted to routine policing duties, and the Armed Forces’ preparedness for conventional threats is reduced.”

However, there are also welfare issues and equipment gaps, especially at the tactical level in remote theatres. The result is predictable: Tactical wins, like killing terror commanders or rescuing hostages are visible, but strategic stagnation remains because you cannot sustain presence everywhere.

The structural constraint: why gains do not hold

Despite these efforts, Nigeria’s security situation remains volatile. 

In many areas, once the military has cleared armed actors, there is limited follow-through by civil authorities, as local administration is weak. So, communities do not experience the full return of the state, allowing armed groups to exploit this gap to re-enter or reorganise.

Economic conditions sustain conflict. Studies have shown that high levels of poverty and unemployment, particularly among young people, create a pool of potential recruits when armed groups offer income, however precarious.

Trust deficits also weaken intelligence because communities that distrust state actors are less likely to share information. This limits the effectiveness of intelligence-led operations and increases reliance on force.

Finally, strategy remains fragmented. Nigeria faces different types of violence that require tailored responses. Yet policy often treats them through a similar lens. Counterterrorism approaches are applied to terrorist attacks, while military solutions are prioritised in conflicts that require political negotiation.

The Nigerian military has played a significant role in preventing state collapse in multiple regions.

At the height of Boko Haram’s expansion, the possibility of sustained territorial loss was real. That threat has been largely reversed. In the North West, despite persistent violence, terrorist groups have not been allowed to consolidate into a territorial authority. In the South East, tensions have been contained below the threshold of full insurgency. In the maritime domain, economic lifelines have been secured.

However, good governance remains the only real pathway out of a cycle of violence. 

Yet the reality remains harsh. Lives are still lost daily. Families continue to sell everything they own to pay ransoms. The military has contributed to pushing back elements of the threat with measurable, though uneven, success, but it has not eliminated them.

Additional data provided by Mansir Muhammed. 

We should start by clarifying that it wasn’t entirely a shutdown. Reports still appeared on the website and on our social media pages regularly in April, but we were not working. They were produced in March and scheduled for April. 

In December last year, HumAngle announced an anti-burnout policy that allows the newsroom to go on a total break in April, August, and December. While journalists would still receive their complete pay, they would not be working during those months. It was an unprecedented and radical move that we felt was necessary to preserve the mental and physical health of the journalists who work unimaginably hard every day to bring hard truths about conflict to the fore. 

The truth is that the work we do as journalists is life-saving. Information must go out. People must know what is happening around them if they are to live safely and make informed decisions about their lives and futures. Information can quite literally be the distance between life and death, especially in an increasingly violent country. The news cycle does not stop because the human experience is a continuum. It can’t be boxed into Monday to Friday, and 9 a.m. to 4 p.m. Things just… happen. And this is where the complication lies.

Living like that has such a searing mental health toll, and because it is not physical, it often goes unnoticed and therefore untreated. Stressors are seen as ‘just part of the job’. The chaos is necessary to sustain the profession.

We realised that flipping that script on its head would make all the difference. Well-being is necessary to sustain the profession. It is necessary not just for the people who do the work, but even for the work itself. This idea is based on the simple assumption that humans are more likely to perform at their best when they feel their best. And yet, the news cycle demands that you keep working, even when deep down you know you have very little left to give. 

And so one of the questions we needed to ask ourselves as the policy came together was this: What would we do if a major conflict news demanded coverage during one of these rest months? The answer that we arrived at was simple yet profound: Nothing. The first lesson we learned this April, as we tried to put that answer into practice for the first time since the policy was announced, was that ‘nothing’ can sometimes be a very difficult thing to do. 

Reader, all hell seemed to break loose in April. Nearly all, if not all, states in Nigeria experienced some form of major insecurity event. Multiple airstrikes killed hundreds of people in Borno and Yobe. There were violent attacks in places like Erena in Niger State, as well as many abductions in Sokoto, Plateau, Cross River, Zamfara, Kebbi, Katsina, and Benue. 

At some point, inaction began to feel more difficult than the action we were trying to take a break from. 

What did reporters spend their rest month doing?

Two journalists said one of their best accomplishments was reading more. One said they read three books to completion and were on their fourth. The other said they read seven poetry books, three novels, and one non-fiction book. 

Someone else took a culinary class and learned to make new cuisines. They also went clubbing for the first time. 

Another said they went off the grid for a whole week and did not have to worry about missing any major news. Others travelled, explored their interests and passions, and engaged in other money-making activities. One person shared that they spent an entire night helping an older woman in their neighbourhood to smoke and fry some fish for sale. They worked from 10 p.m. to 2 a.m. With the following morning being a Monday, they would not have done so if not for the break. The experience made them realise that the smoked fish business was exhausting. “I no go dey price fish anyhow again,” they joked.

Another person said they enjoyed stepping out of their home to the salon or gym without worrying about taking their laptop in case a work thing came up. 

Someone else said they authored two articles for a peer-reviewed journal, to which another person responded: “You are too serious about life.”

Someone else said they spent days indoors just watching movies, only taking breaks to eat. Another person tried to enter the real estate market and was swindled for their efforts (but not before successfully selling a plot of land). 

Someone else went into a goat-rearing and selling business. “Imagine on a Monday morning, when you’re supposed to be having an editorial meeting (where the managing editor is saying, “can you please use the pitching template I sent in the group?”) but you’re cruising from one remote village in Gwagwalada, buying goats to resell them for some pennies. If not for [the] anti-burnout policy, I no fit try am,” they joked.

The larger picture 

Studies have shown that journalism is one of the professions characterised by poor work-life balance, and these responses from our journalists have driven that point home more than anything else. Many of the things they spent time doing are ordinary daily activities that make life worth living, or sometimes even enjoyable. Yet, they were not entirely possible during the work season. It puts things in perspective. Burnout exists among journalists because there is no clear start and stop point in the profession, which can make personal and enjoyable activities difficult to accomplish. 

As the newsroom fully resumes next week, we will continue to do what we do best: tell important stories while still prioritising our wellbeing. In the next few weeks, you can expect to read deep dives about the conflicts that happened last month. We might be late to the gathering, but it was for a good reason.

ISIL (ISIS) has claimed responsibility for the attack on Guyaku village, which lasted several hours.

Armed attackers killed at least 29 people in Guyaku village in Nigeria’s Adamawa State, an attack that lasted several hours and left property destroyed, officials said.

“My heart breaks for the people of Guyaku,” state Governor Ahmadu Umaru Fintiri said in a post on social media as he visited the bereaved community on Monday.

“Today, I stood on the ground where our brothers and sisters were cruelly taken from us. This act of cowardice is an affront to our humanity and will not go unpunished,” he said.

Fintiri also said his administration would continue to support “military and vigilante groups” as it intensified security operations in response to the attack.

The ISIL (ISIS) group claimed responsibility for the attack in a post on the Telegram messaging app, according to the Reuters and Associate Press (AP) news agencies.

There are two major ISIL-backed armed groups in Nigeria, but it was not immediately clear which one was behind the attack, according to the AP.

The Guyaku attack occurred on the same day that armed attackers raided an orphanage in north-central Nigeria and abducted 23 children.

Fifteen were later rescued, and the government said “intensive operations” were under way to “secure the safe return of the remaining eight victims and apprehend the perpetrators”.

No group immediately claimed responsibility for the abductions in a region of the country that has seen an increase in kidnappings for ransom.

The statement did not say how old the abducted children are, but the term “pupil”, which the statement had used, in Nigeria usually refers to someone in kindergarten or primary school, covering ages up to 12.

US President Donald Trump and other US conservative voices have accused Nigerian authorities of failing to protect the nation’s Christians from a “Christian genocide“, amid violence from armed groups, including Boko Haram.

The Nigerian government has said that while it wants to do more to protect civilians from ISIL and al-Qaeda affiliated groups, people of all faiths have been killed in attacks, including Muslims and traditional worshippers.

Data from ACLED, a US crisis-monitoring group, found that, out of 1,923 attacks on civilians in Nigeria between January and November 2025, the number of those targeting Christians because of their religion stood at just 50.

US forces launched air strikes on ISIL-affiliated fighters in December, and then deployed 100 soldiers to northern Nigeria in February to train and advise local forces.

September 2024 came with water. It moved through Maiduguri, in Nigeria’s North East, in fast, stubborn currents, destroying homes and property, and displacing thousands.

In many affected areas, like London Ciki, where Khadija Usman lives, it washed away firewood and charcoal, a critical source of cooking fuel for many homes. She was home alone one afternoon when that absence settled into something practical. Khadija wanted to cook, but there was nothing to burn. 

“The water destroyed almost everything,” she said. “It became difficult to find firewood and charcoal.” Moving out to search for fuel was not easy, as she uses a wheelchair. And like for most people here, the expectation did not shift with the flood. Meals still had to be prepared. 

So, Khadija turned her attention to what was left behind: charcoal residue, bits of waste, and a technique she had once seen. “I decided to come up with a solution,” she stated. She gathered what she could, shaping it into compact pieces that might hold a flame. When it finally caught, it was small, steady, and enough. 

Not yet a long-term solution, but a way through that day.

In the weeks that followed, that small flame evolved into something more substantial. The turning point came when she visited a friend, Zara Tijjani, who also has a disability and was cooking over firewood. The smoke stung Zara’s eyes as she struggled to keep the fire alive. Inspired, Khadija went home, made briquettes, and then returned to show her friend how to make them as well.

From there, the knowledge began to spread among women, particularly those for whom gathering firewood posed significant risks or challenges. What Khadija started in the aftermath of the flood has since contributed to a broader shift in Borno, where biochar is gradually being adopted. However, her focus remains shaped by those around her: women navigating limited mobility, daily cooking demands, the risks of gathering firewood in terror-controlled territories, and a changing climate.

When cooking depends on the forest

Across Maiduguri and much of northeastern Nigeria, cooking still depends heavily on firewood and charcoal. For many households, especially in low-income and displaced communities, these remain the most accessible and affordable sources of energy.

National data reflects this dependence. The 2024 Nigeria Residential Energy Demand-Side Survey by the National Bureau of Statistics (NBS) shows that about 67 per cent of households rely on firewood, 22 per cent on charcoal, and only 19.4 per cent on liquefied petroleum gas (LPG). In the North East, the pattern is even more pronounced. 

The report shows that wood use rises to 93.4 per cent in the region, the highest in the country, while LPG remains limited, particularly outside urban centres. Electricity and kerosene play only marginal roles in cooking.

In Borno State, reliance is near-total. A 2019 joint assessment by the Food and Agriculture Organisation (FAO), the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR), and the World Food Programme (WFP) found that 98.7 per cent of households rely on firewood and charcoal, with only a small fraction using cleaner fuels. Even access to these traditional sources is constrained. Many households purchase firewood rather than gather it, reflecting both scarcity and restrictions on movement in conflict-affected areas. This aligns with humanitarian reporting that “firewood is the primary source of cooking energy” in Borno.

This dependence carries layered costs. Trees are cut steadily to meet demand, placing pressure on already fragile ecosystems. For women in these communities, who are primarily responsible for cooking, the burden extends beyond the home. Finding fuel often means travelling to the outskirts of town or into nearby bush areas, where risks of harassment and violence persist.

The September 2024 flooding deepened these pressures. Supply chains were disrupted, stored firewood was washed away, and charcoal became scarce and more expensive. In homes already navigating scarcity, cooking became uncertain.

Beyond immediate access, the environmental toll is significant. The NBS 2024 General Household Survey shows that Nigeria consumes an estimated 30 billion kilogrammes of fuelwood annually, driving deforestation. In regions like Borno, where vegetation is already sparse, this accelerates land degradation and desertification, reinforcing a cycle of environmental stress and energy poverty.

Health and safety risks are also closely tied to this dependence. Smoke from firewood and charcoal contributes to indoor air pollution, which is linked to respiratory illnesses, particularly among women and children. In the North East, these risks extend further. Women who gather firewood often face threats of harassment, violence, and abduction, making the simple act of cooking fuel collection a dangerous task.

Within this system, energy, environment, and security are tightly bound. It is this reality that shapes both the problem Khadija is responding to and the limits of the solutions emerging around it.

Improvising in the aftermath of the flood

Khadija’s first attempts were small, almost tentative, as though she was testing not just the materials in her hands but the possibility that something useful could still be made from what the flood had left behind.

Without equipment or formal training, she worked with what was available: charcoal residue, scraps of household waste, fragments others might have discarded without a second thought. She burned them, pressed them, broke them apart again when they failed — testing what held, what crumbled, and what caught fire and stayed lit. The process was slow.

There was no machine then. No structured method. Only a need that could not be postponed.

The knowledge has since gone from one woman to another: Women with limited mobility. Women navigating spaces where stepping out to collect fuel is not always safe.

Within the disability community, the effort did not go unnoticed. 

“We rallied behind her,” said Hassana Mohammed Bunu, women’s leader of the Association of Persons with Physical Disabilities in Borno State. 

“I have stopped using charcoal and firewood ever since I began using her briquettes,” Zara said. Although Zara has been taught how to make them, she prefers to buy them from Khadija. “She uses a machine to make them. And they are more compressed than handmade,” she added. “It is smokeless, and they burn longer.”

Climate shocks uniquely affect persons with disabilities in Nigeria and other parts of the world. These disasters deepen already existing barriers. Mobility becomes more difficult. Access to resources narrows. In conflict-affected settings like Borno and much of the North East, those constraints are often sharper, less visible, and rarely addressed directly.

In energy access, the gaps are even more pronounced. Clean cooking programmes, where they exist, are not always designed with accessibility in mind. Physical barriers, cost, and social exclusion often limit participation. Nigeria’s legal framework, including the Discrimination Against Persons with Disabilities (Prohibition) Act, exists, but its translation into everyday interventions, particularly in climate and energy responses, remains uneven.

Scaling a local idea

To sustain what she had started, Khadija began to think bigger.

She raised her first capital in small, deliberate ways, selling caps and setting aside the earnings. With that, she bought sawdust, Arabic gum, and starch, enough to stabilise her production and move from improvisation to something more consistent. What began at home remained modest but steady, supported by family, friends, and members of the disability community who saw the value in what she was building.

In 2025, her work drew the attention of the United Nations Development Programme (UNDP). After three months of training at the Abdul Samad Rabiu Centre for Innovation and Entrepreneurship at the University of Maiduguri, she received a grant that marked a turning point. With it, she purchased a briquette-making machine.

With the machine, she could produce up to 100 bags of briquettes per day, each sold at ₦6,500.

To deepen her technical knowledge, she partnered with Faaby Global Services, a Maiduguri-based environmental organisation, where she now works closely with a production team. There, she contributes not only as a learner but as a practitioner. 

“She shares her ideas in production and on tackling some challenges,” said Heriju Samuel John, an assistant manager at the organisation. “She is also a native of this town, so she helps us in sourcing raw materials.”

Her machine is now one of three in the facility, a small but significant marker of how far the work has moved from its starting point.

Yet, the broader briquette ecosystem in the region remains uneven. Programmes led by organisations such as FAO have introduced briquettes and fuel-efficient stoves to thousands of households across Borno, Adamawa, and Yobe, often linking energy access to protection concerns.

But outside these interventions, the market is still thin. Production is limited. Adoption is inconsistent. Many initiatives remain tied to donor funding rather than sustained commercial demand.

In that landscape, Khadija’s work sits somewhere in between, not fully independent of institutional support, but not entirely defined by it either.

Can briquettes change the equation?

The briquettes Khadija produces are made largely from what others leave behind. Charcoal residue. Sawdust. Rice husks. Groundnut stalks. Agricultural waste is sourced from farmers and traders who would otherwise discard it. Coconut shells, when available, add density, though they are harder to find in places like Maiduguri and are more expensive.

The materials are burned in a low-oxygen environment, then converted into biochar, and finally ground into fine particles and bound together using eco-friendly binders such as gum arabic or starch. What emerges is a compact fuel that holds its shape and, according to Khadija, burns longer and with less smoke.

“We are recycling,” she said, describing a system that pulls from multiple points in the local economy.

Farmers sell their waste. They also source leftover charcoal and firewood particles from traders. Additionally, waste management actors like the Borno State Environmental Protection Agency (BOSEPA) deliver degradable materials. 

To manage fluctuations, especially during the rainy season when materials become scarce, Khadija stores raw inputs in bulk in a rented facility in the Abbaganaram area of Maiduguri. 

Her briquettes now move through different layers of the market; restaurants, bakeries, and roadside food vendors buy in bulk. Households purchase for daily use. Some consignments travel beyond Maiduguri, to nearby towns like Bama, and even across borders into Cameroon, with up to two trucks dispatched weekly.

For women, particularly those with disabilities, the impact is measured less in scale than in use. Khadija sells at discounted rates within the community and has trained more than 20 women to produce their own briquettes. “She taught some of our members,” Hassana said.

In some households, Khadija told HumAngle, the shift is already complete. Firewood has been replaced. “This gives me joy,” she said, adding that the transition could extend further. “If people fully understand the benefits, they would stop using charcoal and firewood.”

But the shift is not without constraints.

Raw materials fluctuate. Storage remains limited. Transport is still a challenge. And beyond logistics, there are social barriers that do not disappear with production. “People say I am doing what able-bodied people should be doing,” she said. “Being a woman makes it even worse.”

Still, she continues to plan, looking toward a larger production facility that could employ more women and stabilise supply.

Mass kidnappings are a common way for gangs and armed groups to make quick money in Nigeria.

Gunmen have raided an orphanage and kidnapped at least 23 children, authorities in Nigeria report.

The gang took the children late on Sunday from an unregistered facility called the Dahallukitab Group of Schools, located in an “isolated area” in Kogi State’s capital, Lokoja, Kogi Information Commissioner Kingsley Fanwo said in a statement on Monday.

Mass kidnappings have become a common way for gangs and armed groups to make quick money in Africa’s most populous country, especially in rural areas with little government presence.

Fanwo said the “prompt and coordinated response” of security agencies led to the rescue of 15 children but eight are still missing.

The wife of the proprietor of the orphanage was also abducted, according to the statement.

“Intensive operations are ongoing to secure the safe return of the remaining eight victims and apprehend the perpetrators,” the official said.

The orphanage was operating “illegally” in a remote location without the knowledge of relevant authorities and security agencies, Fanwo added.

The statement did not disclose the ages of the abducted children, but it referred to them as “pupils”, which in Nigeria usually refers to someone in kindergarten or primary school, covering ages up to 12.

No group immediately claimed responsibility for the attack.

Nigeria faces multiple conflicts from long-running violence by the Boko Haram armed group to “bandit” gangs, farmer-herder violence and southeastern separatists.

The ISIL (ISIS)-linked Lakurawa group also operates in communities in the northwestern part of the country bordering Niger.

The North Central Zone of Nigeria, where Kogi is located, has seen violent attacks, including raids on schools, in recent months with some of the attacks blamed on armed groups.

Hundreds of students were taken by gunmen from their school in neighbouring Niger State in November in an attack security sources blamed on Boko Haram.

Before he became a fugitive preacher, during which time security officials learned to mutter his name with a foreboding weight, culminating ultimately in his killing,  filmed and circulated across local and international news platforms, Mohammed Yusuf was a boy seated before his father, learning the Qur’an. This is where this story begins.

Not in 2002 or in July 2009, which are often cited as the landmark years. The beginning lay far away from prying eyes, in the ordinary intimacy of religious learning, in a world of fathers and sons, mallams and pupils, recitation and repetition.

Those who knew Yusuf’s early life describe a child shaped in his father’s image. According to one of his sisters, who does not wish to be named, “He learned to recite the Qur’an under Baba. He was our father’s student before he became anyone else’s.” He imbibed that discipline, the rigour and rhythm of recitation, correction, and memorisation. 

He went on to study under Goni Bulama, who was reportedly knowledgeable in fiqh (the human interpretation and application of Sharia law). Later, he travelled to Potiskum in Yobe State to continue learning under his uncle, Goni Madu. He stayed there for two or three years, “then he returned home and continued seeking knowledge in several places” as part of the Almajiranci system, his sister recalled. 

Among the clerics repeatedly named by people who followed that part of his life is Goni Modu in Lamisula, a suburb in Maiduguri. He occasionally took lessons from the late Sheikh Abba Aji, a well-respected Mufassir (Qur’anic exegete)in Maiduguri. “Yusuf did not emerge from the bubble; he was shaped through the interplay of ideologies,” said Kyari Mustafa, a researcher and one of Yusuf’s former students. One of his childhood friends, who is now a moderate cleric in Maiduguri, described Yusuf as a very curious child, adding that he thinks “that was what made him learn faster than all his peers”.

According to many who encountered Yusuf, he was many things, some of them deeply dangerous, but he was not a man who wandered by accident into religious influence. He read, listened, argued, absorbed, and faltered like many clerics before him and after him. He later recast those ideas into a corrosive, doctrinal political weapon, with devastating consequences that plunged more than five countries bordering Lake Chad into violence, killing and maiming tens of thousands, and uprooting millions from their communities.

Long before he created a movement the world would come to know as Boko Haram, he moved through circles of da’awah and doctrinal activism that were themselves products of a wider shift in Muslim politics. At one stage, he was linked to the Muslim Brothers, a movement of mostly students active in the 1980s and 1990s that promoted political Islam and reform. Some accounts also linked him to circles associated with Sheikh Ibrahim El Zakzaky, the Shia cleric and leader of the Islamic Movement in Nigeria. Those familiar with that era said Yusuf pulled away immediately from what he regarded as Shi’a framing by key figures in the movement, since he was inclined toward Sunni religious beliefs. However, Yusuf was not separated from their struggle; instead, he was separated over the terms, over authority, aqeedah, and over who would define the path ahead.

The claim that Yusuf was a disciple of the late Kano-based Salafi scholar Sheikh Ja’afar Mahmud and his circle does not hold under closer scrutiny. However, those who observed the stint at Muhammad Indimi’s mosque in Maiduguri and the eventual split describe a sharper divergence. “Ja’afar argued that Muslims should engage formal schools and institutions, then reform them from within. Yusuf rejected that path, calling for a boycott. He pushed for parallel systems built on Islamic guidance with zero secular influence,” said Mustafa.

From the beginning, there were overlaps between Yusuf and dozens of clerics in broad questions about jihad and Sharia. Still, Yusuf pushed toward establishing a totalitarian Sharia system on terms others did not share, or not yet. Across the Sahel, a broad clerical ecosystem continues to propagate hardline doctrinal interpretations reminiscent of those once advanced by Mohammed Yusuf. Many remain obscure, not for lack of ideological alignment, but because they have not transitioned into open confrontation with the state. Unlike Yusuf, whose influence escalated when he mobilised disaffected youth into armed resistance, these figures operate below the threshold of insurgency and restrict themselves to preaching. 

There was also an organisational history that has been largely buried beneath the violence that came later. “Yusuf was once part of a movement in 1997/1998 identified as ‘Jamatul Tajdid Islami’, which was first created in Kano and headquartered there,” said Malam Mohammad, Yusuf’s former associate now based in Kano. By early 2000, he was back in Maiduguri, beginning or deepening preaching activities across several mosques. He was pushed out from Mohammed Indimi’s Mosque, moved to Al’amin Daggash Mosque, was stopped again, and then continued from his own house, given to him by his father-in-law. He named the sanctuary Ibn Taymiyya Masjid after a 13th-century Islamic scholar. 

This was a precursor phase built on a study circle, not an insurgent cell. At the time, young men in white jalabiyas and their wives in black long jalbabs flooded Maiduguri. They were encouraged to bond tightly, abandon schools, and resign from secular institutions. “They shared food amongst themselves. They sold farm produce at subsidised rates from their large farm in Benisheikh. They provided free medical care through two clinics in Maiduguri. They ran a small revolving loan scheme for indigent members,” said Malam (name withheld), one of the movement’s former clerics currently in Maiduguri.

A fighter still active told HumAngle he dropped out as a sophomore at the University of Maiduguri, leaving his parents’ home to move in with a member of the group. “Between 2006 and 2007, I had no skills or a job. I survived on daily meals and food stamps from the Ibn Taymiyyah mosque. I will never forget that support by Malam Mohammed Yusuf,” said the 42-year-old Boko Haram member.

Ideology and a premeditated war

Boko Haram did not erupt because of the high-handedness of security agents, though that high-handedness was real and consequential. It did not begin because Mohammed Yusuf was extrajudicially killed in July 2009. However, that killing transformed him into a martyr in the eyes of his followers and helped harden the foot soldiers in the war that came thereafter. It did not begin because of one helmet law, one police confrontation, or one week of clashes in Biu, Bauchi, Maiduguri, Damaturu, Potiskum, and elsewhere.

Those events merely accelerated the rupture.

The deeper fuse was ideology, and that ideology did not grow in isolation. It travelled with money, with wars fought elsewhere, with transnational religious currents, and with the afterlife of global politics that Nigeria still refuses to examine closely.

In the 1980s, amid oil-fuelled prosperity and the protracted Cold War contest in Afghanistan, a distinct wave of Salafi thought was actively scaled by a Gulf state. It travelled through well-funded clerical networks, charities, publications, scholarships, and layers of international patronage that gave it both reach and structure.

For external backers, the fine details of ideology did not matter. What mattered was shared strategy. As long as this movement in Afghanistan put pressure on the Soviet Union, its beliefs were rarely questioned and were sometimes quietly supported.

In Afghanistan, jihad evolved from a theological concept into something more kinetic, a pathway, a destination, and, for many, a defining personal transformation. Young men from across the Muslim world answered that call. Nigerians were among them. Many of them were strikingly from the southwest region, but when they returned, they did not find the same fertile conditions in their home environment for a project of violent proselytisation. The idea survived, but it did not easily reproduce itself in that terrain.

In the north, these returnee fighters from Afghanistan did not arrive on stable ground. They met a generation of young men with little education and a grim future, a generation that knew the state only through force, neglect, and theft. They met boys raised on the daily humiliation of poverty and poor investment in education by corrupt officials.

That was the combustible field in which Yusuf picked up most of his ideas in the late 90s and began to nurture them into a movement in the early years of 2000. By the time the July 2009 ma’araka occurred, the insurgency had already been imagined, nurtured, and prepared for years. The movement had passed through the stages of learning, da’awah, withdrawal, factional dispute, internal sorting, and ideological hardening.

“Operation Flush” and the broader security pressure during that period disrupted a longer period of preparation. When the confrontation came, the group had not yet fully built what they intended to build. If they had been left to prepare longer, and if the rupture had come later rather than in July 2009, Nigeria might have faced a movement with greater organisational maturity and strategic capacity.

In the weeks after the confrontation between Boko Haram members and Operation Flush in Maiduguri, triggered by the enforcement of helmet regulations on motorcycle riders, tensions escalated sharply. Security forces shot around 20 sect members, an incident that hardened positions within the group and deepened mistrust of state authority.

Mohammed Yusuf responded with an open declaration, signalling that the group would confront the state if certain demands were not met. Within the cult-like community, preparations began quietly but deliberately. Members started liquidating personal assets. Cars, motorcycles, and even houses were sold. Women parted with jewellery and household items. Contributions came from across the network, each person offering what they could.

This mobilisation unfolded in earnest in the month leading up to July 2009. 

Long before the war, there were also fractures inside the movement that foreshadowed what would come later. One notable example is that of Muhammed Alli, who, after disagreeing with Yusuf, left for Hijra to Kanamma in Yobe State with dozens of youths in 2003. They isolated themselves from normal civil life in a remote location. When the traditional leader in the vicinity noticed a strange group of people in his turf in December 2003, he approached them, and one thing led to another; the group had violent confrontations with the Police that resulted in the loss of lives and properties. 

At the height of Yusuf’s sectarian authority between 2006 and 2009, a fracture was already taking shape within his movement. Beneath the surface, a harder, more impatient current was consolidating around Abubakar Shekau, his top lieutenant. “Yusuf believed in sequencing. Build strength first. Recruit deeply. Arm deliberately. Accumulate resources. Then, confront the state from a position of capacity,” said Mustafa.

Shekau, like Muhammad Ali, who led Kanamma, rejected that procedure. They both pushed for immediacy. Strike now and absorb the consequences later. Death itself, whether inflicted or received, was framed as victory through martyrdom, according to those inclined to Shekau’s hardline views.

Malam Hassan (Gandrova), a staff member of the Nigerian Prison Service, who was radicalised during one of Shekau’s brief remands at the Maiduguri Maximum Security Prison, would eventually join the terror group’s bomb-making unit. On Friday, July 24, 2009, he was assembling an IED with two other individuals at his rented apartment in Umarari, ‘Bayan quarters’ in Maiduguri. “Hassan and the two other bomb-making members of the sect were unskilled at the time, and their explosives blew up everyone in the room,” said a former member currently in one of Nigeria’s deradicalisation programmes set up to reintegrate former fighters back to normal civil life in their communities. 

The following day, Saturday, July 25, Yusuf’s followers were attacked in Bauchi. On the night of Sunday, July 26, Yusuf faced mounting pressure from his own ranks after the bomb incident and the raids in Bauchi, compounded by a sting operation by the police in Maiduguri, “who falsely tipped Yusuf’s men that security forces would launch an assault against them before dawn,” said a senior police officer familiar with the events of July 2009. Shekau’s more radical supporters within the group demanded action.

On the evening of July 26, 2009, hours before they launched an attack on the Borno State Police headquarters, Yusuf condemned the attacks on his men during an interview with this reporter, who worked for Daily Trust at the time. “What I said previously that we are going to be attacked by the authorities has manifested itself in Bauchi, where about 40 of our brothers were doing what Allah said, arm yourself and your religion in the face of an attack and an attack was imminent. This was what Malam Hassan [bomb victim] was doing when he became a martyr,” he said.  

Had Yusuf refused the group’s attack on the Police Force headquarters in Maiduguri, he would not have remained leader after that night, said several senior members of the group interviewed by HumAngle. The movement was already shifting beneath him. At best, he would have been sidelined. At worst, he would have been removed entirely by the very hardline faction he had tried to restrain.

Blood ties and the machinery of war

To understand how this story has unfolded, one has to see Yusuf as the centre of a household as well.

He had four wives and a large number of children, between 24 and 26, according to the accounts available. His first wife was Aisha, also known as Ya Bintu or Yaya Bintu. Among the children attributed to her are Yusuf, Habib, Ibrahim, Ahmad, Imam Muslim, Abdullahi (also called Abba), Isa, and Abdulazeez.

His second wife was Fatima, also called Ummu Zara. Children linked to her include Zarah, Alhaji Ba (recalled unclearly in one account), Iya Gana, Ummu Kulthu, Aish, Uma, and Abdulwahab.

His third wife was Hajja Gana, also called Ba’ba. Children associated with her include Zainab (often called Ummi), Maryam, Umar, and Khadija (also known as Ya Dija).

The fourth wife was Ummu Tulaf, or Ummuthulab in some accounts. Muazu is consistently named among her children. This is not a perfect register, but a family history carried through oral memory, insurgent secrecy, death, displacement, and the distortions that come when names are repeated across generations. But the uncertainties do not dilute the central point. Yusuf did not leave behind a disembodied ideology. He left behind a house, and that house has remained part of the machinery of war to date.

One relative of Yusuf, based in Kano, who spoke in detail about the family, put it simply: “All of his children are part of the insurgency. Some are dead now. But they are all part of it with no exceptions.”

The first son, Yusuf, married in Hotoro, Kano State, in 2010. The marriage was brief; he died not long after, leaving no children. His death followed the September 7, 2010, prison break in Bauchi, when Boko Haram freed hundreds of their members. Some of the escapees of that prison break were later traced to a hideout in Hotoro, where Yusuf lived. Security forces moved in. In the exchange that followed, Yusuf, the first son of Mohammed Yusuf, was killed.

Habib, the second son, known as Abu Musab, became the most consequential. Family testimony about his domestic life varies in detail, as such testimony often does in clandestine worlds, but the core is clear. He had multiple wives and many children. Zainab is recalled as one wife, Halima as another, Aisha as another. Their children, depending on who recounts the family tree, include Mus’ab, Humaira, Rumaisa, Muhammad, another Muhammad, Shifa’u, Ramla, Zarah, Rufaidah, Kasim, Abdullahi, and Amir. In one account, there is mention of a concubine or enslaved woman who bore him a daughter. 

After the July 2009 violent outbreak, most of Mohammed Yusuf’s children, except his first son, were moved out of Nigeria. They were first taken to Kusiri in northern Cameroon, then to N’Djamena in Chad, where they continued their religious education under Sudanese and Chadian tutors. This relocation appears to have taken place within months of Yusuf’s death and was aimed at preserving both their safety and their symbolic value within the movement.

In 2012, after Abubakar Shekau left Rijiyan Zaki in Kano and established himself in the Sambisa forest, he ordered Yusuf’s children to be brought back into the insurgent enclave, which the group had begun to frame as its Daula. This move reflected a deliberate effort to consolidate legitimacy by reabsorbing Yusuf’s lineage into the insurgency’s core.

Among those elevated during this period was Abu Musab al-Barnawi. He was progressively assigned roles that combined religious authority and operational relevance, positioning him as a bridge between doctrinal leadership and battlefield command.

From 2015 to 2016, tensions between Shekau and ISIS leadership intensified. The central issue was Shekau’s expansive use of takfir, particularly Takfir al-‘Umum, which justified violence against broad segments of the Muslim population. ISIS leadership, including Abu Muhammad al-Adnani, engaged in repeated efforts to moderate Shekau’s position. These attempts also addressed concerns over targeting practices, the use of female suicide bombers, and command discipline. All efforts failed.

In August 2016, ISIS formally intervened. Through its Al-Naba publication, it announced the removal of Shekau as leader and the appointment of Abu Musab al-Barnawi as Wali of the Islamic State’s West Africa Province (ISWAP). This marked the formal split between Boko Haram and ISWAP. The decision was externally driven by ISIS central and reflected a strategic shift toward a more controlled and population-focused insurgent model under new leadership. 

Abba (aka Abu Umaysa), whose given name is Abdullahi, is also one of Yusuf’s sons. He reportedly had multiple wives and children, including Muhammad, Maryam, Aisha, and at least one other son. Within the insurgent structure, he played a technical and operational role, particularly in communications. Sources indicate he was responsible for managing encrypted messaging platforms that facilitated contact between ISWAP leadership and ISIS-linked actors in the Middle East.

Despite his communications role, Abba was known to participate directly in combat operations, a pattern that reportedly drew disapproval from senior leadership due to the sensitivity of his liaison responsibilities. Internal disputes led to repeated detentions. Abba was imprisoned on four separate occasions by his brother Abu Musab, including periods of detention alongside that of Mamman Nur, a senior figure associated with Mohammed Yusuf’s lifetime.

In one instance, he escaped custody with other fighters and fled to the Niger Republic, but later returned. According to a source, he was subsequently pardoned and allowed to reintegrate without facing the death penalty typically imposed on members accused of attempting to defect.

A senior ISWAP defector, Malam Ibrahim, stated that during one period of detention linked to internal disagreements, ISIS-linked contacts “declined communication with ISWAP as long as they did not hear his voice. He was released immediately to continue his work.” 

Abba later died in early 2023 during an engagement with the Multinational Joint Task Force in the Kangarwa forest area.

The other sons, Muslim, Abdulazeez, Isa, and Abdulwahab, are described by one source as married and without children at the time of this report. However, Muslim was arrested in Chad when he was trying to defect from the group to live outside of Nigeria. 

Even inside the household of a movement that would later devastate the northeast, family life is still narrated through the intimate vocabulary of births, marriages, hopes, namesakes, and unanswered prayers for children. That is exactly why the story resists easy reduction. The people at the centre of violence remained human in their own domestic worlds. That does not mitigate their responsibility, but it explains how such worlds sustain themselves.

The patriarch’s execution

Yusuf’s rise spiked because of his soft-spoken, unusual, and persuasive verbal skills rather than his scholastic proficiency. He did not need the theatrics many expected from Sahel’s religious authorities. He could name what young men already felt but had not yet organised into doctrine. Corruption. Injustice. Absence. State impunity. The feeling that rulers had abandoned both God and the governed. He took those scattered injuries and gave them a single haunting frame.

Yusuf was carrying a worldview shaped by transnational currents, doctrinal disputes within Nigeria and the broader Sahel Islam, and his own insistence that the Nigerian state was religiously illegitimate.

Then came the extrajudicial killing.

Outside the police headquarters in Maiduguri, Yusuf was captured on camera,  alive in custody, seated and handcuffed. Later, he was dead, his body riddled with bullets. The state said he had been shot while trying to escape. The footage with his hands tied, however, invalidated that claim.

What followed was brutal and systematic. Raids spread across northern states, with Maiduguri at the centre. Security forces targeted hospitals and local pharmacies. They forced staff to identify and lead them to patients treated for gunshot wounds or related injuries. Those patients were taken to the State Police headquarters. Some could barely stand. Some were on crutches. Some were executed at close range in the presence of this reporter, as documented here.

For followers, the image of Yusuf became proof of everything he had preached about state injustice. This was the moment the war entered the family’s bloodstream. His children, who had already grown up under his teachings, now witnessed his extrajudicial death. 

Abu Musab was central to the next phase.

The rise and fall of Abu Musab

Relatives remember him first as a disciplined son who rose through the ranks. He became a Munzir, later Ka’id, fiya, then a Waliy. He read deeply. He gained influence not only because he was Yusuf’s son but because he appeared to embody knowledge and steadiness.

Some accounts describe him as a serious internal voice within the insurgency, especially in doctrinal disputes over takfir and the treatment of ordinary Muslims. At one point, some within the movement argued that any Muslim who refused to migrate to the bush and live under insurgent control was an unbeliever. The practical effect of that doctrine was robbery, extortion, and killing. 

Abu Musab is remembered by those close to him as having resisted that direction. “People had reasons they could not leave,” he said in one of his recorded messages. “Not everyone outside the bush was an apostate.” That detail does not make him humane in any broad sense. He remained a leader in a movement that killed, abducted, raped, extorted, and terrorised civilians. But it does place him more accurately within the insurgency’s internal tapestry. He was part of the crop of leaders who believed Shekau had gone too far.

That split would define the next phase of the war.

After Yusuf’s death, Abubakar Shekau turned what remained of the movement into a machine of spectacle and indiscriminate terror. His fighters razed villages, bombed markets, assassinated Muslim clerics, and turned young women and girls into delivery systems for explosives. Entire communities were punished under expansive accusations of unbelief or collaboration. Shekau did not merely fight the Nigerian state. He fought whole populations, including the Muslims his faction claimed to defend.

Inside the movement, dissent built over time. Some of Yusuf’s old followers, including members of his family, believed Shekau had broken from the founder’s original doctrinal line. They still believed in jihad. They still rejected the Nigerian state. But they did not accept his disregard for restraint and counsel.

When the movement pledged allegiance to the Islamic State, those internal disputes widened. That split changed the insurgency’s logic. Shekau’s faction remained rooted in Sambisa and in a politics of fear, punishment, and theatrical violence. ISWAP, under Abu Musab, moved toward an equally brutal but more organised form of insurgent governance around the Lake Chad Basin. It taxed fishermen, farmers, and traders. It built courts, regulated movement, and sought not merely to kill but to rule.

It was still a terrorist organisation. It still abducted, extorted, murdered, raped and coerced. But its method of domination differed from Boko Haram. Where Shekau often destroyed civilian life outright, ISWAP frequently sought to occupy it, supervise it, and harvest from it. Communities brutalised by both insurgents and the military often did not think in abstract moral categories. They thought in terms of survival. To some, ISWAP looked more predictable than Shekau’s men, less erratic, and more likely to tax than to massacre. In this phase, Yusuf’s family became an infrastructure.

Some sons moved into command, others into ideological work. Some daughters married senior figures, tightening bonds between bloodline and leadership. One of Yusuf’s wives, Hajja Gana, later married Abubakar Shekau. The geography of Lake Chad then amplified everything.

Once a vast inland body of water, the lake has, over the decades, become a shifting geography of reeds, channels, islands, marshes, and seasonal passages where state borders blur, and state authority thins into abstraction. A fighter can move from Nigeria into Niger or Chad with less friction than a trader might face at a conventional checkpoint. Armouries can be hidden on islands. Training camps can be relocated across terrains that conceal unfriendly surveillance. Tax routes can be imposed on fishing channels more effectively than the Nigerian state can regulate ordinary commercial life in some border communities.

Yet dynasties do not move cleanly. They fracture from within.

Abu Musab’s rise inside ISWAP did not end in settled power. Internal struggles sharpened. Rivalries widened within the rank-and-file and the shura. Family accounts describe a period of captivity that placed him in real danger. The Boko Haram faction led by one Bakura Doro wanted him dead. Some within ISWAP opposed his return to influence, reflecting deeper internal fractures shaped by ideology, loyalty, and competition for authority. Yet he retained a critical asset: He was a recognised member of the shura within the broader Islamic State network. That status placed him within a transnational decision-making architecture that extends beyond the Lake Chad Basin, linking local commanders to the central leadership historically based in the Levant and later dispersed across multiple theatres.

According to a high-profile source, “a decision was made to extract him, perhaps toward North Africa or the Middle East.” Such a move would align with patterns seen in the Islamic State’s global operations, where experienced figures are sometimes redeployed across provinces. These decisions are often driven by strategic need, internal distrust, or the desire to preserve individuals with institutional memory and ideological legitimacy within the wider ISIS ecosystem.

That plan never reached its destination.

Instead, he moved through Nigeria under concealment. He spent time with one of his wives and their child. He moved through Kano. He surfaced in Kaduna. The high-profile source said, “Kaduna was the location chosen for him to wait for his travel documents to be processed.” HumAngle gathered that he was in the process of obtaining a Niger Republic international passport. At his Kaduna hideout, between April 21 and May 19, 2023, one of his couriers was tracked and security agents followed the trail to the house.

What remains most striking is that they appear not to have known whom they were closing in on. They suspected criminality, but by available accounts, they did not know they were approaching Abu Musab al-Barnawi himself. 

Abu Musab heard heavy banging at the gate, mixed with men shouting and the rumble of vehicles. He knew immediately it was security forces. HumAngle gathered through extensive interviews that he was calm, almost detached. He told his young wife, who was holding their young child, to open the gate. As she moved toward it, he slipped into the room’s toilet. Moments later, he detonated the explosive vest strapped to his body.

The blast stunned everyone outside, including his wife. The sound cut through the compound without warning. He chose death over arrest, over public disgrace, over the certainty of spending the rest of his life behind bars.

There was no public announcement after the blast that killed Abu Musab, no official triumph, no clear state recognition that one of the most significant insurgent figures in the region had died in that house. The insurgents, too, remained quiet, neither publicly mourning nor confirming the incident. Instead, the kunya Abu Musab continued to circulate, adopted by others as part of the deception and continuity that sophisticated insurgent networks rely on.

So he died in near silence.

A complex conflict

The temptation in telling this story is to simplify it into a mirror, a dreadful, clean reflective script revealing the ugliness and wretchedness of ruthless power mixed with aloof governance. The state is wholly guilty. The insurgents are evil. The civilians are trapped. All of that is true, and none of it is enough.

Yusuf’s movement drew strength from three elements that must be held up together if the story is to make sense.

The first was ideology. A structured creed, nourished by transnational currents, that delegitimised secular authority and imagined an Islamic order justified by violence.

The second was a grievance about corrupt governance, collapsed services, absent justice, police extortion, and growing poverty and unemployment across northern Nigeria.

The third was impunity: lawlessness by the state, extrajudicial killings, collective punishment, detention without process, and the routine treatment of poor people as disposable.

Some of the young men who heard and looked up to Yusuf died in 2009, before the insurgency fully matured. Some fled and returned. Some crossed into Chad, Niger, Cameroon and Sudan. Some started living normal lives. Some became commanders, teachers, recruiters, executioners, or administrators in the insurgent order. Some of his children, like Abu Musab, moved into leadership. Others remained within family or support structures inside the insurgent ecosystem. Some died. Some vanished. Some married deeper into the insurgency. Some had children in forest camps and island settlements. Those children then formed a third generation.

That third generation may be the hardest part of this story.

Across parts of the Lake Chad Basin, children have grown up under insurgent authority or the culture of violence, with no memory of peace. Their parents’ stories are not about school, court, civic life, or public trust. They are about raids, camps, betrayal, martyrdom, command, and survival.

In Borno, Yobe, and across the Lake Chad region, insurgency is not sustained only by ideology at the top. It is sustained by marriages, kinship, cattle routes, fishing economies, clerical contentions, clans, dialects, borderland trade, and the practical calculations of communities trying to stay alive between insurgent taxation and military suspicion. A woman’s marriage can be an alliance, survival, coercion, and entrapment all at once. A boy’s movement from the city to the forest can be due to indoctrination, family obedience, or a lack of alternatives. A trader may pay insurgents not because he supports them but because the state has left him no other safe route.

That is also why the story cuts beyond Nigeria. 

The symmetry is brutal. The state killed the father after capture. The son killed himself to avoid capture. Between those two deaths lies the whole distortion of the northeast conflict. A state too often governed by force rather than law. An insurgency that chose violence over any serious claim to humanity. A population trapped between them, paying in graves, hunger, displacement, and silence.

More than a decade after Yusuf’s death, the conflict he helped set in motion has not collapsed into victory or defeat. Instead, it has settled into a prolonged contest between military containment and insurgent adaptation.

The Nigerian military and the Multinational Joint Task Force have, despite operational limitations, prevented a full territorial takeover by Boko Haram and ISWAP. At multiple points, especially between 2013 and 2015, insurgents controlled significant territory. That phase was rolled back through sustained military pressure.

However, these successes were fundamentally limited. The military has achieved containment, not resolution. This creates a circle where military gains are repeatedly eroded in the absence of credible state presence, turning the conflict into a durable stalemate rather than a solvable war.

The danger now is not only that Nigerians forget Mohammed Yusuf’s actual place in this history. The danger is that the next generation inherits only the myths. On one side, the state myth that terrorism came from nowhere and can be resolved through raids, procurement, press releases, and more force. On the other side, the insurgent myth is that an unbelieving state martyred a “righteous founder” and that his children merely carried forward a sacred duty.

Both myths kill.

The truer version is harder. Yusuf was a product of corrosive ideology, ambition, and grievance. That is why this story still matters.

Nigeria did not invent militant Salafi ideology. It did not write the script of the Afghan jihad. It did not create global takfiri currents. But Nigeria did something unforgivable in its own space. It abandoned millions of citizens to conditions in which men like Mohammed Yusuf could speak with authority. Then, when the blowback came, it answered with the same habits that had already emptied the state of legitimacy in the eyes of many.

There is one final image that remains.

Somewhere in northern Nigeria, perhaps in Lake Chad, perhaps in a displacement camp, perhaps in a community held loosely between one armed authority and another, a child is being taught. The question is not whether that child will learn religion. The question is what will be wrapped around it. 

First all-women cohort of winners hails from Colombia, Nigeria, Papua New Guinea, South Korea, the UK and the US.

This year’s prestigious Goldman Environmental Prize has been awarded to six grassroots environmental activists from around the world for their efforts to fight climate change and save biodiversity.

For the first time since the prize was created in 1989 by philanthropists Richard and Rhoda Goldman, all recipients of the award are women: Iroro Tanshi, from Nigeria; Borim Kim, from South Korea; Sarah Finch, from the United Kingdom; Theonila Roka Matbob, from Papua New Guinea; Alannah Acaq Hurley, from the United States; and Yuvelis Morales Blanco, from Colombia.

Sometimes described as the “Green Nobel”, the Goldman Prize recipients are chosen from each of the world’s six primary regions. They each receive $200,000 in prize money.

“While we continue to fight uphill to protect the environment and implement lifesaving climate policies – in the US and globally – it is clear that true leaders can be found all around us,” said John Goldman, vice president of the Goldman Environmental Foundation.

“The 2026 Prize winners are proof positive that courage, hard work, and hope go a long way toward creating meaningful progress.”

Morales Blanco, the winner for the region of South and Central America, fought some of the world’s biggest oil companies to successfully stop the introduction of commercial fracking into Colombia.

The 24-year-old grew up in a family of fishermen along the banks of the Magdalena River in the Afro-Colombian community of Puerto Wilches. “We had nothing but the river – she was like a mother who took care of me,” she said.

She began organising protests after a major oil spill in 2018, which forced the relocation of dozens of local families and killed thousands of animals. Her activism, which made her a target for intimidation and forced her to temporarily relocate, helped halt projects and elevate fracking as an issue in Colombia’s 2022 election.

Two of the other five recipients of this year’s prize have also focused their efforts on fighting fossil fuels, which are causing both global climate change and more localised pollution around the world.

Borim, the winner for Asia who started the Youth 4 Climate Action organisation, won a ruling from South Korea’s Constitutional Court that the government’s climate policy violated the constitutional rights of future generations, the first successful youth-led climate litigation in the continent.

Finch, Europe’s winner, told The Times newspaper she will use her prize money to keep fighting fossil fuels.

Together with the Weald Action Group, she fought oil drilling in southeastern England for more than a decade, securing the “Finch ruling” from the Supreme Court in June 2024, stating that authorities must consider fossil fuels’ impacts on the global climate before granting permission to extract them.

Two other recipients have fought against the destructive environmental impact of mining projects.

Papua New Guinea’s Roka Matbob, winner for Islands and Island Nations, led a successful campaign that saw the world’s second-largest mining company, Rio Tinto, agree to address environmental and social devastation caused by its Panguna copper mine, 35 years after it was closed following an uprising.

And the award recipient for North America, Acaq Hurley, from the Yup’ik nation in the US, successfully fought alongside 15 tribal nations to stop a mega- copper and gold mining project that threatened ecosystems in Alaska’s Bristol Bay region, including the largest wild salmon runs in the world.

Meanwhile, Nigeria’s Tanshi, Africa’s winner, rediscovered the endangered short-tailed roundleaf bat and has been working to save its refuge, the Afi Mountain Wildlife Sanctuary, from human-induced wildfires.