Nigerian

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nobel Prize winners in the crosshairs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Targeting ‘hostile attitudes’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oct. 20 (UPI) — Police in Nigeria broke up several protests calling for a separatist leader who has been detained for more than four years to be freed and cleared of terrorism-related charges on which he has been held.

Protesters demanding the release of Nnamdi Kanu, who is the leader of the Indigenous People of Biafra (IPOB) separatist party, had tear gas fired at them by police in Abuja, Nigeria’s capital, according to reports.

Witnesses said they saw police officers block major roads in Abuja and fire multiple rounds of tear gas at protesters who had gathered near the Transcorps Hilton Hotel in order to break up the protest.

Ahead of Monday’s protest, Nigeria Police Force spokesperson Benjamin Hundeyin announced a nationwide security alert urging the protesters to avoid inciting violence, carrying weapons or engaging in other illegal acts.

“The Nigeria Police Force reaffirms its commitment to upholding the rule of law and maintaining public peace in accordance with constitutional provisions,” Hundeyin said in a statement.

“All groups, whether in support of or opposed to the ongoing agitation for the release of Mazi Nnamdi Kanu, are expected to comply strictly with the provisions of the court order” authorizing the protest, he said.

Kanu has been held since 2021 on charges of terrorism, which followed Nigeria outlawing the IPOB, whose goal is to establish a separate state of Biafra for the Igbo people.

In 2022, Kanu was discharged and acquitted but the ruling was overturned in 2022 and he has remained jailed ever since.

Monday’s protest was organized by Omoyele Sowore, who publishes the Saraha Reporters news website and has long sought Kanu’s release.

Sowore reported on X that at least 13 people had been arrested and detained during the initial protest, which was relocated to the nearby federal capital territory police command “where the police responded by attacking us right in front of the command.”

Among those arrested during the protest were members of Kanu’s family and his lawyers, Sowore said.

In December last year, Talle Bello* received his appointment letter to join Nigeria’s Federal Fire Service. Like many others, he saw it as a turning point, a chance to finally support his family with stability and contribute meaningfully to his country. 

But nearly ten months later, he has not received a single salary payment. 

Talle is yet to be enrolled on the Integrated Payroll and Personnel Information System (IPPIS), the country’s central platform for paying federal workers, despite being among the first set of officers who reported in Abuja, North Central Nigeria, for training and documentation. When the IPPIS team arrived, they announced they could only handle a limited number of people each day.

More than 200 officers showed up for the first two days. Like many others, Talle waited patiently but was not captured. Then, the IPPIS team stopped showing up completely. 

Weeks later, he received a call from a friend notifying him that the IPPIS staff would be returning. He dropped everything and rushed to the command in Kubwa. But when he arrived, it was announced that only those on the “special list” of the service’s former Comptroller General, Abdulganiyu Jaji, would be enrolled.

Talle and other officers were not on this list. Since then, there has been no update. The existence of such lists in government workplaces reveals a grave loophole, one that blurs the line between formal professionalism and informal relationships, creating space for favouritism, especially against recruits like Talle who lack “connections”. 

Despite not being captured by IPPIS, he was posted to his duty station. He reports to work wearing the uniform, but he is not on the payroll. 

“We’ve been working without pay since December,” he told HumAngle. The exact number of affected officers remains unclear, as no official figures have been released. However, Talle said he knows of 15 other officers who have yet to receive their salaries.

IPPIS was launched in 2007 as part of efforts to strengthen Nigeria’s public finance system and plug loopholes left by the Government Integrated Financial Management Information System (GIFMIS). It ensures salaries are processed directly into the bank accounts of enrolled employees.

Despite these intentions, labour unions such as the Academic Staff Union of Universities (ASUU) have consistently opposed the platform, arguing that it fails to accommodate the unique operational and administrative structures of institutions like Nigerian universities. An academic study underscores this rejection as a critical issue, pointing to the software’s inability to reflect the sector’s specific needs and complexities.

For Talle, the consequences are deeply personal. 

He is the eldest male in his family and the breadwinner. His two younger sisters, aged 21 and 23, are both in university — one studying nursing and the other law. Before his appointment, he supported them through the menial jobs, particularly bricklaying. It was hard but manageable. Now, with no income, it’s nearly impossible.

He told HumAngle that bricklaying usually paid him about ₦7,000 per day, from which he has to save, feed, and transport. But the jobs are now rare. 

“I often borrow money from my friends to send to my sisters,” he told HumAngle. “Sometimes, I go weeks without any work at my disposal.” 

From his old pictures on his battered Itel smartphone, Talle looks chubbier. But lately, the weight has melted off, not from gym routines or diet plans, but from the quiet erosion of stress and financial strain.

“I feel like giving up on everything sometimes because life has been unfair to me in the first place. I had to take on responsibilities at a very young age to care for my siblings. It is mentally and physically overwhelming,” he added.

Families bear the brunt

The toll is not only personal. The strain has fallen squarely on his family, who are now struggling to stay afloat. Zainab, Talle’s* sister, is in her second year at a federal university in northern Nigeria. 

Her academic journey has become a daily struggle. With her elder brother unpaid, she has had to navigate university life with little to no financial support.

“Sometimes I feel like I’m falling behind because everyone else is buying the latest study materials, but I just make do with whatever I can find,” she told HumAngle. 

Accommodation and feeding are also major concerns. She shares a cramped room off-campus with two other students, and meals are irregular when she can’t afford to buy food. “There are days I go to class without eating,” Zainab said. 

On some days, she skips lectures just to avoid the embarrassment of not having transport fare, which costs ₦600 daily. 

“I used to get money from my brother every week,” she said. “Now, I wait for his call, hoping he has found someone to lend him money.” 

Social pressures add another layer of difficulty. Zainab is aware of the risks young women could face when they lack financial stability. “There are people who would offer to help, but you know some will always come with conditions,” she said. “I try to stay focused, but it’s hard when you feel like you are constantly at the mercy of others.” 

Her brother’s inability to support her has left her vulnerable, and she worries about how long she can keep resisting. “I know my brother is trying,” she said. “He is doing everything he can. But I just wish the system would recognise that we’re not asking for favours, we’re asking for what’s due.”

For Talle, the burden weighs heavily. He often has to choose which sister gets support and which one waits. “They are both girls,” he said. “I worry about what could happen if they don’t have enough. When I got this job, I thought it would end my struggles, but things have only gotten worse.”

In Nigeria, poverty is a trap that deepens the discrimination and danger faced by women and girls. Struggling to survive, they are exposed to heightened risks of violence, abuse, and denied access to the very social safety nets that could lift them out. 

A pattern of delay

Talle’s experience, however, fits into a longer history of financial neglect within the Federal Fire Service. In October 2020, officers raised alarms over unpaid salaries and allowances. Many reported working for over two months without pay, despite being required to report daily and respond to emergencies.

The leadership attributed the delay to insufficient funds in its personnel cost head, stating that other ministries were also affected. However, staff disputed this, pointing out that sister agencies under the same Ministry of Interior, such as the Nigerian Correctional Service and Immigration Service, had received their payments.

More recently, the service announced it had offset salary arrears for 2,000 personnel, describing it as a fulfilment of a promise. Yet, for new officers like the ones in Kubwa, the wait continues.

Some officers who spoke to HumAngle attributed these issues to the tenure of Jaji, the immediate past head of the service. When he retired, some officers of the service publicly jeered him following news of his retirement and replacement. 

In a viral video, uniformed personnel were seen chanting “He don go,” “Barawo,” and “Oloshi”—Pidgin English, Hausa, and Yoruba slurs meaning “He’s gone”, “Thief”, and “Useless person”. The spectacle underscores deep-seated resentment within the ranks, possibly fuelled by controversies surrounding Jaji’s tenure, including alleged mismanagement and attempts to extend his stay beyond the statutory retirement age. 

These recurring delays, especially in the cases of these affected officers, suggest a systemic issue—one that leaves officers unpaid, unsupported, and struggling to care for their families. 

When contacted, Paul Abraham, the spokesperson of the service, told HumAngle that the authorities are aware of the concerns and the matter is under review. He, however, revealed that some of these officers could be in possession of fake appointment letters, thinking they have genuine cases to be looked into.

“Even though I am not sure of the cases of these persons [referring to Talle and the other officers], we could have people with fake appointment letters that cannot be captured for IPPIS, and we could have those who said they were posted, but we didn’t employ them,” Abraham said. 

However, Emmanuel Onwubiko, National Coordinator of the Human Rights Writers of Nigeria, countered this claim. He argued that, unless there is a systemic issue within the service, it is impossible for someone to not be genuinely employed and yet be officially posted for duties by the same government agency.

Emmanuel, while calling for a forensic investigation into the issue, emphasised that the service issuing appointment letters ought to have a mechanism to detect which ones are authentic or not. 

“You do not give people appointments, and in the middle of the job, you are coming out to say they have fake appointment letters,” he told HumAngle. “The government agency should be able to point out those who have fake letters and explain how they were unable to detect them. If they can’t, it means that there is a systemic problem that needs to be investigated forensically by the Department of State Security.”

Captured yet unpaid

Not every unpaid officer is awaiting capture on IPPIS, like Talle. Falmata David* was enlisted into the Federal Fire Service in February. She completed her documentation, got captured for IPPIS in Abuja, and submitted her file after thorough verification. 

By April, salary payments had begun for her batch, but not for her. Despite being officially recognised and posted to her duty station, she has also not received a single pay cheque.

“I cross-checked everything before submitting, and I did everything right,” she told HumAngle, adding that she knows ten others like her who are also affected. She is currently in debt for transportation and feeding, though she declined to go into specific figures.

“If I don’t take food to the office, I work on an empty stomach,” she said, adding that the office is far from where she lives. 

For now, Falmata’s motivation and commitment to duty are on a decline, as she now shows up inconsistently and performs her duties with less focus and urgency.

“Sometimes, I don’t even feel like reporting for duty,” she confessed. “The lack of payment has drained my morale.”

Falmata was inspired to join the service after witnessing a destructive fire incident in her community, driven by both passion and the hope of supporting her family.  “It’s sad that despite being regarded as an officer, I can’t support them,” she said, her voice laced with grief. “When my colleagues receive their salaries, I feel bad. It’s not jealousy—it just demoralises me.”

When Falmata informed the salary department about the lack of pay, she was assured that the issue would be rectified. It has been months since then, and nothing has changed. 

Deductions without pay

For Musa Koroka*, the signs of employment are all there—an appointment letter dated December, IPPIS capture completed in February, and even pension contribution alerts received on three separate occasions. Yet, he has not received a single salary payment. 

“Not even once,” he lamented. 

The contradiction is hard to ignore. His file is in order. He followed every step required to be recognised by the system. Still, his bank account remains empty.

Hakeem Ikumoguniyi, a banking expert with over two decades of experience in the country, told HumAngle that it is only possible to receive a pension deduction without salary if the individual is on suspension. Musa is not facing any disciplinary action; he continues to report punctually and has never missed a day of work.

“But if these officers are not on suspension and there are deductions without salaries, then there is an internal problem somewhere with the central payroll of the service,” Hakeem noted. 

When asked how long the review would take for the officers to start receiving their salaries and arrears, since the issue has lingered for almost a year now, the spokesperson of the Federal Fire Service said, “The issue is not within the control of the service to determine. The Office of the Accountant General [of the Federation] is involved, and the IPPIS office is equally involved, but we are working tirelessly to resolve the issues.” 

To survive, he takes on menial jobs like motorcycle taxi, popularly called ‘okada’, after his 48-hour shift, where he earns around ₦8000 to ₦10,000 daily.

“After my duty, I proceed to hustle to feed myself and help my family,” Musa said. 

He has accrued debts as well, though he declined to reveal the amounts. The passion that brought him into the service is still there, but the lack of pay has made it less exciting. 

“My morale is very low. If I tell you that I am happy, I am lying to you,” he added.

*Names marked with an asterisk have been changed to protect the identities of the officers who requested anonymity.

Conservative Party leader Kemi Badenoch has said she no longer identifies as Nigerian and has not renewed her passport since the early 2000s.

Badenoch, who was born in the UK, grew up in both Nigeria and the US. She returned to England aged 16 because of Nigeria’s worsening political and economic climate, as well as to continue her education.

Speaking on former MP and television presenter Gyles Brandreth’s Rosebud podcast, she said she was “Nigerian through ancestry” but “by identity, I’m not really”.

Last year, Badenoch faced criticism from Nigeria’s vice-president, who said she had “denigrated” the West African country.

Badenoch, who previously lived in Lagos, spoke at length about her upbringing on the podcast.

“I know the country very well, I have a lot of family there, and I’m very interested in what happens there,” she said. “But home is where my now family is.”

On not renewing her passport, she said: “I don’t identify with it anymore. Most of my life has been in the UK and I’ve just never felt the need to.”

She added: “I’m Nigerian through ancestry, by birth, despite not being born there because of my parents… but by identity, I’m not really.”

Badenoch said that when she had visited the country when her father died, she had to get a visa, which was “a big fandango”.

She said her early experiences in Nigeria shaped her political outlook, including “why I don’t like socialism”.

As a child, “I remember never quite feeling that I belonged there”, she went on, adding that she recalled “coming back to the UK in 1996 thinking: this is home”.

The Tory leader added the reason she returned to the UK was “a very sad one”.

“It was that my parents thought: ‘There is no future for you in this country’.”

She said she had not experienced racial prejudice in the UK “in any meaningful form”, adding: “I knew I was going to a place where I would look different to everybody, and I didn’t think that that was odd.

“What I found actually quite interesting was that people didn’t treat me differently, and it’s why I’m so quick to defend the UK whenever there are accusations of racism.”

At the end of last year, Badenoch was criticised for saying she had grown up in fear and insecurity in Nigeria at a time it was plagued by corruption.

The country’s vice-president Kashim Shettima responded that his government was “proud” of Badenoch “in spite of her efforts at denigrating her nation of origin”. A spokesperson for Badenoch rebuffed the criticism.

No one recalls the road to Wawa. New detainees are blindfolded several kilometres ahead. Inmates are also blindfolded and driven out before release. 

It was July 27, 2021. Eleven people returning to South East Nigeria after the trial of Nnamdi Kanu, leader of the separatist group Indigenous People of Biafra (IPOB), at the Federal High Court, Abuja, were intercepted by the Department of State Services (DSS) along Lokoja. (IPOB has been fighting to secede the southeastern region to the independent nation of Biafra.) Labelled members of IPOB’s armed wing, known as Eastern Security Network, the travellers were taken into a dark, underground DSS cell in Abuja. A few weeks later, they were paired out before daybreak and chained ahead of a “military investigation.” 

Nonso and Pius Awoke landed in the Wawa prison, a military detention facility in North Central Nigeria.

Nonso, in his final year, was studying computer science at the Ebonyi State University, and Pius practised law in Akwa Ibom State. On the night they arrived in prison, they said they were first stripped by soldiers and beaten with cables. Nonso got the registration number 3220, and Pius, 3218.

Located in Niger State, the Wawa prison complex is shrouded in mystery. Except for an October 22 attack by the Islamic State West Africa Province (ISWAP), almost nothing is public about it. Even the specific location of its housing facility, the Wawa Cantonment, is a subject of disagreement. Some reports trace it to Wawa town, others say it’s in Kainji or New Bussa, which, though geographically related, are different communities in the state. 

HumAngle combined Open-Source Intelligence and satellite imagery to locate it. It is situated along the Kainji-Wawa highway, roughly 3 – 4 km east of Wawa town and another 3 –4 km west of the Nigerian Air Force Base in New Bussa. It is accessible from both towns within 4 to 6 minutes by vehicle, depending on road conditions. 

Far left into the sizable military installation on Wawa-Wakwa Road, between Wawa town and Tamanai village in the Borgu Local Government Area (LGA), is a collection of buildings that closely match the description of two sources. The nine two-storey blocks separated by double walls are the prison complex, designated ‘A’ to ‘I’.

“Each floor contains 10 cells,” Pius said. “In every cell, there are 15 inmates, making approximately 450 per block.”

The military prison primarily holds suspected members of Boko Haram, which has terrorised Northern Nigeria for 16 years and killed at least 20,000 people. In 2017, a court set up in the cantonment tried 1669 suspects behind closed doors, convicted some and awarded prison terms ranging from three to 60 years. ISWAP’s attack on the facility later was to liberate their incarcerated members, but they lost eight more men instead, including a commander, to a joint force of local vigilantes and soldiers. 

United by fate

The largest groups in Wawa are tied to terrorism in the north, militancy in the middle belt, and secession threats in the South East. Most of the Igbo inmates were picked up after the nationwide #EndSARS protests of October 2020, sources said. During the protest, which started as a peaceful demonstration against police brutality, there were reports of IPOB-sponsored attacks on security personnel in Obigbo, Rivers State, which led to the declaration of a curfew and the invitation of the military by the then-governor Nyesom Wike. The soldiers, however, embarked on door-to-door raids, torture, rape, executions, arbitrary arrests, and disappearances of locals, especially men. 

“Thirty-four of them were taken to Wawa,” said Nonso. “Some of them were conductors and drivers going about their businesses. One of them was arrested for having a tattoo. They said he was an unknown gunman. One was even arrested for having a beard. One of my brothers from Rivers State, his offence was that he greeted a soldier.”

The rest came from Anambra and other southeastern states. Emeka Umeagbasi, whose organisation, Intersociety, sent an undercover agent to Wawa while compiling a report in 2024, confirmed this. 

“In our recent report, there’s a declassified document showing a request by the Nigerian Army for the transfer of so-called Boko Haram and IPOB terrorist suspects from the police headquarters to Wawa Military Cantonment,” he told HumAngle. “What else is more evidential?”

The events that culminated in the incarceration of a large number of Tivs in Wawa began with a peace meeting in the Katsina-Ala LGA  of Benue State on July 29, 2020. Politicians, chiefs, and religious leaders gathered in Tor-Donga, the Tiv people’s capital, to settle years of “armed robbery, kidnapping, murder, rape, and other criminal acts” connected to Terwase Akwaza, also known as Gana, a notorious militia leader who had been in hiding. The team requested amnesty for Gana and his gang members and offered an apology to Samuel Ortom, the governor at the time.

Though a known criminal, Gana was also a messiah in Sankera, the senatorial district covering Katsina-Ala, Logo, and Ukum LGAs. When the federal government appeared to be ignoring deadly armed herder incursions, it was Gana and his men who protected the people and their vibrant agricultural economy. Sankera, the location of Zaki Biam, the world’s biggest yam market, accounts for 70 per cent of Nigeria’s annual yam production. 

“Gana was employed by community leaders to defend the people against herders,” Jeremiah John*, a Sankera native, told HumAngle.

The militia leader bowed to pressure from traditional authority after the Tor-Donga summit. On September 8, 2020, he and his gang members publicly gave up their weapons and joined a convoy heading to Makurdi, the state capital, to conclude a peace deal with the governor. The military, however, intercepted the convoy, which included clergymen and community leaders, and took Gana and his gang members. News of his death would spread a few hours later. 

In a picture of his dead body later circulated on social media and seen by HumAngle, his body was bullet-ridden, and his right arm had been severed from his body.

On Facebook, HumAngle saw a petition addressed to the National Human Rights Commission in November 2020, seeking the release of 76 surrendered militants arrested with Gana. Tor Gowon Yaro, the Benue State native who signed the petition, told HumAngle that the men were still in military detention. 

“None of them has been released,” he said. “None that I’m aware of.”

Suspected terrorists are the largest single group in Wawa. About a decade ago, Boko Haram took over communities in the Banki axis of Borno State and held residents hostage. Upon a counter-operation by the military, the terrorists fled. However, soldiers claimed that the villagers were complicit and drove hundreds of them to the Bama IDP Camp, where they separated the men and took them to military detention. This happened in several other villages, and residents who also tried to escape their terrorised villages to Maiduguri, the capital city, were often intercepted and detained. 

“Half of Borno youths, especially the Kanuris, are in detention,” Pius cried. 

Other demographics in the facility are Fulani men detained over kidnapping, underage boys, and even some mentally-challenged people arrested in Maiduguri and accused of being Boko Haram members, sources said. 

HumAngle has extensively documented this arbitrary detention problem in Borno, involving thousands of men who have been detained for about a decade now, prompting their female relatives to form the Knifar Movement to advocate for their release. Though they are periodically released in batches, many are still in detention. HumAngle has confirmed the release of at least 1009 men from the Wawa prison and the infamous Giwa barracks in Maiduguri.

Behind the prison walls

“Once you’re inside, you’re inside,” said Onyibe Nonso, an undergraduate who spent nearly three years in the facility. The cell door quickly shuts after letting in food, and the special day when inmates step out for sunning may not come in a whole year. To survive, you must first accept every cellmate, no matter their tendency or ideology, including terrorists and mentally ill people.

Every day is a routine, Pius said – wake up, pray, sit down. Sometimes, you gist with fellow inmates. Other times, cellmates play the Ludo board game among themselves. Some cells have Hausa literature supplied by the Red Cross, where one could read. Since no single meal in the facility can satisfy an adult, many have formed the habit of fasting every day until evening, when they combine the meals and drink the little water available. 

“If they gave us beans, you would not see a single seed, only water,” said Pius. He also recalled having no water to bathe for a whole month. 

The toilet and bathroom carved out of each cell, the same cell that is smaller than the average bedroom and still accommodates belongings like jerricans, has no door. 

“We shared the rest of the space,” said Nonso. “To sleep, each person would place their blanket on top of their mat and leave a small space in-between.”

You stand and sit in your small portion. On the evenings when inmates squabble over space, they quickly resolve before soldiers return in the morning. It must not escalate lest they all suffer the following day. 

Conditions generally improve when the Red Cross visits, but soldiers assure inmates of a return to the old ways. 

“And truly, things would return,” said Pius. “For over a year before I was released, the Red Cross did not come. We heard that it was because the military authorities mismanaged the things they brought.”

An information blackout tops Wawa’s many woes, according to Pius.

“I didn’t know they changed money,” he said, referring to the time when Nigeria redesigned the naira note.  “I didn’t know whether a relative was dead or not. We didn’t know Tinubu was running. We didn’t know who was going to be sworn in – just like I was completely excommunicated.”

Back home, families were struggling to move on. When Nonso’s mother heard his voice for the first time in three years, she called back to make sure it wasn’t just another fantasy. It was on June 21, 2024, the day he was released. After two months in the hospital, 20 bags of drips and a lot of prayer, she was already making peace with her only son’s death.

And death is truly cheap in the military prison. From beatings, starvation, and complications arising from inadequate healthcare, inmates die randomly. When the undercover agent from Intersociety arrived at the facility in September 2024, at least 10 inmates had just died within the week. 

“A Muslim lieutenant colonel from the north, who provided us with 10 names of people who had just died in the detention that week, told our undercover, ‘Look at how your people are dying here,’” Umeagbasi told HumAngle. 

Nonso saw at least two dead bodies himself. Despite being rarely allowed to speak with inmates from other cells, Pius knew of at least 10 deaths. Earnest, one of those brought in from Port Harcourt shortly after the #EndSARS protests, died of complications related to diabetes. 

“I know him in person,” Pius told me. “We met one day.”

The more inmates die, the more new ones arrive. The total number, which Pius said matched his registration number on arrival, had climbed to over 5000 by his release in June 2024. As the number grows, so does the intensity of abuse.

“Some of those who got there before us said there was no such thing as beatings when they were brought in. We met it during our own time, and those who came after us had even tougher experiences. They sustained serious injuries and weren’t given adequate treatment,” Nonso said. An inmate who was released from the prison last year after 11 years in detention had an account similar to this. She told HumAngle that though the physical abuse was intense at the beginning of her stay there, it stopped at some point. Shortly before she was released, however, it resumed.

Many of the Tiv inmates arrested alongside Gana couldn’t survive the abuse they were subjected to, Pius revealed. “They beat them in a way that when they got to that detention [Wawa], most of them died.” 

Until their release over media pressure and advocacy efforts by the Nigerian Bar Association, neither Nonso nor Pius set foot in court, raising questions about why they were arrested in the first place.

The Red Cross and the Nigerian Army have not responded to inquiries sent to them.

*Jeremiah John is a pseudonym we have used to protect the source’s identity. 

Muhammadu Buhari, who was the country’s democratic leader between 2015 and 2023, died aged 82 in London on Sunday.

Nigeria’s former President Muhammadu Buhari will be buried in his hometown of Daura in the northern state of Katsina, once his body is repatriated from the United Kingdom, the state governor has said.

The remains of the ex-leader, who died aged 82 in London on Sunday following a prolonged illness, will reach Nigeria on Tuesday, with his burial taking place later the same day, according to Dikko Umaru Radda.

Preparations for the burial were under way in Daura on Monday, while the country’s Vice President Kashim Shettima was in London organising the repatriation of Buhari’s body.

Buhari, who first ruled the country as a military leader between 1984 and 1985, served consecutive presidential terms between 2015 and 2023. He was the first opposition politician to be voted into power since the country’s return to civilian rule.

The self-described “converted democrat” is being remembered by many as a central figure in his country’s democratic evolution. However, some critics have also noted his failure to improve Nigeria’s economy or its security during his presidency.

Paying tribute to his predecessor on Sunday, President Bola Tinubu called him “a patriot, a soldier, a statesman”.

“He stood firm through the most turbulent times, leading with quiet strength, profound integrity, and an unshakable belief in Nigeria’s potential,” Tinubu wrote in a post on X.

“He championed discipline in public service, confronted corruption head-on and placed the country above personal interest at every turn.”

Tinubu added that all national flags would fly at half-mast for seven days from Sunday, and said Buhari would be accorded full-state honours.

Radda also paid his respects to the former president, describing him as “the embodiment of the common man’s aspirations”.

Ibrahim Babangida, a former military ruler who ousted Buhari in a coup in 1985, also released a statement after his death was announced.

“We may not have agreed on everything — as brothers often don’t — but I never once doubted his sincerity or his patriotism,” Babangida said.

Speaking to Al Jazeera, Alexis Akwagyiram, managing editor at Semafor and a longtime observer of Nigerian politics, noted that Buhari was popular for his “personal brand of integrity and honesty”.

However, Akwagyiram also highlighted Buhari’s shortcomings on the economy and security, saying that insurgencies from groups such as Boko Haram had “proliferated under his tenure”.

A 68-YEAR-OLD woman has revealed that she said ‘I Do’ with her Nigerian toyboy, who is 43 years her junior.

When Kay, 68, and Ablack, 25, first connected on Facebook, they had no idea that a simple social media like would lead to marriage. 

4

4

4

4

But now, the couple have opened up on their unique relationship and explained how just three days after meeting in real life, Kay’s toyboy popped the question.

Revealing all to Truly, on an episode of Love Don’t Judge, the couple admitted that they are constantly stared at in the street and Kay has even been accused of being Ablack’s “grandma”.

Opening up about how their relationship first blossomed, Kay recognised: “He liked something I posted. He went from somebody who liked my post to my very best friend, I could tell him everything. It just kept getting stronger and stronger.” 

After three failed marriages, Kay was initially “very leery about being scammed” by the youngster.

Not only was the mother called “crazy” by many, but before long, the couple had tied the knot, with Ablack being Kay’s fourth husband. 

Despite falling in love, the couple constantly face judgement over their age gap, with Kay being 43 years older than Ablack. 

But Kay beamed: “I do not feel old when I’m around him. I feel very young, like a teenager.” 

With Ablack based in Nigeria and Kay over in the US, the pair have had to make the relationship work with the geographical distance. 

However, Ablack knows that the pair are destined to be, as he acknowledged: “A prophet told me that I’m going to get married to a white woman and here she is.”

But although destiny brought them together, not everyone agrees with their relationship, as Ablack said, “Some people say, ‘she’s old enough to be your mum’. Some say, ‘you’re married to your grandma’, ‘she’s too old for you’.

“Anywhere we go, people take pictures of us.” 

Not only this, but people have even accused Ablack of getting “married for a US green card”. 

Be careful girl. Scammers can be “in love” too!

YouTube user

Clearly unfazed by the judgement, Kay, who is often referred to as Ablack’s “sugar mummy”, said: “I’ve never felt love like this before.

“This is the one I’m supposed to be with, I just had to wait a long time for him to be born.

“He treats me like a Queen. I’m his priority.” 

A-list age gap relationships that have stood the test of time

1. Kris Jenner & Corey Gamble – 25 years
   The Kardashian matriarch, 69, met her younger man, 44, at a mutual friend’s 40th birthday party in Ibiza. They’ve been together since August 2014.
2. Sam & Aaron Taylor-Johnson – 23 years
   The director, 57, and actor, 34, reportedly met at a film audition in 2009, and were married by 2012. The pair share two daughters and Sam has two children from a previous marriage.
3. Rosie-Huntington-Whiteley & Jason Statham – 20 years
   The model, 37, started dating actor Jason, 57, in 2010. They were wed in 2016 and have since welcomed a son and a daughter together.
4. Catherine Zeta-Jones & Michael Douglas – 25 years
   Catherine, 55, was introduced to Michael, 80, a film festival in 1996 and engaged three years later. Shortly after their engagement, the couple welcomed a son and married in 2000.

Social media users react

Social media users were left stunned by the couple’s age gap relationship – and nasty trolls were out in full force in the comments on the YouTube clip. 

One person said: “As a middle aged woman who’s probably close to her age, this makes me uncomfortable.” 

This is the one I’m supposed to be with, I just had to wait a long time for him to be born

Kay

Another added: “The prophet”s name is Visa.” 

A third warned: “Be careful girl. Scammers can be “in love” too!”

At the same time, someone else wrote: “Hope she has a lot of money to feed his whole family, why else would a 25 year old be with a woman in her 60s.”  

Unlock even more award-winning articles as The Sun launches brand new membership programme – Sun Club

She was just seven years old when they were displaced by the Boko Haram insurgency in Borno State, northeastern Nigeria. Elizabeth Bitrus and her family fled to Taraba State, where they lived in an internally displaced persons (IDP) Camp. That was the first time Elizabeth had to adjust to a home that was not her home. 

Three years later, she and her aunt boarded a bus bound for Edo State, South South Nigeria, where her aunt resides. 

No one told Elizabeth Bitrus exactly where she was headed, but she knew it meant a fresh start, a chance to return to school, and she could hardly contain her excitement. She had dropped out after displacement upended her life. Elizabeth was only ten. Her aunt had told her stories of what it was like living there and how children attend a free school, with provisions for food, books, and even toiletries. 

They eventually arrived at Uhogua, a rural community in Edo State. Their destination was the Home for the Needy Camp, a sprawling compound dotted with blocks of buildings roofed with rusted zinc sheets. When they arrived, her aunt dropped her off at the camp and said she was leaving. Her house was a few minutes away, but students lived in a boarding school arrangement.

Founded in 1992 by Solomon Folorunsho, a Nigerian pastor, the camp provides free accommodation, feeding, and education for displaced people. It currently houses over 4000 people. 

“I thought I would be living with my aunt while attending the school,” Elizabeth recalls with a chuckle. “I started crying profusely. I immediately started to miss my mum and told my aunt to take me back home.”

The memory is still fresh in her mind. She can laugh about it now in hindsight, but at the time, it was terrifying. She didn’t know anyone. How would she fit in?

“I didn’t find it very hard to fit in, thankfully. There was a group of girls who were eager to make friends with me, the new girl. When I kept crying, saying I wanted to leave, they advised me to be patient and stay to study,” Elizabeth said. 

Slowly, she grew accustomed to the routine of the camp. 

“Soon enough, I started to enjoy being in the camp, so much that I didn’t even care about going back home anymore,” she recounted. 

‘Home for the needy’

Over three decades ago, Solomon started caring for children in Edo who were abandoned by their parents and those out of school. 

“I rented an apartment and put them in a private school. These children became wonderful. I saw how they were competing [with other students], which encouraged me. That is how I started,” he said.  

The capacity grew from a one-bedroom apartment to a three-bedroom apartment, then a seven-bedroom apartment. But with more children came greater responsibilities and shrinking resources. Solomon could not manage alone anymore. He began seeking donations from individuals and organisations, and when the children’s school fees became exorbitant, he started a school, employed teachers and got volunteers to run it. 

When the Boko Haram insurgency began, “friends from the north were calling me. This was around 2012. I thought about what we could do for the children, and gradually some families started coming here,” Solomon tells HumAngle. Elizabeth was one of them. 

They live in large tents, each housing up to 50 students. They sleep on mats and attend prayers every morning, before heading to classes in modern brick-walled classrooms. Oddly, however, only the teenage girls were required to cook. They did so in groups, taking turns according to a schedule. Then they shared the food with everyone, both the girls and the boys. 

After dinner, they’d form study groups. Some would do their assignments, others would study for tests. If one didn’t have a torch to read with, they’d go under the tall solar-powered streetlights in the camp’s compound. 

The longing for home

Elizabeth often thought about her mom and three siblings in the early days. 

She never once spoke to her mother for seven years at the camp. She discovered that she had cousins in the camp, and one day, as they chatted with their mom over the phone, Elizabeth heard her mother’s voice. She spoke with her briefly, and a sudden longing for home started to sweep over her. 

“I missed them so much. I knew I needed to go back and see my family,” she recounts.

It had taken a long time to properly reestablish contact with her mom after that brief call on her aunt’s phone in 2021. Her mom didn’t have a phone, so they didn’t speak again until three years later, in 2024. 

Living conditions in the camp were deteriorating: there was hunger, the toilets were full, and some were breaking down. More and more, Elizabeth craved her mother’s embrace. Over the call, she told her mother she wanted to return home, and her mother sent money for transport.

She was excited and nervous the day she was finally leaving Edo for Abuja, North-central Nigeria. It had been nearly a decade since she’d left her family in Taraba, and so much had changed. She is now 18 years old. Her family moved. She wondered how much taller her siblings had grown, whether her mother had aged at all.

“When I saw her waiting for me at the car park after we arrived, I ran into her arms and started sobbing, and sobbing. I couldn’t control it,” Elizabeth recounts with a smile. 

When HumAngle met her at Kuchingoro IDP Camp, an informal settlement in Abuja, where she lives with her mum, Elizabeth was sitting under the shade of a tree. She had just returned from work as a domestic help in a house close to the camp. Across the street, the grand terrace buildings of the estate where Elizabeth sweeps and mops floors stand in sharp contrast to her lowly tent, made out of rusted zinc roof sheets and rags. 

Since she came here, she has not enrolled in school because her mother cannot afford it, and her father is absent. The last time Elizabeth saw him was when they were in Taraba in 2015. He had visited briefly, then left for Lagos. No one has heard from him since.

Elizabeth’s mom, Abigail Bitrus, told HumAngle that her husband had always worked in Lagos and only visited occasionally, even when they lived in Borno. But he has not been in contact with the family since his last visit a decade ago.

“Some of his relatives say he’s alive and well, others say they haven’t heard from him in years. But he and I didn’t fight or anything, and I just wish he’d at least call us,” Abigail explained, tears welling up in her eyes. 

Abigail is 38 years old. She moved to Abuja near her parents, who live in Nasarawa, a neighbouring state. She has lived in the camp for four years, but now faces the threat of eviction. After settling on privately owned property, she and many others were uprooted from their tents, forced to move to a smaller space on another piece of private land. 

Of hope and struggles

Elizabeth wishes to go back to the camp in Benin City. Although it is not her ideal place to live, she gets to study at least. Education is crucial to her, and she has lofty dreams, but is not allowed to return to the camp. 

“I’m now in SS2. I want to graduate and go to university to study medicine. I want to graduate as the best student and get a scholarship to study abroad, like one of my seniors, who is now in the United States,” Elizabeth said. 

Solomon told HumAngle that over 300 students have proceeded to university after graduating from the camp. They studied courses ranging from engineering to medicine and nursing. One student emerged as the best graduating student in his class at Edo State University and later secured a scholarship to the University of Illinois, Chicago.

He said the decision to stop students like Elizabeth from returning to the camp after leaving depends on each family’s situation and financial need.

“​​If you have a home and can afford transport to Abuja or Maiduguri, then you can stay at home, because we want to help those in need… if your father or mother has a house, at least let us give that chance to someone else,” Solomon explains.

Solomon tells HumAngle that donations and aid were consistent in the early days. However, that is no longer the case. Solomon has been appealing to individuals, organisations, and the government to bring more support, but the response has been slow. Globally, humanitarian aid has shrunk. 

The cost of paying teachers became unsustainable, forcing the employed staff to leave. The camp now relies on volunteers and former students to keep the school running. Even feeding the children has become a struggle.

“Food is at a critical level right now,” he says. “We’re struggling to feed the children just once a day. Some of those in university aren’t allowed to write exams because they haven’t paid the fees. We really need support at this time.”

Solomon says he usually pays to harvest from farms in neighbouring villages when food runs out. But it is not nearly enough to meet nutritional needs or satisfy the children. 

Displacement doesn’t just uproot homes—it disrupts education. Over 4.6 million children have been affected by the conflict in northeast Nigeria, according to UNICEF, and 56 per cent of displaced children in Borno, Adamawa, and Yobe are still out of school. Initiatives like Home for the Needy attempt to fill that gap, but without sustained support, many children like Elizabeth risk being left behind.

They are left waiting, left in search of home, education, and the hope for a better future.

Elizabeth still dreams of becoming a doctor. She believes her story doesn’t end in her mother’s arms in Abuja, nor does it find resolution in the dusty tents of Edo. She is a brilliant dreamer and believes in the possibility of more.