Nigerian

Malam Fatori, Nigeria — It’s been more than 10 years since Isa Aji Mohammed lost four of his children in one night when Boko Haram fighters attacked their home in northeast Nigeria’s Borno State.

Maryam, who was 15 at the time, was killed alongside her brothers Mohammed, 22, and Zubairu, who was only 10. Yadoma, 25 and married with children, who had returned home to her parents’ house for a visit, also died in the attack.

“We ran with nothing,” said 65-year-old Isa, standing on the parched soil of his farm in the Lake Chad village of Malam Fatori, to which he recently returned. “For more than 10 years, we slept in relatives’ homes. I felt like a stranger in my own country.”

Before the deadly attack, Isa, a farmer, produced hundreds of bags of rice, maize and beans annually, enough to feed his family and sell in markets in neighbouring Niger.

After that night, he fled and spent the next decade in displacement camps across the border.

But last year, he joined thousands of other former residents who have relocated back to Malam Fatori and other towns as part of a resettlement programme initiated by the government.

The village sits on the edge of Nigeria’s northeastern frontier, close to the border with Niger, where the vast, flat landscape stretches into open farmland and seasonal wetlands.

A decade ago, homes there were intact and full, their courtyards echoing with children’s voices and the steady rhythm of daily life. Farms extended well beyond the town’s outskirts, producing grains and vegetables that sustained families and supported local trade.

Irrigation canals flowed regularly, and the surrounding area was known for its productivity, especially during the dry season. Markets were active, and movement between Malam Fatori and neighbouring communities was normal, not restricted by fear.

Today, the town carries the visible scars of conflict and neglect, with much of it lying in ruin.

Rows of mud-brick houses stand roofless or partially collapsed, their walls cracked by years of abandonment. Some homes have been hastily repaired with scrap wood and sheets of metal, signs of families slowly returning and rebuilding with whatever materials they can find.

The farms surrounding Malam Fatori are beginning to show faint signs of life again. Small plots of millet and sorghum are being cleared by hand, while irrigation channels – once choked with sand and weeds – are gradually being reopened.

Many fields, however, remain empty, overtaken by thorny bushes and dry grass after years without cultivation. Farmers move cautiously, working close to the town, wary of venturing too far into land that was once fertile but has long been unsafe.

For returnees like Isa, walking through these spaces means navigating both the present reality and memories of what once was. Each broken wall and abandoned field tells a story of loss, while every newly planted seed signals a quiet determination to restore a town that violence nearly erased.

Between ‘two pressures’: Boko Haram and the army

For the Borno State administration, the returns are a success. “There are 5,000 households of returnees in Malam Fatori, while the town’s total population now exceeds 20,000 people,” Usman Tar, Borno State commissioner for information and internal security, told Al Jazeera last year.

As we toured the town, the security presence was visible. Armed patrols, checkpoints and observation posts were stationed along major routes and near public spaces, reflecting ongoing efforts to deter attacks and reassure residents.

Families interviewed said they were subjected to frequent security checks and strict movement controls, measures they understand as necessary but which also disrupt daily routines and limit access to farms, markets and neighbouring communities.

Residents and local officials say the threat remains close. Fighters from Islamic State West Africa Province (ISWAP), another armed group active in the area, are believed to be operating from swampy areas approximately two kilometres from the town, using the difficult terrain as cover.

Although the town itself is under heavy military protection, surrounding areas continue to experience attacks, kidnappings and harassment, particularly along farming routes and access roads.

These persistent security incidents reinforce a climate of fear and uncertainty among returnees. While many families have chosen to remain and rebuild despite the risks, they say the proximity of armed groups and the ongoing violence in nearby communities make long-term recovery fragile.

“Here in Malam Fatori, we live under two pressures,” said resident Babagana Yarima. “Boko Haram dictates our safety, and the military dictates our movement. Both limit how we live every day.”

Farmers wait up to eight hours at military checkpoints when transporting produce. Curfews prevent evening farm work. Access to agricultural land beyond the town requires military permits or armed escorts.

“Insecurity and military restrictions limit access to farmlands, forcing farmers to cultivate smaller areas than before,” said Bashir Yunus, an agrarian expert at the University of Maiduguri who also farms in the region.

Fishing, previously a major food source and income generator from Lake Chad, has become dangerous and requires permits to leave the town boundaries.

“Movement beyond the town’s boundaries now requires military permits. Militant attacks in isolated areas continue,” said Issoufou.

The United Nations has raised concerns about the government’s resettlement programme, citing potential protection violations. Mohamed Malick, UN resident and humanitarian coordinator in Nigeria, said during an interview with journalists in Maiduguri that “any returns or relocations must be informed, voluntary, safe, dignified and sustainable”.

Malick added that the return of refugees to Malam Fatori and other insecure areas must be carefully evaluated against established safety and humanitarian standards, and must only take place if conditions allow for basic services and sustainable livelihoods.

‘A man without land is a man without life’

Settled back on his land, Isa wakes before dawn each day, leaving his home in the quiet hours before the town stirs.

He walks to the fields that once yielded fertile harvests, now choked with weeds and debris. The land that once fed his family and supported their livelihood now demands relentless effort just to coax a small crop from the exhausted soil.

‎With each turn of the hoe and careful planting of seeds, he is determined to reclaim a fragment of the life that was disrupted by conflict.

‎He also participates in community farming initiatives, joining neighbours in collective efforts to restore agricultural production for the returning population and aid the town’s slow recovery.

‎However, the area he personally cultivates is far smaller than what he once managed, constrained by limited access to tools, seeds and water, as well as by the lingering insecurity in the region.

‎”A man without land is a man without life,” he said.

‎‎Most families in Malam Fatori now eat only twice a day, a sharp contrast to life before the conflict. ‎Their meals typically consist of rice or millet, often eaten with little or no vegetables due to cost and limited availability. ‎

Food prices have risen dramatically, placing further strain on households already struggling to recover. ‎A kilogramme of rice now sells for about 1,200 naira (approximately $0.83), nearly double its previous price, making even basic staples increasingly unaffordable for many families.

‎Fish, once plentiful and affordable thanks to proximity to Lake Chad, have become scarce and expensive. Insecurity, restricted access to fishing areas, and disrupted supply chains have severely reduced local catches.

‎At the local market and at aid distribution points, women queue before dawn, hoping to secure small quantities of dried fish, groundnut oil or maize flour when supplies arrive.

‎Deliveries are irregular and unpredictable, often selling out within hours. Many women say they return home empty-handed after waiting for hours, compounding daily stress and uncertainty about how to feed their families.

‎Local health workers warn that malnutrition remains a serious concern, particularly among children under the age of five.

Basic services remain inadequate across town. Roads are poor, and schools and health clinics operate with minimal resources.

“Security risks and inaccessible routes through surrounding bushland continue to restrict humanitarian access, preventing aid agencies from reaching several communities. Basic services such as clean water, healthcare and quality education remain inadequate,” Kaka Ali, deputy director of local government primary healthcare, told Al Jazeera.

Despite ongoing challenges, residents of Malam Fatori are steadily working to rebuild their community and restore livelihoods disrupted by years of conflict.

‎Across the town, women have organised themselves into small cooperatives, producing handmade mats and processing groundnut oil for household use and local sale.

‎Fishermen, once central to the local economy, now operate cautiously in small groups in line with security regulations. Along riverbanks and storage areas, they repair damaged canoes and carefully mend fishing nets that were abandoned or destroyed during the conflict.

‎At the same time, teams of bricklayers are reconstructing homes destroyed during the violence, using locally sourced materials and shared labour to rebuild shelters for returning families.

The town’s clinic, staffed by six nurses, is overstretched. Vaccinations, malaria treatment and maternal health services are rationed. Power outages and equipment shortages compound the challenges. But it is a lifeline.

At Malam Fatori Central Primary School, children from the town and surrounding communities are being taught with the few resources available.

There are only 10 functional classrooms for hundreds of pupils, so some learn outdoors, under trees or in open spaces. There is a shortage of teachers, so some educators brave the conditions and travel long distances from the southern parts of Borno State.

In another, more unusual arrangement, soldiers stationed in the town occasionally step in to teach basic civic education and history lessons.

While not a replacement for trained teachers, community leaders say their involvement provides pupils with some continuity in education. The presence of soldiers in classrooms, they say, also reassures parents about security and underscores a shared effort to stabilise the town and rebuild essential services.

‘This land contains our future’

‎Amid all of the returning and rebuilding, security remains a dominant feature of daily life in Malam Fatori.

‎Soldiers remain stationed throughout the town, at markets and other public spaces to deter attacks.

Meanwhile, former Boko Haram members who have enrolled in a government-led deradicalisation and repentance programme also assist in protecting farmers working on the outskirts of the town, helping to rebuild trust between civilians and security structures.

Abu Fatima is a former Boko Haram fighter who joined the repentance programme. ‎“Troop patrols are constant, curfews dictate daily life,” he said about the security arrangements in Malam Fatori.

Although residents welcome the security provided by the soldiers’ presence in the town, “many say they feel trapped – unable to fully rebuild the lives they had before Boko Haram, yet unwilling to abandon a homeland that defines them”, he said, echoing the tension felt by many returnees.

‎Bulama Shettima has also lived through the personal cost of the fighting that has devastated northeast Nigeria. Two of the 60-year-old’s sons joined ISWAP, a tragedy that left the family with deep emotional scars. After years of uncertainty and fear, one of his sons was later deradicalised through a government rehabilitation programme. This has allowed his family to heal and reconcile. Coming back to Malam Fatori is also part of that.

“Returning wasn’t about safety,” he said. “It was about belonging. This land contains our history. This land contains our grief. This land contains our future.”

‎Today, Bulama is focused on rebuilding his life and securing a different future for his children.

‎He works as a farmer, cultivating small plots of land under difficult conditions, while also running a modest business to supplement his income. ‎

‎Despite his losses, Bulama places strong emphasis on educating his other children, saying that their schooling is a form of resistance against the cycle of violence that once tore his family apart. It will also allow them to grow up with choices, he says.

As many displaced families remain in Niger or live in limbo in Maiduguri, fearing a return to towns where armed men operate not far away, those now in Malam Fatori consider it a move worth making.

For Isa, the decision to return represents a calculated risk.

“We are caught between fear and order,” he said. “But still, we must live. Still, we must plant. Still, we must hope.”

This piece was published in collaboration with Egab.

Dec. 26 (UPI) — Nigerian President Bola Tinubu gave the U.S. government the “go-ahead” to carry out airstrikes on ISIS targets, Nigeria’s foreign minister said Friday.

U.S. President Donald Trump announced the strikes Thursday, calling them retaliation against “ISIS terrorist scum” for violence on “primarily, innocent Christians.”

Nigerian Foreign Minister Yusuf Tuggar told Al Jazeera the country cooperated with the U.S. Defense Department on the “fight against terrorism” in the northwestern region.

Citing local news sources, the news outlet said at least one missile landed in the village of Jabo in Sokoto state. Residents told Al Jazeera there were no casualties in the village.

“The bomb fell and burst into many pieces. There were two big pieces of debris. One of them was carried by two people,” resident Abdulrahman Mainasara said.

Resident Ismail Umar told the outlet the village hadn’t received any armed attacks from ISIS in more than two years.

Tuggar said the Nigerian government provided intelligence to the U.S. government, and he spoke with U.S. Secretary of State Marco Rubio on the phone twice before the strikes. He added that Tinubu was also involved in the decision-making process.

“Now that the U.S. is cooperating, we would do it jointly, and we would ensure, just as the [Nigerian] president emphasized yesterday before he gave the go-ahead, that it must be made clear that it is a joint operation, and is not targeting any religion nor simply in the name of one religion or the other,” Tuggar said in an appearance on Channels Television‘s Sunrise Daily program.

Tuggar and other officials, though, took issue with Trump’s rhetoric saying that ISIS violence targets only Christians in Nigeria.

“We are a multi-religious country, and we are working with partners like the U.S. to fight terrorism and safeguard the lives and properties of Nigerians,” Tuggar said.

Auwal Musa Rafsanjani, the director of the non-profit organization Civil Society Legislative Advocacy Centre, said suggestions that ISIS is primarily targeting people based on religion could incite ethnic and religious tensions in Nigeria.

“Muslims are being killed and harassed every day by the same criminals,” Rafsanjani said, according to the local news outlet Leadership. “This conversation should be about human life, not religion or geography.”

When Wura Hope paints her nails, she paints her prosthesis too. Pink glows on her dark skin like fine art. But her right foot is pale, yellowish-tan, the generic colour of many imported prosthetics. It contrasts with her melanin-rich skin and does not offer the aesthetics she desires.

Wura is a model, fashion designer, and vendor of Ankara fabrics. She also interns at a bank. Sometimes, she doesn’t want the spotlight that comes with being an amputee. But with a prosthetic foot so different from the rest of her body, curious eyes are unavoidable. As a result, she fully covers up her leg.

The unease Wura feels today traces back to when she was 11. One of her daily chores was filling the water tank of the large generator her parents used at their home in Abuja, in Nigeria’s North Central. One day, the propeller caught her long dress and badly injured her right leg. An infection followed, and the leg was eventually amputated. 

The 28-year-old barely remembers life with two legs. She has lived with one for so long that she even forgets she has a physical challenge. 

“Like, I literally forget,” said Wura.

Every word she says seems to arrive with a smile. And when her lips spread, they show her teeth like fresh corn peeking through a half-opened husk. She’s grateful to be walking again after many years on crutches. 

Her current prosthesis is her third. The first, donated by an Indian charity in 2014, was heavy and rigid. The second caused blisters around her stump that took days to heal. The one she uses now is lighter and has a knee joint that makes walking easier. But it is far from perfect. In hot weather, the liner squeaks against her sweaty stump and sometimes threatens to slip off. When that happens, she has to find a restroom, take it off, clean it, let it dry for a few minutes, and put it back on.

“Sometimes in the market, I’ll be looking for somewhere private to clean my liner,” she told HumAngle. 

Moments like this remind Wura of her disability, turning long-distance walking into a nightmare. 

The struggle is not just Wura’s; it is a shared reality for many who wear devices designed for colder climates. Thirty-year-old Eva Chukwunelo knows it well. She finds her stump in a pool of sweat after walking just a few metres. But in March this year, she walked seamlessly from Washington Park to the Brooklyn Bridge in New York, a distance of more than two kilometres. Back home in Abuja, she would have stopped multiple times to pull off her prosthesis, drain the sweat from its liner, and wait for her stump to dry. 

In Abuja, March is one of the hottest months, but it is cold in New York, giving chills rather than sweat. Most advanced prosthetic devices come from temperate countries, where they may be designed with little consideration for Africa’s heat and humidity. 

Silicon liners, the technology used by both Wura and Eva, were invented in Iceland and initially called the Icelandic Roll-On Silicone Socket. Made from medical-grade silicone RTVs, they do not absorb sweat. As moisture gathers inside, it simply coats the stump, making every step increasingly uncomfortable. The material is soft and generally reliable, but it does not match Africa’s weather realities. 

“So I felt like if you’re wearing a silicone liner, you cannot do so well in a hot environment,” Eva said.

As for the skin covers, they are either too black or not black at all, wrote Eva in the Nov. 5 dispatch of The Amputee LifeStyle, the newsletter where she documents the lived experiences of amputees.

“Somewhere between ‘too white’ and ‘too black’, African amputees are left underrepresented,” she noted. “So yes, we walk again. But sometimes, we walk in discomfort.”

Eva was also born with two legs. As a child, she was always running, climbing trees, playing football, or dancing. Even after she was diagnosed with osteomyelitis, a severe bone infection, she stayed active in school and continued playing with friends. But her left foot soon developed ulcers, prompting concerns about activities that could expose her to germs. The leg began to decay right from between the big toe and the second. When gangrene—the death of body tissue due to lack of blood flow or severe bacterial infection—set in, the only option was amputation.

Eva was just 16. She imagined a future spent on crutches, or confined to a wheelchair, or, even worse, reduced to begging like the lepers who often took shelter under the flamboyant trees outside her parents’ house. She had never heard of prosthetics, a life-changing technology that dates as far back as ancient Egypt. But everything shifted the day her doctor invited a prosthetist into the room.

“The first time I walked again, it felt like a miracle,” she wrote in her newsletter.

Her first two prosthetic devices were heavy, rigid, and, in her words, ugly. They helped her walk, but she was never comfortable enough to let her live freely. Until she got her third device, which came with a silicon liner, she never felt confident leaving her left leg uncovered in public. The fourth was lighter. The fifth, lighter still and more advanced, each upgrade was a small step toward ease, though never quite the perfect match she longed for.

“I think the more money you have, the lighter it becomes,” Eva told HumAngle.

Africa’s difference is not just in climate and skin tones. Like Nigeria, most African countries trail far behind Europe in minimum wage and purchasing power. And for many amputees across the continent, this means the most advanced and most comfortable prosthetic devices are far beyond reach. 

On the day 18-year-old Adeola Olailo lost one of her legs in an accident in Ekiti State, South West Nigeria, she had hoped to hawk groundnuts after school. Selling groundnuts and fried pork was how she supported her parents, who struggled to make ends meet. And she was good at it. But when a car veered off the road and ploughed into the students walking home, Adeola lost a limb on the spot, and her family lost a vital source of income. It took repeated media reports and the state government’s intervention for her to receive a locally made prosthesis, one she has now outgrown.

For amputees like Adeola, a matching device must be affordable, too. She dreams of a waterproof leg that aligns with her height, matches her complexion, and lets her jump, walk without pain, run, and dance again, especially now that she is preparing for university. But a prosthesis that can do even a fraction of these may cost up to ₦5 million, an amount far beyond the reach of her household. And like most imports, when the naira slips, the price soars.

Taiwo Akinsanya, founder of Dynalimb, a Nigerian company working to expand access to quality prosthetics, said there are still many barriers to creating truly Nigerian or African-centred devices. One of the biggest, he explained, is the education system that does not encourage home-grown innovation, often producing graduates who take pride in their ability to apply foreign products rather than pioneer new ones for local realities.

“We were taught in medical school to take the approach of what is currently being done in the current market and keep applying it to a number of patients,” he said.

Access and affordability, he added, are also limited by Nigeria’s heavy reliance on foreign manufacturers for key prosthetic components. 

“We were trying to develop a locally made prosthetic device here in Nigeria. We did it, and it worked. The major constraint we had was that the raw materials, such as steel, used to produce the metallic part of the prosthetic device, were imported, which made European products more affordable than we wanted to achieve here.”

Every imported part raises the overall cost, making locally assembled devices expensive and out of reach for many amputees. Meanwhile, Dynalimb’s mission was to make prosthetic devices accessible and affordable. They had to scrap the innovation.

Of the estimated 65 million amputees in the world, about five million live in Africa. Many are victims of diabetes, road traffic accidents, industrial mishaps, congenital conditions, and conflict-related injuries. Yet most struggle with prosthetic devices never designed with their bodies, climates, or lifestyles in mind. An even larger number have no access to prosthetics at all.

Amid numerous infrastructural constraints and inadequate government support, African innovators are working hard to adapt foreign inventions to local realities and, in some cases, to build African-centred devices from scratch. Earlier this year, South Africa’s Prosthetic Engineering Technologies launched silicone liners “engineered for the unique challenges of African terrain and climate”. The liners, according to the company, are locally manufactured to reduce costs and improve access. In Nigeria, Immortal Cosmetic Art is creating hyper-realistic prosthetic skin covers for people of colour, an innovation that has already been celebrated both locally and abroad. But the effects of these breakthroughs are yet to be felt at scale. And African amputees, tired of struggling in devices not made for them, want even more.

“My leg is black, but the prosthesis is not,” Adeola said about why she always wears knee-high socks. 

“I think it’s time we start designing prosthetics that understand Africa. Products that consider the climate, materials that can breathe, and sweat and heat. Products that match our tones, so people stop asking why your leg looks ‘imported’,” Eva wrote in her International Prosthetic and Orthotics Day newsletter.

Once, Wura received a dark prosthetic foot from a company that imported devices from China. When she painted the nails, it looked “very, very pretty.” It felt like it truly belonged to her. But the joy didn’t last.

“I don’t know what they sell to us here,” she told HumAngle. “I don’t think that foot lasted six months. I like it when the colour of my socket is dark. Because I’m a dark person, my foot should also be dark.”

Taiwo said there are no perfect prosthetics. An artificial limb, he said, will always be an artificial limb. But for amputees like Wura, Eva, and Adeola, progress begins with a limb that matches their skin and survives their weather.