Nigerias

Hannatu Charles* carried her pregnancy to full term. She attended all antenatal sessions and was eager to meet her baby. 

In January, when she was due, she went into labour around 7 p.m. Unfortunately, the primary healthcare centre in Kirchinga, a community in Madagali local government area of Adamawa state in northeastern Nigeria, closes around 6 p.m. Her family immediately called one of the traditional birth attendants in the community.

Hannatu laboured for hours, yet her baby did not emerge despite the efforts of the traditional birth attendant. By 10 p.m., warning bells began to ring in her mind, as by that time, all doors in Kirchinga had been shut and all access routes deserted. 

“We decided to try to see if we could at least meet one person at the primary healthcare centre, so my husband and my neighbour took me there that night, but we didn’t meet any midwife or any healthcare staff,” she told HumAngle. 

The centre was closed. All the healthcare staff had gone and would only return the next morning. Night shifts no longer hold. These changes were made due to the scale of insecurity. 

Hannatu told HumAngle they returned home, where she continued to push, but despite her efforts, she was unable to deliver. The birth attendant noted that the baby was in breech position and, therefore, an experienced midwife or a gynaecologist was required. The only way they could access such care was by travelling to the Cottage Hospital in Gulak Local Government or the General Hospital in Michika Local Government, both many hours away. 

Hannatu said they would have made the journey that night on a regular day, but now,  it was too risky. Movement in Kirchinga was restricted after dark as Boko Haram terrorists roamed the area, especially at night. There was also no way to access vehicles or get a driver to take the,m as all routes were closed. 

She said she was willing to persevere until dawn when the roads would reopen, but by midnight, the pain intensified, and the midwife doubled her efforts. A stillborn was delivered. 

“I’m not the first to lose a child because of the security situation in this region,” Hannatu said as she talked about how insecurity destroys healthcare. “In fact, I’m lucky to be alive,” she added, stressing that several women and their babies had died.

According to Hannatu, the women who went into labour during the day in Kirchinga are considered lucky. 

The healthcare crisis 

Kyauta Ibrahim, a community health extension worker, spends her days at the primary school in Limankara, another community in the same Madagali that has, since the past decade, been repurposed as the community’s healthcare centre. Since residents began returning to Madagali in 2016 — two years after Boko Haram attacks displaced them — she and her colleagues have provided medical services from this makeshift facility.

“We are yet to move to the permanent site. We were asked to stay here to perform our duties,” she said. When the insurgents struck, they torched several structures, including the original primary healthcare centre where she worked.

For Limankara residents, this temporary facility remains the only nearby source of medical care. With few doctors remaining in the region, patients are often forced to travel long distances to better-equipped centres in Shuwa, Michika, or Gulak, particularly in emergencies.

Before the insurgency, the primary healthcare centre in Limankara served the local population and neighbouring communities such as Sakur and Lakundi, providing antenatal care, deliveries, and basic medical services. After peace was gradually restored in 2016, the state government converted one of the primary schools into a modest healthcare facility to meet the community’s needs.

A decade later, the school still functions as the healthcare centre. The situation worsened as medical doctors and other professionals began withdrawing, leaving indigenous community health extension workers to manage the facility. In 2016, most health centres in Madagali and Michika were closed because many professionals had either been killed or fled permanently.

As of 2019, the World Health Organisation’s Health Resources Availability Monitoring System (HeRAMS) highlighted that only 45 per cent of health centres in Adamawa were fully functional after 12 per cent had been destroyed and 34 per cent severely damaged by Boko Haram attacks. 

Kyauta told HumAngle that, aside from staff shortages, inadequate healthcare equipment continues to affect healthcare delivery in the area. The temporary primary healthcare centre now closes by late evening due to recurring Boko Haram attacks, leaving pregnant women and children most vulnerable.

“When a woman starts labour at night, she can’t even go to the primary healthcare centre and has to give birth at home,” she said. Complicated cases are referred to Shuwa, and if necessary, to the General Hospital in Michika or the Gulak cottage hospital, all of which are some distance away. 

Esther Markus, a mother of six from Wagga, another community in Madagali, travels six hours for a round trip to Gulak for medical care. Emergencies are further complicated by a 6 p.m. curfew. Traditional birth attendants handle routine deliveries, but high-risk cases, like breech births or sudden illness at night, go untreated until morning.

“Once it’s 6 p.m., we can’t take sick people to the hospital, so we leave them till the next day in the hands of God, and if the person dies, then we accept it,” said Hamidu Ahmadu, Limankara’s community leader.

Residents said security remains precarious. “A few days ago, the soldiers guarding us were attacked, so since then, they leave once it is 5 p.m. and head back to their headquarters in town. Our youths guard us all through the night,” Esther added. 

Hamidu told HumAngle that the community has a population of about 3,000. He acknowledged the efforts of some humanitarian organisations that have visited the area in the past to treat malnourished children and provide basic healthcare services to residents, but the gap remains. 

In 2024, the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC) resumed operations in Madagali after being unable to operate since 2018. The following year, the organisation provided basic healthcare and nutrition services to residents and also renovated the existing healthcare facility in Madagali town, which has become a haven for displaced persons in villages around the area. This has helped mitigate how insecurity affects healthcare in Madagali. 

Despite these humanitarian efforts to restore healthcare access in conflict-prone communities in Madagali, however, factors like the curfew, abductions, and the absence of medical professionals continue to limit access to services. 

Medical professionals are fleeing 

Kirchinga, the community in Madagali where Halima had the stillbirth, faces a similar plight. Although it has a functional primary healthcare centre, the lack of medical professionals severely affects service delivery.  

“Since the insecurity started, the doctors have stopped staying. They no longer live in the community but only show up from time to time,” said Bitrus Kwada, a Kirchinga resident.

Boko Haram terrorists have abducted, killed, or threatened several health and humanitarian workers in the northeastern region. In 2018, some medical workers were kidnapped and later killed in Borno. The following year, Boko Haram attacked Kirchinga and Shuwa communities, burning houses, shops, and clinics after killing three people. 

By 2020, Bitrus explained, healthcare workers, including doctors, who once lived in Kirchinga had either been transferred or fled, leaving them only occasionally available and unable to respond to emergencies.

“We suffer when it comes to emergency treatment at night,” Bitrus stated.  

Over the years, several women with complicated pregnancies have died during childbirth, along with their babies, due to the absence of doctors and surgeons. 

Blessing Dingami, another resident of Kirchinga, told HumAngle that before the insurgency started in 2014, the primary healthcare centre in the community was staffed by a medical doctor, two nurses, and another healthcare provider who ran the facility round the clock, with support from community health extension workers.

Following the attacks, the centre collapsed, forcing the professionals to flee. Although the government has since renovated it, community health extension workers now manage the facility, and the quality of services has declined.

Even though movement in Kirchinga is unrestricted until 10 p.m., accessing medical care is increasingly difficult. “There was a time when people from our community were involved in a ghastly accident at night, and we rushed them to the centre, but there was no professional to handle their case,” Blessing recounted. 

She noted that the healthcare centre no longer provides scanning, surgery, and other services it previously offered. Residents now have to travel for over half an hour to Shuwa and sometimes to Gulak, where there is a cottage hospital.

In Wagga Lawan, another community in Madagali, the primary healthcare centre was destroyed during Boko Haram attacks in 2014 but was recently rebuilt and commissioned by the state government.

Despite the renovation, many Madagali residents remain unable or afraid to use the facility. People from Wagga Mongoro, Thidakwa, and even Limankara travel there, yet fear of kidnapping, its remote location, and the surrounding bushes keep many away, particularly at night.

“The centre is located on the outskirts of the town, and bushes surround it, so people are afraid to go there for services, especially at night, due to fear of kidnapping,” said Cyril Ezra, a resident. Travel to the facility takes over an hour by bike. 

In 2025, Boko Haram attacked Wagga Mongoro, killing four people, injuring many others, and razing property—underscoring why many remain hesitant to use even the newly rebuilt facility.

Uncertainty 

Peace Ijanada Simon, a midwife at Shuwa’s primary healthcare centre, said the facility is overburdened with deliveries and emergencies from surrounding communities, as theirs lack night services. Although staff work night shifts, service is inconsistent due to recent kidnappings and a lack of reliable electricity. 

“There is no power supply. We use torchlights for most deliveries. If we can’t handle it, we refer immediately to Gulak or Michika,” she said.

In Kirchinga, locals have lost hope for the return of professional healthcare workers. “From 2014 to today, we’ve been facing security challenges because Boko Haram can attack at any time and destroy our things. Some of our people have been killed. Two years back, the situation changed into kidnappings,” he said. 

Bitrus explained that the terrorists mostly show up at night when locals are sleeping and carry out these abductions. “Ransoms have been paid, and some have been released. We have soldiers here, but I don’t think they are taking strong action,” he added.

Maradi, a community near Kirchinga, was attacked on Jan. 23. One resident who resisted capture was killed in his home, while a hunter who confronted the attackers that night was also killed, and another person was abducted that night. 

“We don’t sleep. From midnight, we stay awake till 3 a.m. because that’s the time they normally come. We have to stay conscious,” he said. 

The routine of gently but skillfully pushing wooden canoes into the water body at the shores of Kainji Lake each dawn has been part of the lives of generations of fishermen in North-central Nigeria. 

The lake was not always calm – vigorously exhaling and flooding the banks, then intermittently receding – but was inevitably connected to the lives that many communities have held firmly to across Kebbi, Niger, and Kwara states.

Today, that ancestral connection between the communities and the lake is evaporating rapidly. And it is not merely ecological. In some villages where government presence is absent, and terrorists have assumed authority, fishermen now wait for permission from non-state actors before casting their nets. In other areas within the Kainji region, they pay informal levies to armed groups operating from the forests. For decades, Nigeria’s national parks were imagined as spaces apart: buffers of nature against human pressure and political failure. Sambisa Forest shattered that illusion long ago when the Boko Haram terror group took control of it, transforming from a conservation zone into the most notorious symbol of jihadist insurgency in the country. Now, further west, a quieter but no less consequential transformation is unfolding.

The Kainji Lake National Park (KLNP), sprawling across three states and bordering Benin, has slipped from a wildlife sanctuary into a strategic corridor where poverty, climate stress, criminal enterprises, violence, jihadist ideology, and Sahelian militancy intersect.

A corridor

Security analysts increasingly describe Sambisa as a “fortress-base” model of insurgency: entrenched, ideological, territorially assertive. Kainji Lake fits a different and more elusive pattern—a “corridor-node” model.

Here, armed actors do not raise flags or announce governance structures. They pass through, networking, training, recruiting, and trading, before vanishing. The park links Nigeria’s troubled North West to the Middle Belt and, increasingly, to the destabilised Sahel. It connects Kebbi to Benin Republic’s Alibori and Atacora regions, Niger State to Niger Republic’s Tillabéri zone, and local grievances to transnational jihadist ambitions.

This distinction matters. Sambisa attracted relentless military pressure for more than a decade because it became a visible symbol of territorial breach. Kainji Lake did not. It appeared peripheral, quiet, manageable. In that absence of sustained attention, the park matured into something arguably more dangerous: a fluid connector for multiple armed actors rather than a single-group stronghold.

Communities along the lake, from Yauri and Ngaski in Kebbi to Borgu in Niger State and Kaiama in Kwara, depend on a fragile interweaving of fishing, floodplain farming, pastoralism, and cross-border trade. Fishing sustains thousands of households. Smoked and dried fish move through informal networks to Ilorin, Ibadan, southern Niger, and beyond. Seasonal farming follows the lake’s unpredictable pulse: millet, sorghum, maize, rice, and cowpea are cultivated on land that appears and disappears with the water’s rise and fall.

Pastoralism runs through it all. Herders move cattle along routes that long predate colonial borders, grazing across Nigeria, Benin Republic, and Niger Republic as if the lines on maps were suggestions rather than laws. Weekly markets in Bagudo, Wawa, Babana, Kaiama, and Borgu draw traders from Benin’s north and Niger’s Tillabéri. Grain, livestock, fuel, kola nuts, dried fish, and cloth circulate through these hubs. Some of it is smuggling.

These networks matter because armed groups do not need to invent new pathways. They insert themselves into existing ones. The same tracks used by herders and traders now carry militants, arms couriers, recruiters, and ideological emissaries. 

Climate stress as an accelerant

Climate change has exacerbated existing security vulnerabilities around Kainji Lake. 

Erratic rainfall patterns and fluctuating water levels have made fishing yields unpredictable. Floodplains that once reliably supported seasonal farming now vanish early or arrive late. Pasture availability shifts without warning, intensifying competition between herders and farmers. Each shock further compresses livelihoods, forcing households to adapt through debt, migration, or risk-taking.

In this environment, armed groups offer something deceptively valuable: predictability. Access to grazing land. Protection from rivals. Permission to fish or farm. Even informal dispute resolution. Where the state provides uncertainty – sporadic enforcement, unclear rules, delayed response – armed actors provide immediate answers, enforced by violence if necessary.

Climate stress, in this sense, is not just an environmental issue but a governance crisis multiplier. 

Fieldwork conducted by HumAngle across several local government areas in Kebbi, Niger, and Kwara states identified at least five active extremist factions operating within and around the park. These include the Mahmudawa (Mahmuda faction), Lakurawa, elements of Ansaru and Jama’atu Ahlis Sunna Lidda’awati wal-Jihad (JAS) led by Sadiku and Umar Taraba, and a newly emerged cell linked to Jama’at Nusrat al-Islam wal-Muslimin. 

The groups do not operate in isolation. Many originate from northwest Nigeria and southern Niger, with local cover, as they undertake terror attacks in distant locations and return to their various hideouts within the region. What has emerged is a hybrid threat ecosystem where ideology, criminality, climate stress, and grievance reinforce one another.

Brokers, enforcers, and ideologues

The Mahmudawa illustrate the new logic of this ecosystem. Despite sustained air and ground operations by the Federal Government between September and December 2025, the group remains influential. Fragmented into smaller camps, some closer to the Benin border, they act as brokers linking criminal networks of jihadist actors. They facilitate training, arms movement, ransom negotiations and sanctuary for fighters arriving from outside the region.

Official claims regarding the arrest of their leader, Malam Mahmuda, remain unconfirmed in border communities, where continued attacks and coordinated leadership are still attributed to the group.

If the Mahmudawa are brokers, the Lakurawa are enforcers. With an estimated 300 fighters, they have become one of the most active jihadist–terrorist hybrids affecting Kebbi’s border communities. Operating from within and around KLNP, they routinely launch incursions into Bagudo and Suru LGAs, combining attacks on military targets with ideological messaging aimed at delegitimising the Nigerian state.

Their leadership shows signs of Sahelian exposure. Their fighters are drawn from local nomadic tribal networks and northwest terrorist pools. Kebbi, long considered peripheral, is now firmly part of the frontline.

The relocation of Sadiku and Umar Taraba, both veteran jihadist operatives, to the Kainji axis in 2024 marked a shift. Their presence injected technical expertise into a space previously dominated by loosely organised armed groups.

IED knowledge, structured training, and a sharper focus on high-value targets followed. Collaboration with criminal terrorist groups deepened. The abduction of foreign nationals near Bode Sa’adu illustrated this fusion starkly: JAS elements, Mahmudawa fighters, and allied terrorists executing a single operation where ideology and profit were indistinguishable.

JNIM’s shadow on the lake

The most alarming development emerged in late November 2025: the appearance of a group believed to be affiliated with JNIM along the Kebbi–Benin border corridor.

Witnesses describe predominantly foreign fighters, many believed to be Tuareg, moving at night in disciplined formations, wearing military-style uniforms with turbans on their heads, and engaging communities with a calculated restraint unfamiliar to local armed groups. So far, they have avoided major attacks.

That restraint is likely strategic.

Their presence suggests Kainji Lake could become a staging ground for Sahelian expansion into northwestern Nigeria — a shift that would fundamentally alter the region’s security calculus. Unlike local groups, JNIM brings external financing, battlefield experience, and a long-term vision.

Communities adapting under pressure

Communities in the lake basin are not passive observers. They are recalibrating in real time. Some negotiate access quietly to avoid displacement. Others maintain layered loyalties, sharing information selectively as a survival strategy. Vigilante groups that once patrolled forest edges retreat under sustained pressure. Traditional rulers face coercion or marginalisation. In certain settlements, schools and community buildings are repurposed by armed actors for operational use.

Access to fishing grounds, farmlands, and trade routes increasingly depends on permissions issued by commanders operating from forest camps rather than on decisions by local councils or chiefs. Authority has shifted, not through formal declaration, but through incremental control of movement and livelihoods.

How conservation and governance hollowed the ground

The transformation of Kainji Lake into a security corridor is as much the product of ideology as it is the cumulative outcome of governance failure layered over decades.

The creation of Kainji Lake National Park in 1976 displaced communities and restricted access to land and water without meaningfully integrating residents into conservation planning. Fishing zones were closed, grazing was curtailed, and farming was criminalised in places where alternatives did not exist. Promised livelihoods rarely materialised.

Park rangers – tasked with enforcing vast conservation boundaries – were underpaid, poorly equipped, and often absent. Their presence, when felt, was frequently punitive rather than protective.

Local governments in Bagudo, Suru, Kaiama, Borgu, and Ngaski remain chronically weak. 

When armed violence escalated across the northwestern region, security deployments focused on Zamfara, Katsina, and parts of Niger State. Kebbi’s borderlands were treated as peripheral, stable, and low-risk. That assumption proved costly.

Border governance failed as well. Coordination with Benin and the Niger Republics remains distant, reactive, and politicised. Joint patrols are rare. Intelligence sharing is uneven. Communities know this. Armed actors understand it better.

Armed groups arrived first as guests, then as protectors, and finally as power brokers, filling gaps the state created—sometimes violently, sometimes persuasively.

Poverty caused by the absence of authority

In the absence of legitmate sate authority, people seek alternative systems of order. Armed groups exploit this vacuum expertly. They tax, regulate, punish, and reward. In some communities, the question is no longer whether armed groups are legitimate, but whether they are avoidable. Increasingly, they are not.

Once a symbol of Nigeria’s conservation ambition, KLNP has become a largely ungoverned hub exploited by a mix of violent actors: jihadist cells, armed terrorist factions, and transnational militants with roots beyond Nigeria’s borders.

From the northwest’s perspective – particularly Kebbi State – the park functions as a rear operational hub. Armed groups operating in border local governments use it for recruitment, logistics, training, and cross-border movement into the Benin Republic. Its sheer size, rugged terrain, and weak oversight enable a dangerous convergence: criminal armed groups blending with jihadism.

This shift carries national implications

Kainji’s forests and waterways provide mobility, with the lake economy providing revenue streams and border proximity offering escape and reinforcement routes.

While Sambisa became synonymous with territorial insurgency, Kainji signals the maturation of a corridor-based conflict economythat binds Nigeria’s northwest to wider Sahelian instability through forest reserves and lake communities.

When conservation spaces double as conflict connectors, the impact extends beyond biodiversity loss. Human buffers weaken first as communities negotiate survival under parallel authorities. Ecological buffers follow as enforcement fractures and resource exploitation become embedded in armed group financing.

The lake basin lies close to Kainji dam, a critical energy infrastructure, touches sensitive international borders, and anchors trade and livelihood systems that extend deep into the country’s interior.

In 2026, the geographic corridor surrounding the lake and its forest reserves recorded some of the highest levels of mass killings and large-scale abductions in Nigeria. Armed groups operate with increasing confidence, widening their reach across rural settlements and mobility routes connecting Niger State to Kebbi, Zamfara, and beyond toward the Sahelian belt.

The warning signs are not limited to a single park

In April 2025, the Conservator-General of Nigeria’s National Park Service, Ibrahim Musa Goni, told HumAngle that six national parks across the country were overrun by terrorists. Two years earlier, the federal government had created 10 additional parks to prevent further takeovers. However, only four of those new parks are currently operational. In addition to the seven existing parks, only eleven national parks are currently functioning nationwide.

Even where reclamation has occurred, the process is complex. The Conservator General pointed to Kaduna State as an example, describing what he termed a “mutual understanding” between authorities and armed groups. 

“They have agreed to resolve their issues,” he said. “[As a result], most of the forest and game reserves, and even the national park in Kaduna State, have today been freed of banditry.” This, he argued, has brought “relative peace” and enabled forest and game guards, including officers in Birnin Gwari, to resume operations.

The National Park Service has also redefined its institutional posture. “The government classified the National Park Service as a paramilitary organisation,” Goni explained. “And as a paramilitary organisation, the act provides that we can bear arms.” Rangers affiliated with the Service have received training from the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime to address wildlife crime and respond to terror-related takeovers. According to Goni, this training has strengthened Nigeria’s capacity to confront forest-based criminality linked to armed groups and insurgents.

The approach is not solely security-driven. The Service engages surrounding communities through alternative livelihood programmes, skills training, and starter packs intended to reduce dependence on park resources. “This has, in a great deal, diverted the attention of most of them from the resources of the national parks,” Goni said, adding that it has helped contain hunting and wildlife trafficking.

Yet resource limitations remain significant. “Apart from managing wild animal resources and the plants, we also have to manage the human population,” he acknowledged, noting that the Service cannot meet the needs of every community bordering the parks.

Around Kainji, these gaps are visible.

Ali Juwon’s future shattered at the same time his father’s leg did. The year was 2012, and the 9-year-old, hand in hand with his mother, was fleeing his home in Borno State, northeastern Nigeria. Boko Haram members had stormed their community in Gwoza, killing neighbours and burning buildings Ali had known his entire life. 

As he and his mother ran, a familiar voice cried behind them. Both turned to see that Ali’s father had crashed to the ground, crushing his leg in the process. Yet, with all the odds stacked against them, the three managed to make it out with their lives. 

The family travelled for half a day to Nigeria’s federal capital, Abuja, and sought refuge in the Durumi IDP camp like many survivors at the time. 

The camp, with the flurry of Borno survivors, was overcrowded, but Ali’s mother promised him it would not be home, only a resting place before they could find their footing again. Over 14 years later, the Juwon family continue to reside there. 

Ali, now 23, explained how the situation derailed his life, “Before fleeing, my father had a business and was able to afford all my needs. Since he broke his leg, he hasn’t been able to work, and because we couldn’t get him properly treated, his leg never healed well. He hasn’t walked since the fall. Suddenly, all the luxuries we could afford before have vanished.”

Being the only child in his family, Ali took it upon himself to care for his parents. The only thing he needed was a decent education that would lead to a business or accounting degree. He planned to join whatever lucrative fields these courses would thrust him into and use his money to get himself and his parents a place away from the camp.

But Ali quickly learnt that he was no longer in Borno, dependent on his well-to-do father. His education now rested in the hands of IDP leaders, non-profit donors,  government promises, and his own hustle. As the years wore on, he learnt that even with seemingly more helpers, his chances of finishing school had dimmed significantly.

In the Durumi IDP camp, displacement does not end with fleeing violence. For many, it continues in the classroom. While primary education is often supported by NGOs or private donors, secondary school is where the system collapses. 

According to camp leaders, the girls in the camp are often married off after their basic education ends, as secondary education is no longer attainable without sustained government intervention. Hundreds of displaced boys, on the other hand, are forced to choose between survival and schooling, a gap that is reshaping their futures and deepening Nigeria’s long-term social and economic vulnerabilities.

No way past secondary school

“In primary school, things were okay. NGOs sponsored my schooling, but once I got to secondary school, that was where the real problem began. No one sponsored secondary schooling for us,” Ali explained. 

Liyatu Yusuf, the woman leader of the Durumi camp, finds the schooling situation distressing.

“We had certain sponsors who do everything for these children. Usually, it’s from an individual with a good heart. We used to do their secondary school education in the camp as well, but due to a lack of teachers and overcrowding, we had to stop it.”

According to her, over 1,000 students occupy the less spacious class, forcing them to have seven different sessions in just one class. But that’s not just the problem. There is a lack of teachers, too.

“The teachers we have are university volunteers. They would come three times in a week, but then refuse to come the next week because no one was paying them or giving them transport money,” Liyatu said.

Liyatu says the children never receive government sponsorship, and that many of the people who help the children through primary school are good-natured individuals or NGOs. Despite record education budgets announced in Abuja, camp leaders say they have not seen much implementation, especially for the displaced children like those in Durumi.

In a 2025 press release by the Presidential State House Villa, Nigeria’s Vice President, Kashim Shettima, called for collaboration between the government and the private sector to invest in education, as the burden of educating children cannot fall entirely on the government’s shoulders. But in the Durumi IDP camp, help has come mainly from the camp leaders and individual sponsors. 

So, with no one to help him through secondary school, Ali did what several boys in the camp chose to do: work and fund his education in tandem. This way, he would be able to pay for school with the money he made and leave some for his unemployed parents. 

But this was not an easy route, and soon the stress of paying for so much caught up with the boys. Salim Aliyu, for example, now runs a small provision shop near Durumi, as his education ended in Senior Secondary (SS) 1.

“I’m 25 now,” he said. “I stopped at SS1 because it was too expensive. Transport alone was about ₦1,000 every day. How much was I earning to pay that?”

At the time, Salim did menial jobs, sweeping houses and cleaning compounds to survive. Eventually, the numbers stopped adding up. “One day, I realised I couldn’t continue. I just had to leave school.” His story is common in the camp. For many boys, the challenge is not only tuition fees but the impossible balance between earning and learning.

Sulieman Nobo repeated SS3 three times after running out of money repeatedly. By his final attempt, anxiety had overtaken ambition. “In junior secondary school, I learned a lot,” he said. “But in senior secondary, I was focused on passing, not learning. I didn’t have time to retain anything.”

School ended by mid-afternoon. Work began soon after. By nightfall, he was too exhausted to revise his notes. Despite the strain, Sulieman managed above-average grades. Others were not as fortunate.

“I was funding my education myself,” Usman Selman, another young man in the camp, told HumAngle. “My school fees were ₦20,000 a year, so I had to work. But the stress became too much.”

The dual burden affected his concentration. “No matter how hard I tried to listen in class, the only thing on my mind was money.” For some, the pressure pushed them out entirely. Aliyu Usman began paying his own fees at 15. By 17, even ₦3,000 per semester proved unsustainable.

“I was tailoring while in school,” he said. “But I couldn’t cope with fees and transport. I dropped out in SS2. Now I do laundry. It feeds my family.” He paused before adding, “If I could go back to school, I would. But I know in my heart I can’t.”

Salim, now financially stable enough to run his shop, no longer sees school as essential.

“Even if I had the chance, I wouldn’t go back,” he said. “Everything I need for business, I learned here. And after school, where is the job? Unless you already have money, there’s nothing waiting.”

For the few who make it through secondary school, graduation does not guarantee anything. Umar borrowed ₦87,000 to register for the West African Examinations Council (WAEC) exam, one the final secondary school tests that qualify one for further education in the university and other higher insitututions. It took him half a year to repay the debt. In those six months, he was forced to cut back on food. “After all that, I still didn’t get a job,” he said. “If university graduates are struggling, who am I with only a WAEC certificate?” 

The repeated disappointments take a toll. According to Liyatu, who coordinates the camp, more than half of the 1,000 boys there are currently out of school and unemployed. “If they even register for WAEC, we are lucky,” she said. “Most cannot finish secondary school. When they see there’s no support, they lose hope.” She worries about the ripple effects.

“With no school and sometimes no work, small arguments turn into fights. I saw boys punch each other over ₦200. I don’t excuse it, but I understand the frustration.”

Humanitarian worker Mohammed Abubakar, who has spent over a decade in Nigeria’s humanitarian sector, says prolonged educational exclusion carries broader consequences. “When young people are cut off from opportunity, their productivity drops,” he said. “They become more vulnerable to exploitation and manipulation.” He cautions that marginalisation, not ignorance alone, creates risk. “If society neglects them, others will step in, sometimes with harmful intentions. That is how cycles of insecurity and poverty sustain themselves.”

Beyond security, he points to economic cost. “When you underinvest in education, your population becomes less competitive. It affects productivity, innovation, even GDP. The impact goes far beyond one camp.”

Yet, despite the barriers, many of the boys continue to dream. Sulieman plans to register for JAMB, hoping for a scholarship. If that fails, he wants to join the armed forces.

“My dream is simple,” he said. “To live a better life and take my parents out of this camp.”

Umar still hopes to study computer engineering. Aliyu once imagined becoming a doctor. Sadiqi Shauku, 18, who left school in SS2, says he would return “if someone helped.” And Ali Juwon, still carrying the weight of his family’s survival, has not let go. “If there is anyone who can help me continue my education, I will continue,” he said. “I want to study something that will help me start a business or work in government. I want to be a better man.”

For now, he survives on friends’ support and periodic food distributions. Hope remains, but evidence of escape is scarce.

“Since I started primary school, I have never seen anyone gather enough money to leave this camp,” Sulieman said. “I believe in my future. But no one has gotten out.”

Thousands of fishermen converged on the milky waters of the Matan Fadan river, a UNESCO heritage site, winding through verdant landscape in northwestern Nigeria’s Argungu.

President Bola Tinubu joined thousands of spectators on Saturday, cheering competitors vying to catch the largest fish, despite security concerns deterring some attendance.

Participants employed only traditional methods, including hand-woven nets and calabash gourds, with some demonstrating their prowess using bare hands. The Kebbi State waterway teemed with woven nets and canoes as fishermen waded through.

This year’s champion landed a 59kg (130-pound) croaker fish, winning a cash prize. Other participants sell their catch, stimulating the local economy.

The river remains closed throughout the year, overseen by a titled authority known as Sarkin Ruwa, the water chief.

The fishing contest marked the pinnacle of the annual international fishing festival, which showcased cultural displays, including traditional wrestling and musical performances.

“I thank God that I got something to take home to my family to eat. I am very happy that I came,” Aliyu Muhammadu, a 63-year-old fisherman who participated in the competition, told The Associated Press news agency.

The festival originated in 1934, marking peace between the extensive Sokoto Caliphate – a vast 19th-century Islamic empire spanning from Nigeria into parts of modern-day Burkina Faso – and the previously resistant Argungu emirate.

Considered a symbol of unity, the festival ran continuously for decades until 2010, when infrastructure problems and growing northern Nigerian insecurity forced its suspension. It briefly resumed in 2020 before pausing again until this year.

Nigeria faces complex security challenges, particularly in the north, where thousands of people have been killed in attacks over the years.

While Tinubu characterised the festival’s return as a sign of stability, for many, it represents restored community pride.

“Our challenge now is that people are scared of coming. A lot of people don’t attend the event like before because of insecurity,” said Hussein Mukwashe, the Sarkin Ruwa of Argungu.

Armed groups in Nigeria have killed more than 200 people in several attacks in recent days.

Meanwhile, all the Christian worshippers abducted from churches last month have been released.

How serious is Nigeria’s security situation – and what progress is being made?

Presenter: Adrian Finighan

Guests:

James Barnett – non-resident research fellow at the Hudson Institute, specialising in armed groups in Nigeria

Oluwole Ojewale – regional coordinator for West and Central Africa at the Institute for Security Studies

Melvin Foote – founder and president of Constituency for Africa, and a specialist on US-Africa policy

Armed men burned homes and shops in Woro, a remote village in north-central Kwara State bordering Niger State, authorities say.

Armed men have killed at least 35 people and burned homes and shops in Woro, a remote village in Nigeria’s north-central Kwara State, authorities said.

“This morning, I was told that 35 to 40 dead bodies were counted,” Sa’idu Baba Ahmed, a local lawmaker in the Kaiama region, told the AFP news agency on Wednesday.

“Many others escaped into the bush with gunshots,” Ahmed said, adding that more bodies could be found.

It was the deadliest assault ‍this ⁠year in the district bordering Niger State, which armed gangs have attacked increasingly.

Villagers fled into the surrounding bushland as the armed men attacked Woro, Ahmed told ‌the Reuters news agency by phone. Several people were still missing, he said.

The attack was confirmed by police, who did not provide casualty figures. The state government blamed the attack on “terrorist cells”.

Banditry and armed ‌attacks on rural communities have surged across ‌northwest and north-central ⁠Nigeria in recent years as gangs raid villages, kidnap residents and loot livestock.

Kurmin Wali, Nigeria – Like most Sundays in Kurmin Wali, the morning of January 18 began with early preparations for church and, later on, shopping at the weekly market.

But by 9:30am, it became clear to residents of the village in the Kajuru local government area of Nigeria’s Kaduna State that this Sunday would not be a normal one.

Gunmen known locally as bandits arrived in the village in numbers, armed with AK47 rifles.

They broke down doors and ordered people out of their homes and the village’s three churches.

They blocked the village exits before taking people and marching dozens into the forest at gunpoint.

Some captives were taken from church, while others were forcibly kidnapped as gunmen moved from house to house.

In one house, more than 30 members of an extended family were abducted.

Jummai Idris, a relative of the family that was taken, remains inconsolable.

She was home the day of the attack and did not go out.

“When I heard shouting, I took two children and we hid behind a house. That was how they [the bandits] missed us,” she told Al Jazeera.

“But I heard every shout, every cry and footstep as they picked up people from our house and surrounding houses,” she added, between sobs.

With tears streaming down her face, Idris recounts how she kept calling out the names of her missing family members – men, women and children.

Her house sits on the edge of the village, close to a bandits’ crossing point.

“I don’t know what they are doing to them now. I don’t know if they’ve eaten or not,” she said.

A total of 177 people were abducted that day. Eleven escaped their captors, but about a quarter of Kurmin Wali’s population remains captive.

Initially, state officials denied the attack had taken place.

In the immediate aftermath, Kaduna’s police commissioner called reports a “falsehood peddled by conflict entrepreneurs”.

Finally, two days later, Nigeria’s national police spokesman, Benjamin Hundeyin, admitted an “abduction” had indeed occurred on Sunday. He said police had launched security operations with the aim of “locating and safely rescuing the victims and restoring calm to the area”.

Uba Sani, Kaduna state’s governor, added that more than just rescuing the abductees, the government was committed to ensuring “that we establish permanent protection for them”.

There has been a police presence in Kurmin Wali since then. But it is not enough to reassure villagers.

Locals say the police are not there to protect the village, but merely to compile the names of victims they for days denied existed.

At the premises of Haske Cherubim and Seraphim Movement Church, the largest church in the village, days after the attack, a rust-coloured door lay on the floor, pulled off its hinges. Inside the mud-brick building, the site was chaotic.

Plastic chairs overturned in panic were strewn around the room – just as the kidnappers had left them.

‘Only the recklessly bold can stay’

The church building was where the captors brought everyone before marching them into the forest surrounding the village.

Residents said the gunmen divided themselves into different groups, targeting homes and churches in the village.

Maigirma Shekarau was among those taken before he managed to escape.

“They tied us, beat us up, before arriving us into the bush. We trekked a long distance before taking a break,” he said of his journey with his captors.

Shekarau, a father of five, was holding his three-year-old daughter when he and others were taken.

“When we reached an abandoned village, I ducked inside a room with my little daughter when the attackers weren’t looking. I closed the door and waited. After what seemed like eternity, and sure they were gone, I opened the door and walked back home, avoiding the bush path,” he said, now back in the village.

But on returning home, his heart sank. He and his three-year-old were the only ones who made it home. The rest of the family is still held by the kidnappers.

Standing in a parched field of long dried grass, Shekarau says the village no longer feels like home.

The village chief was also taken, but managed to escape. He now presides over a community hopeful for the return of the missing – but too scared to stay.

“Everyone is on edge. People are confused and don’t know what to do. Some haven’t eaten. There are entire families that are missing,” said Ishaku Danazumi, the village chief.

Danazumi says the kidnappers regularly visit and loot the village grain stores and the villagers’ possessions, including mobile phones.

Two days after the attack, residents said the bandits rode through their village again.

On that day, the community also received a ransom demand.

“They accused us of taking 10 motorcycles they hid in the bush to evade soldiers who operated here the week before,” Danazumi said. “But we didn’t see those bikes.”

The chief said the captors told him the return of the 10 bikes was a precondition for the return of his people.

But deep inside, he knows, more demands will follow.

In the village, residents wait in their thatch and mud-brick houses, hoping for their loved ones to return.

But because of fear and the tense situation, many are leaving the farming community.

“Anyone thinking about remaining in this village needs to reconsider,” said Panchan Madami, a resident who also survived the attack.

“Only the recklessly bold can stay with the current state of security here.”

Villagers said that before the January 18 attack, 21 people kidnapped by the bandits were returned to them after a ransom was paid. But just two days later, a quarter of the village was taken.

“It will be stupid to stay here, hoping things will be OK,” added Madami.

The government says it will establish a military post to protect the community from further attacks. But that is not comforting enough for Idris, who has also made up her mind to leave.

“I’m not coming back here,” she said, gathering her belongings to leave the village where she grew up and married. “I just hope the rest of my family gets back.”