north-east

From camps in Borno to street corners in Jos or online forums in Lagos, Nigerians are asking the same question: “Who’s responsible for our safety?” 

It echoes louder each time a village is attacked, a school is shut, or families are forced to flee again. The country is replete with soldiers and police checkpoints. A new special task force is formed frequently. Yet, the violence continues.

Across the North East, insurgents wage a relentless campaign, displacing communities and destabilising entire regions. Separatist agitation is volatile in the South East, feeding unrest and confrontation. The North West is plagued by the kind of terrorism that blurs the line between ideological violence and organised crime, while the North Central battles a dangerous mix of terrorism and sectarian conflict. 

In Nigeria’s commercial centres, violent crime festers, expressing itself through kidnappings, cult clashes, and armed robbery that no longer respect time or place. Each is complex, rooted in history, grievances, and deep socio-economic fractures. Though different, they all persist, grow, and adapt despite the government’s multi-pronged security interventions. For every new strategy launched or force deployed, the violence seems to morph and resurface elsewhere, often with greater ferocity.

The military’s grip on internal security

Nigeria’s reliance on the military for internal security is not new. A retired Assistant Inspector-General of Police (AIG) notes it began during the military era, when armed forces sought visibility and influence, often at the cost of the police.

Brigadier General Saleh Bala (rtd.), a veteran of many military campaigns and the president of White Ink Institute, provides deeper historical context. He links the military’s domestic role to the post-colonial period, particularly the Tiv riots and Operation Wetie in the Western Region. Even then, while police retained the lead, the military’s active support gradually expanded.

According to Bala, the real shift occurred post-civil war, with surging armed robbery in urban areas during the era of notorious figures like Oyenusi and Anini. The police’s inability to match this threat due to outdated equipment, low morale, and inadequate training enabled the military’s growing internal role. This, he says, was cemented further after the 1983 coup, where regime protection became paramount following attempts by then Inspector General of Police (IGP) Sunday Adewusi to thwart the coup.

These developments paved the way for the military’s sustained involvement in internal policing through state-led operations like “Operation Sweep” under General Buba Marwa, which set the template for numerous state-level joint task forces today.

The AIG remarks, “The result was that the police were denied funding for equipment and training, lost morale, and slowly withdrew.” Bala adds that while military interventions initially curtailed violent crime, overexposure led to diminishing professionalism and allegations of abuse similar to those levied against the police.

Soldiers as police: a reversal of roles

Today, soldiers respond to crime scenes, enforce curfews in peacetime cities, and patrol highways. The line between policing and military duties has blurred, with the military often serving as the de facto internal security force.

Bala agrees with this description but clarifies, “The military does not assume this role unilaterally. It acts only when requested by civil authorities and sanctioned by the President through the National Security Council.” He emphasises that this support role is constitutional and subsidiary, designed to help the police regain control and hand over post-stabilisation.

Where the AIG sees erosion of roles, Bala sees the outcome of evolving threats, particularly hybrid threats like Boko Haram and multi-layered terrorism, that overwhelm police capacity. However, both agree that the police must be revitalised to regain primacy in internal security.

Policing the elite, not the public

The CLEEN Foundation and a number of other civil society organisations in Nigeria have written extensively on the drift from securing the nation by the police to a troubling focus on protecting VIPs, in addition to widespread corruption and low faith in the police institution.

The AIG points out a disturbing trend: officers cluster around VIPs, leaving ordinary citizens exposed. This elite capture of police services, coupled with a dismal police-to-citizen ratio in most African countries, including Nigeria, undermines the safety and security of citizens.

Brigadier General Bala refrains from directly challenging this critique but shifts focus toward the need for the police to “rise above their preference for soft, high-profile urban operations.” He urges a move toward rural policing and special operations, citing international examples where law enforcement operates capably across diverse terrains.

He stresses political leadership as the driver of such reform: “The police need political direction to prioritise nationwide security expectations over elite security needs.”

Too many uniforms, too little coordination

HumAngle has, over the years, documented Nigeria’s bloated security environment, in which the DSS, NSCDC, Immigration, Customs, and other agencies frequently act in opposition. Intelligence is delayed, mandates are unclear, and many outfits lack focus.

The AIG calls for streamlining, suggesting that the DSS return to its 1980s and 1990s focus on community-centric intelligence gathering, while the NSCDC personnel be redeployed as a foundation for state police. Many analysts offered similar advice for merging vigilantes and dozens of self-help militias across the country into the NSCDC and maybe decentralising this outfit into regional police, rather than each state in Nigeria having semi-autonomous or independent security force.

“Rather than 36 separate police entities, we should have regional police that are in line with Nigeria’s six geographical zones,” a top police officer in Abuja said, adding that if state-based police institutions are adopted, governors who already have authority over local government administration “will muster too much power.”

The crisis of imagination

The AIG argues that Nigeria’s insecurity stems from a flawed belief that force alone ensures safety. Instead, he champions investigative policing, forensic tools, training, and direct departmental budgeting.

Bala provides a broader context: “Warfare itself is now institutionally all-encompassing. Security threats are increasingly urban and asymmetric. Policing must now be part of a whole-of-government, all-of-society approach.”

He warns of the “militarisation of all security forces” due to adversaries’ tactics. He draws attention to advanced democracies where police forces are as capable as some militaries. This, he suggests, should inform Nigeria’s transformation: building police forces that are not only community-responsive but also operationally hardened.

Restoring trust, rebuilding institutions

The AIG proposes revamping police colleges in Ikeja, Kaduna, and Maiduguri into detective hubs. He calls for merit-based recruitment and unassailable discipline to restore legitimacy.

Bala doesn’t directly oppose these views but reiterates the need for synergy: “Military, intelligence, law enforcement, and paramilitaries must become domain-specific specialists who can adapt across blurred threat boundaries.”

Both agree that trust in the police can only be restored through professionalism, neutrality (especially during elections), and effective public service—not militarisation.

Towards a new vision

Nigeria stands at a crossroads. Its current security model, built on elite protection and military overreach, is unsustainable. Both Bala and the AIG call for a pivot towards decentralised, professional policing, political will, and community-grounded justice.

Bala underscores the need for coherence: “The answer lies in orchestrated cooperation. Security cannot be left to force projection alone. It must be institutional, strategic, and inclusive.”

In a country overwhelmed by uniforms, one truth endures: security is not guaranteed by presence, but by purpose. And that purpose must be justice.

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

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

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

An examination of the security legacy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perspectives from areas affected by conflict

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

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

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

What remained unaddressed

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Key achievements 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Confronting the past may be the path forward

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

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

Bello Ardo still remembers how they were sent away from Dapchi, a town in Yobe State, North East Nigeria.

It was 2015. He had just arrived with his family and herd, hoping to graze and rest after a long journey from Bauchi State. He approached the District Head, then the Divisional Police Officer, seeking permission to stay. But the community rejected them.

“They said, ‘We don’t want to see cattle here. We also don’t want to see strangers. Take your animals and leave our community,’” he recalled.

He moved southward to Ngamdu in Borno State, only to be met with hostility. “We went three days without water until the community leader intervened,” he said. 

Bello is a herder, an occupation he inherited 45 years ago. His parents were originally from Zamfara in the North West, but migrated to Kano, where he was born. He learnt to herd cattle in the once lush Falgore Game Reserve. 

By 2011, things had changed. The grass thinned, the rivers shrank, and he began migrating in search of pasture, following designated grazing routes, moving from Kano to Bauchi, then Yobe, Borno, and finally Adamawa. In each state, he made brief stops; sometimes staying just a day, and in some places up to three years. But the pattern remained the same: rejection, scarcity, and tension.

Bello is now the State Chairman of Sullubawa, a Fulbe clan known for cattle herding and spread across northwestern Nigeria. But titles mean little when the land offers no relief and the institutions once meant to support herders no longer function. The grazing routes Bello once followed stretched across the country’s northern region. They protected herders, shielded farmers, and helped maintain order. 

Those routes are gone, erased by urbanisation, farmland expansion, and state neglect. In their absence, herders searching for water and grass now stray into cultivated land, fuelling suspicion, resentment, and violence.

What happened to the routes?

There was a time when the routes had names.

Older herders, like Bello, still remember them, not as lines on a map, but as muscle memory. They could list the rivers they crossed, the forests they skirted, and the wells that dotted the way.

“The Falgore Forest was demarcated by the government,” Bello said. “Locally, we call this demarcation ‘centre.’ On the west of this demarcation were farmlands, on the east, wilderness with lush vegetation. To the north, a grazing route for cattle. This  leads to states like Bauchi and Benue.”

Leaving Kano, Bello arrived in Burra, Ningi, and then Tulu in Toro, all in Bauchi. Here, he spent three months in the Yuga Forest. Then he moved eastward, circling back to Gadar Maiwa in Ningi until he reached Darazo, still in Bauchi. From here, he spent the next 30 days migrating into Yobe.

He moved through Funai, under Ngelzarma town, and Dogon Kuka under Daura town, both in Fune LGA. He then travelled north of Damaturu to graze in Tarmuwa, south to Buni Yadi, east to Kukareta, and further on to Gashua and Nguru.

He said all these places have pastures but limited water, except during the rainy season.

Bello left Yobe in 2015 and arrived in Borno. After initial hostilities, he grazed Ngamdu, Benesheikh, Auno, and Jakana. Then, he entered villages like Dalori around the Alau Lake in Konduga. And then he entered the Komala Forest, still in Konduga. He left Borno in 2017 and migrated to Adamawa.

These were not random movements. They followed established corridors, called burtali, designed to support seasonal migration. Marked by the defunct Northern Regional Government during Nigeria’s First Republic, burtali were official grazing routes, some stretching hundreds of kilometres. They connected water points, grazing reserves, and veterinary posts, and were governed by traditional authorities and state institutions.

Herders knew where to move and when. Farmers knew which areas were off-limits during the season. Communities in between prepared for the passing of cattle and offered rest. There was friction, yes. But it was friction with the structure. Disputes could be mediated. Violations could be punished. Movement was predictable, and conflict was, for the most part, containable.

“The easiest way to identify the route is by cattle footprints,” Bello said. “It is always busy. There are also trees like dashi [hairy corkwood] and cini da zugu [jatropha], planted on both sides. The government planted some. Farmers also plant them to protect their fields.”

“Most of those routes have become farmlands, roads, or houses,” he said. “We now migrate through tarred roads and residential areas.” Even during his migration, Bello recalled that some routes were already blocked. “In some places, I followed the burtali and others tarred roads.”

In Sokoto State, Abdullahi Manuga, another nomadic herder, confirmed that most routes have been encroached upon. “When we reach a blockage, we have no choice but to go through towns or residential areas,” he said. 

This, experts say, is where tension begins. “When a route is blocked, the herder will try to find a way around it,” said Malik Samuel, a Senior Researcher at Good Governance Africa. “And in this process, animals stray into farmland or residential areas. This then leads to conflict.” 

Abdullahi explained the challenge: “With over 1,000 cattle, you cannot control all of them. One or two will stray into farmlands, often leading to clashes with farmers.”

The scale of the problem is vast. In 2018, desertification degraded more than 580,000 square kilometres of northern Nigeria, affecting about 62 million people. In Yobe, a HumAngle investigation uncovered how the shrinking ecosystem has intensified competition between farmers and herders. In Sokoto’s Goronyo and Gwadabawa, pastoralists have abandoned the Rima Dam, once a key watering point, due to drying reservoirs and farmland encroachment.

The disintegration did not happen overnight. It came in stages: farmlands slowly consumed designated routes. Grazing reserves fell into disuse. And eventually, the state disappeared from the equation altogether.

“Population has grown, while resources, land and water have not,” Malik said.

He stressed that the burtali were designed to prevent this tension. “These are the only routes known to herders. The reason behind the creation of these routes was to avoid tension between farmers and herders.”

Since 2020, more than 1,356 people have been killed in Nigeria due to farmer–herder violence, according to SBM Intelligence, a Lagos-based consultancy. Amnesty International has identified the government’s failure to intervene or prosecute perpetrators as a major driver of the crisis.

Climate migration and desperation

Like Bello, Abdullahi is also on the move.

He is originally from Jangebe in Talata Mafara, Zamfara State, and has followed a path shaped by drought, conflict, and disappearance. His reason is the same.

“Scarcity of pasture, the expansion of farmlands, and continuous rustling of our cattle made us migrate,” he told HumAngle. “Most of our animals have been rustled. The bulls in our herd are barely up to five.”

Seven years ago, when pasture began to vanish in his village, Abdullahi left. He first moved into Niger State. Then, he went from Gezoji to Tudun Biri in Igabi town of Kaduna, then he returned to Kwana Maje in Anka, Zamfara State. He moved again, this time to Mallamawa in Katsina, and then re-entered Niger State. Here, he grazed the Ibbi and Wawa Forest until forest rangers challenged him. This made him move to Gidan Kare, a village in Sokoto State, before settling in nearby Dange Shuni town.

Both Bello and Abdullahi left Zamfara. While the former travelled east, through Kano, Bauchi, and Borno, the latter moved west. Their journeys trace a human map of collapse, one that cuts across nearly half of Nigeria’s landmass.

In both men’s stories, geography is memory. But it is also grief.

Bello said that across Bauchi, Yobe, Borno, and Adamawa, formerly lush plains have turned brittle, while rivers have grown unpredictable. Rain falls heavier, less often, and in bursts that flood lowland routes.

The consequences are not only ecological. They are generational. 

Some herders are giving up the trade. Others are sending their children to work in towns. Abdullahi said he now substitutes herding with subsistence farming and being a shop attendant. But even this is a struggle. “he land is already full,” he said. “I have lost interest in grazing. I want to settle in one location and raise cattle on a ranch.”

For Bello, too, something fundamental is shifting.

“The migratory culture is dying,” he said. “It is dying because of the crisis and rejection, limited resources, and sudden realisation of the importance of education.”

He now believes that pastoralists must adapt. 

“Many herders now prefer ranching. We want to combine our traditional knowledge and modern ways to raise cattle differently and educate our children.”

What was once passed down as tradition is now being considered for survival. The land is changing. The climate is changing. And slowly, the herders are changing too.

Farmers at the frontline

“There are several farms here that have encroached on grazing routes,” said Sanusi Salihu Goronyo, a 49-year-old farmer from Sokoto. “Owners of these farms have clashed several times with herders when their animals stray. Some farmers got these lands on lease from local government authorities.”

Sanusi has farmed in the Middle Rima Valley, near the Goronyo Dam, for over 15 years. He grows rice, onion, garlic, and wheat, alternating between rainfed and irrigation farming. He started with five hectares. But unpredictable weather has made farming harder.

“Sometimes the dam overflows and destroys our crops,” he said. “One year, we lost everything we planted; rice, onions. More recently, our onion seedlings died because the soil here could not support them.” Sanusi has since expanded his farm to 20 hectares, hoping to improve his harvests.

In Bauchi, the story is the same. “The burtali has existed for as long as I can remember,” said Kamalu Abubakar, a 32-year-old farmer from Nabordo in Toro LGA. “But many of the routes have been encroached on. Even here in Toro, people who were never farmers now farm, out of hardship.”

He said this desperation often leads people to cultivate land along migration routes. “When herders come through with their animals, it leads to clashes.”

There are no longer visible signs of the burtali. The routes have faded, not just physically, but from institutional memory. “Almost everywhere is farmland now,” Kamalu said. “A few spots are left for grazing; sometimes cattle stray into farms. But some herders intentionally drive animals into fields.”

To herders, the land is a path. To farmers, it is a livelihood. What was once shared in the vacuum left by failing institutions is now contested. What was seasonal has become criminalised.

“When this happens, people take action,” Kamalu said. This “action,” sometimes, means reporting to authorities. Other times, they confront the herders directly.

Kamalu farms on five hectares of land inherited from his father, who leased it from the government more than thirty years ago. These are not wealthy farmers. They survive on small plots. A single ruined field can mean food lost, income gone, or a child pulled out of school.

That shared precarity, between farmer and herder, is rarely acknowledged in how the conflict is portrayed. Most reports focus on violence: killings, raids, destruction. But the real story often begins earlier, with broken systems, shrinking trust, and a quiet dread that builds over time.

Nguru-Hadejia wetlands in Yobe, a once critical water source for herders, have become a point of contention as water access shrinks and farmlands expand. In Bauchi’s western agricultural belt, areas like Toro and the Yankari-Katagum corridor are now recognised zones of ecological tension, where water and land are in short supply.

Sanusi said there are no functioning mediation systems anymore. “In the past, we would call the village head. He would speak to both sides. Now, no one comes”

Some communities in Adamawa State have tried to fill that gap. Bello, a community elder, explained: “When animals stray into farmlands, we get reports from the police. First, we identify the culprit. Then, if he has been arrested, we ensure the farmer is compensated. We also discipline the herder to prevent a repeat.”

Experts note that local accountability matters. “In the North East, elders take action when community members rustle cattle. They report to the police. However, in places like the North Central, leaders often stay silent. That is what leads to retaliation,” Malik said.

In the absence of authority, vigilantes have emerged. Some protect farms. Others patrol bush paths. Most are poorly trained and loosely organised. Many are young men with long grievances and short tempers.

The result is tension that simmers without resolution.

Kamalu described his fear. “Maybe one cow enters. Then someone hurls an insult. Then they come back with weapons. Or maybe they don’t. But we don’t know.”

The fear is mutual. Herders move silently, hoping not to be seen, and farmers sleep lightly during the migration season. No one trusts the other or trusts the state to step in.

The deeper costs are not only in lost harvests or stolen cows, but in stalled futures. “Our children don’t get an education,” Bello said. “We don’t have healthcare. No water, no electricity. People stereotype us. It is all because of ignorance. If we were educated, we would have equal opportunities like others.”

Still, some herders are finding alternatives.

“We bought plots of land here in Jimeta,” Bello said. “That is our community now. Our children are in school. We created a ranch to keep our cattle during the dry season. After harvest, we buy stalks from farmers and feed them. Our cattle drink from the River Benue. We use boreholes from nearby communities for our water.”

They hope to buy more land. Build a dam. Dig a borehole. Secure a future.

For now, they adapt, one season at a time.

The security gap

What happens when movement is no longer managed, and survival turns into trespass? That question haunts the herders, who try to pass unseen, and the farmers, who try to protect what little they have. It also points to a more profound crisis that does not begin with herders and farmers but ends with them trapped in the middle of a larger security breakdown.

“The population will keep growing. People will need more land to farm and more space to live,” said Malik. “The government must evolve with these trends.”

The failure to adapt has opened the door for non-state actors. In some cases, herders say the attackers are not even Nigerians. Claims of foreign infiltration, fighters from Niger, Chad, or Mali crossing porous borders, are challenging to verify, but frequently repeated. The risk, Malik warns, is that armed groups now move across the region disguised as herders, exploiting migration routes that span West and Central Africa. Nigeria’s North East, the most significant entry point for cross-border pastoralists, is especially vulnerable.

Malik explained that even internal movement is no longer predictable. Routes once mediated by district heads and grazing committees are now insecure or unmarked. Communities that once welcomed herders have grown hostile. Vigilante groups have stepped in, blocking passage, collecting tolls, or enforcing rules with force.

“We encounter terrorists, especially in Borno,” said Bello. “They rustle our cattle or demand taxes. In 2017, over 100 of our cattle were stolen. Other herders lost more. Through our association, Pulako, we contributed to helping the affected herders, two or three cattle each. But it is part of why we left for Adamawa.”

In northeastern Nigeria, the Boko Haram factions of Jama’atu Ahlis Sunna Lidda’adati wal-Jihad (JAS) and the Islamic State West Africa Province (ISWAP) have embedded themselves in areas long abandoned by the state. Movement is no longer just a logistical challenge but a matter of territory and surveillance. Pastoralists must now navigate dry land, blocked paths, with armed groups asserting control.

“JAS rustles cattle and sells them in the south to fund their operations,” said Malik. “ISWAP taxes herders who graze in territories around Lake Chad. When JAS steals cattle from those herders, ISWAP intervenes to retrieve them. They even resolve herder-farmer conflicts, ensuring farmers are compensated when herds destroy crops.”

In the northwestern region, the dynamic is different. Terrorist groups have created informal taxation systems. “They extort herders, like JAS does,” Malik added. “When herders lose everything, they turn to kidnapping or robbery, or are hired by aggrieved herders to retaliate against farmers.”

We extensively documented this pattern across Nigeria’s conflict zones. In one report, Ahmad Salkida, Founder of HumAngle, who is an investigative journalist and one of the most authoritative voices on the Boko Haram insurgency, explained that herders under Boko Haram and ISWAP control are forced to pay taxes based on the size of their herd. 

“They must relinquish a portion of their livestock,” he noted. “And due to multiple factions,  they occasionally pay double, losing more than they can bargain for.”

In other parts of the region, herding communities are routinely forced to pay protection levies, coerced into supplying armed groups, or punished if they refuse, mirroring the same dynamics of extortion and control seen in the North East.

Mobility, once neutral and even protected, has become political. Herders, no longer shielded by the grazing route system, are exposed on every front. 

There seems to be no national framework for managing trans-regional movement. Until July 2024, when the Nigerian government created the Federal Ministry of Livestock Development, no institution had the authority or tools to track who was moving, where, or why.

“Past governments tried to introduce ranching settlements,” Malik said. “The Buhari administration attempted, but the public saw it as a land-grab. The problem was poor communication. People have lost trust in the state, so they misinterpreted everything. However, the deeper issue is that each region has a different conflict. The North East is not the North West. So solutions must also be different.”

The state’s absence is not passive. It produces insecurity.

Farmers form vigilantes. Herders arm themselves. Encounters that once ended with negotiation now end in gunfire.

The National Livestock Transformation Plan (NLTP), introduced to prevent this scenario, has stalled, sidelined by politics and inconsistent implementation.

“It is a good idea,” Malik said. “If implemented properly, it could resolve many of these issues.”

With each unresolved clash, local trust erodes. With each unmapped corridor, non-state actors tighten their grip. And as the climate continues to dry rivers and strip pasture from the earth, pressure builds slowly, steadily, dangerously.

What must be done

If there is one thing everyone agrees on, it is this: what exists now is not working.

“The solution must begin at the community level,” said Malik. “We need to bring back the conflict resolution systems that once worked, those local processes that helped farmers and herders find common ground.”

However, informal peacebuilding alone would not resolve a structural crisis. The scale of Nigeria’s environmental collapse and mobility breakdown requires coordinated, strategic, and adequately resourced reform.

Malik believes ranching is essential to ending uncontrolled migration and giving herders security, dignity, and economic opportunity.

“Ranching is the most effective alternative. Moving cattle across states will always spark conflict,” he said. “But if ranches are developed properly, with clinics, water, schools, and markets, those are capital incentives. They make settlement viable.”

He insists this will require more than government goodwill.

“The private sector must be involved. Let investors lease land. Let herders produce meat and milk, and let the state earn revenue. With proper management, we wouldn’t need to import beef or dairy.”

Yet trust is fragile. Malik noted how the RUGA initiative failed not because the idea was flawed, but because people were not consulted. The controversial RUGA programme, suspended in 2019, stood for Rural Grazing Area.

“There was no proper engagement. The public saw it as a land grab. The government must learn to communicate. There must be transparency. There must be accountability,” Malik said. 

He added that at the heart of the tension is something simple: survival.

“The farmer wants to plant in peace and feed his family,” he says. “The herder wants to graze and feed his cattle. When people are allowed to be heard, they often find solutions independently.”

Bello shares this vision, but with a local, seasonal approach.

“During the rainy season, the government should provide ranches for us to keep our cattle,” he said. “Farmers can let us graze on harvested fields in the dry season. Our cattle will help clear the land and leave dung for manure. Then, farmers can do irrigation farming on the ranches. If we rotate this way, both sides benefit, without conflict.”

Abdullahi agrees, but calls for sincerity: “If the government is honest about the RUGA settlement plan and implements it, this problem will go away. Also, forest rangers should treat us fairly. Don’t deny us access completely.”

From the farmers’ side, the expectations are equally modest.

“Herders should avoid people’s farms. Farmers should avoid blocking the grazing routes,” Sanusi said.

“The government should support us with fertilisers and pesticides, even if through subsidies,” Kamalu added.

The proposed NLTP is meant to address many of these issues. But it remains stalled, caught between politics and poor communication.

“If implemented well, it could solve most of the crisis,” Malik said.

The spate of insecurity in Nigeria is turning many local communities into ungovernable spaces. As the secular government withdraws from these communities, terrorist groups expand their influence, consolidate authority, and accumulate illicit wealth. Traditional leaders—once the primary link between the people and governance—now operate under the coercive control of armed factions, which have established parallel administrations and seized the reins of the local economy.

North East

The government’s absence is nearly absolute in northeastern Nigeria, around the Lake Chad basin. Here, the Islamic State West Africa Province (ISWAP) and remnants of Boko Haram terrorists operate not as fugitives but as rulers. Their authority is layered, structured, and chillingly effective.

ISWAP has organised its territory into mantikas (localities), which are regional districts aligned with Nigeria’s federal structure. These mantikas oversee taxation, zakat (alms-giving), farm levies, education (Qur’anic schools and ideological reprogramming), security, courts, and patrols.

Several communities in Abadam, Guzamala, Kukawa, Marte, and Mobbar no longer wait for state forces; they negotiate directly with insurgent-appointed administrators. The group’s brutality is, for many, accompanied by a disturbing sense of order within a context devoid of hope.

North West

While ISWAP’s rule is ideological, in North West Nigeria, it encompasses a chaotic mix of economic, ethnic, and religious factors. In Zamfara, armed groups now operate like proto-states. The forests of Maru, Bakura, and Anka are home to well-defended camps with command hierarchies, blood-draining tax systems, and armouries supplied via Sahelian trafficking routes and after raids on military positions.

HumAngle investigations found that communities like Tungar Doruwa, Maitoshshi, Chabi, and Kwankelai—once protected under the Dankurmi Police Outpost—are now under the firm control of Kachalla Black and Kachalla Gemu. Further south, Kungurmi, Galeji, and Yarwutsiya are governed by Kachalla Soja and Kachalla Madagwal. Up north, Kango Village and Madafa Mountain serve as fortresses for terrorists like Wudille and Ado Aleru, who command loyalty through a combination of fear and patronage.

Here, terrorism is no longer sporadic. It is systemic. It is territorial governance without borders, aided by the region’s gold trade, deep forests, and a broken justice system. Entire LGAs now function as autonomous war zones where Nigerian laws hold no sway.

The little-known Lakurawa terror network is enforcing a form of stealth insurgency in the areas of Isa, Sabon Birni, and Rabah in Sokoto State. Schools are shuttered, roads are mined, and civilians pay levies for survival. The group’s cross-border tactics, using the Niger Republic as a tactical fallback, make them elusive and resilient.

Many villages with large populations, like Galadima, Kamarawa, and Dankari in Sokoto, now survive on whispered warnings and ritual bribes. Lakurawa’s governance is less visible but equally firm, with taxation, curfews, and brutal retribution. Residents say sporadic military raids offer little relief; the terrorists return hours later, more vengeful than before.

The fractures in Kaduna State mirror the broader problems in Nigeria. In Chikun, Giwa, and Birnin Gwari, attacks by Ansaru factions and criminal warbands have pushed out state institutions. Southern Kaduna adds another layer, with ethnic violence fused with terror raids, leaving villages like Jika da Kolo and Tudun Biri in ruins.

Katari, once a symbol of Kaduna’s transport link to Abuja, is now a ghost zone, haunted by the memory of the 2022 train attack. Trains now pass, but the residents remain missing, displaced or dead.

North Central

In Niger State, rural districts like Shiroro, Mashegu, and Borgu are steadily slipping from state and federal control. After attacks such as the 2021 Mazakuka mosque massacre, entire villages fled, leaving behind ghost towns. ISWAP and affiliated terror cells have since moved in, using dense forests to launch ambushes and collect tribute.

In Rafi, Allawa, Bassa, and Zazzaga, residents speak of “government by gun”, which is enforced through nighttime raids and extortion rackets. What began as raids has metastasised into permanent displacement. Farming has ceased. Children grow up never having seen a police officer.

Niger State is next to Abuja, Nigeria’s federal capital territory.

South East

The secessionist group known as the Indigenous People of Biafra (IPOB) has transformed parts of Imo and Anambra States into shadow states. What began as ideological agitation has evolved into fragmented shadow governance, particularly in Orsu, Oguta, and Nnewi South, where IPOB’s Eastern Security Network (ESN) now operates checkpoints, enforces lockdowns, and levies informal taxes. Police presence is almost nonexistent; courts are shuttered; schools function sporadically.

This pattern is not isolated. As Mgbeodinma Nwankwo reports for HumAngle in Onitsha, “Southeast Nigeria has greatly changed from a region with historical landmarks and trade centres to areas of gunfire that make life deadly for civilians and law enforcement officers.” States like Anambra, Imo, Abia, and Ebonyi have become centres for violence. Non-state armed groups routinely block roads and attack police stations. Businesses close early, travel routes are avoided, and fear governs daily life.

IPOB’s camps, hidden in forest belts, serve as training grounds and operational bases – funded by diaspora networks and sustained by black-market arms. The state’s coercive apparatus has collapsed in these ungoverned interiors, like Ihiala and stretches of rural Imo. Local vigilante outfits like Ebube Agu and Operation Udo Ga Chi strive to maintain a fragile order, often overwhelmed by better-armed non-state actors.

As Nwankwo describes, uniforms have become “magnets for attacks.” Police and military personnel are hunted, ambushed, kidnapped, or executed. One soldier, attending a party in Imo while off duty, was identified and found dead the next morning. 

“Wearing a uniform here is like painting a target on your back,” said a police officer in Imo, speaking anonymously. “We go to work in mufti and only change when necessary. Even then, we operate in groups, as solo patrols pose a significant risk.”

The psychological toll is immense. Morale among security forces is at an all-time low. Many seek transfers, and while some still consider the southeastern region postings financially rewarding, the life-threatening risks overshadow any incentives.

The violence is driven by a volatile mix: separatist agitation, criminal opportunism, and state withdrawal. IPOB and ESN are often suspected to be responsible for many of the terror attacks, though they frequently deny involvement. Criminal gangs, exploiting the chaos, further destabilise the region.

State response has focused on increasing highway checkpoints, leaving interior communities exposed. Critics argue this reactive approach exacerbates tensions. “Deploying more soldiers is not enough,” warns Dr Chioma Emenike, a conflict resolution expert based in the southeast. “There must be dialogue, economic empowerment, and trust-building between security agencies and local communities.”

Ultimately, the region faces a dual crisis of security and legitimacy. As uniforms vanish from the rural southeast, so does any semblance of state authority. What remains is a precarious state of fear and survival—residents trapped between hostile non-state actors and a disengaged state, teetering on the edge of anarchy.

Nigeria’s unseen frontlines

Nigeria’s forests have become its most telling metaphor. Once tourist destinations and biodiversity treasures, they are now frontlines of insurgency. No-go zones include Kamuku, Kainji, Falgore, and Sambisa. Dumburum and Kagara are insurgent capitals.

Even southern states are not spared. In Ondo, Edo, and Lagos, the forests harbour kidnappers and traffickers. In the Niger Delta, mangroves shelter oil theft rings bleeding billions from the national treasury.

These green belts mark the outer limit of Nigeria’s practical sovereignty. Beyond them lies another Nigeria: unrecognised, ungoverned, and rapidly growing.

Kabir Adamu, a seasoned security analyst and the CEO of Beacon Security and Intelligence Limited–a security risk management and consulting firm– expressed concerns over the scarce presence of governance and secular leadership in territories overrun by terrorists.

“Where they exist, they typically include poorly staffed and under-resourced police posts, non-functional or abandoned local government offices, dilapidated schools, and health and medical centres with little to no medical personnel or supplies,” he told HumAngle, noting that, in some locations, especially in northern Borno and remote areas of Zamfara and Katsina, such structures have been destroyed or taken over by terrorists, further eroding state presence.

Adamu added that, as the state recedes, communities have been forced to adapt in ways that challenge conventional notions of governance. He said many communities have resorted to local self-help mechanisms, including forming or reviving armed vigilante groups, with support from traditional rulers or local elites in some cases.

“These groups often serve as the first and only line of defence against armed groups, conducting patrols, manning checkpoints, and gathering intelligence. Unfortunately, the formation of the vigilantes continues not to reflect the communities’ diverse residents,” the security analyst noted.

Forest guard corps

The federal government’s response to these problems offers a glimmer of optimism, as it established the new Forest Guard Corps to reclaim these wild spaces. Trained in guerrilla warfare and intelligence, these units, drawn from local populations, are tasked with intercepting armed groups and restoring order.

However, without systemic reforms such as real policing, honest governance, and economic renewal, the corps risks becoming merely a temporary solution to a persistent problem. These affected communities nationwide need more than just soldiers; they need schools, courts, trust, and opportunities.

Although Adamu admitted that the Nigerian government has taken various actions in and around ungoverned spaces to reduce the influence of armed groups, he insisted that these approaches remain fragmented and often lack the institutional follow-through needed to fill the broader governance vacuum.

“There are clear signs that the ungoverned spaces in Nigeria are expanding, consolidating, and in some cases, connecting across local government and state boundaries in mostly the northern regions but also affecting some of the southern areas,” he said, adding that although military operations have resulted in the arrest or killing of militants, and recovery of weapons, the gains are often temporary in the absence of sustained civilian governance.

The rise of an economy of fear

As formal taxation collapses, ransoms rise in northwestern Nigeria. In Dansadau, HumAngle found that farmers trade goats and sorghum to retrieve kidnapped relatives. In Zugu and Gaude, families pay monthly levies to criminals to avoid attacks. Pay tribute is the only way to ensure public safety in some places.

A breakdown of ransom payments made in Nigeria between May 2023 and April 2024, according to the National Bureau of Statistics. Infographics: Damilola Lawal/HumAngle>

In many towns and cities across northern Nigeria, the voices once carried on the airwaves to inform, empower, and provoke reflection have dimmed to whispers of praise songs, sponsored jingles, and obsequious commentary.

Behind the studio microphones and soundproof booths, journalists, mostly young men and women, say they work under suffocating conditions that leave them voiceless both figuratively and literally.

While the region faces intensifying insecurity, mass displacement, and a crisis of governance, local radio and television have largely retreated from their watchdog roles. In their place is a culture of cautious Public Relations (PR) journalism, tailored to please state authorities and avoid retaliation from both government regulators and armed non-state actors.

A culture built on the airwaves

For a long time, radio has been the primary means of communication in northern Nigeria, especially for Hausa speakers. In rural communities where literacy rates remain low and access to newspapers or television is limited, radio serves as a crucial lifeline. It is not merely a medium for entertainment but a trusted channel for education, public health campaigns, civic participation, and political discourse. It is so instrumental that former Boko Haram members have told HumAngle that they laid down their arms and returned to state-controlled areas because they heard constant appeals to do so on the radio. 

From the era of Radio Kaduna’s dominance to the rise of community and FM stations in the 2000s, northern Nigeria has nurtured a unique culture of listenership. Markets pause during radio dramas; political discussions unfold around communal radios in village squares. Yet, this cultural power is precisely what makes radio such a potent target for manipulation.

Barely paid, but always owing

Few local journalists report earning a stable income. Most complain they are unpaid volunteers or receive stipends far below minimum wage.

“Many of us are not paid respectable salaries, and irregular, low wages or sometimes no payment at all are common challenges. Some colleagues take on additional freelance work to survive. These financial strains affect our focus, morale, and overall performance as newsroom staff,” said a radio presenter in Gombe, northeastern Nigeria.

“I’ve been reporting for three years, and my salary is ₦10,000, barely enough to feed myself,” said Rukaiya, a young reporter at a privately owned FM station in the north-central region. “Sometimes, I survive on commissions from adverts that I get. Otherwise, we survive however we can.”

The term “however” often refers to morally or socially risky paths. One other young female journalist who spoke with HumAngle on condition of anonymity described engaging in transactional relationships to supplement her income. Others depend on charitable contributions from friends, side hustles like event hosting, voice-over work, or farming, or even resort to panhandling. Some are offered contracts with state governments in exchange for loyalty on-air.

With no employment contracts, health insurance, or protection against harassment, young broadcasters in many communities across Nigeria are vulnerable to exploitation by station owners, politicians, and advertisers.

A 2023 study on media poverty highlights the challenges that affect the growth of rural news journalism in Nigeria. From journalists not well paid to several media houses owing salaries for months or years. “This discourages journalists in Nigeria from going to live in rural areas to practice rural journalism.” 

“My salary is barely enough to cover my transport fares to the office, but I have grown so popular in my community that gifts keep pouring in regularly,” said a broadcaster in Nassarawa State, who said she will not demand better pay because she has created an agency that caters to her needs.

When confronted with the suggestion that her views might lead to conflicts of interest and set a negative precedent for young journalists who may succeed her in the future, she said, “We don’t report anything serious; we cover events, read out press releases handed to us, and air drama, music, and shows.”

For some of these journalists, critical journalism is something they admire, but it is not for them to contemplate practising: “We were never trained for this, and we were never told these types of stories are for platforms such as ours,” another radio presenter said. 

A reporter in Kano who spoke to HumAngle admitted that not all programmes reflect the real problems people face, particularly because private broadcasters are heavily driven by revenue. “We don’t always talk about these issues because we’re afraid or because the station owners don’t want us airing anything that goes against their views or interests,” the reporter noted.

Regulated into silence

Senior media professionals widely view the National Broadcasting Commission (NBC), which oversees Nigeria’s broadcast sector, as a tool of censorship. Stations that broadcast critical commentary, especially regarding security failures or corruption, risk suspension, fines, or outright closure.

“Therefore, we train our mentees and reporters in a practice that better serves our reality.” The term “reality,” according to this station manager in Nassarawa State, means young journalists are handed rules of engagement; there are words and phrases that are never to be aired, and some stories, even if you witness them, you tell them to your friends and family “off-air.”

The NBC’s lack of institutional independence, with its leadership appointed by the executive arm of government, has entrenched political interference, turning the commission into an enforcer of ruling party interests rather than a neutral regulator.

After airing a report critical of the national security leadership in 2022, Vision FM Abuja faced fines and a temporary shutdown. The message was clear.

“Since then, we don’t touch anything security-related that is sensitive,” said a senior manager at the station. “It’s not worth NBC’s hammer.”

Journalists say the ambiguity of NBC guidelines encourages preemptive censorship. Rather than risk sanctions, station managers vet programming scripts for anything potentially “inciting” or “divisive,” terms that critics say are weaponised against dissent.

Through these, NBC undermines citizens’ access to diverse perspectives and weakens the role of the media as a civic watchdog. The deliberate stifling of the airwaves, in a region already grappling with insecurity and governance failures, intensifies public disempowerment and undermines the remaining pillars of accountability. 

HumAngle looked at all TV and radio stations in northern Nigeria and found that up to 15–20 per cent of media ownership lies with the federal and state governments. 

Infographics by Damilola Lawal/HumAngle.

Infographics by Damilola Lawal/HumAngle.

Political capture of the airwaves

Across northern states, local broadcasting is not merely cautious — it is captured. In states like Borno, Sokoto, and Zamfara, station managers say governors and political appointees directly influence their programming. They often determine who gets airtime, what topics are discussed, and which voices are silenced.

“During the last election, I was warned not to host opposition candidates,” said a producer at a state-owned station in Kano. “We were told it would ‘destabilise the peace,’ so we played safe.”

Often, stations are directly owned or heavily funded by state governments. Editorial independence becomes a fiction. Presenters who align with the party line receive rewards such as political appointments, contracts, or PR gigs. Those who deviate risk professional exile.

“It has been a norm in our journalistic practice [for funders] to dictate the tune when you pay for the piper,” said a staff member at a state-owned broadcaster in northwestern Nigeria, adding that not all reports or leads on insecurity can be aired, especially without censorship. “Stories that may cause chaos are rather dropped or rejigged,” the reporter added.

Authoritarianism at the state level

The erosion of press freedom in northern Nigeria is not just an outcome of national-level repression; it is deeply rooted in the authoritarian instincts of state governors who wield enormous influence without sufficient checks.

These governors routinely deploy state security services to intimidate journalists, withhold advertising revenue from critical outlets, or threaten the revocation of broadcast licenses.

Governors in the region have always wielded significant power over local media organisations in their states. In 2016, a TV anchor in Sokoto was forced off air after criticising the state’s healthcare policies.

A broadcast reporter in Borno faced detention in 2021 for “cyberstalking” after exposing purported corruption in post-insurgency reconstruction contracts.

Such actions rarely provoke public outrage, partly due to a climate of fear and partly because the press itself is too compromised to amplify its oppression.

Caught between armed groups and the microphone

In parts of the North West and the North East, fear of armed groups has further stifled local media. Journalists in the northwest, northeast, and north-central states describe receiving direct threats after airing reports perceived as critical of armed groups.

“We stopped reporting kidnappings in some areas,” one radio editor in the north central told HumAngle. “They called and said if we mentioned their names again, they would burn down the station.”

“The threat of violence, whether from state actors or armed groups, has influenced editorial decisions,” a radio presenter in Maiduguri told HumAngle. “Sometimes, we have to downplay or completely avoid certain sensitive topics for personal safety and the safety of our families and colleagues, as well as to secure our jobs. It’s a constant internal conflict between professional duty and survival.”

These threats come amid a broader climate of insecurity, where state protection for journalists is practically nonexistent. As a result, communities find themselves under siege, yet they lack a voice or a platform to express their concerns.

From watchdogs to whispers

In a healthy democracy, local media act as civic mirrors and watchdogs—holding power accountable and giving voice to the voiceless. But in much of northern Nigeria, local radio has been reduced to echoes of power, playing jingles and feel-good stories while real crises unfold off-air.

The tragedy is not just professional; it is societal. When local media fail, communities lose more than news; they lose agency.

Suleiman Shuaibu, a business development specialist in Abuja, highlights that international broadcast stations, airing in local languages like Hausa, are uniquely positioned to pose and tackle challenging questions. “The sole constraint they face is their inability to address context-specific topics that pertain to individual communities.” They focus solely on major news developments.

The VOA Hausa has ceased operations in light of Donald Trump’s decision to freeze US foreign aid and activities. The presence of BBC Hausa, Dutch Welle, Radio RFI, and others is notable, yet their future hangs in uncertainty due to various European governments implementing policies aimed at reducing expenditures on extensive and ambitious initiatives that do not directly benefit their citizens.

Towards a new frequency

To reverse this trend, several experts who spoke to HumAngle on this subject call for a multipronged approach: “fair remuneration and protections for media workers, the depoliticisation of regulatory bodies like the NBC, and coordinated efforts to protect journalists from both state and non-state threats.”

Support can also come from within: local media houses banding together to resist political capture, civil society amplifying their role as watchdogs, and donors investing in long-term media independence projects.

The stakes are high. In a region where radio remains the most accessible and trusted medium for news, revitalising local broadcasts is critical to preserving democracy. 

This report was produced by HumAngle in partnership with the Centre for Journalism Innovation and Development (CJID) as part of a project documenting press freedom issues in Nigeria.

Every weekday, 38-year-old Fatima Musa grips her son’s hand as they step onto a makeshift bridge in Fori, a community in Jere Local Government Area (LGA) of Borno State, northeastern Nigeria. Together, they cross the poorly constructed structure to reach the primary school he attends, and later make the same journey home.

The original Fori Bridge collapsed during the devastating floods of September 2024, which inundated Maiduguri and its environs, leaving dozens dead and thousands displaced. The destruction severed vital connections between Bama Park and Market, the University of Maiduguri, and several neighbourhoods.

With no official intervention, local youths erected a makeshift crossing far from Fatima’s home. Constructed from wooden planks, logs, and sand-filled sacks, the narrow bridge hovers precariously over the Ngadda River, the same river that swept away homes, businesses, and livelihoods just months ago.

The disruption forced residents like Fatima to undertake perilous detours or depend on the makeshift bridge, which is far away from her home. 

The community’s improvised fix has restored a semblance of connectivity, but it is fragile. In less than two months, seasonal rains will return, swelling the Ngadda once again. Residents told HumAngle they fear the structure will be destroyed, cutting them off from schools, hospitals, and markets, and deepening the isolation they already face.

The original Fori Bridge, a vital link for residents across several communities in Jere, was the first structure to collapse when the floods ravaged the area. 

A student’s dread

For 27-year-old Zainab Yahaya, a student at the University of Maiduguri, the broken bridge is more than a daily inconvenience, it threatens her future. She crosses the makeshift bridge every day to attend classes. As the rainy season looms, her anxiety increases.

“I use the makeshift bridge now, but when the water returns, the bridge won’t survive it,” she said. “And then, everything becomes more difficult, more expensive, more dangerous and more exhausting.”

Last year’s flood destroyed her neighbourhood. This year, she fears her education may be next. Without the bridge, Zainab would be forced to take longer detours that significantly increase both cost and travel time.

“What used to cost ₦100 will now jump to ₦400,” she explained. “And the hours I lose taking detours, it’s hard to keep up with school. I will be exhausted before I reach class.”

Crossing by canoe is not an option she trusts. “It’s dangerous. The water is unpredictable, the canoes are unstable, and sometimes you don’t even know if the person paddling them is a professional or not,” Zainab added.

Her frustration is echoed throughout the community. “The government hasn’t done anything tangible. No repairs, no support, not even a visit,” she says. “We’re left on our own.”

A cycle doomed to repeat

A HumAngle investigation published in 2024 traced the flood’s origins to a combination of infrastructural decay, poor planning, and delayed emergency response at the Alau Dam.

Originally designed in 1986 to hold 112 million cubic meters of water, the dam’s capacity has swelled to an estimated 279 to 296 million cubic meters, primarily because of unchecked sediment buildup. 

Every year, during the June-to-September monsoon, stormwater flows from the Mubi highlands into the Yedzeram River. This major tributary quickly swells and merges with the Gambole River, before entering the wetlands of the Sambisa Forest to form the headwaters of the Ngadda.

From there, the Ngadda empties into Lake Alau, held back by the Alau Dam, a large reservoir on the outskirts of Maiduguri. When rainfall is heavy upstream, the rivers surge downstream with little delay, raising water levels sharply in Lake Alau.

The dam is gate-controlled, designed to hold and release water in a regulated manner.

However, another dam downstream lacks this control. Without gates, it simply overflows once water reaches a certain level, releasing torrents into vulnerable communities with no warning. This unregulated spillway worsened last year’s catastrophe in Maiduguri.

In February, the federal government announced a ₦80 billion rehabilitation and expansion project for the Alau Dam to prevent any disaster in the future. On March 2, the Minister of Water Resources and Sanitation, Joseph Utsev, officially flagged off the project, stating it would be executed in two phases over 24 months.

Yet, a visit by HumAngle to the site in May painted a different picture.

Three bulldozers sat idle in the sun. No workers were present. The dam, still visibly broken, lay open like an unhealed wound. A makeshift sand barrier was the only sign of intervention, containing stagnant water where a flowing river once ran.

Nearby, fishermen cast their nets into the shallow puddles, making do with what remains of their vanishing livelihood. 

“They [referring to government contractors] brought those bulldozers months ago,” said Musa, a wiry young man watching the water. “All they did was pile sand to block the flow. Since then, nothing.”

Adamu, another resident and a fisherman, leaned against a tree and shook his head. “This sand is like candy floss,” he muttered. “It will melt when the floods come. Then we’ll flood again.”

At 53, Bulama Isa no longer moves with the vigour of his youth. Yet he frequently walks his farmland along the banks of the Ngadda River, inspecting what remains of his farmland. 

“This place used to feed my whole family,” he says, gesturing at the gaping holes where his garden once stood. “Now I don’t have a farm.” Isa has farmed near the Alau Dam since the early 2000s. He watched the flood swallow his fields last September and his year’s harvest. When the water receded, he was left with a gaping hole. 

Now, with no compensation and no clear plan from the government, he survives on support from relatives and the little his wife makes selling fried groundnuts.

Residents who spoke to HumAngle expressed frustration over the lack of progress and now fear that this year’s flood could be even worse than the last. 

As of May 2025, neither the Fori Bridge nor the Alau Dam has been repaired. 

The Nigerian Meteorological Agency (NiMet) has projected that the onset of the rainy season in Borno State will occur between early June and July 2025. In northern states, flooding will likely occur at the peak of rainfall between July and September, according to NiMet. Urban areas with poor drainage systems are particularly at risk of flooding during this period.

HumAngle reached out to the Ministry of Water Resources through the state commissioner, Tijjani Goni Alkali, to inquire about the project’s status and the concerns of nearby communities. As of press time, no response had been received.

With the forthcoming rains, many fear that their lives will be uprooted once again.

In a move that threatens to destabilise Nigeria’s already fragile humanitarian landscape, the International NGO Safety Organisation (INSO) has been ordered by the Nigerian authorities to suspend all its humanitarian support operations in the country immediately. The directive, communicated directly to INSO leadership, comes as a surprise blow to dozens of humanitarian partners across Nigeria’s conflict-affected regions.

In a statement seen by HumAngle, INSO Country Director Zeljko Toncic said, “INSO received a formal request from Nigerian authorities to suspend its humanitarian activities in the country. In strict compliance with this decision, INSO is immediately suspending all of its services to humanitarian partners in Nigeria.”

Since 2016, INSO has played a pivotal role in supporting over 110 humanitarian organisations, including international agencies and local NGOs, to navigate the complex security challenges posed by the Boko Haram insurgency in the North East, terrorism in the North West, and communal violence in the Middle Belt.

The panic among humanitarian organisations is palpable, with many describing the suspension as a devastating blow to their safety and operations.

The suspension of INSO’s services, which range from security advisories to risk mitigation training, is likely to leave humanitarian workers vulnerable at a time of heightened insecurity.

INSO has maintained that it operates on strict humanitarian principles of neutrality, impartiality, and independence, with no political affiliations or agendas. The organisation has also expressed its willingness to engage with the Nigerian government to clarify its mandate and resume operations.

Humanitarian partners are reeling from the sudden halt in security information and support, fearing that the already volatile environment will become even more perilous.

Humanitarian fallout looms

The suspension comes as humanitarian needs continue to surge in Nigeria, with over eight million people in need of aid in the North East alone, according to the UN Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs (OCHA). Aid workers, who rely heavily on INSO’s security support to operate safely in volatile areas, warn that the move could severely hamper the delivery of life-saving assistance.

“This is a serious setback. INSO’s services are critical to our risk assessments and operational planning. Without them, humanitarian workers are left to navigate these dangerous environments alone,” a humanitarian worker, speaking on condition of anonymity, told HumAngle. 

The anxiety within the humanitarian community is intensifying, with fears that without INSO, aid efforts will stall, putting lives at even greater risk.

A history of tension

This latest move is not without precedent. Nigerian authorities have previously clamped down on humanitarian actors over alleged concerns about transparency, neutrality, and security operations. In 2019, two international NGOs, Action Against Hunger (ACF) and Mercy Corps, were temporarily suspended in Borno State amid allegations of aiding armed groups, claims both agencies strongly denied.

Analysts suggest that the government’s increasing scrutiny of international NGOs is rooted in broader concerns about sovereignty and national security, particularly in conflict-prone areas. However, aid organisations caution that these suspensions jeopardise not only their operations but also the lives of the most vulnerable Nigerians.

INSO’s expressed willingness to engage with authorities signals a potential path forward. Aid agencies and civil society groups are calling for immediate dialogue to ensure that humanitarian neutrality is upheld and vital services can continue uninterrupted.

“We sincerely hope that a space for dialogue may help this situation, for the benefit of the humanitarian NGOs we support and the civilian populations you serve,” Toncic wrote in his letter.

INSO’s operations in the Niger Republic were also suspended in February following refusal by the country’s junta to renew the organisation’s operational license. The organisation had been active in the country since 2020, providing support to over 132 humanitarian organisations, including 35 national, local, and international NGOs.

HumAngle will continue to monitor the situation closely and provide updates as they become available.

When the devastating floods washed through Maiduguri in northeastern Nigeria in September 2024, Aisha Ahmed, a resident of Gwange community, and her family fled their house to a safer area along Bama Road in the Borno State capital. 

“It was my worst experience because my family and I thought the world had come to an end,” the 46-year-old recounted. “We couldn’t sleep well because we did not know if the water would rise again and meet us by morning.” 

Like Aisha, several other residents across Maiduguri fled; some were trapped in their homes, others died, shops, schools, and other facilities were shuttered, and roads were impassable. 

It’s been about eight months since the floods swept through the city. Aisha says the post-flood restoration efforts are “a sign that Maiduguri has bounced back.” The Borno State government and other development partners initiated a series of interventions aimed at restoring key infrastructure and providing relief to affected residents. 

According to the National Emergency Management Agency, over 414,000 people were affected across nine local government areas in the state, with 389,267 individuals displaced and 7,155 houses damaged. The flood’s impact was widespread, not only in urban Maiduguri but also in nearby rural communities. 

“It is now history. I can walk around Gwange with ease. The roads have been cleared, the drainage channels restored, and even the air feels different because there is movement and life has returned to normal. It’s like we all came back stronger,” she told HumAngle, adding that, “It’s not perfect yet, but this is a huge step forward. I am proud of how far we have come.”  

Several public landmarks and facilities that were damaged or rendered inaccessible due to the floods are now being restored. Roads that were once impassable due to erosion have since resurfaced. Temporary bridges have been installed in communities cut off during the flood. Public schools which were flooded or closed have reopened after rehabilitation work, allowing students to return to class.

For Adamu Isa, a bricklayer and father of five living in Simari, a community that was flooded, the memories of the flood are still fresh. His home, located close to a motorable path, was heavily affected. The flooding swept for more than a week in their area, destroying their walls, collapsing their outdoor toilet, and leaving the family displaced. 

“We could not save anything that night. We joined others to flee in the middle of the night. It was a dangerous journey while the volume of the water continued to increase,” he recounted. This video documentary captures a visual account of the city under water.

When news came that the government was distributing relief funds to flood victims, Adamu registered his name and bank account details but wasn’t sure he would be selected. Some months later, he received a text alert showing ₦100,000 deposited into his account. 

“It felt like a miracle. It was the first time I received anything like that from the government. Even though it wasn’t enough to rebuild everything, I used part of it to fix one room and clear the sewage from around the house,” he told HumAngle.

Adamu knows the money can’t restore everything the flood took. His house still bears the scars — a missing window shutter, a broken pit latrine, and walls that tell a story of a season they barely survived. But for him, the relief aid was not just money, it was recognition: “We are not forgotten. I feel lucky. My children are back in school. We sleep under a roof. Life is back now, and we thank God for that. At the end of the day, being alive is the most important thing.”

The state government-instituted Flood Relief Disbursement Committee says it received several relief materials and ₦28.9 billion in donations from well-wishers, including the federal government, Borno State and other state governments, corporate organisations, non-profits, and development partners such as the United Nations. Of this, over ₦18.08 billion was disbursed in cash to 101,330 households affected by the flood, according to spokesperson Dauda Iliya.

He added that ₦987 million was allocated to 7,716 traders whose goods and businesses were damaged in affected markets, as well as ₦313 million to 814 worship centres and ₦213 million to 267 private schools. Additionally, ₦89.4 million was disbursed to 1,788 youth volunteers who actively contributed to rescue and relief efforts during the disaster, and ₦12.5 million supported 22 private clinics that assisted with emergency medical care.

While some beneficiaries like Adamu confirmed receipt of funds, HumAngle found that many survivors continue to live in temporary shelters or with relatives, with some yet to receive any assistance. One of such residents is Musa Hussaini, who lives in Wade, a community along Dikwa Road in Maiduguri, one of the areas worst affected by the floods. He said officials documented victims nearby but never reached his neighbourhood.

“We waited for them to come, but they stopped just a few blocks away,” he told HumAngle. “Then we started hearing that people were getting credit alerts, but no one from our side received anything. We were left like that, just watching and hoping.”

Musa and his family fled as the waters rose, leaving everything behind. The floodwaters destroyed their belongings, and they remained displaced for weeks, sheltering by the roadside with other affected families.

“Every household in the area was displaced,” Musa said. “Life felt like it had come to an end. We thought we would never return to normal again. But we are grateful to God that things have been restored, and we are slowly rebuilding.”

Musa now supports his family by working as a tricycle rider to provide for his family.

“At least we are alive, and for that, we are thankful,” he sighed. 

Despite the experience of Wade residents and others, the relief disbursement committee announced in December 2024 that the process had concluded. In its final report, the committee stated that ₦4.45 billion remained from the total donations received. The committee, according to its chairperson, Baba Bukar Gujibawu, recommended that the balance be used for the rehabilitation of roads in flood-affected areas.

Residents and civil society groups, such as the Arewa Youth Consultative Council, have called for transparency and accountability in how the funds were managed and distributed, insisting that promised support should not get lost in bureaucracy but reach the communities still struggling to recover.

At the peak of the Maiduguri flooding, a HumAngle investigation uncovered that the disaster was due to years of neglect of the Alau Dam, a critical infrastructure designed to regulate water flow and provide irrigation and drinking water in the state. The disaster was triggered by the collapse of one of the dam’s gates, which overflowed and released massive volumes of water, washing through parts of the metropolis and sweeping into rural communities downstream. The damage was worsened by the lack of timely maintenance and the failure to hold the responsible authorities accountable.

Funds meant for its repairs were either mismanaged or misappropriated, according to the investigation. 

In response, the federal government in October 2024 pledged ₦80 billion to rehabilitate the Alau Dam and prevent future disasters. However, as of the time of filing this report, repair work has yet to begin.

As another rainy season begins, communities remain exposed. For survivors still living on the margins, the question isn’t just about what was lost, but whether they’ve truly been seen.

There is a tenderness between Fati Bukar and her eldest son, Lawal.

When he sits next to her, she holds his hands. As he gets up to leave the room, she asks where he’s going, and he says he’ll be back soon. When Lawal returns and sits across from her, she taps the mat beside her, and he moves closer. She holds his hands again. He says something, and she laughs.

The next day, Fati and seven of her children are set to leave the Muna Garage camp for Internally Displaced Persons (IDP) in Maiduguri, the Borno State capital in northeastern Nigeria. They are heading to Dikwa Local Government Area (LGA), as part of a government resettlement programme to close the IDP camps in the state. The initiative began in 2021.

Lawal, however, will not be going with his mother and siblings.

His resettlement papers indicate that he will be taken to Mafa LGA, approximately an hour and a half from Dikwa. Both mother and son are deeply unsettled by this development.

Lawal had told the officials he wanted to be with his mother and siblings, but the arrangements didn’t go as he hoped. Since Lawal has a family of his own, he registered as a separate household from his mother, who was listed as the head of the household with his younger siblings. They assumed they would all be sent to Dikwa, their place of origin, but the resettlement programme does not always work that way.

With one arm paralysed from a motorbike accident, the 23-year-old can no longer farm efficiently. Instead, he guides his younger siblings through it, showing them what to plant, how to weed, and when to harvest. 

Fati is especially close to Lawal, and the thought of their separation weighs heavily on both of them. 

She and her children have lived in the Muna Garage IDP Camp for seven years.

Fleeing home

Back in 2014, as news of insurgency spread like wildfire, and terrorists invaded town after town in Borno, Fati and her husband hadn’t decided to leave their village in Dikwa yet. They were holding on to hope that maybe the war would end. Still, she thought the worst-case scenario would be displacement. 

She was wrong.

The worst-case scenario unfolded as she was tending to her livestock by a stream when someone came running to tell her that her husband had been shot. 

She let the animals loose and ran home, crying, in disbelief, her heart pounding as she inched closer to her husband’s lifeless body. 

“I fell, and for the next three days, I didn’t even know what was going on. It was like I was going in and out of consciousness,” Fati narrated, her hands lifted, then fell, as if even they had lost the will to explain.

Grief consumed her completely, but survival demanded she keep going. So in 2018, she gathered her eight children and headed into the bush, trying to find a way to Maiduguri. 

They eventually found safety at the Muna Garage IDP Camp, a crowded settlement on the outskirts of the city full of families like hers; people who had lost homes and loved ones to the Boko Haram insurgency. The camp shelters about 10,000 displaced people.

Fati shared her story with HumAngle through an interpreter, who bridged the language barrier. It was a scorching Sunday afternoon in the camp, and people were packing and preparing for the journey ahead. 

“I don’t want to go,” Fati frowned. “I know the kind of terror that made me come here. I know how much we suffered. Why would I go back to such danger?”

There is anger in the pitch of her voice and the sharp, insistent gestures of her arms.

After the conversation, she agreed to show what packing looked like.

Fati ducks to enter her thatched room, which has a small partition just inside the entrance, so that her makeshift bed isn’t immediately visible to anyone stepping in. The air inside is warm and still. 

“I don’t have a lot of things, so they’re just in this bag,” she says, pointing to a bag and two sacks beside her bed. 

“The first time we tried to flee from our homes before coming here, soldiers chased us back. So we had to try again. When I left, I knew I wouldn’t go back until everywhere became safe. But is it even safe now?” Fati reflects. 

The return

It’s been four years since the Borno State government began working to close all official IDP camps in Maiduguri and resettle displaced people, either back to their home communities or new locations across the state. 

Governor Babagana Zulum maintained that “we will never eradicate insurgency without resettling people,” arguing that the camps have become sites of deepening social problems, including child abuse and prostitution.

The United Nations defines resettlement as a “voluntary, safe and regulated transfer of people [and] is intended as a long-term solution.” 

But that’s the theory. In reality, many residents in the Muna Garage Camp remain hesitant. They are unsure what they are returning to or what kind of life awaits them.

Some are returning to places where security remains fragile. Others are being moved to unfamiliar towns with no jobs and no clear path forward. What was meant to be a temporary displacement now stretches into a second chapter that looks different but feels just as unstable.

With resettlement comes many fears: the fear of starting all over again, the fear of the unknown, and most terrifying of all, as Fati puts it, the fear of “coming face to face with the terrorists you fled from almost a decade ago.”

“If I go back there, what I fear most is that I won’t have peace of mind. That I’ll be constantly thinking, ‘Will the terrorists come today? Will they come tomorrow?’ That alone is enough to make someone lose weight, to live in constant fear. That alone is enough.” Fati says, then looks down at the floor, and starts to draw invisible circles with her index finger. 

Outside the hut, a cluster of people sat together in the open, under the shade of trees, waiting to collect documents needed to claim shelters in Dikwa. They were also given meal tickets, with both the papers and tickets handed to heads of households. 

The buses arrived at sunrise on Monday, May 12. 

Even before they left, parts of Muna Camp were already coming down. Huts made of straw and tarpaulin were dismantled. A crowd formed near the camp’s edge where HumAngle met Fati amidst the chatter of people, children playing, and some murmuring their unwillingness to leave. 

She was squatting, shielding her face from the sun with her hands. When asked whether she is tired, she simply smiles. She was very quiet but managed to say, “I’ve packed up. We’re just waiting to leave now.” 

Then she continues looking into the distance. 

They left around 11 a.m.. Lawal stayed behind and waved goodbye to his mother. A few hours later, he tried to call his brother, but the call didn’t go through. It turns out that his brother’s mobile network, like many others’, doesn’t work in Dikwa. His mother’s phone was also switched off. It wasn’t until later in the day that he could finally reach them. They told him they had arrived safely.

Still not safe

Soon after their journey to Dikwa, Fati’s fears started to materialise. 

Although HumAngle couldn’t reach her for a few days after their trip, we were able to reach other returnees.

“We keep hearing gunshots at night. People are going back to Maiduguri in scores.  Everyone is scared,” one of them, Kaka, explains over the phone. 

The following day, on Friday, May 16, Kaka reached out to HumAngle and said, “I just called to tell you I am back to Maiduguri. I can’t live there with my baby. But my parents are still there.” 

Kaka is now staying with a neighbour in Muna camp who, like Lawal, was meant to be relocated to Mafa. However, none of those assigned to Mafa have been relocated yet, so a few rooms in the camp remain standing. She had heard about an ISWAP attack in Marte, a nearby town, which forced thousands of people to flee to Dikwa. 

That attack is one of several recent signs of ISWAP’s resurgence in Borno State, including another in Dikwa on May 13. These incidents have prompted many to flee again, with some heading towards the Cameroonian border and others to Maiduguri. 

Some security analysts and international groups say the resettlements are ill-timed. They point to recent attacks and the ongoing threat from ISWAP as signs that many areas remain volatile. The violence, they argue, reflects a level of instability that makes voluntary return difficult, if not dangerous. Without consistent safety, people are unlikely to settle and may continue to move.

For example, the International Crisis Group has warned that these resettlement efforts are “endangering displaced people’s lives,” especially in areas that “tend to lack rudimentary health care, education and other state services.”

With no updates from officials and the relocation to Mafa still on hold, Lawal decided to travel to Dikwa on Sunday, May 18, to check on his mother and siblings.

Fati was delighted to see him. 

“When she saw me, her face lit up with a smile,” he said. “She looked over my shoulder and asked, ‘Where is your wife? Why didn’t you come with her? I kept a room for you that used to belong to a woman who has returned to Maiduguri.’”

Fati wants him to stay, because “it’s easier for the family.”

She tells HumAngle that they are fine and prays no harm comes to them.

“When we arrived, the government gave us one bag of rice, four litres of cooking oil, seasoning, a few measures of guinea corn and ₦50,000,” Fati says. “The problem is that there’s no running water even though they [the officials] said they’ll sort it out. The toilets are quite crowded too because some of them were damaged by the wind, so there aren’t enough.” 

Fati explains that, while they are getting by now, the future remains uncertain, as there will be no food once their current supply runs out. The farmland in Dikwa is far, and going there means risking an encounter with terrorists. Reaching the fields also requires a bicycle or motorbike, neither of which they own.

These poor living conditions and persistent threats have forced many returnees in other communities to flee once again, despite having been resettled in recent years through the same programme. Kaka’s return to Maiduguri, for instance, is not an isolated case; several families have also left Dikwa. 

Such recurring setbacks paint a bleak picture for Fati and her family. 

For now, she is focused on surviving each day in Dikwa, caring for her children, rationing food, and holding onto hope. What she wants most, she says, is not just food or water, but peace. 

When HumAngle last spoke to her, over a week after the trip to Dikwa, Fati still sounded worried, but there was also a lightness. 

In the background, Lawal teased her attempts to greet in Hausa, a language she doesn’t speak. She laughed. Then he took over and facilitated the conversation, fluently translating her Gamargu to Hausa and vice versa. But laughter needs no translation, and neither does the anxiety in Fati’s voice. 

The Nigerian military’s quest to reclaim the North East from the brutal grip of Boko Haram over the past decade has been a turbulent journey. The region was a tapestry of terror; towns like Baga, Bama, and Gwoza in 2014 and 2015 had become grim reminders of the country’s vulnerabilities. Yet, the Nigerian military, bolstered by regional allies in the Multinational Joint Task Force (MNJTF), wrestled control of these towns, turning them from insurgent safe havens into battle-scarred victories.

The Sambisa Forest Offensive of 2016–2017 was a turning point, a brutal dance through a dense jungle of death, where Boko Haram’s leadership once thrived under a thick green ecological canopy. The military’s seizure of “Camp Zero,” the so-called fortress of terror, amounted to an audacious triumph. Hundreds of insurgents fell, their weapons seized, a testament to the military’s ability to breach even the most fortified sanctuaries of bloodshed.

Though what followed that victory was a cat-and-mouse race between the military, who could dislodge the insurgents, but do not have the numbers to stay back and lay the guard, and Boko Haram who employ a retreat strategy when faced with superior fire, only to return to the areas that the military has abandoned until the next fight.

In the years that followed, from 2019 to 2023, the military turned its focus on ISWAP, a more powerful splinter of Boko Haram, by surgically eliminating a lot of the group’s leaders and dismantling camps that once hummed with the machinery of war. In the North West, Operation Hadarin Daji, and in the North-central, Operations Safe Haven and Whirl Stroke, have pushed organised armed groups into retreat, forcing criminals to burrow deeper into the forests.

Even on the high seas, the navy has scored victories against oil thieves and pirates by destroying illegal refineries. These significant achievements are the result of the tireless efforts of soldiers who are committed to safeguarding Nigeria’s sovereignty; yet, this hard-won ground remains dangerously fragile.

The Dasukigate arms scandal robbed frontline troops of essential gear, turning the fight into a test of sheer will against an enemy armed not only with bullets but also with a government’s betrayal. HumAngle has also documented how corruption and a lack of accountability negatively impacted the welfare of security officials on the frontlines. These soldiers, who have prevented every Nigerian from becoming a refugee, live in some of the most deplorable conditions along with their families. 

Though the military itself didn’t do too well, reports of torture and extrajudicial killings cast long shadows, eroding public confidence and breeding a dangerous cynicism.

Corruption, the most persistent adversary, flourishes. According to a PwC report, if Nigeria’s kleptocratic elites continue to enrich themselves, the country’s GDP could plummet by 37 per cent by 2030. That’s $2,000 ripped from every Nigerian’s pocket, a future mortgaged by greed.

Nigeria has already lost over $550 billion to corruption since 1960, says the World Justice Project. In 2019 alone, Nigerians paid ₦675 billion in bribes. The theft of these monumental figures is as destructive as the acts of terrorism committed against innocent citizens by Boko Haram and other similar groups.

The adaptive enemy

Meanwhile, the insurgents continue to adapt and evolve, capitalising on the governance vacuum. Driven from urban centres, they’ve slithered into rural areas, away from the spotlights of many news platforms, to rule over these populations. The borders, a frayed edge where fighters dart in and out, are also important. Weapons from Libya’s collapse and Mali’s war zones bolster them. These ungoverned spaces are the oxygen that fuels the fires of terrorism across Nigeria.

In many rural communities, the only governance they have known is by a brutal armed group that leaves them with only one option: comply or die.

The free-for-all ransom economy 

Between May 2023 and April 2024, an estimated 2.2 million people were kidnapped across Nigeria, according to data from the National Bureau of Statistics (NBS). During this period, families and communities paid roughly ₦2.2 trillion in ransoms. The North West accounted for the highest payments, totalling ₦1.2 trillion, while the South-East recorded the lowest, with ₦85.4 billion. Rural areas bore the brunt of these abductions, with 1,668,104 reported cases compared to 567,850 in urban centres.

These ransom figures are conservative estimates, reflecting less than half of the total money that changes hands between families and non-state actors in grisly exchanges. Accurate data is scarce because there is no functional system in place to prevent abductions or to track and regulate ransom payments. Despite efforts to curb kidnappings, families, driven by desperation and love, often pay ransoms directly to secure the release of their loved ones.

The so-called “ransom economy” is not only vibrant and fast-growing but also an unchecked, chaotic, and lucrative sector that operates without oversight. This lack of regulation fuels the expansion of kidnappings and enables militant groups and criminal gangs to thrive. Given the military’s critical role in counterterrorism and counterinsurgency efforts, it is imperative that it track every ransom payment, every penny that ends up in the hands of its adversaries.

A dedicated, trained, and multi-agency unit should be established to track and monitor every ransom transaction. This unit must ensure that every negotiation is carefully aligned with the broader military and counterinsurgency strategy to avoid inadvertently strengthening the enemy or undermining ongoing security operations.

The accountability problem

Pre-trial detainees languish in Nigeria’s overcrowded cells, their fate suspended in a limbo that mocks the very notion of justice. High-profile cases of notorious terrorists and violent criminals, especially those who once sowed terror and death, remain unresolved, further deepening public despair. Worse still, many of these fighters are offered amnesty deals, returning to communities they once ravaged, where their victims now live with trauma and betrayal.

The Knifar Movement is a stirring example. HumAngle has tirelessly documented the plight of women whose husbands were whisked away by the military under vague suspicions of insurgency, many of them never to be seen or heard from again. Their demands for truth and justice highlight the release of a thousand of them with no compensation and further create a system that prides itself on “winning the war”, yet cannot even account for those it detains in the name of that victory.

Meanwhile, in places like Giwa Barracks in Maiduguri, disturbing allegations of torture and extrajudicial killings fester in the shadows. Human rights groups have decried the treatment of detainees, where beatings, starvation, and summary executions appear to be the grim tools of interrogation, a chilling echo of the very brutality the military claims to fight.

A broken justice system

Beyond the barracks, justice in rural Nigeria is too often a distant rumour. Communal disputes and cattle rustling, particularly in the North-central and North West regions, have become chronic afflictions. Villagers watch, disillusioned, as security forces fail to resolve their grievances. In the absence of real justice, people turn to self-help: vigilante groups rise from the ashes of neglect, meting out their brand of “law” with machetes and hunting rifles. 

The Administration of Criminal Justice Act (ACJA) of 2015 was meant to reform these dismal realities — to inject some semblance of speed and fairness into a system that moves with all the urgency of a snail in a marathon. Yet, despite its lofty promises, the ACJA has struggled to take root, hampered by state-level inertia and a persistent culture of impunity.

In this climate, the real business of justice is still little more than a distant ideal. Without meaningful reform, these injustices will continue to fester, infecting every corner of the nation’s already fragile peace.

A fragile peace — and a stark choice

Nigeria’s National Security Adviser, Nuhu Ribadu, reported that military and intelligence operations have significantly advanced counter-terrorism efforts, killing 13,543 insurgents and criminals nationwide over the past two years. Ribadu added that at least 124,408 insurgents and their families have surrendered and are now in the government’s deradicalisation and reintegration program. 

The military works hard to recapture towns and forests, but fostering trust within the people remains a gap. Unfortunately, victory on the battlefield holds minimal significance if young people perceive their future solely through the lens of violence, if their sole option is to don a uniform, jeopardise their lives, and return to communities still plagued by hunger, fear, and injustice.

At the heart of this cycle lies a grim truth: bad governance and corruption are not just the enemies of good policy or a good fighting military force; they’re the quiet architects of endless war. 

The final battle, it seems, is not in Sambisa or the Lake Chad islands. The real enemies are corruption, indifference, and political expediency, all conspiring in the echoing halls of Abuja to mock every military triumph. Young men and women in uniform are traumatised and are merely pawns in an endless battle.

Without accountability at all levels, from the barracks to the boardrooms of government, these military victories risk being as fleeting as they are bloody, quickly undone by the same rot that has haunted Nigeria’s past. The choice, then, is stark: to demand more from those in power or to continue burying the hopes of a generation under the rubble of bad governance.

Musa Murjanatu, 40, was once a thriving trader in Niger State, North-Central Nigeria, where terrorists have taken roots for clandestine operations. As a prosperous merchant known for food supply in the Bassa area of Shiroro, Murjanatu has not only lost her home, but also her economic power, wallowing in penury in a displacement camp.

With almost two decades in the consumer goods business, she had built a reputation as a hard-working woman who could transform modest capital into a flourishing enterprise. Her home, a large compound in Bassa,  was always filled with the laughter of family members and relatives who often visited. Three years ago, everything changed.

“I left my home in Bassa due to terrorist attacks,” Murjanatu said. “Whenever they attack us, we run uphill and return two or three days after they have finished committing their atrocities. When it became unbearable, we fled, leading to our displacement. Some fled to Erena, we came to Kuta, some to Gwada, Charagi, Ilori, Gunu, and some are currently in Minna.”

Her once-thriving business was reduced to ashes when terrorists stormed Bassa, shooting sporadically, setting homes ablaze, kidnapping residents, and looting whatever they could. She fled with only the clothes on her back, walking for days alongside other survivors to reach Kuta, where a temporary displacement camp had been established in a central primary school.

“I arrived in Kuta without my belongings because I had just taken my bath when they invaded our community. I only had a wrapper on when we started running. When we reached Gurmana [a 10 km distance from Bassa], people were kind enough to help us with clothes to cover up properly. Then we got help and came down to Kuta,” she revealed.

The lives of Murjanatu and thousands of other women and children have been flipped by the escalating wave of terror attacks by armed groups in the agrarian communities in Shiroro. In the past three years, she has lost count of the number of close and distant relatives claimed by gruesome terror attacks.

“I have lost people. My brothers and their children were slaughtered; my in-laws were killed. I’ve lost over 70 close relatives and direct family members to terrorism. I sleep and wake up with a heavy heart,” she cried.

She is just one among the thousands of internally displaced persons (IDPs) struggling to survive in neglected displacement camps in the Shiroro Local Government Area.  

In 2020, the Niger State Emergency Management Agency (NSEMA) revealed that only 4,030 people were displaced across four local government areas of the state. As of 2024, the figure has increased to 21,393.

As of June 2024, a total of 1.3 million residents have been displaced across the North-Central and Northwest regions of Nigeria, as data from the International Organisation for Migration’s Displacement Tracking Matrix (DTM) has shown.

The data encompasses over two thousand households in the states of Benue, Kaduna, Kano, Katsina, Kogi, Nasarawa, Plateau, Sokoto, Zamfara, and Niger who have been displaced by either communal clashes, terrorism, or kidnapping, among other issues.

While the reasons for the displacements vary considerably across the affected states, the report indicates that terrorism, in the form of killing and kidnapping, is the causal factor of the displacement of thousands of people in Niger State. 

The forgotten souls

The Kuta IDP camp, located in the headquarters of the Shiroro LGA, is now a sanctuary for thousands of displaced women and children from Bassa, Allawa, Manta, Gurmana, and other communities ravaged by insurgent attacks. What was initially set up as a temporary shelter has become a permanent residence for many, with no clear path to resettlement.

The displacement crisis in Shiroro LGA is as much a humanitarian tragedy as it is an economic and social disaster. Many of the displaced seeking refuge in the central primary school in Kuta lack access to basic amenities, such as food, sanitation, and medical services, which are woefully inadequate.

It was only recently that the Niger State governor, Umar Bago, revealed that plans are underway to build permanent structures in each of the affected areas and close down the temporary ones presently occupied by displaced persons. The proposed shelters will also serve as temporary homes “pending when the insurgency will end in the affected areas”.

When HumAngle visited the camp in March this year, the conditions were dire—overcrowded classrooms, insufficient food supply, and inadequate medical care. Sources revealed that they have been abandoned without any state intervention for over six months now.

The desk officer in the central camp, Yusuf Bala, revealed that when the camp was initially set up here, there was a rapid response from both the state and local government. Now, things are different.

“They sleep in classrooms. Due to the excessive heat we are experiencing, we have decongested the camp. Some are leaving the camp. We have about 734 households [women] here in this camp. We have 1,113 children, 204 men, because most of them are on the move. We are managing over 2,000 displaced persons here in this camp.

“Currently, the situation is dire. There are issues, and we no longer receive food and medical supplies. These interventions have stopped coming in. We have written to the local and state governments. Since the beginning of this year, nothing tangible has come into this camp from the state ministry of humanitarian affairs. It has always been unfulfilled promises,” he said.

Bala, who has been managing the camp since 2019, added that until recently, when the erstwhile commissioner of health visited the camp with some heart doctors from Greece to conduct checkups and brought some food items and medical supplies to support them, “interventions don’t come in regularly.” 

“As you can see, we are in fasting period, and nothing has been brought to the camp,” the desk officer said. “We only have a classroom designated as a clinic. The plain truth is we only have a mattress in it; there are no medical supplies. The personnel only attend to minor cases  and give out prescriptions to those who can afford to buy the medication.”

Ahmed Almustapha, a son of the late district head of Rumache, killed by terrorists, also confirmed that displaced widows and orphans in the camp have been abandoned. “Children are hungry, women are traumatised, and there is no end in sight to their suffering. These people feel completely abandoned,” Almustapha said.

“There are a lot of widows now taking care of their children by themselves without any support. Some have to beg to be fed. We don’t even know what the government is doing. We have lost a lot, and there is nothing that is being done about it.”

“As I speak with you now, I can’t remember when they last brought food for our people in the IDP camp here. We are appealing to the government to do the needful and come to our aid,” he noted.

Raising 12 children single-handedly

In one corner of the camp, under the shade of a classroom, sits 67-year-old Hauwa Zakari Mashuku, a grandmother who now shoulders the responsibility of raising twelve grandchildren. One of her children is among the hundreds slaughtered in numerous midnight raids in their homes.

For Hauwa, in the slightest of thoughts, this insecurity is something that wouldn’t last, but it has been eight years since she visited her community. The best she can do is to give a mental picture of how things were in the past.

“My husband and his brother were kidnapped while they were running to safety. When they attacked our village, I jumped into a river to protect my life, even though I couldn’t swim. As we speak, I have high blood pressure all from this insecurity,” she revealed.

With no source of income and limited intervention, Hauwa is overwhelmed by the burden of providing for her grandchildren. “Our businesses have collapsed. The grains we had in the village before running away have either been stolen or set ablaze. How can you have peace of mind?” she lamented.

Her grandchildren, ranging from ages three to sixteen, spend their days in hunger, scattered across the Kuta community to gather what they can, sometimes at the mercy of handouts and the pieces of firewood they gather to sell for their survival in the camp. 

For many displaced women like Hauwa, security remains a major concern, leaving them with the fear of returning to their villages as insurgents still control vast areas. Those who have summoned the courage to return are left with difficult choices: to farm and share their crops with terrorists, become informants, or pay taxes.

The displacement dilemma

“Our children and younger generation are not in schools; they are scattered in IDP camps,” Dangana Yusuf, a displaced resident of Bassa, told HumAngle. “When illiteracy is high, it can be catastrophic. We can see how it is fuelling terrorism today.”

Among the displaced are thousands of children who have been forced out of school due to the conflict. Many have witnessed unspeakable horrors—the killing of parents, the burning of their homes, and the trauma of displacement. Without education, their futures hang in the balance.

Almustapha, a displaced local and humanitarian worker, expressed his anguish over the bleak future that lies ahead. “The thought of our future is heartbreaking,” he lamented. “Once operational, schools are now shut down due to the attacks, leaving over 10,000 children in these communities without access to education. The consequences are alarming – an uneducated generation spells disaster.”

Murjanutu also stated: “It has been five years since anyone attended school in Bassa. These terrorists have put a stop to education in our community. No one is willing to risk their child going to school and getting kidnapped. Here in Kuta, we desire for our children to attend school, but we can’t even afford to feed them. How, then, can we send them to school?”

As for Salamatu Abdullahi, another displaced mother of seven who has only spent about two years in the camp, school is not an option for now as her priority remains how to feed her children, who have been forced to be breadwinners at a very tender age.

“Five of my children have headed to a mining site to get something so that we can feed ourselves. Sometimes they get lucky, sometimes they don’t. We have lots of orphans; we also have widows currently mourning their husbands. We are here in this camp without food or a form of business,” Salamatu said regretfully, noting that, “If our children are in school, how can we survive? You can’t even study properly without food in your stomach. That is why we don’t even talk about sending them to school.”

Breadwinners have been reduced to beggars. Many displaced women in Kuta were once traders, farmers, and skilled artisans. Now, they rely on handouts. Without financial aid, they cannot rebuild their lives. 

Attempts by some to start small businesses outside the camp—selling roasted corn, firewood, or sachet water—are met with challenges, including a lack of capital. 

“I left a lot behind. I had two grinding engines; they were burnt. One of my sons is a tailor; his shop was burnt down by terrorists. I sell awara [tofu]. I fry buns up to 10 measures daily. But now there’s nothing. Whenever I remember how things were and how it is now, I feel bad,” Salamatu added.

“If I can’t get some sort of support to start a business and take care of my children, I will be happy. Above all, I wish to go back home because my home is better than living here.”

For now, women like Murjanatu and Salamatu depend on meagre food rations often distributed by the few humanitarian agencies who drop by. In most cases, they rely on handouts and the petty services they render in markets. 

“I barely get ₦1,000 ($0.65) daily to take care of myself and six children; now, I don’t know where my next meal will come from,” Murja said, with her voice laced with grief.

They told HumAngle that some children in the displacement camps spread into the market in Kuta while school activities are ongoing to pick up spilt grains—rice, maize, and millet—from the pans of sellers and bring them home for their parents to sort and prepare a meal for their hungry stomachs. “When they bring it, we then pick out the stones before cooking it. We are living in bondage,” she added.

The insecurity has had devastating effects on the displaced local population, and their current situation in the Kuta IDP camp presents a plethora of challenges, especially the abandonment and lack of access to education.

“We want to go back home and take care of our children. Living in such conditions can push a child to steal or engage in prostitution. When a young girl is hungry and her parents cannot afford to feed her, she can be easily deceived to engage in immoralities just to fill up her stomach,” Murja lamented

As the sun sets over the Shiroro Dam, casting its reflection on the still waters of the Kaduna River, these women displaced by insecurity want “to go back home and live our lives as farmers.” Until then, their silent struggles may be another forgotten chapter in the annals of history.

This is the third of a three-part investigation on the human costs of the infiltration of Boko Haram elements in Niger State. Additional reporting by Ibrahim Adeyemi.

Beneath the violence that has come to define the Islamic State West Africa Province (ISWAP) lies a highly organised financial ecosystem sustaining their operations. Fuelled by a complex blend of taxation, extortion, smuggling, and ideological justification, the groups have transformed parts of northeastern Nigeria into a conflict-driven economy.

For over a decade, terrorists have waged war against Nigeria and its neighbouring countries, displacing millions and wreaking havoc on communities. They took control of some civilian communities, collecting taxes, enforcing laws, and offering basic welfare, particularly within their strongholds around Lake Chad.

In recent times, HumAngle has uncovered how these groups have moved beyond the conventional tactics of ransom collection and taxation. They are now tapping into the dark web to generate revenue, exploiting the anonymity of cryptocurrencies to evade traditional financial surveillance. This marks a strategic shift by Islamic State affiliates, especially as the core group struggles with diminished income following its territorial losses in Iraq and Syria.

Beyond the traditional hawala system, which transfers funds informally through networks of trust, terrorist financiers are now leveraging decentralised digital currencies to solicit donations and channel funds. These covert financial pipelines challenge counterterrorism efforts and expose a growing blind spot in the global fight against extremism.

Drawing from interviews with former fighters, security experts, and residents of conflict-affected communities, HumAngle has also traced offline funding methods that jihadist factions continue to rely on across the Lake Chad region.

“Zakat is paid willingly by members and enforced on outsiders,” said a former ISWAP member, who spoke anonymously due to safety concerns. “It is pooled to the Baitul Ma-al (treasury) at the headquarters of the different wilayats.” For the outsiders and non-combatants, the term is referred to as “jizya”, a levy enforced on an individual who doesn’t subscribe to the jihadists’ version of Islam. 

The wilayat (smaller territories under ISWAP control) enforcing the zakat and jizya serve as administrative zones modelled after Islamist governance. They function not only as extensions of the Islamic State’s ideology but also as de facto provinces, each led by a wali (governor). At the local level, operations are controlled by an administrator known as an Amir.

The insurgents operate a formal taxation system that draws from Islamic principles but is executed with military precision. Residents pay zakat, the religious tithe, alongside fees for farming, fishing, or conducting trade. Outsiders entering the dawlah (state) are subjected to additional levies.

“Revenues are collected by appointed officials who move around town, villages, farmlands and grazing areas,” the former fighter explained. “The financial records are kept by the revenue collectors.”

Compliance is mandatory. Refusal brings swift and brutal retribution. “Confiscation of assets, jail sentence or capital punishment were the typical sanctions,” he said. “[Sometimes] it could amount to capital punishment.”

Farmers interviewed by HumAngle in Borno, for instance, are required to pay about ₦10,000 per hectare. No one is permitted to begin farming without this payment, and receipts are issued by the group as proof. Recently, that levy has been increased to a whopping ₦50,000, causing some discontent among the people living under ISWAP’s control, reportedly making them defect to the Jama’atu Ahlussunnah Lidda’awati Wal Jihad (JAS) faction of Boko Haram.

To mask coercion under religious legitimacy, ISWAP invokes theological language. Appeals for financial support are couched in terms like isti’dad (preparation for jihad). While donations are said to be “according to your means,” refusal is harshly punished.

“Sometimes businessmen are fined for disobedience, and it’s called a donation,” the former terrorist recalled. “It’s never really voluntary.”

This fusion of religious rhetoric and criminal enforcement allows ISWAP to assert moral authority while wielding authoritarian control. The collected money doesn’t simply enrich individual fighters. Much of it flows into a central Albaitul maal, where it is redistributed across operational and administrative needs.

According to the former fighter, funds are used for multiple purposes: “Weapons, paying fighters, giving stipends to widows and orphans of dead fighters, running health clinics on special days. Even some community services.”

Fighters receive monthly salaries and bonuses during military campaigns. Welfare packages are given to the families of dead fighters. Some areas under ISWAP’s influence maintain makeshift clinics and rudimentary schools, financed from this central pool.

While this may resemble the functions of a state, it is fundamentally underpinned by coercion. Services are tied to loyalty, and taxes to survival.

“Those living in the dawlah see it as normal activity, and forcefully living under the dawlah, they have no strength to make any reaction,” the former member said.

People living under ISWAP-controlled areas are divided into Awam (commoners/non-combatants) and Rijal (contextually meaning fighters). For civilians in ISWAP-held areas, daily life is a constant negotiation with fear. Some comply to survive, and others, especially new arrivals, live in quiet terror.

Crypto donations

Nigeria’s status as one of the world’s fastest-growing cryptocurrency markets offers fertile ground for terrorist financing, allowing terror groups like ISWAP to use different platforms, such as Monero, a digital crypto page with enhanced privacy features.

ISWAP’s use of digital currencies in its financial playbook mirrors a broader trend among insurgent groups in Africa and beyond. On the dark web, their propaganda outlets have actively solicited Monero donations, leveraging its anonymity and security.

Monero, developed in 2014 by anonymous creators, conceals transaction details on its blockchain. This has made it the preferred choice for both ransomware operators and extremist networks. The Islamic State’s dark web platforms have openly called for Monero donations in support of insurgent activities. While IS branches like Khurasan have launched dedicated crypto campaigns, ISWAP has yet to do so. However, researchers identify it as a leading crypto user among IS affiliates globally.

ISWAP generates significant revenue, which is often converted into the Monero cryptocurrency platform, which can facilitate anonymous transactions. The preference for Monero stems from its enhanced privacy and security measures, making it challenging for authorities to track and monitor financial flows. By utilising Monero, ISWAP maintains secrecy and evades detection, potentially complicating efforts to disrupt their financial networks and operations.

Smuggling and black markets

In addition to cryptocurrencies, black market operations and regional trade form a large portion of the insurgent economy. Smuggling routes span Nigeria’s borders with Cameroon, Chad, and Niger, facilitating the movement of fuel, food, and drugs.

“Smugglers bring in fuel through Banki and Kirawa [in Borno State],” the former fighter said. “They pay a levy to pass. The group taxes everything.”

Markets within ISWAP’s domain operate under strict supervision. The group controls livestock and fish markets via appointed intermediaries—local businessmen who handle external trade and launder profits back to leadership.

“They are businessmen, but they are also collaborators,” the former ISWAP member told HumAngle. “They don’t carry weapons, but they are part of the system.”

This economic integration has allowed the insurgents to embed themselves into local commerce, making it harder for Nigerian forces and international partners to isolate and weaken them.

The financial engine behind Boko Haram and ISWAP is resilient, adaptive, and deeply entrenched in local realities. It flourishes in the absence of Nigerian state authority, often aided, willingly or otherwise, by community actors.

A 2023 report by the International Crisis Group observed that ISWAP’s economic model mimics state structures and generates steady revenue, especially from taxation of local businesses and traders, noting that defeating this system would take more than military might.

“Breaking the financial backbone of these groups involves restoring legitimate governance and providing alternative livelihoods,” a former staff member of the Nigerian Financial Intelligence Unit told HumAngle, pleading anonymity for security reasons. “As long as they provide services and the state does not, they will retain influence.”

Fifteen years into the conflict, the fight against Boko Haram and ISWAP is no longer solely about military victories, the expert said. It is also about dismantling the systems that keep them alive. In a conflict-ravaged region where the state has faltered, insurgents have constructed a parallel order, founded not only on violence but also on function.

“They are fighting a war, yes. But they are also running a government,” the former ISWAP fighter reiterated.

A large farm stretches across the uneven terrain of Bauchi State in northeastern Nigeria, where even motorcycles struggle to navigate the rugged countryside. The land is parched, and the air carries a sense of endurance—of people surviving, not living. This place, Gonar Abacha, is no longer just a farmland; it is a refuge and a wound. 

Now known as Garin Shuwa, it serves as a displacement camp, named after the Shuwa Arab community, which makes up most of its residents. Sitting at the foot of Bauchi’s rocky hills, the camp sprawls in fragile huts made of sticks and thatch, where displaced families live with little support, waiting for help that feels farther away each day.

This is where Imam Abdulkarim, a middle-aged man, and his family found shelter after Boko Haram terrorists forced them to flee their home in Kachan Shuwa, a village in Marte Local Government Area of Borno State, about eight years ago.

Before arriving here, they had tasted the ups and downs of life in an internally displaced persons (IDPs) camp in Maiduguri, the Borno State capital. The overcrowding and hardships eventually compelled Abdulkarim and his family to seek an alternative. With the support of the country’s former First Lady, Maryam Abacha, they were offered this land as a temporary, unofficial residence. That was how they came to settle in Garin Shuwa and began farming on borrowed land.

“We are between 600 and 700 people, and you can find many different stories, but we were all affected by Boko Haram violence,” he told HumAngle. “Among us there are widows, orphans, and those who have lost their relatives. It’s a large community of victims, but we are now surviving as a big family here.”

But there is a problem.

There is no school for the children at Garin Shuwa. No clinic, market, or even a small centre for basic relief. A mosque built recently through community donations is the only structure with a semblance of permanence.

Abdulkarim has learned not to expect too much.

“School is not our biggest problem,” he said. “We have a small madrasa (school) where children recite the Qur’an. What we need, what we truly need, is clean water and a clinic. Just a place to take our sick ones without watching them die slowly.”

“If a woman wants to give birth, she must travel to the town. But the road… even motorcycle riders fear it,” he added. According to Abdulkarim, several women have died due to this. Their babies did not survive. And for years, nothing has changed.

The road from Gonar Abacha to Bauchi town stretches barely 15 kilometres, yet the journey can take over an hour. During the rainy season, it dissolves into mud, swallowing bikes and bodies alike. Women in labour sometimes begin the journey with prayer, knowing the odds stacked against them.

And yet, they stay. Not out of love for this place, but because they have nowhere else to go.

A few metres from where we stood with Abdulkarim, a group of women gathered around a well, lowering water into its shadowy mouth. The well is deep, painfully so, but they are exhausting their energy to fetch the water because they have nowhere else to go.

Fatima Ibrahim, a young widow whose husband was killed by Boko Haram terrorists, wiped the sweat from her brow and spoke without lifting her gaze. “This is all we have,” she said. “This single well serves the whole camp: for drinking, cooking, washing, even bathing.”

She said it gets worse when the dry season comes. The well runs empty, and then they need to start walking again, like before, searching for water like refugees in their refuge.

Two boreholes were once dug in the camp by a local politician and a government agency, “but all of them have stopped working,” Abdulkarim said, showing the location of abandoned taps that had long not been used.

Different location, same problem

Bauchi is not alone in this quiet devastation. Hundreds of kilometres away, the story is the same as that of Katsina State in northwestern Nigeria. 

Many women gathered around the house of Dahiru Mangal, a Nigerian businessman and founder of Max Air, a local airline. They are not city beggars by origin. They are displaced women, survivors of attacks too terrifying to forget, from villages devastated by terrorist attacks: Batsari, Faskari, Dandume, Jibia, and many more. Violence chased them away from their homes, but hunger kept them on the streets.

“I never imagined my children would sleep like this,” says Rabi Ado, a mother of four from Faskari who fled home with her family. Despite her younger age, Rabi’s face shows every sign of hardship: hollow cheeks, sunken eyes, and cracked skin.

In the night, Rabi and many other displaced families sleep under the open sky, spreading their mats on bare ground, with only thin wrappers to shield them from the cold night. 

“We ran from the terrorists,” she said. “They came in the night, shot our neighbours, and burnt our house. We walked for days and then got into a car. When we got here, we had nothing.”

Behind Mangal’s compound, a local philanthropy serves food to the displaced. It is a slight relief, given in dignity, but never enough. “It’s first come, first served,” said Hauwa, a young woman who arrived with her grandmother. “Sometimes we get food, sometimes we don’t. And we have to look for something.”.

Aside from begging, some women turn to petty trading, selling second-hand items to make ends meet. It is a small market of old goods, clothes, utensils, mats, shoes, and everyday items that they could never afford to buy new.

Children, especially young girls, join their mothers on the streets, and others go alone. They beg from shop owners and passing motorists, often returning with just enough for a sachet of water. The boys beg, too; others run errands, or sift through rubbish bins in search of scraps of food.

The biggest problem is that these families have never witnessed government support, especially with the continued humanitarian aid cuts. 

They have become invisible in the very state that promised them refuge. There is no shelter, no IDP camp registration, and no aid agency monitoring their condition. The streets are both their home and their shame.

“Even if someone wants to help,” said Talatu Habibu, an elderly woman, “they don’t know we are here. We are not on any list. No government official has come. We are not counted among the displaced.”

Katsina State authorities occasionally promise interventions, such as cash support, resettlement plans, and empowerment programs, but they rarely reach those sleeping under the open skies. And when aid comes, it is often through personal charities, not accountability systems.

“There are many like us,” Talatu told HumAngle. “We are multiplying. When more villages are attacked, they come here too. This place is turning into another camp, but no one calls it one.”

Several women interviewed said several people have come promising support, but they don’t see it. “They come and tell us that they are from the government or Abuja, ask us about how we live, promise support, go, and never come back,” Talatu explained.

The IDPs have learned not to trust the government, local NGOs, or people who appear as philanthropists, even journalists. 

“They were told that when journalists interview them, they get money when the story gets published,” said Aminu, a local fixer for HumAngle. This climate of abandonment and broken promises has silenced many women who refused to speak to the press. “They are tired,” Aminu explained. “And I don’t blame them.”

‘We are all back to square one’

Lack of support defines the two IDP camps in Bauchi, Katsina, and several other communities in the country. In Gonar Abacha, Abdulkarim recalls when USAID, working through a local NGO, used to conduct medical outreach to their camp. “Nurses used to come, check women, and give them medicine,” he said. “The last time was, I think, some months ago. They said they would come back again, but they never did.”

There are over 60,000 documented IDPs in Bauchi. Many have received some support from the State Emergency Management Agency (SEMA) and the North-East Development Commission (NEDC), but others remain completely unaided. Abdulhamid Sulaiman, the deputy chairman of the Bauchi IDP communities, explained the situation.

“For those within the IDP communities, they have gotten some support that includes foodstuffs, but the main support we receive from NGOs has been stopped,” he said.

The suspension of USAID-supported programmes has deepened the humanitarian crisis across the Northeast. Several local NGOs, previously dependent on USAID funding, have ceased operations. “We used to get small grants to train women on hygiene, to teach children how to read,” said Aliya Muhammad, formerly with a Bauchi-based NGO. “Now we are all back to square one.”

Humanitarian bodies working in northeastern Nigeria confirm that USAID’s pullback has negatively affected the delivery of essential services. According to surveys in the region, most local organisations relied heavily on USAID, and its withdrawal has crippled their ability to function.

A staff member of SEMA in Bauchi, who pleaded anonymity because he was not authorised to speak, told HumAngle that there is a huge crisis in the activities of SEMA, making it difficult to achieve its plans, especially in the areas of WASH.

“The issue is, SEMA doesn’t rely on any local or foreign NGO for funding. The real problem is that some of the activities that SEMA covers are supported by local NGOs, which rely on donors. As they stop working, the problem increases for us, and it’s difficult or even impossible to solve all of them,” he said.

In Katsina, the situation is even more dire.

Over 250,000 IDPs are spread throughout the state. While those in Bauchi get some support, they don’t even think of getting any in Katsina. “If you are not in an official camp,” said Jamilu Muhammad, a volunteer aid worker in Katsina, “you don’t get counted. And if you’re not counted, you don’t get help.”

In this informal camp, children are the worst hit. The thought of taking them to school sounds like a privilege. “Some of our children used to go to school back in the village,” said Aisha, a mother holding an underweight baby. “But now, they need food first. Survival comes before anything.”

While street begging in northern Nigeria has long been associated with Almajiri boys in Qur’anic schools, a troubling trend is emerging in Katsina: the rising number of girl beggars. Unlike their male counterparts, these girls are not in any structured learning environment. They have no mentors, no protection, and no sense of direction.

HumAngle met girls between the ages of six and ten, wandering markets, mosques, and public spaces with begging bowls in hand. They are visibly malnourished, uneducated, and unguarded. Their parents, displaced by terrorist violence in places like Kankara and Jibia, are too overwhelmed to offer more than basic survival.

The girls said they are the daughters of the IDPs who fled their homes in places like Kankara and Jibia in Katsina State due to terrorist violence. With no schools to attend and no safe spaces to grow, they are forced to contribute to their families’ survival through street begging.

This growing population of girl beggars presents alarming risks. Beyond the obvious deprivation, they face threats of abuse, harassment, and trafficking. Their visibility in public spaces without guardianship or protection leaves them particularly vulnerable to gender-based violence.

As the international community scales back aid and state capacity remains stretched, girls in IDP families are becoming invisible casualties of a system that overlooks their specific needs. “Without urgent intervention, a generation of girls is at risk of growing up in trauma and perpetual poverty,” an aid worker who simply identified as Aliya said.

Beneath the violence that has come to define the Islamic State West Africa Province (ISWAP) lies a highly organised financial ecosystem sustaining their operations. Fuelled by a complex blend of taxation, extortion, smuggling, and ideological justification, the groups have transformed parts of northeastern Nigeria into a conflict-driven economy.

For over a decade, terrorists have waged war against Nigeria and its neighbouring countries, displacing millions and wreaking havoc on communities. They took control of some civilian communities, collecting taxes, enforcing laws, and offering basic welfare, particularly within their strongholds around Lake Chad.

In recent times, HumAngle has uncovered how these groups have moved beyond the conventional tactics of ransom collection and taxation. They are now tapping into the dark web to generate revenue, exploiting the anonymity of cryptocurrencies to evade traditional financial surveillance. This marks a strategic shift by Islamic State affiliates, especially as the core group struggles with diminished income following its territorial losses in Iraq and Syria.

Beyond the traditional hawala system, which transfers funds informally through networks of trust, terrorist financiers are now leveraging decentralised digital currencies to solicit donations and channel funds. These covert financial pipelines challenge counterterrorism efforts and expose a growing blind spot in the global fight against extremism.

Drawing from interviews with former fighters, security experts, and residents of conflict-affected communities, HumAngle has also traced offline funding methods that jihadist factions continue to rely on across the Lake Chad region.

“Zakat is paid willingly by members and enforced on outsiders,” said a former ISWAP member, who spoke anonymously due to safety concerns. “It is pooled to the Baitul Ma-al (treasury) at the headquarters of the different wilayats.” For the outsiders and non-combatants, the term is referred to as “jizya”, a levy enforced on an individual who doesn’t subscribe to the jihadists’ version of Islam. 

The wilayat (smaller territories under ISWAP control) enforcing the zakat and jizya serve as administrative zones modelled after Islamist governance. They function not only as extensions of the Islamic State’s ideology but also as de facto provinces, each led by a wali (governor). At the local level, operations are controlled by an administrator known as an Amir.

The insurgents operate a formal taxation system that draws from Islamic principles but is executed with military precision. Residents pay zakat, the religious tithe, alongside fees for farming, fishing, or conducting trade. Outsiders entering the dawlah (state) are subjected to additional levies.

“Revenues are collected by appointed officials who move around town, villages, farmlands and grazing areas,” the former fighter explained. “The financial records are kept by the revenue collectors.”

Compliance is mandatory. Refusal brings swift and brutal retribution. “Confiscation of assets, jail sentence or capital punishment were the typical sanctions,” he said. “[Sometimes] it could amount to capital punishment.”

Farmers interviewed by HumAngle in Borno, for instance, are required to pay about ₦10,000 per hectare. No one is permitted to begin farming without this payment, and receipts are issued by the group as proof. Recently, that levy has been increased to a whopping ₦50,000, causing some discontent among the people living under ISWAP’s control, reportedly making them defect to the Jama’atu Ahlussunnah Lidda’awati Wal Jihad (JAS) faction of Boko Haram.

To mask coercion under religious legitimacy, ISWAP invokes theological language. Appeals for financial support are couched in terms like isti’dad (preparation for jihad). While donations are said to be “according to your means,” refusal is harshly punished.

“Sometimes businessmen are fined for disobedience, and it’s called a donation,” the former terrorist recalled. “It’s never really voluntary.”

This fusion of religious rhetoric and criminal enforcement allows ISWAP to assert moral authority while wielding authoritarian control. The collected money doesn’t simply enrich individual fighters. Much of it flows into a central their bai’atul maal, where it is redistributed across operational and administrative needs.

According to the former fighter, funds are used for multiple purposes: “Weapons, paying fighters, giving stipends to widows and orphans of dead fighters, running health clinics on special days. Even some community services.”

Fighters receive monthly salaries and bonuses during military campaigns. Welfare packages are given to the families of dead fighters. Some areas under ISWAP’s influence maintain makeshift clinics and rudimentary schools, financed from this central pool.

While this may resemble the functions of a state, it is fundamentally underpinned by coercion. Services are tied to loyalty, and taxes to survival.

“Those living in the dawlah see it as normal activity, and forcefully living under the dawlah, they have no strength to make any reaction,” the former member said.

People living under ISWAP-controlled areas are divided into Awam (commoners/non-combatants) and Rijal (contextually meaning fighters). For civilians in ISWAP-held areas, daily life is a constant negotiation with fear. Some comply to survive, and others, especially new arrivals, live in quiet terror.

Crypto donations

Nigeria’s status as one of the world’s fastest-growing cryptocurrency markets offers fertile ground for terrorist financing, allowing terror groups like ISWAP to use different platforms, such as Monero, a digital crypto page with enhanced privacy features.

ISWAP’s use of digital currencies in its financial playbook mirrors a broader trend among insurgent groups in Africa and beyond. On the dark web, their propaganda outlets have actively solicited Monero donations, leveraging its anonymity and security.

Monero, developed in 2014 by anonymous creators, conceals transaction details on its blockchain. This has made it the preferred choice for both ransomware operators and extremist networks. The Islamic State’s dark web platforms have openly called for Monero donations in support of insurgent activities. While IS branches like Khurasan have launched dedicated crypto campaigns, ISWAP has yet to do so. However, researchers identify it as a leading crypto user among IS affiliates globally.

ISWAP generates significant revenue, which is often converted into the Monero cryptocurrency platform, which can facilitate anonymous transactions. The preference for Monero stems from its enhanced privacy and security measures, making it challenging for authorities to track and monitor financial flows. By utilising Monero, ISWAP maintains secrecy and evades detection, potentially complicating efforts to disrupt their financial networks and operations.

Smuggling and black markets

In addition to cryptocurrencies, black market operations and regional trade form a large portion of the insurgent economy. Smuggling routes span Nigeria’s borders with Cameroon, Chad, and Niger, facilitating the movement of fuel, food, and drugs.

“Smugglers bring in fuel through Banki and Kirawa [in Borno State],” the former fighter said. “They pay a levy to pass. The group taxes everything.”

Markets within ISWAP’s domain operate under strict supervision. The group controls livestock and fish markets via appointed intermediaries—local businessmen who handle external trade and launder profits back to leadership.

“They are businessmen, but they are also collaborators,” the former ISWAP member told HumAngle. “They don’t carry weapons, but they are part of the system.”

This economic integration has allowed the insurgents to embed themselves into local commerce, making it harder for Nigerian forces and international partners to isolate and weaken them.

The financial engine behind Boko Haram and ISWAP is resilient, adaptive, and deeply entrenched in local realities. It flourishes in the absence of Nigerian state authority, often aided, willingly or otherwise, by community actors.

A 2023 report by the International Crisis Group observed that ISWAP’s economic model mimics state structures and generates steady revenue, especially from taxation of local businesses and traders, noting that defeating this system would take more than military might.

“Breaking the financial backbone of these groups involves restoring legitimate governance and providing alternative livelihoods,” a former staff member of the Nigerian Financial Intelligence Unit told HumAngle, pleading anonymity for security reasons. “As long as they provide services and the state does not, they will retain influence.”

Fifteen years into the conflict, the fight against Boko Haram and ISWAP is no longer solely about military victories, the expert said. It is also about dismantling the systems that keep them alive. In a conflict-ravaged region where the state has faltered, insurgents have constructed a parallel order, founded not only on violence but also on function.

“They are fighting a war, yes. But they are also running a government,” the former ISWAP fighter reiterated.

A coordinated wave of violence has raged through Borno State in northeastern Nigeria between May 12 and 13, as the Islamic State West Africa Province (ISWAP) launched its most sophisticated assault in recent memory. 

The group, wielding advanced drone capabilities and high mobility tactics, attacked military installations, key towns, and vital roadways, reigniting fears over the fragility of Nigeria’s counterinsurgency efforts and the evolving face of terrorism in the Lake Chad Basin.

The offensive targeted Marte, Dikwa, Rann (Kala-Balge LGA), and the Damboa–Maiduguri road in near-simultaneous strikes that signalled strategic coordination, technological evolution, and growing audacity. 

Before this latest wave, however, the Borno State government itself was the first to raise the alarm when the resurgence of attacks by ISWAP began to intensify in April. 

Marte – 12 May, 3:00 a.m.

In the early hours of May 12, ISWAP fighters stormed Marte in northern Borno, dislodging the Nigerian military after a series of intense clashes. Local sources said several soldiers were captured, while others retreated toward Dikwa. The insurgents now control the town, which holds immense strategic value due to its access to Lake Chad smuggling corridors.

Rann and Dikwa – 13 May, midnight and afternoon

A dual strike followed just hours later. In Rann, ISWAP reportedly deployed drones, possibly for both surveillance and tactical strikes, before breaching the town’s defences, residents told a member of the civilian JTF. 

The incursion triggered mass civilian flight towards the Cameroonian border. Simultaneously in Dikwa, the group carried out another attack. The precision and timing of both attacks point to elevated operational planning and coordination. 

Damboa–Maiduguri Road – 13 May 

Later that day, an improvised explosive device (IED) ripped through the vital Damboa–Maiduguri corridor, disrupting civilian mobility. The route is a lifeline for economic activity; its compromise marks a major setback in efforts to stabilise southern Borno.

Damboa is a strategically important town in Borno State. It serves as a key pathway between Maiduguri and southern Borno, including Chibok and Biu local government areas. Damboa has been a hotspot in the Boko Haram insurgency, often targeted because of its role as a major food supply route. Its control is also vital for military operations and humanitarian access in the region.

Drones in the desert: a tactical turning point

ISWAP’s deployment of drones represents a major departure from the insurgency’s guerrilla roots. While aerial surveillance has long been the domain of state forces, the group’s apparent mastery of drone warfare introduces a new dimension to Nigeria’s protracted conflict.

These devices offer real-time intelligence and enhance battlefield accuracy, especially in isolated or under-supported military camps. In Rann, witnesses spoke of a buzzing sound in the sky before the town fell, suggesting a calculated dismantling of defensive positions.

The Nigerian military responded with aerial bombardments, but sources suggest some jets may have targeted already-abandoned facilities, raising questions about the accuracy of ground-to-air coordination.

The economic engine behind ISWAP’s resurgence

What enables ISWAP to sustain this scale and frequency of operations? HumAngle, over the past months, has documented a systematic, robust and diversified funding model that includes ransom payments targeting high-profile travellers. Taxation and extortion in ISWAP-held areas are enforced through mobile courts and checkpoints.

Cross-border smuggling networks, particularly those that deal with fuel, arms, and food, frequently pass through Cameroon, Niger, and Chad. Spoils from raided military bases replenish weapons and supplies.

“ISWAP is no longer distracted by clashes with its rival Boko Haram faction,” a source closely monitoring the situation informed HumAngle. He said the group has diminished its rival and successfully recruited many of its fighters to join their ranks.

The terror group hosts dozens of foreign fighters in the Bosso region, with Abu Musab, ISWAP leader, increasingly assuming regional roles and responsibilities, strengthening its recruitment drive, facilitating investments in drone and communication technologies, and enabling the maintenance of supply chains even in challenging terrains.

New wave of mass displacement

As Borno State is shutting down Internally Displaced Persons (IDP) camps in the state capital, thousands of resettled displaced communities continue to flee their homes in Marte, Dikwa, Rann, and surrounding communities. Aid groups are bracing for a new wave of IDPs. 

Newly resettled displaced people from the Muna camp in Maiduguri, who arrived in Dikwa about a day before the attack, said they heard sporadic gunshots throughout the night, with the women having to run into the nearby forest areas for cover. Large groups of people are fleeing the town again, barely 72 hours after being resettled in the town. They also told HumAngle that there are no security officials there to guard them. 

“We hardly sleep,” one resident said. “We are constantly worried about when the insurgents will come again, especially with the gunshots we hear. Yesterday, we could only sleep around 3 a.m.”

“Some individuals are seeking refuge in Cameroon, while others are relocating to any available host communities, as there are currently no provisions for IDP camps, unlike the situation five to ten years ago,” stated a member of the Civilian JTF.

The constant withdrawal of soldiers from their strategic outposts and their capture has rattled the ranks and file. Troops now face an opponent that not only improvises but also innovates.

It’s May 14, so she posts a birthday photo on Instagram: a selfie in scrubs after a long hospital shift, or maybe a studio portrait with balloons and a caption: “Grateful for 22.”

In the portrait, her hair is curled softly around her face, her gentle smile lighting up the frame. Friends flood the comments section with heart emojis and warm wishes.

At home, her mum bakes her favourite cake in white and black; her favourite colours. Her dad says a quiet prayer, blessing her for the year ahead. Her younger brother teases her over the phone, calling her “old” and laughing together like always.

This version of today exists only in imagination. There’s no photo. No candles. No celebration.

Leah Sharibu is still in captivity. She turns 22 today.

“She wanted to be a doctor,” her younger and only sibling, Donald Sharibu, tells HumAngle. “It wasn’t just about studying medicine. She liked helping people. She always offered to assist someone with chores, homework, anything.”

Leah was just 14, three months shy of her 15th birthday, when the Islamic State West Africa Province (ISWAP), a Boko Haram breakaway, stormed her school, Government Girls’ Science and Technical College in Dapchi, Yobe State, northeastern Nigeria. It was on Monday evening, Feb. 19, 2018, and they raided the dormitories, herding terrified students into waiting trucks. One hundred and ten schoolgirls, including Leah, were abducted. 

Five died along the way. 

By March 21, 2018, 104 had been released. But Leah was left behind.

Donald, now 20, still remembers when the rumours about the attack in Dapchi began; he was in a boarding school in Nguru, several kilometres from home. 

“Like me, most of my roommates were from Dapchi. At first, I thought the attack was somewhere in the town. I didn’t know it was my sister’s school,” Donald recounts.

He borrowed a phone and called home. Their mother, a teacher, picked up. “She said Leah’s school had been attacked,” he says. “I brushed it off. I didn’t think she was involved. She’s smart, careful. I thought maybe she escaped and would come back.”

The next day, his mother called. She was sobbing. Leah had been abducted.

Donald was still convinced that his sister would escape, and indeed, she attempted to flee while in captivity. Fatima Mohammed, one of the released Dapchi schoolgirls, told HumAngle that she was caught, and then the insurgents realised she was a Christian. 

Fatima said Leah was asked to convert to Islam or remain their captive. “We begged her to pretend to convert, but she refused,” she recounted.

As time trudged forward with no word, Donald’s hope for his sister’s escape slowly faded. The family, unable to bear the weight of their grief in Dapchi, eventually relocated to Yola, the Adamawa State capital, seeking some semblance of peace far from the memories that haunted them.

“My mother resigned from teaching at a school in Dapchi, and then we left,” he says.

Donald also left Nguru. His parents transferred him to ECWA Staff School in Jos, Plateau State, North-central Nigeria, where he completed his secondary education.

Originally from Hong, a local government area in Adamawa State, the Sharibus are a devout Christian family; they attend Evangelical Church Winning All, commonly known as ECWA, one of the largest Christian denominations in northern Nigeria. Their faith runs deep, not performative but lived in prayer, community, and Leah’s quiet resolve. 

Donald had just returned from a Sunday service when he joined a WhatsApp call with HumAngle. Like his sister, he is deeply rooted in his faith. He is the president of the Christian fellowship on campus, holding on to his belief, even when answers remain out of reach.

Seven years on, Donald is going into his final year at the American University of Nigeria in Yola, studying International and Comparative Politics, a future his sister was meant to experience first, as the family’s first-generation graduate.

She was in SS2, just one academic year from finishing secondary school, when she was abducted. By now, she should have been in her final year at the university, perhaps doing clinical rounds in a hospital. Even if admission hurdles in Nigeria had forced a change in course, and she didn’t read medicine, Leah might have graduated, completed her NYSC year, with an enlarged picture of her in khaki uniform sitting on the wall in their parents’ living room with quiet pride, and even secured her first job.

“She would have been doing something by now,” Donald says. “Leah is hardworking.”

Many of the released Dapchi schoolgirls dropped out of school after their return and married. Aisha Mahmuda, one of the girls who also led the failed escape plan Leah was part of, said she and her mother decided that returning to school was not worth the risk. “So we agreed that I would just get married,” Aisha told HumAngle. 

But Donald believes it would have been different for his sister. “Our dad didn’t go beyond secondary school, but always said that education is everything. He pushed us to reach further,” he says. 

No day goes by without Donald thinking about Leah. They were very close; they attended the same schools until he left for senior secondary school in Nguru. She was the older sister who helped with homework and shared inside jokes. “She is kind and jovial,” he recounts. 

He imagines her sometimes. Calling, having conversations, sharing stories, praying, and everything else.

“I really look forward to such a day,” he says. 

For now, though, there are no new photographs, no voice notes, or video calls. Just fleeting rumours and unverified reports: whispers of a forced marriage to at least two insurgents, of children born in captivity, of a girl becoming a woman under a regime of coercion, isolation, and silence.

“It is hurtful, no one, no family should go through this,” Donald says. “She used to talk about marriage. But not like this. Not at this age.”

Some of the Dapchi girls who were released told HumAngle that while they were in captivity, they would sometimes have conversations with the wives of the insurgents. Many of them “told us that they became their wives after they were abducted in the same manner that we were.”

Multiple sources confirmed to HumAngle that Leah is being held in the Bosso region of the Republic of Niger, a rural community along Nigeria’s northern border.

According to Philip Dimka, a clinical psychologist and trauma therapist who works with conflict-affected individuals in North-central Nigeria, spending seven years in captivity can profoundly affect a young person’s mental health, development, and identity. “At that age, captivity is deeply damaging,” he says. “It’s a crucial stage of growth. Being forced into a new environment can trigger isolation, confusion, and an identity crisis. Prolonged stress, especially with abuse, can lead to complex trauma or PTSD. The brain is still developing, and constant fear can disrupt that process.”

One possible consequence, he notes, is Stockholm syndrome, where captives form emotional bonds with their captors. “It’s not about love or loyalty,” he explains. “It’s about fear and powerlessness. The mind, often subconsciously, finds ways to adapt and create a sense of stability.” Still, not everyone develops such bonds. Reintegration can be jarring, especially when families or society expect a return to ‘normal’. Without proper psychological support, trauma may surface as anxiety, depression, or a fractured sense of self. “Healing is possible,” Philip added. 

The Nigerian government has repeatedly promised to secure Leah’s release, but the promises have rung hollow. Advocacy groups and faith-based organisations have also called attention to her case, but as the years pass, global headlines shift and the urgency fades from the conversation.

“Our government doesn’t prioritise the safety of its people. We need to treat symptoms of armed violence early, it becomes difficult when we allow it to grow,” says Donald.

Still, for the Sharibus, every day is a waiting day; they’ve not heard from her since her abduction. Every phone call brings hope, every rumour a spark, and then, often, disappointment.

For her family, Leah’s 22nd birthday will be marked in quiet prayer, far from where she should be. Her mum fainted when she first heard about the abduction. It weighed so much on them, but Donald says his parents are doing much better now.

“We are hopeful that she will return,” he says. “We’re not giving up.”

“We pray for her as a family every day,” Donald tells HumAngle.  

The Sharibus are not the only ones praying. At noon on her birthday this year, dozens of well-wishers will gather on Zoom to intercede for her release. The event is organised by the Leah Foundation, a non-profit founded in May 2018 by a coalition of Christian leaders, in partnership with her parents, after the world learned that she was still in captivity because she refused to renounce her faith.

“We believe God responds to united prayer. Seven is a number of completion, and we ask God to release Leah from her 7-year captivity,” the organisation said in a statement.

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.