North-West

How do you comfort a man who has just watched years of his life turn to smoke?

Sulaiman Mustapha remained seated inside the mosque after the dawn prayer, long after others had left. He put both hands on his head as if trying to hold his brain in place. He could not speak. No wailing. No outburst. Just the stillness of a man whose world had collapsed overnight. Those around him tried to console him, but the words sounded distant, almost irrelevant. 

Less than a month ago, Sulaiman bought a new motorcycle to make his trips to Singa Market in Kano, North West Nigeria, easier. For him, it was not just a bike. It was a milestone. For years, he had gone to the market with his brother as a worker, running errands for established traders. With time, he began handling purchases. Then he began trading in small quantities for himself. The profits were modest but steady.

The motorcycle symbolised a shift. It meant he would no longer spend heavily on transport. It meant more capital for his small shop. It meant growth. Then, in a matter of hours, fire erased that growth. Now it was metal frames and ash. 

On Saturday, Feb. 15, around 4 p.m., a fire broke out at Gidan Glass, a plaza at Singa Market. Witnesses say the fire spread quickly, leaping from shop to shop before traders could salvage much. It burned for two days. By the time it was contained, dozens of shops had been reduced to charred frames.

Sulaiman and his brother’s shop was among them.

When he sat in the mosque that morning, he was mourning years of hard work — the savings, the small profits he reinvested, and his mother’s inheritance. “After his grandfather died, the inheritance was shared,” his close friend, Abba Abubakar, told HumAngle. “His mother gave him her portion to grow the business.”

Now, everything is gone. 

The fire that tore through Singa Market is the latest in a long line of infernos that have become almost routine in Kano markets. Within 48 hours, early estimates placed losses in billions of naira. But beyond the figures lies a deeper story: how recurring fires, weak emergency infrastructure, and structural neglect continue to threaten the livelihoods of thousands of small-scale traders who form the backbone of the city’s informal economy.

Sulaiman’s story is that of hundreds of traders whose stalls were destroyed. In markets like Singa, capital is built slowly from daily turnover and rarely backed by insurance. Many traders rely on family contributions, cooperative loans, or personal savings. A single disruption can undo a decade of effort.

For small-scale traders, the market is their safety net. It funds school fees, hospital bills, rent, and other family obligations. When the market burns, the consequences ripple far beyond the charred stalls.

By Monday afternoon, some traders had returned to sift through ashes, hoping to salvage metal frames or partially burned goods. Others simply stood in clusters, calculating debts they still owed suppliers.

There are still unanswered questions about what triggered the fire and whether preventive measures were in place. For now, what remains visible is the human toll.

The full extent of the damage and how traders will rebuild is still unfolding.

But how did it start? 

Between sparks and sorrow

Around 3 p.m. that Saturday, Abba Abubakar noticed thick black smoke rising into the sky. The sight unsettled him immediately. Some weeks earlier, he had seen a similar column of smoke before a fire gutted Gidan Mazaf at the same Singa Market.

“But this one was very close,” he told HumAngle.

Abba is not a trader at Singa. He sells wrappers and garments at Abubakar Rimi Market, popularly known as Sabon Gari, just across the road. His fear was instinctive. Fires are not unfamiliar in that commercial district. When smoke appears, traders do not wait for confirmation. They imagine the worst.

“We rushed out of our shops and later realised it was solar panels burning on top of Gidan Glass,” he said. “By the time we got there, it had already consumed part of the upper floor, and the fire was raging.”

From another part of the neighbourhood, Muttaka Musa, who works in one of the affected stores, also saw the smoke. He had been at a nearby plaza known as Gidan Gwaggo Laraba when he looked up and saw the sky darken.

“Immediately I got there, the fire had already finished one of our stores and had started catching the other,” he said. Muttaka said people had been warned when the fire first broke out. But warnings in markets often compete with denial. No one expected the flames would escalate to that scale.

Auwal Ibrahim Gaya lost two shops in the blaze. He was performing the afternoon Asr prayer when he received the call. “When they told me the fire had started, I was at the mosque,” he said. “I rushed there, and when I saw it, I began reciting prayers. I said Allah is testing us, and we accept His decree.”

Faith, in moments like this, becomes both refuge and resignation.

As the fire intensified and traders failed to contain it, emergency services were called. But by then, the scene had drawn large crowds. Onlookers filled the narrow access roads, making it difficult for fire trucks to reach the core of the market.

One firefighter, who asked not to be named because he was not authorised to speak to the press, told HumAngle that “almost all the fire service trucks we have in Kano were mobilised. But the fire kept spreading from the top. It was moving across the upper structures, so it was difficult to control. If there had been a helicopter, it could have quenched it from above.”

An investigation by HumAngle found that the Nigerian Federal Fire Service does not currently operate firefighting helicopters. Announcements about acquiring one circulated between 2021 and 2024, but the purchase never materialised. The National Emergency Management Agency (NEMA), which previously had access to such support, is also reported to have non-functional aerial equipment.

As a result, even with the presence of the Federal Fire Service, NEMA officials, the Kano State Emergency Agency, and the state governor, Abba Kabir Yusuf, at the scene, the fire burned for two days before it was finally largely subdued.

What causes market fires in Kano? 

Market fires are not new in Kano. Almost every year, a section of the city’s commercial heart goes up in flames. Sometimes it is a cluster of stalls. Sometimes an entire block. The pattern has become disturbingly familiar. Traders rebuild. Business resumes. Then another fire breaks out.

In the two months of 2026 alone, at least five fire incidents have been recorded within the Kano metropolis. Four occurred in markets: Kofar Ruwa yan Katako, Gidan Mazaf Singa, Gidan Glass Singa, and near Abbatuwa cemetery. One affected a filling station along Madobi Road. For a city whose economy leans heavily on trade, these events are structural tremors.

A 2021 study by Sulaiman Yunus, an urban risk and disaster management researcher at Bayero University, Kano, documented 366 fire incidents between 1974 and 2017. On average, that translates to at least eight outbreaks annually in markets alone. The data suggests a chronic vulnerability embedded within Kano’s commercial architecture.

But what explains this cycle? Why do the fires persist, despite decades of losses?

Sulaiman found that outbreaks are most frequent in highly concentrated, densely built, older commercial hubs. Large central markets such as Kantin Kwari Market, Kasuwar Kurmi, and Sabon Gari Market were identified as particularly vulnerable.

These markets evolved long before modern urban planning standards. Stalls are packed tightly together. Extensions are added informally. Electrical wiring snakes across wooden beams and zinc roofs. Access routes are narrow, often clogged with traders, buyers, and transporters. When fire breaks out, it meets fuel.

The study notes that most affected markets lack functional fire hydrants and emergency suppression facilities. In many cases, traders rely on buckets of water or improvised extinguishers in the crucial first minutes. By the time fire trucks arrive, flames have often climbed to rooftops and leapt across adjoining structures.

Temporal analysis in Sulaiman’s study shows a clear seasonal pattern. Fire outbreaks peak during the dry season, particularly between November and March. The Harmattan months record the highest incidence rate because the air is drier and the winds harsher. Materials that might otherwise resist ignition become combustible.

Yet climate alone does not ignite markets.

The research found that electrical faults and power surges account for the majority of recorded incidents. Illegal connections and overloaded circuits were identified as primary ignition sources. In markets where dozens of traders tap into a single supply line to power freezers, grinding machines, bulbs, and charging points, the system is often stretched beyond capacity. Electricity, meant to enable commerce, becomes the spark that destroys it.

The Singa Market fire fits within this broader history. Its scale may be exceptional, but its underlying conditions are not. The questions raised in its aftermath echo those of previous disasters: Were safety standards enforced? Were electrical systems inspected? Were access routes kept clear?

For now, attention has shifted to relief. The Federal Government has approved a ₦5 billion intervention fund for traders, while the Progressive Governors’ Forum also donated ₦3 billion, signalling recognition of the magnitude of the loss. But compensation, even when fully disbursed, rarely mirrors destruction. For small-scale traders, relief funds often dissipate before reaching the lowest tiers. Many operate without formal registration, insurance, or documented inventories. Their losses exist in memory, not in audited balance sheets. A bag of rice here. Ten kegs of oil there. A motorcycle bought less than a month ago.

Billions of naira in pledges may soften the blow at a macro level. Yet, for the petty trader who relied on daily turnover to survive, recovery is measured not in billions but in whether he can reopen with even a fraction of his former stock.

In Kano’s markets, fire is no longer an anomaly but a recurring chapter in the city’s commercial story. Each outbreak exposes the same structural weaknesses. Each investigation repeats familiar findings.

And each time, traders return to rebuild in the same crowded corridors, under the same fragile wiring, hoping that this season’s wind will be kinder than the last

On 15 different occasions, terrorists trailing Amiru Bala failed to capture him. They succeeded on their 16th attempt in the Tsafe area of Zamfara State, northwestern Nigeria. 

Amiru, whose locality is boiling with rural terrorists turning towns and villages into hell, is revered for providing effective, yet affordable medical care to residents of the Bakin Manya village in Tsafe and is praised for compassionately treating his patients.

In his village, criminal actors have metamorphosed into killing, kidnapping, and maiming residents at will. For more than a decade, security forces have tried but failed to rein in attacks on civilians, causing distrust between locals and state authorities. 

Life in Bakin Manya is hard, residents said. Nobody trusts anybody; many young people within the local community have joined the bandwagon of terrorists killing for fun and kidnapping for ransom. Amid this devastating development, the health system in the rural villages is debilitating, with clinics and hospitals running out of drugs, staff, and patients.

“Our life is threatened, our peace is lost, and our homes are broken,” Amiru cried, as he spoke to HumAngle after regaining his freedom. “Our neighbours turned into sworn enemies. Many among them do not understand why they were subconsciously lured into rural terrorism by their kinsmen, harrowing as their enslaved masters.” 

Amiru said he grew up in an indigent family. At 10, he was inspired to go to school after seeing a team of health workers conducting house-to-house vaccination. It took him over a year to appeal to his father to enrol him in the village primary school. He finally gained admission into the Chediya Primary School when he was 11. After completing his primary education, he proceeded to the Government Science Secondary School in Tsafe, where his interest in science and health grew rapidly.

He later secured admission into College of Health Science and Technology, Tsafe, and graduated as a Senior Community Health Extension Worker after two years of study. Amiru returned to Bakin Manya to focus on providing medical care for villagers and organising campaigns against seasonal diseases.

As medical needs grew within the community, more villagers knocked on his door. He would soon become popular within and outside his community.

Amiru said he advised the village leadership to sponsor the medical needs of some of the community members, but his hope was thwarted when terrorists took over the governance of the village. Rural terrorism has taken a toll on the people, with criminals operating without hindrance.

“Today, as I speak, there are no vehicle movements; not even a bicycle would dare or try passing through the entire northern parts of Chediya Ward, which is just 5-6 kilometres away from the Tsafe local government headquarters,” he lamented.

Life became even harder when terror groups in Tsafe decided to take total control of Chediya, including Amiru’s village. They divided the ward into two: The Chediya North and South. One terrorist leader, Kachalla Musa, first tried to subjugate 14 communities in Chediya North but failed, calling the locals “irredeemably bad people” because they refused to be submissive or negotiate with him. Kabiru Adamu, the Chediya district head, said life has been miserable for his people since they refused to adhere to the demands of the terrorists. For at least five years, they have been under incessant attacks.

“Two different gangs loyal to Ado Aleru and his kinsmen, Hassan Nabamamu and Kachalla Saidu, came together recently to launch a weeklong attack on our communities. Their mission was to displace all of us. In that attack, there were 35 people killed, 29 abducted; they ransacked houses and shops where they looted,” Kabiru recounted. 

Amid escalating chaos, the community faced a difficult predicament beyond their resilience. As state authorities failed to offer assistance against the terrorists, they were left with no choice but to negotiate. About 300 individuals were forced into manual labour on the terrorists’ farms, as part of the so-called peace deal. The community paid millions of naira to gang leader Ado through his agent, Musa Kwamanda, but locals still live in fear. 

In Chediya South, locals have totally succumbed to the antics of terrorists, allowing them to operate freely in exchange for their freedom. Since they entered into the peace deal with Ado’s gang in February 2025, they said they had not experienced any major attack or abduction.

“We eat together and spend most of the night with the terrorists at our homes. Our farmlands are free for us, travel to Gusau and Tsafe towns and safely return at any time,” said Mamman Dirmi, the village monarch of Chediya South. “Our matrimonial beds are shared with the armed terrorists, especially the young boys among them. Although we reported to Ado, asking for his intervention, nothing seems to have changed for the better.” 

Despite adhering to the terrorists’ rules and regulations, however, residents in the Chediya North told HumAngle that things became even tougher. The terrorists have taken over the main road to the community, extorting travellers and raping women and girls indiscriminately.

Abducted to treat terrorists

When they fall ill or are wounded by gunshots, terrorists are usually wary of visiting health facilities within the Tsafe area. The criminal gang came up with a plan to abduct a health worker to treat their injured fighters. Amiru was the prime target, being the most popular health worker in the axis.

After multiple attempts, a gang of five terrorists invaded Amiru’s house in November 2025. Among them, two were armed with guns that slung over their shoulders. They called out his name from outside the door, demanding that he come out peacefully; they threatened that if he refused, they would shoot him and his wife. Faced with the frightening threat, he reluctantly opened the door and stepped outside. 

One of the invaders locked eyes with him and declared that their mission was a simple abduction: he would be taken to their camp for a few days before ultimately being released.

Amiru quickly realised the terrorists were possibly abducting him because they needed medical treatment for either their wounded members or sick ones, or both. “They chained, placed a gun at my wife’s head and smuggled me out at gunpoint,”  he recalled. 

He was overpowered and placed on a motorcycle, leaving his wife and relatives panicking. Later, one of the motorcycles, which carried three terrorists with guns, went far ahead of Amiru and his captors. Amiru sat tightly chained in the centre of the motorcycle, his heart racing as he assessed his precarious situation. In front of him, the motorcycle’s rider leaned forward, oblivious to the tension mounting behind them. At Amiru’s back, another terrorist gripped a gun against his spine. 

Despite the daunting presence of his captor, Amiru’s resolve hardened. He realised he could shake the moving motorcycle free from their control. With iron chains cutting painfully into his skin, he felt the limited but crucial freedom offered by the loose straps across his lap. The rail track whizzed by, a blur of danger and opportunity. Amiru knew that if he could just muster his strength, he might fight back, even in chains, to reclaim his freedom and thwart the terrorists’ plans. The stakes were high, but so was his determination.

“We all fell down, the rider could not move an inch as he kissed the ground with the vehicle’s headlight cover marching his chest. The other terrorist ran away after I knocked his head with the chain and was bleeding helplessly,” Amiru said, describing how he escaped about two hours after he was abducted. “I returned home, and there was huge jubilation across the community, breaking the news of my narrow escape. My father insisted that my wife and I flee our village. The news of my abduction jittered many informants, and the terrorists will likely return again.” 

Fearing reprisal attacks on his people, Amiru said he did not inform any local or state authority about the issue. In the past, those who reported such incidents later regretted it– the terrorists often imposed severe penalties on villagers after security operatives had withdrawn.

Struggling to rebuild life

Amiru fled his home, abandoned his work, and resettled in another town. His life transformed from that of a village health worker to that of a beggar. “As an IDP, my wife and I suffered from insufficient food, hardly getting three square meals a day. I left my father in the village, and he needs my help, but we are all helpless,” he complained.

The few residents who remained in the village were nearly subdued by the relentless attacks. Silence became their daily refuge in an unsettled peace. Whenever community protection guards or soldiers arrived to secure the area, terrorists would accuse the residents of inviting them. At one point, they no longer wanted to see government security forces visiting their communities, as these visits only brought unending humiliation and infringed upon their freedom of movement.

“I am declared wanted and hunted by the terrorists loyal to Ado Aleru’s faction, led by Hassan. He orchestrated an operation with his armed men – Dankaura, Ofisa, Aljan, and Dankabiru – that resulted in the death of 36 innocent farmers. I was not present during the attack, so I escaped and fled my home,” Amiru recounted.

“There came another group of targeted attackers to my home, led by the kingpins Dan-Najeriya and Na-Bello. They ransacked many houses searching for me, but they had no idea I was hiding inside the silos they passed by. It felt like hell that day. I still feel inexplicably nervous and shattered, with the sounds of gunfire echoing in my mind like thunder. Their desperation is such that they want me to go to their camp to treat their terrorists.” 

Amiru vowed never to provide medical treatment to terrorists, insisting that he did not go to school to treat killers.