north west

In July, the humanitarian organisation Médecins Sans Frontières (MSF) revealed that Nigeria’s northwestern region is facing an alarming malnutrition crisis, with Katsina State at the epicentre, and is currently witnessing a surge in admissions of malnourished children. It was not the first time the organisation had raised the alarm. It had also done so several times in the past year. 

Against this backdrop, government leaders, international organisations, and civil society convened in Abuja, the federal capital city, on Thursday to mobilise against the escalating crisis in the region.

Hosted by the Katsina State Government, the Northwest Governors Forum, and MSF, the event drew participation from the Office of the Vice President, UNICEF, WFP, the World Bank, the INGO Forum, ALIMA, IRC, CS-SUN, and the European Union.

MSF’s country representative, Ahmed Aldikhari, noted that 2025 has been flagged as the worst, recording the highest cases of malnutrition in the last five years.

“We are here to highlight the situation and solidify commitments, collaborations, and engagement from all partners and government officials.”

He echoed a silent sentiment: “We acknowledge that resources are invested in conferences like this, but the real solutions lie within the communities. So, we must go beyond the hall and get practical in finding real solutions.”

HumAngle had reported the broader impact of this crisis, noting that displacements, armed conflicts, limited access to healthcare, and climate change have compounded the nutritional emergency. In one of our reports, we documented how 30 per cent of children under five in Katsina’s Jibia and Mashi local government areas are suffering from acute malnutrition. 

Most recently, HumAngle produced a 21-minute-long conversation via The Crisis Room, a monthly podcast series that focuses on crisis signalling and explores existing responses and solutions to crises in Nigeria. The conversation with the state’s MSF coordinator focused on the state’s malnutrition crisis—where aid workers fight to save lives on the edge.

Despite these reports, malnutrition in Katsina and northwestern Nigeria remains dire with limited systemic change.

While reacting to MSF’s latest report on the scale of the issue in Katsina state, the governor said he saw it as an opportunity to find feasible solutions to the crisis in the state.

“Instead of criticising the latest MSF report on malnutrition, my administration saw it as a call to action for confronting the crisis head-on. To address this challenge, we set up a high-level committee to investigate the root causes of malnutrition across the state,” he said. 

“We are promoting local production of therapeutic foods such as Tom Brown to reduce dependency on imports, distributing thousands of food baskets to at-risk families, and training hundreds of women to produce nutritious meals at the community level.”

However, the commercialization of Tom Brown and other therapeutic food is a present threat that has been documented all over the country, and was highlighted in his speech. This suggests that beyond making the foods available, the distribution process needs to be strengthened.

The federal government’s concerted efforts are also needed for an enduring impact, an area many, especially displaced people, have found insufficient. Uju Vanstasia Anwukah, Senior Special Assistant to the President on Public Health, who was present at the event as the Vice President’s representative, said the government was committed to fixing the issue. 

“This partnership with MSF and the convening of this high-level conference reaffirm the government’s understanding that real progress begins with the health and nourishment of every child,” she said.

Adding to the discussion, Nemat Hajeebhoy, Chief of Child Nutrition at UNICEF, outlined an affordable financing strategy.

“The global architecture of financing is changing, but there is still very much the recognition that there is a need to invest and support countries. UNICEF is here to partner with the government. They are our clients, so to speak, but children are our bosses.”

She introduced UNICEF’s Child buy-one-get-one-free-to-one match initiative: “It’s a buy one get one free. For every Naira the government invests—federal, state, or LGA—we will match it to help procure high-impact nutrition commodities.”

“But we need more. It’s not sufficient. This is the pavement for the future. It’s no longer just about aid—it’s about partnership.”

While commending the Katsina State government, Nemat emphasised the need for a 360 advocacy, involving bilateral engagement with governors, technical communities, media, and champions like actors.

“We also need communities to speak out and demand. There is hope. The Nutrition 774 Initiative, launched by the vice president in February, puts accountability and action at the LGA level. Nigeria is a big country, and unless we go ward by ward, we may not see change.”

Though the conference seems to have set the stage for concrete, coordinated action to protect the health and future of millions of vulnerable communities, citizens are eager to see improvement in the coming months and years. 

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.

When conflict between the Sudan Armed Forces (SAF) and the Rapid Support Force (RSF) had reached its peak in early 2024, Saleh Iliyas and Abdurrahim, his friend-turned-family member, were doing the math: staying could mean dying at home, and leaving could mean dying on the road. But what becomes of a man whose world is torn in halves?  

The conflict in Sudan had caught Saleh unprepared. He was just a tailor with steady hands when the violence came without warning. He could remember when he heard the first gunshot in April 2023. It sounded like a joke, “but Khartoum breathed its last quiet breath before the storm then.”

Saleh never thought the recent tensions between the RSF and local communities in Khartoum would escalate into a full-blown war. Here he was now, not only consumed by the violence but also considering moving out. 

Deciding where to go was easy since he had lived part of his childhood in Nigeria. The difficult question was how to move out with a sick and ageing father, a young wife, and two children, including a newborn. 

Then a turning point came.

As he sat in front of his house for Iftar, the evening meal during Ramadan, one day, a rocket passed over his head and landed a few meters away. The result was a huge blast, fire, collapsed buildings, and many dead bodies.

“It was as if Khartoum stood still for a second, and then the screams from the women, children, and men who were either terrified or affected, followed,” he told HumAngle. 

Saleh had to leave. He spoke to his father and his friend, Abdurrahim. A driver who knew his way to safety said he needed three days to arrange it. 

Within the three days of waiting, violence intensified in Khartoum. Power lines were severed, the internet was disrupted, and rumours replaced news. The RSF and SAF engaged each other, and the war was everywhere.

Saleh’s house, where his wife, father, two children, and Abdurrahim had found safety, became both a refuge and a prison. Food dwindled. The markets were looted, and many high-rise buildings were targeted or destroyed.

“Do you think this will end soon?” his wife asked one night, her voice trembling over the silence.

He didn’t answer. He was thinking of the absurdity of the war — blood brothers from SAF and the RSF fighting each other with pride. He thought of how men killed for mere symbols and a warlord who didn’t care.

They did not sleep peacefully in the three nights before the driver decided they had to leave. “We’ll go west,” he said, “through Omdurman. Maybe reach some safe villages, then south. There are routes people are taking.” 

That night, Saleh stepped outside to see Khartoum one last time. The mornings that began with laughter and the Nile’s breeze were all gone. He remembered the faith that tomorrow would always come. Now, tomorrow was a ghost. 

And so began their exodus, not as wanderers seeking land, but as souls, as resilient individuals who believed that there was a life to continue elsewhere.

On the torturer’s fork 

To understand Saleh’s ruin, one must first understand the men who lit the match.

General Abdel Fattah al-Burhan, head of the Sudan Armed Forces, was a career soldier moulded by the doctrines of control and hierarchy. He rose through the ranks during Omar al-Bashir’s three-decade rule, loyal to the idea that the army was the soul of Sudan.

Mohamed Hamdan Dagalo, known as Hemedti, was his ally. He is a former camel trader from Darfur who built his power on the backs of Janjaweed militias that were once accused of all sorts of war crimes. Hemedti’s RSF, which was an offshoot of the Janjaweed, became an autonomous force, commanding men who were not new to violence.

When al-Bashir fell in 2019 after months of civilian protests, the two generals joined forces to secure the transition, but peace was only a mask. The revolution that brought them together also planted the seeds of distrust.

By early 2023, tensions over integrating the RSF into the regular army had boiled over. Hemedti refused to dissolve his forces, fearing subjugation; al-Burhan insisted it was necessary for a unified state. And so, the generals who once shared a coup became rivals in a war that would tear their country apart.

Abdulrahim and Saleh could recall that during the revolution that brought El-Bashir down, many people were supporting the army, “and then just a year into the regime, everything changed for the worse,” said Abdurrahim. “Inflation rose and prices skyrocketed five times.” 

Saleh explained that the size of bread that once cost 1 SDG (Sudanese pound) rose to 3 SDG under El-Bashir and led to protests, but it became about 15 to 20 SDG under al-Burhan. 

“So you could see why people were angry with al-Burhan, and when squabbles started between him and Hemedti, people like us were supporting the RSF because we thought he was doing a great job, not pursuing any selfish interest,” Saleh said. 

Hemedti won the hearts of the Sudanese by calling for a democratic transition. But as the tension rose, said Saleh, many RSF trucks were positioned “almost everywhere in Khartoum.” 

According to him, Khartoum residents are administrative people and are not familiar with seeing weapons and military personnel stationed on every corner. That situation led to lots of skirmishes between civilians and the RSF, which made the paramilitary lose its popularity. 

And then the war broke out. 

The first weeks were chaos. Khartoum became a battlefield, its neighbourhoods reduced to rubble of what once were. Jets roared over the city as SAF bombarded RSF positions, while paramilitary men seized streets, looted markets, and turned homes into barracks. 

Hospitals were shelled, schools attacked, buildings destroyed, and corpses lay unburied in the heat. Humanitarian corridors were promises that dissolved under fire.

“Every high-rise building, every mall, bank, or any empty building became a hideout for snipers or a target of bombs,” said Abdurrahim. “Lots of people were killed while attempting to run away.”

Despite that danger, more than 10 million Sudanese fled their homes, spilling into Chad, South Sudan, Egypt, and beyond. Refugee camps rose overnight. The United Nations called it “the world’s largest displacement crisis.” Families were separated, and in the chaos of the roads, mothers buried children without names. 

Saleh knew the stories before becoming one. He heard of those who died on the road to Port Sudan, those who drowned in the Nile trying to escape, and those who vanished into the desert.

And then foreign actors got involved. 

Egypt, with its close ties to the army, threw its weight behind al-Burhan’s forces, seeking a stable ally along the Nile. UN investigators accused the United Arab Emirates of backing the RSF, funnelling weapons through Chad and the Central African Republic, an allegation it has denied. 

Russia’s Wagner Group, long embedded in Sudan’s gold trade, was reported to have supported Dagalo’s men in securing mining sites. Countries condemned both sides, but diplomacy also took a bullet in the crossfire.

Long road to Nigeria 

One night in early 2025, Saleh, his father, his friend Abdurrahim, his wife, and their two children joined a small group of neighbours, eighteen in all, mostly women and children, to begin their escape.

They had been warned about the dangers. Snipers perched on rooftops, looters prowled the streets, and militias set up unpredictable checkpoints. 

“We had to move as one,” Saleh recalled. “If we walked separately or rode in a car, we might never make it out.”

They moved silently through the alleys of Khartoum. Behind them, the echoes of shelling rolled like distant thunder. Ahead lay uncertainty, hundreds of kilometres of dust, hunger, and fear. “But anything was better than staying,” said Saleh.

Abdurrahim, his childhood friend, walked beside him. “You know where you are going,” he said, “but you don’t know the road to follow. You just keep moving along the direction and stepping carefully to avoid danger.”

They reached the outskirts of the city by dawn, where they met the driver, a middle-aged man who had turned his pickup into a vessel of salvation amidst a war. He took what little they carried: documents, a few clothes, and “some stuff my father said was important,” recalled Saleh.

The drive southward revealed the full reality of the war. Buildings Saleh once admired — the glass towers, the university Abdulrahim attended, the small tea shops that once lined the streets — lay in ruins. Skeletons of burned cars littered the roads. 

They zigzagged across Sudan, avoiding the territories of warring factions, surviving on bread, water, and anything their small money could buy. The journey that should have taken days stretched into weeks. 

“We knew it wouldn’t be easy,” Saleh said, “but we didn’t imagine it would be this hard.”

When they finally reached the border with South Sudan, they rested for a day. They had thought they wouldn’t be welcomed, especially due to the recent history of conflict between North and South Sudan, “but were really supported there.”

“My son was even given water by one of their soldiers,” Saleh said. 

From South Sudan, they moved again, passing through the Central African Republic into Chad. They met others moving in the same direction on foot. One group of about ten told Saleh they had started the journey as more than thirty. “They looked haunted,” he said. “Their faces told stories the mouth could not.”

It rained the day they arrived in Chad. They were temporarily registered as refugees, yet Saleh felt restless after a few weeks. “You cannot live waiting for mercy every day,” he said softly. “You begin to forget who you are.”

Nigeria, where his late grandfather hailed from, seemed the next logical destination. Though Saleh himself was born in Saudi Arabia, he spent some of his childhood years in Nigeria.  

“I thought we could come here and start afresh before the war ended,” he said.

Now in Nigeria, the dust of the journey still clings to his eyes, the eyes of a man who has seen too much of the evil humans can do to one another.

Safety and its aftermath 

From the Chadian border, through Maiduguri, in Nigeria’s North East, they finally arrived in Kano, in the country’s North West. Saleh and Abdurrahim found a city that looked energetic, but beneath it ran a quiet struggle. They rented a small shop in Rimin Auzinawa and waited for customers who rarely came.

“The economy is choking everyone,” Saleh said. “People rarely bring new clothes, and when they do, the amount they pay is too small.”

They had imagined Nigeria as a place of opportunity, where hard work would bring dignity. But the naira’s fall made everything expensive. “You open the shop from morning to night,” Abdurrahim said, “and at the end, you barely earn enough for bread.”

Saleh and Abdurrahim told HumAngle that the money they had come with was about to finish, and they were not earning enough to sustain life. Now, as evening fell over Kano, Saleh and Abdurrahim sat outside their shop, their machines silent, their thoughts elsewhere.

“We will leave the families here,” Saleh said, his voice low. “Let them have stability, even if we don’t. Algeria is not home, but maybe there, a man can at least feed those he loves.”

And so, once again, the journey calls — not for safety this time, but for survival.

Advisory: Some readers might find this story distressing as it details experiences of sexual violence.

Mardiyyah Hussein* had not yet learned to roll the word ‘virgin’ on her tongue when speculations started to spread about her purity and worth after she was sexually assaulted. She was six years old, publicly beaten and shamed, while the perpetrator, an older relative in his mid-teens, roamed freely.

“I could remember people were telling my friends to stay away from me, and other children didn’t want to play with me. To date, snide remarks are still made in reference to that incident. It was a very painful memory,” she told HumAngle. 

Years later, the 26-year-old started experiencing severe stomach aches and menstrual and lower abdominal pain. The pain, which slowly worsened over time, got so bad that she was admitted to the hospital and administered painkillers almost every month during her period. She lived in Sokoto State, northwestern Nigeria.

She finally sought medical help when the pain became unmanageable. 

“During a scan, the man [referring to the physician] kept asking me if I was sexually active, even though I kept saying I wasn’t. He turned to the other man with him and said some things… I heard the other man say, You can’t tell with women nowadays,” which she believed was in reference to her alleged sexual history. 

When she returned to the consultant with the result, he bypassed her and had a private conversation with her mother. “When he returned, he asked me again if I had regular sexual intercourse with someone, which I denied,” she recalled. Mardiyyah’s only sexual experience at that point was when she was abused; she didn’t think it was relevant to the conversation, and also didn’t feel safe enough to dig into that painful memory with him.

Nigerian medical practitioners are bound by the duty of professional secrecy or confidentiality, which obligates them not to disclose any information received in performing their duty to a third party, unless the patients waive that right or the law obligates them. And Mardiyyah, being an adult at the time, did not consent to that breach or waive that right. 

Her very conservative environment meant that Mardiyyah could end up facing social condemnations as a result of purity culture due to those insinuations. The creeping shame attached to sex in that moment mirrored what she experienced as a child. 

The consultant brought in another female consultant. After he excused himself, the woman asked her the same question, emphasising how she could be a safe space for her. 

“I eventually gave in and opened up about my sexual trauma because I really wanted them to leave me alone. I was in so much pain, I just needed the pain to go away, and if I had any sexual history, I would have divulged that. It was after that the doctor told me they suspected I had Pelvic Inflammatory Disease (PID),” Mardiyyah recounted. 

The doctor insisted she wouldn’t have contracted it if she had not had regular intercourse. It was five years later that she learnt that sexual intercourse was not the only way to contract PID.

PID, an infection that affects reproductive organs, can be transmitted through sex. However, other factors, such as appendicitis, endometrial biopsies, and placement of intrauterine devices (IUDs), can raise the risk of infection.

After the conversation, the doctor also said she suspected the presence of ovarian cysts in her system. However, she advised that if it really turned out to be cysts, it would be best for her to start treatment after she got married, as doing otherwise “might affect how her future husband may view her due to the intimate nature of the diagnosis and the social view of women who frequent gynaecologists in the community.”

“I remembered my uncle, who was also working in the hospital, even said they were giving me a deadline for December that year to bring a husband,” she said. 

Mardiyyah was admitted to the gynaecology ward; her pain was so severe that she couldn’t really sit down and had to be on her back constantly. The female consultant left her in the care of a younger male colleague and instructed him to complete her documentation.

She recalled him putting on gloves and asking her to lie down properly. When he told her to undress, she asked if it was necessary, and he said he needed to conduct an examination for the records he was preparing.

In pain and unaware of the correct procedure, she reluctantly complied.

She felt increased pain when his fingers penetrated her vagina,  after which he went on to check for “soreness” on her breast. She didn’t realise that he was running “a virginity test” until he said to her that he believed her hymen was intact. 

As she tried to process what was happening, he kept talking. “He was saying some things are not medical but rather spiritual, and I should pray about them,” she recalled. In that moment, Mardiyyah felt violated and disgusted. 

“Anytime a procedure involves private parts of the body, the doctor is required to explain exactly what will be done and why in accordance with the code of medical ethics in Nigeria,” Aisha Abdulghaniyyu, a medical doctor, told HumAngle. “Major red flags to watch out for include: inadequate or unclear explanation, absence of a chaperone, lack of privacy to undress or if the patient feels rushed into it. You shouldn’t have to expose more of your body than is necessary for the procedure.” 

Dr Aisha noted that a chaperone could be a nurse or another staff member of the same gender as the patient, who stays in the room during the examination. If none is available, she encourages patients to request a family member to stay with them. “You also have the right to ask questions until you’re satisfied with the explanation,” she said. “You can also ‘stop’ the procedure at any point if you feel uncomfortable, as stated in the code of medical ethics.” 

When the consultant returned, Mardiyyah informed her about what had happened. She ‘scolded’ him in front of her, but no serious action was taken. Mardiyyah later told her mother and her aunt and shared it with a close cousin. 

Her cousin was the only person who offered a solution. She urged her to write a petition, reporting the doctor who carried out the procedure to the hospital and the state branch of the Medical and Dental Council of Nigeria (MDCN). 

However, her mother and aunt insisted that opening up about the incident would affect her and her family’s reputation. It wasn’t just the lack of action, but also the dismissal of her pain that further scarred her. 

“The fact that they seemed to be more thrilled about my ‘intact’ hymen than concerned about the violation I experienced hurt me deeply,” she said. Some of her relatives even insisted that maybe the doctor just wanted to be sure to rule out other options, and maybe the procedure was required after all. 

Sometimes, she gaslights herself into thinking she could be exaggerating the impact on her. “I could remember my aunt saying I could be exaggerating how it happened or how violated I felt during the assault. I know he had no right to touch me in that way, no matter what anyone says. Even when I want to do a breast cancer screening,  if I realise the doctor is a man, I don’t let him touch me,” she said.

Mardiyyah is one of many women who have experienced this kind of violation across the country.

Uvie Ogaga* was just 19 when she experienced sexual assault in a public hospital in Port Harcourt, South-South Nigeria. Her memory of the experience was repressed until a conversation about sexual assault by healthcare practitioners came up in an all-women online group chat she was part of in 2025.

When symptoms of what she later discovered to be Polycystic Ovary Syndrome (PCOS) began to appear, she visited the hospital regularly between 2011 and 2014. However, in 2013, a male gynaecologist used his finger to penetrate her during a High Vaginal Swab (HVS) procedure, when he was supposed to collect a sample with a swab stick.

“I was a virgin then, and I told him this. Every time I’ve done that test before, they usually use a swab stick instead of a speculum to reduce the discomfort. On that occasion, he brought out the swab stick, but I was uncomfortable and started to fidget. He then forced his finger in, telling me to open my legs and asking why I was acting shy,” she recalled the painful experience.

Uvie felt helpless but didn’t report it due to the fear that she would not be believed. She also felt too exhausted by her health to pursue it further later on.  All she could do was cry. A few months later, she came across the gynaecologist on Facebook. 

“I  sent him a private message along the lines of, ‘Hi, it’s Uvie. Remember me? The patient you touched inappropriately when you were supposed to be taking a sample,’ but he never responded,” the now 30-year-old said.

Lingering trauma

According to Chioma Onyemaobi, HumAngle’s in-house Clinical Psychologist, violations like the one experienced by Uvie and Mardiyyah have psychological impacts.

“Patients can end up with betrayal trauma due to the violation of the duty of care relationship between patients and doctors, which can also discourage them from going to the hospital and seeking the care they need. This can also create feelings of distrust towards public figures extending to police, managers and other people in professional capacities,” Chioma explained. 

The treatment didn’t work for Mardiyyah, as her pain only persisted. She had to see another doctor, who diagnosed her with appendicitis, requiring an emergency surgery. 

The whole experience left her feeling hopeless. 

“I felt like they profiled me in their head, and that’s why they kept insisting on my sexual history, and I wondered about the insinuations that would have continued to be made if I did have PID instead of appendicitis,” she lamented. 

Mardiyyah felt violated all over again, not just within her physical body but also in the way she was made to run other STI tests because they refused to believe what she said. 

One of the scariest parts came after she found out that it happened to someone else: “I met a friend who shared a similar experience, and because I suspected it was the same doctor, I followed her to the hospital and discovered I was right when she pointed him out to me.” 

Her friend told her he also fingered her in the name of “running a virginity test” without her consent when she went to the hospital for a gynaecological issue. They wanted to take it up again, but other friends discouraged them, saying that this might affect their friend’s marriage prospects if word got out, because no man would want a wife who had “been fingered by another man”. 

Mardiyyah still experiences abdominal cramps and other gynaecological-related issues from time to time, but she prefers to find other pain management alternatives as she currently struggles with seeing male doctors, especially gynaecologists. 

Uvie also shared her own lingering trauma with the healthcare system as she developed anxiety and fear towards the medical system. 

“Even though before then I had never experienced sexual assault in the hospital, I recalled that since I was a teenager, every single time I ran a test that had to do with exposing any part of me, afterwards, the male specialists would usually ask for my number, every time, without fail. I used to do quite a few lower abdominal scans because of cysts,” she said. 

This led her to start avoiding hospitals, especially government facilities. One time, another doctor attempted to take her sample without a chaperone, and she screamed as loudly as she could until he had no choice but to call in another female doctor before the sample could be taken. 

“I still hate hospitals and do my research before visiting a new facility. Now I have a specialist I like, and the last two times I’ve moved houses, I made sure to stay within walking distance of that hospital,” Uvie said, adding that she feels safer with her decision, and the attempts to protect herself have proved helpful.

While Uvie’s experience highlights how vulnerable patients can be during medical examinations, younger women and girls face even more complex dangers — sometimes masked as care or kindness.

Grooming and statutory rape 

After a failed suicidal attempt that led to her being admitted to a hospital in Ogun State, southwestern Nigeria, 16-year-old Angela Adeshola*, who was diagnosed with bipolar disorder the previous year, met a doctor she believed to be kind. He was in his mid to late twenties, doing his housemanship at the hospital at the time, and living within the school accommodations.  

“While I was still on admission in the hospital, he kept on calling me. He asked me out a few times, but I told him I had a boyfriend. He even suggested that I break up with my boyfriend, which I refused,” she recalled. 

Chioma, the psychologist, describes this incident as grooming, especially considering the age and power dynamics between Angela and the doctor. 

“Grooming is a manipulative process an abuser uses to gain the trust and emotional dependence of a victim to exploit them. It can lead to sexual, verbal, emotional or physical abuse. They usually would identify the victim they want to exploit, they then try to gain the person’s trust, mostly to fill in the gap that is lacking in their lives, then they would try to fulfil that person’s need, and then they usually try to isolate the person, which gives them power over the victim,” she explained. 

Chioma added that most times, people don’t recognise they are being groomed, because the groomers tend to gaslight their victims, accusing them of overreacting or emphasising what they do for them. They also tend to give excessive gifts even when victims don’t need them.

“They also try to cross or disrespect your boundaries, and they will guilt-trip you into lowering your guard. Grooming is harmful because it gives room for exploitation, affecting your self-worth, trust, and self-esteem. Robbing you of your identity and genuineness, sometimes it doesn’t give room for you to see the world any differently than what they show to you,” Chioma noted. 

The doctor visited her often while she was still in the hospital, and the day she was discharged, he invited her to his place. At first, she refused, but he was able to convince her eventually. It was there that he raped her.

“I was telling him to stop and asked him what he expected me to tell my boyfriend, but he didn’t answer me,” Angela recounted. 

After that incident, she couldn’t walk properly, and he demanded that she try and “walk better” because of the school security officers around his accommodation. She forced herself to fix the way she walked, ignoring the soreness and pain. 

When they got to his car that evening, he began to make advances at her again. Due to what had happened earlier, she believed there was no point holding back on his advances and therefore agreed. For a long time, she held the belief that the latter incident was “consensual” despite her being underage at that time.

He then bought her an after-sex pill, took her to eat, and they “agreed”  not to tell anyone what had happened. He also insisted that she delete all their exchanged messages and encouraged her to meet again. At first, she didn’t recognise that what happened was statutory rape.  She even felt grateful for his “kindness” and sent him a “thank you” text afterwards. 

The second time it happened, his tone started to change.  “He started saying what we were doing was wrong, and he also deleted his number from my phone. He even said that I set him up, and he knows the truth would come out someday,” she recounted. 

Around that time, Angela brought up what happened with her psychologist, who demanded she tell her who the doctor was and informed her that what happened was statutory rape, as she was too young to give consent. At first, she did not feel safe enough to name him, but she was later pressured into giving in. However, she wasn’t sure how that was handled, as it wasn’t brought up again. 

When HumAngle reached out to the hospital to get their perspective on the issue, they at first claimed he never worked there, but later told us to “please find a way to contact the said doctor”, after we presented our investigations.

Section 31 of the Child’s Rights Act defines rape as unlawful intercourse with a child under the age of 18, where lack of knowledge of the child’s age is not a valid defence. Also, section 221 of the Criminal Code applicable to the southern part of the country defines defilement as sexual intercourse with a child between 13 to 16 years. In this case, “consent” cannot be claimed to be given if the child is underage, even if they seemingly “agreed” to it. 

“A few months later, my parents found out what happened to me, they refused to tell me how they found out and after another event happened to me in the school, they removed me from that university,” Angela recounted. 

She was later admitted to a different psychiatric hospital shortly after leaving the school. There, she told the psychiatrist about the incident, and the hospital wanted to take it up as a statutory rape case. It felt safer to speak out openly to this new doctor because it wasn’t her school environment where information could leak, especially after she confided in two people and they told others. 

“I really don’t know what happened, but what the doctors there told me is that they tried reaching his number for a long time, but he didn’t pick up, and when he eventually did, he denied it. I had to start over in a less reputable university after wasting two years in my previous school, and the whole event really damaged a part of me,” Angela lamented. 

The incident made her hate herself and affected her self-worth. She started to believe she was a terrible person and didn’t deserve anything, and it affected the way she perceived men, especially male doctors, leading to suicide attempts.  She texted him after the last  incident and told him to stop sleeping with his underage patients, among other things, but he only demanded to know ‘what she wanted from him.’  

HumAngle found that the doctor is still practising at a federal government-owned hospital in the country’s North West. 

During this investigation, HumAngle was able to track his identity and find details about him, including his LinkedIn account, using the details we got from the source. We also took steps to establish his identity by asking Angela to identify him among several other pictures of other people. She picked out his picture twice. 

When HumAngle reached out to him for clarification on the allegations, his legal representative sent a response denying the allegations.

A surgical violation  

For some survivors, the trauma happens not in secret meetings but in brightly lit operating rooms, where trust and vulnerability are most exposed.

In 2021, Firdaus Akin* found an unfamiliar growth in her right breast while she was lying on her chest one evening. However, she didn’t seek medical help until a year later.

Her mother first took her to a female doctor who said the diameter was big and needed to be removed through surgery. Naturally, she was worried, but she convinced herself everything would turn out right in the end. 

The female doctor could not do the surgery, and she struggled to get a female surgeon in her city. As a practising Muslim who covers from head to toe, it was not an easy decision to open up in front of a strange man, but she didn’t have a choice, as prioritising her health was paramount. 

The family doctor delivered all her mother’s children. As an adult, Firdaus visited his hospital only a couple of times and had no strong connection to him. Her parents’ financial situation was the main reason they used his hospital because he allowed them to pay back the amount over a stretch of time.

She innocently believed that his sharing the same faith would make him understand her awkwardness and reluctance better, but instead, he started making fun of her shyness, alongside comments that made her uncomfortable. 

“He would also ask stupid questions like if I have pubic hair, and would make reference to the hair on other parts of my body. I  returned home crying after the first check-up, but my mum was very dismissive. She even said my breast is not even that big or special for me to be making so much ruckus about nothing, and even asked if I would have preferred to die instead,” she recounted. Her mother’s reluctance to understand her hurt her deeply, even though she didn’t expect much from her due to their troubled history. 

According to Dr Aisha, “If the doctor touches areas not related to the problem or makes comments that feel personal rather than professional. Simply put: if something feels ‘off,’  it is important to take that feeling seriously. Trust your intuition and don’t feel threatened because the practitioner is a professional. If at any point you feel your boundaries have been crossed, you have the right to speak up and ask the doctor to stop immediately.”

She emphasised that doctors are only supposed to do what is medically necessary as regards the specific condition of the patient and what the patient has agreed to. 

“If a doctor tries to examine you without explaining why, or performs something you didn’t consent to, or if they seem evasive when you ask what the procedure is for or dismiss you when you raise concerns or show signs of discomfort, and the physician seems adamant without properly explaining why it’s needed, you should get concerned,” Dr Aisha explained. “Good doctors want their patients to feel safe and informed, not confused or pressured.” 

Firdaus said the first incident happened during the surgery. “I was put under anaesthesia, and at a point, it started to wear off. I regained consciousness for a bit, only to discover that my scrub was removed and I was left with nothing but my pants on. I later learnt that my scrub was stained with blood and they just made a decision to remove it instead of changing it,” she recounted. 

After the surgery, she had to return to the hospital a few times for post-surgery care and in a few instances during the course of examination, the family doctor would touch her inappropriately in places he didn’t need to touch, like her thighs. He would also make crass comments about her breasts. 

“One particular day, he ‘checked’ my navel, under my arms, and also proceeded to stroke my nipples in the name of examination,” Firdaus said, adding that she was shocked and didn’t know what to do. 

Another time, while changing her dressing after the surgery, he touched the nipple on her unaffected breast and claimed he was just trying to adjust it when she asked him why he was touching her in that manner. She didn’t understand it as harassment at first, but she felt violated and knew he was being unprofessional and crossing boundaries. 

Even though sometimes there were nurses around, they were usually focused on their own work, and nobody really paid any attention to them during examinations. 

“I am really trying so hard not to cry while recounting this experience because it’s very triggering. But I believe we have to say these things so that people will know what’s going on and so that women in the medical field can step up to those roles,” Firdaus added. 

There were times she couldn’t sleep well after the violations; sometimes she had nightmares of someone pulling at her nipples, and she would cry a lot. Even the stretch of time didn’t make that feeling go away, as the nightmares still pop up occasionally.

Fortunately, she hasn’t had more reasons to visit the hospital, and when a health reason pops up, she would rather go to the hospital at her university because she believes there would be more accountability there if something like that were to happen.

“Recently, I experienced anal prolapse. I was scared to go to the hospital because I was worried I would end up needing care or surgery from a male doctor, and I don’t feel safe with them. Instead, I spoke to my roommate, who is a nurse,” Firdaus said. She encouraged her to increase her fruit and fibre intake and also do Kegel exercises, which have been helpful.

Another time, she couldn’t visit a doctor for a menstrual issue because she was afraid she could meet a male doctor who would ask to see intimate parts of her body. 

“Some people may say it’s not harassment, but it is definitely unprofessional, and it made me feel violated. I know people may ask why I didn’t speak out, but in all honesty, I didn’t know what to do, and I still feel so stupid for not saying anything, even years later. And because he was an elderly man, I was confused and didn’t know how to react,” she added. 

Yet, the breach of professional boundaries isn’t limited to physical procedures. In mental health spaces, emotional manipulation and invasive questioning can be just as violating.

Left feeling violated and unsafe 

Even before inattentiveness started to interfere with her studies, 23-year-old Aria Dele* had always felt out of place in the world, but the interference pushed her to take the step to finally get a diagnosis for what she suspected to be Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD) at her school’s Teaching Hospital, in Ilorin, North Central Nigeria. The general doctor gave her a recommendation to see a psychiatrist at the hospital. 

It started with him inquiring about her background information, which she was willing to offer, but when the questions got to sexual history, she became uncomfortable responding and expressed that. “He was asking how many sexual partners I have had and if I had experienced sexual assault. He was even asking me how my sexual experience felt for me and so many other questions that felt invasive,” she said.

Even when he left the questions and asked other things, he still kept circling back to the same questions. As she expressed her discomfort, she noticed his demeanour started to change, and she could see the visible irritation on his face. Seeing how angry it seemed to make him made her feel more unsafe.

She answered a couple of them. Then, he wanted to know who had harassed her and how she had been harassed.  This was especially hard for her because she had lived most of her life trying to make herself smaller to avoid men’s attention due to her experiences with them in the past. “I would try to make my hips and waist smaller and stop them from swaying to protect myself from unwanted attention,” she said. 

According to Chioma, one reason that may lead a psychiatrist to ask a client about their sexual history is to rule out any case of abuse, lingering trauma, or understand behaviours or relationships, depending on the presenting complaints, which can be important. 

“However, the doctor has no right in that case to go further than that. It can also be seen as victimising the patient, which is unethical and can make them feel unsafe. It is also the wrong way to get the result they were aiming for,” the clinical psychologist explained.

Although Aria felt violated after the experience, she dismissed it and focused on the fact that she at least got it over with. 

During the course of her studies, she was required to take classes at different government organisations in the city. Her first place of assignment was the psychiatric clinic.

“This was the course with the most credits in my final year. We were made to observe how the doctors attended to patients to see in practice what we learnt in theory.” 

Unfortunately, the first psychiatrist she met that day was the doctor she had seen earlier; he kept staring at her in a way that made her uncomfortable, and she tried to avoid him as much as she could, which led to her missing so many classes.  

“I was also worried if he might get upset or vindictive and give a review that might impact my grades. And because I missed some classes, I got a B instead of an A. I never felt comfortable enough to talk about it because the power dynamics felt imbalanced, as he was a consultant. I only told my friend, who advised me not to return to him and to keep my head down in classes,” she said. 

The experience made her feel small and uncomfortable, and it triggered previous memories of being sexually violated in different ways in the past: “I felt like he was doing something to me I couldn’t pinpoint at that time, and it seemed to me like he was taking pleasure from hearing about my sexual history and kept trying to squeeze more information.” 

This experience made her feel more guarded when interacting with other healthcare professionals and wary of seeing other psychiatrists in the future. 

One time in a conversation with some friends who knew the doctor, she asked what they thought about that doctor, and the friend had a lot of good things to say about him, which made her feel more uncomfortable. 

“I believe sexual harassment could be what I went through. A small part of me feels like I am exaggerating how violated I felt, making me feel silly and guilty for seeing it as sexual harassment, just because he didn’t put his hands on me, even though I knew it was a very unsafe environment for me then,” Aria said.

This discouraged her from ever seeking a diagnosis again. However, she finally got her diagnosis when her sister paid for her to get one in a private clinic that was giving discounts at that time. 

Even routine medical processes, like scans or laboratory procedures, can turn dehumanising when consent and respect are ignored.

For Khadijat Alao*, a sickle cell crisis beyond what she usually experienced pushed her into seeking medical help in August at a government hospital in Kaduna, northwestern Nigeria,  where the doctor recommended a scan.  During the scan, a male lab technology student was present, and no explanation was given for that, which made her feel uncomfortable. She asked one of the women if he was supposed to be there, and she assured her that he would leave.

“They gave me a scrub to change into, only for me to come back and see him still in the room. I asked again, and the woman said I should not worry about it. But because I insisted, he started throwing a tantrum claiming that he cannot afford to miss the X-ray, that he has an exam or test, and he would be asked about it,” she recalled. 

Apart from feeling angry and violated, it also made her feel small and dismissed. “It made me feel like I wasn’t a human being. Like I was a specimen or something. They didn’t prepare me for this and didn’t ask for my consent. I insisted he leave.” 

They convinced him to move to a cubicle in the room, and if not for her underwear, the way she was angled would have exposed her vagina to the student: “When the procedure started, he came out of the cubicle, making me feel violated all over again. My leg was open, and one of the other women tried to drag him out, but he kept fighting to be there. I did not feel respected as a human, and that feeling followed me for a very long time.”

She believed she would have at least been mentally prepared if they had told her or asked her beforehand.

A system that fails to protect 

These experiences, though different in setting and form, reflect a troubling pattern: a health system where patients, especially women, often feel unsafe, unheard, and unprotected.

Dr Aisha encouraged patients who experience any form of violation in the hospital to write down the details of what happened, including time, place, and what was said or done. “Collect as much evidence as possible. You can report it to the hospital management or, if necessary, the medical regulatory body. If you can’t reach the body, you can report to another physician; they are obligated to report such cases to the medical body according to the code of ethics, which states, a physician shall deal honestly with patients and colleagues, and report to the appropriate authorities those physicians who practice unethically or incompetently or who engage in fraud or deception.”

“And don’t hesitate to seek emotional support or professional counselling from trusted people. No one should feel ashamed for speaking out. Healthcare is meant to protect you, not harm you,” she added. 

*All asterisked names have been pseudonymised to protect the anonymity of the victims.

Life can change with the smallest of gestures.

For Abubakar Aminu, it was just a phone call. And with that, an invisible thread of suspicion wound itself around him.

In 2014, Abubakar, then in his early twenties, met a regular customer who bought charcoal from him in Kano, North West Nigeria. He knew the man as a tinsmith who was friendly and generous. Within a short time, the business turned into a friendship, and they occasionally shared jokes. 

One night, while Abubakar was out of town, the tinsmith called. They cracked jokes as usual until the man teased that he wanted to sleep over at Abubakar’s house. Playing along, he replied, “My house is always yours. Whenever you feel like coming, the doors are open.” They both laughed together and ended the call.

What Abubakar did not know was that the tinsmith was a wanted member of Boko Haram, his phone already under surveillance. That innocuous call, the harmless laughter, was enough for Nigeria’s secret police, the DSS, to tie invisible strings around his fate.

The next morning, unaware, he set out for Lagos in the country’s South West to restock charcoal. Somewhere in Ogun State, officers closed in on him. They accused him of being a Boko Haram member. He laughed, not in mockery but in disbelief, the laugh of a man confronted with the absurd. But the laughter meant nothing. His wrists were bound, and he was taken to Lagos.

“I was taken to the DSS office for interrogation,” he told HumAngle, his voice heavy with weariness of the memory. From that sterile room, he was allowed to call home to inform his mother of the arrest. Panic travelled faster than the words he managed to utter. His family rushed, pleaded, pulled every string they could find. Nothing worked.

The interrogations continued. They asked, “Who was the man on the phone? How long had they known each other? Where is he now?” Abubakar insisted he was only a customer, nothing more, and that he knew nothing of the tinsmith’s ties to Boko Haram. But disbelief hung in the room like smoke. They were certain he was withholding something.

And so, instead of a court, Abubakar was sent to what he later described as “an unknown detention facility in Abuja”. 

“They downloaded, transcribed, and printed every conversation I ever had with him,” Abubakar recounted. “Page after page, they searched for guilt, but there was nothing.”

Detention incommunicado

For Abubakar, there is no greater cruelty than being punished for a crime one has not even conceived of committing. For ten years, he lived among men who had carried weapons into villages, men who torched houses and watched towns burn, radicals who slaughtered men, women, and children—the actual Boko Haram members.

When the Boko Haram insurgency in Nigeria began over a decade ago, arrests were often based on the flimsiest of suspicions. HumAngle has reported extensively on this. For some, their only “crime” was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. For others, it was a phone call, a shared name, or a chance encounter with someone later discovered to be an insurgent. Families watched in silence as their loved ones vanished into detention facilities, branded with a stigma that clung even after their release.

A 2020 report by Amnesty International exposed the terrible conditions in Nigerian military detention centres, estimating that at least 10,000 deaths in custody occurred since 2011. Many of these deaths occurred at Giwa Barracks in Maiduguri, Borno State, the epicentre of the insurgency. The report noted a devastating toll, particularly among older men, who, though only 4 per cent of the population, accounted for up to a quarter of the dead. In April 2017 alone, 166 corpses were transferred from Giwa to a mortuary.

At the Abuja facility, Abubakar lived in an overcrowded room, reeking of sweat, disease, and death. “There was a period when over 300 people died in a month,” he said. 

There he spent months. He struggled to recall how long. Abubakar said he was chained with Boko Haram suspects without seeing sunlight. “We would be begging and crying before we could be allowed to just sit for some hours under the sunlight,” he said.

There are two prisons in life: the one of iron bars, and the one built of perception. Abubakar was trapped in both. Even now, he feels watched and is careful with his words. Still, he described the situation in the detention facility as simply “inhuman.” He remembered that when he first arrived, he spent “many days with no food.”

Testimonies from detainees read like horror fiction. Dignity stripped bare, lives suffocated by heat, hunger, and disease. Men collapsed in heaps, reduced to shadows. Survivors speak of floors that served as both bed and latrine, of stench and despair indistinguishable from each other.

Though not a psychologist, Abubakar believes the system was designed to break their minds. “The condition made prisoners fight a lot over a minor issue because everyone would be angry with one another, especially those chained together,” he said.

Months turned to years, and Abubakar felt he didn’t belong there. 

He was one of thousands detained without trial. Human rights groups, including Amnesty International, had long accused the government of such practices. By 2014, Amnesty estimated between 5,000 and 10,000 detainees languished without charge.

For victims like Abubakar, proving innocence seemed like chasing a mirage. Yet he clung to hope, praying for the day he would see his mother again.

The mother’s ordeal

While Abubakar was trapped within prison walls, another story was unfolding outside: one of his mother’s sacrifice, despair, and an unbroken faith.

At first, she believed his arrest was a mistake that would be quickly corrected. She held onto the thought that once the truth was known, her son would return home. But days became weeks, weeks folded into months and years, and hope began to wear thin.

She fought, prayed, and cried until her tears drowned her voice. She sold all her belongings, but justice remained out of reach. Instead, she encountered fraudsters who promised to use their “influence” to secure her son’s release. 

“They took her money and vanished, leaving her poorer and more desperate,” Abubakar told HumAngle. 

As a new widow– her husband had died just a year before Abubakar’s arrest– she fought alone. She continued chasing shadows until everyone believed that Abubakar must have been killed and there was no way he could come back home.

Then, after ten years of a futile search, her dream came true. She received a call from Mallam Sidi, a Nigerian military-run deradicalisation centre in Gombe State. It was Abubakar. His voice had changed, but she recognised it. When she told relatives, they refused to believe her.

“Because all her money went to the scammers who promised her that I would be free, family members believed this, too, must be another scammer,” Abubakar recalled.

Paths of return

Before that call, Abubakar had spent years praying for a trial, even if it meant being charged with something. “The experience of not knowing your fate while in detention is worse than the detention itself,” he said.

One day, in 2023, his prayers were answered. He was arraigned with other detainees. “Many were charged and sentenced according to their crimes. And when it came to our turn, I was not found guilty,” he said.

Just like that. There was no evidence. There was no link. His phone call was not a rope but a line that led nowhere. The judge moved her hand, and a decade was set down on the table like a coin that cannot be returned to your pocket. He was discharged. 

But he could not go home. The government required that discharged detainees like him must first pass through a deradicalisation programme at Mallam Sidi, designed for former terrorists. The six-month programme, launched in 2016, combines religious re-education, psychosocial support, and vocational training. The idea: a man who once held a gun should leave with skills to earn a living.

This is the vision in public documents.

Abubakar, though never a terrorist, entered Mallam Sidi and participated in the routine: prayers, counselling sessions, vocational lessons. Instructors explained that religion should be a lamp, not a knife. Abubakar learned welding and metalwork.

At the end of the programme, there were promises, such as vocational kits and support that would last long enough for them to plant their feet and begin to walk. But Abubakar was aware that some graduates had already reported that they received nothing or just a fraction of what they were told to expect.

The distance between policy and practice is wide enough to lose a man in.

“But because I know that I had a shop and an inheritance that I could come back to when released, I wasn’t only planning my future on what I learned but on what I left behind,” Abubakar said. But when he returned, everything had been sold. Even the property he had inherited from his father was gone.

At Mallam Sidi, he received a certificate labelling him a “repentant Boko Haram member.” The phrase jarred. He had never been one. He had entered detention as a charcoal seller and a son; he left with nothing but his mother and the ruins of his business.

The homecoming and struggle for survival

His family drove for hours from Kano to  Gombe to meet him as he completed the “deradicalisation programme”. When his mother finally saw him, the years of waiting collapsed into that single moment.

“We were all speechless,” Abubakar recalled. “We couldn’t control ourselves or our emotions; we only cried and cried.” 

The tears were not just for joy. They carried the weight of loss, the years stolen, the sacrifices made, the silence endured. His mother held him tightly, as if her grip alone could keep him from ever slipping away again. But even then, in the shadow of that embrace, they knew their ordeal was not yet over.

Weeks later, Abubakar and 15 other Mallam Sidi graduates were picked up by the Kano State Government and brought to the government house. Though the state governor was unavailable, officials asked them to state their requests. They asked for something simple: support to earn a living, small businesses, vocational tools, and farming inputs. They left hopeful.

But hope has a way of fading. Four months have passed since Abubakar returned, and the promised support remains absent. The family, already drained of resources, now watches him idle at home. The charcoal trade is gone, and opportunities are scarce.

“All I need is something to make me busy, something that I can rebuild my life with, something that can make me hopeful for the future,” he said.

Back in Kofar Waika, Gwale Local Government Area, Abubakar is slowly reintegrating. His friends have accepted him and are supporting him to go back to his former self.

“There was only one time when somebody accused me of being a Boko Haram member, but I didn’t care because I know I’ve never been one,” he said.

But his mother sees him every day, staring into the distance, haunted by what might have been. The reunion was sweet, but the days since have been bitter, reminding them that survival is not only about release, but about the chance to live well again.

The first call to prayer in Malumfashi, northwestern Nigeria, was barely finished when gunmen stormed the Unguwan Mantau area. It was around 5 a.m. on Aug. 19, and the small mosque was full of worshippers, old and young men, all bowed in devotion, when the attack happened.  

It was a moment chosen for maximum shock and helplessness: none of the victims expected to be killed while praying for peace.

Mallam Umar Aramma, a local Qur’anic teacher and a survivor of the attack, says he remembers the silence before the gunshots and then people started running to save their lives.

“Many were instantly killed by gunshots,” he told HumAngle. “Others were rushed to the hospital with wounds, and some died there.”

Local officials first put the toll at 13. Within 48 hours, the figure rose to about 29 as more bodies were recovered from the mosque and nearby hamlets torched in the same raid. 

Since the terrorist attack was reported, grief has mixed with an old debate across northwestern Nigeria, particularly on social media: whether to negotiate with the terrorists who have turned vast rural stretches into locations to be raided. 

The federal government has quietly encouraged some Islamic clerics to explore channels with some commanders. Sheikh Musa Asadussunnah, one of the peace talk proponents, hasn’t explicitly mentioned this in his speeches, but sources confirmed to HumAngle that he has federal backing. 

Earlier this month, the cleric delegation said their talks with the Zamfara warlord Bello Turji secured the release of 32 captives and a symbolic surrender of weapons. The accounts vary on the details and on the federal government’s role, but the message of engagement was clear. 

Opinions have already been divided since the beginning of the engagement. However, the recent attack in Katsina has hardened many hearts against the idea of a peace deal.

For many, failed peace deals are not a distant history. In 2019 and early 2020, former Governor Aminu Bello Masari of Katsina State convened a series of accords with local terror leaders that included public ceremonies, photoshoots, promises of amnesty, and assurances that attacks would cease. 

However, within months, the deals unravelled. 

By June 2020, Masari publicly expressed his disappointment, accusing the gunmen of betraying the terms and resuming raids. “We’ve pulled out,” he said, adding that negotiations had failed to bring “lasting peace.” And the violence continued. 

Zamfara, the epicentre of the northwest conflict, had the same experience. Governor Bello Matawalle’s 2019 amnesty and disarmament plan led to a temporary partial peace. Reports showed that the terror kingpins paused in some villages while expanding operations elsewhere or engaging in rivalry for space control. 

By 2021, major attacks had reappeared; by 2023–2024, researchers tracking the conflict concluded the amnesty had failed in its central objective. Armed groups had diversified revenue streams, deepened cross-border logistics, and used the money to buy arms. 

The pattern persists at the micro level. Recently in Adabka, Zamfara, HumAngle reported that villagers bought peace for nearly three years by funnelling payments to terrorists in a ransom-for-peace arrangement that collapsed this month with fresh abductions and killings. 

The failure of such peace arrangements shows the bigger problem: They are unenforceable, unclear, and can always change due to the next grievance, the next terror group, and the next terror leader in charge. 

But out of desperation, people, at a community level, still do them. 

In recent weeks, since the beginning of the rainy season, some Katsina villages have seen the return of a localised peace deal. Community leaders in Jibia, Danmusa, Batsari, and Safana have explored or entered quiet pacts aimed at protecting farms and markets during the rainy season. 

Even state officials, while insisting they are not negotiating, have acknowledged meetings with ‘repentant terrorists’ to enable access to farmlands. In Safana, local leaders announced a peace accord just days before the Uguwan Mantau massacre. 

Why do peace deals fail? 

Several reports have explained why these agreements keep failing. First, there is no single chain of command. The northwestern insurgency is a patchwork of gangs and entrepreneurial warlords who shift alliances and territorial footprints with the rains, the market for cattle, the gold mining sites, and security pressure. 

Research has shown that a peace deal with one group creates economic and tactical incentives for others to attack. Conflict monitors warned as far back as 2020 that “partial peace” in one state often displaced violence into a neighbour. That remains true today. 

Another problem is that the agreements lack credible enforcement. The Federal Government has not and cannot offer a strong stance large enough to bind dozens of decentralised terror commanders in the region. 

When deals hinge on payments, safe corridors, or promises of non-prosecution, they risk rewarding coercion. When they hinge on community levies, they entrench protection rackets. When they hinge on the word of a single prominent warlord, they fall with his next strategic calculation.

Moreover, the deals often ignore the cross-border economies that keep the war profitable. Arms and motorcycles ride the same trails as cattle. Without plugging the border routes and illicit markets, de-escalation in one cluster is merely an intermission, not an ending. 

Research mapping the terror economy across 2023–2024 shows how quickly groups adapt to bans and roadblocks by shifting to new corridors and taxing new commodities. 

To many Katsina residents, these are not abstract critiques. They are recent history, lived twice. Liman Garba, a young man who lost his father in one of the terror attacks in Katsina, said any peace pact with terrorists will be meaningless as they continue to target civilians. 

“People like us, whose father was killed right inside our home, and our mother and younger siblings were taken away after our father was murdered, we had to pay ₦10 million before our relatives were released. How can anyone say there should be reconciliation when you see the very person who caused your father to leave this world, and who also made you lose millions of naira?” he said.

Masari’s collapse of talks in 2020 is always in any conversation about peace with terrorists. People remember the promises, the ceremonies, and the resumed killings. Aramma, the Qur’anic teacher, told HumAngle that they no longer want any empty promises or failed peace dialogue; they want the state to stop the killings. “We prayed for protection,” he said, “and they met us at prayer.” 

The clerical involvement

The federal government’s openness to clerical intermediaries is understandable. Clerics can go where officials cannot, and carry moral authority in a region where politicians are rarely trusted. Their recent shuttle diplomacy with Turji may have saved lives; 32 people are home because someone talked instead of shooting. 

But the same week those headlines broke, Unguwan Mantau buried its dead. And across the northwest, countless families still pay “farming fees” to armed men so they can plant maize and millet. Tasiu Saeed, another resident of Zamfara, explained the contradiction.

“Reconciliation is a good thing. But to be honest, there is a big problem, because there has been no progress with reconciliation, since the terrorists do not stop killing people, even while talks are ongoing. They are traitors, so the government should focus on fighting them instead,” he said. 

Does that mean talks are futile? Zainab Nasir, a youth leader in Kano, thinks otherwise. She explained that the answer may lie in redefining what “talks” are for. 

According to her, any dialogue with terrorists “can only be meaningful if it is pursued with sincerity, strategy, and accountability.” She explained that the talks “should not be seen as a reward for violence, but as a pathway to lasting stability where both the dignity of the affected victims and the future of offenders are secured.”

However, the record suggests that peace talks are not, on their own, a path to lasting stability. When they are sold as such, they sour public trust. But when they are paired with transparent benchmarks, regional coordination, and blocking revenue streams, they can be a tactical component for lasting peace. 

Back in Unguwan Mantau, Aramma said, since the attack, fear has engulfed people, and men no longer attend mosques in full. “Some do, many others don’t”. The fear is that while you may go there to pray for peace, you may be engulfed in the fire of violence. Aramma said they feel defenceless.

“The police came, took some report and left us asking ‘where is safe to pray?’”

Against this backdrop, the federal government’s symbolic outreach through clerics sits uneasily with public sentiment in the wake of Unguwan Mantau. “People are not rejecting peace,” Tasiu said, “they are demanding a strategy that can outlast a photoshoot.”

The first time they came for her, in May 2023, Lubabatu Ibrahim was preparing to sleep. Terrorists broke into her home in Gana village, Zamfara State, North West Nigeria, and found her alone. Her husband, the community’s traditional ruler, was away in Mecca for the Islamic pilgrimage.

“They didn’t beat me, but they asked for money, and I told them I had none,” the 46-year-old recounted. 

That night, she narrowly escaped abduction. But the terrorists did not forget her, as they were acting under the instruction of their leader, Kachalla Falando.

For years, Nigeria’s North West has been at the centre of the country’s kidnapping crisis, where armed groups prey on rural communities, abducting residents for ransom and forcing thousands to abandon their homes. Women like Lubabatu, married to a local monarch, are prime targets, not only because of their symbolic status but also because of the assumption that their families can raise huge sums. Her story reflects a broader reality in which ordinary life has been eroded by fear, extortion, and the absence of state protection.

Her escape did not end the threat; it only delayed it. 

Months later, in June 2024, they returned, this time seizing her only son, 15-year-old Bilyaminu, the very day he came home from boarding school. 

“I missed Bilyaminu. It was his first time away from home for secondary education,” she said. “We were jubilating for Bilyaminu’s long-awaited return home as he reunited with his family and siblings from the school he had dreamed of attending,” she said. “As a mother with only one boy, I prepared so much for him and his friends during the festive period. I got him a lot of confectionery and his favourite local dishes, which he had missed.”

That evening, after a warm reunion, he came to her room to say goodnight. He sat by her legs as she patted his head. “Why have you let your hair grow so much?” she teased. He laughed and promised to cut it the next day.

But at about 1:30 a.m., terrorists stormed the village. They demanded to know the whereabouts of the matan maigari—the monarch’s wife.

“I immediately smuggled her out of her room into one of our local silos meant for preserving our assorted grains in the backyard. Only for me to return, I heard Bilyaminu crying in the hands of the terrorists. They were beating him to find out where Lubabatu, his mother, was hiding. Bilyaminu replied that he had no idea where his mother was,” Sani Maigari, the village head of the Gana community, told HumAngle.

The boy insisted he had just returned from school and did not know. His pleas were ignored. He was taken away, along with other villagers. Houses were set ablaze, including that of the community’s Imam. 

After four months in captivity, Bilyaminu was released when a ransom of ₦1.5 million was paid. By then, many residents had fled their homes. 

“There was no security official to rescue the victims,” Sani added. “We are all displaced. As I speak, we do not sleep in our homes. We spend our daytime in Gana and our night in Nasarawar Burkullu. We have been in transit daily since Jan. 6.”

Months after Bilyaminu was released, on Monday, Jan. 6, the terrorists invaded again. It was raining heavily when three armed men broke into the monarch’s house at about 11:00 p.m. This time, they mistook the monarch’s sick second wife, Sadiya, for Lubabatu.

“They forced me to place Sadiya on the bike,” Lubabatu recounted. “She was sick with a stroke. So they tried to load her onto the bike several times, unsuccessfully. One of the terrorists instructed me to hold her legs for him, as he held her by the arm and shifted the sick woman beside a tree, fearing that she could die.”

When it became clear she could not be taken, Lubabatu recalled that one of the attackers declared, “Since we can’t abduct the sick woman, Lubabatu. We will take her instead.”

This time, they had their real target, but they were unaware. 

Alongside more than 50 women and children, Lubabatu was marched through the night to Rijiyar Yarbugaje, on the outskirts of Gana. She overheard teenage fighters arguing about whether they had truly captured her. One insisted they had failed; another said they had already taken someone from her household.

The journey into captivity was brutal. The terrorists led the captives into the forest up to the Kaiwaye riverbank. “We all stopped there. Another fear of the unknown knocked on my heart, and I felt too sad again and again, as all hope was lost. I looked at the river, looked back, and I prayed to God again,” said Jamila Rabiu, another victim of the same attack.

“We trekked through that night until the following day. We neither ate food nor drank water throughout the movements across the forests. We finally reached our destination and stayed there until ₦6 million was paid as ransom for the five of us only,” Lubabatu told HumAngle.

Two days after they arrived at the camp, Kachalla Falando summoned five women among the captives from Gana and asked who among them was Lubabatu. They claimed she had escaped in the forest.

He nodded in dismay, unaware that the woman he sought was among them.

“I was the youngest among the captives. Falando walked toward me and whispered, ‘I love you.’ My chest and heart beat excessively. He asked the rest of the women to go back to the tents. I asked him to fear God and let me go with the rest,” Lubabatu said.

Falando ordered his gang to chain her. She spent three days in chains, exposed to sunshine, and only given a cup of water twice every day.

“I tried to understand why they wanted me abducted, specifically as a wife to the family of the Gana District Head. The only explanation I could arrive at was that Falando is an ambitious terrorist, driven by a desire to expand his territorial influence over communities he labelled as non-compliant,” Lubabatu said. 

HumAngle learnt from locals that Gana, unlike neighbouring Gando and Baruba, was among the few villages in Bukuyum LGA whose leaders had refused to submit to the terrorists’ impunity, including the sexual abuse of women.

Lubabatu remained in captivity for two months and ten days until a ₦6 million ransom was paid. 

She confirmed to HumAngle that neither Falando nor his gang realised that she was in their custody. “None of the women that we were abducted together disclosed my identity to the terrorists, despite the intimidation, abuse and violent actions against almost every one of us,” Lubabatu said.

Falando is a notorious kingpin in Nigeria’s North West. Locals familiar with his group estimate its strength at about 200 fighters. Beyond terrorising communities, they extort from them, sometimes under the guise of peace. On several occasions, Falando has compelled rural populations to pool resources for so-called “ransom-for-peace” agreements. But these deals rarely last. In Adabka, a farming settlement in Zamfara, residents raised and paid ₦20 million in the hope of buying safety. Three years later, Falando’s gang struck again, abducting and killing residents and security operatives.

The shadow Falando casts stretches across communities like Gana, where Lubabatu was seized. The village had long been under siege. Residents say the first major attack was recorded six years ago, when armed groups began their incursions into the community, which has led to assaults that have battered families.

Since she returned, fear and trauma have become Lubabatu’s worst nightmare. “The sounds of guns knocking on my ears are always my greatest fear. Anytime I hear the reverberation of gun sounds, I get tensed,” she said. “We look like wanderers, always on the move, so restless. My son is no longer in school because we are paupers and cannot afford to sponsor his education.”

Her voice carried both exhaustion and resolve. What she wanted, she said, was simple: safety, food for her family, and financial support to rebuild their lives. But until the government breaks the grip of men like Falando, residents, especially women like Lubabatu, will remain trapped by fear, their lives suspended between survival and despair.

“Most people are one sickness away from seeking financial assistance,” reads a popular quote circulating on Nigerian social media.

For Usman Sani, a 33-year-old schoolteacher and a tailor in Funtua, a town in Katsina State, northwestern Nigeria, the truth in that statement has been a lifelong reality. He was in his first year of Junior Secondary School when his name appeared on the duty roster, a schedule for students responsible for cleaning the classroom either before classes or after the school closed. 

One morning, while sweeping alongside some other classmates, he began coughing uncontrollably. It worsened until he felt like he could no longer breathe. His chest tightened, and he collapsed. Teachers administered first aid, after which his parents rushed him to the hospital, where he was diagnosed with asthma, a chronic respiratory condition in which the airways become inflamed and narrowed, causing difficulty in breathing, coughing, and wheezing. From then on, his name was removed from the sweeping list.

“Nothing felt comfortable at that moment, whether eating, drinking, working, or even talking. Sometimes, just lying down would become a problem,” Usman recounted. “If I didn’t get immediate relief either through fresh air or medication, the condition would worsen.” 

Back then, he did not have an inhaler, relying instead on tablets that gradually lost their effectiveness. In 2018, his doctor prescribed a Ventolin inhaler, which became a lifeline during a series of attacks. “Then, an inhaler was around ₦2,000,” he said. “Now in 2025, it costs at least ₦14,000. I bought it last month. I can’t afford to buy an inhaler every month out of my small salary.” Hence, Usman said he wears face masks when he is outside. 

“Prevention, they say, is better than cure,” he added.

Usman’s struggle is not an isolated case. Across Nigeria, people living with chronic illnesses are finding it harder to manage their conditions as the cost of essential drugs skyrockets.

According to the World Bank, out-of-pocket expenditure accounts for over 70 per cent of total health spending in Nigeria, one of the highest in the world. This means millions are vulnerable to financial shocks whenever a health crisis strikes.

Take Hajiya Umma, an elderly woman in Sabon Gari, Zaria, in Kaduna State, who was diagnosed with diabetes in 2016. Since then, her son, Ibrahim Muhammad, has been responsible for her medication. The cost of an insulin shot has risen by about 480 per cent in the last five years, from ₦2000 to ₦14,500, hitting their household hard. “What’s more worrisome than the skyrocketing price of drugs is the specialised food I have to eat as well,” she lamented.

The government has made attempts to respond. In 2024, the Nigerian government signed an executive order waiving import duties and taxes on pharmaceutical inputs to boost local drug production. However, implementation has been slow and has had a limited impact. The Pharmaceutical Society of Nigeria states that the order has not yet resulted in lower prices due to forex scarcity, supply chain issues, and regulatory delays. Importers still face bottlenecks at ports, and manufacturers are crippled by erratic power supply and high production costs.

The crisis worsened as major multinational companies, including pharmaceutical companies, exited Nigeria. Firms like GlaxoSmithKline (GSK) and Sanofi shut down operations in the last two years, citing the naira’s collapse, profit repatriation issues, deteriorating infrastructure, and weak consumer power. As a result, Nigeria lost ₦94 trillion in economic output, according to Segun Omisakin, Chief Economist and Director of Research at Nigerian Economic Summit Group. This exodus has left hospitals and pharmacies struggling to restock essential and specialised medications.

This reality is evident to pharmacists on the ground. “This […] GSK Actifed is not even available; you’re lucky to get it. For several months, we’ve been searching to get it to stock in our pharmacy, but it’s not available,” Musa Bello, a pharmacist based in Kaduna State, lamented. He explained that the exit of GSK triggered not only scarcity and soaring prices, but also a flourishing black market and the rise of counterfeits. “Imagine Seretide Inhaler, which was ₦5,000 before their exit, went up to ₦30,000+ at some point. A lot has happened and is happening. I pity people with chronic conditions like diabetes and hypertension. A large part of their income now goes to drugs, and some can’t even afford it.”

The impact has also been severe on common diseases like malaria. Nigeria accounts for nearly 27 per cent of the world’s malaria cases, with 68 million infections and 194,000 deaths in 2021 alone, according to the World Health Organisation. Treatment that cost under ₦2,000 five years ago now sells for between ₦8,000 and ₦12,000. Similarly, hypertension drugs such as Amlodipine and Labetalol have doubled or tripled in price, with some monthly treatment plans exceeding ₦18,000.

“It is expensive. One wrong move can set you back. Drugs are no longer affordable for a lot of people,” Mukhtar Sabo, a development worker living with diabetes, said.

With the National Health Insurance Authority (NHIA) covering fewer than 10 per cent of Nigerians, the vast majority remain unprotected. The result is a cycle where families are pushed into poverty, forced to pay for care entirely out of pocket.

Resorting to alternatives

Faced with rising costs, Nigerians are increasingly turning to cheaper alternatives. 

Danladi  Bala, a trader in Zaria, suffers from a chronic ulcer. He buys medicine, a brown powdered herbal concoction sold in small packs, from a street vendor after Friday’s Islamic prayers. A week’s supply costs ₦200, or three bundles for ₦500.

“It is effective, because I feel better. I don’t have to go to the hospital and spend a lot of money on drugs that I might have to be taking for life. I have faith and trust that this traditional one would do the trick,” Danlandi said. He stopped visiting hospitals two years ago when drug prices rose sharply at local chemists.

Many Nigerians now rely on traditional, herbal and sometimes, religious remedies. On streets and in buses, markets, and worship centres, self-proclaimed healers sell mixtures they claim can cure everything from ulcers to sexually transmitted diseases, diabetes to HIV, and in some cases, even cancer. Their influence has grown through radio and television promotions, as well as, more recently, social media. In Nigeria, around 70 per cent of the population relies on traditional medicine, with 41 per cent using herbal remedies exclusively and 31 per cent combining them with orthodox care. Traditional healers are also key providers of mental health services, especially in underserved communities.

But this reliance on informal treatment, while understandable, risks exposing millions to counterfeit or ineffective drugs. 

“Most of those alternatives are not standardised,” said Anas Abdulahi, a medical doctor at the Ahmadu Bello University Teaching Hospital, Zaria. “Every drug is a potential poison. So taking such drugs risks damage to major organs like the liver and kidneys. Secondly, chasing those alternatives potentially leads to a delay in diagnosis and progression of disease to severe or terminal stages. There is also waste resources running from one alternative medicine to another in search of a cure.” 

Crowdfunding for treatment

For others, survival now depends on the kindness of strangers.

Yasmin, a lively four-year-old, is known for her charm and curiosity. When she started experiencing persistent headaches, her parents grew concerned. Initially, painkillers worked. Then the headache returned, more severe, robbing her of sleep and eventually sight. 

One day in 2024, everything became blurry to her.

Her father, Malam Abubakar, a primary school teacher, sought answers at a teaching hospital in Kaduna, only to be told the radiology machines were faulty. He was referred to neighbouring Kano State for scans. The costs were overwhelming, and he nearly sold his motorcycle to pay for them until family and friends intervened.

When the diagnosis was out, it was found that Yasmin had a tumour in her brain and required urgent surgery. With no savings to cover the expense, her parents turned to social media. Through crowdfunding campaigns on Facebook, X, and WhatsApp groups, the community rallied around them. The surgery was eventually funded.

For someone who was taking care of his family without help or interference from anyone, Abubakar said that resorting to crowdfunding was humbling. 

“I felt like a beggar, honestly. My self-esteem and ego were seriously hit, but who am I to think about those things when my daughter’s life was on the line?” he said. 

Though Yasmin has since been discharged and is recovering, her family must now pay for weekly physiotherapy and post-surgical treatment — another heavy burden on her father’s modest salary.

Her case is one of thousands. Fundraising appeals for medical treatment now flood social media daily. Even medical students and doctors are not exempt. A recent campaign sought ₦6 million for Obi Oluwatosin Joseph, a medical student at Delta State University in the country’s South South, who needs brain surgery. Another appeal, for Summaya Dalhat, a medical doctor in Kaduna, requested over ₦2.1 million for stroke rehabilitation.

Crowdfunding has become a lifeline for Nigerians in distress, bridging gaps left by a failing health system. But stigma, fraud, and slow responses remain constant obstacles.

In the end, herbal remedies, borrowed money, or online appeals are only fragile shields. Families like Usman’s, Umma’s, and Yasmin’s continue to live on the edge, sustained less by policy or social protection than by luck, faith, and the mercy of strangers.

On Aug. 16, Nigeria’s National Security Adviser (NSA), Nuhu Ribadu, announced that security services had captured two terror leaders, including Mahmud Muhammad Usman, described as a leader of the al-Qaida-linked faction Jama’atu Ansarul Muslimina fi Biladis Sudan, popularly known as Ansaru. Authorities also said they had detained Mahmud al-Nigeri, who is associated with the emergent Mahmuda network in North Central Nigeria. 

The arrests, made during operations that spanned May to July this year, were described by the NSA as “the most decisive blow against Ansaru” since its inception, with officials hinting that digital material seized could unlock additional cells and enable follow-on arrests. 

“These two men have jointly spearheaded multiple attacks on civilians, security forces and critical national infrastructure. They are currently in custody and will face due legal process,” Ribadu noted.

For a government under pressure to tame overlapping threats from terrorists, this is a political and operational win. The harder question is whether it marks an actual turning point in a fragmented conflict that has repeatedly adapted to leadership losses. 

A short history of a long problem

Ansaru emerged publicly in early 2012 as a breakaway from Boko Haram after years of quiet cross-border travel, training, and ideological cross-pollination with al-Qaida affiliates. 

The split reflected disagreements over targeting and ideological tactics. While Boko Haram, under Abubakar Shekau, embraced mass-casualty violence, including suicide attacks that killed several civilians, including Muslims, Ansaru positioned itself as a more “discriminating” outfit, focused on Western and high-profile Nigerian targets and on hostage-taking for leverage. 

The group’s founders, notably Khalid al-Barnawi and Abubakar Adam Kambar, had networks developed through al-Qaida in the Islamic Maghreb (AQIM), which shaped their doctrine and operational tactics. This lineage remains crucial for understanding Ansaru’s strategic choices and its enduring connections in the Sahel. 

Ansaru’s first phase was brief but consequential. Between late 2012 and early 2013, the group was credibly linked to a string of operations: the storming of a detention site in Abuja, the country’s capital city, on November 2012, the attack on a Nigerian convoy bound for Mali in January 2013, and, most notoriously, the 2013 kidnapping of seven expatriate workers from a Setraco construction camp in Jama’are, Bauchi State in the country’s North East. The hostages were later killed, and Ansaru circulated a proof-of-death video that stunned Nigeria’s security community. 

Those incidents cemented the group’s image as an al-Qaida-influenced kidnap-and-assault specialist rather than a proto-governance insurgency. 

Two leadership shocks then disrupted Ansaru’s momentum. In 2012, Abubakar Adam Kambar, the group’s first commander, was reported killed during a security operation, elevating Khalid Barnawi’s importance inside the network. 

In April 2016, security forces arrested Khalid al-Barnawi in Lokoja, Kogi State, in the North Central, an event that was widely seen as decapitating Ansaru’s remaining central structure. Ansaru then disappeared from public claim streams for several years after that arrest, an action that suggested the group’s command and control was genuinely degraded. 

However, in January 2020, Ansaru reappeared with an ambush on the convoy of the Emir of Potiskum as it transited through Kaduna State in the North West. Later that year, it issued additional claims in the same region, signalling a pivot from its northeastern birthplace toward spaces where state presence was thinner and terror violence had created both a security vacuum and a recruitment market. 

Reports, including one published by HumAngle, traced some of this revival to the group’s continued ties with al-Qaida affiliates in the Sahel and pragmatic cohabitation with terror gangs, whether through facilitation, training, or weapons flows. 

Why the recent arrests matter

The recent arrests resemble earlier moments when big names like Abubakar Adam Kambar were taken off the battlefield. Officials say Mahmud Muhammad Usman and his counterpart from the Mahmuda network were not only operational leaders but also brokers of transnational connections, including alleged roles in orchestrating the 2022 Kuje prison break and in a 2013 attack against a Nigerien uranium site.

“Malam Mamuda, was said to have trained in Libya between 2013 and 2015 under foreign jihadist instructors from Egypt, Tunisia, and Algeria, specialising in weapons handling and Improvised Explosive Device (IED) fabrication,” Ribadu said

Those claims serve a dual purpose. They frame the detentions as part of a campaign that reaches beyond Nigeria’s borders, and they signal to international partners that Abuja is aligning against a regional terrorist web that spans from Northern Nigeria through Niger and into Mali and Burkina Faso. 

The tactical benefits are clearer. Removing senior fixers disrupts the flow of money, weapons, and specialised expertise that enable small cadres to punch above their numerical weight.

The haul of digital media, if exploited quickly, can reveal safe-route maps, dead-drop protocols, and liaisons inside other terror syndicates that lease out men and terrain in north-west and north-central Nigeria. When combined with focused policing in towns and market hubs, that intelligence can shrink Ansaru’s margins for clandestine movement and fundraising. 

None of this ends the threat on its own, but it changes the tempo and increases the cost to operate.

What is Ansaru, and what is it not?

To understand fully what this moment means, it is useful to situate Ansaru among the three principal jihadist currents that affect Nigeria today: Boko Haram’s Jama’atu Ahlis-Sunna lid-Da‘wa wal-Jihad (often called “JAS” or “Shekau’s faction”), the Islamic State West Africa Province (ISWAP), and Ansaru itself.

JAS was, for years, the most visible face of the insurgency, built around an absolutist and takfiri reading of Salafi-Jihadism, and operationalised through terror attacks that did not distinguish Muslim civilians from security targets. The Shekau era normalised female suicide bombers, mass abductions, and village-level depopulation. Governance was secondary to spectacle and intimidation. Since Shekau died in 2021, JAS has splintered and receded in some arenas, although pockets remain capable of lethal violence. 

ISWAP is different. Born of a schism with Shekau, it has tended to emphasise territorial management in the Lake Chad Basin, with taxation, shadow court systems, and calibrated violence designed, at least nominally, to avoid indiscriminate Muslim casualties. Its commanders often court pragmatic relationships with traders and smugglers, and, unlike JAS in its prime, ISWAP markets itself as predictable enough for civilians to bargain with and understand. International Crisis Group and other researchers have long highlighted these governance motifs as operational advantages, even as ISWAP continues to attack military positions and abduct civilians. 

Ansaru occupies a third lane. Its al-Qaida genealogy predisposes it toward targeted kidnappings of foreigners and high-profile Nigerians, ambushes of convoys, and the cultivation of rural social capital.

During its 2020 and 2022 push in the North West, Ansaru proselytisers distributed food and farm inputs, positioned themselves as protectors against predatory terrorists, and sought to embed preachers who preached against secular politics and democratic participation. This hearts-and-minds approach was less about running a taxation state and more about building safe communities of sympathy to hide in, recruit from, and extract logistics support. 

Ideologically, Ansaru’s guides are AQIM and, by extension, JNIM in the Sahel. That lineage favours calibrated violence, prolonged detentions rather than mass executions, and strategic hostage bargaining, as seen in the Setraco case and other high-profile kidnappings from 2012 to 2013. It also means Ansaru is plugged into the Sahelian marketplace for weapons, trainers, and media distribution, which helps explain its periodic ability to rebound after leadership losses. 

A map of influence, not of control

In the North East, ISWAP and residual JAS cells dominate the insurgent landscape. Ansaru’s post-2019 story unfolded more in Kaduna’s rural west and parts of neighbouring states, where the absence of policing and the rise of kidnap-for-ransom gangs created both a protection racket and an opportunity for ideological entrepreneurs. 

Birnin Gwari Local Government Area in Kaduna State became a shorthand for that nexus. Residents and local leaders reported that Ansaru courted communities, fought some local terrorist groups, and tried to regulate flows on key feeder roads. 

Media and civil society reports described the group distributing Sallah gifts in Kuyello and influencing daily life in and around Damari and other settlements. These were snapshots of temporary influence, not evidence of continuous territorial control, but they were a warning sign that non-state governance was thickening in spaces where the state was thin. 

That is the context in which Ribadu’s announcement landed. If the commanders arrested were connective tissue between al-Qaida-adjacent logisticians, local fixers, and local terrorist entrepreneurs, then removing them will reverberate in Birnin Gwari and similar corridors. It is also why the arrests were paired rhetorically with claims about plots and partnerships far from Kaduna, including across the Maghreb and the Sahel. 

The Federal Government wants Nigerians to see Ansaru not as another rural gang, but as a node in a continental web that justifies sustained, internationally backed counterterrorism.

Lessons from 2012 and 2016

This is not Nigeria’s first experience with decapitation strikes against Ansaru. In 2012, the reported killing of Kambar set off internal adjustments. 

In 2016, the arrest of Khalid al-Barnawi appeared to shutter Ansaru’s media pipeline and disrupt its external ties, which supports the argument that leadership matters for a relatively small, networked faction. 

Yet by 2020, the group was reclaiming relevance in the northwest, an adaptation that coincided with the Sahel’s worsening jihadist crisis and the metastasis of rural banditry inside Nigeria. 

This short history suggests a dual lesson: Taking leaders off the board works, especially when accompanied by seizures of communications and couriers.  However, it works less well when ungoverned spaces expand faster than the state can fill them and when adjacent theatres, like Mali and Burkina Faso, are producing more seasoned cadres than the region can absorb.

Operations that shaped Ansaru

Ansaru’s brand was shaped by a handful of headline incidents:

Kidnapping and killing of foreign construction workers, Jama’are, Bauchi State, February–March 2013. Seven expatriates seized from Setraco’s compound were later executed after a period of captivity. The case demonstrated Ansaru’s preference for hostage taking aimed at political signalling and bargaining leverage, even if the outcome was ultimately murderous. 

Attack on Nigerian troops en route to Mali, Kogi State, January 2013. As Abuja prepared to contribute forces to the international intervention against jihadists in northern Mali, Ansaru claimed a lethal ambush that underlined its Sahel-centric framing and its willingness to hit military targets to deter Nigeria’s regional role. 

A cluster of 2012 operations, including an assault on a detention facility in Abuja and kidnappings such as the abduction of a French national. The pattern resembled AQIM’s repertoire in the Sahel more than Boko Haram’s campaign in Borno, with a focus on foreigners, convoys, and facilities that maximised international attention. 

More recently, investigators and journalists have traced Ansaru’s fingerprints to influence activities in Kaduna’s rural belt, including the deployment of preachers, gift distribution to farmers, and cooperation or competition with bandit factions. Even where attribution is contested, the persistence of these reports speaks to Ansaru’s hybrid strategy of armed proselytisation and transactional coexistence.

What the arrests change, and what they do not

The most optimistic reading is that neutralising senior Ansaru leaders will slow operational planning, complicate cross-border procurement of arms, and deter terrorist groups from entering into further tactical pacts. In the near term, that could translate into fewer complex ambushes, fewer kidnappings with political messaging, and a reduction in the movement of specialist bombmakers or media operatives between northwest Nigeria and Sahelian fronts.

If the digital evidence that Ribadu referenced is robust and rapidly exploited, the state could also roll up facilitators in markets, transport unions, and phone shops that act as the quiet arteries of clandestine groups. 

A more cautious reading is grounded in Ansaru’s history and the adaptive ecology of violence in the North West. The group is small, but it has repeatedly used alliances to magnify its reach. If surviving mid-level cadres can maintain relationships with bandit-terror leaders who control forest sanctuaries and rural taxation points, Ansaru can regenerate a functional structure even without marquee names at the top. 

In some cases, the brand itself is a currency: men can claim to be acting on behalf of Ansaru to secure access, while the real command node sits far away and communicates sparingly. Detentions alone do not break that reputational economy.

There is also the question of displacement. Pressure in one theatre can push cadres into neighbouring spaces. As long as Sahelian conflict systems continue to produce itinerant trainers and brokers with AQIM or JNIM pedigrees, there will be a supply to meet Nigeria’s demand for clandestine services. Here, the government’s signalling about cross-border links is more than public relations. It points toward the necessity of intelligence sharing with Niger, and, depending on the political climate, with authorities in Mali and Burkina Faso, where applicable. Securing those partnerships in an era of coups and shifting alliances is not a technical task. It is political.

What would “success” look like six months from now?

A realistic definition of success is not zero attacks, but measurable attrition in Ansaru’s facilitation capacity and a visible shrinking of its rural social space. There are indicators Nigerians can watch for:

• Fewer kidnap incidents with clear ideological framing in Kaduna’s rural west and adjacent corridors, and more arrests of kidnap coordinators with al-Qaida ties.
• Disruption of preacher networks that have been used to socialise communities into Ansaru’s worldview, ideally with community-led alternatives filling the vacuum.
• Intelligence-led seizures on trunk and feeder roads that connect markets in Kaduna and Niger States to forest hideouts, particularly around Birnin Gwari, Kuyello, and Damari.
• Public defections of mid-level facilitators following a perception that the brand can no longer protect them from arrest or rival bandits.

If kidnappings bridge into the harvest season with familiar signatures, or if new names suddenly surface to replace those detained, then the state will need to ask whether it has struck the right balance between kinetic pressure and political management of the rural economy of violence.

The bottom line

Ribadu’s announcement is welcome news in a war that has lacked good headlines. For a government facing simultaneous pressure in the North East and the North West, removing Ansaru leaders offers a chance to disrupt one of the more insidious cross-border pipelines feeding violence in Nigeria’s heartland. 

The history, though, counsels humility. Ansaru has absorbed leadership losses before, gone quiet, and then reconstituted itself where the state was weakest. What comes next will depend less on what was said at a podium than on what happens on back roads and in forest clearings, at checkpoints and market stalls, and in the daily bargains between frightened communities and the armed men who claim to protect or prey on them.

If the new arrests are leveraged to dismantle facilitation networks, to keep pressure on safe havens, and to fill the governance gap that Ansaru has so skillfully exploited, then Nigeria could indeed be at a turning point. If not, the country risks watching this chapter follow the pattern of 2012 and 2016, when a decapitated network lay low and then returned in a new guise. 

The choice now is whether to treat this as a headline or as the start of a sustained campaign that finally closes Ansaru’s page in Nigeria’s long insurgent story. 

On The Crisis Room, we’re following insecurity trends across Nigeria.

Nigeria’s security landscape is a complex and multifaceted one. The dynamics differ according to each region. In Borno State, there is the Boko Haram and ISWAP insurgency, and complications resulting from the government’s resettlement efforts.

In this episode, we will be hearing the voices of some HumAngle reporters as they offer insight from their respective regions of coverage.

Hosts: Salma and Salim

Guests: Usman Abba Zanna, Saduwo Banyawa, Labbo Abdullahi, Damilola Ayeni

Audio producer: Anthony Asemota

Executive producer: Ahmad Salkida

Late one fateful evening, Malam Muhammadu Sodangi of Tuwon Tsoro watched helplessly as armed raiders made off with the cattle, sheep, and goats belonging to his family. The livestock, including prized ploughing bulls and small ruminants raised by his wives, were their sole means of livelihood. Without the bulls, Malam Sodangi cannot farm, and his wives cannot trade.

“They came in the late evening. My livestock and those of Malam Hamidu and Abubakar Garba were gone, making life very difficult for us,” said the 62-year-old.

In northwestern Nigeria, a surge in livestock raids has been linked to terror groups, with the Lakurawa group, an affiliate of the Islamic State in the Sahel (IS-Sahel), being among the most notorious. 

Operating with stealth, Lakurawa conduct their attacks through door-to-door, farm-to-farm, and pen-to-pen raids, often under the pretext of collecting zakat (an Islamic form of almsgiving). This strategy has wreaked havoc on rural communities across Sokoto and Kebbi States, leaving farmers and pastoralists reeling from the loss of their herds and livelihoods. 

Farmers and herders have been brutalised and the local economy crippled, leaving residents in a desperate struggle for survival. Lakurawa’s use of Niger Republic as a fallback position after each raid has made the group both elusive and resilient.

Muhammadu and his neighbour, Malam Hamidu, told HumAngle that since November 8, 2024, rural communities across Augie and Arewa Local Government Areas (LGA) in Kebbi State have come under increasing threat from armed groups.

Augie shares borders with Silame and Gudu in Sokoto State, two LGAs known to harbour Lakurawa hideouts. To the east lies Arewa LGA, considered the group’s most active stronghold in Kebbi, and Niger Republic, whose porous frontier serves as a strategic entry and escape route for the militants.

“The porous border has left Augie’s rural communities dangerously exposed to repeated attacks. Residents are routinely subjected to livestock raids carried out by the Lakurawa militants,” said Hamidu.

Operating from entrenched strongholds in Tangaza, Silame, Gudu, and Arewa in Sokoto and Kebbi states, as well as the forested regions of neighbouring Niger Republic, the assailants launch sporadic incursions.

Rustled Herds, Havoc Funds

In northwestern states like Zamfara, Katsina, Kaduna, and Sokoto, armed groups engage in cattle rustling as a means to finance their operations. Multiple reports have confirmed this. 

While an analysis by ENACT–an organisation promoting knowledge on response to organised crime in Africa–indicates that non-state armed groups have long relied on cattle rustling as a primary revenue stream, an estimate by the local newspaper Vanguard places total annual criminal earnings from livestock theft, kidnapping for ransom, illegal gold mining, and extortion between ₦200 billion and ₦500 billion.

Livestock remains a key early driver of this illicit economy, and this has long been the case, not only in Nigeria’s North West, but also in Chad and Cameroon. A study conducted by the Institute for Security Studies (ISS) in Chad and Cameroon revealed that “stolen cattle are sold to fund weapons and fighters.”

Academic research (via Tandfonline) has also stated that “cattle rustling offers a crucial channel for financing, especially for the procurement of arms and sustaining the loyalty of gang members, and this makes it indispensable to terrorism financing in the North West.”

Malam Hamidu of Tuwon Tsoro told HumAngle that Lakurawa’s activities in and around Augie, Arewa, Silame, Gudu, and Tangaza are reportedly funded by huge revenues generated through the sales of stolen herds in local markets.

Proceeds from these illicit transactions are believed to fund essential operational demands, including the procurement of firearms, compensation for local recruits, and the upkeep of remote hideouts scattered across forested areas in the North West and along the porous border regions of neighbouring Niger Republic.

A victim of livestock theft in Mera community, Augie, speaking on condition of anonymity, said:

“We learnt that whenever they steal our cows and sheep, they transport them to rural markets in Arewa and Bunza LGAs, where they’ve effectively taken control of local trade. The money from those sales is used to buy weapons, fuel, and food, and even to recruit more locals into their ranks.”

Communities shattered

While the cattle rustling crisis first emerged in Augie in 2021 with sporadic kidnappings and seizures of ploughing bulls by armed groups crossing over from Tangaza, Silame, and Gudu in Sokoto State, the situation has worsened significantly over the past eight months. 

Since November 8, 2024, attacks have intensified from the Lakurawa group through door-to-door raids. Entire communities have been devastated, and at least 27 communities have had their herds raided. 

The victims are mostly farmers and pastoralists, including women for whom livestock formed the household and economic backbone.

According to Babangida Augie and Lauwali Aliyu Sattazai, who have tracked the violence since a deadly raid on November 8, the losses are staggering.

“Apart from the Mera incident, which saw over 100 cows stolen, we estimate that about 2,000 cows and more than 1,500 other ruminants have been rustled in just eight months,” said Babangida Augie, with Aliyu Sattazai corroborating it. 

Herders from different ethnicities are affected. Abubakar Lamido, Secretary of the Miyetti Allah Cattle Breeders Association of Nigeria (MACBAN) in Kebbi State, said the Lakurawa indiscriminately target both Hausa and Fulani herders.

“They steal from both Hausa and Fulani communities. As at [sic] the time of the Mera incident alone, Lakurawa have seized 120 cows, 51 goats and numerous sheep from Fulani pastoralists in Augie, under the guise of collecting zakat,” Lamido stated.

“They arrived at my home around 6:30 p.m. with guns and took away 32 cows, 27 sheep and several goats, including those belonging to my wives. We were left with nothing, not even a horn,” said Sodangi.

Malam Hamidu and Abubakar Garba were pulling ploughs on their farms when the attackers struck.

“They met us in the field with guns. They took away my work bulls, which we rely on for ploughing. From my farm, they moved to Abubakar Garba’s farm, also stealing work bulls and several sheep. Without those animals, we cannot survive,” he said.

Beyond material losses 

For some, the consequence runs deeper than material losses. In Mera, where the November attack not only saw herds of cows carted away but also left 18 people dead, residents now live in constant fear.

Alhaji Bawa Mera was among those affected by the attack. He spoke of losing not only his 24 cattle and his son, Garba, who was tragically killed while pursuing the Lakurawa in a bid to recover the stolen herds, but also his peace of mind, shattered in the wake of the violence.

“Since that day, we have not known peace of mind,” he said. “Some of us no longer dare to farm our distant fields. We fear we might not return alive.”

Sodangi of Tuwon Tsoro told HumAngle that he had also been having sleepless nights for more than two weeks. “Since the day they took our herds, I’ve not trusted any unfamiliar face. I’ve been having sleepless nights, and this place no longer feels like home. I’m considering relocating to a safer community.”

Crippling rural economies

Academic studies show that livestock rustling dramatically undermined the socioeconomic well-being of agro-pastoral communities across the North West. Herders and farmers lost their means of livelihood. In many rural communities, such as in Katsina, Sokoto, and Zamfara, rustling led to a significant reduction in household income, deepening poverty.

In Kebbi, it appears to be part of a deliberate strategy to destabilise livelihoods. Victims and community members believe the sustained raids by armed groups are intended to cripple the rural economy and instil fear across farming and herding communities. 

With each attack, farmers and pastoralists are forced to abandon their traditional ways of life. Many have fled their villages and farmlands out of fear, seeking safety in communities across Nigeria and the Niger Republic. Some herders, seeing their livestock as a magnet for attacks, have sold them off, surrendering their livelihoods so they can live.

“Keeping animals now is like inviting death,” one herder, who requested anonymity, revealed. “It is not worth the risk.”

“It is a calculated plan to destroy our economy,” said Abubakar. 

The increasing collapse in livestock ownership is fuelling a growing crisis: unemployment among rural youth, many of whom are now vulnerable to recruitment by the very armed groups tormenting their communities.

The economic toll has been heavy on both men and women.

“My wives have lost their only source of income,” said Sodangi. “Their sheep and goats were stolen. They can no longer trade or support the family.”

Communities respond

Many of these affected areas have developed some defence strategies. In Zamfara and Katsina states, there are community volunteer security groups called Yan-Sakai, composed of local hunters, ex-servicemen, and herders. The groups patrol forests, roads, and grazing corridors where rustlers often strike.

In the face of incursions and raids by Lakurawa, the people of Augie are refusing to fold their arms. 

With little more than grit, local knowledge, and a commitment to protecting their way of life, communities are stepping up where institutions fall short. 

The heart of this resistance lies in grassroots security efforts. Youth vigilantes, mostly volunteers, have taken up the task of guarding their villages, often confronting well-armed raiders with sticks, locally made weapons, and sheer courage.

“When our cattle were taken in Mera, Yan-Sakai mobilised immediately,” said a member of Yan-Sakai who asked not to be named for safety reasons. “We went after them, not because we had better weapons, but because we had no choice,” he added.

Fear and uncertainty

While pastoralists are offloading their herds, farmers face a difficult decision: whether to keep their work bulls or sell them to purchase ploughing machines, known as power tillers, in the hope that machines may be spared where animals are not.

Tensions escalated when reports emerged from some communities in Sokoto and Garu village, near the Augie border with Niger Republic, that certain directives were being given by the terror groups to farmers.

“Farmers are being threatened for attempting to replace their work bulls with ploughing machines,” said Abubakar. “The implication is clear: retain livestock that can easily be stolen or risk losing the right to farm entirely.”

Sodangi expressed growing concern: “We’ve heard that the Lakurawa have warned people [in other areas] not to switch from work bulls to power tillers. They don’t want machines in the fields, they want bulls, so they can come and take them. That’s why panic is spreading, and many of us are now considering relocation to safer communities. I am considering moving to Tibiri, in the Niger Republic, to stay with my relatives.” 

While the local response has been swift and defiant, official responses are not as efficient.

“They only come after the attacks,” said Babangida Augie. “We have noticed a pattern of Lakurawa scouting for villages first, then returning a few days later to strike. This happened in Tungar Tudu, Sattazai, Bagurar More, and now, they have visited Illelar and Zagi once. We fear they will be next,” Babangida added.

Call for proactive security

The stolen herds are not just livestock, but a symbol of broken security, broken lives, and broken rural economies in the North West. The trend reflects the growing humanitarian fallout of insecurity in Nigeria’s northwestern frontier.

“We are not just losing cows,” said Sodangi. “We are losing our futures, our means of survival, our confidence in government, our belief that tomorrow will be better.”

There is a growing call for the Nigerian state to ensure the presence of security personnel in rural areas of the North West, fully equipped with modern tools, training, and welfare support needed to confront the Lakurawa threat effectively. 

Without such measures, human lives in the rural communities in the zone and beyond may continue to buckle under the weight of a crisis that shows no signs of abating.

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.

It begins with the memory of smoke.

Hadiza Yahaya, now in her late 70s, folds her shawl over her shoulders as she leans forward on the mat in her compound in Jakara, Kano State, northwestern Nigeria. Her voice is heavy not from age, but from the weight of the past that even time hasn’t been able to lift.

“I was pregnant with Mukhtar,” she recalled, narrating it as if it happened yesterday. “I had just picked up dry pepper and baobab leaves in Rimi Market when the shouting started, and then people were running.” It was the kind of shouting that didn’t come from mouths. It came from something deeper: from the chest, from the soul, and from the feet running helter-skelter. 

December 18, 1980.

A date seared into the Kano skin as though with a branding iron. That day, the city turned into a battlefield. It was the day Maitatsine declared war not with a foreign army but with an ideology brewed in the underbelly of forgotten slums.

The then leading newspaper in Northern Nigeria, New Nigerian, reported that four police units had been sent that day to Shahauci playground, an open space where Maitatsine and his fanatics gathered, to arrest some of his followers for preaching without permits. Upon arrival, the police were ambushed suddenly from all directions, by people wielding hatchets, bows and arrows, swords, clubs, daggers and other similar dangerous weapons.

Gaskiya Ta Fi Kobo, a local Hausa newspaper, documented that on the first day of the violence on Thursday evening, “[N]ine police vehicles were burnt and four officers were killed. Traffic in Kano on Friday and Saturday was at a standstill as people feared being caught up in the chaos. Even health workers were not able to go to the hospital, and everywhere in the Kano city and Sabon Gari area were deserted.” 

The first wave of the violence lasted with about a hundred casualties, most of them civilians, and the second one came after the police invaded Maitatsine’s home in Yan Awaki within the Kano Municipal. The violence lasted 11 days, with a conservative number of 4,000 people killed, including Maitatsine himself and excluding the military and the police. At the end of the violence, Maitatsine was fatally wounded, and his followers took him from the Koki through Jakara-Goron Dutse and then settled at Rijiyar Zaki, where they buried his corpse before it was dug by the authorities to confirm his identity. 

Maitatsine was a fiery Cameroonian-born Islamic preacher who settled in Kano and rose to infamy for his extremist sermons that denounced modernity and mainstream Islamic scholars. Preaching a puritanical and violent form of Islam, he attracted thousands of disaffected youths, mostly almajirai, whom he radicalised into a cult-like movement. In December 1980, his ideology culminated in one of the deadliest urban uprisings in Nigerian history, leaving over 4,000 people dead in an 11-day conflict that devastated Kano city.

More than four decades after his death, the ghost of Maitatsine still haunts Northern Nigeria, not through his body, but through the unresolved crises that birthed him. The 1980 uprising in Kano was not an isolated explosion of religious fanaticism; it was the violent manifestation of deeper structural failures. Today, the same volatile conditions persist, allowing Maitatsine’s ideology to live on in new, more dangerous forms. His fire may have died, but the kindling remains all around.

“When they were passing through Jakara to their final destination, we could all hear them shouting that Mallam, meaning Maitatsine, had ordered that no one should turn back. They were chanting ‘ban da waiwaye’ (don’t turn back) until they passed carrying him,” Hadiza recalled. 

The old woman said that the 11 days of Maitatsine violence were the most horrific conflict she had ever witnessed. “Not even Boko Haram is at this scale,” she said. “Imagine thousands of people being killed within that short period, not with bombs or guns, but with arrows, swords and even sticks.” 

The whisper before the fire 

His name was Muhammad Marwa, but people no longer remember him by that name. Instead, they used the terrifying title: “Maitatsine”—which in the Hausa language means “He who curses”, because Maitatsine cursed a lot. He cursed watches. He cursed bicycles. He cursed radios and televisions. He cursed all innovations brought by modernity and considered them satanic and ungodly. 

“Allah ta tsine (God has cursed),” he would say in his poor Hausa, corrupted by his Fulfulde accent. He was said to be slim, tall, and dark in complexion. He was one-eyed and the other had a squint. He memorised the Qur’an by heart, and he felt it was his duty to fight the then predominant Yan Darika – The Sufis.

And so, the man who once came from Cameroon to Kano in 1955 and settled in Gwammaja before moving to Yan Awaki as a seeker of knowledge transformed into the leader of a bloody rebellion in a city that welcomed him, gave him home, and family; a preacher turned executioner who washed his hands not in water—but in blood.

In 1962, his provocative preaching, which centred around condemning modern inventions like radios, wristwatches, and medicine as satanic, and rejecting all scholarly interpretations of the Qur’an, and declaring anyone who owned such items or disagreed with him as unbelievers, was reported to the authorities and that led to his arrest, imprisonment and subsequent deportation back to Cameroon, but he somehow sneaked in and came back just a year later after the then emir, Muhammad Sanusi I, who sentenced him was dethroned under Abubakar Rimi, the then governor of Kano State. 

However, between 1966 and 1975, Maitatsine, along with other preachers, were accused and found to be dangerous preachers, and again sent to prison in Makurdi, Benue State, under the then military governor of Kano state, Audu Bako. Maitatsine was detained for “showering abuses and making slanderous and irresponsible speeches capable of inciting violence against the Governor, the Emir, and other important personalities in Kano State,” according to the police report seen by HumAngle.

His return was more prepared and strategic. His hostile dealings with his neighbours in Yan Awaki, and the subsequent killing of his son Tijjani, also known as Kan’ana, allegedly by his friends at a beer parlour, led Maitatsine to become more violent and paranoid. 

His followers started carrying arms to the preaching ground in Shahuci, and their speeches turned more violent in 1979. People living around his house in Yan Awaki reported many cases of assaults and encroachment of private and public properties, including stalls and two public schools. 

Within those years, people accused Maitatsine of abducting and brainwashing their children, who were mostly youths and boys in their early teens and some even 11 years old. 

“Children would be found missing and after thorough investigation, they would be found at Maitatsine’s residence, and if asked to come back home, they would refuse,” said Mallam Sani from Dambazau, 65, born just a few meters from Yan Awaki. 

Towards the end of November 1980, barely two months before the full carnage, Maitatsine and his fanatics resisted military and police arrests with crude weapons and apocalyptic beliefs. And when the full violence erupted in December, the carnage was Biblical: bodies littered the streets and smoke blackened the sky. 

When the Nigerian military finally entered, Maitatsine was fatally wounded and finally lay dead; his corpse was consumed in the violence he started.

But a preacher does not die with his body. He dies only when his memory is disarmed.

Maitatsine’s movement, though crushed in Kano, metastasised like cancer. In 1982, violence erupted in Maiduguri. In 1984, Jimeta. In 1985, Gombe. His ghost wandered from slum to slum, whispering to other angry souls. It was in Borno that his ideology found its most dangerous inheritor.

Muhammad Yusuf and Abubakar Shekau, decades later, would echo Maitatsine’s rejection of modernity. Boko Haram, a phrase meaning “Western education is forbidden,” was not new. It was a reincarnation of Maitatsine’s sermons—only this time, with guns and suicides.

A problem that never ends 

But perhaps this is not merely the story of a man. It is the story of a city that simmered too long in the fires of poverty and abandonment until it exploded, and no lesson was ever learnt. 

“Most [Maitatsine] converts were illiterates and semi-literates drawn from the neighbouring West African States of Niger and Mali as well as from Chad and Cameroons,” wrote Nasir B. Zahraddeen in 1983 after investigating the violence then as a reporter with Nigerian Television Authority (NTA) and BBC Africa Service.

His followers were not just from Kano or Nigerian states. The report of the post-violence tribunal counted the non-Nigerian fanatical followers of Maitatsine as captured by the police as 162 Nigeriens, 16 Chadians, 4 Camerounians, and one from Burkina Faso, then known as Upper Volta. The tribunal then explained that among the major causes of the disturbance was Maitatsine’s ability to gather a “build-up of contingent of armed students styled as almajirai” who were willing to submit themselves for a spiritual exchange. 

Forty-five years later, in 2025, the bomb is still ticking.

In fact, little has changed in substance, even if the language has evolved. Where the 1980 Commission of Inquiry cited “uncontrolled influx of almajirai and itinerant preachers” as enabling Maitatsine’s rise, today’s government statements often use phrases like “out-of-school children” or “street begging”. The language has shifted, but the boys are still there.

The numbers tell their own story. In 1980, estimates of almajiri children in Kano hovered around a few hundred thousand, a demographic largely ignored by official schooling statistics. By 2025, despite billions in federal interventions, presidential declarations, and donor-funded pilot programs, UNICEF estimates suggest that over 1.2 million almajiri children still exist across Northern Nigeria, with Kano State contributing the largest share.

Back in 1980, Maitatsine found in the almajirai a ready-made army: poor, disenfranchised, and already indoctrinated into a harsh, rigid version of Islam that mistrusted Western institutions. Today, extremist groups from Boko Haram to ISWAP continue to target similar children for recruitment. The methods may be more sophisticated, the messaging encrypted in apps and videos rather than shouted in slums—but the vulnerability remains the same.

What is perhaps more damning is that the almajiri system has survived not because it is effective, but because it is politically untouchable. Every administration since the Maitatsine crisis has promised to reform it. The Obasanjo-era UBE policy, Jonathan’s 2012 “Almajiri Education Programme” (which built over 100 almajiri model schools, most now defunct or converted into conventional schools), and even Buhari’s rhetoric on integrating almajiri into formal education have all fallen short. 

In Kano, the 2020 lockdowns during the COVID-19 pandemic briefly forced some almajiri children off the streets, but no sustainable reintegration followed. As of 2025, the streets of Kofar Wambai, Sabon Gari, and Rijiyar Lemo still echo with the chants of barefoot children asking for money and leftover food in the name of survival and vulnerable to another Maitatsine recruiting them.

What makes this persistence even more tragic is that the Maitatsine violence was not merely a religious uprising; it was a cry from the margins. A desperate reaction from a class of people who felt abandoned by both their leaders and their society. Yet today, the same conditions remain: urban poverty, unregulated religious authority, a failing educational alternative, and a generation of children condemned to life on the fringes.

The unhealed wound

The 1980 Maitatsine uprising brought to light a deep-seated and dangerous sectarian divide within Kano’s Islamic community, as meticulously documented by the official tribunal report. It observed that “followers of some of the movements were not accommodating enough to respect the religious views held by others outside their groups.” This wasn’t merely an academic theological disagreement; it represented an ingrained culture of mutual suspicion, open verbal attacks, and theological exclusivity.

This hostile environment created incredibly fertile ground for the eruption of violence. The emergence of various fringe sects, such as the Yan Izala (Salafists), Qadiriyya, Tijaniyya, and later, the radical followers of Maitatsine himself, was characterised by their explicit refusal to coexist peacefully with other interpretations of Islam. The core of their dispute was not about the nuanced interpretation of sacred texts, but rather a fierce contention over legitimacy: who truly spoke for God, and who, by extension, did not.

“We have failed to build a culture of religious pluralism, even within Islam,” said Mallam Muhammad Mustapha, an Islamic scholar in Kano. “When every group believes it alone holds the truth, conflict is not just probable, it is inevitable.”

Now, in 2025, while the specific ideological fault lines may have subtly shifted, the underlying spirit of intolerance stubbornly persists. Kano remains a vibrant yet precarious mosaic of competing Islamic ideologies. Major groups like the Izala (Salafiyya), various Sufi orders (Qadiriyya, Tijaniyya), and the growing Shi’a community, alongside newer reformist groups, all coexist in a state of uneasy tension that often leads to accusations of blasphemy and verbal attacks. 

In January 2006, a fiery sermon by a preacher in the Dorayi area sparked clashes between Izala adherents and Tijaniyya youths. The preacher had called the Sufi practice of invoking saints “shirk” (polytheism), prompting retaliation. Police made several arrests, but the underlying tension remained.

The advent of social media has dramatically amplified these divisions. Preachers now leverage platforms like TikTok, YouTube, and Facebook to publicly denounce one another, often employing highly inflammatory rhetoric that further polarises their followers. Disturbingly, in some Friday sermons, the “other” is no longer just deemed incorrect; they are explicitly labelled a “kafir” (infidel), “zindiq” (heretic), or “mushrik” (polytheist), designations that can have severe real-world consequences and incite violence.

In a viral video from late 2024, a social media extremist preacher named Muhammad Muhammad condemned other preachers as  “unbelievers for practising or participating in democratic activities.” This has created counterattacks, especially on social media, leading to banning him from preaching and closing his mosque, but he later continued with an even more volatile narrative.

Just as in 1980, this pervasive theological balkanization continues to render any form of constructive, peaceful dialogue nearly impossible. This fragmented religious landscape makes the youth particularly susceptible to extremist interpretations, especially when those interpretations offer tempting promises of spiritual superiority, divine favour, or even political revenge against perceived enemies.

“We are seeing young people radicalised not in the bush, but in their bedrooms with a smartphone,” said Babagana Abubakar, a counter-extremism specialist. “The new battlefield is digital, and the consequences are real and bloody.”

Urban migration and youth unemployment

The tribunal report astutely highlighted the “lack of job opportunities in rural areas” as a significant driver, forcing countless young men to flood into bustling urban centres like Kano. However, upon arrival, many of these migrants found themselves unemployed, idle, and consequently, highly vulnerable.

Today, the urban-rural imbalance has grown even starker and more pronounced, with an over 75 per cent poverty rate in 2025. Northern Nigeria continues to grapple with one of the highest youth unemployment rates on the entire continent. The situation is exacerbated by escalating terrorism and insecurity in rural areas, which have rendered traditional farmlands unsafe and unproductive, further accelerating the desperate exodus of young men from villages to cities already groaning under immense population pressure.

In March 2024, a mass displacement from Katsina’s rural areas, triggered by repeated attacks by armed groups, led to many youths arriving in Kano. The state’s emergency response was overwhelmed. By May, reports surfaced of rising petty theft such as phone snatching and gang formation around the Rijiyar Lemo axis.

The dreams that initially brought these youths to Kano, often fueled by hopes of economic betterment, frequently die quickly in the face of harsh urban realities. In this profound vacuum of opportunity and hope, charismatic preachers, criminal gangs, and extremist recruiters readily step in, offering a sense of purpose, belonging, and often, a means of survival, albeit through illicit or violent avenues. 

What Maitatsine so effectively exploited in 1980, a vast pool of idle, frustrated, and disaffected youth, is even more available and primed for recruitment today, compounded by the profound disillusionment of an entire generation that feels increasingly cut off from the promises of both the state and established religious institutions.

“Hopelessness is a currency in which insurgents and extremist ideologues trade,” observed Abubakar. “And in cities like Kano, the market is flooded.”

Decline of traditional authority 

Finally, the tribunal explicitly cited the “emasculation of the authority of traditional rulers” as a core contributing factor to the crisis. In the pre-colonial era, and even during the early colonial period, emirs and district heads held not only considerable political sway but also significant traditional authority. They possessed the power to approve or restrict preachers, mediate and settle theological disputes, and enforce religious norms within their domains. This system provided a crucial layer of regulation and oversight for religious activities.

However, by 1980, this traditional authority had been severely stripped or heavily politicised, largely due to colonial restructuring and subsequent military governance. Maitatsine shrewdly thrived in this resultant regulatory vacuum, establishing his base in Yan Awaki with little to no meaningful interference until his movement had grown dangerously large and violent. In 2025, the situation has, if anything, worsened considerably. Traditional rulers largely remain ceremonial figures, frequently sidelined in critical political and religious decision-making processes.

In 2017, the Emir of Kano’s attempt to find solutions to the family crises through women’s empowerment was largely resisted from the pulpits. Another incident of how an ISWAP operative found a home in Kano and bought properties in 2021, bypassing the local traditional leaders, has further exposed how traditional institutions have become largely toothless in reigning in any excesses.

Preachers now gain influence and a following primarily through digital platforms like TikTok rather than through the approval or vetting of traditional authorities symbolised by the turban. There is a marked absence of any centralised, legitimate authority capable of effectively vetting emerging ideologies or reining in dangerous fringe movements. When an individual begins to gather a cult-like following in a remote corner of the city or through online channels, there is often no coherent or effective system in place to monitor their activities or intervene before a threat materialises.

“The Emir once had the power to license a sermon. Now, the algorithm does,” said Faruku Muhammad, Wakilin Arewa, a traditional leader. “And the algorithm does not ask who you might hurt.”

This pronounced decentralisation of religious authority is inherently dangerous, not because centralisation is flawless, but because the absence of effective checks and balances allows dangerous, divisive, and extremist ideas to proliferate and spread largely unchallenged, mirroring the very conditions that allowed Maitatsine to flourish in 1980.

 Gone – not with the matchbox

Hajiya Hadiza’s son, Mukhtar, now 44 and works as a tailor, was born in the same week Maitatsine died. “Sometimes,” he says, “it feels like my mother gave birth to me in violence, and I’ve always been remembered with Maitatsine’s violence.”

Maitatsine’s carefully reserved ash, after his corpse was burnt, now sits at the police laboratory in Kano. He is gone, but left behind some bitter memories. 

If Maitatsine was merely the manifest symptom of a deeper malaise, then the insidious disease itself—characterised by profound social alienation, relentless doctrinal conflict, and pervasive state neglect—has, regrettably, never been truly cured.

The preacher of fire may be gone. But the matchboxes remain.

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.

Since late 2019, families fleeing relentless violence in eastern Sokoto in Nigeria’s northwestern region have poured into the Guidan Roumdji Department of the Republic of Niger, carrying little more than the trauma of survival. Sabon Birni, a once-thriving community built on agriculture and livestock trading, has now become synonymous with terrorist raids, extortions, displacement, and despair.

“On the fateful day of May 27, 2020, our community came under brutal attack by armed groups,” recalled Malam Sani Manomi, a refugee from the community. “Many were killed, and the rest of us fled to neighbouring communities of Guidan Roumdji, Niger Republic.”

Sabon Birni Local Government Area (LGA), bordered to the north by the Republic of Niger and flanked by Isa LGA to the east, has devolved into a conflict hotspot. Once known for its Gobirawa heritage and cross-border kinship with Nigerien communities, the area is now fractured by fear. Armed groups and terrorists, operating with impunity, have rendered nine of the LGAs’ ten wards inaccessible.

Just across the border, Guidan Roumdji, an arrondissement in Niger’s Maradi Region, has served as a sanctuary. Its deep ethnic and historical ties to Sabon Birni, especially among the Gobirawa, have made it a natural destination for fleeing families from not only Sabon Birni but also other areas of Sokoto, Zamfara, and Katsina States.

“Guidan Roumdji is like a continuation of Sabon Birni,” said a local chief who asked not to be named. “The same people, the same roots, divided only by a line on the map.”

From peace to panic

Sabon Birni’s slide into chaos has been swift and brutal. Proximity to Zamfara, a notorious hub for non-state armed groups, has exposed it to the spillover of violence. Between 2019 and 2025, communities have endured waves of killings, mass abductions, sexual violence, and the destruction of schools, clinics, and farms.

Extortion has become a daily reality. “Bandits impose ‘life’ and ‘farming’ taxes,” said one resident. “If you don’t pay, you can’t live or work.”

The National Bureau of Statistics (NBS) has revealed that between May 2023 and April 2024, a staggering ₦1.2 trillion was paid in ransom from the North-West region. In Sabon Birni alone, reports from the Gobir Development Association indicate that over ₦160 billion was paid in ransom and protection levies between 2019 and 2024. An estimated 600,000 cattle and five million small ruminants have been rustled, while vast areas of farmland remain inaccessible.

Earlier, in July 2024, armed assailants stormed the Tsamaye community, killing people and abducting 20 others, including children. “They killed two persons and kidnapped 18 women and 2 men,” said the village head of Tsamaye.

In December, the Dan Tudu and Kwaren Gamba communities were targeted in a violent attack that left many people dead. Several men and women were abducted during the incident. 

“They rustle our livestock, rape our wives, abduct our children, and threaten anyone who speaks to the authorities,” an eyewitness of Kwaren Gamba attack said. “We live in silence, or we die.”

As attacks continue in the North West, communities remain displaced. Fearing attacks or oppressive demands from armed actors, thousands of Sabon Birni residents continue to flee to safer communities in Guidan Roumdji, leaving behind homes and livelihoods. 

Migration as survival

What began as a trickle of desperate families in 2019 has become a steady, tragic flow. By mid-2020, the UNHCR and Niger’s National Eligibility Commission had biometrically registered over 40,000 refugees in Guidan Roumdji. Tens of thousands more remain unregistered, spread across Niger’s southern regions.

“There are more Nigerians here than those officially registered,” said Hamidou, a resident of Tibiri. “They’ve scattered across communes, many are undocumented, unseen by any government.”

A turning point came on May 27, 2020, when coordinated attacks on Garki, Dan-Aduwa, Masawa, Katuma, and Kuzari districts left 74 dead and thousands displaced. The refugee population in Guidan Roumdji surged, with many settling in Tudun Sunnah village.

Describing the harrowing journey to safety, Manomi said they travelled on foot through informal routes, including Maiwa, Garin Bage, Son Allah, and the Burkusuma forest. Along the way, they learnt that similar assaults had been carried out on other communities. “While fleeing through the forest, we crossed paths with residents of Dan-Aduwa, Masawa, Katuma, and Kuzari, all desperate to survive,” he said.

Manomi’s wife, Kulu, described the journey as tragic and defined by sheer luck.

“On that day, we had no choice but to leave Garki. They burned houses and killed without mercy. We fled with nothing but the clothes on our backs, leaving our farmland behind. We trekked for hours through the bush, avoiding the roads for fear of ambush. My children cried from hunger and fear. There were moments when we thought we wouldn’t survive.”

The trend reflects the growing humanitarian crisis in many rural communities of northwestern Nigeria.

According to Manomi, their arrival in Tudun Sunnah village of Guidan Roumdji brought no relief, as they encountered scores of displaced people from rural areas of Zamfara, Katsina, and the Isa LGA of Sokoto State. “It was terrible,” he said. “People were pouring in from everywhere, escaping the violence that had consumed their villages.”

Hardship and hope in exile

Life in exile is marked by struggle. Refugees live in makeshift huts or open fields, surviving on meagre incomes from blacksmithing, petty trade, or subsistence labour. Healthcare is scarce, and disease outbreaks, including cholera, are common.

“Even here, life is tough,” said Sama’ila Mamadou, 61, who fled Dankware. “But it’s better than being killed back home.”

“When we finally reached Tudun Sunnah, we found hundreds of other refugees,” Kulu recalled. “We had no shelter, no food; only our lives. Now, we live in a makeshift camp in a nearby hamlet, sharing cramped conditions with many others who fled like us. Every day is a struggle. My husband now works as a manual labourer just to keep us going. But at least we are alive. I pray for peace, so we can return home.”

Local officials describe the living conditions as “pathetic.” Aminu Boza, a lawmaker from Sabon Birni, says he has distributed food and basic supplies out of his own pocket. “No shelter, no medicine, no toilets—an epidemic is just one rainstorm away,” he warned.

A patchwork of relief

While conditions remain harsh, there have been glimmers of support. The Nigerien government, in collaboration with UNHCR, Nigeria’s NEMA, and authorities in Sokoto, established “villages of opportunity,” — Dan Dadji Makaou, Garin Kaka, and Chadakori, for registered refugees from across the northwestern states. These camps in the aforementioned communities offer better security and more structured aid.

Yet most displaced persons remain outside this system. In towns like Tsouloulou, grassroots generosity by host communities sustains the newcomers. “People gave the little they have, such as clothes, maize, millet,” said Hussaini Shuaibu, a civil servant.

Wealthy individuals have also stepped in. Alhaji Umar Ajiya Isa donated trailers of food; Alhaji Mukhtar Shehu Shagari distributed rice and essentials.

“Since we arrived here in Tudun Sunnah, no institution or individual has given us any form of assistance,” said Manomi.

Resilience in ruins

Despite the hardship, many refugees are rebuilding. Women run food stalls, men farm on borrowed land, and youth repair phones or sell tailoring services. “We may not have much,” said Sama’ila Mamadou, a migrant from the Dankware community, “but we have each other. And we are trying.”

Back home, the attacks continue. In July 2024, Sarkin Gobir of Gatawa District, Alhaji Isa Bawa, was kidnapped and later died in captivity. The following days saw the abduction of over 150 residents. Between August and December, assaults intensified across Dan Tudu, Kwaren Gamba, and other villages.

A witness described one harrowing night: “Gunmen stormed our village, and a bride and her bridesmaids were kidnapped. We couldn’t stop them, we were helpless.”

By May 2025, attacks by the infamous Bello Turji drove thousands more from Gatawa District. Return is no longer a viable option.

“They tell us, ‘We cannot go back to a place where human life is worthless,’” said Ibrahim Maigari, a chief in Guidan Roumdji.

Future in Limbo

Most Sabon Birni refugees in Niger are unregistered, without access to education, healthcare, or legal protection. Insecurity, hunger, and disease continue to stalk them.

Calls for intervention are growing louder. “We need more than emergency aid,” said Boza. “We need security, justice, and a path back home.”

For now, however, hope clings to the resilience of the displaced.

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 a bid to deepen local peacebuilding efforts and also confront the growing threat of online extremist propaganda, HumAngle Foundation, sister organisation of HumAngle Media, on Wednesday, June 25, brought together 15 civil society actors for a multi-stakeholder roundtable discussion in Kaduna, North West Nigeria. 

The event is part of the organisation’s “Advancing Peace and Security through Journalism” project, which aims to equip journalists and civil society groups with tools to strengthen civic accountability and reduce conflict triggers.

With support from the National Endowment for Democracy (NED), the Foundation had earlier, in April, trained 15 journalists from across Nigeria’s six geopolitical zones during a three-day workshop in Abuja. The April training focused on conflict-sensitive reporting and innovative storytelling tools.

At the Kaduna roundtable, Angela Umoru-David, Director of the Foundation, introduced the participants to the HumAngle Freedom of Information (FOI) platform. Launched in 2024, the platform simplifies and facilitates the process of demanding accountability from government institutions.

“It is not just about asking what money was spent on,” Angela said. “It’s about probing how inclusion is budgeted for. Is there a ministry responsible? How do [ministries, departments, agencies] use their funds? What are the policies around gender inclusion and mainstreaming? These are the questions civil society actors should ask.”

She explained that HumAngle’s headquarters in Abuja is strategically placed to support FOI submissions on behalf of organisations working at the grassroots. Participants were also given a walkthrough of the platform’s interface and practical tips for navigating it.

The next session on fact-checking extremist content online was led by Aliyu Dahiru, who heads HumAngle’s Extremism and Radicalisation desk. He explored the strategies used by extremist groups for propaganda, radicalisation, and recruitment, particularly through social media platforms. 

“In Northern Nigeria, Facebook is the dominant platform used by extremist groups,” Aliyu said, highlighting how extremists exploit emotional appeals and information overload to spread false narratives and incite violence.

He cited injustice, poverty, lack of opportunity, and ethno-religious mistrust as key drivers of radicalisation in the region. Aliyu encouraged civil society organisations (CSOs) to monitor local Facebook and WhatsApp groups for misinformation, train community members to detect fake and radical content, and partner with social media influencers to push counter-narratives.

“You can also document and share harmful content with us,” he added. “At HumAngle, we fact-check, analyse, and monitor. If you share with us, we will help verify the claims.”

Aliyu introduced the participants to practical verification tools such as InVID and Google Reverse Image Search for authenticating videos and photos.

The event concluded with a roundtable discussion moderated by Salmah Jumah, HumAngle Foundation’s Senior Programmes Officer. During the discussions, participants exchanged insights on extremist campaigns they have witnessed and the emerging challenges around the use of new media in conflict contexts.

While commending HumAngle for the initiative, Zainab Ibrahim, a participant who works with the Kaduna State Corporation, said that the roundtable reminded her that the spread of disinformation on violent extremism is not limited to social media. “Even the mainstream media is guilty of that,” she said, pledging to be more mindful in her coverage of sensitive issues. 

Another participant, Hadiza Ismail, noted that she learned more about the growing influence of artificial intelligence in fuelling confusion and spreading fake content. “AI is here to stay, fortunately and unfortunately,” she noted, pointing out that AI-generated images and videos are often circulated by older people who may struggle to distinguish between real and fake visuals. 

Hadiza said she is committed to contributing to community-level sensitisation to bridge this generational knowledge gap and reduce vulnerability to misleading content.

The roundtable reaffirmed HumAngle Foundation’s commitment to empowering local actors with the knowledge and tools necessary to counter extremism and foster inclusive, sustainable peacebuilding in conflict-affected regions.

Authorities have confirmed a bomb explosion that killed at least five people and injured 15 others in Kano State, North West Nigeria, on Saturday, June 21, 2025. 

The explosion in the Hotoro Eastern Bypass area near a metal company sent panic through the neighbourhood. Security and emergency response teams were quickly deployed to manage the situation and aid victims.

Kano State Commissioner of Police, Ibrahim Adamu Bakori, told journalists that preliminary findings suggest the explosion may have involved military-grade explosives in transit, not a terror attack.

“Preliminary findings suggest the explosive material was being transported by a trailer, but it remains unclear whether the vehicle was carrying military personnel or contractors,” he explained.

“I received an emergency call about a disturbing incident. Upon arrival, it appeared the explosion came from ordnance possibly being transported by military personnel,” Bakori said.

According to the commissioner, an initial investigation indicated that a large truck carrying explosive materials, reportedly headed toward Yobe State, might have been involved in the blast. 

With regards to the casualties, he said 15 people sustained various degrees of injuries, while tragically, five have been confirmed dead. He says those injured have been taken to nearby hospitals for urgent medical attention.

“Security agencies are currently investigating the incident. The facts will be clearer once the investigation is completed,” the Commissioner said.

He also urged residents to remain calm as security agencies continue their investigation.

Meanwhile, photos show officers cordoning off the area and examining debris.

A painful history 

Kano has a long and painful history with bomb explosions, many of them linked to Boko Haram’s violent campaign in Northern Nigeria. The city’s darkest day came on January 20, 2012, when coordinated attacks on police stations and government buildings killed over 185 people. 

In the years that followed, bombings became frequent, especially in civilian areas like Sabon Gari, where explosions at motor parks in 2013 and 2014 claimed dozens of lives. The group’s use of female suicide bombers, including minors, created a new dimension of fear. Hospitals, markets, and schools were no longer safe.

Another devastating attack occurred in November 2014, when over 120 worshippers were killed at the Kano Central Mosque. Although military offensives have since pushed back the group’s operations, and urban attacks have declined, Kano has continued to face sporadic explosions from either suspected insurgent remnants or poor handling of explosives. 

In May 2022, a blast in Sabon Gari killed several schoolchildren. Initial reports blamed terrorists, but authorities later said it resulted from the illegal storage of chemicals by welders. The incident and the recent one in Hotoro have exposed deep gaps in arms regulation and safety enforcement in civilian zones.

This latest explosion in Hotoro, which killed five people and injured 15, revives old fears. Although authorities have said they suspect the blast came from military-grade explosives being transported, the incident reflects Kano’s enduring vulnerability.

Extensive ungoverned forested areas in Kano State compromise security, serving as transit points for terrorist groups exploiting the complex landscape of northern Nigeria. Although Kano has historically been protected from widespread terrorism due to strategic military initiatives and its geographic advantages, recent incidents suggest a decline in safety. The local authorities’ inadequate communication and response during attacks heighten residents’ feelings of vulnerability and diminish their reliance on traditional security measures.

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.

At dusk, Najibullah Nakaka begins a 20-minute steep climb to Wajen Etisalat, a hilly neighbourhood in Birnin Gwari, Nigeria, where the mobile signal is slightly stronger. Locals gave it the name, which translates to Etisalat’s Place, because it is one of the few spots where you might find internet access, even if only momentarily. The name harks back to Etisalat, the former name of 9mobile, a local telecom operator that once had a stronger presence in the area.

With his phone gripped tightly in one hand and hope in the other, he ascends through rocky paths and bushy outgrowths. He just wants to upload an image of the native caps, wristwatches, or shoes he sells in his small shop on a social media marketplace. It is a ritual that takes him away from his home, often at night, in search of a network signal that may or may not be there.

“I used to wait till midnight, sometimes longer,” Najibullah, a soft-spoken man in his early 30s, recalled. “Even if the signal came, it wasn’t enough to make a call. At best, I could send a text or a voice note. Sometimes, I had to hike for about 41 km to neighbouring areas like Bagoma or Kamuku National Park just to find MTN’s signal — one we believe was coming from Niger State.”

This is not just his story. It’s the lived reality for over 300,000 people in Birnin Gwari, a local government area in Kaduna State, northwestern Nigeria, where full network coverage has remained elusive for over three years.

Najibullah’s sister struggles to communicate with her husband, who is in Europe. She tries to send him pictures of their one-year-old daughter from time to time.

Birnin Gwari used to be a lively transit hub linking Nigeria’s North to the South. Bigger in size than Lagos, with an area of 6,185km², the town bustled with trailers transporting livestock, grains, and people along its highways. Its large grain and livestock markets were among the largest in Kaduna State. But a large forest on its outskirts became a hideout for armed groups, and eventually, the town began to unravel under waves of insecurity.

In 2021, as violence escalated across the region, state governments, starting with Zamfara and Katsina, then later Kaduna, ordered a telecom shutdown aimed at disrupting insurgents’ ability to coordinate attacks. But rather than stopping the violence, the blackout brought untold socio-economic hardship to residents. Locals told HumAngle that the attacks not only continued but worsened, with people not being able to make distress calls during the attacks. With mobile networks down, terrorists began demanding ransoms through handwritten letters.

Although the government lifted the restrictions in late 2021, residents of Birnin Gwari say network coverage has not returned. Local telecom operators like MTN, Airtel, and 9Mobile are absent across the local government. GLO works only sporadically in three out of eleven wards. Residents rely on a mix of low-tech ingenuity and costly alternatives; climbing hills, suspending phones on antennae, or congregating at fuel stations that use satellite internet services like Starlink.

While it is an alternative, Starlink installation and subscription are expensive and cannot be afforded in every home or business. As of June 2025, the hardware costs about ₦626,300, and the monthly subscription is around ₦57,000, figures far beyond reach for most residents. 

“Sometimes, it feels we’re back to the Stone Age,” said Mallam Hassan, a resident who sells telecom recharge cards. “When we can’t reach the people we want to communicate with, we have to rely on word of mouth to get our messages delivered. It is that bad.”

The shutdown’s effects are far-reaching. Najibullah’s fashion business suffered. His attempts to apply for a Master’s programme at Bayero University, Kano, failed due to an inability to access the application portal in time. Eventually, he relocated to Zaria, an urban area in Kaduna State, where he now works as a classroom teacher and digital educator.

“It led me to open a foundation that serves as a bridge between students and opportunities that are being shared online,” Najibullah told HumAngle. “They send me their details, and I fill out the forms for them. Teachers and students alike are missing out on digital educational tools that will get them prepared for the future. There is no integration of technology and digital tools in education.”

He added that, “There is no JAMB centre in Birnin Gwari. People have to travel to other neighbouring local governments or Kaduna town to register and sit for JAMB (pre-university) exams.”

Businesses are in decline. Livestock and grain trading have slowed to a crawl. There is no single functioning bank in the town. Union Bank, once the only commercial presence, shut its doors due to both insecurity and the absence of a telecom signal.

“This is why I had to leave, because my work and schooling are virtual,” Najibullah said. 

Hassan, who once supplied over ₦5 million worth of recharge cards weekly, now struggles to hit ₦200,000. “People can’t recharge phones without a signal. My friend, who used to sell livestock and grains worth ₦50 million monthly, can barely survive now. [Physical] cash movement is dangerous, and there’s no network for mobile transactions.”

‘Peace has not translated into connectivity’

In January 2025, Kaduna State negotiated a peace pact with some armed groups, reportedly enabling the reopening of markets and the resumption of 24-hour road traffic. The cattle market, which had been dormant for over a decade, is slowly reviving, with more than 50 trucks now departing weekly.

But peace has not translated into connectivity. Telecommunications companies have been reluctant to return. Masts destroyed during the conflict remain unrepaired.

“We have been writing letters and lobbying the influential individuals in our town to lead the conversation about restoring the networks. We have equally written to the telcos to come back, as Birnin Gwari is peaceful now. Up till now, nothing has been done,” Najibullah said.

Gbenga Adebayo, Chairperson of the Association of Licensed Telecom Operators of Nigeria, did not respond to our requests for comment.

However, Frank Eleanya, a telecom analyst, said: “When we think about telecommunications, we need to see it more as a commercial entity than a humanitarian one.”

Eleanya explained that restoring operations in a community like Birnin Gwari, where several pieces of infrastructure have been vandalised, might not be an easy decision for telecom operators, particularly in the face of declining revenues and shrinking profit margins. “One of the things that will determine whether they return immediately is how much they were earning there in the first place. If it wasn’t profitable, they wouldn’t see it as viable. The decision to return depends on commerce — on how much they stand to make,” he added.

Amid financial constraints, many telecom companies have slowed the deployment of new infrastructure. “They are currently focused on optimising existing assets to generate returns for shareholders,” he told HumAngle. 

Eleanya also noted that if telecom operators are not convinced that security has been sufficiently addressed in these communities, it will be difficult for them to reinvest, particularly because restarting connectivity and revamping infrastructure is capital-intensive. 

Nonetheless, he stated that if the federal or state government is willing to bear the costs, including the right of way and cutting down multiple taxation, telecom operators may be more inclined to consider returning. “But you can’t hold them to ransom and insist they must come back to the community,” he said. “There are significant costs they are factoring in.”

HumAngle reached out to James Kanyip, the Kaduna State Commissioner of Home Affairs and Internal Security, for comment via email and phone call, but he did not respond.

“The people are living in darkness, deprived of communication and opportunities due to this prolonged outage,” said Isah Muhammad Galadima, a lecturer at the Usmanu Danfodiyo University, Sokoto, in an open letter to Nigerian telecom operators. “[They] are in dire need of assistance.”