North-West

In one of the world’s most deprived and volatile regions, HumAngle’s reporting and experience reveal that journalists in Nigeria are not just observing suffering but are pulled into it as they try to report it. Consequently, they say, they find themselves paying out of pocket to feed the people whose stories they are trying to tell.

In theory, the profession is expected to observe some emotional distance from its sources and the stories they tell. However, that model is inoperable in conflict-affected regions of northern Nigeria and the Sahel.

Journalism here is embedded in environments shaped by violence, poverty, and dense social networks. Since these variables affect people at random, the reporter is not an outsider; sometimes, the conflict directly affects them as well. Ethical decisions are then made under pressure, repeatedly, and often without the comfort of certainty.

HumAngle operates in this space. Its work across Lake Chad, Central Africa, Nigeria’s Middle Belt, the North West, the South East, and other conflict zones forces a confrontation with a difficult question: What does ethical journalism look like when the people you report on are not just sources, but individuals whose survival may intersect directly with your presence?

The limits of imported ethics

Global journalism standards discourage payment for information, and while exceptions exist, they do so under strict editorial oversight, a clear public-interest justification, and transparency. Journalism teachers say that, though these frameworks are expected to provide clarity, they don’t in conflict-affected Nigeria, where the assumed context doesn’t apply. The ideal context has clear distinctions between sources and service providers and functioning identity systems. This is hardly obtainable in conflict-affected environments.

Dr Kabiru Danladi, a Mass Communication scholar with the Ahmadu Bello University in northwestern Nigeria, says, “Our curriculum borrows heavily from Euro-American ethical frameworks – objectivity, detachment, neutrality – principles rooted in relatively stable societies. The failure becomes evident when our graduates are deployed to cover issues that weren’t directly taught in class, or they are sent to cover conflicts in places like Zamfara, Sokoto, Kebbi, Borno, Yobe or Benue, where journalism is not just a profession but a survival exercise.”

Dr Obiora Chukwumba, a researcher and media expert in Abuja, identifies the same problem in the moral obligation created by field contact. “There is no ethical barrier to a journalist intervening on grounds of goodwill to assist a source who is in a vulnerable position,” he said.

The reality of field reporting

A fixer in Zamfara, where terror groups continue to kill, abduct, and loot, is not simply an access broker but may also translate, assess risk, and act as a negotiator in certain environments. A driver in Borno, North East Nigeria, may carry more situational intelligence than any formal briefing. An intermediary in the southeast may navigate relationships across vigilante groups and separatist networks.

These individuals are essential. Without them, our reporters’ access vanishes. But they are also embedded in the same systems the journalist is trying to understand, which creates layered risks, including legal risks that emerge when payments made for legitimate services are later interpreted as material support. 

Barrister Joseph Danboyi, a senior lawyer in Jos, North Central Nigeria, says, “Payment to a fixer creates liability if the journalist knew his connection with criminals. Ordinary payment for information is insufficient. The journalist will be aiding and abetting when payment is purposefully linked to criminal conduct.”

He goes further to add, “The practical bottom line is that a journalist who unknowingly pays a criminal for information is generally not liable… liability requires knowledge… and intent to help or further it.”

This distinction between knowledge and intent anchors the legal reality that sits beneath field decisions. 

Dr Obiora also treats fixers and access arrangements as part of newsroom operations, not automatically as ethical breaches. “Parts of the routine (investigative) costs tied to the operations of a newsroom include such services as engaging fixers, obtaining access to a reasonably considered newsmaker, and appreciation handouts,” he said. “They are all legitimate operational costs.”

There is no procedural checklist that eliminates these risks. What exists instead is a need for structured awareness and disciplined judgment in newsrooms.

The Knifar women: A case that reshapes the debate

HumAngle’s engagement with the Knifar movement brings these tensions into focus. The Knifar women are part of a grassroots movement shaped by prolonged suffering. Their husbands, sons, and brothers were detained during military operations, often for years, without trial. In many cases, these men were the primary providers, and so their absence triggered cascading consequences for these women, including food insecurity, poverty, and social fragmentation. The women organised into a pressure group to demand accountability for the detention of their male relatives.

HumAngle’s reporting amplified their efforts, influencing outcomes that ultimately led to the release of over a thousand men that the women were advocating for. 

Our work required prolonged engagement with the women, whose daily reality was defined by deprivation. In some instances, our journalists provided stipends. In other cases, some of these women became part of the reporting process as fixers and contributors with fixed incomes in our newsroom. We have even given some of them ‘additional reporting’ credit for their work. Since they are both sources and resource persons for our newsroom, we are often clear about what we are paying them for – their work, not their information. We have spoken publicly about the dynamics of our relationship with these women, including in a Pulitzer Centre-supported documentary.

Kunle Adebajo, a renowned award-winning investigative journalist, reflects on his own experience in being moved to provide money to vulnerable sources: “I’ve often had to pay vulnerable sources. This is because the majority of them live from hand to mouth and rely on wages from daily labour to get their sustenance, and so such interviews could be very disruptive and uncomfortable for them. Oftentimes, they also have to transport themselves to meet at the interview location. The sums given were trifling, and there was never an understanding that the interview itself was transactional. 

Dr Obiora agrees that the understanding must always be clear. “If the source or interviewee presents the personal need to overshadow the reason for the meeting with the journalist, then that could be a red flag,” he said, “pointing to potential compromised narrative or ‘adjusted facts’ from the source or interviewee.”

When observation is not enough

Journalists are trained not to pay sources because it could risk distortion and affect credibility, but what happens when the people you are interviewing live in destitute conditions?

“I met residents, elderly men and women who could not feed themselves, who could not afford basic healthcare. I met a father who lost his wife to a particular ailment, and whose two kids are still suffering from the same ailment. Yet, he could not help.”

The award-winning journalist said he felt compelled to help. “I offered to buy meals for some of them through my fixer. Yes, I offered them some cash to buy what they needed. When I got back to my hotel room that evening, I actually cried. I felt the depth of these people’s suffering.”

He is not unaware of the ethical grey spots in giving money to sources. “Ethically, I did not really care at that point whether offering them some cash would be seen as an inducement. I told myself that I had to act as a human being at the moment and drop the toga of ‘a journalist’ at that point.” 

Dr Danladi understands this and says that “Students must be taught that they are a journalist, yes – but they are also human beings. Refusing to help in the name of ‘objectivity’ can itself be an ethical failure.” He says that liability only becomes possible “where the journalist knows or is willfully blind to criminal activity… or where the payment itself is tied to illegal conduct.”

Another journalist from southwestern Nigeria, who declined to be named, described facing similar situations in which his sources were suffering. 

“They had had to eat rotten food sourced from the nearby markets, and sometimes they went days without eating anything because their husbands, who provided for them, had been killed. I saw that most of their children were malnourished and looked so skinny. It was such a touching situation, and I couldn’t help but give them some money that I had with me so that they could buy food and cook.”

The practice of support

Payment for content implies a transaction because it links money to information, but support that exists independently of reporting is different. It protects the integrity of the story while still acknowledging the reality of the environment.

Hauwa Shaffii Nuhu, an award-winning journalist and newsroom manager, said that though in her early days as a journalist, she could not resist the urge to help vulnerable sources, she has now learned to favour long-term external support. “Now, I connect them [the vulnerable subjects of her story] with NGOs… or make it possible for society to donate directly to them or through an independent third party like a fixer.”

In cases where reporters have to provide any form of support, journalism scholars like Obiora say documentation matters. Record decisions and rationale for such actions while in the field. According to Obiora, “one of the most important structures for documenting and reviewing ethical footprints in the newsroom is within the internal editorial space.” He proposed an Editorial Board of Line Editors, chaired by the title editor, and another layer through an Editorial Advisory Board, where “it would be necessary to bring the platform’s legal advisor as a member.”

“These steps will not protect you from state action if authorities choose to act,” a senior security official said. What they only do is to protect the integrity of your journalism, he implied. They help you draw a line between necessary support and inducement, between humanitarian assistance and conduct that could be interpreted as enabling someone directly or indirectly tied to the crime you are investigating.

The unresolved tension

Speaking more to the legal position of a source, unknown to the journalist, being tied to criminal activity, Danboyi reiterates that a journalist who unknowingly pays a criminal is generally not liable, as exposure begins when there is knowledge, or when you consciously ignore signals that should raise concern.

Consider the fixer a journalist has worked with closely. Not a transactional contact, but someone embedded in the reporting process, with days, sometimes weeks, spent together. The journalist has covered his meals, made stops at his home during fieldwork, supported him beyond the assignment, helped with school fees, and contributed when his child was ill. Then, months or years later, the fixer is named in a crime. The record of the journalist’s relation with him exists: Transfers, messages, shared locations. A traceable history of proximity that can be turned into proof of complicity.

A different kind of responsibility

The Knifar women’s story forces a reconsideration of responsibility and demands a different approach to how journalism ethics is taught and judged. “We graduate students who know the code, but cannot survive in the field,” says Dr Danladi.

Dr Obiora returns the question to dignity. “A journalist whose interaction with a source contributes to lifting the source’s dignity has discharged his or her obligation professionally.”

In environments where silence sustains suffering, the act of telling a story, and the way that story is told, carries consequences beyond journalism.

In Nigeria’s North East, the Boko Haram insurgent group once carved out territory and declared a caliphate. In the North West, terrorist groups operate as fluid, profit-driven networks, embedding themselves in local economies. In the Middle Belt, communal violence reflects deeper contests over land, identity, and survival. In the South East, separatist agitation by the Indigenous People of Biafra (IPOB) has fused with armed enforcement and criminal opportunism. Along the southern waterways, oil theft and piracy threaten economic lifelines.

Across all these theatres, one institution has remained consistently engaged: the Nigerian military, often as the default responder in the absence of effective civilian governance. Public perception often frames this engagement as a failure as attacks continue and civilians remain vulnerable. A closer, evidence-based reading tells a more complex story, however, though available data remains incomplete and, at times, contested. 

The Nigerian military appears to have adapted under pressure and recalibrated aspects of its doctrine, and, in key moments, helped reverse trajectories that once pointed toward state collapse. It has delivered tangible gains, some strategic, others tactical, many costly. Still, those gains sit on unstable ground because governance gaps, political interference, corruption, and weak institutional follow-through have repeatedly blunted them. Communities liberated from one threat find themselves exposed to another. 

The North East war: reversing a collapse

By early 2015, Nigeria was on the brink of losing control in the North East. Boko Haram had evolved from an insurgent group into a territorial force controlling large swathes of Borno State and parts of Yobe and Adamawa. It administered territory, collected taxes, and imposed its authority over local populations. Gwoza was declared the headquarters of a so-called caliphate. Entire communities were displaced, and military formations overrun.

The turning point came with a shift in military posture, in which command structures were reconfigured, and the operational headquarters was relocated to Maiduguri, the Borno State capital, bringing leadership closer to the frontline. Coordination with regional forces under the Multinational Joint Task Force (MJTF) also intensified as air and ground operations were synchronised.

The results were immediate and significant, though the durability of these gains has varied across locations. Key towns like Monguno, Bama, Dikwa, and even Gwoza, the symbolic heart of Boko Haram’s territorial claim, fell back under government control in rapid succession. Data from ACLED shows that between 2015 and 2025, the military recovered at least 259 territories. 

With this territorial success, supply routes were disrupted, and fighters were killed in large numbers. Civilians began to return to these areas, in some cases under fragile security conditions. 

It marked the collapse of Boko Haram’s experiment with territorial governance, and the battle for Sambisa Forest reinforced this shift.

For years, Sambisa had functioned as a strategic sanctuary where fighters trained, hostages were held, and leadership structures operated with relative security. It also carried psychological weight. As long as Sambisa remained intact, Boko Haram retained a sense of permanence.

The military’s assault on the forest required sustained effort involving navigating difficult terrain, dealing with improvised explosive devices, and confronting entrenched fighters. Airstrikes softened targets while ground troops advanced in phases, enabling special forces units to penetrate deeper into the forest.

The symbolic impact was significant, though not decisive in ending insurgent capacity. Boko Haram could no longer claim a fixed territorial base for as long as was once the case. Its command structure was disrupted, and its image of invincibility weakened.

And so Boko Haram fragmented into factions. The Islamic State West Africa Province (ISWAP) emerged as a more structured and strategic actor while the Shekau-led faction became more erratic, marked by extreme violence and unpredictability.

The military adjusted again.

Operations shifted from territory holding to mobility and disruption. Intelligence-led raids targeted leadership and logistics. Airpower became central to deep strikes in difficult terrain. Operation Lafiya Dole, the codename for the counter-insurgency operation, transitioned into Operation Hadin Kai, reflecting a recalibrated effort.

Today, the insurgency remains active, particularly in remote areas and along the Lake Chad basin. But the scale and nature of the threat have changed.

The North West: fighting a war without frontlines

The North West posed a different challenge. Armed groups here are diffuse. It lacks a central command and is driven by economic incentives rather than ideology, so groups form, splinter, and realign quickly. Local grievances and criminal enterprise also intersect here.

Estimates suggest tens of thousands of terrorists operate across this region, covering multiple states including Zamfara, Katsina, Kebbi, Sokoto, and Kaduna. This fragmentation complicates the military response, as frontlines, headquarters, and leadership structures (the usual strategic targets) are not clear. The military has responded by leaning heavily on airpower and targeted ground operations. This has not gone without major problems, such as the repeated “accidental bombing” of civilian populations, which have drawn criticism from rights groups and affected communities. 

Still, airstrikes have been used to hit camps deep within forested areas that are difficult for ground troops to access. Intelligence plays a critical role in identifying targets. Data shows that the sustained air campaign has yielded at least 909 strikes and 10,237 fatalities in 10 years. ACLED data shows that about 560 of these fatalities were civilians.

Ground forces usually conduct follow-up operations to recover weapons and temporarily secure areas.

Large numbers of kidnapped victims have been rescued during coordinated operations. Livestock, often a key economic asset for communities, has been retrieved. Such attacks have also killed some high-profile terrorist leaders, but they have also led to the loss of officers. 

In some areas, these operations appear to have had a temporary stabilising effect, though violence frequently resurges. Communities report periods of reduced attacks, farming activities have resumed in limited corridors, and confidence in security presence has improved, though often temporarily. 

Still, armed violence regenerates as the effects of weak governance in the North East are the same in the North West: new leaders emerge, and fighters disperse and regroup. Economic incentives remain strong. 

The Middle Belt: stabilising a political conflict

Violence in the Middle Belt is often described as a farmer-herder conflict, but the region’s violence reflects a complex mix of land disputes, ethnic tensions, and environmental stress. Armed militias operate alongside opportunistic criminal actors, while cycles of reprisal deepen mistrust between communities. 

There are too many dynamics in play here to reduce the crisis to a “military versus any specific group” conflict. Most of the time, softer kinetic actions, such as arrest and deterrence, are used. 

In certain corridors, the presence of military forces has reduced the frequency of mass casualty events. But the limits are clear. Several parts of the region still depend on self-help vigilante groups, who are often outgunned during terror attacks. 

There is also a growing distrust between communities and security operatives, who are sometimes accused of slow response and complicity. In April, residents of Gashish, a rural community in Barkin Ladi Local Government Area of Plateau State, staged a protest over continued attacks in the community despite military presence. A checkpoint manned by troops of Operation Enduring Peace was destroyed during the demonstration. 

The military has denied such accusations, but independent verification remains limited. 

However, in other areas, the visibility of armed forces has also had a deterrent effect on opportunistic attacks. 

At its core, the conflict in the region is driven by political and environmental factors. It revolves around identity and access to land and water. While military deployments can suppress violence temporarily, they cannot resolve competing claims or rebuild trust between communities. Without political solutions, stability remains provisional.

The South East: managing a hybrid threat

The South East presents a hybrid security challenge. Separatist agitation, particularly linked to IPOB, has evolved into a mix of political mobilisation and armed enforcement. The group has enforced sit-at-home orders through violence and intimidation while the Eastern Security Network (ESN) operates in forested areas.

The military’s response has been presented as targeted and intelligence-driven. Operations focus on dismantling camps, intercepting arms, and arresting key figures. Urban centres are secured to prevent escalation into wider insurgency.

Yet the approach carries risks.

Heavy-handed operations have generated grievances. Allegations of abuses have eroded trust in some communities. This complicates intelligence gathering, which is critical in a conflict where fighters blend into civilian populations. 

The Niger Delta and maritime domain: securing economic lifelines

In the South South and along Nigeria’s maritime corridors, the military, particularly the navy, has delivered some of its most visible successes. A decade ago, the Gulf of Guinea was a global hotspot for piracy. Sustained operations, including improved surveillance, increased naval patrols, and collaboration with international partners, have changed that landscape. These have led to the destruction of illegal refining sites and to arrests that disrupt networks involved in oil theft.

These gains have helped to protect revenue streams, stabilise energy production, and reinforce Nigeria’s position in regional maritime security, although illegal activities have not been fully eradicated. 

“The Nigerian military is overstretched”

According to World Bank data collected from development indicators in 2020, Nigeria has roughly 223,000 active personnel across the army, navy, and air force. The army, which carries out most internal operations, has about 140,000 to 150,000 troops.

In the battlespace, there are simultaneous operations in at least six theatres. That constitutes multi-domain internal security warfare. Nigeria has about 0.1 per cent of its population under arms. When compared to countries facing sustained internal conflict, which often exceed 0.3 to 0.5 per cent, the country is operating below the threshold needed to dominate territory.

On the geography front, Nigeria is over 923,000 square kilometres, with vast forests, porous borders, and ungoverned rural space. It is impossible to hold ground everywhere with the limited available personnel. So troops are cycled, which then leads to fatigue because units stay deployed for long periods with limited rest.

Retired Lt. Gen. Tukur Buratai, the country’s former Chief of Army Staff, recently said, “The military is overstretched, defence budgets are diverted to routine policing duties, and the Armed Forces’ preparedness for conventional threats is reduced.”

However, there are also welfare issues and equipment gaps, especially at the tactical level in remote theatres. The result is predictable: Tactical wins, like killing terror commanders or rescuing hostages are visible, but strategic stagnation remains because you cannot sustain presence everywhere.

The structural constraint: why gains do not hold

Despite these efforts, Nigeria’s security situation remains volatile. 

In many areas, once the military has cleared armed actors, there is limited follow-through by civil authorities, as local administration is weak. So, communities do not experience the full return of the state, allowing armed groups to exploit this gap to re-enter or reorganise.

Economic conditions sustain conflict. Studies have shown that high levels of poverty and unemployment, particularly among young people, create a pool of potential recruits when armed groups offer income, however precarious.

Trust deficits also weaken intelligence because communities that distrust state actors are less likely to share information. This limits the effectiveness of intelligence-led operations and increases reliance on force.

Finally, strategy remains fragmented. Nigeria faces different types of violence that require tailored responses. Yet policy often treats them through a similar lens. Counterterrorism approaches are applied to terrorist attacks, while military solutions are prioritised in conflicts that require political negotiation.

The Nigerian military has played a significant role in preventing state collapse in multiple regions.

At the height of Boko Haram’s expansion, the possibility of sustained territorial loss was real. That threat has been largely reversed. In the North West, despite persistent violence, terrorist groups have not been allowed to consolidate into a territorial authority. In the South East, tensions have been contained below the threshold of full insurgency. In the maritime domain, economic lifelines have been secured.

However, good governance remains the only real pathway out of a cycle of violence. 

Yet the reality remains harsh. Lives are still lost daily. Families continue to sell everything they own to pay ransoms. The military has contributed to pushing back elements of the threat with measurable, though uneven, success, but it has not eliminated them.

Additional data provided by Mansir Muhammed.