Sokoto

Let us begin with what has been forgotten. 

There is a field, roughly 22 kilometres southwest of Sokoto, between the Dange Shuni and Bodinga local government areas in North West Nigeria, that carries no particular weight to the eye. Grass grows there. Wind moves through trees at predictable intervals. The surrounding bush is in full silence, neither mourning nor celebrating. Nothing marks what happened here, and that, of course, is precisely the point.

The place is called Satiru. Or was called Satiru. The grammar is slippery, because the British, when they finished with it in the spring of 1906, did not simply defeat it. They made sure to erase it – razing buildings, enslaving survivors, most of whom were women and children, and stripping the site with the cleansing method of an administration that understood that a crushed rebellion, left with a location, becomes a shrine. And shrines become consciousness and arguments. Better to leave nothing. Better to leave nowhere.

And then the Sultan of Sokoto, Muhammad Attahiru II, the Muslim ruler (Sarkin Musulmi) whose fighters helped carry out the slaughter, reportedly pronounced a curse on anyone who would rebuild or farm on the ground. As the British Resident Burdon telegraphed proudly to High Commissioner Frederick Lugard: “All Sokoto went out yesterday to inspect [the] battlefield and raze Satiru to the ground. No wall or tree left standing.” The scholars Paul Lovejoy and J.S. Hogendorn, writing in the Journal of African History, note that “the deserted site of Satiru is on the edge of a forest reserve. It has not been inhabited since its destruction and the official curse.” More than a century later, that is still true.

This is what erasure looks like when it succeeds. For 120 years, the ruins of Satiru have remained untouched, a vanished town erased by British colonial forces after a 1906 uprising led by poor clerics, fugitive slaves, and peasants challenging both imperial taxation and the aristocratic order of the Sokoto Caliphate. 

But this story is not only about a massacre buried in colonial archives. It is about how modern Nigeria inherited the use of overwhelming force to suppress communities marked as threats. 

The thing Satiru was

Before it became a problem requiring artillery, Satiru was an answer to a different problem. To understand it, you need to understand the particular moral atmosphere of the Sokoto Caliphate in its late decline – the spiritual hangover, you might call it, of a revolution that had once been genuine.

Usman Dan Fodio launched his jihad in 1804 with an argument that was partly political and partly theological, but entirely serious: that the Hausa rulers of the time had corrupted Islam, that the ordinary people – the talakawa, the poor commoners – were being ground down by a system that dressed itself in religious language while behaving in wholly irreligious ways. Dan Fodio and his followers built the caliphate on the promise that this would change. That Islamic governance would be just. That scholars who held power would be answerable to something beyond their own appetites.

By the end of the nineteenth century, that promise had curdled into something its founders would not have recognised. The Fulani aristocracy that administered the caliphate had made a comfortable accommodation with power. Tribute collectors arrived in the villages. The talakawa paid. Palace scholars – the senior ulama (religious scholars), with their elaborate networks of family and commerce – found, in the more elastic corners of Islamic jurisprudence, reasons why this was all acceptable. The poor continued to be poor. The aristocracy continued to wear piety as a garment while extracting what they could.

The scholars of Satiru – humble men, as Lovejoy and Hogendorn describe them, “poor Muslim scholars engaged in farming and teaching,” with origins far outside the Fulani elite – found different reasons. Malam Siba, who founded the Satiru settlement in approximately 1894, was of Nupe origin. A second key figure, Maikaho, came from Gobir, the country that Uthman Dan Fodio himself had subjugated. A third, Malam Bawa, was from Zamfara, which had revolted against Sokoto on several occasions across the nineteenth century. What distinguished these men from the mainstream was not their learning – they were, by caliphate standards, minor figures – but their refusal to make the peace that more successful scholars had made with power. As Lovejoy and Hogendorn paraphrase the alleged statement of Malam Siba himself: he “was fed up with the exactions of the ruling class and was not going to obey the instructions of anyone anymore… [but instead] was going to set up a new great regime.”

What grew at Satiru, on the frontier of four fiefdoms – Danchadi, Dange, Shuni, and Bodinga – was something the caliphate’s administration regarded as an irritant and then, gradually, as something worse. The community refused to pay taxes. It refused to provide unpaid labour. It attracted, in growing numbers, fugitive slaves fleeing from the plantations and estates of the aristocracy. This last detail matters enormously. By 1906, British Resident Burdon would report that the adherents of the Satiru cause were “nearly all run away slaves.” Local tradition in Satiru itself held, as recorded by A.S. Mohammad in his foundational social history of the revolt, that “the leaders of Satiru abolished slavery and as a consequence… slaves flocked to them. The freedom of these fugitives was effectively and strenuously guarded.”

This was, in other words, not an uprising of the godless. It was an uprising of the structurally abandoned — poor clerics, dispossessed peasants, and fugitive slaves –   against the two interlocking systems that were destroying them simultaneously: the late-caliphate aristocracy that extracted their labour, and the British colonial administration that had, since 1903, added new demands of jizya (poll tax) and jangali (livestock tax) to communities that had never before paid such taxes to Sokoto. As a Sokoto citizen wrote bitterly at the time, and as quoted in Lovejoy and Hogendorn’s account: “We have been conquered. We have been asked to pay poll tax and cattle tax. We have been made to do various things, and now they want us to fight their wars for them.”

The movement Satiru had built was, in the framework laid out by Lovejoy and Hogendorn, a form of revolutionary Mahdism – distinct from all the other currents of Mahdist thought that ran through the caliphate at the time. It drew its support from peasants, fugitive slaves, and subject populations. It had no aristocratic supporters, no wealthy merchants, and no members of the established ulama. It was ethnically diverse in a way that the aristocracy was not: Hausa from various origins, Zamfarawa, Gobirawa, Gimbanawa, Kabawa, and Azbinawa – but, strikingly, no Fulani. The battle lines, as Lovejoy and Hogendorn note, mapped onto class so precisely that “the ethnic dimension… reflected the class division.” On the day of the final battle, “all the faces on the battlefield had Gobir, Kebbi, Zanfara, Katsina and other such tribal marks. Not a single Fulani talaka [commoner] joined them.”

What Satiru wanted, ultimately, was the recovery of the original promise – the caliphate that Dan Fodio had said was coming, and that had not arrived. You can call this politics, or you can call it theology. At Satiru, they did not distinguish between the two.

The spark and the suppression

The movement had been building for years, connected by threads of correspondence and travelling clerics to similar currents of dissatisfaction across both the British and French colonial zones in are now Nigeria and Niger Republic. On the French side of the boundary, a blind Zarma cleric named Saybu Dan Makafo had been the central animating figure – charismatic, mystically inclined, and reportedly possessing gifts of ventriloquism that contributed to his reputation as a waliyyi, a saint. 

In December 1905, violence broke out at Kobkitanda, 150 kilometres south of Niamey, in French territory in today’s Niger Republic. Saybu and his followers killed two gardes-cercles (colonial police) from Dosso. The French responded, the Mahdists absorbed losses, and Saybu fled east – eventually arriving at Satiru, where the local community had already been living in a state of armed readiness and messianic expectation.

The revolt was supposed to begin on the Eid El-Kabir (Babbar Sallah), February 5, 1906. It was postponed – there was an internal dispute about the recognition of Isa, the village head of Satiru, as the messianic successor figure who would accompany the Mahdi. The Satirawa (people of Satiru) resolved the question on February 13, when they attacked the neighbouring village of Tsomau. Fourteen people died.

The British response was swift and catastrophically misjudged. Acting Resident H.R. Preston-Hillary moved immediately with a column of about seventy mounted infantry under Major Francis Blackwood, armed with a single Maxim gun. He appears to have been entirely unaware that the rising at Satiru was connected to the weeks of violence that had already convulsed French territory. He rode toward the village with the assumption of a man who believed the gap between his weapons and his opponents’ was so vast that the details of the situation hardly mattered.

He was wrong. 

The Mahdists attacked the British column. Hillary and Blackwood were killed, along with three other white officers and 25 African soldiers. The West African Frontier Force (WAFF) suffered such heavy losses that it was “forced to retreat in disarray.” It was, as Lugard would later acknowledge, “the first serious reverse suffered by the West African Frontier Force since it was raised in 1898.”

The Satiru Mahdists were also severely wounded — their leader, Malam Isa, was struck during the initial encounter and would die two days later, on the morning he was supposed to unfurl the green flag and declare the jihad formally. He did not live to see what his movement had achieved: a genuine military victory over the empire. For a brief, burning moment, the talakawa had won.

The British did not pause to understand what had happened. They regrouped.

The reckoning

On March 10, 1906, a combined force of the British-run West African Frontier Force (WAFF) troops and Sokoto fighters approached Satiru. The Satirawa had dug trenches. But they did not stay behind them. They charged, repeatedly, in massed formation, against troops equipped with Maxim guns firing destructive volleys. Historian Richard Dusgate would later call what followed “the most bloodthirsty expedition in the history of British military operations in Northern Nigeria.” Margery Perham, in her biography of Lugard, noted that subsequent reports – kept secret at the time – found that the “killing was very free, not to say slaughter,” that the soldiers “killed every living thing before them,” and that “the fields were running with blood.”

At least 2,000 Satirawa were killed. An estimated 3,000 women and children were herded to Sokoto, many distributed among the aristocracy as effective slaves – a thinly disguised reassertion of the master-slave relationship that the very people of Satiru had staked their lives on dismantling.

Saybu Dan Makafo, blind and wounded, survived. He was captured and brought to Sokoto, where he was tried. His boy guide, according to a story collected by H.A.F. Johnston, reportedly shouted at the trial that if Saybu was given water, he would vanish into thin air – an indication of the extraordinary tension surrounding the proceedings. The public executioner decapitated him on March 22. His head was mounted on a stake in the market. Four subordinates suffered the same fate.

The political accounting that followed the massacre revealed what the British understood the suppression to mean and to communicate. The Colonial Office initially received dispatches that accurately attributed the uprising partly to the fugitive slave crisis –  Lugard’s own initial cable described the rebels as “outlaw fugitive slaves.” A marginal note in the Colonial Office files, as documented by Lovejoy and Hogendorn, captures the official response with bracing economy: “Better say nothing of slaves.” By May 9, Lugard had incorporated a sanitised version of events into his official reports. The slave dimension was quietly removed from the record. The most dangerous thing about Satiru – that it had articulated a class argument, that it had offered sanctuary to the enslaved, that it had made the connection between colonial taxation and pre-colonial extraction explicit – was the thing the British were most determined to forget.

The Sokoto aristocracy was rewarded for its loyalty. Marafa Muhammadu Maiturare, the Sokoto official who had commanded the local levies and whose authority was partly credited with preventing a general rising, eventually became Sarkin Musulmi in 1915. Hassan, the sarki of Dange, the fief nearest to Satiru, who had greeted Burdon warmly in the hours after the Mahdist victory, would become Sarkin Musulmi in 1931. The collaboration was not forgotten. It was promoted.

What the grammar inherited

Nearly a century and two decades later, an eight-year-old boy named Sa’id watched through a crack in the wall of his grandmother’s hut as the men of his family were dragged outside and shot.

His village, Kajen Shuwa, sat in Marte Local Government Area of Borno State, northeastern Nigeria, a Shuwa Arab community of cattle herders and storytellers, ethnically and linguistically distinct from the dominant groups of the region. Between 2014 and 2015, at the height of the military’s campaign against Boko Haram, soldiers arrived looking for a Boko Haram cell in a village called Kajen Kanuri. The names were similar enough. No interpreter had been brought. No local guide accompanied the unit.

More than 40 men died.

“They had the wrong village,” Imam Abdulkarim, now living with displaced survivors at the Garin Shuwa IDP camp in Bauchi, told HumAngle. “It was later we realised they were sent to Kajen Kanuri.”

One of the survivors told HumAngle in 2026 how the events unfolded as he watched from where he had hidden himself in a tree. He said he was watching when the men were gathered and ordered to produce Boko Haram members. The people apparently did not even understand what was being said to them, so the soldiers simply lined all the men up in a place resembling a ditch and shot every single one of them. Just like that. No trial. No evidence. Nothing. Everyone was killed.

Sa’id is nineteen now. He teaches Quran to children at the displacement camp — children who have their own mornings they cannot stop replaying. He speaks slowly. He flinches at loud sounds. When he told his story to HumAngle, tears came before words, and other residents of the camp stepped in to complete the parts his voice could not carry. They knew the story. They had assembled it over the years, in the way that displaced communities assemble the things they are not allowed to say publicly – from fragments, from the accounts of those who were in different parts of the village when it happened, from the silence of those who were not there to tell anything.

“The families of the killed couldn’t even raise their voices,” Abdulkarim said. “Everyone was afraid that he might be targeted too.”

No soldier was prosecuted. No investigation was publicly announced. No family received notification, compensation, or the minimum of official acknowledgement that their men had been killed by mistake.

What happened to Kajen Shuwa is not exceptional in the region’s chronicle of the last decade. Amnesty International’s 2015 report documented execution-style killings, torture in detention, and mass graves of individuals who had never been charged, tried, or formally arrested — people killed not for what they did, but for who they resembled, where they lived, what language they spoke when soldiers arrived. The Nigerian military’s response to that report was not to open investigations. It was to call Amnesty International a liar.

And then the world moved on, as it always does – to the next atrocity, the next set of statistics that briefly animated international concern before fading into the background noise of a continent the world has learned to observe without fully attending to.

Zaria massacre 

If Kajen Shuwa happened in the shadows – a remote village, an Arabic-speaking minority, a story reaching the press years after the fact — then what occurred in Zaria, Kaduna State, in the country’s North West, in December 2015 happened in full view, and still went unanswered.

The Islamic Movement in Nigeria (IMN), led by Sheikh Ibrahim El-Zakzaky, was a Shia organisation with roots deep in Zaria’s social fabric. It ran schools and clinics. It was also an organisation that had long attracted the suspicion of the Nigerian state – not because it was violent, but because it was organised, independent, and loyal to a leadership structure that fell outside the state’s system of control.

On Dec. 12, 2015, an IMN procession blocked a road, delaying a military convoy carrying the then Chief of Army Staff. What followed, as documented in meticulous detail by both Amnesty International and the Kaduna State Government’s own commission of inquiry, was a massacre. Soldiers attacked IMN members across multiple locations. The Hussainiyya Islamic Centre was demolished. El-Zakzaky’s residence was destroyed. Three of his sons were killed. El-Zakzaky himself, elderly and partially blind – the parallel to the blind Saybu Dan Makafo feels almost too pointed – was arrested. He and his wife would remain in detention for years, their release ordered repeatedly by courts and resisted repeatedly by the government.

The Kaduna State commission produced a report of unusual honesty. It confirmed that at least 347 IMN members had been buried in a mass grave at Mando. It found the military’s response disproportionate. It recommended the prosecution of specific officers, and it named the mass grave by location. But not one recommendation was implemented.

The IMN was formally proscribed in 2019, an organisation that had existed for four decades and operated schools and hospitals, banned by the government that had killed hundreds of its members, as though the banning were the logical conclusion of the killing rather than an additional punishment for surviving it.

The grammar of impunity

There is a grammar to this. Lovejoy and Hogendorn identified it in the colonial records of 1906 in three steps: a community marked as dangerous, the deployment of force that is “excessive by design,” and the systematic management of the record. 

At Satiru, the British made the decision consciously – the marginal note that said “better say nothing of slaves” was an administrative instruction to suppress an inconvenient truth. The communities targeted after them have had to live inside the silence that administrative instruction created.

But this never worked permanently. What the scholars Godwin Odeh and Williams Efe argue, in their analysis of the Satiru uprising’s historiography, is that the episode was not merely a military or religious event but a demonstration of “the impossibility of subjugating a group permanently without facing a crisis of cultural relevance.” They invoke Amilcar Cabral’s formulation: that culture “is a means by which people assert their opposition to domination… one of the fundamental tools of struggle for emancipation.” The argument is that Satiru never fully ended – that its logic persisted, became available, got taken up again in different forms by different communities facing different versions of the same problem.

The circumstances were different, the enemies differently named, and the legal justifications modernised, but the underlying grammar remained recognisable.

This is not a metaphor. What the British established in 1906 and what successive Nigerian governments have absorbed so completely is a particular relationship between the state and the communities it finds inconvenient. The relationship has a fixed sequence: a community is marked; disproportionate force arrives; the record is managed; and then, reliably, comes the silence. The silence is not passive. It is constructed and maintained by the same institutions that produced the violence –  maintained through the denial of accountability, the obstruction of independent investigation, and the prosecution of those who speak too loudly about what they witnessed.

The families of Kajen Shuwa could not grieve publicly because grief, in that context, was dangerous. The IMN, after Zaria, could not even gather to mourn without risk of further confrontation with the same security forces that had killed their members.

But the cycle continues.