south east

Most communities in southeastern Nigeria fall silent every Monday. Markets that once buzzed with commerce stand empty, schools that nurtured dreams remain locked, and roads that carried aspirations lie barren. This weekly ritual of protest, born from the continuous detention of Nnamdi Kanu, leader of the Indigenous People of Biafra (IPOB), has become both a symbol of resistance and a testament to a region’s suffering. Through the voices of ordinary people who live this reality daily, the human impact of this political stalemate reveals a story of economic devastation, social disruption, and unwavering determination.

The story of Kanu’s incarceration is deeply intertwined with historical grievances that predate Nigeria’s independence. For many in the South East, the continued detention of the secessionist leader represents another chapter in the systematic marginalisation of the Igbo people. This sentiment echoes through the region, from the bustling cities to the rural communities where memories of the 1967–1970 civil war remain fresh.

“You cannot understand the current situation without acknowledging the historical context,” said Prof. Chinedu Okafor, a historian at Nnamdi Azikiwe University, Anambra State. “The Igbo people have long felt like second-class citizens in Nigeria, and Kanu’s movement tapped into that deep well of frustration. His detention has become a symbol of wider injustices that people here experience daily, from inadequate infrastructure to limited political representation.”

The cost of empty streets

The sit-at-home protests have unleashed an economic catastrophe across South East Nigeria. Analysts estimate the region has lost between ₦900.9 billion and ₦7.6 trillion over roughly 191 days of forced closures since October 2021. But behind these numbers lie countless personal tragedies: businesses destroyed, dreams deferred, and livelihoods lost.

“Before this struggle, I could feed my family and pay my children’s school fees from my fabric business. Now, I’m deep in debt. Every Monday we’re forced to close, I lose customers who go elsewhere,” said Chinelo Ogadi, a trader at the Onitsha Main Market. “The worst part is we don’t even know when this will end. They’re killing us slowly, and nobody in government seems to care.”

Her frustration is shared across sectors, from petty traders to transport operators who keep the region moving. 

Ekene Okoye, a transportation business owner in Enugu, said the protests have crippled his business. Of his five buses that once ran between Enugu and Port Harcourt, three now sit idle. He has also laid off more than half of his drivers, “young men with families depending on them”. For Ekene, “this isn’t just about Nnamdi Kanu; it’s about all of us suffering for politics.”

The impact extends beyond direct losses. Small-scale businesses that relied on daily savings schemes now struggle to contribute on Mondays, undermining their ability to invest in future and creating a ripple effect that stifles growth across the region.

Education and community under threat

The sit-at-home has done more than crippling the economy. It has begun to erode the very social foundations of the South East. Education, highly valued in Igbo culture, has become collateral damage in this prolonged political struggle.

“How can I teach when classes are constantly disrupted?” Adaobi Nwosu, a secondary school teacher in Aba, asked. “My students are falling behind their peers in other regions. The worst was when protesters attacked primary school children taking entrance exams. Is this how we fight for freedom? By destroying our children’s future?”

The disruptions have been severe, with schools and universities repeatedly shutting down, denying students the stability of continuous learning. Beyond the classroom, the social contract that binds communities together is fraying under the strain of enforced compliance with protest measures.

“We’ve always prided ourselves on our strong community values, but this situation has created divisions. Some support the protests, others resent being forced to comply. It’s tearing at the fabric of our society in ways that will take generations to repair,” Onyia Kalu, a community leader in Owerri, the Imo State capital, told HumAngle.

Beneath the economic and social impacts lies a deeper psychological trauma affecting millions across the region. 

“My practice has seen a 300 per cent increase in patients with anxiety and depression since these protests intensified,” Amara Nwankwo, a psychologist in Awka, Anambra State, told HumAngle. “People are living in constant stress: fear of violence, economic uncertainty, and political instability. The trauma is particularly acute among children who don’t understand why their routines have been disrupted or why they sometimes hear gunshots.”

The psychological toll extends beyond clinical diagnoses. It manifests in the quiet desperation of parents who cannot provide for their children, the dashed hopes of graduates who see no future in their homeland, and the weary resignation of elders who have witnessed cycles of violence and protest throughout their lives.

Kanu’s health, a metaphor for regional decline

Concerns about Nnamdi Kanu’s health have become a powerful metaphor for how many in the region view their own situation. Claims that Kanu suffers from a “life-threatening heart condition” and receives inadequate medical treatment in detention mirror broader frustrations about healthcare infrastructure in the region.

His younger brother, Emmanuel Kanu, stated in a 14-paragraph affidavit that Nnamdi’s condition is serious and the medical facility where he is being detained is inadequate to treat him. These concerns have heightened tensions throughout the South East, with groups like the World Igbo Congress warning of “serious consequences” should he die in detention.

For ordinary people, these fears are folded into their daily struggles.

“The strange thing is that even those who weren’t supporters of Kanu before are now sympathetic because they see the government’s handling of the situation as unfair. It’s united people in ways I didn’t expect,” Ndidi Romanus, a restaurant owner in Umuahia, the Abia State capital, said. 

Younger Nigerians in the region, meanwhile, see little hope. “My generation is tired. We’re tired of the protests, tired of the economic hardship, tired of being afraid. But we’re also tired of a system that doesn’t work for us. Many of my friends are planning to leave the country. How can we build a future here?” Peace Emeka, a 22-year-old university student in Nnewi, said. 

From the pulpit, religious leaders echo the same sense of exhaustion. Livinus Mmadu, a religious leader in Owerri, said, “I see the pain in people’s eyes. We need dialogue, not confrontation. The government must understand that Kanu’s detention isn’t just about one man; it’s about the hopes and frustrations of millions. And those enforcing the protests must remember that violence against our own people contradicts the freedom we seek.”

Healing for the South East

As the Oct. 10, 2025, court date approaches, when Justice James Omotosho is expected to rule on a no-case submission that could lead to Kanu’s release, the region holds its breath. Yet, whatever the outcome, the underlying issues that fuelled the separatist movement cannot be solved in court alone.

Organisations like Ohanaeze Ndigbo, the apex Igbo socio-cultural group, have called for political dialogue to address the crisis at its root. John Azuta-Mbata, leader of the group, stated that “as Kanu is being incarcerated, even with a bail granted by a competent court, it is the entire Igbo that is being incarcerated”. 

Healing the South East will require more than legal decisions. The economic devastation requires targeted investment and recovery programmes to help businesses and workers affected by the prolonged protests. Schools need urgent support to catch students up after years of disrupted learning. Above all, community reconciliation processes are needed to heal the social divisions that have emerged during this period.

“We cannot solve today’s problems with the same thinking that created them. We need new approaches, new dialogues, and new understandings,” Mbazulike Amechi, an elder statesman in the region, said. “The future of our children depends on our ability to find peaceful solutions that recognise the dignity and aspirations of all people.”

As the silent Mondays continue, each empty street and closed market stand as a testament to the price ordinary people are paying for a political struggle that stretches back generations. 

When Nigerian Army troops of the 34 Artillery Brigade stormed the hideout of Ifeanyi Eze Okorienta, popularly known as ‘Gentle De Yahoo’ in Aku-Ihube, South East Nigeria, they did more than capture a notorious commander of the Indigenous People of Biafra (IPOB) and its armed wing, the Eastern Security Network (ESN). They triggered a complex mix of emotions across the region, especially in the Okigwe Local Government Area of Imo State, where he was captured. There was hope for lasting security, fear of retaliatory violence, and uncertainty about what comes next for communities shattered by years of conflict.

The operation, which recovered weapons, ammunition, military uniforms, and uncovered a workshop for dismantling stolen vehicles, represents a significant tactical victory for security forces. Yet, for ordinary citizens, the arrest raises pressing questions about whether one commander’s capture can truly change their daily reality of fear, displacement, and economic devastation.

The broader context of Gentle De Yahoo’s activities is a region grappling with staggering human losses. Between January 2021 and June 2023, at least 1,844 people were killed in South East Nigeria amidst escalating conflict involving gunmen, criminal gangs, IPOB/ESN, state-backed paramilitaries, and Nigerian security forces.

‘We have nothing but fear’

The IPOB/ESN dynamic is born out of the group’s agitation to secede from Nigeria and form an independent country of Biafra, comprising the South East and parts of the South South. Over the years, they have turned to violence to promote their cause, displacing dozens in the process. 

Among those affected is Rebecca Okiri, a widow and mother of three, now living in a displaced-persons camp in Anambra. Armed men set her house on fire because her husband refused to pay their so-called ‘tax’. He was killed in the attack.

“I watched him die trying to protect our children. Now we have nothing but fear,” Rebecca told HumAngle.

Her experience mirrors countless others documented by Amnesty International. The organisation reports that gunmen have turned communities like Agwa and Izombe in Imo State and Lilu in Anambra State into “ungoverned spaces” where traditional rulers have been sacked, residents displaced, and gunmen have taken total control.

This violence has created a climate of pervasive fear. As one displaced resident explained, “The most challenging aspect is that people are afraid to talk. You do not know who you are talking to, whether the person is an informant to the gunmen.”

Beyond direct violence, the enforcement of IPOB/ESN sit-at-home orders since August 2021 has paralysed the economy, with estimated losses reaching ₦7.6 trillion over four years.

“Every Monday, we sit at home, and we lose money we cannot recover,” said Okechukwu Mbah, a market trader in Onitsha. “But it’s not just Mondays anymore; the fear is constant. Customers no longer come from other regions, and those of us here are afraid to invest in our businesses. They have stolen our present and our future.” 

This was the environment in which Gentle De Yahoo operated until his capture.

The arrest: temporary relief or temporary victory?

The capture represents a significant blow to IPOB/ESN operations in Imo State and potentially across the South East. As a notorious commander, his reported activities included coordinating attacks on security forces, managing weapons procurement, overseeing criminal operations such as vehicle theft, and enforcing sit-at-home orders through violence and intimidation.

“The capture of a prominent field commander like Gentle De Yahoo creates immediate operational paralysis for the group in that specific area. There will be a period of disruption as they reorganise, which provides a crucial window for security forces to press their advantage,” according to Hassan Usman, a security analyst and retired military officer.

However, experts caution that such arrests often only provide temporary relief unless accompanied by broader strategies to address the root causes of the conflict. The shift of groups like IPOB/ESN, from community protectors to predators, reflects a familiar pattern observable across fragile states globally.

When formal institutions retreat or fail, vigilante groups often step in to fill security gaps. Initially, they provide genuine protection, but without accountability mechanisms or sustainable funding, they tend to adopt predatory behaviour to maintain operations. In the absence of legitimate alternatives, communities are vulnerable to capture by the very forces that once defended them. This cycle helps explain both the rise of figures like Gentle De Yahoo and the mixed emotions that follow his arrest.

For some, the news has inspired cautious hope. Chidinma Okoro, a schoolteacher in Okigwe, said, “Maybe now we can finally sleep through the night without fear. Maybe our children can go to school regularly again. But we have been disappointed before; one arrest won’t remove all the fear they’ve planted in our hearts.”

Echoing the scepticism, Mustapha Sani, a civil society activist based in Enugu, told HumAngle that “We’ve seen these arrests before. The system that produces Gentle De Yahoos remains intact—poverty, marginalisation, and brutal security responses that often punish ordinary people more than the militants. Until we address why young men take up arms, we’ll just be playing whack-a-mole with commanders.”

Meanwhile, some residents who spoke to HumAngle fear retaliatory violence following the high-profile arrest. A community leader from Owerri, who pleaded anonymity, said, “When they arrest someone like this, his followers often take out their anger on vulnerable communities. We’re telling our people to be even more careful now—this might be a time of increased danger, not less.”

The arrest also brings mixed emotions for those displaced—hope for return tempered by fear of what remains.

‘The trauma runs deep’

Amnesty International reports that traditional marriage and burial ceremonies, once held in ancestral homes, now often take place in communities outside the South East due to fear of attack.

“We have families who haven’t seen their homes in three years,” Joseph Ekwueme, a Catholic priest who runs a faith-based displacement camp in Ebonyi State. “Children who have forgotten what it means to have a permanent home. The trauma runs deep—night terrors, depression, hopelessness. An arrest might make headlines, but it doesn’t automatically heal these wounds.”

Returning home presents challenges beyond physical security. Many communities have been reduced to “ungoverned spaces”, with destroyed infrastructure, collapsed governance, and shattered social networks.

Amara Nwosu, a psychologist working with trauma victims in displacement camps, explained: “The psychological barriers to return are often as formidable as the physical ones. People have witnessed unspeakable violence—neighbours killed, homes burned, loved ones disappeared. Rebuilding trust within communities will take years, not weeks.”

 The way forward

While security operations like the one that captured Gentle De Yahoo are necessary, communities and experts stress that sustainable peace requires tackling root causes.

“We must create alternative economic pathways for youth who might otherwise be attracted to militancy. Micro-investment schemes targeting small businesses could help restore the commercial networks that bind communities together,” said Chinedu Okafor, a professor of economics at Nnamdi Azikiwe University in Anambra State. 

Others emphasise social and cultural solutions. A traditional ruler in the region, who simply identified as Nnamelu, argued: “We know our communities best. What we need are resources to support community policing, programmes to engage our youth, and truth-telling processes to begin healing. The military cannot solve this alone—it requires all of us working together.”

Calls for accountability have also grown louder. Amnesty International and other human rights organisations have urged thorough investigations into all allegations of violations committed by state and non-state actors in the region.

“The Nigerian authorities must uphold their constitutional and international human rights obligations by guaranteeing, protecting and ensuring the rights to life, physical integrity, and liberty, security and safety of the people and stemming the tide of rampant insecurity in the South East region,” Isa Sanusi, Director of Amnesty International Nigeria, stated.

Ultimately, the true measure of success will be whether this operation becomes part of a broader strategy that addresses not just the symptoms of the conflict, but its root causes—historical grievances, economic marginalisation, and the absence of accountable governance that have fuelled the cycle of violence for far too long.

For survivors like Ebulie John from Ihiala, the stakes are clear. “The ‘unknown gunmen’ are armed—some come with guns, cutlasses, and machetes. If they come for an attack, anyone who blocks their way will be killed. It has been a terrible situation, people are scared,” he said. 

The arrest of Gentle De Yahoo will only matter if it makes such stories less frequent and eventually a thing of the past.

The hum of a generator was the sound of success for Uzor Igwe. In his small but bustling workshop in Lilu town, Anambra State, southeastern Nigeria, the 38-year-old master technician could detect a faulty coil or a clogged carburettor just by listening. His grease-stained hands were tools of precision, restoring electricity to homes and businesses. For years, he was a pillar of his community, a man who fixed things.

Today, the only thing Uzor is trying to fix is his life. He now lives in Asaba, in the country’s South South, where the sound of generators is a painful reminder of all he has lost.

Uzor’s story is the human cost of the violence that has transformed his hometown of Lilu into a part of a larger place locals fearfully call “another Sambisa,” alluding to the famous Sambisa forest in faraway northeastern Nigeria, where Boko Haram combatants have taken shelter. His thriving generator repair business, built over 15 years, was ultimately another casualty of gunmen who held his community hostage.

“I had two apprentices, three benches full of tools I collected over a lifetime, and customers from three local governments,” Uzor recalls. “On a good week, I could fix ten, fifteen generators. I was training others; I was providing. I was happy.”

The winds of fear now sweep through the forests and farmlands of southeastern Nigeria. Once-vibrant towns have withered into haunted shells of their former selves, as armed Indigenous Peoples of Biafra (IPOB) fighters and their affiliates loom over daily life.

Police officers often wear muftis to avoid being targeted. “Everyone is afraid to speak,” said a senior police officer who served in Imo for “two dreaded years” before he begged his superiors to transfer him to Abuja, Nigeria’s federal capital. The climate of fear over the daily loss of lives, rape of women, and trade across the region is palpable.

At the core of this situation is a complex combination of separatist unrest, violent crimes like murders committed against civilians and state actors, and arson on official facilities and assets that is comparable to terrorism, as well as a lack of effective official security.

Fleeing home with nothing

The descent began around 2021. IPOB, a separatist group long declared a terror group by the Nigerian government, were violent in their efforts to establish an independent country of Biafra in the country’s South East and some parts of the South-South. 

They enforced an illegal sit-at-home order on Mondays and Thursdays, which crippled businesses like Uzor’s, brutalised citizens, and spread propaganda online. The order was a protest to the government to release the group’s leader, Nnamdi Kanu, who had been in detention for years. 

Since then, over 700 people have been killed by the group, and economic losses are estimated at ₦7.6 trillion, according to SBM Intelligence. 

In Lilu, the sounds of power bikes and sporadic gunfire began to compete with the hum of Uzor’s generators. Customers became too afraid to venture out. His apprentices, fearing being conscripted or caught in the crossfire, stopped coming. 

HumAngle had previously collected open-source data from over 100 locations in the South East to track the effect of the sit-at-home order on businesses like Uzor’s and public spaces. We found that Anambra, where he was located, experienced 11 reported cases of violence from the group in efforts to ensure compliance with the order last year. The threat of violence has resulted in significantly lower activity in the region than in other parts of the country on those days.

“The final straw was not even for me, but for my family,” Uzor says, his gaze dropping. His father, a retired teacher, passed away from illness in early 2024. Instead of a time for mourning and tradition, the family was plunged into a grotesque negotiation.

“We were told we had to pay a levy to bury our own father,” Uzor explains, the absurdity of the statement still raw. “₦200,000 for permission to lay a good man to rest. The same boys who might have been responsible for killing our neighbours were now taxing our grief. We paid. What choice did we have? But paying for my father’s burial with that money… it killed something in me.”

He knew then that Lilu could no longer be his home. The risk of being killed for refusing to comply, or for simply being in the wrong place, was too high. With his business already dead, he feared his life would be next.

With only what they could carry, Uzor, his wife, and their two young children fled under the cover of night, becoming displaced people in their country. They left behind his workshop, his tools, his client ledger—the entire architecture of his livelihood.

Picking the pieces 

Now in Asaba, he is starting from zero. The small room he rents doubles as a home and a struggling new workshop. His tools are a cheap, basic set. He has no network, no reputation, and is just one of many technicians in a crowded city.

“Here, I am nobody. I have to beg for jobs that pay little. I compete with boys half my age,” he says, wiping his hands on a rag that sees less grease these days. “Sometimes a whole week will pass, and this toolbox will not even open.”

The struggle is both financial and psychological; the confidence of a master craftsman has been replaced by the anxiety of a newcomer.

“In Lilu, I was Uzor, the man who could fix anything,” he adds. “Here, I am just a man from the troubled East, trying to survive. I lost my community, my identity, and my father’s grave is in a land I am now afraid to visit.”

He prays for peace, not just for the safety of those left behind, but for the chance to one day reclaim the fragments of the life he was forced to abandon.

Derwin Henderson was not intending to coach this season. He hadn’t been a head coach since 2019 at Hawthorne. But he lives in the Inland Empire, and Rialto High kept asking him to take the open position. He finally relented, and big changes are already taking place.

Rialto is off to a 3-0 start with wins over Ontario, Temecula Prep and Indio. That’s notable because the team was 0-10 last season and 1-9 in 2023.

Henderson has been a head coach at Morningside, South East and Hawthorne. He was in the LAPD for 33 years, rising to sergeant. His son, Bryce, is a freshman football player at Sherman Oaks Notre Dame.

Linebacker Alberto Tapia has been a standout for Rialto on defense. Noah Valdez is a top athlete on offense and defense.

The games figure to get tougher in the coming weeks, but there’s a culture change at Rialto that certainly is good for the players and the student body.

This is a daily look at the positive happenings in high school sports. To submit any news, please email [email protected].

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>