South-South

On a Sunday evening in March this year, Akiba Ekpeyong, a community leader in Akpap-Okoyong, received a text message that made him drop everything he was doing in the community, a cluster of farming villages in Odukpani Local Government Area of Cross River State, South-South Nigeria.

The message came from another chief nearby, warning of a brewing argument between two youths at a football match in Mbabam. The tone was urgent and frighteningly reminiscent of how many communal crises begin.

“I went there immediately,” Akiba recalled. “Before it turns to something else, we have to talk to the boys.”

That message was part of a growing network of peace responders linked through an early warning system created by the Foundation for Partnership Initiatives in the Niger Delta (PIND). In this system, the first step to preventing violence could be as simple as sending an SMS. In many communities across the region, this system has been deployed by the non-profit to end conflicts before they escalate. 

The many faces of conflict 

Cross River, fondly known as “the people’s paradise”, may be best known for its colourful annual Calabar Carnival and its vast forest reserves. However, unending land disputes, cult clashes, political rivalries, and resource competition that often turn deadly, are also a constant in the state, said Professor Rapheal Offiong, a geographer and peace scholar at the University of Calabar.

Between 2020 and 2023, communal and boundary disputes claimed more than 400 lives in the state, including that of a 10-year-old child, while over 300 houses were destroyed. A report also indicated that at least 15 of the state’s 18 local government areas have experienced one form of conflict or another during the period.

According to Professor Raphael, these crises stem from far deeper issues: Poverty, the quest for land, stress for survival, and lack of understanding, all worsened by a disconnect between the political class, traditional rulers, and the youth. “That gap in leadership and trust is what I see as the major disturbance,” he said. 

The peace scholar also blamed greed and speculative land buying in poor communities. “It’s the landmongers,” he said, “those deep pockets who want to expand their cocoa or oil palm farms. They bring money, and because of poverty, people sell. Then everyone becomes territorial, and in trying to protect their territory, they must fight.”

Cocoa and oil palm are central to Cross River’s economy, providing livelihoods for thousands of smallholder farmers and driving both local and export revenue. The state is Nigeria’s second-largest cocoa producer, exporting about 80,000 metric tons annually. With so much economic value tied to these crops, land has become a fiercely contested resource — and when speculators or large investors seek expansion, tensions often erupt among communities struggling for ownership and survival.

Climate change, Professor Raphael added, is compounding the problem. As farmlands yield less, people move in search of better land to farm and to graze, opening new fronts for conflict. “The land is shrinking as population grows, and poverty and lack of basic social structures make it worse.”

He believes the persistent conflict is also tied to weak governance and the failure of social systems to provide stability. “When the system works, people have hope,” he said. “Everybody struggles to survive. The quest to provide for yourself and your family is not easy, and that desperation drives conflict.”

The Institute for Peace and Conflict Resolution (IPCR) similarly notes that environmental and land-use issues are increasingly among the most common triggers of rural conflicts in southern Nigeria, particularly boundary disputes.

From just a text message 

The early warning system was developed by PIND in 2015 to monitor the country’s signs of violence during the general election, before it was later deployed to communal conflicts. 

Through the platform, anyone can report incidents by sending a text message to 080 9936 2222 or 0912 233 4455, including details such as the location, date, and a brief description of the event. Once submitted, the report appears instantly on a web-based dashboard at PIND’s headquarters, where analysts verify and map signals across the Niger Delta. These reports help identify emerging hotspots, track patterns of unrest, and guide long-term peace interventions. 

These reports are shared with Partners for Peace (P4P), a PIND-run conflict management and peacebuilding network of grassroots volunteers spread across all nine Niger Delta states. Each report helps P4P chapters plan their local peace activities, which include mediation, dialogues, and sensitisation. 

“We now prepare our interventions based on the prevailing types of conflict in a given year,” Ukorebi Esien, P4P’s Cross River State Coordinator, said. “For instance, if in 2024 most of the signals we received from Cross River State indicated cult clashes or communal disputes, then in the following year, 2025, our interventions may be focused on addressing those issues.”

Several of these text messages have been sent since it was launched a decade ago.

But in Cross River, P4P went a step further.

They saw how quickly a quarrel could escalate and began training local peace actors, such as chiefs, youth leaders, and women’s groups, on how and why they should send that text message, but also on how to respond. 

That network helped Akiba and his colleagues to build an internal communication mechanism that allows them to alert one another instantly and intervene early.

“It has helped us to identify the signs of early tension and respond before any violent escalation in our communities,” said Akiba. He added that his community is grateful for it. “We in Akpap-Okoyong have a boundary issue with Okonotte, and we also house some persons from Ikot Offiong, which has made us look like a hostile community to the people of Oku Iboku.” The longstanding conflict between Oku Iboku in Akwa Ibom State and Ikot Offiong in Cross River State has been fueled by competing claims over land and fishing rights, leading to cycles of violence for over a century.

Akiba said Akpap-Okoyong now has about 40 trained responders who monitor early warning indicators like hate speech, sudden gatherings, or disputes across the over 60 villages, and report them through SMS while also engaging directly with village elders.

It was that system that alerted him that Sunday evening.

In Ikom, on the border with Cameroon,  similar outcomes are taking shape. Clement Nnagbo, the Traditional Head of Okosora Clan, said the training has transformed how people now seek justice. “More than twenty cases have been transferred from various courts, and within less than a month, each matter is resolved,” he said, noting that their alternative dispute resolution process is faster and far less expensive than going through the formal courts.

In Ugep, Yakurr Local Government Area, Usani Arikpo, a religious leader, has seen how easily tensions can spiral, and how sometimes, conflict starts from one thing and leads to another.  He recalled a recent incident that began as a cult clash but nearly turned into a communal crisis. “We saw the signs early,” he said. “Some cult boys from Ugep had gone to Idomi to support their faction there, but along the line, they were killed. The Ugep people felt it was deliberate, and things almost got out of hand. We had to step in, meet with the chiefs, women, and other stakeholders, and from that time, there has not been anything like that again.”

Tradition as strategy 

Sometimes peace is restored by dialogue and sealed with cultural rituals that carry moral weight.

In 2023, a long-brewing conflict between Ofatura and Ovonum in Obubra LGA reignited after years of distrust. “We went to assess the level of the conflict,” recalled Ukorebi, the P4P Coordinator in Cross River. “We met youth leaders, traditional rulers, and women groups, and after several discussions, both sides agreed to a peace pact.”

Both community heads signed an accord and embraced publicly, the first time in years they had sat together. “When you hold meetings like that, you must leave a memory that resonates,” Ukorebi said. “We wanted them to understand the depth of what they were involved in and the cost of violence.”

It was the same method that Akiba and his fellow chiefs deployed in Akpap-Okoyong. “We took both sides to the Ekpe shrine. There, they swore an oath never to fight again,” Akiba said. 

Not without challenges

Yet, sustaining peace is not without limitations. Volunteers often fund their own logistics, and  “transportation is expensive”, said Usani, stating that more could be achieved if they had the means to quickly mobilise and move into areas with conflict.

PIND did not respond to HumAngle’s messages regarding some of these challenges.

Government response has also been slow. “We have found out that the government is rather reactive and not proactive,” Ukorebi said, adding that some communities they had helped bring peace to are back to fighting. “I mentioned the Ofatura-Ovonum crisis: since 2024 till date, the state government has not seen any reason to revisit that document, despite all the efforts by P4P.”

“In that document, there are responsibilities: there is a part to play by the government, there is a part to be played by the communities, there is a part to be played by partners for peace to ensure that that peace we had worked for will remain permanently,” he told HumAngle. “But that has not been the case.”

Still, there are signs of resilience: Across the Niger Delta, P4P’s volunteer peace agents, now over 11,200 strong,  have documented more than 1,148 emerging conflicts that were nipped before turning violent.

Back in Akpap-Okoyong, Chief Akiba watches a group of children play in an open field in front of his compound, hopeful that they will grow up in a community where disputes are settled on a table of negotiation rather than with machetes.

This story was produced under the HumAngle Foundation’s Advancing Peace and Security through Journalism project, supported by the National Endowment for Democracy (NED).

A young Kelvin carries multiple identities. Today, he’s Kelvin, but that might change tomorrow, depending on the identity game he’s up to. For at least 14 hours a day, he describes himself as “Richard”, a stranded American engineer needing financial help from a sympathetic woman he met on a dating site. He’s always glued to his laptop, scheming to swindle his next target in his many romance tricks. 

Kelvin lives in a community in Asaba, South-South Nigeria. 

For him, the end justifies the means, as long as he amasses enough wealth to fund his exorbitant lifestyle. Internet fraud, colloquially known as Yahoo-Yahoo, is his ticket to the flashy cars and designer clothes he sees flaunted by mentors in “HK” – the local term for the Hustling Kingdom, a structured network of internet fraudsters in the state.

Just a few kilometres away, a mechanics workshop stands half-empty. Togolese artisan, Awe Gao, wipes grease from his hands and shakes his head. “Where are the Nigerian boys?” he asks. “Before, this workshop was full of apprentices. Now, they all want quick money from the internet. They call this ‘Yahoo’, saying it is better than dirty hands.”

This is the new reality in Nigeria’s oil-rich South-South region. A generation of young men is abandoning traditional vocations such as furniture making, tiling, automobile mechanics, and welding for the seductive, high-reward world of cybercrime. This mass gravitation is not just a social ill; it is creating a dangerous security vacuum, crippling the local skilled workforce, and ceding vital trades to a steady influx of skilled migrants from Togo and the Benin Republic.

Nigeria has an unemployment problem, and young people are desperately looking for an alternative way to make a living. While many have chosen artisanship to overcome their employment plight, others are resorting to cybercrime. With many youths taking pride in internet fraud as a way of life, Nigeria ranks 5th in the global report on sources of cybercrime activities, trailing behind Russia, Ukraine, China, and the United States. 

A report by the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission (EFCC) documented a significant increase in conviction numbers between 2020 (976) and 2022 (3,785), with a high percentage of these related to cybercrime, such as obtaining by trickery and impersonation. The EFCC authorities noted that, in 2022, the country lost over $500 million to cybercrimes, which contributes to the nation’s reputation as a significant source of cybercrime globally. 

While the EFCC claims to have improved measures to curb cybercrimes in Nigeria, the institution has been accused of being overhand in handling suspects and focusing too much on internet fraudsters rather than corrupt public officials and politicians. The agency has, however, defended its actions, stating that internet fraud is a major crisis linked to more serious crimes. 

“I want Nigerians to know that we are having a crisis on our hands. If you travel abroad with your green passport and stand in the queue among so many people, you will discover that by the time you present the passport, the people [immigration officers] will look at you with some reservation,” said Olanipekun Olukoyede, the EFCC chairman. “That is, if they don’t take you aside to carry out some special scrutiny. That is a national shame that some young Nigerians [yahoo-yahoo boys] have caused us.”

The cybercrime problem seems to carry a different weight in the South-South region, with many young people leaving artisanship for internet fraud. HumAngle spoke to multiple sources, including self-confessing internet fraudsters, cybercrime experts, and community leaders, to unravel the dangerous escapades of youths making internet scams a way of life in the region. The reporting revealed how youths have chosen to enrol in criminal hubs where they learn to swindle people online. One such criminal enterprise is HK, a sophisticated ecosystem operating on a structured mentorship model, where an established fraudster houses and trains five to fifteen apprentices.

“My Oga taught me everything,” explains Kelvin, who dropped out of a polytechnic where he was studying electrical engineering. “How to use VPN, how to create a fake profile, how to talk to these white women, how to make a sad story. For three months, I was just learning. Now, I run my own operations and give him 20 per cent of my ‘hit’.”

The training is rigorous. Recruits are schooled in the psychology of manipulation, the technology of anonymity, and the financial logistics of moving illicit funds. They learn to target vulnerable individuals abroad through romance scams and email compromises.

Another cybercrime apprentice, Franca, 24, from Warri, serves as a “picker,” using her female identity to receive funds through her bank account: “At first, I was doing it to survive after my NYSC. No job. But the money is fast. One transaction can give you what a hair stylist will earn in six months. Why would I learn a trade that pays peanuts?”

The consequence of this mass shift is starkly visible in the region’s industrial and commercial layouts. Workshops that once buzzed with the sounds of apprentices learning a trade now operate below capacity.

“Look around,” says Chinedu Okoro, the owner of an automobile spare parts shop in Benin. “The Togolese and Beninois are taking over because they are willing to learn. Our youths see manual labour as punishment. They point to the ‘Yahoo boy’ with a new iPhone and say, ‘That is my target’. We are losing our capacity for production and becoming a society of scammers.”

The region is becoming dependent on foreign nationals for essential services and skilled labour, from building houses to repairing vehicles. This creates economic leakage and reduces local resilience. Contrary to the illusion of widespread success, only a fraction of internet fraudsters make significant money. The majority live in precarious uncertainty. The abandonment of viable vocational paths means a growing pool of unemployed, frustrated youth who have invested their formative years in a criminal enterprise with a short shelf life.

As competition intensifies, many fraudsters are turning to money rituals, known as “Yahoo Plus”, incorporating spiritualists and, alarmingly, resorting to violence for “quick money”. This has contributed to a spike in mysterious killings and kidnappings, with body parts sometimes linked to ritual demands for “cyber charms”.

For 19-year-old Daniel from Bayelsa, the choice was simple. His father was a renowned welder, but he watched him struggle financially for years.

“My father’s hands were rough, his back was bent, but at the end of the month, what did he have? Nothing,” Daniel says. “Then I saw my cousin from the same HK. In one year, he built a house for his mother. He drives a Lexus. My father’s workshop is now closed. I am his only hope, and this laptop is my tool.” 

Ufoma Ighadalo, 27, told a similar story. His father worked for 35 years for the Delta State government and retired as a school principal. Within that period, he could only build one house at Ughell, Delta State, and buy an old Peugeot car.

“He trained five of us at the university level. But I don’t consider him a success,” Ufoma says in a conspiratorial voice. “In this line of business, I will achieve what my father achieved in less than two years. I already have a house of my own and a car as well. I plan to build my second house here in Asaba before the end of this year. Who says hustling doesn’t pay?”

This narrative is repeated across the region. The tangible, delayed gratification of vocational work cannot compete with social media’s viral, glamorous portrayal of cybercrime success. The HK offers money and an identity of instant wealth and societal validation.

Community leaders and security analysts warn that the situation is a ticking time bomb. “When you disconnect a generation from productive labour and orient them towards predatory online activities, you create a profound societal crisis,” notes Chioma Emenike, an Asaba-based sociologist. “We are nurturing a generation that believes wealth comes not from creating value, but from clever exploitation. The long-term effect on our social fabric and security architecture is devastating.”

Experts argue that the solution must be multi-pronged: aggressive vocational reorientation, government-driven investment in the digital economy to create legitimate tech jobs, and severe enforcement against the kingpins of the HK networks.

But for now, in the half-empty workshops of the South-South, the sounds of learning hammers and revving engines are being replaced by the silent, desperate click of keyboards, as a generation chooses the elusive kingdom of fraud over the solid foundation of a skilled trade.

It was a sombre Thursday afternoon in Alesi, a community in Ikom Local Government Area (LGA) of Cross River State, in South South Nigeria. Inside the village head’s palace, men and women gathered in silence, their faces drawn with grief. Some stared blankly ahead; others fought back tears.

“We have lost another son. Our hearts are heavy, our eyes are bleeding. Our people are continuously being killed as a result of boundary disputes, and we are increasingly being forced to take up arms,” Nzan Osim, a community leader, addressed the mourners. 

A day earlier, Fidelis Akan, a cocoa farmer from Alesi, was beheaded on his farm, close to the boundary with Ochon, a neighbouring community in Obubra LGA. His elder brother, Lawrence Akan, said Fidelis had gone to the farm with his daughter that morning to harvest cocoa when they heard gunshots. 

“As they came out to see what was happening, a group of boys, allegedly from Ochon, caught them. When they found out that he was from Alesi, they beheaded him,” he narrated. Fidelis’ daughter escaped and raised the alarm. His body was later recovered and buried the same day, leaving behind a wife and six children. 

In the aftermath, angry residents allegedly set fire to a truck loaded with cocoa, believing it belonged to an Ochon farmer. 

A long battle over land

Since 2022, Alesi and Ochon have become flashpoints for deadly clashes, rooted in a long-running boundary dispute and the struggle for farmland to cultivate cocoa, one of Cross River’s most valuable crops. 

Yet, for decades, both communities coexisted peacefully, trading and even intermarrying across the boundary without violence. Many locals believe the recent tensions are being driven by increased competition for farmland and the growing economic value of cocoa.

The disputed land falls within the Ukpon River Forest Reserve, a protected area established by the state government in 1930 to preserve forest resources and biodiversity. Both communities continue to claim ownership of the area, with residents of Alesi accusing their Ochon counterparts of trespassing and attempting to seize land around Adibongha, the nearest clan to the boundary. 

The tension has often turned violent. In July, several houses were burnt and many families were displaced after an attack on Adibongha, according to Kelvin Eyam, a resident. 

“We have documents to prove our claim, but the Obubra people don’t want us at the boundary. They want to seize the entire land. The boundary is clearly marked at the centre of the river. There’s even a document that shows this, but attempts have been made to wipe it out,” said Nzan, a community leader from Alesi.

The traditional ruler of Obubra, Robert Mbinna, disagrees and insists it is Alesi that has been trespassing and illegally occupying their land. “There is a court order to that effect,” he said, adding that his own people have also lost lives in the crisis.

While both sides referred to documents supporting their claims, they did not present any to HumAngle for verification.

Beyond the legal arguments, residents say the human toll continues to rise. “A lot of people have been maimed, kidnapped and not seen till today. We dread to see one another and no longer enter the same vehicle with those from Obubra,” Nsan added. 

Aside from the lives lost, the protracted crisis between these communities is also impacting the livelihoods of residents. Farmers say vast farmlands have been abandoned for fear of attacks, while others have watched their cocoa trees destroyed in the clashes.

Daniel Eguma, a cocoa farmer from Ukanga in Ikom, is one of them. Just a day before Akan’s brutal murder, he escaped from Okokori, a community near the boundary where he would always pass the night after working on his farmland. 

“I slept at a primary school field and made arrangements with a driver who took me away at 3 a.m. after I heard of an impending attack. I left behind my six hectares of cocoa farmland and a motorcycle,” he told HumAngle. 

Daniel was already planning to harvest his cocoa in a week, but he cannot go back to his farm again. Usually, when criminals notice that farmers have abandoned their farms, they go in and steal. He said he could not even begin to estimate the value of what he has lost — but after years of labour and investment, it is substantial.

‘The Prevent Council’

As violence persisted despite repeated police deployments, civil society actors began searching for ways to prevent further bloodshed.

Nine months after at least eight people were killed and about 2000 displaced following a clash between the communities in March 2022,  the Foundation for Partnership Initiatives in the Niger Delta (PIND), a non-profit organisation, launched the Prevent Council initiative. The project aimed to strengthen community peacebuilding structures by engaging traditional rulers as positive influencers and conflict mediators in Akwa Ibom, Cross River, and Delta states.

PIND says it currently has 10,113 peace actors in its network, who have intervened in over 2000 conflicts since 2013.

In Cross River, at least 25 traditional rulers and community leaders in five LGAs, including Ikom and Obubra, were trained and made peace ambassadors. PIND’s Executive Director, Tunji Idowu, said that the initiative recognised the critical role that traditional rulers play in maintaining peace and security within their communities. 

“The central goal of the Prevent Council is to promote and sustain social cohesion and peaceful coexistence in society with no one left behind. It emphasises that sustainable peace must involve multilateral engagements with traditional institutions as critical positive influencers and conflict mediators in their respective states and communities,” Tunji explained.

Participants received training on early warning and response, conflict mapping, mediation, and Alternative Dispute Resolution (ADR). 

Between 2023 and 2024, PIND peace ambassadors intervened when clashes erupted between Alesi and Ochon. Using their training manuals, they engaged both sides to de-escalate tensions.

“We went into the communities where we spoke with elders and youths about the need to embrace peace,” said Agbor Clement, a participant from Ikom LGA. 

However, since the return of the violence this year, both Agbor and Mbinna, a participant from Obubra LGA, admit that their effort have not tackled the root causes. Agbor noted that Ikom also shares boundaries with Boki and Etung local government areas; however, there have been no reported boundary disputes, as the borders are properly demarcated. 

Local government officials agree. According to Daniel Eyam, a Special Adviser on Political and Executive Matters to the Ikom LGA chairperson, although PIND’s activities are well-intentioned, the system itself prevents peace from taking root. 

“In communities, when there is a land dispute, you go to the elders because they are the custodians of facts that pertain to the disputed area, and when they speak the truth, matters are resolved. Sadly, many of them have refused to do that,” he said. 

Daniel stressed that beyond offering training, PIND should push relevant agencies to speak the truth and take action. 

Another challenge facing PIND’s Prevent Council is a lack of resources to enable peace ambassadors to respond immediately during conflict situations.

“We were supposed to meet with stakeholders after the latest crisis, but we are handicapped because our work usually ends after training,” said Victor Okim, a PIND ambassador in Obubra. “We cannot go into the communities to drill down on what we have learned because we don’t have the resources. There is no continuous monitoring and evaluation of Prevent Council activities.”

“If we have the support that we need, we can do more because we are part of them, and they trust us so much to listen when we speak,” he added. 

Nkongha Daniel, the PIND Coordinator for Ikom, said women are often the biggest losers in crises because they lose their husbands and children. She suggested the foundation invest more in training women on how to respond in times of crisis.

PIND did not respond to interview requests, so it remains unclear whether the organisation is aware of the renewed violence or has taken steps to address these challenges. However, in its Niger Delta Weekly Conflict Update for March 2022, it recommended stronger collaboration between stakeholders and the state government to tackle the root causes of land conflicts and redress historical grievances.

Government efforts fall short

On July 30, the Cross River State Government ordered the immediate suspension of all farming activities on the disputed land, saying it was part of its efforts to bring peace to the area until proper boundary demarcation was carried out.

Community leaders and stakeholders of the two warring communities met in Calabar, the state capital, with the Deputy Governor, Peter Odey, and other government officials, including Anthony Owan-Enoh, who is overseeing an eight-person Peace Committee that was inaugurated to identify the root causes of the conflict and recommend a sustainable resolution framework. 

During the meeting, community leaders were instructed to submit all relevant documents relating to the crisis on or before Aug. 1. HumAngle confirmed that the papers were submitted, and a follow-up review meeting was slated for Aug. 13 to assess compliance, monitor the committee’s progress, and tackle emerging issues.

However, several community leaders noted that no meaningful progress has been made. 

“They gave us two weeks to stay off our lands, saying they were coming to carry out boundary demarcation. But after the visit, nothing happened. We have not been told whether we can return to our farms,” said Kelvin Eyam, a community leader from Alesi, lamenting that the government appears indifferent as violence continues. 

Nzan claimed that on Sept. 4, the Secretary to the State Government asked both parties to provide surveyors for an urgent meeting with the state’s Surveyor General. However, when he called to find out the outcome of the meeting the next day, he was informed that it didn’t hold because the surveyor from Obubra could not come. 

“This is what has been happening, and the government continues to keep calm, give us excuses and watch lives get lost,” he lamented. 

Neji Abang, a member of the Peace Resolution Committee for the Ikom-Obubra communal conflict, said that the committee visited both communities shortly after its inauguration to conduct fact-finding. According to him, the state’s Surveyor-General was invited and subsequently deployed a technical team to the disputed boundary. 

“We had a meeting where they presented their findings, and the chairman of the committee had invited 10 representatives from each of the communities to the meeting,” he said. 

But the presentation was rejected by the Alesi delegation, who argued that the demarcation was different from the original boundary record in their possession. They claimed the survey relied on a previous court judgment that had awarded the disputed area to Ochon and therefore demanded a fresh exercise.

Neji also confirmed Nzan’s earlier account that Obubra failed to bring its own surveyor, despite a directive from the committee chairperson instructing both communities to provide independent surveyors to work alongside the state’s team at the disputed site on  Sept. 3.

When asked why the state government had not formally demarcated the boundary despite having records of all boundaries in the state, Abang said, “That is what we will eventually do if it addresses the crisis.” 

What’s the way out?

As government interventions stall, community members and peace ambassadors are proposing alternative paths toward a lasting solution.

Members of the PIND Prevent Council noted that it is also important to look into training community members on livelihoods and alternative means of survival because the conflicts are often rooted in economic struggle.

“Young people can be empowered through skills acquisition programs and grants so they can look away from cocoa, which is a major reason why there is a struggle for land,” Nkongha explained. “Many of the youth are jobless and turn to hard drugs, hence they become willing tools for conflict.”

She explained that Ikom and Obubra, for instance, are big producers of garri, plantain, palm oil, yams, and groundnuts. 

“We can establish industries that process these crops where young people can be employed to work and earn for themselves,” she noted.

For Agbor, another way out of the conflict will be for the government to take over the disputed area and set aside days when farmers on each side can go and harvest their crops, accompanied by security operatives. 

Emmanuel Ossai, a peace and conflict expert who has researched violence in the region, said that interventions, like that of PIND, need to consider widening existing partnerships by involving more strategically placed youth, traditional, religious, and women leaders across the communities in conflict management training regularly.  

“There might be several possible reasons for the violence that are not under PIND’s direct control, but expanding partnerships and training more local leaders in conflict management would be helpful,” he suggested. 

Emmanuel added that regular follow-ups are necessary after training to assess whether community leaders are applying the conflict management skills they acquired to achieve greater impact.

This story was produced under the HumAngle Foundation’s Advancing Peace and Security through Journalism project, supported by the National Endowment for Democracy (NED).

We want to tell a single story but follow three separate crises. 

One began deep in Cross River National Park, where a reporter HumAngle worked with walked into the reserve and found neat rows of cocoa where there should have been rainforest in Nigeria’s South South. Another began hundreds of kilometres in the country’s North East, where families in Yusufari, Yobe State, were leaving their homes because sand had overtaken them. The last came from a file we had kept alive for years — the Great Green Wall, Africa’s 8,000-kilometre chain of trees planted to hold the desert back.

With rising interest in Nigeria’s environmental and climate crisis, HumAngle has drawn from its pioneering experience using geospatial investigative techniques to strengthen its reporting and also provide insights to other reporters who want to make sense of the data they gather. These tools and techniques became central to uncovering evidence from the aforementioned stories.

At first, they felt unrelated. One was about farms, another about migration, the third about a wall of trees. But as the maps were laid out, aligned on the satellite imagery, and compared with the testimonies of locals and experts in the field, the three began to move as one. Forests are collapsing in the south, deserts are pressing from the north, and the only defence is a broken wall.

Righteous deforestation

The first set of coordinates dropped us in the dense green. From above, the forest around Ekong/Oban town in Cross River State looked alive and whole. But zooming closer, the stylish spiral shapes of the tree canopies looked different from the bushy, round type of the natural rainforest tree crowns. Natural forest crowns scatter randomly, and the spirals reveal human hands. Cocoa.

“There are a lot of farms in the area, though, which have also sprung up in the same time period,” said Olatunji Olaigbe, the investigative reporter on the ground. “One thing we heard happens is that virgin forest is logged, and then the cocoa farmers plant on it after a while and claim farms have always been there.” 

Olatunji’s GPS confirmed it. He had stood among young cocoa trees where laws say there should be natural rainforest. In fact, he had walked more than one farm, and locals told him there were many like the ones he had seen. To verify, we scanned further and identified two large sites having these same tree crowns as the place where he was.

The first was within walking distance. It covers over 3,000 hectares, with scattered individual patches spreading loosely through the forest. The hypothesis was that they had no formal system of land allocation due to their unstructured organisation. Like a traditional tenure system, where the lands have no visual demarcating boundaries. Likely by villagers from the neighbouring communities. They may endure inherent land crises and disputes. If they did, it may not be apparent from a satellite perspective as the crops spread freely and uninterrupted over the National Reserve.

The second site, a few kilometres south of this site, looked more structured. Covering about 4000 hectares, it was orderly: consistent crops, obvious boundary markers. We suspected that this site may belong to a major entity invested in cocoa farming or a group of individuals and/or entities in agreement. Each owns one or multiple lands, perhaps allocated by an authority. 

We then measured how much forest had been lost. By overlaying the Hansen Global Forest Change data on two decades of Landsat imagery, the picture sharpened into a time-lapse of collapse. Between 2010 and 2015, degraded forests were thinned and gave way to deforested land. Stable forest shrank by more than two-thirds. By 2023, what remained of the true natural forest was buried in cultivation and cleared lands.

From above, the canopy still looked thick. But its function was gone. Rainforest exchanged for cocoa no longer serves the same way. 

We held on to the impression as we travelled through the country’s North. If Cross River had an abundance of crops at the expense of natural forest, Yusufari was stripped bare of both.

Across dying sands

In Yobe State, reporters spent some weeks travelling across villages surrounded by dunes, such as Yusufari and other villages and towns towards the Nigeria-Niger Republic border, including Bultu Briya, Zakkari, Tulo-Tulo, and Bula-Tura. 

When the photos got to the newsroom, the story was immediately obvious. Settlements, where locals were facing severe water shortages, sat on a bright sandy floor. In some communities, children walked kilometres to fetch water, and in some communities, residents packed up and migrated across the border.

We turned to satellite sensors to understand what was happening beneath the sandy surface. Data from the Gravity Recovery and Climate Experiment (GRACE) satellite mission (2002 – 2017), which tracks the Earth’s shifting gravity to measure underground water storage, showed an odd pattern. Across much of the Sahel, from Zinder to northern Borno, Diffa-Yusufari region, and Southern Yobe, groundwater supplies had ticked upward. But Yusufari itself was an outlier: a flat line. No rise, no fall. A dead pulse for two decades.

The land was no better. ESA’s WorldCover maps showed degrading lands with surface water and arable land shrinking. Which is ironic because the land use satellite data we looked at shows that more than 12 per cent of Yobe’s territory is committed to cropland use, which is far higher than neighbouring Borno or Diffa. They were essentially farmers in a dying land unfit for farming. And so many of them decided to escape the advancing deserts. 

Another tool, NASA’s Moderate Resolution Imaging Spectroradiometer (MODIS) aboard Terra and Aqua satellites, helped us track changes in vegetation over the past two decades. The sensor’s record of greenness showed that villagers travelling into villages in the Niger Republic and Chad were not escaping the arid zone. Instead, the sand was on their heels, following them across the border. 

Holding on to that impression, we examined these environmental crises at both ends of the country. The crises looked different, but the outcome was similar: green was disappearing, whether through natural and man-made exploitation. 

In the South, the forest is being consumed under cultivation. Meanwhile, in the North, the soil was consumed until cultivation was impossible. Faced with crises like these, the question is always: what solutions exist?

One answer has been environmental laws that protect forest reserves meant to safeguard natural habitat, but as we have observed in Cross River, these laws are often ignored, with little or no deterrence against exploitation. Another idea was daring to match global-scale desertification with afforestation, hence the idea of the Green Wall. 

Launched in 2007, the Great Green Wall promised an 8,000-kilometre shield of vegetation across Africa’s midsection, as wide as a city. A living barrier meant to stop the desert from devouring soil and lives. But, nearly two decades later, what has actually grown is far more complicated.

The broken wall

Reporters who travelled across communities along the Wall’s route in the West African Sahel sent back coordinates that were less precise than in Cross River and Yobe states. Insecurity made movement almost impossible. Many sections of the Green Wall corridor remain under the control of violent non-state armed groups, with villages emptied by displacement.

So we turned to geospatial tools to fill in the gaps, and there was an unexpected paradox. Across the Wall, trees were thriving in those places people had abandoned, but dying in many of the places where people remained or fled to. 

To measure this, we cut the corridor into grids — manageable 18-by-18-kilometre boxes spanning thirty localities along the Great Green Wall, from Nigeria, Niger, into Burkina Faso, and beyond. We counted trees in 2007, then again in 2025, using high-resolution mosaics and classification models.

The aggregate number went up. From 3.1 million trees in 2007 to 3.9 million by 2025, a 26 per cent increase. But the growth was concentrated in deserted places.

Across communities in Isa, a local government area in Sokoto State, northwestern Nigeria, insurgency drove villagers away. With grazing and tree-felling halted, and seedlings planted years earlier left undisturbed, tree cover rebounded dramatically — from about 60,000 to nearly 300,000. Dense weeds may have contributed too.

A similar situation unfolded in Burkina Faso’s Djibo, where abandonment allowed trees to flourish. However, in Karma, Niger, tree cover collapsed by more than half.

These contrasting shifts underline the uneven fortunes of the Great Green Wall. Participating countries often report progress; for instance, some media reports say land and vegetation in Senegal and Ethiopia were restored, while Nigeria has claimed five million hectares of reclamation. Yet in rural economies like Yusufari in Yobe or Isa in Sokoto, realities on the ground tell a harsher story. Reporters found Green Wall sites littered with dead seedlings, left untended.

“When I went to Yusufari, I saw that the materials were there, as well as the seedlings, but nobody was taking care of the plants. You just see them dead as you pass by,” Mallam Usman, an environmental journalist, recounted. 

Since the 2010s, violent groups across Nigeria’s North West and the Sahel have threatened the Green Wall efforts, especially in villages abandoned by locals. Based on satellite observations, the Wall grew more in places where people could not stay. 

The legacy effect

To understand this, we probed further using open-source records of past Green Wall and related projects. A “legacy effect” became clear: seedlings sown years earlier, before villages were abandoned, had matured into trees. Our analysis identified at least eight initiatives across Nigeria, Niger, and Burkina Faso that may have laid this foundation. 

We observed the new greens, which are thinner trees with younger trunks and reach. It made sense that 10 to 18-year-old trees would grow within the period of our satellite measurements. 

However, for some of these places, like Isa, the growth of a few dense weeds in the abandoned areas was likely captured by the sensors despite their calibration for growing trees.

Table 1: Tree planting initiatives that may have been the legacies growing in deserted areas. 

Sources: Synthesis of OSINT research, human testimonies and land cover satellite data extraction.  Table: Mansir Muhammed/HumAngle 

Reporting the crisis 

But numbers and pixels tell only part of the story. Behind every satellite measurement lies a human landscape: communities displaced, farmers abandoning fields, and projects like the Great Green Wall that carry both promise and complication. Capturing this side is harder.

“Reaching the people at the centre of these crises is often difficult,” said Al’amin Umar, HumAngle’s climate reporter, whose work focuses on the human cost of climate change at the intersection of conflict and humanitarian crises.

Yet even as field reporting faces these limits, specialised sensors help trace what is otherwise hidden. We have tracked water stress, deforestation, and migration, with satellite technology detecting environmental markers that reveal unsettling conditions across these regions.

From South to North, the coordinates, the pixels, and testimonies say the same thing: the continent’s edges are eating toward the centre, and the centre — the very wall where we placed our hopes for resilience — is already too skewed to hold.

Field reporting: Ibrahim Adeyemi, Olatunji Olaigbe, Mallam Usman, Al’amin Umar, and Saduwo Banyawa. 

All code and data generated for these investigations are available in our open-source project repository.

On the fringes of Okpanam in Delta State, South South Nigeria, there was once a place known simply as “Fulani Camp.” For decades, it was a quiet settlement where nomadic herders grazed cattle, built homes from bamboo and mud, and lived peacefully in proximity with indigenous neighbours. Tensions were not uncommon, but life carried on. People traded, children played, and Saturdays meant weddings, football, and farming.

Today, the same community is unrecognisable. In its place stands a fortified enclave, now dominated by the Eastern Security Network (ESN)—the militant wing of the proscribed Indigenous People of Biafra (IPOB). Residents call it “liberated territory.” But liberation from what? According to several residents of Okpanam, homegrown terrorism replaced a relatively peaceful herding community whose only documented ‘crime’ in the community was being subjected to ethnic profiling. 

“This is not the camp we knew,” said Chinedu Okonkwo, a 42-year-old teacher and lifelong resident of Okpanam. “It used to be tense, yes, but now it’s terrifying. The former occupants are gone. In their place are fighters with guns and stringent rules.”

Warnings of separatist presence have grown into a daily reality. In July 2025, the Nigerian Army’s 63 Brigade and Joint Task Force, South South, conducted a series of intelligence-led raids on the area. Thirteen individuals were arrested between July 26 and Aug. 1, including four identified as IPOB/ESN operatives. Yet, residents say the group remains entrenched in the area.

“They vanish during operations,” Chinedu added. “And reappear just days later. Stronger, even.”

In many towns across the South East, Monday has become synonymous with fear due to the infamous sit-at-home orders enforced by IPOB. In Okpanam, however, it is Saturday that has become the day of dread.

The streets empty predictably every Saturday at 6 a.m.. Markets stay shuttered. Churches hold no vigils. The local variant of the sit-at-home rule—originally a protest strategy—has morphed here into a mandatory ritual, enforced by the threat of violence.

“This is our day for the cause,” said a young man who introduced himself only as Emeka, acting as a spokesperson for the group. “We honour our fallen. We show our loyalty. Without obedience, there is no freedom.”

Despite the IPOB leadership’s 2023 announcement to cancel sit-at-home orders, the ground reality presents a different perspective. Enforcement of this blatant abuse of freedom of movement has become the job of local cells.

For traders like Mama Nkechi, a provisions seller, the toll is unbearable. “I lose two days every week—Monday and Saturday,” she said. “That’s over 100 days in a year. How do I feed my children?”

A 2025 economic report estimated losses from the sit-at-home policy at over ₦7.6 trillion in two years across the South East. In micro-economies like Okpanam, those figures translate to hunger, school dropouts, and displaced families.

Every Friday at dusk, a different ritual begins, one not found in any scripture or traditional custom.

“We bring them food—yams, garri, sometimes cash,” said an elderly woman, her voice barely above a whisper. “We don’t hand it over directly. We leave it at the edge of the forest and walk away. They’ll collect it later.”

This system of enforced offerings has become a strange mix of coerced tax and reluctant gratitude. The militants are called “Umu Oma”—the good ones—though often with irony thick enough to taste. Many residents, caught between fear and a sliver of protection, comply to maintain peace.

“They say they protect us from outsiders,” she added. “But who protects us from them?”

The donations buy relative calm from the very people that terrorise the community, a twisted sense of insurance in a place where traditional state security is either absent or arrives only with boots and bullets. For many, it is a deeply psychological surrender.

Lessons behind curtains

Education has also fallen victim to this new order. Schools that once rang with the chatter of children now sit silent on weekends, their gates chained shut. But learning continues—quietly, covertly.

Chinedu, the local teacher, hosts lessons for a handful of students in his sitting room on Saturdays. “We close the curtains and whisper,” he said. “The children want to learn. Their parents want them to learn. But we can’t be too visible.”

SBM Intelligence has reported severe disruptions in the region, including national exam cancellations and repeated school closures.

Occupation, ethnicity, and the echoes of Sambisa

The irony of the camp in Okpanam is not lost on residents. The ethnic landscape of the camp, once home to nomadic herders, has undergone a radical transformation. Following rising tensions over grazing rights, farmer-herder clashes, and growing anti-outsider sentiment, the herding community fled. In their absence, the ESN found fertile ground, thick bush, sparse oversight, and lingering resentment made the forest there an ideal base. 

Military attempts to reclaim the area have so far proved temporary. After every operation, the group returns, sometimes with recruits, often with renewed confidence. The community, meanwhile, has grown more cautious, quieter, and more afraid.

A conflicted hope

Despite the suffocating grip of the new order, some residents still express conflicted sympathy.

“Before they came, herders destroyed our crops. Our daughters were afraid to walk alone,” said Sunday, a local mechanic. “Now, that threat is gone. But look at what we have instead.”

This sentiment, however controversial, highlights the complexity of life under militant control across southeast Nigeria. For many, the choice isn’t between peace and violence but between two different brands of violence—one masked as protection, the other dressed in a state uniform.

As security operations resume in fits and starts, and as IPOB continues its fragmented messaging from abroad, one question echoes louder than any generator or gunshot: Where is peace and security?

Saturdays, once reserved for weddings, church gatherings, farming, and rest, the seventh day now brings only silence. And in that silence lies a warning that, for many communities across South East and South-South Nigeria, the line between protest and predation has all but vanished.

Across the South East, no one speaks too loudly. Children no longer run freely. Traders count not profits, but losses. And as each week ends with offerings. “Someday, Saturdays will come back to us,” said Chinedu. “I just hope we’ll still be here to see it.”

On a Tuesday morning, Kaneng Fom’s* mind told her she was going to die.

The day had begun normally: Kaneng took a short walk down her estate street with her brother, watched her favourite anime, and hoped for an update to the show, before finally getting in the car. Her mother was waiting at the steering wheel to drive her down the road in the Gwarimpa area of Abuja, North Central Nigeria, to get a loaf of bread. The ride was usually smooth for Kaneng, but not that day; the crushing feeling of death and panic consumed her.

That feeling unsettled her mind, tightened her chest, and overwhelmed her breath. Her mother was talking to her in the car, but Kaneng’s anxiety prevented her from truly hearing. She knew how best to describe what was happening; she had learned this phrase online when trying to understand the strange anxiety that randomly overpowers her: a panic attack.

Her mother, however, seeing this for the first time, has different verbiage to handle the condition.

“Jesus!” she yelled.

“She was screaming, ‘Jesus, Jesus,’ until I eventually calmed myself down,” Kaneng recounts. “After she asked me a few questions, she said that I should pray more and if I prayed more or invited the Holy Spirit to go about my day, I would have fewer panic attacks.”

Nigeria is a religious country. About 99.4 per cent of the country’s population is affiliated with a major religion, according to the World Factbook. For those deeply connected to its culture and way of life, like Kaneng’s mother, religion is viewed as a solution to nearly every problem, including mental health challenges.

But while religion offers a source of strength, its dominance also reflects a deeper issue: mental health care in Nigeria is expensive, under-resourced, and often out of reach. As therapy costs rise and stigma remains high, for many Nigerians, then, the default response to psychological distress isn’t clinical but spiritual.

Research by the West African Academy of Public Health shows that many Nigerians like Kaneng are first and solely pushed to seek spiritual sustenance when they face a mental health challenge. 

‘Why worry when you can pray?’

Such was the case for 22-year-old Tolu*, a member of the National Youth Service Corps (NYSC), who identifies with several symptoms from autism, Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD), and trauma from sexual assault.

“I come from a very Catholic family, so obviously I believed the church should be my first option,” he said. “I was at a church retreat, and my head just wasn’t clear, so I went to the priest for guidance. I was like (to the priest) ‘I don’t think I’m okay mentally’ and all he told me to do was pray. I didn’t ask him for any particular help, but he didn’t provide any particular help either. ”

A study by researchers at the Department of Religion and Cultural Studies, University of Nigeria, Nsukka in the country’s South East, revealed that some Nigerian religious bodies have positioned themselves as entities capable of curing any struggle, mental illness included. The study explains that this posture, in some cases, allows religious leaders to extort Nigerians who come to them for help. 

Despite estimates from the African Polling Institute suggesting that 20 to 30 per cent of Nigerians may have mental illness, there is a significant lack of care and attention dedicated to addressing their needs. The Association of Psychiatrists in Nigeria (APN) also estimates that only about 300 psychiatrists are tending to mentally ill Nigerians, with only about 4.72 per cent of Nigeria’s total health budget allotted to mental health care. For many, accessing a psychologist can be a painful struggle, and when they do get access, the psychologists often lack proper resources.

In the context of widespread need and inadequate support, spiritual solutions become the more accessible, familiar, and often the only option available.

This “faith-centred healing” approach is echoed by popular religious leaders like Jerry Eze, an evangelist and founder of an Abuja-based Pentecostal ministry, Streams of Joy, who conducts services where the “spirit” of depression or anxiety is cast away on the authority of Jesus. 

During a sermon to thousands of congregation members on June 22, Pastor Jerry described anxiety as something people position themselves in. 

“If I position in fear, my seed (blessings) will be eaten. If I position myself in anxiety, then my seed (blessings) will be eaten,” he claimed during the sermon, giving many a sense of power over something they may feel helpless about. To fix this issue, he insisted his devoted listeners command the spirit of fear away, saying, “It does not matter whether there is change (in your fears) or not, keep commanding!”

When Ruth Anya*, a Streams of Joy member, was asked whether Pastor Jerry encouraged the congregation to seek professional mental health care, she replied, “He doesn’t discourage us, and has even encouraged people to speak to loved ones if they are struggling. But we all know we are at Streams of Joy for our miracles.”

People of other faiths face similar situations, where spiritual explanations are often prioritised before other possibilities are explored. In May, Suhayla Yusuf*, a young Muslim woman, told HumAngle that she had turned to an Islamic platform to share her distress over the intrusive thoughts associated with obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD), but was simply told the thoughts were from the devil, with no further support offered. OCD has different subtypes, and in Islamic discourse, Suhalya’s experience aligns with what is commonly referred to as waswas, a term that translates to “whisperings of the devil.”

The cost of mental wellness

In 2024, Nigeria’s minimum wage was increased to ₦70,000. While this policy has been slow to implement, the price of therapy and the general cost of living in the country have continued to skyrocket beyond what the average Nigerian makes monthly.

To better understand the cost limitation to seeking mental health support, HumAngle researched and found that a leading psychiatry resource in Nigeria offers therapy sessions that range in price from ₦15,000 to ₦155,000. The cost depends on factors such as your location, the therapist’s qualifications, the type of therapy provided, and whether the session is conducted online or in person. Regardless of the circumstances, many Nigerians may find this cost of a single therapy session unaffordable.

“Therapy is largely inaccessible to the average Nigerian. The cost of treatment, especially private services, remains out of reach for most,” Okwuchukwu Mary-Ann, a clinical psychologist, told HumAngle. 

Her reasoning is backed by data: the World Bank estimates Nigeria’s rural poverty rate is 75.5 per cent. The World Health Organisation has reported that those living in poverty are the most likely to experience mental health issues. Therefore, a ₦15,000 session is far too expensive for the majority of Nigerians who need mental health support.

“Finances pose a big problem for me,” Kaneng noted. “I’ve always been supportive of therapy, but I’ve never been able to afford to go. I would ask my parents, but as I told you, my mother thinks I need to pray more, and my father, our breadwinner, agrees.” When asked if they tried to help her beyond this advice, Kaneng said, ‘My mother prayed whenever I brought it up. That was it.’”

Tolu also faces the same challenge, explaining, “I diagnosed myself through a test sent to me by a friend. A big hindrance towards me getting a formal diagnosis is money.”

Morayo Adesina*, a student at the Pan-Atlantic University in Lagos, South West Nigeria, who tried therapy in 2022, told HumAngle it wasn’t a favourable experience. “It wasn’t easy to find a therapist in Nigeria,” she claimed. “As a student, my only options were the school therapist who may potentially expose my secrets to school authorities, or a therapist gotten through my mother who may potentially expose certain aspects of my worldview to her that I didn’t want her to know about.”

Despite her reservations, Morayo had no choice but to trust her mother’s judgment. This path led her to two therapists, the second of whom she stayed with for some time.

“The second therapist I saw cost around ₦50,000 for the first session, and ₦30,000 for subsequent sessions. That was three years ago, though, and the price today should be over ₦70,000,” she said. 

When asked why she stopped, Morayo responded, “I did about four to five sessions before I started to feel like I was wasting my mum’s money.” 

With a few sessions and over ₦100,000 spent on therapy, Morayo was able to reap some benefits from her sessions with the therapist, who eventually gave her a diagnosis for the persistent pessimism and gloominess she has carried as long as she can remember. 

The verdict was depression, anxiety, and, most importantly, a way for Morayo to feel more at ease with herself; “this diagnosis made me feel more normal because it felt like I could at least tie what was wrong with me to something outside of the feeling that I was probably irredeemably broken.”

However, Morayo doesn’t think the sessions were enough, telling HumAngle that the cost and number of therapy sessions necessary to fix what she thinks is wrong with her come at an expensive price. The American Psychological Association has shown that 15 to 20 therapy sessions are essential to heal 50 per cent of people with mental illness, meaning Morayo’s five sessions only scratched the surface. When people like her, a middle-class student, can’t afford to pay for therapy sessions, the chances of the majority lower class seem far less likely. 

Rashid Usman*, an Arabic and Islamic teacher, agrees that the cost of therapy is too high, but believes surrendering oneself to Allah is the perfect way to avoid mental illnesses. “Mental illness is a condition that affects your thoughts, behaviours and emotions when you are too worried rather than allowing your creator to control your affairs,” he argued, noting that instead of spending money on therapy, it is much cheaper to position God at the heart of your problems. 

“People should be taught how to handle and manage anything that could lead to this problem in the way of God, at the worship centre,” he added. Rashid’s answer explains the reason some look to divinity rather than therapy.

Between stigma and possession

The cost of therapy is a significant barrier for many individuals, but the stigma associated with mental illness also presents a considerable obstacle. When Kaneng was asked about the difficulties of managing a mental illness in Nigeria, she sighed and responded, “It’s truly challenging, and it becomes even more difficult when I can’t express my feelings to my parents or convey my desire to seek therapy. I often feel like an outsider.”

Tolu also experienced the same thing: “It is challenging. You go through things people do not understand, and sometimes you want to explain, but you just dismiss the idea because they will most likely misunderstand your situation.”

Nigerian society has taught people like Tolu and Kaneng that it is better to be silent, whispering the particulars of their mental stress only to God. 

Rashid puts it plainly when asked if he thinks mental illness has a spiritual cause, stating, “Yes, spiritual attack from Jin [demon] can alter mental stability.”

Religious leaders from different faiths preach messages that align with his views. In 2022, Adeola Akinniyi, a pastor at Mountain of Fire and Miracles Ministries, published a sermon titled “The Enemy Called Depression,” in which he described mental illness as a spiritual attack.

“The enemy is using the weapon of depression against believers in the church, manipulating sisters, brothers and everyone. That you have money does not stop the enemy from attacking you with the weapon of depression,” he told his congregants.

Faith and therapy 

In the ongoing conversation about the role of religion in mental health, a question arises: Can communion with God truly lead to complete healing from mental struggles? While Kaneng leans toward a hopeful affirmation, her response reveals a more complex truth.

“I’m not irreligious,” she cuts in quickly. “And I do feel some relief when I pray, but never in the middle of a [panic] attack, and they always come back.  I’ve begun to believe that praying or fasting can’t fix certain things, but they provide relief.”

Mary-Ann highlights the risks of relying solely on religious intervention for mental health issues. “This mindset of only seeking religious help can delay the pursuit of additional support, which may worsen symptoms or lead to chronic problems,” she noted.

Several other medical sources warn that unchecked mental illness can become permanent over time, an issue Kaneng thinks befell her.

“My panic attacks are less intense now that I’ve done research into what they are and I try to manage them,” she said. “But over the last two years, they have become more frequent, and I consider them a part of my daily life.”

There are religious leaders who understand the place of mental healthcare, however. 

Femi Ogunleye*, a youth pastor at the Cathedral Church of Advent in Abuja, believes mental health care is not restricted by God, explaining, “Christianity only discourages sin. Wanting help healthily isn’t a sin.”  

He proposes this dual style of healing: “There are medicines that can help (mental health care), you know, and depending on the type [of medicine]. Some can be resolved by going back to God in prayer and reading the word of God, but there are some that you need mental health care. So the church should promote going to mental health facilities when you have such challenges.”

He is not alone in believing that faith and therapy can coexist. Other Nigerian religious leaders, such as the well-known Apostle Femi Lazarus, have spoken extensively on the subject. In a sermon titled “Issues of Mental Health Need to be Addressed in The Body of Christ”, Lazarus affirms his belief that Christians and Nigerians need to pay better attention to mental health problems, saying, “Many people have mental health issues, and we need to first take them for therapy.” 

In Nigeria’s South South region, a group of Catholic nuns is providing free mental health services to women at risk of homelessness in Uyo and surrounding areas.

Additionally, mental health advocates like Mariam Adetona have found ways to properly combine faith with mental health care. On a muslim-advocacy blog, “Reviving Sisterhood”, Mariam spoke about reaching people who need mental health help, saying, “I have noticed many do not think therapy is necessary or are sceptical about its efficiency or effectiveness. In cases like this, I use my own experience with therapy to persuade them, as well as others’ experiences.”

Still, until therapy becomes truly affordable and stigma fades, many Nigerians will continue to find themselves caught between their faith and their pain, turning first to prayer, even when what they need most is professional care.

Names marked with * have been changed to protect identities.

She was just seven years old when they were displaced by the Boko Haram insurgency in Borno State, northeastern Nigeria. Elizabeth Bitrus and her family fled to Taraba State, where they lived in an internally displaced persons (IDP) Camp. That was the first time Elizabeth had to adjust to a home that was not her home. 

Three years later, she and her aunt boarded a bus bound for Edo State, South South Nigeria, where her aunt resides. 

No one told Elizabeth Bitrus exactly where she was headed, but she knew it meant a fresh start, a chance to return to school, and she could hardly contain her excitement. She had dropped out after displacement upended her life. Elizabeth was only ten. Her aunt had told her stories of what it was like living there and how children attend a free school, with provisions for food, books, and even toiletries. 

They eventually arrived at Uhogua, a rural community in Edo State. Their destination was the Home for the Needy Camp, a sprawling compound dotted with blocks of buildings roofed with rusted zinc sheets. When they arrived, her aunt dropped her off at the camp and said she was leaving. Her house was a few minutes away, but students lived in a boarding school arrangement.

Founded in 1992 by Solomon Folorunsho, a Nigerian pastor, the camp provides free accommodation, feeding, and education for displaced people. It currently houses over 4000 people. 

“I thought I would be living with my aunt while attending the school,” Elizabeth recalls with a chuckle. “I started crying profusely. I immediately started to miss my mum and told my aunt to take me back home.”

The memory is still fresh in her mind. She can laugh about it now in hindsight, but at the time, it was terrifying. She didn’t know anyone. How would she fit in?

“I didn’t find it very hard to fit in, thankfully. There was a group of girls who were eager to make friends with me, the new girl. When I kept crying, saying I wanted to leave, they advised me to be patient and stay to study,” Elizabeth said. 

Slowly, she grew accustomed to the routine of the camp. 

“Soon enough, I started to enjoy being in the camp, so much that I didn’t even care about going back home anymore,” she recounted. 

‘Home for the needy’

Over three decades ago, Solomon started caring for children in Edo who were abandoned by their parents and those out of school. 

“I rented an apartment and put them in a private school. These children became wonderful. I saw how they were competing [with other students], which encouraged me. That is how I started,” he said.  

The capacity grew from a one-bedroom apartment to a three-bedroom apartment, then a seven-bedroom apartment. But with more children came greater responsibilities and shrinking resources. Solomon could not manage alone anymore. He began seeking donations from individuals and organisations, and when the children’s school fees became exorbitant, he started a school, employed teachers and got volunteers to run it. 

When the Boko Haram insurgency began, “friends from the north were calling me. This was around 2012. I thought about what we could do for the children, and gradually some families started coming here,” Solomon tells HumAngle. Elizabeth was one of them. 

They live in large tents, each housing up to 50 students. They sleep on mats and attend prayers every morning, before heading to classes in modern brick-walled classrooms. Oddly, however, only the teenage girls were required to cook. They did so in groups, taking turns according to a schedule. Then they shared the food with everyone, both the girls and the boys. 

After dinner, they’d form study groups. Some would do their assignments, others would study for tests. If one didn’t have a torch to read with, they’d go under the tall solar-powered streetlights in the camp’s compound. 

The longing for home

Elizabeth often thought about her mom and three siblings in the early days. 

She never once spoke to her mother for seven years at the camp. She discovered that she had cousins in the camp, and one day, as they chatted with their mom over the phone, Elizabeth heard her mother’s voice. She spoke with her briefly, and a sudden longing for home started to sweep over her. 

“I missed them so much. I knew I needed to go back and see my family,” she recounts.

It had taken a long time to properly reestablish contact with her mom after that brief call on her aunt’s phone in 2021. Her mom didn’t have a phone, so they didn’t speak again until three years later, in 2024. 

Living conditions in the camp were deteriorating: there was hunger, the toilets were full, and some were breaking down. More and more, Elizabeth craved her mother’s embrace. Over the call, she told her mother she wanted to return home, and her mother sent money for transport.

She was excited and nervous the day she was finally leaving Edo for Abuja, North-central Nigeria. It had been nearly a decade since she’d left her family in Taraba, and so much had changed. She is now 18 years old. Her family moved. She wondered how much taller her siblings had grown, whether her mother had aged at all.

“When I saw her waiting for me at the car park after we arrived, I ran into her arms and started sobbing, and sobbing. I couldn’t control it,” Elizabeth recounts with a smile. 

When HumAngle met her at Kuchingoro IDP Camp, an informal settlement in Abuja, where she lives with her mum, Elizabeth was sitting under the shade of a tree. She had just returned from work as a domestic help in a house close to the camp. Across the street, the grand terrace buildings of the estate where Elizabeth sweeps and mops floors stand in sharp contrast to her lowly tent, made out of rusted zinc roof sheets and rags. 

Since she came here, she has not enrolled in school because her mother cannot afford it, and her father is absent. The last time Elizabeth saw him was when they were in Taraba in 2015. He had visited briefly, then left for Lagos. No one has heard from him since.

Elizabeth’s mom, Abigail Bitrus, told HumAngle that her husband had always worked in Lagos and only visited occasionally, even when they lived in Borno. But he has not been in contact with the family since his last visit a decade ago.

“Some of his relatives say he’s alive and well, others say they haven’t heard from him in years. But he and I didn’t fight or anything, and I just wish he’d at least call us,” Abigail explained, tears welling up in her eyes. 

Abigail is 38 years old. She moved to Abuja near her parents, who live in Nasarawa, a neighbouring state. She has lived in the camp for four years, but now faces the threat of eviction. After settling on privately owned property, she and many others were uprooted from their tents, forced to move to a smaller space on another piece of private land. 

Of hope and struggles

Elizabeth wishes to go back to the camp in Benin City. Although it is not her ideal place to live, she gets to study at least. Education is crucial to her, and she has lofty dreams, but is not allowed to return to the camp. 

“I’m now in SS2. I want to graduate and go to university to study medicine. I want to graduate as the best student and get a scholarship to study abroad, like one of my seniors, who is now in the United States,” Elizabeth said. 

Solomon told HumAngle that over 300 students have proceeded to university after graduating from the camp. They studied courses ranging from engineering to medicine and nursing. One student emerged as the best graduating student in his class at Edo State University and later secured a scholarship to the University of Illinois, Chicago.

He said the decision to stop students like Elizabeth from returning to the camp after leaving depends on each family’s situation and financial need.

“​​If you have a home and can afford transport to Abuja or Maiduguri, then you can stay at home, because we want to help those in need… if your father or mother has a house, at least let us give that chance to someone else,” Solomon explains.

Solomon tells HumAngle that donations and aid were consistent in the early days. However, that is no longer the case. Solomon has been appealing to individuals, organisations, and the government to bring more support, but the response has been slow. Globally, humanitarian aid has shrunk. 

The cost of paying teachers became unsustainable, forcing the employed staff to leave. The camp now relies on volunteers and former students to keep the school running. Even feeding the children has become a struggle.

“Food is at a critical level right now,” he says. “We’re struggling to feed the children just once a day. Some of those in university aren’t allowed to write exams because they haven’t paid the fees. We really need support at this time.”

Solomon says he usually pays to harvest from farms in neighbouring villages when food runs out. But it is not nearly enough to meet nutritional needs or satisfy the children. 

Displacement doesn’t just uproot homes—it disrupts education. Over 4.6 million children have been affected by the conflict in northeast Nigeria, according to UNICEF, and 56 per cent of displaced children in Borno, Adamawa, and Yobe are still out of school. Initiatives like Home for the Needy attempt to fill that gap, but without sustained support, many children like Elizabeth risk being left behind.

They are left waiting, left in search of home, education, and the hope for a better future.

Elizabeth still dreams of becoming a doctor. She believes her story doesn’t end in her mother’s arms in Abuja, nor does it find resolution in the dusty tents of Edo. She is a brilliant dreamer and believes in the possibility of more.