The Nigerian military’s quest to reclaim the North East from the brutal grip of Boko Haram over the past decade has been a turbulent journey. The region was a tapestry of terror; towns like Baga, Bama, and Gwoza in 2014 and 2015 had become grim reminders of the country’s vulnerabilities. Yet, the Nigerian military, bolstered by regional allies in the Multinational Joint Task Force (MNJTF), wrestled control of these towns, turning them from insurgent safe havens into battle-scarred victories.
The Sambisa Forest Offensive of 2016–2017 was a turning point, a brutal dance through a dense jungle of death, where Boko Haram’s leadership once thrived under a thick green ecological canopy. The military’s seizure of “Camp Zero,” the so-called fortress of terror, amounted to an audacious triumph. Hundreds of insurgents fell, their weapons seized, a testament to the military’s ability to breach even the most fortified sanctuaries of bloodshed.
Though what followed that victory was a cat-and-mouse race between the military, who could dislodge the insurgents, but do not have the numbers to stay back and lay the guard, and Boko Haram who employ a retreat strategy when faced with superior fire, only to return to the areas that the military has abandoned until the next fight.
In the years that followed, from 2019 to 2023, the military turned its focus on ISWAP, a more powerful splinter of Boko Haram, by surgically eliminating a lot of the group’s leaders and dismantling camps that once hummed with the machinery of war. In the North West, Operation Hadarin Daji, and in the North-central, Operations Safe Haven and Whirl Stroke, have pushed organised armed groups into retreat, forcing criminals to burrow deeper into the forests.
Even on the high seas, the navy has scored victories against oil thieves and pirates by destroying illegal refineries. These significant achievements are the result of the tireless efforts of soldiers who are committed to safeguarding Nigeria’s sovereignty; yet, this hard-won ground remains dangerously fragile.
The Dasukigate arms scandal robbed frontline troops of essential gear, turning the fight into a test of sheer will against an enemy armed not only with bullets but also with a government’s betrayal. HumAngle has also documented how corruption and a lack of accountability negatively impacted the welfare of security officials on the frontlines. These soldiers, who have prevented every Nigerian from becoming a refugee, live in some of the most deplorable conditions along with their families.
Though the military itself didn’t do too well, reports of torture and extrajudicial killings cast long shadows, eroding public confidence and breeding a dangerous cynicism.
Corruption, the most persistent adversary, flourishes. According to a PwC report, if Nigeria’s kleptocratic elites continue to enrich themselves, the country’s GDP could plummet by 37 per cent by 2030. That’s $2,000 ripped from every Nigerian’s pocket, a future mortgaged by greed.
Nigeria has already lost over $550 billion to corruption since 1960, says the World Justice Project. In 2019 alone, Nigerians paid ₦675 billion in bribes. The theft of these monumental figures is as destructive as the acts of terrorism committed against innocent citizens by Boko Haram and other similar groups.
The adaptive enemy
Meanwhile, the insurgents continue to adapt and evolve, capitalising on the governance vacuum. Driven from urban centres, they’ve slithered into rural areas, away from the spotlights of many news platforms, to rule over these populations. The borders, a frayed edge where fighters dart in and out, are also important. Weapons from Libya’s collapse and Mali’s war zones bolster them. These ungoverned spaces are the oxygen that fuels the fires of terrorism across Nigeria.
In many rural communities, the only governance they have known is by a brutal armed group that leaves them with only one option: comply or die.
The free-for-all ransom economy
Between May 2023 and April 2024, an estimated 2.2 million people were kidnapped across Nigeria, according to data from the National Bureau of Statistics (NBS). During this period, families and communities paid roughly ₦2.2 trillion in ransoms. The North West accounted for the highest payments, totalling ₦1.2 trillion, while the South-East recorded the lowest, with ₦85.4 billion. Rural areas bore the brunt of these abductions, with 1,668,104 reported cases compared to 567,850 in urban centres.
These ransom figures are conservative estimates, reflecting less than half of the total money that changes hands between families and non-state actors in grisly exchanges. Accurate data is scarce because there is no functional system in place to prevent abductions or to track and regulate ransom payments. Despite efforts to curb kidnappings, families, driven by desperation and love, often pay ransoms directly to secure the release of their loved ones.
The so-called “ransom economy” is not only vibrant and fast-growing but also an unchecked, chaotic, and lucrative sector that operates without oversight. This lack of regulation fuels the expansion of kidnappings and enables militant groups and criminal gangs to thrive. Given the military’s critical role in counterterrorism and counterinsurgency efforts, it is imperative that it track every ransom payment, every penny that ends up in the hands of its adversaries.
A dedicated, trained, and multi-agency unit should be established to track and monitor every ransom transaction. This unit must ensure that every negotiation is carefully aligned with the broader military and counterinsurgency strategy to avoid inadvertently strengthening the enemy or undermining ongoing security operations.
The accountability problem
Pre-trial detainees languish in Nigeria’s overcrowded cells, their fate suspended in a limbo that mocks the very notion of justice. High-profile cases of notorious terrorists and violent criminals, especially those who once sowed terror and death, remain unresolved, further deepening public despair. Worse still, many of these fighters are offered amnesty deals, returning to communities they once ravaged, where their victims now live with trauma and betrayal.
The Knifar Movement is a stirring example. HumAngle has tirelessly documented the plight of women whose husbands were whisked away by the military under vague suspicions of insurgency, many of them never to be seen or heard from again. Their demands for truth and justice highlight the release of a thousand of them with no compensation and further create a system that prides itself on “winning the war”, yet cannot even account for those it detains in the name of that victory.
Meanwhile, in places like Giwa Barracks in Maiduguri, disturbing allegations of torture and extrajudicial killings fester in the shadows. Human rights groups have decried the treatment of detainees, where beatings, starvation, and summary executions appear to be the grim tools of interrogation, a chilling echo of the very brutality the military claims to fight.
A broken justice system
Beyond the barracks, justice in rural Nigeria is too often a distant rumour. Communal disputes and cattle rustling, particularly in the North-central and North West regions, have become chronic afflictions. Villagers watch, disillusioned, as security forces fail to resolve their grievances. In the absence of real justice, people turn to self-help: vigilante groups rise from the ashes of neglect, meting out their brand of “law” with machetes and hunting rifles.
The Administration of Criminal Justice Act (ACJA) of 2015 was meant to reform these dismal realities — to inject some semblance of speed and fairness into a system that moves with all the urgency of a snail in a marathon. Yet, despite its lofty promises, the ACJA has struggled to take root, hampered by state-level inertia and a persistent culture of impunity.
In this climate, the real business of justice is still little more than a distant ideal. Without meaningful reform, these injustices will continue to fester, infecting every corner of the nation’s already fragile peace.
A fragile peace — and a stark choice
Nigeria’s National Security Adviser, Nuhu Ribadu, reported that military and intelligence operations have significantly advanced counter-terrorism efforts, killing 13,543 insurgents and criminals nationwide over the past two years. Ribadu added that at least 124,408 insurgents and their families have surrendered and are now in the government’s deradicalisation and reintegration program.
The military works hard to recapture towns and forests, but fostering trust within the people remains a gap. Unfortunately, victory on the battlefield holds minimal significance if young people perceive their future solely through the lens of violence, if their sole option is to don a uniform, jeopardise their lives, and return to communities still plagued by hunger, fear, and injustice.
At the heart of this cycle lies a grim truth: bad governance and corruption are not just the enemies of good policy or a good fighting military force; they’re the quiet architects of endless war.
The final battle, it seems, is not in Sambisa or the Lake Chad islands. The real enemies are corruption, indifference, and political expediency, all conspiring in the echoing halls of Abuja to mock every military triumph. Young men and women in uniform are traumatised and are merely pawns in an endless battle.
Without accountability at all levels, from the barracks to the boardrooms of government, these military victories risk being as fleeting as they are bloody, quickly undone by the same rot that has haunted Nigeria’s past. The choice, then, is stark: to demand more from those in power or to continue burying the hopes of a generation under the rubble of bad governance.
