THE DAY BOKO HARAM ATTACKED

Postcards from Maiduguri, Nigeria.

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Curated by: Amina Muhammad Ali¹ & Usman Zarma.²

Edited, designed, and vibe-coded by: `Kunle Adebajo.

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1. Amina Muhammad Ali is a professional scriptwriter and multilingual jingle voice artist with a passion for storytelling, especially in Kanuri and Hausa. ↩︎
2. Usman Zarma is an experienced freelance writer, editor, and researcher with expertise in conducting in-depth interviews, crafting compelling content, and providing accurate translation and transcription services. With a portfolio spanning multiple industries, he helps businesses and organisations tell their stories, capture valuable insights, and achieve their goals through high-quality writing, editing, and research services. ↩︎

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I was 13 years old when my hometown was attacked. Many people, especially men, were killed. Women were captured, and my village was taken over by Boko Haram. The killing and abduction continued for almost three weeks. I was caught in an attempt to escape at night, three weeks into the occupation. They fed me and other captives with good food, which was stolen from people’s shops.

Upon hearing rumours that the military was coming to take over the town, they prepared and relocated us to Sambisa Forest. Our journey took two days on vehicles. On the way, they fed us with bread and water.

At Sambisa, I was engaged with religious studies, and then they married me to someone four months later. The so-called husband always beat me because I was a bit resistant, as I didn’t love him. However, food was sufficient. I ate good food throughout my stay at Sambisa, which lasted over 15 months.

I planned to escape when most of the Boko Haram fighters had gone on an operation. Only a few were left behind as guards, but they had fallen asleep. I left at midnight, hiding whenever I heard the sound of movement. It took me three days to reach a village called Nyanri, where I met some Fulani people who helped me with some cow milk. From there, my journey continued until I reached Marte town.

I was lucky to have met an old woman who happened to be my relative in the town. Old men and women were allowed to stay in the village untouched, but were warned not to allow anyone to stay with them. Yet the old woman received me and treated me for almost two months because I had fallen sick due to how I suffered while escaping.

The old woman linked me with certain trusted people also hiding in the village to travel with me to Maiduguri so that Boko Haram would not recapture me. We succeeded in getting to Maiduguri in a vehicle, and I was able to locate my relative’s house in the town. I was subsequently taken to my mother, who happened to be at Gubio IDP camp.

We spent over five years at the camp. We received food and non-food items from the Government and NGOs in the early years of our arrival. However, the food support subsequently became scarce. I kept recalling how food was abundant at Sambisa forest during my stay there.

I was able to learn some interior decor, like making throw pillows and bedsheets, with the help of the NGOs. I sold the items to support myself and my family members. I didn’t experience any form of stigma while in the camp, and I was also able to join adult education classes. I still attend the classes after the camp was closed.

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As narrated by: Fatima Bulama (Maiduguri, Nigeria).

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This snippet is published as part of a series, The Day Boko Haram Attacked.

When the Boko Haram insurgency began, my world changed overnight. The sound of gunfire and bomb blasts became part of daily life. Many of my colleagues fled, and some were silenced forever. But I made a choice to stay.

My family begged me to quit saying, “Bashir, your life is more important than the news!” But deep inside, I knew the truth: If we all keep quiet, who will tell the world what is really happening here?

I faced fear every single day. I carry my recorder and notebook like a weapon, though they were powerless against bullets. Once, while travelling to Bama to interview survivors, our bus was stopped by armed men. My heart nearly stopped. I hid my recorder inside a loaf of bread and pretended I was only visiting relatives. By Allah’s mercy, they let us go. That night, I cried quietly, not from weakness, but from the heavy burden of carrying so many untold stories.

Sometimes editors rejected my reports, saying they were “too risky” or “too political.” But I found ways. I smuggled my stories out, shared them with international agencies, and made sure the world could not ignore us.

The cost was high. I lost friends, neighbours, and even my own house was burned down. But the stories I told became powerful weapons, exposing corruption, giving survivors a voice, and showing the world the suffering of my people.

I was never given medals or wealth, but the smiles of displaced children were enough. In the IDP camps, they would run to me shouting: “Mallam! Write our story again!” And I would kneel down, open my notebook, and write.

Journalism during war taught me something: it is not about fame or headlines. It is about refusing to be silenced. It is about carrying people’s pain and choosing courage over fear.

Even now, I continue, because I believe with all my heart that even if only one person reads or listens, then the truth has not died.

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As narrated by: Bashir Bukar (Maiduguri, Nigeria).

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This snippet is published as part of a series, The Day Boko Haram Attacked.

I was a trader before Boko Haram invaded our town. I ran a small business in the market where I sold foodstuffs and household goods. It wasn’t a big shop, but I was proud of it. Every morning, I would leave home early, arrange my goods, and spend the day attending to customers. From the profits, I was able to feed my family, send my children to school, and even save a little for the future. At that time, sewing was far from my mind. I had never even imagined holding a needle to make a cap. My world was trading, and I thought I would continue with it for the rest of my life with a lot of hope.

But then, everything changed. The Boko Haram crisis struck our community, and our lives were thrown into confusion and fear. The market was no longer safe. It was on a Thursday morning, during an attack, that I lost everything. My shop was destroyed, my goods were scattered, and all the money I had worked so hard to save was gone. The life I had built crumbled before my eyes. With tears and a heavy heart, my family and I fled for safety.

After a couple of days, we found ourselves in an IDP camp. Life there was very different. I was no longer a proud trader but a displaced woman depending on relief materials. Sometimes, food was not enough. Sometimes, I lay awake at night wondering how my children would survive. I felt helpless, like a bird with broken wings.

But as the days turned into weeks, I began to notice something in the camp. A group of women had started learning how to sew traditional caps. At first, I watched them from afar. My heart told me, “Aisha, you have never done this kind of work. Can you really start now?” But my situation pushed me to try. I joined the training, and for the first time, I picked up a needle and thread.

It was not easy in the beginning. My fingers felt stiff, my eyes strained, and sometimes I wanted to give up. But I reminded myself that I had lost everything. I could not afford to lose this chance. Slowly, I began to improve. With every cap I completed, I gained more confidence. When I sold my very first cap, the money was small, but the joy in my heart was huge. It was proof that I could still provide for my family with my own hands.

From that moment, I dedicated myself fully to cap sewing. I would sit for hours, carefully stitching, and each design I completed felt like a prayer answered. My husband gave me strength. Even though we had lost so much, he stood by me, encouraging me and helping with what little he could.

Over time, the small income I earned from selling caps became our means of survival. It wasn’t as much as my trading business used to give, but it was enough to keep food on the table and send the children to school. Day by day, life slowly began to take shape again.

Today, I look back and realise that sometimes, loss opens the door to hidden strength. I never thought I would become a cap maker, but now it is my lifeline.

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As narrated by: Aisha Umar Ali (Maiduguri, Nigeria).

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This snippet is published as part of a series, The Day Boko Haram Attacked.

My small stand, where I sold akara and puff-puff, was close to Giwa Barracks. That was how I took care of my children after I lost my husband.

One morning, as usual, I set out to fry akara. Customers had already gathered. The oil was hot, and I had just dropped some balls of akara into the fire when suddenly gunshots rang out. At first, I thought it was normal sounds from the barracks, but the shots became louder and closer. Rockets were flying, fire and smoke were rising, and I knew this was no ordinary day. Boko Haram had attacked Giwa Barracks.

Fear took over. I remember leaving the akara still frying in the oil. I didn’t carry anything, not even my money. I just grabbed one of my children who was with me, and we ran as fast as we could. We didn’t know where we were going, only that we had to find safety.

As we ran, we saw military vehicles and security forces rushing towards the barracks. The sound of gunfire and explosions filled the air. My child was crying, and I myself could hardly breathe from fear. In that moment, all I could think of was survival.

After some hours, when things became calm, I returned to my stall. What I saw broke my heart. Everything was scattered. The money I left was gone. The akara I had left in the oil was burnt black. The puff-puff and the akara I had already fried were missing. Even the mixture I had prepared spilt across the ground, trampled by people who ran for their lives.

I cried bitterly. I am a widow, and that business was my only source of survival. Every naira I had was in that trade. That was how I fed my children. Losing it all in a single morning felt like the end for me. I asked myself, How will I survive now? Who will help me?

But life must go on. Slowly, I managed to rise again. I started small, selling akara and puff-puff again. It was not easy, and the profit was little, but I refused to give up. If I had folded my hands, my children would have gone hungry.

This experience taught me something: as women, we must find a skill or a small business to rely on. If I had only depended on my late husband, what would have happened to us after his death? Business has kept us alive. That is why I encourage other women to do something with their hands. It may be small, but it can carry you through the hardest times.

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As narrated by: Madam Laraba Steven (Maiduguri, Nigeria).

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This snippet is published as part of a series, The Day Boko Haram Attacked.

I grew up in Bama, Borno State, until Boko Haram attacked our town. In the chaos of that day, an explosion tore through the market, caused by someone with a bomb strapped to her waist. Waking up in the hospital and realising I would never walk the same again was the darkest moment of my life. My right foot had to be amputated. I received treatment for almost three months at the hospital, but due to financial crises, my parent couldn’t continue, so I was discharged. I was afraid I would have to abandon my dreams and start from scratch.

When I returned to Maiduguri, I saw many men like me who had lost limbs. Many turned to begging, but I told myself, “They took my leg, but they won’t take my dignity.” I began learning tailoring through a programme organised by an NGO in our IDP camp. It was difficult at first, balancing on one leg and trying to sew, but I refused to give up.

The NGO noticed my determination and linked me up with partners that focus on such cases and took full responsibility for my hospital bills. I was then later taken back to the hospital for further treatment. After some assessments, they supported me with a prosthetic leg. That moment was life-changing. For the first time in years, I stood upright on two legs again. The feeling gave me confidence that my life was not finished.

With their support, I received a sewing machine, fabrics, and some start-up capital. I opened a small tailoring shop, and slowly, customers began to come. At first, some only wanted to “encourage” me, but soon they returned because my work was neat and professional.

Today, my shop sustains my family. I have even trained two younger boys in tailoring, giving them skills for the future. Sometimes people ask me why I never begged on the streets like others in my situation. My answer is simple: “Losing my leg was not my choice, but losing my dignity would have been.”

Thanks to the support of the NGO, not only did I rebuild my livelihood, but I also regained my mobility and my confidence. Boko Haram took much from me, my leg, my home, and my peace, but they could not take away my will to live and to dream again.

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As narrated by: Ibrahim Goni Ali (Maiduguri, Nigeria).

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This snippet is published as part of a series, The Day Boko Haram Attacked.

I graduated from the University of Maiduguri, where I studied Mass Communication, in 2019. My years at the university were marked not only by academic pursuit but also by the harrowing experiences of living through insurgency.

As a student who had witnessed the rise of Boko Haram as early as 2010, my return to Maiduguri in 2016, after a diploma programme in Bauchi, exposed me to even more devastating realities. Among them was the tragic UNIMAID mosque bombing.

It was a cool morning. I had slept late while preparing for an examination. Suddenly, a soul-shaking blast tore through the calm. The sound alone felt like it took our spirits away. From the second floor of New Male B hostel, we could hear and feel the vibration.

The attack, carried out by a suicide bomber, targeted the staff quarters’ mosque. It claimed the lives of academics and their family members, leaving the university community in shock and grief.

Studying under such conditions was nearly impossible. It was difficult to read with a clear mind or concentrate. Many of my friends, who had moved into my room for group studies, eventually vacated the hostel at their parents’ directive. The uncertainty of safety overshadowed our learning.

Another horrifying incident occurred during examinations near the BOT area. We were gathered around the classes by midnight, preparing for the next day’s exam, when a sudden blast struck. It felt like it was just ten meters away.

The impact was immediate: students panicked, some suffered asthma attacks, and many were too shaken to continue their studies that night.

No students were among the casualties of these particular attacks, yet the psychological scars were undeniable. Many struggled academically, as fear and instability became constant companions.

It felt like child’s play in retrospect, but those experiences shaped us. We eventually graduated with certificates not just in character and learning, but also in survival — learning the harsh way, learning who to trust, and learning how to keep going.

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As narrated by: Nazeef Bakura (Maiduguri, Nigeria).

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This snippet is published as part of a series, The Day Boko Haram Attacked.

Becoming a lecturer was more than just a career for me; it was a calling. I believed that through teaching, I could contribute to shaping the future of my community. But from the very beginning, my journey was tested by challenges that many would consider unbearable.

Maiduguri has long endured the scars of insurgency. When I started lecturing, the environment was already unstable. At times, we would begin a lecture and hear distant gunshots or explosions, forcing students to flee for safety. There were days the classrooms were almost empty, not because the students lacked interest, but because fear and displacement had scattered many families.

Facilities were another challenge. We had no functional laboratories, very few textbooks, and at one point, our library was destroyed. Even the most basic tools of teaching, such as boards, chalk, and chairs, were scarce. I often found myself writing on broken walls, sitting with students under trees, or improvising with handwritten notes because there was no access to printed material.

The challenges went beyond teaching resources. Salaries were irregular, and many times I went months without pay. Feeding my family became a heavy burden, and friends advised me to abandon the job for something more “stable”. Some of my colleagues could not withstand the pressure, so they relocated to safer places or left academia altogether.

But for me, the thought of leaving was harder than the suffering of staying. I knew the value of education in Maiduguri. If we all left, what hope would remain for the young people who dreamed of becoming doctors, teachers, nurses, or engineers? I decided I would stand, no matter the storm.

There were nights I went to bed questioning myself: “Is this worth it? Am I risking too much?” But each time, I reminded myself that education is the only weapon that can fight ignorance and rebuild a broken community. That thought gave me strength.

Over the years, I learned to motivate my students beyond academics. I told them stories of resilience, encouraged them to dream despite the noise of war around them, and reminded them that the situation would not last forever. Some of them studied by lantern light in camps, while others walked miles just to attend lectures. Their courage fueled my own.

Today, when I look around, I see hope sprouting where despair once ruled. Some of my former students are now professionals serving within and outside Maiduguri. They often return to thank me for not giving up, and every time I hear their stories, I feel a sense of fulfilment that cannot be bought with money. I remain in Maiduguri to this day not only to lecture, but to prove that education can survive even in the darkest of times.

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As narrated by: Musa (Maiduguri, Nigeria).

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This snippet is published as part of a series, The Day Boko Haram Attacked.

I began my teaching career at Abbaganaram Primary School in Maiduguri. That school was my pride, the place where I believed I could shape young minds and contribute to the future of Borno. Every morning, I would stand before my pupils with a piece of chalk in my hand, certain that education was the strongest gift I could give them.

But everything changed the day Boko Haram attacked.

It started suddenly with gunshots and chaos. Children screamed, teachers scattered, and everyone ran for their lives. I can still hear the small voices crying out, “Malam, Malam!” searching for safety as bullets cut through the air. In that moment, I felt helpless. A school that should have been a safe haven became a battlefield. I will never forget the terror on the faces of those children, or the sound of their sandals slapping against the dusty ground as they fled.

After the attack, I could not return there. The classrooms were abandoned, the blackboards left untouched, and the joy of learning was stolen. Our school library stood silent, with books gathering dust, as though knowledge itself had been forced into hiding. I sought a transfer to Bulabulin Primary School, just to keep teaching and to survive. But fear never really left me. Each day, I entered the classroom with my heart racing, not knowing if we would be targeted again.

The darkest moment came when my colleague, Mr Moses, was killed by insurgents. He was more than a co-worker; he was a friend who believed as strongly as I did that teaching could rebuild our community. His death shook me deeply, and for a moment, I questioned whether I could continue. But then I thought of the children. If we teachers gave up, the insurgents would win. They were not just attacking schools; they were attacking the future of our children.

That day at Abbaganaram taught me that education itself was under attack. But it also strengthened my resolve. For every gunshot that rang out, I promised myself I would answer with the sound of chalk against the blackboard. For every child who cried in fear, I vowed to keep teaching so that one day they would laugh again.

Over time, with the efforts of the Civilian Joint Task Force and the security agencies, schools began to reopen. Slowly, children returned to the classrooms, their satchels clutched tightly as if education itself had become their weapon of hope. Watching them sit again at their desks reminded me of why I stayed.

The insurgency tried to silence us, but I chose to remain in the classroom. Because teaching is not just my job, it is my calling. I believe that no matter how dark the times may be, the light of education can never be extinguished. The future of our children must never be surrendered.

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As narrated by: Mallam Habu Abdullahi (Maiduguri, Nigeria).

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This snippet is published as part of a series, The Day Boko Haram Attacked.

Before the crisis, I lived in Dalwa, under the Konduga Local Government Area, where I worked as a livestock transporter. Using my own car, I brought animals from Dalwa to Maiduguri for sale. It was good, honest work that sustained my family and paid my children’s school fees.

At first, when Boko Haram began entering our town, they told us civilians had nothing to fear. They said their fight was only with the government and security forces. They even came to the market to buy things without harming anyone, so we believed we could coexist with them.

But one Friday changed everything. The insurgents attacked suddenly and slaughtered four people. The entire village was thrown into chaos. Families scattered, people fled in every direction, and some never found their loved ones again. Many escaped without carrying even their belongings. I fled with my family, but we left everything behind, and it took us days before we reached safety.

That single attack destroyed the life I had built. I lost my business, my livestock, and the ability to send my children to school. Some of them could not complete their education because I could no longer afford their fees.

Later, I tried to return to Dalwa to recover my property and help those who had been left behind, but by then, the town had been burned to the ground and Boko Haram was in control. I ran back with nothing.

Even so, I thank God. None of my children were killed, and none were recruited by the insurgents. Today, I live in Maiduguri and work as a driver for a private organisation. The income is small compared to what I used to earn, but it allows me to provide what little I can.

That Friday remains the day everything changed for me. My only prayer is for peace to return, so people like me can go back home and rebuild what we lost.

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As narrated by: Baba Khali (Maiduguri, Nigeria).

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This snippet is published as part of a series, The Day Boko Haram Attacked.