THE DAY BOKO HARAM ATTACKED
Postcards from Maiduguri, Nigeria.
WE WATCHED AS THEY EXECUTED PEOPLE
I was taken captive along with many other girls, and we were forced to witness horrible scenes, including the flogging of aged people and the slaughtering of those who disobeyed the insurgents. We were held in a big house in Bama, and many of the girls were dragged out and taken away for marriage to some commanders and fighters in various villages. I was forced into marriage with a Boko Haram commander, and I spent three years in captivity.
WOMEN WERE NOT ALLOWED TO GO OUT
The town remained under the control of Boko Haram for over six months, and I continued to live with my father under their rule. A woman wasn’t allowed to go out for whatever reason except to attend their so-called “lecture sessions”. I was flogged several times because I was out looking for what my father and I would eat.
WE SURVIVED ON LEAVES AND GRASSES
A few months after the school shut down, Boko Haram also attacked my village. They forcefully took me, together with other young girls and my grandmother, to their base in a village called Fada. The journey took some days. Many captives died along the way due to severe hunger, stress and tiredness. During the raid, many were also killed due to disobedience.
PEOPLE CALLED ME ‘BOKO HARAM DAUGHTER’
Fear and circumstances dragged me into a world I never truly belonged to. I was brought up in a family of Boko Haram. When I finally escaped and surrendered, I thought freedom would mean a new beginning. But I soon learned that freedom also carried its own struggles.
I WAS RAPED. I THOUGHT MY LIFE HAD ENDED.
Before the insurgency, I went to school every day and wanted to become a nurse so I could help women and children in my community. But all of that changed when Boko Haram entered our town in Bama. I was with my family at home when we heard gunshots and people screaming. In the confusion, I was captured along with other girls. That was the beginning of my darkest journey.
LIFE AFTER RESCUE FROM SAMBISA IS HARDER
The military launched an operation in Sambisa, and many of us were rescued. We were brought back to our original communities. At first, I hoped this would be a new beginning, a chance to rebuild my life. But since returning, I have found life incredibly difficult. I have no job, no steady source of income, and I spend most of my days being idle.
I ATE GOOD FOOD IN SAMBISA FOREST
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.
BORN IN A BOKO HARAM CAMP
I was born in a place no child should ever call home. Boko Haram held my mother captive, and I came into this world in the middle of fear, hunger, and violence. I never knew what it meant to play freely or sleep without hearing gunshots. When the soldiers rescued us, my mother wept with joy, but I did not understand.
I JOINED BOKO HARAM. I DIDN’T HAVE A CHOICE.
My life took a drastic turn when I joined Boko Haram in 2015. Before that, we were displaced from Bama in 2014 and sought refuge in a village near Cameroon called Jimia. When our village normalised, and people began to return, we received alarming news: we had been declared Boko Haram members, despite it not being true. The place we stayed was considered a Boko Haram camp due to their frequent visits, and we feared for our lives.
I DESTROYED LIVES AS A BOKO HARAM MEMBER
When we went out on operations, I did things I can never forget. We would storm villages at night, armed with guns and fire. I stole from people’s shops, carrying away what they had worked for all their lives. We burned houses, leaving families homeless. We took food, money, and valuables from innocent people. Worse still, we killed those who resisted us, and I know many families are still mourning because of what I did.
I learnt from my interviews that Boko Haram is taking advantage of indigent people, telling them to join them, that they would provide whatever they need. I have also observed that proper provisions have not been made for rehabilitation. The government has claimed to have rehabilitated every repentant Boko Haram member, but I met with some who said they didn’t go to the rehabilitation centre. They came straight to the town and started living there. I talked to a woman whose husband is a repentant Boko Haram member working with soldiers. She told me they are currently planning to go back to Sambisa and continue living there as a family.
Military personnel still restrict people in many resettled communities from going beyond certain boundaries due to the continuing insecurity. Another challenge is that because these areas are not their original homes, they do not own the farmlands and can only work as labourers on someone else’s farm. There are still cases of attacks and abductions. Just recently, about 10 or 15 people were abducted in Dalori, very close to Maiduguri. It’s very bad. The people who were kidnapped are the people who just resettled two years ago, in an estate that the state government allocated to IDPs. Many of the resettled IDPs are leaving the state; they are going far away. Some of them are going to Lagos and Abuja, where they have some relatives, where they believe they will be safer and where they can go and work as labourers and find a means of livelihood. The youth are massively travelling out.
Currently, when you go to the resettled communities, there are visible signs of trauma. When you go to the villages, you will see some Boko Haram writings on the wall, some in Arabic. They will see those writings and psychologically they will be traumatised, because you will recall your relatives who were killed, the kind of people you lost, how you suffered. When you go to the communities most affected by this insurgency, you will see they are full of empty buildings. Some have not been renovated for people to settle there, and there are not enough hospitals.
Food production has also been very, very low. Because the men are often targeted for abduction, and women, especially those above 40 years old, now bear more responsibility for farming. Younger women are at high risk of abduction when they go to the farm. So, agricultural inputs are very scarce in those communities. Natural resources like petrol and fertilisers are extremely expensive there, too. There’s no single functioning filling station in Bama. It has been restricted by the government. Fertiliser is also tightly restricted because it could be diverted to make explosives. As a result, farmers now use organic manure, collecting cattle dung and spreading it on their farmland. But it’s not as effective.
— Usman Zarma.
WE THOUGHT WE COULD COEXIST
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.
WE’VE FORGIVEN THE REPENTANT BOKO HARAM
After we came back, NEMA started helping us with foodstuffs, but now they’ve stopped, and we’re not getting any support from anyone. Before we were displaced, our parents had farms and a lot of sheep, but the sheep were forcefully taken. Boko Haram took all of them.
WE LEFT ALL OUR BELONGINGS BEHIND
Boko Haram came with their guns and chased all of us away. Not a single person remained. We had a population of about 1,000 people, and we were all forced to flee with our children… Right now, we are in a critical condition due to the lack of proper accommodation. Some people fled but couldn’t reach Maiduguri; they are sleeping on farms, hiding among the trees.
WE LOST OUR LOVED ONES, HOMES, AND LIVELIHOODS
All our valuables, including our farm produce, were left behind. We used wheelbarrows to transport our younger children and essential items, and it took us two days to reach safety. We had to survive on minimal food during those two days in the forest.
WE ARE SURVIVORS AND WE’LL REBUILD OUR LIVES
Despite the challenges, I’m grateful for the support I’ve received. Organisations like Plan International have provided me with the skills and resources I need to rebuild my life. I’ve also received support from my community, which has been a source of strength and comfort.
I COULD NOT RAISE THE ₦500k RANSOM
After the deadline passed, we lost contact with my husband. Some of his fellow captives returned home a week later, but he didn’t. It’s been a year since his abduction, and we have no idea if he’s alive or dead. The returned captives told us he was left alive when they escaped, which gives us hope for his return.
THEY CUT OFF OUR EARS WITH KNIVES
They came with 40 vehicles, but I don’t know the exact number of soldiers they came with. They took 42 of us to Dalwa, tied us with a rope, and started beating us. They cut my ear; the CJTF cut our ears with knives — five of us. From there, they took us to Giwa Barracks in Maiduguri; we stayed for one week. Then they brought us out and asked us, “Are you Boko Haram?” We told them, “We are not Boko Haram; we are poor people, farmers, and animal rearers.”
THREE OF OUR PEOPLE DIED FROM TORTURE
They cut my brother’s ear and stabbed him in his ribs, and I took him to the hospital in Giwa Barracks, and he was treated; he even fainted. Three people among us died at Giwa Barracks due to torture. We don’t know anything; our time was just wasted. We used to be self-reliant.
HUNGER IS A CONSTANT COMPANION
Sometimes, I have to swallow my pride and send my wife to beg on the streets just so we can get something to eat. It’s a painful reality, but I’m willing to do whatever it takes to feed my family. Seeing her come back with a few scraps of food or some spare change brings a mix of emotions – relief, shame, and desperation.
IT WAS LIKE AN UNENDING NIGHTMARE
They came with guns, bombs, and a message of hate. They wanted us to abandon our way of life and adopt their twisted version of Islam. But we knew that wasn’t the way of our people. We’ve always been peaceful, tolerant, and welcoming to everyone.
TERRORISTS ATTACKED MY SCHOOL. I KEPT TEACHING.
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.
WE HEARD EXPLOSIONS DURING LECTURES
At times, we would begin a lecture and hear distant gunshots or explosions, forcing students to flee for safety … 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.
I REMEMBER THE 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.
A BOMB BLAST SHOOK OUR CAMPUS
Studying at UNIMAID hasn’t been easy. The insurgency has left deep scars on our education system, and the university has not been spared from the violence. I still remember the night a bomb blast shook our campus. We had to flee in the dead of night, not knowing what the next moment would bring. It was during our exam period, and the disruption made it nearly impossible for many of us to concentrate or even find a safe space to study.
LOST MY FOOT TO AN EXPLOSION
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.
A STRAY BULLET SHATTERED MY SPINE
Before the insurgency, I was a skilled farmer, providing for my family. Now, I’m unable to work, and my family struggles to make ends meet. We’ve had to rely on aid from government agencies and non-governmental organisations, which is often insufficient and inconsistent.
I CANNOT AFFORD MEDICAL CARE FOR MY CHILD
I would have sold any property I owned, but Boko Haram destroyed the house I inherited from my father in our village. The few valuables I had left here in Maiduguri were also burned during attacks – including my car.
THE MORNING I LOST EVERYTHING
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.
FROM A PROUD TRADER TO AN IDP
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.
I SMUGGLED OUT STORIES ABOUT THE WAR
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!”
People from the villages are usually afraid when you tell them their stories will be published and may be read by people somewhere far away, because they don’t want to get into trouble. These experiences have taught me patience, empathy, and the importance of building trust while giving voice to stories that matter.
One of my favourite interviews was with the girl whose education was sponsored by her grandmother. She did not give up. Even though they lived with Boko Haram members, this did not change her perception. She ensured her granddaughter was enrolled in school and did everything to help her realise her goal of being a medical professional. This stood out to me. Also, the young man who lost his leg to the bomb explosion. He did not give up. He did not beg on the streets. He runs his business, and the disability of having an artificial leg doesn’t stop him from doing what he wants to do. If people see what he is doing, they will appreciate that losing your leg or a part of your body is not the end of your world.
A lot of people think that people do not even exist in Maiduguri, that people do not live a comfortable or free life here. But when you come, you see something different. There was a time I visited Abuja for a workshop where I met a lot of people. Whenever I told them I was from Maiduguri, they would be like, Maiduguri?! Hia. Boko Haram. During my service year when I camped in Kwara state, the same thing happened. If I told them I was from Maiduguri, they would exclaim and say, Ah, do people still exist in Maiduguri?
People should please note that Maiduguri is a land that has freedom. Even though there is the insurgency, it does not mean there is a hindrance for people to engage in their day-to-day activities. A lot of people think that everything in Maiduguri is hard, and day-to-day activities are not going as they are supposed to. But with everything that has happened, with all the insurgency, we are still strong. We are still resilient. We still achieve what we want to achieve. As you can see from most of the stories, our people don’t give up easily.
— Amina Muhammad Ali.
Curated by: Amina Muhammad Ali1 & Usman Zarma.2
Edited, designed, and vibe-coded by: `Kunle Adebajo.
- Amina Muhammad Ali is a professional scriptwriter and multilingual jingle voice artist with a passion for storytelling, especially in Kanuri and Hausa. ↩︎
- 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.
As narrated by: Fatima Bulama (Maiduguri, Nigeria).
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.
As narrated by: Bashir Bukar (Maiduguri, Nigeria).
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.
As narrated by: Aisha Umar Ali (Maiduguri, Nigeria).
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.
As narrated by: Madam Laraba Steven (Maiduguri, Nigeria).
This snippet is published as part of a series, The Day Boko Haram Attacked.
I’m a father of two, living in Maiduguri. My youngest child, Amira, is six years old and has a disability – she is deaf. It has been a journey learning how to communicate with her.
As a father, it’s painful to watch your child struggle. But over time, I’ve learned to adapt. I took the initiative to learn sign language, and it has been a life-changing experience. Being able to communicate.
My wife and I take turns helping her with homework, playing with her, and teaching her new things. It’s a team effort that has brought us even closer as a family.
One of the biggest challenges we face is the stigma surrounding disability in our community. Many people do not understand, and some stare or make hurtful comments about Amira. It’s heartbreaking, but we are teaching her to stay strong, ignore negativity, and focus on her strengths.
Amira is a bright, curious child. She loves to learn and explore the world around her. She recently started attending a special school for children with disabilities, and the progress she’s made has been incredible. Watching her grow has been a source of hope for our entire family.
As a father, I believe it’s not just my responsibility to protect and provide for my family, but also to teach Amira to be confident and independent. I want her to believe in herself and know that she is capable of achieving anything she sets her mind to.
However, my biggest challenge now is financial. I am unable to afford proper medical care and medication for Amira in a good hospital. This has affected me deeply, both emotionally and psychologically. I’ve tried everything within my means, but I still cannot manage the costs.
I would have sold any property I owned, but Boko Haram destroyed the house I inherited from my father in our village. The few valuables I had left here in Maiduguri were also burned during attacks – including my car. These losses have left me with very little to rely on. Upon all this, I have to provide a daily meal, which is also another struggle apart from her medication, and I am also facing eye problems. The lack of medication is a vital problem in our lives.
As narrated by: Musa Ibrahim (Maiduguri, Nigeria).
This snippet is published as part of a series, The Day Boko Haram Attacked.
I’m a survivor of the Boko Haram insurgency, but my life will never be the same. I was caught in the crossfire during an attack on our village. A stray bullet shattered my spine, leaving me paralysed from the waist down.
Life as a person with a disability in Maiduguri is incredibly challenging. Simple tasks like bathing, dressing, or even getting out of bed require immense effort and assistance. My family has been my rock, but it’s not easy for them either. My parents are ageing, and my siblings have their own struggles. Despite their best efforts, there are days when I feel like a burden.
The infrastructure in Maiduguri is not conducive to people with disabilities like me. Buildings are not wheelchair-accessible, and public transportation is a nightmare. I’ve had to rely on my family members to carry me around, which is both physically demanding for them and emotionally draining for me.
The economic situation is also tough. Before the insurgency, I was a skilled farmer, providing for my family. Now, I’m unable to work, and my family struggles to make ends meet. We’ve had to rely on aid from government agencies and non-governmental organisations, which is often insufficient and inconsistent.
Despite these challenges, I’ve found ways to cope. I’ve learned to be resilient and adaptable. I’ve started teaching children in my community, using my knowledge to make a difference in their lives. It’s not much, but it’s something that gives me purpose.
I struggle with anxiety and depression, often feeling like I’m stuck in a never-ending cycle of pain and hardship. There are days when I wonder if life is worth living. But I know I have to keep pushing forward, for myself and my family.
The stigma surrounding disabilities in our community is another hurdle. Some people view us as cursed or punished by God. It’s heartbreaking to see people look at me with pity rather than understanding and support.
Despite all these challenges, I’m determined to live a fulfilling life. I’m learning to accept my new reality and find ways to thrive. I’ve started attending rehabilitation sessions, hoping to regain some mobility. I’m also involved in advocacy work, pushing for more accessible infrastructure and support for people with disabilities in Maiduguri.
As narrated by: Bukar Kolo (Maiduguri, Nigeria).
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.
As narrated by: Ibrahim Goni Ali (Maiduguri, Nigeria).
This snippet is published as part of a series, The Day Boko Haram Attacked.
Life has thrown more challenges at me than I ever thought possible. I was on the cusp of a new chapter, having been selected to sit for exams that would allow me to study in Japan – a dream I had worked tirelessly for. The exams were scheduled to take place in Abuja, and I was all set to leave Maiduguri, full of hope and anticipation. But fate had other plans. On the very day I was supposed to embark on my journey, Boko Haram launched a brutal attack on Maiduguri, plunging the city into chaos and triggering a total lockdown. My dreams of studying in Japan seemed to vanish in an instant.
The attack was more than just a setback; it was a harsh reminder of the difficult reality many of us face in the Northeast. Schools were destroyed, futures were put on hold, and fear became a constant companion. Still, I refused to let the circumstances define me. I redirected my focus to my education here in Nigeria and enrolled at the University of Maiduguri (UNIMAID).
Studying at UNIMAID hasn’t been easy. The insurgency has left deep scars on our education system, and the university has not been spared from the violence. I still remember the night a bomb blast shook our campus. We had to flee in the dead of night, not knowing what the next moment would bring. It was during our exam period, and the disruption made it nearly impossible for many of us to concentrate or even find a safe space to study. The frustration and fear from that time are feelings I would not wish on anyone.
Despite the challenges, UNIMAID has become a beacon of hope for me and many others. The university community has come together to provide support and encouragement. Our lecturers go above and beyond to ensure we receive the best education possible, despite the odds. The bonds we’ve formed with fellow students are strong – unbreakable even – because they’ve been forged through shared hardship and resilience.
Boko Haram may have taken away my chance to study in Japan, but it has not taken away my determination to pursue my dreams. I’m proud to be a student at UNIMAID, and I’m committed to making the most of the opportunities I have. My story is not unique. Many people in the Northeast have faced similar struggles.
As a result of the Boko Haram attack on our campus, I also lost my dear friend Abba. He was killed when a suicide bomber targeted the mosque in UNIMAID. That attack claimed the lives of about three people and left many others injured. Even though we are trying to cope and continue our studies, the fear of Boko Haram still lingers in our minds.
As narrated by: Usman Adam (Maiduguri, Nigeria).
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.
As narrated by: Nazeef Bakura (Maiduguri, Nigeria).
This snippet is published as part of a series, The Day Boko Haram Attacked.