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’m Mohammad’s younger brother; we were captured together. We have nothing; we have no valuables. Even this phone that I’m using, it was given to me by my mother, but if I had something, I would buy one for myself. Even for me to cut my hair, I had to ask someone for money. This brother of mine is the only person taking care of us.
This girl you met me talking with, I feel shy when I see her. When we left, she was a very small girl, but now she has grown up. I have known her father since he was young, and now everything has changed. This is also my younger sister, and the other one has gotten married in Abuja.
We stayed for about six to seven years before we were taken to court. The court said to us when they came that they had checked our file, and we were not guilty. They asked for our mother’s name, and we told them, and they said they are done with us; we are not guilty. And when we reached 11 years of staying there, they came and called our names, those of us that were taken there in 2014, and took our thumbprint and gathered us.
Then, after Eid-el-Fitr, we were taken to Gombe, and they gave us some cloth to wear, and then they barbered our hair, put handcuffs on us, tied our eyes, and put us in an airplane. Then they took us to Gombe airport, from there, put us in a bus, and brought us to Gombe town.
When we came back, I couldn’t even stand up on my feet; people had to hold me before I went to the toilet. I normally drink seven litres of water per day, but I feel shy because every time I need help from someone to go to the toilet. So, I reduced the amount of water I’m drinking so that I won’t have to go to the toilet. Then I gradually healed, and I’m okay now. My only problem now is to be self-dependent, to be able to get married.
When they came in the morning and surrounded our village, we were about to start eating food with my brother, planning that afterwards, we would go to the market with my mother in Dalwa, while my brother would go look after the cows. Then we saw cars, and they gathered us all at the Bulama’s house — 42 of us — and took us to Dalwa and started beating us, cutting some people’s ears. And they put us in their car and took us to Giwa Barracks. 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.
As narrated by: Hashim Garba (Maiduguri, Nigeria).
This snippet is published as part of a series, The Day Boko Haram Attacked.
We were sitting with my wife, waiting to eat before I would go and start looking after my animals. They came and surrounded our village, gathered us all, and asked our head if we were part of this village. The bulama said, “Yes, we are members of the community; some of us are farmers, and some are animal rearers.” They said, “We still don’t agree,” and then they took all of us to their boss. They brought us out of our house forcefully, separating men and women, and asked us several questions, like “Do you know any Boko Haram members?” and “When Boko Haram captured Chibok girls, did they pass through your village with them?” We said, “No, they didn’t follow this way.” We told them, “We don’t know anything; we are poor people.” Then they took us to their boss, who was standing somewhere within our village.
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.” After answering their questions, they told me to leave, and I heard some soldiers saying, “This is a villager, but look at what they did to him.”
They tied us up from morning till evening, then put us in their vehicles and took us to the airport, put us in a big airplane, and transported us to Niger state. We reached there during Isha prayer time; then they put us in cells, with four people in each cell.
In my cell, I was together with my friend Dahiru and two other people from Maiduguri. Dahiru died from thirst; he died in my presence after he had been asking for water. Thirty-seven people died for the same reason (lack of water). Three died before we went to Niger; they died at Giwa Barracks due to torture. The food they gave us was not enough, but we needed water more than food. Our skin changed colour due to a lack of bathing and dirt. The cell was dark and cold, and we were only wearing short trousers; we were disturbed so often by ticks that they didn’t even allow us to sleep at night. It rained heavily there.
Then the Red Cross came. They brought us carpets and provided each block with tap water. We were given two buckets and two-litre cans to fetch water and keep it in our cells. Some got sick due to the long time without water, and when they drank water, their bodies would start malfunctioning. Some died. Gradually, our food quantity was increased by the Red Cross.
I don’t know the name of the prison they kept us in, but we call it Niger Minau; I don’t know the name of the barracks. Some committee members came and told us that, by God’s grace, those of us who were not guilty would be released; they were not soldiers; they were wearing personal clothing. Then they sent us to court, checked some documents, and asked me what my mother’s name was. I told them, and I was declared not guilty. We stayed in Niger for 11 years. After I was declared not guilty, I stayed for six more years. Then the commander came, looking for people who came in 2014, and separated us from others. He asked for our numbers, and I told him mine was 5; he said it was correct. He asked all of us for our numbers, then told us to calm down because some people had been transferred to Gombe. He assured us that we would be taken too. Four hundred of us were later taken to Gombe; he told us we would stay in Gombe for nine months in Malam Sidi. Sometimes we would play football, and sometimes we would watch films. Then we were brought to Maiduguri, to Umaru Shehu Hospital, as free people.
Our relatives came and took us from there, and that is when I got the information that my father and my wife were dead. When we were captured, my wife was pregnant, and she gave birth to a dead child because of the shock and stress. She later died. For now, my only remaining relatives are my mother and our elder brother. He brought us to his place, and he is the one taking our responsibility. We have no home, nothing. When we were in our village, I had 30 cows and goats, some millets, and a farm, and now we have nothing. When I got married, I paid ₦100,000, and she’s dead now; her name is Fatime Inneru. And now getting married is not easy; it will cost almost a million.
What we need now is help to become independent. We don’t need to beg. But now, from clothing to food, we only depend on someone to get it. We came back just four months ago; when we came, many people shed tears. We want to be self-reliant; we want to take care of ourselves.
We stayed for one week in Giwa Barracks and stayed for 11 years in Niger, and did nine months in Gombe. When we were in Niger, even to ease yourself, you had to seek permission, but now we can do whatever we want freely.
What we suffered the most in Niger was the lack of water. We could go for four days without getting water. They gave us tea in a small cup every day; sometimes they gave us two small cups of tea. We would drink half first and then drink the other half later in the morning. That is the time we suffered the most; that is when our people died. I could not even stand on my feet. The guy who was helping me is in Gombe now; they will be the next batch that will be released.
When we were in Niger, I saw some of our people before they died, but not all, because our cells are in blocks, and it’s a story building. I could see the block that was below our own; that’s how I got to see them. And sometimes, when they took people to the upper floor, they passed our block; that’s how we got to see some of them. And sometimes, they used to come and ask me, “Do you know this person?”
Among the 42 of us that were captured, only five of us are remaining; the rest are dead. I saw six dead bodies among those that we were captured together, but for the rest, we just heard their cellmate saying, “So-and-so person is dead.” The five of us who were still alive were eventually kept in the same cell, and among us, only three were released. The remaining two told us that when we get back home, we should please tell their people about their situation. Their names are Isa Usman and Maina Musa; they are older than me. The wife of one of them is in Dala; she came here and asked me where her husband was. I told her he’s alive, but he’s still in Niger. And the other one’s wife has married another person.
I am currently suffering from heart pain; when I inhale, I sometimes find it hard to breathe. I sometimes find it hard to eat. This is my major problem, and my other problem is the lack of self-dependence.
When we were about to leave Niger, everything was becoming enough; it had been standardised by the Red Cross, and I got some treatment when I was in Gombe. Currently, if I’m asked where Niger is, I don’t know because the views were blocked when they transported us.
I was taken to Niger with my friends, and they are all dead. We are now gradually getting friends, and sometimes we feel shy to be amongst people, to mingle with people.
We have nothing.
As narrated by: Mohammad Garba (Maiduguri, Nigeria).
This snippet is published as part of a series, The Day Boko Haram Attacked.