Type “Maiduguri” into a search engine and the name of this north-eastern Nigerian city appears alongside reports of explosions, suicide attacks and Boko Haram. Violence has driven more than a million people into Maiduguri from the surrounding Borno state, doubling the population.
When I visited, I expected to find a ghost town, where people ventured out only when they had to, and headed home as quickly as possible. Instead I was greeted by a colourful, bustling city, with a wonderful sense of order. Schoolchildren emerge at the end of the day in immaculate white uniforms. Traffic obeys the hand signals of a white-gloved policewoman. Even the fruit and vegetables being sold by the side of the road are lined up in neat rows and pyramids.
But I soon discovered that fear was never far away. Though Maiduguri is ringed by roadblocks and protective trenches, Boko Haram persists in seeking to send in suicide bombers. The day after I arrived, there was an attack at a displaced persons’ camp near the city. I was told that two young girls had been deployed. Their bombs exploded as they tried to climb the fence into the camp.
The Islamist movement has taken to using female suicide bombers, aiming to spread mistrust and undermine social cohesion. Since women run many market stalls and small business enterprises, these sporadic attacks have slowed down development and robbed families of a better future. Another symptom of underlying fear is the way people avoid using the name Boko Haram, instead speaking of “BH”, or “the boys”, and alluding to a violent attacks as “incidents”.
“Safe travels,” says Hassan to a family member leaving their compound in Maiduguri. “We do not know when or where the next ‘incident’ might be,” he tells me. Though the family cattle farm is just outside the city, it is not safe to go there: Hassan lost three of his sons when Boko Haram attacked.
A leading figure in his home district, Hassan has taken in a local family who were trapped in the same assault and spent months under the militants. As Yana, a member of the rescued family, describes their ordeal, her youngest daughter giggles and plays peekaboo, but her teenage daughter bites her nails and stares off into the distance.
“We lived under them for four or five months,” Yana says. “Fear made it difficult even to eat. We could only do our washing at night, because BH did not want the Air Force to see clothes drying, which would show the village was occupied. We were breathing, but we had no life.”
With no warning, Yana’s husband escaped first, leaving the family behind. “I was afraid for two sick children,” she says. “I begged the militants to let us leave. At last they said we could go, but they did not allow us to take one vest, or a blanket, only what we were wearing.”
It took Yana three days to reach Maiduguri, where she was reunited with her husband. “Every day we fear for the people who are left behind, but our prayers are strong,” she says.
Her words were on my mind as I prepared to visit the town of Gubio, to see the emergency food response work of Cafod’s partner, CRS, supported by funding from EU Humanitarian Aid. Normally the journey takes 45 minutes to an hour, but first we had to pass through security checks. The highway is notorious for insurgent attacks, and the very next day it was closed because of another ‘‘incident’’.
Even though the driver sped up to avoid trouble, the numerous military checkpoints along the way meant it took two hours to reach Gubio, which is still recovering from a Boko Haram attack in 2015. The local market reopened after a year out of action at the height of the insurgency, but large trucks are still banned, for fear of vehicle bombs.
There I met Zainab, who was using CRS’s e-voucher card to buy food in the local market place. This innovative technology gives displaced people dignity and choice. Instead of having to queue up for emergency food handouts, the e-voucher can be redeemed at any market stall registered with the scheme.
The day the shooting and chaos came to Zainab’s village, she and her husband picked up their youngest children and fled. But they were separated from six of the older children.
“They ran helter-skelter and did not hear us calling to them to follow us,” she told me. During the four days it took to reach Gubio, she was crying for her lost children: “I kept praying for their return.” Her prayers were answered, because a neighbour had gathered up the children and kept them safe. They joined her in Gubio two weeks later.
Hearing stories like these makes one realise that places like Maiduguri and Gubio are islands of stability in a sea of violence, though there is a glimmer of hope in the news that the Nigerian government is holding talks with Boko Haram about a possible ceasefire.
One must hope and pray that the motto on car licence plates in Borno state – “Land of Peace” – can become true.
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