By Yusuf Anka
Over the last few years, I have shuttled between Abuja and the core Northwest states of Nigeria affected by bandit violence. In the past few weeks alone, I have travelled by road between Kaduna, Katsina, Zamfara, and Sokoto States. With each trip, one thing becomes painfully clear: the sheer weight of violence, mistrust, displacement, chaos, and quiet suffering that defines daily life for the people of this region. For anyone who knew the Northwest before the crisis, the transformation feels almost unreal and painful. The signs of violence are everywhere; villages that once lined the highways have disappeared, communities that used to be alive now stand empty, and the roads and towns are dominated by heavy military convoys and armored vehicles moving constantly between states. On the Tsafe–Funtua axis, for example, young military officers are positioned every few kilometers, a reminder that danger is never far.
The questions that follow you through this region are haunting. What future are we building for the children who trek long distances daily for safety at night, only to return for livelihood in the morning? What is the emotional cost to the military personnel who stand guard day and night under endless pressure? And for the people themselves, what hope remains when survival becomes the only ambition they can afford?
In Gusau, where I spent my childhood in peace, the nights now echo with gunfire, consistently. Almost every night during my recent stay, there were gunshots between 1 am and 3 am. Every morning begins with an update: an attempted infiltration, a failed kidnapping, or a successful abduction. It has become a routine so normal that people now ask, “Who was taken last night?” instead of “Did anything happen?” The fear is constant. Even close relatives hesitate to ask when you are travelling. People are afraid that knowing your movements may put you or them at risk. They don’t want to be perceived as informants if something goes wrong. So they ask cautiously: “When are you leaving… only tell me if you want to.” Fear has reshaped even basic human concern. Traveling on these highways, silence fills vehicles as they enter known danger zones. You see passengers whispering prayers, holding their breath, or scanning the bushes. Everyone knows that the difference between reaching home safely and becoming the next day’s story can be a matter of minutes. Meanwhile, in the towns, the conversation is always the same: “Yesterday they entered here… yesterday they struck there… yesterday they took this person.” Almost every day carries the memory of someone taken, someone killed, or some place attacked. It feels less like the situation is improving and more like the region is slowly militarizing.
Yet people must survive. Farmers still go to their farms even with the exigent danger. Drivers still take the roads. Traders still move from one local community market to another. But the risks they face are unimaginable. On my way to Sokoto from Gusau, I noticed that even artisanal miners, who once hid deep in the forests to avoid police arrests because Nigeria has described artisanal mining as a crime, can no longer go far into the bushes. What used to be a safer hideout has become a death trap. Mining pits are now visible from the road because miners no longer dare to go deep where they once worked.
A particular scene around Mayanchii stays with me: a family on a motorcycle, heading to the hospital. The wife sat at the back of her husband, the little boy perched on the fuel tank, something common in northern families that use motorcycles. But what struck me was the dane gun strapped across the father’s shoulder. A weapon had become as necessary as a household tool. Not for offense, not to join any gang, but simply to protect his family on a short journey. Guns are now entering family life in ways that should alarm anyone who cares about the future of this country.
During a brief conversation with a politician from Dansadau, I asked whether he felt the current administration had made progress. His response was honest and troubling: “Even if the governor has not done anything for my community, the fact that he now allows us to carry guns to protect ourselves is enough.” This is what governance has become in parts of the Northwest: not development, not schools or healthcare, not roads or justice systems, but simply permission to survive by arming oneself. In the past, community members were arrested for carrying locally made guns and accused of targeting Fulani communities. Today, owning a weapon is not only accepted but also seen as essential for survival.
These travels have made me realize something deep: Abuja and the Northwest are no longer the same country. People living in the Northwest are facing a reality many Nigerians cannot imagine, and this disconnect explains why solutions are slow, why there is frustration, and why the suffering feels invisible to the rest of the nation. Even well-meaning citizens do not understand the magnitude of fear and danger people live with daily.
I write this because the situation is not just bad; it is worsening. Families need help. Communities need protection. People are losing faith in government solutions and turning increasingly to self-help. A local mason told me plainly, “In many villages now, owning an AK-47 is becoming compulsory. Not to attack anyone, but to avoid becoming the last night’s victim.” In these communities, everyone knows the price of an AK-47 and where to get one. The only difference is who can afford it. That alone should terrify us.
There is no perfect or coherent way to tell this story. But I hope this reminds you that the Northwest is bleeding quietly. People are becoming desensitized to gunshots, abductions, and death. We are drifting toward a future where communities normalize self-defense not as a choice but as a necessity. And once a society reaches that point, recovery becomes harder, and the road back to peace becomes longer and more painful. The North needs help. Families need help. Communities need help. The future of the region depends on whether the country chooses to pay attention now or waits until the silence becomes irreversible.
Yusuf Anka is the Co-Founder @ZamfaraCharity |Telling the Stories of #Zamfara #NorthWest Nigeria |Humanitarian |Student of Law
Credit | Medium