Silver metal sheets on the horizon – A report from our visit to Nigeria

Through wastelands and across rushing streams, we make our way through the bush assisted by two pickup trucks and several motorcycles. No one knows this terrain better than our hunter friends who accompany us on the trip. They know the road leading to the villages we are planning to visit very well. It has happened that they needed to rush down this same road to help people under attack.

We plan to visit three villages – one per day over the next three days – that were targeted in terrorist attacks in late April and early May. We would have enough time to visit more, as there were many other affected villages, but it happens to be the rainy season, and some of them are cut off from the world. Swollen rivers have turned the red dirt roads into muddy swamps. It also matters that the villages attacked in the spring are separated by several hours of driving. During the rainy season, the sky is heavily overcast and night falls quickly, so it’s best to finish before night falls and covers the whole area in darkness.

The villages we visit are located south of the city of Jos, the capital of Plateau state. They are more like small settlements that bear little resemblance to our villages back home. There is no typical layout with houses lined along the road – in fact, there are no roads at all. Wheel tracks in the grass show the way through, though one must be careful, as two-metre-deep landslides sometimes lie hidden among the bushes. Nor are there the familiar multicoloured stripes of rapeseed, wheat, or other crop fields on the horizon. In Nigeria, small plots of land are tucked between houses. Here grows corn, there beetroot, and elsewhere yam – something resembling our potato. The crops are lush and corn can grow up to four metres high. But that has its drawbacks.

In the bush, it’s easy to sneak up and launch an attack on unsuspecting villagers. This is how assaults on these villages often happened. The bandits would approach, surrounding the settlement from all sides. Under the cover of night, they set the outermost houses on fire before pushing further in. People had little time to escape. Once alarmed, they grabbed their children and fled into the bush, seeking refuge in the tall vegetation. The terrorists tracked them down, and when they found someone, they killed them in cold blood – with machetes, firearms, or whatever they had at hand. Often, the cries of infants gave away the families’ hiding places. Women were killed with their children in their arms.

That’s why the role of the Hunters – the local hunters now serving as community self-defence units – is so vital. They have a long tradition that dates back to colonial times. In the past, they protected people from wild animals and searched for those lost in the bush. Today, they form an armed group that patrols endangered villages, works to prevent kidnappings, and rushes to the aid of those under attack. The full name of the unit is the Nigerian Forest Security Service (NFSS), though they are commonly known simply as “the Hunters.”

Bestiality difficult to describe

We all know that global conflicts are treated selectively. Some make the headlines, others are occasionally mentioned, and some are met with complete silence. Nigeria falls somewhere between the latter two. On various Polish and international social media profiles, I’ve seen brief reports of massacres. I’ve read stories of people who were maimed, whose homes were burned down, who lost their loved ones. More than once, I’ve come across terrifying statistics about the thousands of victims of the terror that has occurred in Nigeria for over two decades. These reports often come with appeals for help and support for the victims. But sadly, I haven’t seen many tangible results from those appeals. Several times, however, I’ve met people I had previously seen in a photo or short video circulating online. I don’t want to boast about our modest efforts, nor do I mean to suggest that we’re the only organization actually doing something here. But so far, I haven’t seen in Nigeria what I witnessed in Iraq or Ukraine – places where we were just one of many organizations providing aid. No one I’ve spoken to here has mentioned that anyone else was present.

The hunters who accompanied us on our visits to the villages targeted by terrorists haven’t received any outside support either. The pickup trucks and motorcycles that travelled with us were bought with our funds. We’ve provided them with nearly fifty vehicles – purchased in response to requests from many people: from village heads, local priests and pastors, to ordinary residents. Everyone stressed that this was where help had to begin – with ensuring security. Otherwise, more villages would fall victim to the bandits. The ability to defend themselves was crucial to reducing the number of casualties. In the first village we visited, we spoke with boys who faced the attackers during the April raid. The assault lasted for three hours. As I mentioned earlier, terrorists usually strike from several directions, surrounding villages and burning down houses one by one. The locals try to fight them off. In this particular case, they succeeded, but only partly. More than a dozen houses were burned down, and eight defenders were killed. They were friends of the boys we spoke with.

The world of corn and tin

Beyond the cornfields, tin roofs begin to emerge, gleaming in the blinding sunlight, and soon the red walls of mud houses come into view. There are dozens of them, scattered unevenly across the slightly hilly terrain. There is no central square, no crossroads, not even one distinctive landmark. We stop somewhere in the middle and get out of the car. Almost immediately, villagers gather around us, curious about the newly arrived guests. At first, they simply watch us without showing much emotion.

An older man, the village head, comes forward to greet us, accompanied by a younger one referred to as the “youth leader.” I came across this role earlier in Iraq. In Poland and other western countries, it’s hard to find an exact equivalent, but in many communities, it represents a spokesperson of the younger generation – a kind of link between the elders and the youth. They show us around the village, telling us about what happened last spring. They also point out the houses we helped rebuild. Those gleaming silvery roofs are a sign of new construction. Sadly, in many places, newly laid tin sheets are also a reminder that the village was recently attacked by terrorists. In several places, we stop for longer to listen to eyewitness accounts. The group of young men mentioned earlier tell us how, without hesitation, they rushed to defend their families and neighbours. It should be noted that the attackers were armed with automatic weapons, mostly Kalashnikov rifles. The defenders had little more than homemade shotguns loaded with buckshot. Yet they managed to repel the assault.

After the inspection, we sit on plastic chairs in what the locals call the centre of the village. I try to ask about its history, the types of crops they grow, and how they generally manage. I’m intrigued by the overgrown narrow-gauge railway tracks we crossed a moment earlier. The youth leader told me that about half a century ago, there used to be a large tin mine here, run by the British. The Plateau region is known for its rich deposits of tin. In fact, this is the only place in Nigeria where it can be found – and only during the rainy season, when water turns the hard soil into muddy clay. In the past, tin extraction was a very profitable business, although it’s difficult to say whether the profits went only to the mine owners or also to the workers. We’ll never know now. Years ago, the British simply closed the mines and left overnight. Today, people still try to extract tin using shovels, mesh screens, and pumps to drain the water. The latter are rarely used, since they’re diesel-powered and fuel is expensive. And yes – this is the same country that ranks among the world’s top ten in oil reserves.

Tin is extracted by both men and women. While some work in the fields, others sift through the soil on a mining site the size of several football fields. A common sight here are makeshift mining shafts, sometimes a few meters deep, sometimes several dozen. Extracting tin in such pits is an extremely dangerous task. When a tunnel collapses, it buries those inside – often very young people trying to earn a bit of money to survive. Driven by curiosity, I ask how much the tin drying on the concrete yard next to the mining site is worth. It’s hard to estimate its weight, but by volume I think it could easily fit into my backpack. After a moment’s thought, I get an answer: around forty to fifty thousand naira. I quickly convert that into dollars, then into Polish zlotys. It comes to about 120 PLN (around 33 USD). Dozens of hands move tons of soil, washing every clump, scraping their hands and feet on sharp stones. All that for a reward that in Poland would barely buy an electric kettle. And I know the world isn’t fair, that some people work for pennies so others can buy things cheaply. But even in Nigeria, 120 Polish zlotys isn’t a decent wage, especially for work that puts one’s life – and certainly one’s health – at risk.

At the end of our visit, we walk slowly towards the car we came in. Within moments, it seems as if the entire village has gathered around us. The initial reserve of the villagers has completely vanished. Everyone is smiling, coming closer, striking up conversations. One lady approaches, carrying a large pot of cooked chicken wings she has just prepared. She offers them to us and to the whole team that came along. People are happy that someone has come to visit them – that someone cares about their fate and their lives, so far away from civilization. I also think that the sight of a few vehicles and motorcycles, along with the armed men, gives them some sense of safety. Even if only for a moment.

They simply want to carry on with their lives

The next two villages look quite similar. They are somewhat larger, with houses standing farther apart from one another, but otherwise everything feels strikingly familiar. Small fields are interwoven with the houses. In some places, they are fenced off with cactuses two or three meters high. It’s immediately clear that this is a kind of barrier – dense, hard to get through, and also used as a place to hang laundry. The villagers are absorbed in their daily routines. The smell of cooking is in the air as lunchtime approaches. Here too, people are curious about our arrival, but just like yesterday and the day before, they don’t show much emotion at first. Only after a while do they come closer, greet us, and start conversations. We visit more families for whom we’ve rebuilt roofs and listen to yet more heart-breaking stories. From one of the houses, we hear the cries and wailing of a woman. It turns out that for weeks she has been lying on a mattress among the rubble of the house where nearly her entire family was killed. Only she and her daughter survived – the daughter happened to be away from the village at the time. The neighbours try to console her, but they can’t find the right words of comfort. They too have lost loved ones.

As we walk through the village, I think about you – about the people for whom I’ll write this account once I’m back home. I’m not thinking about a catchy title or a clickbait headline. I know there are people who will read this willingly, even without any sensational headline. And maybe someone will stumble upon it by chance. Still, I want the article I’ll prepare in Poland to end on a hopeful note — something that won’t leave the reader with a sense of helplessness. I keep looking for it, but I can’t find it. Deep down, I know that sooner or later this village, or another one, will be attacked again. Maybe the houses we’ve rebuilt will be destroyed once more. Maybe everything will have to be rebuilt all over again. Right now, there seems to be no hope that the situation in Nigeria will improve. International institutions don’t see a problem. The great powers don’t acknowledge it. Even the local authorities seem indifferent. In private evening conversations by the fire, I hear people say that what’s happening is actually beneficial to some. Local officials receive money to fight terrorism – so they have to fight it, but not necessarily win. Nigeria is a country where corruption runs deep – from the highest levels of power to the lowest ranks of bureaucracy. You have to pay a bribe just to get your child into a public school. In theory, education is free, but there are far too few schools, so you have to “arrange it.” Traffic police officers don’t even try to hide that after stopping a car, they simply reach out their hand to the driver. What happens at the top – I don’t even want to imagine.

When I’m about to give up and accept that there will be no light at the end of the tunnel in this story, the very people we’ve helped come to my rescue. The woman for whom we’ve opened a small shop in the middle of the village smiles warmly and proudly shows us the goods she sells. They aren’t many, but she speaks with pride, as if she were running a fine boutique. Elsewhere, there’s another similar shop, and the same sense of pride. Even though the shelves aren’t full, the woman who owns it tells us that one can find practically everything that’s needed there. At the hair salon we’ve also opened, we’re welcomed like family members returning home after years abroad. Only now, after several days here and just before our departure, I begin to see the humility and sincerity of these people. They don’t expect us to change the world for them. They don’t expect us to transform the reality they live in. They simply want to carry on living. My thoughts had gone far ahead, searching for permanence and long-term effects of our aid. The people who received it, however, are focused on the present. For them, what matters most is that today they have something to eat for lunch, that their children can go to school, and that tonight will be peaceful. My assumption was wrong – it was based on the world I know, on my own perspective. People in Nigeria stand more firmly on the ground. For them, the very fact that they are alive is a reason to be grateful, and the help that comes from the other side of the world is a true gift. For them, surviving another day is a blessing. That’s what we can learn from them. And what we can help them with.

Author: Dawid Czyż