“It was a Tuesday morning. I had just dressed my children when I heard the first gunshots. They denied me access to my farm without paying tax. Recently, they killed seven people in our community.”
For Hadiza Garba, 35, the memory of that day in Kamarawa, near the Sokoto–Zamfara border, remains fresh. “Every time I close my eyes, I see the trauma,” she says, as she flees with her children to a relative’s house in Gidan Sale, Gwadabawa LGA of Sokoto State.
Before the attack, Hadiza and her husband farmed millet and sorghum. Now, they live from hand to mouth, relying on occasional food donations. “I still hear gunshots in my dreams,” she says. “And I’ve lost everything.”
Across Rabah, Isa, Sabon Birni, and parts of Gudu and Tangaza, bandit attacks have turned once-bustling farming communities into ghost villages. Fields that used to yield grain, beans, and onions now lie fallow, abandoned by both men and women who once depended on them.
Murtala Bello, 42, from Rabah LGA, remembers the morning his brothers were killed while tending to their farm. “They said we refused to pay the levy they imposed,” he says, voice trembling. “How can poor farmers like us pay millions of naira?”
He now works as a hawker in town, trying to feed his displaced family. “I was born a farmer, not a hawker,” he says bitterly. “But if you go to the bush now, you may not return alive.”
For Aisha Musa, 28, from Gangara village in Sabon Birni, the night of the attack still feels unreal. “They came around 2 a.m., shooting everywhere. We hid behind the millet storehouse. When the fire started, we ran,” she says.
Aisha left behind her farm and her goats. “Even those who tried to go back were killed. We can’t risk it,” she says.
Fear That Farms Itself
The attacks have created a climate of fear that extends beyond the villages directly hit. “Many people don’t even wait for the shooting,” says Zainab Balarabe, an agricultural extension officer in Wurno. “Once they hear rumors of movement, they stop going to their farms.”
Zainab says the situation has weakened local food production. “Men can’t plant, women can’t harvest. The food chain in Sokoto is collapsing from the ground up,” she explains.
Markets Running Dry
At Goronyo market, Alhaji Sani Dandare, a grain trader, says the effect is already visible. “Before, we got grains from Isa and Sabon Birni every week. Now, nothing comes,” he says. “A bag of millet that is supposed to be cheaper now isn’t even available sometimes now.”
In some areas, residents rely on supplies from Kebbi or Kano, which has further driven up transport and market costs.
“The roads are unsafe,” says Fatima Usman, a widow displaced from Tureta. “Even if we had something to sell, who would risk carrying it to the market?”
Reconciliation That Brings No Peace
Authorities in Sokoto have made several attempts to negotiate peace with armed groups. But many residents say the talks have failed.
“They said we should make peace with the bandits,” says Murtala, “but they don’t stop attacking. One week, they promise peace; the next, they burn another village.”
In Dange Shuni and Tureta, peace committees reportedly met with local bandit leaders earlier this year, but attacks resumed within weeks. “We are tired of empty promises,” he says. “We want protection, not dialogue.”
A Threat to Survival
Experts warn that the crisis could worsen a wider food emergency. “Every farmer forced off the field is one less person contributing to the national food supply,” says Dr. Bashir Abdullahi of Usmanu Danfodiyo University, Sokoto.
He says the loss of both male and female farmers will have long-term consequences. “You’re not just losing crops; you’re losing skills, livelihoods, and local food systems. Recovery could take a generation.”
At the Gwadabawa, where they’re now having a refuge, Hadiza is with her husband, Garba Umar, who now spends his days looking for casual work. “We were farmers,” he says quietly. “We didn’t choose this life.”
Hadiza nods. “We only want peace—to farm again, to feed our children from our own land.”
But until that peace comes, Sokoto’s fields remain silent, its farmers scattered—and its future uncertain.
