The Single Mothers Raising Children Under Boko Haram’s Shades of Terror

The sun was just coming up at Damare IDP camp, rising slowly behind the trees and tents that stretched across the dusty open space. Children wandered around, some still rubbing sleep from their eyes, others already chasing each other barefoot. Parents sat on mats under trees or leaned against the frames of their shelters, chatting quietly and sharing light laughter. Their old tarpaulins flapped in the early morning breeze like flags that had seen too many days.

In Ladi’s tent, things were quieter. She lay on a trampoline with her three children. The youngest, Sarah, was curled up in her arms, half-asleep, her small body rising and falling with each breath.

“These are children with a lot of stories. Different fathers, different stories,” she said with a tragic smile that quickly faded from her face.

“I have no work to do. I often go deep into the forest to cut trees and gather firewood to sell. That’s how I feed them. They stay hungry whenever my firewood doesn’t sell. It doesn’t always sell,” Ladi said, her face aged by stress, even though she’s only in her twenties.

When Boko Haram attacked Gwoza in 2014, Ladi was among those who fled for survival. She lost touch with her then-husband during the escape and hasn’t seen him since. “He’s the father of my first child. I don’t know if he’s alive or dead.”

On the day of the attack, Ladi ran with her only child. But she didn’t get far. She was captured by Boko Haram, forcefully radicalised, and taken to Sambisa Forest, where she was married off to a member of the group and had two more children.

“When they kidnapped us, they gave us the choice — convert to their beliefs and ideology, or die. I chose to survive,” Ladi said, her voice carrying the weight of painful memories.

According to Amnesty International, Boko Haram abducted over 2,000 women and girls across northeastern Nigeria during the peak of violence between 2014 and 2015. Many were held deep within the infamous Sambisa Forest, forced into marriages, subjected to sexual violence, and used as domestic slaves or even fighters. Some stayed in captivity for years. A few escaped during military raids or by fleeing on foot through the forest.

Ladi spent three years in Sambisa. Life there, she said, was unbearable. “We didn’t get enough food, and they constantly threatened us with death.”

Eventually, when the suffering became too much, she planned her escape. She fled with her three children, two of them fathered by Haruna, her Boko Haram husband, in the forest.

“Every time they caught women who attempted to run, they gathered all of us to witness their killings. Sometimes they slaughter them,” she said with anger over the tragedy.

“When I decided to run, I was ready to die. But by God’s grace, I didn’t. I made it out. That’s how I ended up here.”

The trauma of Boko Haram still haunts her. Her children are still fond of the memories of staying in Sambisa.

“Sometimes, when they’re playing, you hear them shouting Allahu Akbar the way Boko Haram used to. They threaten each other with death. I keep telling them it’s wrong. I remind them every time.”

Ladi now lives in a one-room tent in Damare IDP camp with her three children, relying entirely on a life without work or a stable source of income.

She’s not alone 

Esther Dauda, now 38, escaped from Maiduguri in 2014 during the height of Boko Haram’s violence in Borno State.

“I was just about to light a fire to cook dinner when I heard gunshots. It was in the evening. Neighbours started shouting, ‘Run! Run!’ Our lives changed forever,” she recalled.

Esther and her family fled Maiduguri and settled in Bayan Dutse, Gwoza, where they stayed until Boko Haram launched another attack in 2015. That was when they decided to leave Borno for good and escape to Adamawa.

Her husband, who escaped with her and made it to the camp, died just three months after they arrived in 2015, from a snake bite. Since then, Esther has been left alone with seven children, no older than sixteen.

“When their father was alive, things were a bit easier. He used to go out daily to do petty jobs and earn something, and I did the same,” Esther said.

“All of them depend on me for food and everything else. Life hasn’t been easy. I have to go out, running helter-skelter to look for money. Sometimes, these children stay hungry all day because I simply can’t afford to feed seven kids in today’s economy,” she added.

Now, Esther goes from house to house, doing chores for wealthier families to survive and care for her children.

‘It’s either you run or it falls on you’

The Damare camp was established in 2014 at the height of the Boko Haram crisis. At its busiest, it sheltered over 14,000 people who had fled violence across the Northeast. As relative peace returned to some areas, many went back home. But around 2,000 people—primarily women and children—still live here in harsh conditions with little to no support.

“Our tarpaulins leak and shake whenever it rains or the wind strengthens. After every rainfall, we have to fix them ourselves—add more sand, tighten the ropes, try to keep everything in place,” said Ladi.

The rains are not just uncomfortable. They are dangerous. The camp residents, displaced for over a decade, say they often abandon their shelters to seek safety in an abandoned building nearby. It has become their emergency shelter during storms.

“It’s either you run or the roof falls on you,” said Esther, her face drawn with fatigue. “We pack our belongings—even at midnight—and rush there. We stay until the rain stops.”

Although the camp is still officially under government care, residents say help stopped years ago, and survival now rests on their shoulders.

“It’s been five years since we last received any meaningful support from the government,” said Ahmed Jungle, the camp head.

“The majority of the population in this camp is children. Their parents struggle to feed them. Access to education and good health is a struggle. They need to be helped,” he added.

As of 2023, Nigeria recorded approximately 1,134,828 internally displaced persons (IDPS), according to a survey by the National Bureau of Statistics (NBS)conducted across seven states—Adamawa, Yobe, Borno, Sokoto, Katsina, Benue, and Nasarawa. The report shows that women and children constitute the majority of the displaced population, with children under 18 making up over 50 per cent.

‘We still pay for everything’

Since 2019, Adamawa State has introduced health insurance schemes like the Basic Health Care Provision Fund (BHCPF), designed to help the poor and vulnerable, especially those living in internally displaced persons (IDP) camps, access affordable healthcare. 

But despite this level of commitment on paper, many displaced persons say the reality on the ground tells a different story. Health centres still struggle with empty shelves, and patients have no choice but to buy medicines themselves at prices they can hardly afford.

“When they fall sick, I have to borrow money just to buy medicine,” said Ladi. “Some days ago, Yohanna—my firstborn—was sick for a week. I couldn’t get anything from the health centre, so I had to get the drugs on credit.”

Esther shared a similar experience. “Whenever I fall sick, the burden becomes heavier,” she said. “The Damare PHC doesn’t give us proper care unless we pay, even though we’re on insurance. The last time I went there with my insurance card, they told me the medical supplies meant for IDPS had finished. I ended up buying the drugs myself.”

Education remains a top priority

Despite all her struggles, Ladi sends her children to a private foundation school for a subsidised fee.

“I work hard and save money to pay my children’s school fees. When I don’t have it, I go to the school and beg them to allow my children until I get the money,” Ladi said.

Mission Primary School was established by Take Heart Foundation to provide quality education at a low price for IDPS and vulnerable children in Damare. “A quality education is what I want for my children. I want them to be well learned and never think of becoming like their father,” the displaced woman said.

For some parents like Esther, even the subsidised fees of private schools are far out of reach. With seven children to care for, she has no choice but to send them to public schools, even though she doesn’t believe they offer quality education.

“The public schools don’t support good learning,” Esther said. “But it’s my only option. The private school charges 2,000 naira per term. I have seven children. There’s no way I can afford that. I can’t even feed them properly.”

Basic learning conditions are still a struggle at the school her children attend. Deborah, one of Esther’s daughters, described the state of their classroom, saying: “We sit on the ground. The class smells every day because animals come in and mess it up. There are no doors.”

Still, despite the poor learning environment and the family’s difficult situation, Deborah refuses to give up on her dreams.

“My ambition is to become a doctor,” she said with determination. “I’ll keep going to school, no matter how bad it is. I won’t let my situation stop me.”

‘They don’t want to go back’

Many displaced persons (IDPs) in Nigeria struggle to consider returning home, despite improved conditions in former war zones, due to lingering trauma and lost hope stemming from their past experiences.

“I don’t want to be even reminded of Gwoza. It gives me headaches.’’ Ladi Said.

For Esther, who lost almost all her close family members, it’s not only about Trauma but a lack of reason for going back.

“My family has been almost wiped out. My husband is dead. I’ve no reason to go back.”

For these women, going back to their homes is not even an option; thinking about it brings back their tragic past. This is their new home.

“I just want to have a good job or business, raise my kids correctly, and get them a good education. They are the only thing I’ve got,” Esther said as she held Deborah, her oldest daughter, closer.

Abubakar Yakubu, a psychologist and Head of the Department of Psychology at Federal University Kashere, however, shed light on the profound psychological effects experienced by mothers and children living in Internally Displaced Persons (IDP) camps.

“Mothers often experience maternal guilt when they are unable to fulfil responsibilities,” Yakubu stated, emphasising the internal struggle of mothers who wish to provide education, food, and shelter for their children. He added, “The more they fail to meet these ends, the more traumatised they become.” This cycle of guilt and trauma significantly impacts their mental health.

The effects of these experiences reach their children as well. Dr. Yakubu stated, “Early experiences shape future behaviour. The things you encounter in childhood influence who you become as an adult.”

He warned that children in these environments may develop what he described as “psychological fixation”, as indicated by behaviours such as playing with sticks as guns and mimicking violent actions. “It’s an internalised trauma and role-modelling effect,” he noted, stressing the need for proper counselling to prevent these behaviours from becoming entrenched during adolescence.

Regarding the reluctance of women to discuss their past homes, Dr. Yakubu articulated that, “People don’t like to bring up what’s part of the subconscious. It’s a sign of trauma.” He explained that traumatic memories often reside deep within the mind, and avoiding them serves as a coping mechanism.

He called for immediate action, stating that there’s a need to rehabilitate some of them that are falling apart. They need therapy. He highlighted the importance of adhering to conventional mental health standards in their rehabilitation before reintegration into society.