The dusty roads that link Bakori, Funtua, Malumfashi, Kafur, and Ƙanƙara in the southern part of Katsina State used to be paths of livelihood. They led to farms, markets, and family compounds where the rhythm of rural life flowed in harmony. But today, those same paths bear scars of fear — the burnt remains of homes, the quiet emptiness of abandoned fields, and the echoes of gunfire that once sent entire villages fleeing into the bush.
For years, the people of this region have endured relentless attacks from armed bandits. They have watched their families scattered, their elders displaced, and their young men buried in shallow graves. Women have been kidnapped, assaulted, and left broken. Children now grow up knowing more about gunshots than playgrounds.
So, when the news broke that the communities of Bakori, Funtua, Malumfashi, Kafur, and Ƙanƙara had entered into a peace pact with the bandits, the reactions were mixed. Some saw it as surrender; others called it wisdom. But for those who have lost everything, it was not about pride — it was about survival.
On Sunday, October 12, 2025, the small town of Kakumi became a symbol of fragile hope. Under a cloudless sky, hundreds gathered for a peace meeting between local leaders and armed bandits operating in the forests of southern Katsina.
Present were the chairmen of the five local governments, traditional rulers, Islamic scholars, security representatives, and ordinary villagers. From the other side came the bandit commanders — Alhaji Ado Aleru, Babaro, and Alhaji Isiya Kwashen-garwa — names that had once struck terror in the hearts of farmers but were now being called to the table of peace.
Hosting the meeting, the Chairman of Bakori Local Government, Abubakar Musa Barde, spoke with emotion. He likened the Hausa and Fulani people to “siblings joined by blood and liver — inseparable by nature.” His message was simple: the time had come to rebuild the bond that once united them before distrust and vengeance tore them apart.
The member representing Bakori in the Katsina State House of Assembly, Engr. Abdurrahman Ahmad Kandarawa, assured the gathering that the peace process involved no ransom or conditions. “There is no demand for money. Our only goal is peace — a peace that will last,” he said.
Also present were representatives from Ƙanƙara and Kafur, alongside the Galadiman Katsina and District Head of Malumfashi, Justice Sadiq Mahuta, who spoke on behalf of traditional rulers.
When Alhaji Ibrahim Nasir Kere, Director of Education and Social Development in Bakori, took the microphone, he pleaded for compassion. He urged the bandits to release all captives still held in the forests, so that families could be reunited.
And then, silence fell as Bello Aleru, one of the most feared bandit leaders in the region, rose to speak. His voice was steady, his tone reflective. He admitted that there had been deep mistrust between his men and security forces but insisted they wanted the fighting to end. “We agreed to this peace because we have seen how much it hurts those who are innocent,” he said. “We want this to stop. Anyone who refuses peace should come out openly — not hide among the people.”
The meeting ended in prayers — not of triumph, but of weary relief.
In the aftermath of the meeting, the human cost of the conflict remained visible. In one displaced persons’ camp near Guga, a once-prosperous farmer now lives in a rented single room. He used to harvest over a hundred bags of grain each season. Now, he owns nothing but the clothes on his back.
“They stopped me from farming,” he said softly. “They broke me, drove me from my land, and turned me into a beggar. What else can I do but agree to peace?”
His words echo the sentiment of thousands of displaced people who have been left with no other choice. In Gidan-Mantau, a widow whispered her own story. Her husband was taken by bandits months ago and never returned. “If peace means I can sleep again, I will take it,” she said.
That is the tragedy of this so-called peace — a peace negotiated not from strength, but from exhaustion.
The peace pact has also created an awkward position for the bandits themselves. They cannot move freely into towns without risking arrest or revenge. They cannot drop their weapons, because other groups opposed to peace might hunt them down.
Caught between fear and fatigue, some bandits now find themselves prisoners of their own violence. The cycle of distrust continues, even in so-called peace.
The Katsina State Government, under Governor Dikko Umaru Radda, has not been blind to these realities. Recognizing the limits of military confrontation, it has supported dialogue-based peace efforts across the state. Yet, it has also sought to complement such efforts with concrete social and humanitarian interventions aimed at restoring livelihoods and dignity.
One such intervention is the construction of 152 housing units in Jibia, in partnership with the United Nations Development Programme (UNDP), designed to resettle thousands of internally displaced persons. Plans are underway to expand this model to other affected localities, targeting over 270,000 displaced persons across Katsina.
To help victims rebuild their livelihoods, the government has allocated 600 hectares of farmland to returning farmers, supported by soft loans and access to local produce markets. For those whose health has been shattered by years of trauma and violence, ₦68 million has been spent on free medical care for victims of bandit attacks.
Widows, orphans, and displaced families have also benefited from food supplies, livestock, and cash palliatives distributed across all 34 local governments of the state. In education, ₦25 million in scholarships has been provided for students affected by insecurity, with funding support from the Victims Support Fund.
To ensure better coordination, the Radda administration has also launched a State IDP Policy and Action Plan — a framework for resettlement, rehabilitation, and trauma recovery.
In addition, programs for reorientation and reintegration of repentant bandits have been introduced, offering vocational skills, livestock, and start-up tools as alternatives to violence.
These measures, though imperfect, form the scaffolding of hope upon which many are slowly rebuilding their lives.
Still, peace without justice remains fragile. Villagers whisper fears that some of the same men they shook hands with in Kakumi could turn against them if the fragile truce collapses. Others question whether the government can truly rein in those still hiding in the forests.
But for now, the people of southern Katsina are tired of war. Their only demand is to live, farm, pray, and sleep without fear.
For them, peace is not about victory — it is about survival. It is the sound of a farmer’s hoe striking the soil again, the laughter of children returning to school, and the prayer of a mother who finally dares to dream of tomorrow.
Because in this corner of Nigeria, peace — however fragile — is better than the silence of the grave.