Darkness in Nigeria, Light in Borno

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Darkness in Nigeria, Light in Borno

There is a darkness that sits heavy on Nigeria’s shoulders—an ancient kind of weight. It is the darkness of silence, of forgotten names, of abandoned villages and children who grow old too fast. It is a darkness that does not always come with nightfall. It comes in daylight too, in boardrooms filled with corrupt decisions, in classrooms where no teacher comes, and in homes where mothers weep silently because the country has failed them.

And in this vast darkness, Borno stands like a wound that refuses to close, yet from its torn edges, light begins to shine.

For over a decade, Borno has been the face of Nigerian suffering. It has known darkness more intimately than most. The home of ancient empires became the ground zero of terror. Once, Borno was a center of Islamic scholarship and trade. Today, many only know it as the place where girls were kidnapped in the dead of night. Where villages vanished, not by natural disaster, but by the evil of men with guns and twisted faith.

The name Chibok still carries echoes of unanswered prayers. The name Baga reminds us of burning homes and running feet. The name Gwoza speaks of blood, of displacement, of days where even the sun dared not rise in full.

In Borno, darkness was not just the absence of light. It was a presence. It was the sound of gunshots during morning prayers. It was the smell of burning that hung in the air long after fires were out. It was the silence that came after entire families were taken or killed. It was the long wait in IDP camps, where dreams were put on hold.

But something miraculous is happening.

Out of this sorrow, a fragile light is being born. In the same land that knew deep darkness, resilience begins to rise. Borno, long buried under ashes, now dares to lift its face to the wind.

You see it in the eyes of a child learning to write their name again in Maiduguri, surrounded by barbed wire but filled with dreams. You see it in the women of Gwoza rebuilding their market stalls, selling food not just to eat, but to rebuild dignity. You see it in the boys who once fled into the Sambisa forest now returning with courage to rebuild what was lost.

The darkness in Nigeria is everywhere—from the traffic-choked roads of Lagos to the dry, forgotten corners of Zamfara. It is in the hospitals without drugs, in the police stations where justice is for sale, in the ballot boxes stuffed with lies. It is in our fear. It is in our forgetting.

But the light in Borno reminds us: we are not beyond saving.

Every time a displaced family returns home, a candle is lit. Every school that reopens, every borehole dug, every farming tool handed to a mother who lost everything—that is light.

Hope is not always loud. Sometimes it walks quietly in the morning breeze. It shows up in the girl who was once a captive but now stands before her peers, teaching them to read. It shines in the young man who joined a vigilante group, not to kill, but to protect his community where the state failed.

Yes, the darkness in Nigeria is heavy. It takes lives. It swallows futures. But it has not won.

Because in Borno, life continues.

Children are laughing again in schools made of tents. Farmers are harvesting again in fields once riddled with landmines. The call to prayer now echoes through rebuilt mosques instead of the silence of mourning. In these small victories, we find great meaning.

The truth is, darkness may cover a land, but it cannot own it.

The people of Borno have suffered enough to give up—but they haven’t. That is something sacred. That is something that even war could not destroy. In their courage, we see a different Nigeria—one not built on empty promises or borrowed pride, but on grit, sacrifice, and healing.

And perhaps, this is where our national healing must begin.

Perhaps the light we seek is not in Abuja's halls of power but in the broken yet hopeful streets of Maiduguri. Maybe it’s in the women who teach other women how to sew again, or in the men who plant trees where bombs once fell. Maybe the true light of Nigeria will come from those who have known the deepest darkness—and still chose to live.

Let Borno teach us what the rest of Nigeria forgets: that even in ruin, we can rebuild. That even in silence, we can sing again. That even in pain, we can find purpose.

We cannot speak of national rebirth without listening to the stories of those who lost everything and chose to hope anyway. The light in Borno is not the light of luxury or comfort. It is the light of survival. The light of second chances. The light of those who believe in tomorrow, even when yesterday left scars.

So while darkness looms—across our economy, our politics, our justice system—let us remember that light, too, has its place. It is found in every small act of kindness, in every village that returns to life, in every schoolgirl who refuses to let Boko Haram be the end of her story.

Nigeria is broken, yes. But we are not beyond repair. And if Borno, after all it has seen, can rise—then so can we.

Let us honor the light in Borno by refusing to let darkness win. Not in our hearts. Not in our homes. Not in our future.

Because light, once born, cannot be unborn.