In Nigeria today, you don’t need to carry a weapon to be seen as a threat. Sometimes, all it takes is to say you are from Borno, Yobe, or Adamawa. In the eyes of many, those names have become shorthand for terror — a cruel irony for people who have lost everything to the very violence they are now blamed for.
I remember the first time someone called me a terrorist.
It happened in a classroom — a secondary school in Abuja. Our teacher was asking everyone which university we intended to attend. When the teacher asked me, I replied proudly, without realizing what would happen next:
“I would like to attend the University of Maiduguri to study Mass Communication.”
The classroom went silent. Everyone stared at me, their faces filled with disbelief and unspoken questions. Then, a boy suddenly said half-jokingly, “Ah, Boko Haram people.” The class burst into laughter — everyone laughed except me.
That moment has stayed with me. Not because of the words themselves, but because of what they revealed: a quiet, growing prejudice that now shadows millions of Nigerians from the North East.
Even my close friends asked, “Fatima, there are many universities in Nigeria that are performing well. Why the University of Maiduguri?”
The teacher interrupted and wished me luck. Though her words were encouraging, I suddenly lost interest in studying in that region.
When I returned home, I told my mother that I no longer wanted to attend the University of Maiduguri — that I preferred Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria. When she asked why, I simply said, “I’m just scared.”
My mother comforted me, saying, “Don’t worry. Always pray, and we will also pray for you.” She reminded me of my elder brother and cousins who were studying various fields at the University of Maiduguri.
For many of us, being from the North East feels like carrying a mark we did not choose. Our accents, our names, even our traditional clothing can draw uneasy glances across the country. Some people step back subtly; others make awkward jokes. The unspoken question lingers: Can we trust you?
It’s painful because those of us from this region have suffered the most from the violence that birthed these stereotypes. Boko Haram has destroyed our towns, burned our homes, and killed our families. Many fled with nothing but the clothes on their backs. Yet, outside our region, we are often seen not as victims but as potential threats.
I have met countless people who share this experience.
A young lady named Jamila, who grew up in Lagos, told me how she was called a terrorist in her class every time she mentioned Borno as her state of origin.
Imagine carrying that kind of suspicion everywhere you go — knowing that many have been killed in the same region by the terrorists people associate you with. It’s a deep and quiet kind of pain. Many of us now hide our state of origin because we just want peace.
But the North East is not a land of terror. It is a land of endurance.
I see the region as one of fortitude, tenacity, steadfastness, patience, and strength. I think of Maiduguri — the city that refuses to die. I think of the harmony in Yobe State. I think of the laughter in Yola’s markets. I think of the students at the University of Maiduguri who study late into the night, even when the hum of distant gunfire echoes beyond the campus walls.
We are more than the headlines. We are farmers, teachers, engineers, mothers, poets, and dreamers. We are Nigerians who want peace just as much as anyone else.
Stereotyping an entire region does not make Nigeria safer; it only deepens the wounds the insurgency has already caused. When people from the North East are isolated, distrusted, or mocked, it weakens our national unity — the very thing terrorism seeks to destroy.
We need more compassion, not suspicion. We need to hear the stories of those who have lived through the violence and survived it. We need to see the faces behind the statistics — the mothers searching for missing sons, the children who still go to school in IDP camps, the fathers rebuilding their homes brick by brick.
I do not write this to deny the pain the insurgency has caused across Nigeria. Many lives — from soldiers to civilians — have been lost in the fight against terror. But I write this because I want my fellow Nigerians to see us, the people of the North East, as part of the same struggle, not as its cause.
So, when you meet someone from Borno, Adamawa, or Yobe, please remember: we are not terrorists. We are survivors of terror. We are Nigerians — just like you — trying to rebuild our lives, to belong again, and to be seen without fear in your eyes.
Fatima Danjuma
Department of Mass Communication, University of Maiduguri
Fatima Danjuma
You wrote well,It wasnt fair for us all but Alhmadullillah we will all accomplished.