African Locust Trees Sokoto: How Bandits, Floods and Military Ops Are Wiping Them Out
By: Abudu Olalekan
The sun was already high when we rolled into Gwadoddi village. Dust swirled around the motorcycle tyres. An old man sat on a cracked mud bench under a neem shade, fanning himself with a torn prayer booklet. Malam Gwadoddi Shehu is 89, maybe more. He doesn’t count birthdays anymore. He just remembers trees.
Back in the day, he owned thirteen African locust bean trees. Big ones. The kind that made neighbours nod with respect when they passed his farm. “You see a man with plenty dawadawa trees, you know say that man dey okay,” he told me, voice dry like harmattan wind. Now? All gone. Some swallowed by floods. Others lost to fire. The rest too deep inside bandit territory. You can’t even go there to pee, talk less of harvesting.
His son Shuaibu sat nearby, legs stretched out, staring at nothing. “Those trees paid my school fees,” he said quietly. “We pluck, dry, bag, sell. Money sweet that time.” He laughed, but it wasn’t the happy kind. “Now my own children go ask me, Daddy where the dawadawa trees dey? I no get answer.”
It’s not just one family. It’s the whole of Sokoto feeling it.
Walk into any market these days and you’ll hear women complaining. A small cup of fermented dawadawa that used to be N500 now sells N1,200, sometimes more. One kilo of the dried seeds? N3,500 easy. Dealers say they now bring stock all the way from Niger State or even Osun because local supply don finish. One trader, Alhaji Aminu, shook his head when I asked why. “Flood kill some. Bandits chase farmers comot some. Army burn the rest. Wetin remain?”
Yeah. The army.
Everyone knows the forests around here have become bandit headquarters. Thick bushes, tall trees, perfect cover. So when soldiers move in for “clearance operations,” fire becomes the fastest weapon. Burn everything, flush the criminals out. Problem is, the same fire no dey read signboard. It doesn’t know the difference between a bandit hideout and a 70-year-old locust tree that’s been feeding generations.
Zubairu Auwal lost ten of his own trees that way. “They say bandits dey hide under them,” he shrugged. “Okay. But after you burn, who go plant new ones? Me I no fit enter that forest again. Even vigilante dey fear.”
I spoke with one military commander off-record. He didn’t deny the burning. “Operation Forest Sanity no dey play,” he said. “We go clear every camp. Trees? We fit replant later.” That was almost exactly what former Governor Nasir el-Rufai once suggested – carpet bomb everything, replant after. Easy to say when the trees no be your inheritance.
Meanwhile, Professor Adamu Aliero at Usmanu Danfodiyo University is tearing his hair out. “These trees no just give food,” he explained. “The seeds fight hypertension. The leaves treat eye problem. Even the bark get medicine. Once dem disappear, we lose more than seasoning.”
And then there’s the floods. Sokoto used to be dry-dry. Now every year water dey surprise people. Rainfall don jump 63 per cent since 2007. In 2024 alone, flood kill hundreds, chase millions from their houses, and quietly drown thousands of economic trees nobody dey count.
Hajiya Salamatu in Shuni village still cooks with dawadawa every day. “If I no see am, my soup no dey taste like home,” she said, stirring a pot that smelled like childhood. “My children dey abroad now, when dem come visit, na the first thing dem ask for.”
Out in the corridor again, Malam Gwadoddi Shehu closed his eyes. “I plant those trees with my own hand,” he whispered. “I think say my great-grandchildren go still dey enjoy the fruit. Now I no sure say even my grandchildren go see one.”
The African locust bean tree no dey shout. It just stands there, season after season, giving shade, food, medicine, pride. But between bullets, fire and floodwater, standing don turn to survival. And survival no dey look good right now.
