When Kano hunters became the hunted in Edo State

For Ibrahim Isah, a seasoned hunter and respected leader from Torankawa in Bunkure LGA of Kano State, the annual Sallah return from a hunting trip to the southern part of Nigeria was meant to be like every other – a journey of tradition, brotherhood, and celebration. But this year, his 22nd time leading a team […]

For Ibrahim Isah, a seasoned hunter and respected leader from Torankawa in Bunkure LGA of Kano State, the annual Sallah return from a hunting trip to the southern part of Nigeria was meant to be like every other – a journey of tradition, brotherhood, and celebration. But this year, his 22nd time leading a team of hunters to the South, the celebration turned into a nightmare, leaving death, injuries and painful memories in its wake.

“I have led this delegation for over two decades. In all these past years, we have never encountered anything close to what happened in Uromi,” Ibrahim began, his voice steady but somber.

The group had set out from Port Harcourt, returning home with meat from their expedition – birds, bush animals, cow fat and other goods, including more than 23 jerry cans of palm oil. It was a proud haul to share with their families for the Eid celebration. But, their journey took a tragic turn when they reached Uromi, a town in Edo State.

 

A simple stop gone wrong

At a local checkpoint manned by four male and one female vigilante, their driver was stopped and questioned. He explained they were transporting goods and people to the North – fellow Nigerians returning home after a lawful hunting trip. A waybill was presented, and Ibrahim, seated at the front, stepped out to show their identification and hunting licenses – all properly issued by the Kano State government and the Kano Zoological Garden.

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But something was off.

“The woman tore my ID card right in front of me. She tore our licenses and accused us of being kidnappers and criminals. I kept saying we are hunters. We have our documents,” he recounted.

The situation escalated quickly. Within minutes, a crowd began to gather. Shouts of “Hausa! Kidnappers! Criminals!” filled the air. The mob grew restless. Their driver was the first to be beaten, then another man. “Haruna was handcuffed along with two others. Then a younger boy with us. They were taken away.”

The vigilantes brought down the hunters’ tools—axes and cutlasses—and questioned their purpose. “We told them we use them for cutting meat, firewood, and general hunting activities. But they refused to listen. That woman kept insisting we were criminals.”

 

Mob violence and desperation

What began as suspicion spiraled into chaos. “They started attacking us with stones, cutlasses, and axes. One of my friends died before my eyes. Then I felt a sharp pain—an axe struck my neck three times.”

His friend, Hudu, whispered urgently, “Oga, shall we just sit and be killed like animals? Let’s run. Whoever survives will survive.”

 

It was their only chance

“We ran. They chased us with cars and motorcycles. I ducked into a street, but it was a dead end. I turned and ran again. One of my boys, Abban Garko, was caught and beaten with a shovel. I saw him fall.”

Ibrahim eventually found a hiding spot. Bleeding heavily, he called home.

“I said, please pray for me. I don’t know if I will make it alive. I wanted to hear their voices—maybe for the last time.”

Back home, word spread like wildfire. Help was mobilised. A contact in Uromi known as Sarkin Gwari was alerted. He called the Divisional Police Officer (DPO) of the area and gave him Ibrahim’s location.

But help was slow in coming.

“I was lying there from 11am till 5pm before they came. When I tried to stand, I collapsed. I had lost so much blood. They saw me and took me to the hospital.”

 

A second ordeal: In the hospital

The trauma didn’t end at the hospital door.

“The doctor refused to treat me. He said he wouldn’t accept a thief or a criminal. Even though the police explained, he ignored them. I wasn’t given a single injection or medicine until 11pm, when they finally stitched the wound on my shoulder.”

It was not until the following day, when the local Sarkin Hausawa visited, that Ibrahim was given basic medication. “We had no food. No proper care. A police officer gave me N3,000 to survive. On the sixth day, when we were set to return to Edo, they gave us N2,000 each for food.”

Their testimonies were taken at the police station. Their phone numbers were collected. “They told us we could go home. If we’re needed in court, they will call.”

 

Pain, loss and the road to justice

Ibrahim still grapples with the brutal reality of that day. “Three of us were dead before I even ran. I saw seven more killed. And yet, no warning, no trial – just mob justice.”

 

Despite the horror, there is hope

The Kano State Government and local leaders have stepped in. “They said they will open bank accounts for us. Compensation will come directly to us to avoid any issues. The local government is coordinating it. A judge will divide it according to Islamic law.”

But Ibrahim is not driven by compensation. He wants justice and dignity.

“I call on the authorities to continue what they’ve started. We are grateful for their effort. We are hopeful and confident they will do what is right.”

 

A life changed forever

Ibrahim’s scars run deeper than the axe wounds on his body. He’s haunted by the screams, the blood and the eyes of his dying friends. But he holds onto his faith.

“We are Muslims. We believe death is inevitable. Everyone shall taste it, whether in peace or otherwise. What happened has happened. But let it not happen again.”

His story is a sobering reminder of how easily suspicion can spiral into violence, how fear can override humanity, and how justice remains elusive for many.

Ibrahim Isah’s voice is not just that of a survivor; it’s that of a man who stood between tradition and tragedy, bearing witness to the cost of prejudice and the resilience of the human spirit.