‘We couldn’t wait’: How villagers became first responders in one of Nigeria’s deadliest floods

Billiamu Usman, 30, chuckles at a neighbour’s joke as he helps him dig out a broken piece of furniture wedged under a collapsed concrete slab, the remains of what was once a large compound housing nearly 50 members of Usman’s extended family.

“This is how we help each other get through this,” he says, brushing mud off his damp trousers, his face tired.

Usman is part of a motley search-and-rescue crew formed in the wake of devastating floods that struck Mokwa, a small town in Niger State, about 370 kilometres from Nigeria’s capital, in the early hours of May 28, 2025.  

The flood began when a railway embankment—nearly as high as a one-storey building—collapsed after days of relentless rain. The embankment had held back a nearby river. Its collapse immediately unleashed a torrent that uprooted trees, swallowed homes and submerged entire neighbourhoods.

State officials estimate that 200 lives were lost, with over 1000 people unaccounted for.

Usman lost 16 relatives, two of whom were pregnant women, in the flood. “We’re still searching for the rest,” he muses. “Even if it is to find their bodies and bury them properly.” Only five bodies have been found so far.

On the morning of the tragedy, Usman woke up to a call from his brother, who lived in a village on the other side of the embankment. “He said his house was flooding and asked me to come quickly,” he recalls. Even though Usman was hardly taken aback by the news, “something didn’t feel right,” he adds.

After moving his brother to safety, the urge to check on his family home in town nagged at him. What he found stunned him.

“The whole area was under water,” he says, his voice tightening. “Then I saw my mother holding onto the fence, just trying to stay above the water.”

Usman leapt into the water and, with help from a passerby, rescued  his mother alongside five other people that were also trapped. “We didn’t think. We just did what we could.”

Each year, torrential rains overwhelm poorly maintained drainage systems and unplanned settlements, especially in rural and semi-urban communities like Mokwa. According to the National Emergency Management Agency (NEMA), over 1.2 million people have been displaced by floods in the past three years alone. 

In addition to  climate change, experts blame the frequency of these disasters on persisting deforestation and a wanton neglect of state infrastructure.

Yet in Mokwa, the residents confronted the havoc with grit and resilience. As early as 8 a.m. on the day of the flood, locals broke into search groups. Men built makeshift canoes from wooden planks. Teenagers strung ropes between trees and rooftops to guide people through the currents. Neighbours offered their homes for refuge. 

“We had to open our doors”

For Muhammad Jiya, a community member who joined one of the earliest rescue efforts, “there was no option than to step up,” he says.  “We were not prepared for the flood, and so we had no choice but to come together. Anything else, and more people would’ve died.” 

His fears were not unfounded. Nigeria’s disaster response system has long been criticised for its sluggish response times and limited capacity.

Jiya’s family house became a temporary refuge for several displaced families. “We couldn’t just watch people suffer,” he says. “People were hungry and scared. We had to open our doors.”

Before any official help arrived, Adamu Bala, a commercial motorcyclist, sprang into action. “My sister was trapped on a roof with her children. I couldn’t wait,” he says. Bala built a makeshift raft from planks and old tyres that he scavenged from a mechanic’s shop. “It ferried over 20 persons.”

Elsewhere, he joined others to tie ropes between buildings and trees to help people as they waded through water. “Some of us almost drowned. But we had to keep going. If we didn’t do it, nobody would.”

Feeding the displaced

Despite her heavy loss, Hige Mallam, a farmer, continues to cook meals for the displaced each day.

“All my farm produce went with the water,” she says as she stood before her half-collapsed house. A small crowd gathered around a kitchen beside her. “But I’m alive. And so are others. We can still share what little we have.”

She feeds anyone who comes to her hungry—no questions asked. “We don’t let anyone go hungry,” Hige says. “Not after what we’ve all been through.”

Not far from where Usman’s family home lay in ruins, a group of teenage boys assisted Suleiman Isah, a retired government auditor and a community leader, in gathering bricks from where he once called home.

“I lost everything,” Isah says, blinking back tears. “It’s the worst thing I’ve ever been through.”

Had a neighbour not knocked at his door that morning, “we’d have drowned in our sleep,” he continues.

Now, like many others in Mokwa, Isah is attempting to piece together a life from the rubble, salvaging bricks, drying out documents, and trying to make sense of the chaos.

“I don’t even know where to begin,” he adds. “But we’ll find a way. We have to.”