A Displaced Nigerian Teenager’s Search for Home and Education

She was just seven years old when they were displaced by the Boko Haram insurgency in Borno State, northeastern Nigeria. Elizabeth Bitrus and her family fled to Taraba State, where they lived in an internally displaced persons (IDP) Camp. That was the first time Elizabeth had to adjust to a home that was not her home. 

Three years later, she and her aunt boarded a bus bound for Edo State, South South Nigeria, where her aunt resides. 

No one told Elizabeth Bitrus exactly where she was headed, but she knew it meant a fresh start, a chance to return to school, and she could hardly contain her excitement. She had dropped out after displacement upended her life. Elizabeth was only ten. Her aunt had told her stories of what it was like living there and how children attend a free school, with provisions for food, books, and even toiletries. 

They eventually arrived at Uhogua, a rural community in Edo State. Their destination was the Home for the Needy Camp, a sprawling compound dotted with blocks of buildings roofed with rusted zinc sheets. When they arrived, her aunt dropped her off at the camp and said she was leaving. Her house was a few minutes away, but students lived in a boarding school arrangement.

Founded in 1992 by Solomon Folorunsho, a Nigerian pastor, the camp provides free accommodation, feeding, and education for displaced people. It currently houses over 4000 people. 

“I thought I would be living with my aunt while attending the school,” Elizabeth recalls with a chuckle. “I started crying profusely. I immediately started to miss my mum and told my aunt to take me back home.”

The memory is still fresh in her mind. She can laugh about it now in hindsight, but at the time, it was terrifying. She didn’t know anyone. How would she fit in?

“I didn’t find it very hard to fit in, thankfully. There was a group of girls who were eager to make friends with me, the new girl. When I kept crying, saying I wanted to leave, they advised me to be patient and stay to study,” Elizabeth said. 

Slowly, she grew accustomed to the routine of the camp. 

“Soon enough, I started to enjoy being in the camp, so much that I didn’t even care about going back home anymore,” she recounted. 

‘Home for the needy’

Over three decades ago, Solomon started caring for children in Edo who were abandoned by their parents and those out of school. 

“I rented an apartment and put them in a private school. These children became wonderful. I saw how they were competing [with other students], which encouraged me. That is how I started,” he said.  

The capacity grew from a one-bedroom apartment to a three-bedroom apartment, then a seven-bedroom apartment. But with more children came greater responsibilities and shrinking resources. Solomon could not manage alone anymore. He began seeking donations from individuals and organisations, and when the children’s school fees became exorbitant, he started a school, employed teachers and got volunteers to run it. 

When the Boko Haram insurgency began, “friends from the north were calling me. This was around 2012. I thought about what we could do for the children, and gradually some families started coming here,” Solomon tells HumAngle. Elizabeth was one of them. 

They live in large tents, each housing up to 50 students. They sleep on mats and attend prayers every morning, before heading to classes in modern brick-walled classrooms. Oddly, however, only the teenage girls were required to cook. They did so in groups, taking turns according to a schedule. Then they shared the food with everyone, both the girls and the boys. 

After dinner, they’d form study groups. Some would do their assignments, others would study for tests. If one didn’t have a torch to read with, they’d go under the tall solar-powered streetlights in the camp’s compound. 

The longing for home

Elizabeth often thought about her mom and three siblings in the early days. 

She never once spoke to her mother for seven years at the camp. She discovered that she had cousins in the camp, and one day, as they chatted with their mom over the phone, Elizabeth heard her mother’s voice. She spoke with her briefly, and a sudden longing for home started to sweep over her. 

“I missed them so much. I knew I needed to go back and see my family,” she recounts.

It had taken a long time to properly reestablish contact with her mom after that brief call on her aunt’s phone in 2021. Her mom didn’t have a phone, so they didn’t speak again until three years later, in 2024. 

Living conditions in the camp were deteriorating: there was hunger, the toilets were full, and some were breaking down. More and more, Elizabeth craved her mother’s embrace. Over the call, she told her mother she wanted to return home, and her mother sent money for transport.

She was excited and nervous the day she was finally leaving Edo for Abuja, North-central Nigeria. It had been nearly a decade since she’d left her family in Taraba, and so much had changed. She is now 18 years old. Her family moved. She wondered how much taller her siblings had grown, whether her mother had aged at all.

“When I saw her waiting for me at the car park after we arrived, I ran into her arms and started sobbing, and sobbing. I couldn’t control it,” Elizabeth recounts with a smile. 

When HumAngle met her at Kuchingoro IDP Camp, an informal settlement in Abuja, where she lives with her mum, Elizabeth was sitting under the shade of a tree. She had just returned from work as a domestic help in a house close to the camp. Across the street, the grand terrace buildings of the estate where Elizabeth sweeps and mops floors stand in sharp contrast to her lowly tent, made out of rusted zinc roof sheets and rags. 

Since she came here, she has not enrolled in school because her mother cannot afford it, and her father is absent. The last time Elizabeth saw him was when they were in Taraba in 2015. He had visited briefly, then left for Lagos. No one has heard from him since.

Elizabeth’s mom, Abigail Bitrus, told HumAngle that her husband had always worked in Lagos and only visited occasionally, even when they lived in Borno. But he has not been in contact with the family since his last visit a decade ago.

“Some of his relatives say he’s alive and well, others say they haven’t heard from him in years. But he and I didn’t fight or anything, and I just wish he’d at least call us,” Abigail explained, tears welling up in her eyes. 

Abigail is 38 years old. She moved to Abuja near her parents, who live in Nasarawa, a neighbouring state. She has lived in the camp for four years, but now faces the threat of eviction. After settling on privately owned property, she and many others were uprooted from their tents, forced to move to a smaller space on another piece of private land. 

Of hope and struggles

Elizabeth wishes to go back to the camp in Benin City. Although it is not her ideal place to live, she gets to study at least. Education is crucial to her, and she has lofty dreams, but is not allowed to return to the camp. 

“I’m now in SS2. I want to graduate and go to university to study medicine. I want to graduate as the best student and get a scholarship to study abroad, like one of my seniors, who is now in the United States,” Elizabeth said. 

Solomon told HumAngle that over 300 students have proceeded to university after graduating from the camp. They studied courses ranging from engineering to medicine and nursing. One student emerged as the best graduating student in his class at Edo State University and later secured a scholarship to the University of Illinois, Chicago.

He said the decision to stop students like Elizabeth from returning to the camp after leaving depends on each family’s situation and financial need.

“​​If you have a home and can afford transport to Abuja or Maiduguri, then you can stay at home, because we want to help those in need… if your father or mother has a house, at least let us give that chance to someone else,” Solomon explains.

Solomon tells HumAngle that donations and aid were consistent in the early days. However, that is no longer the case. Solomon has been appealing to individuals, organisations, and the government to bring more support, but the response has been slow. Globally, humanitarian aid has shrunk. 

The cost of paying teachers became unsustainable, forcing the employed staff to leave. The camp now relies on volunteers and former students to keep the school running. Even feeding the children has become a struggle.

“Food is at a critical level right now,” he says. “We’re struggling to feed the children just once a day. Some of those in university aren’t allowed to write exams because they haven’t paid the fees. We really need support at this time.”

Solomon says he usually pays to harvest from farms in neighbouring villages when food runs out. But it is not nearly enough to meet nutritional needs or satisfy the children. 

Displacement doesn’t just uproot homes—it disrupts education. Over 4.6 million children have been affected by the conflict in northeast Nigeria, according to UNICEF, and 56 per cent of displaced children in Borno, Adamawa, and Yobe are still out of school. Initiatives like Home for the Needy attempt to fill that gap, but without sustained support, many children like Elizabeth risk being left behind.

They are left waiting, left in search of home, education, and the hope for a better future.

Elizabeth still dreams of becoming a doctor. She believes her story doesn’t end in her mother’s arms in Abuja, nor does it find resolution in the dusty tents of Edo. She is a brilliant dreamer and believes in the possibility of more.