Why Saturdays Terrify a Delta Community

On the fringes of Okpanam in Delta State, South South Nigeria, there was once a place known simply as “Fulani Camp.” For decades, it was a quiet settlement where nomadic herders grazed cattle, built homes from bamboo and mud, and lived peacefully in proximity with indigenous neighbours. Tensions were not uncommon, but life carried on. People traded, children played, and Saturdays meant weddings, football, and farming.

Today, the same community is unrecognisable. In its place stands a fortified enclave, now dominated by the Eastern Security Network (ESN)—the militant wing of the proscribed Indigenous People of Biafra (IPOB). Residents call it “liberated territory.” But liberation from what? According to several residents of Okpanam, homegrown terrorism replaced a relatively peaceful herding community whose only documented ‘crime’ in the community was being subjected to ethnic profiling. 

“This is not the camp we knew,” said Chinedu Okonkwo, a 42-year-old teacher and lifelong resident of Okpanam. “It used to be tense, yes, but now it’s terrifying. The former occupants are gone. In their place are fighters with guns and stringent rules.”

Warnings of separatist presence have grown into a daily reality. In July 2025, the Nigerian Army’s 63 Brigade and Joint Task Force, South South, conducted a series of intelligence-led raids on the area. Thirteen individuals were arrested between July 26 and Aug. 1, including four identified as IPOB/ESN operatives. Yet, residents say the group remains entrenched in the area.

“They vanish during operations,” Chinedu added. “And reappear just days later. Stronger, even.”

In many towns across the South East, Monday has become synonymous with fear due to the infamous sit-at-home orders enforced by IPOB. In Okpanam, however, it is Saturday that has become the day of dread.

The streets empty predictably every Saturday at 6 a.m.. Markets stay shuttered. Churches hold no vigils. The local variant of the sit-at-home rule—originally a protest strategy—has morphed here into a mandatory ritual, enforced by the threat of violence.

“This is our day for the cause,” said a young man who introduced himself only as Emeka, acting as a spokesperson for the group. “We honour our fallen. We show our loyalty. Without obedience, there is no freedom.”

Despite the IPOB leadership’s 2023 announcement to cancel sit-at-home orders, the ground reality presents a different perspective. Enforcement of this blatant abuse of freedom of movement has become the job of local cells.

For traders like Mama Nkechi, a provisions seller, the toll is unbearable. “I lose two days every week—Monday and Saturday,” she said. “That’s over 100 days in a year. How do I feed my children?”

A 2025 economic report estimated losses from the sit-at-home policy at over ₦7.6 trillion in two years across the South East. In micro-economies like Okpanam, those figures translate to hunger, school dropouts, and displaced families.

Every Friday at dusk, a different ritual begins, one not found in any scripture or traditional custom.

“We bring them food—yams, garri, sometimes cash,” said an elderly woman, her voice barely above a whisper. “We don’t hand it over directly. We leave it at the edge of the forest and walk away. They’ll collect it later.”

This system of enforced offerings has become a strange mix of coerced tax and reluctant gratitude. The militants are called “Umu Oma”—the good ones—though often with irony thick enough to taste. Many residents, caught between fear and a sliver of protection, comply to maintain peace.

“They say they protect us from outsiders,” she added. “But who protects us from them?”

The donations buy relative calm from the very people that terrorise the community, a twisted sense of insurance in a place where traditional state security is either absent or arrives only with boots and bullets. For many, it is a deeply psychological surrender.

Lessons behind curtains

Education has also fallen victim to this new order. Schools that once rang with the chatter of children now sit silent on weekends, their gates chained shut. But learning continues—quietly, covertly.

Chinedu, the local teacher, hosts lessons for a handful of students in his sitting room on Saturdays. “We close the curtains and whisper,” he said. “The children want to learn. Their parents want them to learn. But we can’t be too visible.”

SBM Intelligence has reported severe disruptions in the region, including national exam cancellations and repeated school closures.

Occupation, ethnicity, and the echoes of Sambisa

The irony of the camp in Okpanam is not lost on residents. The ethnic landscape of the camp, once home to nomadic herders, has undergone a radical transformation. Following rising tensions over grazing rights, farmer-herder clashes, and growing anti-outsider sentiment, the herding community fled. In their absence, the ESN found fertile ground, thick bush, sparse oversight, and lingering resentment made the forest there an ideal base. 

Military attempts to reclaim the area have so far proved temporary. After every operation, the group returns, sometimes with recruits, often with renewed confidence. The community, meanwhile, has grown more cautious, quieter, and more afraid.

A conflicted hope

Despite the suffocating grip of the new order, some residents still express conflicted sympathy.

“Before they came, herders destroyed our crops. Our daughters were afraid to walk alone,” said Sunday, a local mechanic. “Now, that threat is gone. But look at what we have instead.”

This sentiment, however controversial, highlights the complexity of life under militant control across southeast Nigeria. For many, the choice isn’t between peace and violence but between two different brands of violence—one masked as protection, the other dressed in a state uniform.

As security operations resume in fits and starts, and as IPOB continues its fragmented messaging from abroad, one question echoes louder than any generator or gunshot: Where is peace and security?

Saturdays, once reserved for weddings, church gatherings, farming, and rest, the seventh day now brings only silence. And in that silence lies a warning that, for many communities across South East and South-South Nigeria, the line between protest and predation has all but vanished.

Across the South East, no one speaks too loudly. Children no longer run freely. Traders count not profits, but losses. And as each week ends with offerings. “Someday, Saturdays will come back to us,” said Chinedu. “I just hope we’ll still be here to see it.”