The hum of a generator was the sound of success for Uzor Igwe. In his small but bustling workshop in Lilu town, Anambra State, southeastern Nigeria, the 38-year-old master technician could detect a faulty coil or a clogged carburettor just by listening. His grease-stained hands were tools of precision, restoring electricity to homes and businesses. For years, he was a pillar of his community, a man who fixed things.

Today, the only thing Uzor is trying to fix is his life. He now lives in Asaba, in the country’s South South, where the sound of generators is a painful reminder of all he has lost.

Uzor’s story is the human cost of the violence that has transformed his hometown of Lilu into a part of a larger place locals fearfully call “another Sambisa,” alluding to the famous Sambisa forest in faraway northeastern Nigeria, where Boko Haram combatants have taken shelter. His thriving generator repair business, built over 15 years, was ultimately another casualty of gunmen who held his community hostage.

“I had two apprentices, three benches full of tools I collected over a lifetime, and customers from three local governments,” Uzor recalls. “On a good week, I could fix ten, fifteen generators. I was training others; I was providing. I was happy.”

The winds of fear now sweep through the forests and farmlands of southeastern Nigeria. Once-vibrant towns have withered into haunted shells of their former selves, as armed Indigenous Peoples of Biafra (IPOB) fighters and their affiliates loom over daily life.

Police officers often wear muftis to avoid being targeted. “Everyone is afraid to speak,” said a senior police officer who served in Imo for “two dreaded years” before he begged his superiors to transfer him to Abuja, Nigeria’s federal capital. The climate of fear over the daily loss of lives, rape of women, and trade across the region is palpable.

At the core of this situation is a complex combination of separatist unrest, violent crimes like murders committed against civilians and state actors, and arson on official facilities and assets that is comparable to terrorism, as well as a lack of effective official security.

Fleeing home with nothing

The descent began around 2021. IPOB, a separatist group long declared a terror group by the Nigerian government, were violent in their efforts to establish an independent country of Biafra in the country’s South East and some parts of the South-South. 

They enforced an illegal sit-at-home order on Mondays and Thursdays, which crippled businesses like Uzor’s, brutalised citizens, and spread propaganda online. The order was a protest to the government to release the group’s leader, Nnamdi Kanu, who had been in detention for years. 

Since then, over 700 people have been killed by the group, and economic losses are estimated at ₦7.6 trillion, according to SBM Intelligence. 

In Lilu, the sounds of power bikes and sporadic gunfire began to compete with the hum of Uzor’s generators. Customers became too afraid to venture out. His apprentices, fearing being conscripted or caught in the crossfire, stopped coming. 

HumAngle had previously collected open-source data from over 100 locations in the South East to track the effect of the sit-at-home order on businesses like Uzor’s and public spaces. We found that Anambra, where he was located, experienced 11 reported cases of violence from the group in efforts to ensure compliance with the order last year. The threat of violence has resulted in significantly lower activity in the region than in other parts of the country on those days.

“The final straw was not even for me, but for my family,” Uzor says, his gaze dropping. His father, a retired teacher, passed away from illness in early 2024. Instead of a time for mourning and tradition, the family was plunged into a grotesque negotiation.

“We were told we had to pay a levy to bury our own father,” Uzor explains, the absurdity of the statement still raw. “₦200,000 for permission to lay a good man to rest. The same boys who might have been responsible for killing our neighbours were now taxing our grief. We paid. What choice did we have? But paying for my father’s burial with that money… it killed something in me.”

He knew then that Lilu could no longer be his home. The risk of being killed for refusing to comply, or for simply being in the wrong place, was too high. With his business already dead, he feared his life would be next.

With only what they could carry, Uzor, his wife, and their two young children fled under the cover of night, becoming displaced people in their country. They left behind his workshop, his tools, his client ledger—the entire architecture of his livelihood.

Picking the pieces 

Now in Asaba, he is starting from zero. The small room he rents doubles as a home and a struggling new workshop. His tools are a cheap, basic set. He has no network, no reputation, and is just one of many technicians in a crowded city.

“Here, I am nobody. I have to beg for jobs that pay little. I compete with boys half my age,” he says, wiping his hands on a rag that sees less grease these days. “Sometimes a whole week will pass, and this toolbox will not even open.”

The struggle is both financial and psychological; the confidence of a master craftsman has been replaced by the anxiety of a newcomer.

“In Lilu, I was Uzor, the man who could fix anything,” he adds. “Here, I am just a man from the troubled East, trying to survive. I lost my community, my identity, and my father’s grave is in a land I am now afraid to visit.”

He prays for peace, not just for the safety of those left behind, but for the chance to one day reclaim the fragments of the life he was forced to abandon.