Amid Political Noise, Nigeria’s Breadbasket Crumbles

Amid political realignments, a deeper crisis grips Nigeria’s food belt as violence empties farms and drives millions toward hunger, writes Festus Akanbi

Amid the rising hum of political alignments and the familiar theatre of power, a quieter, more consequential story is unfolding across Nigeria’s food belt, one written not in speeches or slogans, but in abandoned farmlands, broken harvest cycles, and the growing anxiety of communities that once fed the nation.

It begins, as many of these stories now do, in silence shattered. In Gari Ya Waye, on the outskirts of Jos, the night carried no warning. It was an ordinary stretch of darkness, the kind that farmers trust because it promises dawn and work. Then the gunfire came. By morning, families were counting their dead, and something more enduring had been taken away: the certainty that the land could still be trusted.

The story is no longer confined to one community. In Bokkos and Barkin Ladi in Plateau State, farmers who once cultivated potatoes and maize in abundance now move in groups or avoid their farms entirely. In Benue, places like Guma, Logo, and Agatu, long regarded as part of Nigeria’s food basket, have seen repeated attacks that have emptied entire settlements. In Kwara, communities in Kaiama and Baruten have quietly scaled back farming activities, while in Niger State, Shiroro and Rafi have become cautionary references for what prolonged insecurity can do to agricultural livelihoods.

Across these areas, farming has taken on new meanings. It is no longer simply about planting and harvesting; it is about calculating risk. “You look at your land and ask if it is worth your life,” a farmer in Guma says, capturing a sentiment that now defines the countryside.

The numbers tell part of the story. In 2025, Nigeria recorded about 171 terrorist incidents, up from 120 the previous year, with fatalities rising sharply and civilians accounting for the majority of victims. But beyond the figures lies a deeper shift, the gradual unravelling of a system that depends on stability, predictability, and access to land.

At the same time, external pressures are tightening the squeeze. The ongoing crisis in the Middle East is feeding into global energy and commodity markets, pushing up the cost of fuel and fertilizer. With key shipping routes under strain and a significant portion of global oil and gas supply moving through vulnerable corridors, the cost of moving goods, especially food, has risen.

For Nigerian farmers, this is not an abstract global event. It is visible in the rising price of fertilizer, in the higher cost of transporting produce from farm to market, and in the shrinking margins that make farming viable. Fertilizer dealers in Makurdi and Minna now speak of farmers buying in smaller quantities or delaying purchases altogether. Lower input means lower yields, and the effect compounds quickly.

Agricultural businesses are also feeling the strain. Olam Nigeria, with its extensive rice and animal feed operations, has had to navigate supply chain disruptions and rising input costs. Flour Mills of Nigeria, a major player in grain processing, faces the challenge of sourcing raw materials from increasingly insecure farming zones. In the North, Dangote Rice Limited has had to contend with both logistics constraints and the shrinking pool of active farmers willing to cultivate large tracts of land.

Smaller, community-based enterprises are even more vulnerable. Rice millers in Lafia, cassava processors in Otukpo, and maize aggregators in Kontagora are all reporting reduced volumes. “When farmers stop bringing produce, we have nothing to process,” a mill operator in Nasarawa explains. “And when we have nothing to process, workers go home.”

Kidnapping has emerged as a parallel economy in many of these regions. In parts of Shiroro and Rafi, farmers speak of paying levies to access their own land. In some cases, entire harvests are abandoned because the risk of returning to the farm is too great. The logic is harsh but clear: survival takes precedence over productivity.

The economic implications are already evident. Agriculture contributes about a quarter of Nigeria’s GDP and employs roughly 35 per cent of the labour force. When communities like Bokkos, Guma, and Kaiama scale back production, the effects ripple outward, into markets, into prices, and into the daily lives of consumers.

Food inflation remains stubbornly high, driven by reduced supply, rising input costs, and insecurity along transport routes. Traders in Abuja’s markets now speak of unpredictable deliveries. “You can’t promise customers anything anymore,” one says. “Sometimes the goods just don’t come.”

Displacement deepens the crisis. In the North-east alone, over two million people have been forced from their homes, while in the Middle Belt, thousands more have fled communities like Agatu and Logo. Each displaced family represents not just a humanitarian concern but a reduction in productive capacity. Land lies fallow, not because it cannot yield, but because it cannot be safely accessed.

The projections are sobering. In 2025, more than 31 million Nigerians were estimated to be facing acute food insecurity, with projections suggesting that up to 35 million could be affected in 2026. In parts of Borno and Yobe, millions are already in crisis-level hunger, while pressure continues to build in the Middle Belt.

Climate stress adds another layer. In Plateau and Benue, farmers speak of rains that no longer follow predictable patterns. Water sources are shrinking, and competition for land is intensifying. Pastoral movements into farming areas, driven by environmental pressures, are colliding with already fragile security conditions, creating flashpoints that further disrupt agriculture.

The interaction between insecurity and climate change creates a cycle that is difficult to break. Scarcity fuels tension, tension escalates into conflict, and conflict disrupts adaptation. Communities are left navigating a landscape where every adjustment is undermined by instability.

Meanwhile, the broader economic environment is tightening. Rising global energy costs, linked in part to the Middle East crisis, are feeding into inflation, while supply chain disruptions are increasing the cost of goods and services. Government resources are increasingly directed toward security operations, limiting investment in infrastructure and agricultural support.

Against this backdrop, the national conversation often appears misaligned. Political activities are intensifying as the electoral cycle approaches, yet for many in communities like Barkin Ladi, Guma, and Kaiama, the focus feels distant. “We don’t need speeches,” a farmer says quietly. “We need to be safe.”

On the ground, the demands are simple. Farmers want to return to their fields without fear, to harvest without interruption, and to transport produce safely. These are the basic conditions upon which any agricultural system depends.

What emerges from this convergence of violence, global shocks, economic strain, and environmental stress is a system under pressure. Rising attacks in places like Bokkos, Guma, and Shiroro, declining production, widespread displacement, and expanding hunger are interconnected signals of a food system under threat.

Nigeria’s agricultural potential remains vast. The land is still fertile, the knowledge still present. But in too many places, that potential is being lost to insecurity. The fields remain, but across Nigeria’s breadbasket, they are increasingly defined not by harvests, but by absence.