Ibrahim* went from earning an honest living as a factory worker, supporting his family, to clawing for scraps of garri in a sweltering, overcrowded prison cell.
Within a week of entering the Goron Dutse Correctional Facility in Kano State,
northwestern Nigeria, he developed a severe skin infection. Two months later, he was almost unrecognisable. Once fair and plump, as shown in the photo on his old identity card, he now appeared skinny, his skin marred by rashes that covered half his body.
But how did Ibrahim end up there?
Months earlier, a substantial credit alert unexpectedly appeared in his bank account. He claimed to have no idea where it had come from at the time. He waited anxiously for any inquiries. When none came, he convinced himself it was an unforeseen stroke of luck. Yielding to temptation, he used the money to clear his debts and support his ageing parents, reassuring himself that no harm would come of it.
However, the factory where Ibrahim has been employed discovered some missing funds, which were traced back to his account. Summoned to the manager’s office, Ibrahim told HumAngle that he had admitted to the transaction and promised to repay the money. He was immediately dismissed and given a brief window to settle the debt. When he failed to repay by the deadline, he was arrested one day, in front of his family.
At the police station, Ibrahim spent hours under questioning. He admitted to spending part of the money but pleaded for leniency, explaining he had mistaken it for a “federal government loan” he had previously applied for. His pleas fell on deaf ears.
In court, Ibrahim was charged with theft and given two options: pay a fine of thirty thousand naira or face three months in prison. With no way to pay, he was sentenced to Goron Dutse.
Justice delayed, lives endangered Critics argue that Nigerian judges contribute to the overcrowding of prisons by sending people to jail for minor offences or holding them in custody pending trial. In Kano State,
over 70 per cent of the inmates are awaiting trials and, recently, the Police said some inmates’ files are missing, preventing cases from progressing.
“Most of the inmates awaiting trial have stayed in custody with their cases yet to be determined by the courts,” said Musbahu Lawan, the Nigerian Correctional Service (NCoS), Kano Command spokesperson.
He explained that this backlog is the primary cause of congestion. “Our laws give us the power to transfer convicted inmates to any facility in the country, so if the inmates awaiting trial are eventually convicted, there won’t be congestion,” Lawan noted.
Hell behind bars
Goron Dutse was worse than Ibrahim had imagined. His cell, not larger than the size of a small bedroom, held several of them. “I can’t say exactly how many we were in the cell, but I know we were more than twenty,” he recalled after a benefactor paid his fine and secured his release.
Other inmates who have been released from Goron Dutse described the living conditions as inhumane. Even lying down is a luxury. Usman Auwalu, who spent six months behind bars, was left with a frail body, hollow cheeks and sunken eyes. “We are packed in a room like a box of sardines,” he told HumAngle.
Another released inmate, Mallam Habu, a man in his sixties, could barely walk or speak after his ordeal. Habu couldn’t walk properly. As he dragged his body, he whispered, “Inmates need help inside.”
For decades, Nigerian prisons have struggled with severe overcrowding. Kano State, home to nearly 15 million, has only ten correctional centres, with just two in the metropolis. The Goron Dutse Correctional Facility, originally designed to house 639 inmates, now holds over 2,000, an official source at the facility told HumAngle. “There are new blocks in the prison, but overcrowding remains an issue. More people are brought in every day,” the source explained.
Inside the cells, prisoners are crammed together—some sitting, others lying on the ground, while a few cling to the bars for air. The stench of sweat, urine, and the humid heat, Auwalu said, makes breathing almost impossible.
For many inmates at Goron Dutse, enduring these conditions is a daily struggle. For many others, entering the prison feels like a death sentence.
Starvation into submission Perhaps the most harrowing aspect of Ibrahim’s experience was the hunger. “We ate once a day, and it was just a handful of garri or three small morsels of tuwo,” he said.
When HumAngle interviewed Usman, he couldn’t stand upright; he attributed the condition to chronic starvation. “It’s just hunger,” he said, his skeletal frame telling a far more harrowing tale. “The food wouldn’t satisfy a toddler. You eat to survive, not to live. You’re never full. Never.”
Others tell similar stories. For Yahaya Abba, a middle-aged man who spent nine months in prison, hunger was a silent killer. “We are the lucky ones. We made it out alive. But inside, people are dying slowly and silently because there is no food,” he said.
Despite an increase in the daily feeding allowance from ₦700 to ₦1,050 per inmate, the funds are insufficient to provide balanced meals. Ibrahim described the food as unbalanced, lacking essential nutrients, and often served in unsanitary conditions.
A source within the NCoS confirmed the dire situation. “Every day, one or two dead bodies are being taken out,” he said anonymously. “They die because of hunger.” Authorities, however, appear reluctant to acknowledge the scale of the problem. “I don’t know what benefit they are driving by denying these deaths or attributing it to other causes, but the reality is inmates are dying because of hunger,” another insider revealed.
Lawan, the NCoS spokesperson, dismissed the criticism. “People expect to eat or sleep in prison as they do in their homes, but that’s impossible. The food is meant to keep inmates alive, not provide luxury,” he stated. He further explained that prison meals are termed “ration” because they are portioned, not because everyone gets what they desire.
The spokesperson’s response highlights the systemic neglect that turns prisons into places of suffering rather than rehabilitation. Ibrahim’s ordeal raises pressing questions: Are Nigeria’s correctional facilities rehabilitating offenders, or are they perpetuating cycles of poverty and crime?
For the men freed, freedom felt hollow. It was survival—escaping one nightmare only to bear its scars indefinitely. For those still inside, their suffering continues: unheard, unseen, and unending.
*All names in this story have been changed.
By Aliyu Dahiru,
HumAngle
