In Nigeria, the land pulses with resilience, but 2025 has tested its limits. Across the nation, climate change delivers a brutal one-two punch: floods that obliterate homes and livelihoods in the central regions, and droughts that choke crops and futures in the north. From the waterlogged ruins of Mokwa in Niger State to the cracked fields of Sokoto’s Kwalkwalawa village, millions are caught in a cycle of destruction that threatens food security, displaces families, and deepens poverty. These are not distant warnings but immediate crises, rooted in global warming’s intensifying grip and Nigeria’s struggle to adapt. For farmers, mothers, and youth, the question is no longer if the climate will strike again, but how to survive when it does.
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In late May 2025, the Niger River, a lifeline for communities in Niger State, turned traitor. Weeks of unrelenting rainfall, amplified by climate-driven weather patterns, swelled the river beyond its banks, unleashing flash floods that engulfed Mokwa, a trading hub connecting northern farmers to southern markets. The deluge struck with little warning, submerging over 4,000 homes and displacing more than 6,400 people in a matter of hours. Schools, health centers, and roads crumbled, with the critical Eppa bridge collapsing, cutting off villages from aid. The National Emergency Management Agency (NEMA) reported 153 bodies recovered from the wreckage of Mokwa’s main bridge alone, with hundreds more missing, swept away by currents or buried in mud.
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Aminatu Sani, a 38-year-old trader and mother of three, stands amidst the wreckage of her family’s home, now a pile of sodden mud and broken timber. “We thought the rains would pass like always,” she says, her voice heavy with grief. “But the water came so fast, it took our roof, our savings, even my son’s schoolbooks. Now we sleep in a camp, but mosquitoes and dirty water are killing us slowly.” Her story echoes across Mokwa’s displacement camps, where over 6,000 people face cholera outbreaks and malnutrition. Local clinics, already strained, lack supplies to treat rising cases of waterborne diseases, while children miss school, their futures as waterlogged as the fields around them.
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The floods’ economic toll is staggering. In Mokwa and nearby Kwara and Kebbi states, over 10,000 hectares of rice, yam, and cassava fields—staples for millions—were inundated, leaving farmers like Ibrahim Musa staring at barren land. “This was my best season in years,” says Musa, 50, kicking at silt-covered soil. “Now my rice paddies are a swamp, and I owe money for seeds I can’t repay.” Nigeria’s Ministry of Agriculture estimates losses in the billions of naira, with 30 of 36 states at high flood risk this year, threatening 15 million people. Poor urban planning and clogged drainage systems, coupled with upstream deforestation, have worsened the crisis, turning seasonal rains into deadly torrents.
While Mokwa drowns, the northern state of Sokoto bakes under a relentless sun. In Kwalkwalawa village, where farming sustains 80% of households, the 2025 rainy season arrived late and weak, delivering just 30% of expected rainfall. Rivers and wells have dried up, and Lake Chad, a regional lifeline, has shrunk further, its shores now a cracked wasteland where fishers once thrived. Temperatures regularly hit 40°C, scorching young maize and sorghum plants before they can mature. The International Institute of Tropical Agriculture estimates that drought has slashed crop yields by over 30% across northern Nigeria, pushing 33 million people—nearly one in six Nigerians—toward acute food insecurity by December 2025.
Hauwa Abdullahi, a 55-year-old farmer in Kwalkwalawa, surveys her wilted onion fields with resignation. “The soil is like stone now,” she says, holding a shriveled stalk. “We planted with hope, but the rains failed us again. My grandchildren go to bed hungry, and we can’t afford market prices.” Food inflation, already at 40% nationwide, compounds the crisis, forcing families to skip meals or sell livestock at a loss. In Sokoto and neighboring Borno, desertification creeps southward, fueled by global warming and overgrazing, while dust storms whipped up by the Harmattan winds choke remaining crops. Herders, desperate for grazing land, clash with farmers like Abdullahi, sparking violence that has killed dozens this season.
The drought’s ripple effects are profound. In Borno, where conflict with Boko Haram has already displaced millions, shrinking water sources intensify competition, driving more families into urban slums. Schools report higher dropout rates as children join parents in scavenging for food or work. “We’re not just losing crops; we’re losing our way of life,” says Abdullahi, who now relies on loans from local moneylenders at crippling rates. The federal government’s irrigation projects, meant to bolster resilience, reach only a fraction of farmers, leaving most to pray for rains that may never come.
These dual crises—floods in the center, droughts in the north—are no coincidence. Climate scientists, including Dr. Amina Khalid from the University of Abuja, describe a pattern of “weather whiplash” driven by global warming. Nigeria’s average temperature has risen 0.8°C since 1960, intensifying extreme weather. Wetter rainy seasons overwhelm unprepared infrastructure, while prolonged dry spells parch the Sahel, where 70% of Nigerians depend on rain-fed agriculture. Deforestation, with Nigeria losing 3.7% of its forests annually, exacerbates both floods (by reducing soil absorption) and droughts (by disrupting local rainfall). Global emissions, largely from industrialized nations, fuel these shifts, yet Africa—contributing just 4% of emissions—bears the brunt.
The human cost is stark. In Mokwa’s camps, malnutrition rates among children under five have spiked, with aid agencies struggling to deliver. In Sokoto, hunger drives migration, swelling cities like Kano with displaced farmers who face unemployment and stigma. Women, who make up 60% of Nigeria’s agricultural workforce, are hit hardest, juggling childcare and dwindling resources. Youth, too, feel the strain: a recent poll found 68% of Nigerians support green jobs like solar installation, but only 28% fully understand climate change, highlighting an awareness gap that stalls action.
Despite the despair, Nigeria’s communities are fighting back with ingenuity. In Mokwa, local groups are building sandbag barriers and elevating homes on stilts, blending traditional knowledge with modern adaptation. Farmers like Musa are testing flood-resistant rice varieties, supported by seed banks from the International Crops Research Institute. In Sokoto, women’s cooperatives, led by figures like Abdullahi, are planting drought-tolerant acacia trees to curb desertification and produce shea butter for income. Solar-powered boreholes, funded by NGOs, are irrigating small plots, allowing year-round farming in some villages.
Government efforts, though often slow, show promise. NEMA has deployed drones for flood monitoring and distributed relief kits, including mosquito nets and water purifiers, to 10,000 households. The Ministry of Agriculture is scaling up climate-smart practices, like agroforestry and crop rotation, with pilot projects in 12 states. International partners, such as the UN’s International Organization for Migration, are funding reinforced dams and training youth in green skills, like solar panel maintenance, to diversify livelihoods. Yet, experts argue these measures fall short of Nigeria’s needs: the country requires $17.7 billion annually to meet its climate targets, but current funding is less than 1% of GDP.
Nigeria’s 2025 climate crises—floods that erase homes and droughts that kill harvests—are a wake-up call. For every Aminatu Sani rebuilding from rubble, and every Hauwa Abdullahi replanting in defiance of drought, there are millions more needing systemic change. Policymakers must prioritize early warning systems, reforestation, and equitable climate finance to shield the vulnerable. Communities demand a voice, not just aid, to shape solutions that work. As the lean season looms, Nigeria stands at a crossroads: ignore the rising waters and parched fields, and risk a humanitarian collapse; or invest in resilience, and nurture hope. The choice is ours, but the clock is ticking.
