“Adrift & Abandoned: How Government Neglect Deepens The Peril Of Nigeria’s Fishers”

 

By FRED LONGJOHN OBEH

IN Ibaka, Akwa Ibom State, the sea used to be kind.

That’s how James Nana, a Ghanaian fisherman who arrived in Nigeria in 1992, remembers it.

“You could sail anytime, return with fish, and sleep well,” he says. “No pirates, no fear.”

Back then, fish were plentiful and danger was distant. Nana fished daily, saved money, bought land, and built a home. He invited his brothers to join him. The sea rewarded their labour — until the tide turned.

By the early 2000s, as Nigeria’s oil-rich coast became a theatre of militancy, the violence that once targeted oil installations crept into the waters of small-scale fishers. First came armed groups demanding ransom from foreign ships; then came the smaller, faster boats — the ones that now hunt fishermen like Nana.

His family’s story captures a generational tragedy. Between them, the brothers lost five outboard engines — their most valuable assets — to sea robbers. The youngest never recovered. After the third loss, he suffered a stroke and died.

“These people are very wicked,” says Kwabena Benjamin, the surviving brother. His voice breaks as he recalls the burial they attended in Ghana before returning to Ibaka. “Very wicked.”

The Official Silence

On paper, Nigeria’s waters are safer than ever.

Officials boast that there have been no recorded pirate attacks in four years. Yet, on the same coastline, fishers and women traders are robbed, kidnapped, and killed almost weekly.

A review of media and local reports shows at least 14 incidents since 2021 involving over 100 abductees and at least three deaths. Fishermen in Akwa Ibom, Rivers, and Cross River say the real figures are far higher.

“It’s a contradiction,” says Stanley Godspower, director of FishNet Alliance, a network of small-scale fishers in West Africa. “People are dying at sea, but the government’s attention is fixed on oil and large vessels.”

This is the heart of Nigeria’s maritime paradox: a nation that depends on small fishers for more than 80 percent of its domestic fish supply — yet treats them as invisible.

Big Employer, No Policy

Nigeria’s artisanal fishing industry is the country’s largest informal maritime workforce.
It employs over six million people — more than the entire civil service — yet operates outside any formal safety net.

There is no national registry of fishers, no insurance, no credit system, and no working fisheries policy.

Meanwhile, smaller West African neighbours such as Sierra Leone, Liberia, and Guinea have launched community-led zones and co-managed marine programs to protect their coastal workers.

“Since my 2024 study, I’ve seen no real government response,” says Ibanga Ibok, a researcher at Akwa Ibom State University who has tracked the impacts of piracy on artisanal fishing. “The neglect is systemic.”

A Policy That Never Came

In 2022, the Federal Department of Fisheries and Aquaculture began drafting a National Fisheries and Aquaculture Policy (2025–2029), with help from international partners.

The document promises training, credit, and “climate-resilient fishing.”

But two years later, it remains in bureaucratic limbo.

“Since Nigeria’s independence, there has never been an implemented fisheries policy,” admits Professor Anthony Onoja, who chaired the drafting team.

In August, Marine and Blue Economy Minister Adegboyega Oyetola announced a “Fish Production Acceleration Roadmap,” but most of its goals — from curbing imports to improving governance — remain untested aspirations.

In reality, the new ministry, created in 2023 amid the global “Blue Economy” wave, has focused on commercial ventures: ports, shipping, offshore energy. Coastal livelihoods — the human face of the ocean economy — barely feature.

An insider in the ministry confided, “We have no major programmes yet for conservation or community protection. We are still evolving.”

Budget Lines, Empty Promises

A look at the ministry’s 2025 budget reveals ₦12.2 billion approved for over 100 projects.

Only two address artisanal fisheries directly: ₦390 million for patrol boats and ₦189 million for “input support.”

But a search on GovSpend, Nigeria’s public expenditure tracker, shows no record of payments. Across Ibaka, Ibeno, and Andoni, none of the more than two dozen fishers interviewed had seen any government support.

“They say they are helping us, but we see nothing,” says Nduekiden Eshiet, a fisher from Ibeno. “We buy our own nets, our own fuel, and now even our own security.”

Disastrous Neglect

While the government looks away, Nigeria’s seas are being plundered.

Large industrial trawlers — many foreign-owned — operate illegally, dragging massive nets that scrape the ocean floor and scoop up everything in sight: shrimp, turtles, juvenile fish.

Whatever they don’t want, they sell as bycatch to coastal traders.

In a crowded shack at Ibeno’s waterfront, women haggle over sacks of iced fish dumped by local boats that shuttle to deep-sea trawlers.

“When our men can’t go to sea, we buy from the vessels,” one trader says. “The small fish, the broken ones — they still sell.”

Marine analyst Brave Imiete, of Ocean Stewardship International, warns that this informal trade is both ecologically destructive and economically suicidal.

“Because there’s little surveillance, vessels are fishing illegally in restricted zones,” he explains. “They use banned nets, kill endangered species, and destroy local livelihoods. This is what happens when a sector is left unguarded.”

Insecurity and the Culture of Bribes

The state’s absence at sea contrasts sharply with its heavy presence on land.

Along coastal highways, military and police checkpoints dot the route. Drivers routinely pay between ₦200 and ₦500 to pass. At one post near Oron, officers demanded ₦4,000 before letting a bus through.

“They collect money on land but cannot protect people at sea,” one trader scoffs.

At sea, the Navy, police, and NIMASA all claim overlapping mandates — yet none claim the responsibility for small-scale fishers. The agencies declined or ignored interview requests, even when confronted with reports of attacks and deaths.

Security experts argue that the “drop” in piracy only reflects better international coordination for commercial shipping — not actual safety for Nigerians.

“Maritime policing isn’t part of our culture,” says Confidence MacHarry, a security analyst. “Except maybe in Lagos, where there’s some structure, everywhere else is unguarded water.”

Paying to Fish, Paying to Live

In the absence of state protection, many communities now pay for their own safety — literally.
Fishers contribute monthly “security fees” to vigilantes — and “protection fees” to the very militants who threaten them.

“If we don’t pay, they’ll attack,” says local chief Daniel Inyang, who also repairs boat engines. “And when engines are stolen, I lose work too.”

In Ibaka and Ibeno, these payments range from ₦30,000 to ₦80,000 per boat. Some communities pool the funds to “negotiate peace” with armed groups. It is a fragile, grim arrangement — survival through surrender.

“Twenty years ago, we were free,” says Eshiet, staring toward the darkening horizon. “Now we buy permission to fish in our own water.”

A Ministry Without a Memory

The creation of the Marine and Blue Economy Ministry was meant to mark a turning point — a symbol of Nigeria’s commitment to sustainable seas. But for the coastal poor, it has so far changed nothing.

With climate change pushing fish farther out, illegal trawlers depleting stocks, and pirates claiming both lives and livelihoods, the silence of the state feels almost deliberate.

“The government counts oil revenues,” says a union leader in Ibaka, “but not the fishermen who die.”

“That’s Where We Belong”

After losing his last engine, James Nana sold his house to pay debts. He now spends his days at the dock, repairing nets for others, staring at the sea that once fed him.

He knows the risks, but he still dreams of returning to it.

“They told us to go back to Ghana,” he says softly. “But this is our home now. I will buy another engine and go back to the water.”

He pauses, looking at the restless waves.

“That’s where we belong.”

EDITORIAL COMMENTARY

Nigeria’s coastline stretches 850 kilometres, supporting millions who feed the nation from its waters. Yet, in the halls of power, these people barely exist.

Their boats rot at the shore while policies gather dust.

Their deaths are uncounted, their losses unrecorded, and their cries drowned by the hum of distant oil rigs.

A nation that claims to champion the “blue economy” cannot build it on broken nets and abandoned communities. Until Nigeria secures its fishers and restores accountability at sea, the water will keep taking — and the government will keep looking away.