“Nigeria’s Hidden Maritime Crisis: When Fishing Turns Into A Fight For Life”

 

By FRED LONGJOHN OBEH

ON the shimmering waters of Ibaka, one of Nigeria’s largest fishing towns, the sea no longer promises livelihood — it threatens survival. For men like Ita James, fishing was once a proud inheritance, a trade that fed families and sustained entire communities. Now, each voyage feels like a gamble with death.

“It’s like working for the criminals,” James says quietly, eyes fixed on the rolling surf. “You can lose everything in a moment — your engine, your boat, your life.”

James has been attacked three times in two years. Twice, he watched as armed men — young, swift, and merciless — sped toward him on powerful boats, their guns glinting under the sun. They did not come for his fish. They came for his engine — the heart of every fisherman’s trade — worth millions of naira on the black market.

Those who resist are beaten, sometimes shot. Those who survive drift helplessly until help arrives.

A Silent War on the Waves

Officially, Nigeria’s maritime authorities boast of progress: no recorded piracy in four years. But on the same coastline where oil tankers glide safely, small-scale fishers and women traders are being hunted in a quiet war no one is counting.

Across Ibaka, Ibeno, Andoni, and Oron, fishermen recount the same nightmare — stolen engines, abductions, and killings. The attackers often come in twos or threes, armed with assault rifles, vanishing into the creeks after each raid.

“It happens every week,” says Okon Ukutuda, a local union leader. “Seven engines were taken last week alone. The government says things are better. For us, things have never been worse.”

The numbers tell a grim story. In 2021, at least 106 fishers and traders were abducted and three killed in recorded incidents — but locals insist many more attacks go unreported.

Meanwhile, international reports paint a different picture: piracy in Nigeria has dropped dramatically, with the ICC International Maritime Bureau recording only one incident last year. The data, however, largely ignores small artisanal fishers who rarely file complaints — either out of fear or futility.

Women in Peril

On the Ibaka shore, the midday sun glances off the waves as hundreds of women prepare to travel — their canoes stacked with bananas, dried fish, and bottles of gin. Among them is Rose Okon, who once lost 10 bags of crayfish, worth over ₦2.5 million, to an attack.

“We were lucky they didn’t shoot anyone that day,” she says. “They just took everything.”

Others have not been so lucky.

One trader, Inemesit (not her real name), was kidnapped with 26 others in 2023. Their boat was intercepted minutes after leaving port. For three weeks, they lived under a tarpaulin in a remote creek, surviving on garri and bread. The kidnappers demanded ₦5 million each.

“The unions had to raise money to free us,” she recalls. “When I came out, I had nothing left — no capital, no health, nothing.”

For many women like her, the trauma ends their trade. “I can’t go back,” she says. “The sea gives, but it also takes too much.”

An Industry in Crisis

Nigeria’s ₦1.1 trillion fishing industry — the backbone of coastal economies — now teeters under pressure. Small-scale fishers, who produce over 80% of Nigeria’s local catch, face triple threats: piracy, climate change, and economic abandonment.

Fishers must now travel farther to find dwindling stocks, pushing them into deeper, more dangerous waters. “When we were younger, fish were everywhere,” says Nria Friday from Andoni. “Now, you can go for hours and catch nothing.”

Experts say these challenges are structural. “Rising sea temperatures and overfishing are shrinking stocks,” explains Dr. Isangadighe Isangadighe, a fisheries scientist at the University of Uyo. “When you add insecurity to that, the sector becomes unsustainable.”

Illegal trawlers — many of them foreign — compound the problem, draining Nigeria’s waters of fish and costing the country up to $600 million yearly. For artisanal fishers, that means competing against industrial giants offshore and armed robbers closer home.

The Price of Survival

Desperation has birthed a grim adaptation. To fish safely, many communities now pay monthly “protection fees” — between ₦30,000 and ₦80,000 per boat — to armed groups that operate as informal “security providers.”

“If you don’t pay, you don’t fish,” says Daniel Udo, a fisherman from Ibeno. “They know every boat, every person. Some of them are locals.”

It is extortion dressed as protection — a criminal tax imposed on Nigeria’s most vulnerable workers while the state looks away. The Navy, police, and maritime agencies, when contacted, offered no answers. Even the deaths of two naval officers reportedly shot near Ibaka in July 2024 drew no official comment.

For now, fear governs the waves.

A Sea of Abandonment

At the Ibaka wharf, dozens of boats lie motionless, their wooden hulls slowly bleaching in the sun. Many were abandoned after losing engines worth millions. Their names — Faithful God, Main A, Destiny — now read like prayers unanswered.

“We have shouted for help for years,” says Ukutuda, the local leader. “We lose hundreds of engines every year. About a thousand trucks of fish leave this place weekly, yet nobody protects us.”

The paradox is cruel: a country that depends on small-scale fishers for its food security leaves them unprotected in their hour of greatest need.

Artisanal fishers are not asking for miracles — only for safety, for recognition, for the right to work without fear. But as things stand, their voices are drowned by the waves and the silence of those in power.

“When I Gather Enough Money…”

As the evening light fades, Ita James continues mending his torn net by hand. His canoe, once his pride, now sits idle by the shore. He dreams of buying another engine — maybe one day.

“When I gather enough money, I will start again,” he says, his voice steady but tired. “There’s nothing else we can do.”

Behind him, the sea growls softly — vast, beautiful, and merciless.

EDITORIAL NOTE:
Nigeria’s maritime story cannot be told only in terms of oil tankers and trawlers. It must also include the small wooden boats of Ibaka and Ibeno — the people who feed the nation but are left to fend for themselves. Until that changes, the real piracy isn’t just on the sea — it’s in the neglect that allows it to continue.