A Community on the Brink: The Untold Story of Rugar Fulani Adamu Hussaini
By Ayshatu S. Rabo
In the heart of Nigeria’s Federal Capital Territory, tucked quietly away from the bustle of Abuja’s modern skyline, lies Rugar Fulani—a small settlement whose history predates the city that now threatens to swallow it. For its residents, this is not just land; it is memory, lineage, and life itself. Today, however, the community stands on the brink of displacement, facing looming threats of demolition and eviction, with no clear answers and nowhere else to go.
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According to elders of the community, Adamu Hussaini, Rugar Fulani was founded during the colonial era by their forefather, Adamu. What began as open bushland gradually became a home, grazing space, and family settlement. Generations have since been born, raised, and buried on the same soil.“
“Our grandfather came here alone during the colonial days,” a 63-year-old resident told OurNigeria News Magazine. “He lived here, raised our father here, and our father raised us here. We were all born here. This is the only home we know.”
The resident recalled how his grandfather would travel weekly to Suleja or Keffi for Jumu’ah prayers, long before Abuja became Nigeria’s capital. His father, who passed away during Ramadan in 2025 at the remarkable age of 100 years and 18 months, never lived anywhere else.
Unlike many informal settlements, Rugar Fulani Adamu Hussaini is not a mixed or transient community. Every resident traces their lineage to the same ancestor.
“We are all one family,” the resident explained. “We share the same grandfather. No outsiders. This land was bush when he came. He developed it and settled here.”
Homes in the settlement are not rented. They are family-owned structures, traditionally built with thatch and now increasingly constructed with mud as resources permit. Livelihoods revolve around modest pastoral and subsistence activities, sustained quietly over decades.
Despite limited infrastructure, the community has made efforts to support its children. A philanthropist, identified as Hajiya Maryam, built a mosque within the settlement where children receive basic education. She also provided solar power and a borehole, easing access to electricity and water.
“I have nine children and fifteen grandchildren,” the resident said. “We try to train them the best we can.”
The calm rhythm of life has recently been disrupted. According to residents, individuals arrive intermittently in large trucks, declaring that the land belongs to the government and threatening demolition.
“They just come and say they will destroy our houses,” the resident recounted. “They show papers and claim ownership, but we have never been given any official notice or explanation.”
No formal relocation plan has been communicated. No resettlement site identified. The threats, residents say, come with uncertainty—and fear.
The question echoes repeatedly across the settlement.
“If they chase us away in broad daylight, where will we go?” the resident asked quietly. “We don’t know any other place. With insecurity everywhere, strangers are not welcomed easily. This fear keeps me awake at night.”
The emotional toll is evident. For a community rooted in one location for over a century, displacement is not just physical—it is existential.
A passerby familiar with the area offered an external perspective.
“These people have always been peaceful,” he said. “They mind their business. If they were troublemakers, they wouldn’t have stayed here this long.”
He urged authorities and claimants alike to adopt a humane approach.
“If relocation must happen, it should be organized, peaceful, and compassionate. Give them space to speak. Don’t just tell them to leave.”
The unfolding situation at Rugar Fulani Adamu Hussaini raises broader questions about development, urban expansion, and human dignity. When communities that predate modern city plans are suddenly branded as intruders, the cost is borne not only in lost homes, but in erased histories.
As Abuja continues to grow, the challenge before policymakers is clear: development must not come at the expense of humanity.
For the residents of Rugar Fulani Adamu Hussaini, the plea is simple.
“I beg them, in the name of God, to fear Him,” the resident said. “Life is temporary. Please have mercy on us. We truly don’t know anywhere else to go.”
The nation must now decide whether progress will make room for compassion—or silence those who have quietly held the soil for generations.
A Community on the Brink: The Untold Story of Rugar Fulani Adamu Hussaini