Baobab

WHEN I arrive in Obubra, a sleepy village in the lush forests of south-eastern Nigeria, two soldiers bearing AK-47s are instructed to accompany me at all times. “After all,” says one of my hosts, “this is a DDR environment.”

I am spending a day on a residential “non-violence course” for former militants from the Niger Delta, the creeks of which contain the bulk of Nigeria’s vast oil and gas reserves. Thousands of these fighters have signed up to an amnesty that began 18 months ago, whereby they agreed to hand over their weapons, attend this course, and do vocational training. The amnesty is billed as a “disarmament, demobilisation and rehabilitation” scheme—known as DDR—of the kind that has been tried across Africa, to varying degrees of success.

Today is exam day for this week’s batch of over 1,300 students. Youths in white uniforms hang around in the dusty compound in the stifling afternoon heat. When it is their turn, they list mantras on topics such as “the steps to non-violence” in rote fashion. Unable to do the simple written test, the majority sit oral exams.

The course teaches “Kingian non-violence”, which is partly based on the speeches of Martin Luther King. Critics argue that the five-day course is too short and classes of around 150 students each are too large. They also question the government’s commitment to the scheme overall; the amnesty has been dogged by delays, which have reportedly led some youths to return to the creeks. The Obubra course began almost a year after the militants had laid down arms.

However, the students I meet are friendly and enthusiastic about the scheme. As they munch on mashed cassava and a thick stew, they imagine their new life away from the creeks. They hope that the government will soon provide them with jobs as nurses, welders and oil rig technicians. I feel ridiculous for having two armed guards in what feels like a school canteen.

It is hard to tell whether the students have been “transformed”, as their tutors’ jargon goes. None of them say they enjoyed violence before taking the course. Most of them just joined their local militant camp because they needed a job. “It was terrible. We had shoot-outs with the government,” says Michael Festus, a 30-year-old former fighter. “You would be sitting and eating with your friend and then suddenly he would be lying on the ground.”

Militant commanders did not just hire fighters. The students include young women who worked as cooks and prostitutes. One teenage boy was a plate-washer who was saving up his salary to attend football trials.

On a nearby parade ground, preparations are underway for a graduation ceremony that will take place in a few days. The former insurgents will sing their national anthem and salute Nigeria's green-and-white flag. The tutors say this is a milestone: a sign of “transformation”.

But for these young people, the real milestone would be to find something to do next. After their vocational training, which in some cases has been delayed by several months, the ex-militants will enter an anaemic job market. Nigeria’s woeful electricity supply and poor roads make it hard for entrepreneurs to flourish, or even get by. A flawed education system means the few businesses doing well enough to hire often struggle to find the necessary talent.

“The government is paying us for now,” says Okechukwu Peculiar, a 20-year-old former cook for a militant group (pictured above, centre). She will receive a monthly stipend of 65,000 naira ($423) until the scheme ends. “But I am worried about what happens next.”