Over 50 abandoned villages, thousands displaced, and a government’s glaring absence.
Boko Haram’s terror is no longer a distant threat—it has taken root in the Mayo-Tsanaga department. What began as a distant insurgency in Nigeria’s Borno State in the early 2000s crossed borders in 2014. The first Cameroonian locality to suffer its wrath was Tourou village, nestled near the Gossi mountain, roughly 35 kilometers from Mokolo.
Since then, hundreds of Boko Haram fighters have entrenched themselves in Gossi Mountain, turning it into a launchpad for relentless attacks. The insurgents torch villages, massacre civilians, loot property, and abduct women. No sector is spared: farmlands, markets, places of worship, gendarmerie posts, schools, and health centers all lie in their crosshairs. Over time, the violence has intensified, forcing entire communities to flee. Nearly 13 years into this ordeal, the response remains inadequate, and the silence from authorities persists. The Mayo-Tsanaga is bleeding, and no one seems to care.
From Mokolo to Koza and extending to Mayo-Moskota, the landscape tells a story of unprecedented territorial abandonment. More than 50 villages in the Mayo-Tsanaga have been entirely or partially deserted by their inhabitants. Among them are Gossi, Tourou, Vizik, Ldamang, Magoumaz, Ldubam, Dinglding, Chougoulé, Oupai, Houdahai, Vouzoud, Ldama, Ziver Montagne, Houva, Gouzda Wayam, Tchébé-Tchébé, Koza, Locktcha, Toufou, Guedjele-Guibedrom, Zelevet, Krawa-Mafa, Ldaoutsaf, Merekouet, Dzamadzaf, Hitéré, Bavangola, Vreket, and Gouzou-dou.
In May 2022, Mahadek Nicolo Nouhou, the fifth deputy mayor of Mokolo, presented this grim reality to Minister of Public Health Manaouda Malachie during the Fraternal Meetings of the Mayo-Tsanaga held in Tourou and Mokolo. His report highlighted ten abandoned villages, two occupied by Boko Haram, and seven others under regular siege. The terror group has established near-permanent strongholds in Gossi, Toufou 1, Toufou 2, Roum, and Hitawa, driving residents to flee in droves.
Since then, the situation has worsened. “We are left to fend for ourselves, questioning why local leaders and the government turn a blind eye to our plight. Do we, the people of the Mayo-Tsanaga, not count as true Cameroonian citizens?” lament the residents of Tourou.
Fear dictates life in the Mayo-Tsanaga. By night, men flee their homes, seeking refuge in mountain caves where they share space with wildlife. They return at dawn to tend to their fields and businesses, only to repeat the cycle. Entire communities are trapped in a cycle of terror and displacement.
The Cameroonian state’s response has been painfully inadequate. In recent attacks, such as the June 18, 2026 assault on Ldamang and Ldubam at 2 AM, only two soldiers were on the ground. How can a handful of troops stand against heavily armed insurgents? Civilian vigilance committees, armed with machetes and sticks, are left to confront well-equipped militants—a futile battle.
The silence of local elites is complicity in disguise. The Mayo-Tsanaga boasts numerous influential figures—high-ranking administrators who could amplify the voices of the suffering. They appear during election rallies, promising change, only to vanish when the villages burn and lives are lost. Their silence is not an oversight; it is a calculated political choice.
Ministers have visited the region, holding “fraternal meetings” and making declarations. Yet, their promises evaporate in Mokolo, while Boko Haram’s attacks rage on. Mokolo yesterday. Koza the day before. What comes next? No one knows. No one can guarantee.
Over 9,000 people displaced by Boko Haram’s violence remain unable to return home. The number continues to swell with each new incursion. In early June 2026 alone, the International Organization for Migration recorded 482 additional displaced individuals—78 households—fleeing attacks in Mokolo, Koza, and Mayo-Moskota. The crisis extends beyond departmental borders. By early July 2026, a local authority in Kalfou, Mayo-Danay, reported welcoming nearly 300 displaced families who had fled Boko Haram’s violence from Mokolo. Located 210 kilometers from Mokolo by road, Kalfou’s reception of these families underscores the sheer scale of the exodus: families trek hundreds of kilometers, abandoning homes, land, and livelihoods in a desperate search for safety.
Those who flee leave behind more than just their past. Hundreds of birth certificates and national identity cards go up in flames with their homes. The most devastating loss, however, is the fragmentation of families. In the chaos of attacks, parents and children are separated, often forced to flee without the chance to reunite. Children and adolescents, left to fend for themselves, face an uncertain future. Schools are abandoned, studies disrupted, and many young girls see their dreams shattered. Some turn to crime out of desperation, while others lose all hope for a better tomorrow.
The Mayo-Tsanaga is emptying out. Agriculture is collapsing. Schools are shuttered. The local economy is vanishing. Without urgent intervention, the department faces irreversible depopulation. The state cannot afford to ignore its citizens simply because they live far from Yaoundé. How many more villages must be abandoned before this crisis becomes a national priority?