In Adamawa and Taraba states, kidnapping gangs and cattle rustlers operate from mountain and forest terrain that Nigeria's police and military have failed to secure for years. Into that vacuum stepped Pulaku, a volunteer organisation founded over a decade ago by Fulani community leaders, now numbering more than 500 armed members conducting patrols, drills, and anti-kidnapping operations with state government backing but no formal integration into Nigeria's security apparatus. The numbers explain the urgency. SBM Intelligence recorded 21 kidnapping incidents involving 77 people in Adamawa between July 2025 and June 2026, plus four incidents involving 14 people in Taraba. Cattle theft is even more devastating: a 2024 University of Jos study estimated 134,182 cattle stolen in Taraba between 1999 and 2022, with over 113,000 recovered in Adamawa over the same period. At roughly 700,000 naira ($525) per animal, a 50-head herd represents about 35 million naira ($26,254) — a family's entire economic foundation. Pulaku's operational model is self-funded and community-supported. Members contribute their own resources; local government chairmen provide financial assistance for running costs; Adamawa State Governor Ahmadu Umaru Fintiri donated vehicles. The organisation's leadership decides which members carry firearms — a mix of locally made guns, machetes, and wooden sticks. Their core advantage, according to police, is terrain knowledge: members come from communities familiar with the forests and mountains where kidnappers hide. The organisation takes its name from pulaaku, a Fulani cultural concept encompassing dignity, patience, courage, and respect for others. But as Professor Abubakar Abba Tahir, spokesperson for the Adamawa Emirate, notes, there is a gap between the cultural ideal and any organisation that adopts its name. Whether Pulaku upholds those values depends on its conduct, accountability, and respect for human rights — none of which are guaranteed by informal armed groups operating outside formal command structures. Fulani communities face a dual burden. They are primary victims of cattle theft and kidnapping, yet also bear the weight of ethnic stereotyping. A 2021 study in African Journalism Studies examining 598 articles from three Nigerian newspapers found that coverage sometimes used terms like "Fulani terrorists" and "killer Fulani herdsmen" interchangeably with "herdsmen." Community leader Alhaji Bello Ardo describes the pain of collective suspicion: "Every ethnic group has individuals involved in crime, but in our case, people make accusations without confirmation." Pulaku's growth is a textbook case of what happens when states fail to provide basic security: communities self-organise, ethnic identity becomes the organising principle, and informal armed groups acquire quasi-official status through state patronage without formal oversight. The Adamawa state government's vehicle donations and local government funding create a dependency relationship that benefits both sides politically — the governor gets credit for security provision without paying for a permanent force, and Pulaku gets material support without formal accountability structures. The 20-year question is whether Pulaku becomes a model that strengthens community security or an armed ethnic militia that entrenches identity-based conflict. History across West Africa and the Sahel — from Nigeria's Civilian JTF to the Koglweogo in Burkina Faso — suggests that vigilante groups born from legitimate grievances tend to grow beyond their original mandate when the state continues to fail. The terrain advantage that makes Pulaku effective today is also the terrain advantage that makes oversight nearly impossible.
