Danjuma*, now 55, joined the Nigerian Army in 1992, driven by a hunger for purpose and a dream bigger than the Peugeot spare parts trade his relatives offered. As the only son in a northern family of four, he chose a military uniform over a shop apron and plunged into a life of duty, discipline, and danger that would span three decades.
His journey began with ₦400 as a fresh recruit and ended in 2022 with a retirement gratuity of ₦15 million and a ₦200,000 monthly pension. Yet within a single year of civilian life, the ₦15 million was gone.
Getting into the army wasn’t easy. The first time around, Danjuma ranked among the top in screening but lost his place to someone more “influential.” A second chance came after a military major saw him clearing land and gave him another shot—this time with no bribes, no favors. At 22, Danjuma officially became a soldier.
But the early years were hard. Ten years in the army passed before he saw his first promotion. As a private soldier earning a pittance, he supported himself and his family, struggling through Nigeria’s military pay stagnation. While others climbed with certificates and connections, Danjuma trudged along, often overlooked.
By the mid-90s, he was determined to break the cycle. He enrolled in a part-time HND programme, paid his way through school, and attempted to join the commissioned ranks via the Short Service route. Three failed attempts didn’t stop him—even aging out didn’t. He swore an affidavit to reduce his age and finally passed on his fourth try, becoming a Second Lieutenant in 2003.
That marked a new chapter—his salary rose to ₦10,500, and he began commanding troops. He spent 15 years in Biu, Borno, learning the hard truths of leadership in the Nigerian Army. Peacekeeping missions took him to Sudan. Boko Haram turned Borno into a war zone. Danjuma sent his family away for safety and led men through chaos, trauma, and bloodshed.
Promotion came in steps. Lieutenant in 2006. Captain in 2012. But beyond that, the ladder stopped moving. Four failed attempts at becoming a Major sealed his fate. No matter the war diary he kept, the ground he held, or the men he buried there were no more stripes to earn.
By 2022, Danjuma retired with ₦15 million. He poured the money into finishing a modest home, paying school fees, and setting up solar panels. He wanted to build something normal with his family something he had missed all those years away. But life had other plans. Within a year, every naira was spent.
Today, he survives on his pension. Jobs in private security come up, but he’s not interested. He’s seen too much to chase the illusion of stability in another uniform. Instead, he tends a small farm behind his house cutlass in hand, trying to feel alive again.
He doesn’t regret serving. But if he could do one thing differently, it would be to invest in something that grows—like the garden he now tends, slowly, daily, quietly.
Danjuma’s story isn’t just about a soldier. It’s about what happens after the uniform comes off. About loyalty repaid with silence. About a man who gave everything—and came home with nothing but memory, loss, and the weight of what could’ve been.
