Freshly cut rosewood planks stacked inside Sunawara Forest, Adamawa State, North East Nigeria. Loggers sometimes process the timber into transportable sizes before moving them to depots outside the area.

The cold bites harder at night. Nathaniel Bitrus* feels it on his face as the motorcycle roars along a dirt path to Sunawara, a small community in the Toungo area of Adamawa State, northeastern Nigeria. A chainsaw rests on his lap. With two other men, he vanishes into the darkness of the forest, once dense, now stripped bare.

For nearly half of his 45 years, Mr. Bitrus has made this three-hour journey — one that sustains his family but devours Nigeria’s forests.
“Once, the forests were so thick that the sun barely touched the ground at noon,” he says. “Now, there are clearings everywhere.”

Inside Gashaka-Gumti National Park, one of West Africa’s largest wildlife reserves, illegal loggers cut through protected zones, felling valuable rosewood trees. Official patrols and checkpoints exist, but, according to loggers, permits and bribes often buy passage.

For those who can’t afford that, there are secret routes known only to the daring. One such path, locals call Yaro Me Ka Dauko — Hausa for “Boy, what are you carrying?” a name that hints at both the risk and the profit that drive this underground trade.

When Farming Is No Longer Enough

Mr. Bitrus was once a farmer, growing maize to feed his family. But unpredictable weather and poor harvests forced him to seek alternatives.

Then, in 2001, a group of traders from Lagos arrived, searching for rosewood — known locally as Madrid or Kosso. They showed pictures, offered cash, and introduced a new industry to impoverished communities.

“The pay was good — ₦1,000 per tree then,” Bitrus recalls. “Enough to buy food, pay school fees, and farm again.”

Soon, the trade exploded. There were chainsaws, trucks, and middlemen offering quick money. Men like David Isaac* and George Johnson* joined, leaving their farms behind.

“I cut trees to feed my family,” Isaac says. “Farming doesn’t pay anymore. This one does.”

But the work is dangerous. “Sometimes trees fall on people,” Bitrus explains quietly. “I survived once. Others didn’t.”

Road to China

The real money lies far beyond the forests of Taraba and Adamawa — in Lagos ports and Chinese factories.

“We have dedicated loggers we call anytime there is demand,” says Charles Ekene*, a timber dealer in Gembu, Taraba State. Buyers rarely appear in person. “They communicate over the phone,” he says.

Dealers coordinate everything: chainsaws, trucks, pricing, and “paperwork” — the latter often a euphemism for forged or bribed documents.
Loggers mark their felled trees with paint, claiming ownership before hauling them to depots in Sunawara or Baissa. From there, dealers pay between ₦20,000 and ₦40,000 per log, reselling them at several times the price.

“A truck can fetch ₦3 million or more,” Ekene says.

Truck drivers like Hamma Yusuf* move the timber south through Jalingo, Yola, Abuja, and onward to Sagamu in Ogun State — a key link to Apapa Port in Lagos. There, the rosewood is loaded into containers bound for China, where the wood is prized for luxury furniture and carvings.

A 2022 Arise News investigation confirmed this export trail, showing how Nigeria’s rosewood passes unchecked through official ports despite an export ban. GIS data further corroborates the existence of a smuggling route.

The Price of Survival

The story of Nigeria’s rosewood is one of poverty, corruption, and ecological collapse. For men like Bitrus, the choice is stark — cut trees or let their families starve.

“We did not choose this job,” he says. “We went to school. But there is no work. If I had a choice, I would not do this.”

Each night, as the forest echoes with chainsaws, another tree falls and with it, another layer of Nigeria’s fragile ecosystem.