There is a moment in the journey into Raqqa when you leave the real world behind. After the bombed-out Samra bridge, any signs of normal life vanish. Turn right at the shop that once sold gravestones – its owner is long gone – and you are inside the city. Ahead lies nothing but destruction and grey dust and rubble. This is a place drained of colour, of life, and of people. In six days inside Raqqa, I didn’t see a single civilian. They are somewhere inside, trapped by the so-called Islamic State and the Western coalition’s bombing campaign. IS uses them as human shields, and as bait, to lure out the Syrian Democratic Forces (SDF). It seems that not a single building has escaped the onslaught. Many have been crushed, flattened, or knocked to one side by the Western coalition’s air strikes and artillery.
It is a barrage that never ceases. More than two dozen air strikes a day, and hundreds of shells fall on the city. Their target is the last men of the Islamic State. There may be as few as 400 left. The SDF, which is made up of Kurds, Arabs – Muslims and Christian – and Yazidis, among others, has been making good progress since the offensive began in June. It has IS surrounded. And with Western air power pounding from above, its front-line advances are chewing through neighbourhoods. It is only a matter of time – perhaps a month, maybe two – before IS in Raqqa is swallowed whole. This was the capital of the Islamic State’s unrealised caliphate. It was home to half a million people. But now it is fit for no-one. IS is already making propaganda capital out of the destruction. America says this a war of annihilation. Raqqa is the battleground and the victim. Quentin Sommerville is on the streets of Raqqa with Syrian Democratic Forces.
He finds a city devastated by IS rule and Western-led bombardments.
Civilians are trapped – with many being used as human shields.
“The Islamic State was a spectre of terror that had taken over our lives for four years. We grew tired and we despaired. Life had stopped. The only escape was to drown ourselves with work.”
Hatem (not his real name), a shopkeeper in his early 30s, is one of the several hundred civilians who, in mid-August, took the risk and escaped a city plunged into death and destruction. When the SDF announced the Raqqa operation, Hatem says the people of the city were happy, if apprehensive, about the Kurdish role. However, the news coming from SDF-controlled areas was encouraging. “We heard about Tal Abyad becoming relatively stable. Prices of basic staples and foodstuff were decreasing. A barrel of diesel in Tal Abyad dropped to 12,000 liras (£15). In Raqqa it was nearly quadruple that,” the shopkeeper says. But it was the participation of the US-led coalition that the people of Raqqa were most excited about. The advanced weaponry, they thought, would spare them the grind of the urban warfare IS had been preparing for.
“When a coalition air strike took out that French jihadi near the Clocktower Roundabout, I went shortly afterwards to check the scene,” Hatem, whose shop was near the drone strike, says.
“He’d been consumed by flames in his own car. No-one else was killed. There was no shrapnel damage to be seen. We were excited because we thought it was this technology that the USA was bringing into the fight.”
But the excitement was short-lived, as displaced people from the city of Tabqa started flooding into Raqqa. Tales of an “indiscriminate” bombing campaign, flattened buildings and hundreds of alleged civilian deaths rattled the local population. In June, Raqqa’s siege was completed and the US campaign was in full swing. Civilians were trapped inside with IS fighters.
“America is a superpower. It was supposed to use laser-guided bombs and precision munitions. What did we get instead? Massive bombs, mortar rounds and countless artillery strikes. Is that how you liberate Raqqa? You’re murdering civilians instead,” Hatem says, his voice now quivering with a mix of anger and despair.
Airwars, a group monitoring civilian deaths in Russian and US-led coalition air strikes Iraq and Syria, says that US-led forces dropped 5,775 bombs, shells and missiles in Raqqa in August alone, resulting in at least 433 likely civilian casualties.
Ahmad, a Turkey-based Raqqa activist has documented the deaths of at least 750 civilians in the city since June – 520 of which he says were in coalition air strikes. Airwars, on the other hand, says at least 1000 Raqqawi civilians have been killed since June. The coalition has conceded four civilian deaths during the battle for Raqqa. It says it has adhered to strict targeting processes and procedures aimed to minimise risks to civilians. As ever, the Islamic State group was quick to use civilian deaths to its own advantage and pumped out one propaganda video after the other showing burnt corpses and maimed civilians. Lawyer Obeid Agha al-Kaakaji became the face of his bloodied city. With a deep gash across his forehead, Obeid’s face appeared caked with blood and dirt. His thick white hair and long beard were stained brown. The white of his eyes had disappeared behind a disoriented, tormented gaze. He was once a proud lawyer, known across the city of Raqqa for his philanthropy and concern for the downtrodden.
“As a lawyer, Obeid was the caretaker of the family’s assets and wealth in Raqqa,” his Saudi-based relative Hani tells the BBC. “When the siege closed in during Ramadan, he refused to leave, preferring to help people in need.”
The BBC tracked down a former neighbour of Obeid. Ziad (not his real name) witnessed the coalition air strike that hit the al-Kaakajis’s house. According to Ziad, IS fighters had commandeered the house during the last week of June and set up a camouflaged mortar position in the courtyard.
“They hid it right under the tree. They used to come every couple of days and fire a few rounds towards the east of Raqqa,” he says.
“We tried to talk them out of it but they got angry and accused us of being apostates.”
On 22 July, at about 10:30, a coalition air strike targeted Obeid’s house as Ziad was coming to visit the family for their usual morning chat and coffee. That day, IS fighters hadn’t shown up to man the mortar, he says. “Just as I was about to knock on the door, I heard this terrifying noise and then everything turned black. It felt like a hurricane had picked me up and slammed me into the wall behind. I tried to run for cover, but then that’s when the second missile struck,” Ziad says. Lightly injured, but severely bruised, he picked himself up and headed towards the rubble to help survivors. He recognised his other neighbour, Abdellatif al-Sheikh, but he was already dead.
A relative of Obeid’s, I’tidal, was in agony.
“She was lying there, her legs contorted, mangled. She was begging me for help. I can still hear her whimpers asking for help. But I couldn’t do anything. She died there,” Ziad says. Six people survived, Obeid among them. He was right outside in the courtyard when the missiles hit. A wall had collapsed on to him. Ziad says the lawyer didn’t look seriously injured, only “dazed and confused”. He transported him to an IS-run hospital in the west of the city.
“They only tend to their own. As soon as they realised the injured person is a civilian, they stop caring. His injury becomes the lowest of their priorities – even if it’s life threatening,” Ziad says.
Obeid, with his lost and haggard look, quickly came to the attention of the IS propagandists. But he was soon discarded. His condition started deteriorating the second day. An internal injury was suspected. Three days later he died, untreated and uncared for. Ziad is still angry about that day.
“We know that for IS, the blood of civilians is very cheap. But is it the same for Americans? There was no-one operating the mortar that day. There were no IS fighters nearby even. It was there for nearly a month and their drones were flying night and day. Why bomb us? Why?”
His question may never be answered.
For Hatem, the shopkeeper who was excited about the US-led campaign, Raqqa was fast becoming a death-trap. At first, people he didn’t really know were being killed. But as time went by, acquaintances, friends and relatives were dying. “There were 20, 30 civilians being killed every day. People were getting buried under the rubble of their own homes,” he says.
Islamic State fighters, he says, were getting aggressive with the locals. At one point, they stopped sending bulldozers and trucks to move the rubble and rescue civilians.
“They’d ask, ‘You want me to sacrifice the life of a brother for a corpse?’ How can you argue with animals like that?”
One day in early August, stuck at home with no electricity and nothing to do, Hatem began counting incoming thuds and bangs.
“I started at 10 in the morning. By seven in the evening, I had counted more than 290 explosions. The bombing was becoming relentless.”
And so he began plotting his escape.
For the next 10 days, he began monitoring the route he planned to take, where IS had laid mines and at what time there were fewer fighters around. He chose to go south, past the Intercity bus station, past the Central Bank and to the bombed out Old Bridge. A date and time were chosen, and close-knit friends and family were asked to join. In the early hours of 12 August, under a Moonless sky, a group of 40 people had gathered near the Clocktower Roundabout to embark on their perilous journey to safety.
“We took that chance because we all felt that to stay in Raqqa would be our death sentence,” Hatem says.
“We set off at 02:55. We had elderly and disabled people among us. It took us nearly 90 minutes to walk one mile. By 04:30, we reached the bridge and stayed under its ramp,” he says.
Had IS caught them, they would have been executed.
“At the first break of light, we started moving again waving a white flag. The SDF saw us and sent us boats to take us to the other bank,” he says. Hatem sent word to another group waiting to take the same route. Out of the 302 civilians who set off the following night, 12 died stepping on IS mines. For Hatem safety came at a price. The SDF detained the men and started asking them about IS positions in the city.
“We left 5,000 civilians behind,” he says. “Those positions are hidden in built up areas where our friends and relatives still live. Are they going to bomb them?” Asked whether he did reveal the positions, he replied: “I can’t go on remembering any more. This is very painful. I have to go and have some coffee and a cigarette.”
Abu Abdo drives around central Raqqa in an armoured car that once belonged to Islamic State fighters. It’s as ugly as it’s uncomfortable. The unit’s Humvee is in for repair, after IS, in a common tactic, shot out the radiator. Also, Abu Abdo complains, the air conditioning doesn’t work. There is only one seat inside, the driver’s, and it is reserved for the Arab SDF commander. Abu Abdo is from Manbij in northern Syria, he is 24 but looks decades older.
His unit is small, a ragtag bunch fighting in sandals and using Chinese-made AK47s. Almost no-one has a complete uniform. They are a militia, not an army. But they work well together, coordinated and fearless. Some of the fighters are very young. I ask one how old he is. He smiles and shakes his head. Like many young men and boys here in Raqqa, he knows not to answer. Abu Adbo hunches over the steering wheel, his beard almost touching the wheel.
You can see some (IS) bodies here.”
He points them out like a tour guide as the vehicle trundles along. The streets are strewn with rubble, but bulldozers have cut a path through the debris. There is no sign of life anywhere. The only sounds are shelling and sniper fire. The homemade armoured vehicle is hot and noisy inside, riding in it is like being rolled down a hill in an oil drum.
“We got this vehicle when we attacked a Daesh [IS] base,” Abu Abdo says. “We attacked them suddenly. They had no time to take their armoured vehicle, so now it belongs to us.” I ask if it is wise to ride around the city in an IS vehicle with coalition aircraft and drones overhead?
“Before we go out we inform the operations centre and we tell that this vehicle is ours,” he says.
“And we have a flag on the vehicle, a Syrian Democratic Forces flag. The jets can see that this belongs to us,” he adds.
As we rumble along, I point out that there is no flag on the vehicle. He pauses for a moment, and then remembers: “We stopped there earlier and our men took the flag off.” He radios ahead to the next checkpoint to warn of our arrival. He takes us to a high building, near Naim roundabout, at the city’s centre. This is the edge of IS control, the front line. The vehicle lumbers across a street watched by IS marksmen. Abu Abdo wants to get as close as possible so that it is safe to get out. He misjudges and crashes with a loud thud into a pillar. I worry that the building, already half destroyed by coalition air strikes, will collapse. We climb out and enter the building, a former private hospital. His men there have piled up furniture at the bottom of the stairwell, in case IS rush the building.
Further down the street, the black flag of the caliphate hangs from a building. The day is hot and still and the flag doesn’t move. It’s easily within reach, but in the direct line of sniper fire. For now, the SDF dare not remove it. They are trying to take Naim roundabout, the centre of Raqqa, the heart of the caliphate. It’s an important tactical point, overlooking many roads in an area that was full of shops, cafes and offices.
Now it is called the Circle of Hell.
The SDF has another reason for wanting to retake it, there their comrades and friends were crucified and beheaded by IS. When the roundabout falls, they say, they will truly cleanse Raqqa of the murderous Islamic State. IS fighters have mined the buildings and the roads, so few have been cleared. They’ve left motion sensors in some buildings so that when SDF forces enter, or open a cupboard door, a bomb detonates. Every home and workplace has been damaged. Even a captured IS weapons store has been left untouched for fear of booby traps. Abu Abdo shows me a camouflage balaclava, it’s one of the few things they retrieved from there.
“Their snipers have control of the rooftops. Keep your head down.”
A call comes across the radio. One of his fighters has been shot and is trapped in a nearby street. When we get there the man can’t be reached. He has been hit in the chest. IS snipers are firing at the end of the street, and Abu Abdo’s men are pinned down. They are desperate to get to the injured fighter, but every time they move closer, more shots ring out. Suddenly there are two big explosions nearby. IS has dropped grenades from drones. The SDF fighters run and take cover in nearby shops. Abu Adbo pulls out his walkie-talkie, and looks at his phone.
He calls up a map of the street and reads out the coordinates. He looks at me. “Air strike,” he says. Everyone is told to take cover. The injured fighter, his name is Nadin Abu Aziz, is still trapped on the road. He isn’t moving. I duck into an electrical shop, its shutters have been forced open. It’s quiet outside, as the men wait patiently for coalition aircraft to take out the IS gunman. We hear warplanes fly close and low, but no bang. The SDF fighters continue to wait. There’s no sign of life from the trapped fighter.
Inside the electrical shop, there is a man-sized hole in the wall. A pneumatic drill lies on the floor. Through it is another store, and a stockpile of bottled water, and food. There’s enough to last a year. Beyond that, another gap in the wall, into another building, and a room with a bed, a stove and a motorcycle. This was an IS hideout. It spans three buildings and the IS fighter would have been able to have access to all the floors above including the roof. IS has created thousands of these firing positions across the city. Mindful of IS booby traps, I don’t explore any further. Outside I can hear coalition jets flying low and close. The strike hits the targeted building precisely. Like the others in the street, it is a ruin. Time and time again, entire buildings are taken to kill a single fighter.
It’s unsurprising so little of Raqqa is left. The SDF lacks the manpower to clear buildings themselves, so coalition bombs do the work. A thousand coalition sledgehammers, smashing down on a nut, building after building, street after street. The IS gunman is no longer shooting, he’s either dead or gone. SDF fighters rush to Nadin Abu Aziz, they pick him up and awkwardly place him in the back of the former IS armoured car. His eyes are closed, and it looks like the IS marksman shot him in the chest. When Abu Abdo returns with the news that Nadin is dead, no-one is surprised, but still they stop, stare and fall silent. One young fighter takes a crucifix from under his shirt and holds it while mumbling a prayer. Another crouches down in the street and says nothing. The Sun is beginning to set and the men are exhausted. But this is not an unusual day, says Abo Abdo, shaking his head.
“Yesterday we were supposed to receive some civilians but one of us was killed. We went to help families and babies, and one of us was shot in the head.”
IS fighters were hiding, in disguise, among the civilians. “They attacked us with their men dressed as women, and there were big numbers, like a hundred,” he continues. “We guessed that they were civilians, and they also had children with them, and suddenly the civilians and children went to the side of the road, and then they started to fire at us”. Civilians in Raqqa, there may be as many as 20,000 in IS territory, are used as bait as well as human shields. “We’ll keep going,” says Abu Abdo. “We will sacrifice our blood for Raqqawi’s and our people inside, because they are having a tough time, a really tough time.”
Raqqa is the doomsday city.
Yelwan: A community where trees are classrooms
As the number of out of school children surge across the country, many communities with no presence of educational infrastructure, now turn to tree shades as learning centre. Satellite Times visit to communities in Nassarawa State reveal the harrowing experiences of children who travel several kilometers every day to get education.
Sa’adatu Umar is 15-years old. Her first school experience was July 2016, then; she was 14. Like other children in Yelwan community, education is an unnecessary luxury. No child is enrolled into formal school in Yelwan, parents looked eager to put their wards into school but there are no schools in the community. The closest primary school is about 5 kilometers away on a bushy, lonely and dangerous path.
“We only need a normal classroom to be built for our children” says Mallam Adbulahi, the community head of Yelwan. Abdulahi points to an open space where community school can be sited.
There are more than 200 children who are not enrolled in school, the request to site a school in the community has not been heeded, the community have written to Keffi Local government, they have appealed to prominent politicians in neighbouring town who only visits during election, no one has responded to their call for educational shelter but determined to give hope to the children, the community heads tasked each household a sum of 1000 naira per month. This contribution enabled them purchase writing materials – black boards, mats and a 3,000 naira stipend to a volunteer teacher.
With no shelter yet, about 200 yearning children who had never been to school are excited to have a chance at education even if it is offered under the shades of trees. “About 90 children rushed to take a front spot at the ‘new’ Yelwan primary school on the first day of school’ remarks Adbulahi, an elderly community head.
Even Abdulahi, not sure of his own real age but wished he had a chance at education, he explained how his lack of education had cost him a decent life. “If I had attended school, I would have been a big man today” Abdulahi said through an interpreter. Every strand of his wrinkled face bares his pain “I now know the value of education and we are determined to get this children education” said Abdulahi.
The ‘new’ Yelwan School is sheltered under two large trees. The two large trees represent class A and class B.
When Satellite Times asked the Musa Muazu, the social welfare officer at the Keffi Local government, he admitted that the local government had received requests for shelter but there were no funding for the request. “We are aware of the situation here, when we got their request and visited, we decided to make recommendation to the State Universal Basic Education, SUBEC.” Said Muazu.
Yelwan community is a reflection of the poor state of education in Keffi, many public schools visited were in dilapidated conditions with overcrowded classrooms, poor ventilation, open or leaking roof. There is deficiency of both physical and mental infrastructure. The teaching staff too are least qualified, delivering lecture in local Hausa dialect.
In Keffi, the sight of children wandering barefooted in torn clothing and clutching empty stained food bowl dots the town. For a state that has signed the Child Right Law, it is disturbing to observe an open disregard for that law. It appears that families are only concerned about their own children and government about politics, not the people.
Knowing the power of traditional institutions, Muazu through the Social Welfare Department once engaged the Emir of Keffi, one of the most revered traditional ruler in the state “We are using our traditional rulers to ensure that children go to school, no matter the condition of the school, we will play our role and hope that the government will play their role of providing infrastructure” he said, narrating how the Emir of Keffi has become an advocate of child education.
As reported, a man had shipped 27 children into Keffi from Katsina under the guise of enrolling them into an Islamic school. However, his real intention was to make the children make money for him. So he put them out on the street, handed them a bowl each and issued a daily target for food and money.
Luck ran out on him after he physically abused one of the children. The news got to the Social Welfare Officer who reported the incidence to the Emir of Keffi. The outraged members of the emirate council ordered a public punishment to serve as a deterrent. The man was whipped in the public and the children were withdrawn from the street and reunited with their parents in Katsina.
Like Yelwan, Abugye community too has no school shelter. This community is in Keana local government, lafia, Nassarawa State.
The road to Abugye community is rough and dangerous. This community seats in the heart of a thick forest. There are no electricity, no clean water, no medical centre and no access to mobile telephone signal.
Abugye is home to more than 300 school age children, some of whom have been withdrawn from school because of the pain of travelling 3 kilometers to the nearest school.
“You can live here without money” says Yahaya Ibrahim, 37, the spokesperson of the community who claim he has not used money for exchange of any goods or services. “I have not used money for more than 2years, everything we need is here” he enthused.
The community may have everything they require for their nomadic lifestyle but it is lacking in the essentials for building their minds and their future. They lack schools for their children.
Adama Yahaya treks 3 kilometers everyday to school. She hurriedly makes her way through the rocky; narrow path that leads to the nearest primary school in Abugye, a fulani community in Keana Local government area of Nassarawa State.
Adama is 7 but she does the chores of an adult. Her day begins as early as 5am. She accompanies her young mother to the stream to fetch water, she combs through the woods to fetch fire wood and by 7am, she begins a long journey to school.
Adama is one of the few girls in the community whose parents refused to withdraw from school. “She is very smart” says her 37 years old father of 8 children. “I want to become a teacher, so that I can teach a lot of children in my community” Adama said with glittering smile.
Satellite Times learnt that many children of school age do not attend school in Abugye community because of the long distance and the fear of exposing the children to reptile attack.
The rate of child neglect and abandonment in Keana is high; it gives an idea of the real situation in Nigeria.
In 2003, the Child Right Act was signed into Law; it was also domesticated in about 24 States of the federation.
Still, more than 10 million children are out of school in Nigeria, the rate of abandonment, high incidences of child abuse, public and institutional disregard to the rights of vulnerable children and neglect remain constantly on rise.
Inside the N50 billion Sunti sugar project
The presence of the President, Mohammadu Buhari, at the commissioning ceremony last week in Niger State spoke volume of the importance of the Sunti sugar project to the Nigerian economy. An initiative of Flour Mills of Nigeria, the sugar production facility is visibly one of the largest agro-allied investments in Nigeria.
Located in Mokwa, Niger state, the Sunti Golden Sugar Estate (SGSE) Limited is a wholly owned subsidiary of Flour Mills and features a sugar factory and cane production allotment. At full capacity the estate and mill will produce about 1,000,000 metric tonnes of cane and 100,000 metric tonnes of sugar annually.
Enclosed within a 35-kilometer dyke, the production facility area is 15,100 hectares, with a cane area that features a maximum output of 10,000 hectares. The dyke provides flood protection from the River Niger. The estate features the state-of-the-art irrigation system that will ensure efficient cultivation of sugar cane, with infrastructure that includes drain pumps, pump stations, and a power grid.
The sugar estate is the purest representation of the Federal Government’s Nigerian Sugar Master Plan which comes with an ambitious backward integration program that intends to set Nigeria on the path to self-sufficient sugar production. At capacity Sunti Golden Sugar Estates will replace about $100 million that Nigeria spends annually importing sugar. Demand for labor created by this project has led to 3,000 currently employed people with a projection of 10,000-strong workforce as development proceeds.
The estate has brought infrastructure benefits to the surrounding community, with 28 communities in total taking advantage of a new 30-kilometer road in addition to expansive road networks that provide a variety of access routes to the homes of the indigenes. Drains, culverts, and flood-protection walls have also been constructed.
The 50-billion-naira investment in Nigeria’s sugar value chain provides a concrete example of the effort to reduce sugar importation, save billions in foreign exchange, boost local capacity, and reduce unemployment by putting thousands of Nigerians to work in the agricultural and industrial sectors, which is very much aligned to President Buhari’s policy thrust and agenda.
Speaking after a tour of the sugar farm, the President said “Projects like the Sunti Sugar Estate are in tandem with the vision and objectives that we set out to achieve when this administration instituted the Economic Recovery and Growth Plan (ERGP). While, our focus is steadfast on delivering on our policy goals of tackling corruption, improving security and rebuilding the economy; more than ever, government will work in close partnership with businesses to strengthen investments in agriculture, power, manufacturing, solid minerals, and the service sectors”.
The Chairman of Flour Mills of Nigeria Plc. Mr. John G Coumantaros said his organisation’s mantra “Feeding the Nation, Every day,” is at the heart of the company’s strategic decisions on what they produce, how and where factories are set up, the level of care that is put into products, and how they interact with host communities and the wider environment.
The site of the sugar project was acquired and compensation paid to host communities by the then President Shehu Shagari in 1980. Though sugarcanes were produced, they were never processed within the facility. The Federal Government in a privatization exercise sold the investment to an organization who in turn sold it to Flour Mills of Nigeria Plc, the current owners.
The construction of the plant commenced in 2011. The existing plant undertakes pre milling, milling and processing of sugarcane while refining is carried out in Lagos. The site which lies along the banks of River Niger measures 17 hectares out of which 3 hectares have been cultivated with sugarcane to feed the plant. Besides the plant and the farm is the staff quarter which is located closely to the plant.
Speaking on the composition of the facility the plant engineer, Benjamin Chima Alisigwe, talked about the pre milling house, milling house and process house. A digital laboratory ensure quality control. In the pre milling house are the Weigh Bridge, hydraulic grab, silo (offload), chopper, leveler, fiberizer, equalizer and magnetic separator. The mill house consists of mill one to four. At mill four, the finest juice is extracted, by-product as bagasse is separated and sent to the power to power their boiler. Finally, the juice is filter through sand catcher before it is conveyed to the process house.
Dignitaries at the commissioning ceremony included the Niger State governor Abubakar Sani Bello; governor of Kebbi State, Abubakar Atiku Bagudu; CBN Governor, Godwin Emefile and Minister for Trade and Investment, Okechukwu Enalamah. Others were Prof. Jerry Gana; Nigeria’s Ambassador to Greece; Etsu Nupe Yahaya Abubakar and representatives from Dangote group amongst others.
Nigeria sinks N300 billion into Satellite projects
Nigeria recently announced its plan to dabble into another N200 Billion sketchy satellite venture, as its fifth launch since NigeriaSat-1 Was launched in 2003.
An average of N100 Billion had been spent on the launch of the first four, while the fifth one will cost the economically depressive country an average of N200 Billion.
Five satellite have been launched by the Nigerian government into outer space since 2003. At its last launch, the Federal Government through President Goodluck Jonathan had announced that the last satellite which cost the country an average of N40 Billion will save the country about $2 Billion (N720 Billion) Satellite engagement investment and generate a revenue of an estimated $20 billion (N7.2 Trillion) revenue annually.
Built by a United Kingdom-based satellite technology company, Surrey Space Technology Limited (SSTL ltd), Nigeriasat-1 a worldwide Disaster Monitoring Constellation System was the first Nigeria Satellite and was launched on 27 September 2003, under the Nigerian government sponsorship for $30 million.
Early plans to launch a national satellite in 1976 were not executed. Interestingly, none of the satellites have been launched in Nigeria, as all of them were launched from outside launch base.
NigeriaSat-x, Nigeria’s third and fourth satellites, The NigeriaSat-2/X spacecraft were built at a cost of over £35 million. The two satellites were launched into orbit by Ukrainian Dnepr rocket from a Yasny military base in Russia on 17 August 2011.
Past reports have however revealed that the two NigeriaSat-2/X had been de-orbited because they had stayed their normal courses in orbit, while users, including government agencies keep spending Billion to acquire the services from private suppliers.
In an interview with Daily Trust in November 2017, the Director, Centre for Satellite Technology Development (CSTD), Dr Spencer Onuh, said that the agencies of government and private companies that use satellite image and data in their work have all been procuring such images and data from foreign satellites.
“What do you want them to do when there is a failure? Let me tell you, NigComSat 1R is not enough for this country; it is not sufficient. There must be a backup. Many TV stations and even the national TV network will be very careful to transfer their services fully to NigComSat 1R because it is just one. The stations are set up for business, and they would not want anything to disrupt their services,” Dr Onu said.
“Even private companies that own satellites don’t have only one. Some of them have five to six satellites, but mostly communication satellites which spin money. The return on investment is very fast but what happens in most advanced satellite countries is that these things are given out to the private sector to manage; they are not under government management and you can see the results.”
But a NIGCOMSAT official, Abdulraheem Isah Adajah, disagreed. Adajah who is the NIGCOMSAT’s General Manager, Satellite Applications, told Daily Trust that it was not entirely true that Nigcomsat1-R was recording low patronage due to lack of backup.
According to him, inferiority complex and the mentality that ‘if it is Nigerian it can’t be good’ is the main reason.
SEARCH FOR SATELLITE BACKUP
However, after its inability to contribute the agreed 15% of the unknown production cost for the new satellite, Nigeria in a renegotiated deal has finally agreed a $550-million deal to acquire two new Chinese communications satellites, in “an equity participation” policy.
According to the Minister of Communication, Adebayo Shittu, Nigeria during his recent visit to President Muhammadu Buhari, the Satellites will be fully sponsored by the Chinese investors and Nigeria “has nothing to lose because we are not putting anything into it in terms of financial resources,” but quickly add that “they will agree on the percentage for profit sharing,” with the partners.
“It is a very big business opportunity and I am sure that the Chinese appreciate the potential market that is so versed and that is why they agreed in spite of our inability to provide 15 per cent, that they are prepared to bring the entire sum of $550 million for the procurement of the two satellites,” He said.
He also said that the China Exim Bank and the Satellite manufacturer, China Great Wall, have agreed to pay for the new satellites after Nigeria renegotiated an earlier deal that had required it to cover 15% of the cost.
However, China Exim Bank, a fully Import and Export commercial bank with profit target is coming into the project with a target of the “still shadowy” sharing formula that is still not disclosed to the public. Exim Bank is reported to be a major world business financier, lending more money to developing countries than the World Bank, through support for Chinese export and international trades.
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