By Ese Ufuoma
Nigeria heads into 2026 with both hope and fear. This year has exposed how fragile its food system is, and how much is at stake. According to a recent Food and Agriculture Organisation (FAO) report, roughly 30.6 million people were already food insecure in early 2025. And unless things change, that number could climb to about 34.7 million during the lean season of mid 2026.
In farming towns where yams, maize and rice once thrived, the fields are silent. The reason, more than any drought or price hike, is fear. Violence and insecurity have spread, pushing many farmers off their land. Between 2020 and 2025, open grazing and farmer herder conflicts have claimed thousands of lives across several states, even when anti grazing laws were in place.
A local farmer in Benue State told Valuechain: “What’s the point of planting when every night we wait to see if our homes survive?” Many others left fields untended, crops unplanted. Others fled entirely. The result: staple harvests collapsed in places once called Nigeria’s food baskets.
In the northeast and northwest, conflict driven displacement made things worse. In regions ravaged by insurgency, rural families are facing hunger long before the next planting season.
According to the World Food Programme (WFP), food aid meant for 1.3 million people in the northeast was suspended in mid 2025 after stocks ran out and funding dried up. The disruption hit hard, particularly in communities already reeling from conflict and poverty.
Markets in many states now reflect the collapse in supply. For many families, buying enough food has become a daily struggle. One mother, with children in Sokoto State, told journalists: “These days, I pray we find anything to cook, but often we don’t.”
Yet even in this bleak landscape, a few glimmers of hope remain. The federal government recently called on universities and research institutions to transform unused lands into food production hubs, a push to boost domestic farming and reduce reliance on imports. At the community level, aid agencies and NGOs are slowly expanding outreach: distributing seeds, offering support to displaced farmers, and trying to revive small farms with basic inputs.
In a northern town recently, a group of young farmers pooled resources to rebuild a shared farm plot. “We plant together, harvest together,” said one of them. “At least we feed ourselves, even if markets fail.” That kind of grassroots effort reminds everyone that farming isn’t just a business. It’s survival, dignity, a way of life.
But big challenges remain. Without peace and security, many farmers won’t return. Without affordable seeds, fertiliser and tools, planting looks like a gamble. And without infrastructure storage, transport, and irrigation, harvests will continue to rot before they leave the farms.
All this means 2026 is shaping up as a test year for Nigeria. If violence continues, aid remains patchy, and planting stays low, hunger and hardship could deepen, and many more families may skip meals or go hungry altogether.
On the other hand, if government efforts, community action and international support converge, recovery is possible. Farmland could come alive again; markets might ease; children might eat regularly; farmers might hold onto a future.
For millions of Nigerians, displaced, hungry, and hopeful, 2026 could either be the year of desperation or a year of quiet comeback. What happens will depend less on any one headline program and more on whether ordinary people, together with authorities and donors, choose to act on hope rather than fear.