In another part of the world, a “well of death” is a carnival thrill. But in Kano, it is different.
Think roaring engines, wooden barrels and daredevils riding motorcycles sideways along vertical walls, the kind of spectacle once popular in the United States and still seen in parts of India. Speed, gravity-defying stunts, applause.
In Kano State, the phrase has shed its theatrics. Here, there is no audience. No engine noise. No applause.
Only silence, and grief.
Across communities in the state, open and poorly secured wells have quietly become death traps. What was once a harmless phrase has taken on a grim, literal meaning for families from Nasarawa to Danbatta, Dawakin Tofa to Gwale.
Between June 2024 and February 2026, at least a dozen people, many of them children, lost their lives after falling into wells across nine local government areas. The circumstances vary slightly. The pattern does not.
An uncovered well.
A misstep.
A fall.
A frantic attempt to rescue.
And too often, a body pulled out too late.
The first widely reported case in this period came on June 4, 2024, in Kawon, Alhaji Sani area of Nasarawa LGA. A 33-year-old man, Muhd Sagir, fell into a dry well. Emergency responders arrived quickly. He was pulled out unconscious and rushed for treatment. He did not survive.
The incident underlined a brutal truth: it is not only water-filled wells that kill. Abandoned and dry wells, left open in residential areas, are equally lethal.
By November 2025, the tragedies began clustering. Within 24 hours, two families were plunged into mourning. In Kashirmo village, Dawakin Tofa, an eight-year-old girl slipped into a deep well and died. Hours later, in Dala LGA, a six-year-old boy suffered the same fate.
Residents described both deaths as preventable. Many wells, they said, remain uncovered or inadequately secured.
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December was worse.
In Danbatta, a father and son fell into a well. In a desperate bid to save them, another man climbed down. All three died, a chain of rescue attempts gone tragically wrong. Around the same period, two more children died in separate well-related accidents elsewhere in the state.
The warnings from the Kano State Fire Service grew more urgent: do not enter wells without proper safety equipment; call trained responders.
The advice has not always been heeded — often because there is no time to think, only to act.
Earlier this year, in Madobi’s Kwankwaso area, a two-year-old boy drowned after falling into a well while playing nearby. On the same day, in Karofawa Yan Kifi village, a 28-year-old man also fell into a well and died.
Two different communities. One shared vulnerability.
In early February 2026, two more lives were lost, one in Ungogo, another in Karaye, under similar circumstances.
Then came perhaps the most widely reported case. On February 9, in Rijiyar Zaki area of Gwale LGA, a 30-year-old man, Mustapha Aliyu, climbed into a well to retrieve a cooking gas cylinder that had fallen in during efforts to contain a domestic fire. Eyewitnesses say he was overcome, likely by fumes. Rescue teams struggled to reach him in time.
He was pulled out. He did not survive.
Residents watching the rescue attempt spoke in hushed tones about what might have been different — better equipment, faster access, preventive safeguards.
A review of the cases reveals a sobering consistency. Many victims are children playing near unprotected wells. Others are young men attempting to retrieve objects or rescue trapped relatives — often without breathing apparatus or safety harnesses. In several incidents, multiple deaths occurred because one rescue attempt triggered another.
The geography is broad: Nasarawa, Dawakin Tofa, Dala, Danbatta, Bichi, Madobi, Ghari, Ungogo, Karaye and Gwale.
The underlying problem is less scattered.
In many densely populated and semi-urban communities, piped water remains unreliable. Hand-dug wells are common — and so are old, abandoned ones. Protective barriers are rare. Enforcement of safety standards, residents admit, is weaker still.
“There is negligence from our part as a community,” said Haruna Isah, a resident of Gwale. “You cannot leave a well open in the street and expect people not to fall into it.”
Mothers speak of a different kind of anxiety that lingers long after burials.
“Do you know how a mother feels when she loses her child?” asked Hajiya Amina Saleh. “It is painful how these incidents keep recurring.”
Public health advocates argue that this is no longer a matter of individual caution but of regulation. Wells should be covered with durable materials. Protective structures should be mandatory. Local governments, they say, should audit abandoned wells and ensure they are sealed.
Fire service officials insist prevention is the only sustainable answer. Wells are confined spaces. Oxygen depletion and toxic gases can turn a rescue attempt into a second casualty within minutes.
Behind the statistics are households permanently altered — parents without children, children without fathers.
The psychological toll, families say, lingers well beyond the funeral rites.
Kano’s “wells of death” are not spectacles of daring. They are ordinary holes in the ground, scattered across streets and courtyards, waiting for the next careless moment or desperate act of courage.
And unless something changes, the list of casualties will continue to grow, quietly, relentlessly, without applause.
