When Fati Ibrahim lost her husband and eldest son after Boko Haram insurgents attacked their town of Gwoza in north-eastern Nigeria, she wasn’t alone. She was one of dozens of women who lost family members, homes and livelihoods. Three years later, she found herself queueing outside a tent near Maiduguri, the city at the epicentre of the uprising, waiting to go inside and get the help she still desperately needed.

But instead of the food, shelter or medicine that many relief efforts focus on, she – and the many women like her – were waiting for something less tangible: someone to help them process their trauma.