All we want Major Al-Mustapha to do is produce the CCTV tape on Abacha’s last hour. Or else, he should keep mum. This is no time or topic for theatre.

Dennis Amachree, a seasoned senior man in the State Security Service, writes a book about his time and stewardship of decades. And he dismisses it without any facts or rigour. Just flippant words like calling him a boy, a man that is older than Mustapha.

“I was seven years old when Nigeria had independence,” responded Amachree in a phone call with this essayist. “And he is calling me a boy. At independence, we were flying the flag of this country and singing the Nigerian anthem. He is 66 years old and was born in 1960 just a new-born baby that year,” Amachree intones in a sardonic voice.

“I retired as an assistant director, which in army terms will be a brigadier. Al-Mustapha retired as a major.”

Al Mustapha needs to respond with facts and not spite. In telling the story in his book, DSS@40, he did not publish arbitrarily. Amachree sent the book to the Directorate of State Services for vetting. That shows he is a man of the institution. An organisaton man. The top brass told him he should launch the book to coincide with the 40th anniversary of the service.

So, it was not an Amachree project alone, even if it was the story of his career. The DSS appreciated his institutional integrity. They decided to launch the book as a DSS affair. He lives in the United States. They provided him business class tickets to attend the event. It was not a public presentation, but it was conducted in the presence of all key men in the security community nationwide, including state directors of the service and some members of the diplomatic community.

That tells you that the book enjoys institutional backing. Secondly, it has not run foul of institutional memory. Those who were in the service then are now top men in the service, and they know the story. They do not yell even when the public or even the media errs. If it is not urgent to deny, they do not ruffle their feathers. Closed lips is their mantra. Unless it is time to unveil it.

Does Mustapha have any evidence that he was with Abacha when he died? No. so let him give us the CCTV. Will it show the girl’s coital conquest? Did Mustapha have CCTV in his bedroom?

Amachree said his director called him and asked him to arrest a certain young lady that morning.

“He called me twice that morning,” he recalled. ‘‘The first time he asked me ‘how is Lagos.’ And I said ‘it is calm.’ He said he would call back in 30 minutes. But he called me ten minutes later and asked me to interrogate a young lady in Ogudu in Lagos.”

Amachree sent two men to the address. The gate was locked, and the operatives knocked several times without any response. They lingered before they opened it. The young lady was living with her mother, he said.

Once he entered his office, she said, “I did not kill him. He died on top of me.” Amachree had heard that Abacha had died. He had not found out how. It was from her lips that he knew she was the finality of the big elephant. The endgame of an era.

Read Also; Dennis Amachree on Abacha’s death: Bogus investigation, scandalous conclusion

“I calmed her down, and asked her tell me what happened,” he said. She had gone to Abuja to attend the conference of the Pharmaceutical Society of Nigeria. She is a pharmacist. Her elder sister was not only residing in Abuja. She was Abacha’s lover. At Abacha’s expense, she was lodging at the Nicon Noga Hilton Hotel for not less than six months. And Abacha had just bought her a new SUV. She showed off the car to her sister by taking a ride around town. While they were at it, she stopped over at the Villa. No appointment needed. Abacha saw his lover and gazed with zest at his lover’s sister.

“You want am?” she asked the general inpidgin English.

He said yes, and she said amen and translated her armour to sister and general for a coital night, for the sin in his sinews. The man had waxed fat and doughy in those days. Was he still doughty like a general between the sheets? Amachree describes her as smallish and dark-skinned Igbo girl.

Well, while at it, the commander stopped moving. The pharmacist lover called “oga, Oga…” She tested his pulse. The French call orgasm le petit mort, which means the little death. This was not a little death. It was the big one. Abacha had gone, so was army rule.

“You know, Abacha was on pacemaker,” revealed Amachree. Maybe the machine snapped in his chest. It means he had undertaken a major heart surgery. He also had liver disease. The girl was a more potent pacer. She was flown to Abuja, and she and her sister were locked up for about six months before they were released. They are still in the country, and alive, said Amachree.

“We have to protect their identities” he said.

The girl is the genuine hero of democracy. She deserves an anonymous award for felling a goliath. She did not need a gun nor a poisoned apple. She was the apple, Abacha’s Adam’s apple. NADECO home and abroad fought shy. The U.S or EU could not dare. All the big-time names, like now President Tinubu, Segun Osoba, Frank Kokori, Akinrinade, the media, all the redoubtable generals of the army were puny at the stakes. Wole Soyinka’s poetics failed.

For irony, many Igbos fled home and forswore June 12. A smallish Igbo belle unleashed the death knell. He was 54.

“The girl had the look of a teenager,” said Amachree. United States vice president Nelson Rockefeller fell in coital collapse over his 27-year-old secretary.

Military tanks, bullets, bazookas, packaged in a little fireworks of a beauty, stopped the five leprous fingers, the five parties scrambling to endorse him for president. Dostoyevsky said beauty will save the world. An Igbo beauty saved Nigeria. She deserves an anonymous monument. If we have the unknown soldier, why not the unknown heroine? She was our beloved slut, the Rahab of our time. The first righteous democrat of the republic. It was unintentional heroics, accidental patriotism. She deserves an altar. All politicians and office holders should pay homage. She sacked the army. One woman division. One woman apple, a general’s death. For irony, a Cameroonian young lady hid Abacha in a wardrobe when soldiers came for him on the night of the Orkar coup at Alexander Avenue in Ikoyi. This time, a girl could not save him. She saved us instead, in between her legs, like the woman in Gunter Grass’ novel Tin Drum.

She tops Delilah who meant evil. Different from Marita Lorenz that CIA sent to kill Castro but fell in love and bore him a child. Different from Jael in the Bible who downed a general Sisera by charming him into her tent, giving him warm milk for water and running a pole through his head. In the battle of the sexes, females always win. Ask your mother.

Follow our WhatsApp Channel

By Kachi Okezie, Esq.

The debate over devolved policing (often, and inaccurately, reduced to ‘state police’) is not really about policing. It is more about character. The proposed structure is decent, but what is lacking is the collective will to make it work. The way and manner the bill was rushed through the legislature without public scrutiny or citizen participation is telling.

Let me be clear from the outset: this is not an argument against devolved policing. Quite the contrary. In a true federation, devolved policing is both logical and necessary. A country as vast, diverse and complex as Nigeria should not depend solely on a centrally controlled police service directed from Abuja. States should have their own police services or constabularies: properly trained, adequately equipped, professionally managed and subject to robust constitutional oversight.

I support that position unequivocally and have consistently advocated it, including in my work as a consultant to the Senate Committee on Constitutional Review during the 10th Senate. But that is not the real issue.

Read Also: Where We Truly Stand: A final reply to Professor Ajovi Scott-Emuakpor on State Police

Read Also: State Police Debate: My final response to Dr. Atake, By Prof. Scott-Emuakpor

The clamour for ‘state police’ has become Nigeria’s latest political fad: the familiar excitement that accompanies every new institutional proposal. It is as though we believe that creating a new structure will somehow solve old problems. Yet, if we are honest with ourselves, the absence of state police is not the root cause of Nigeria’s insecurity issues. It follows, therefore, that its creation, by itself, cannot be the solution.

Our crisis has never been merely structural. It is fundamentally a crisis of leadership, integrity and constitutional discipline. What has been missing is the political will to discharge constitutional responsibilities faithfully and without compromise. What has been absent is the moral courage to do what is right because the Constitution demands it, not merely because it is politically expedient.

You can devolve guns, uniforms, patrol vehicles and command centres to all thirty-six states and the Federal Capital Territory. But if you fail to devolve integrity, accountability and professionalism, you have simply decentralised failure.

We already know where the rot lies. Too often, those entrusted with leadership lack either the competence or the commitment their offices demand. Or both. Some harbour divided loyalties, placing ethnicity, religion or tribal identity above the national interest. Corruption diverts weapons, fuel, equipment and operational allowances before they ever reach officers on patrol. Recruitment and promotion are distorted by nepotism rather than merit. Security responses frequently depend on who lives in a given community instead of what justice requires.

Compounding all this is a citizenry that too often mistakes social media outrage for civic engagement, demanding accountability only when a crisis is trending. Without addressing these realities, devolved policing will merely reproduce today’s dysfunction at thirty-seven different levels.

An incompetent governor can abuse a state police service just as easily as an Inspector-General can misuse a federal one. A corrupt state police commissioner can establish the same unlawful checkpoints, extort the same motorists and shield the same criminal interests. Local commands captured by ethnic or political loyalties will protect ‘their own’ whilst victimising everyone else. The uniforms may change, but the injustice will not.

If, however, we address the underlying failures, the debate over policing structures becomes far less consequential.
Institutions cannot outperform the character of those who lead and sustain them. They, ultimately, reflect the character of such people.

Train officers properly. Equip them adequately. Pay them fairly and on time. Prosecute commanders who divert operational funds or lease weapons to criminals. Imprison politicians who sponsor armed groups during elections and later rebrand them as ‘vigilantes’.

Replace quota-driven mediocrity with recruitment and promotion based solely on character and competence. Publish every security vote, every procurement contract, every operational allocation and every transfer of public funds. Allow citizens to scrutinise them.

Strengthen a judiciary that dispenses justice rather than preside over transactional justice. Build a civil service in which postings and promotions are earned, not purchased.

These reforms matter far more than the name given to the police institution. Devolved policing is entirely consistent with federalism. It is good governance. But good governance is not merely a constitutional arrangement; it is a culture. It is the daily discipline of obeying the law even when no one is watching. It is refusing to deploy the police as a private army for those in power. It is recruiting on the basis of character, competence and merit rather than family connections or political patronage. It is protecting a farmer in Zamfara with the same urgency as an oil installation in Bonny because every Nigerian life carries equal constitutional worth.

Until Nigerians demand that standard from those who govern them, we shall continue to receive the quality of governance we tolerate. Whether policing remains federal or becomes devolved, the outcome will be much the same if the values underpinning the institution remain unchanged.

So yes, to devolved policing. A hundred times, yes. But an even louder yes to the harder task: cultivating leaders of integrity, funding security transparently, enforcing professional standards without fear or favour, and nurturing a citizenry that insists upon accountability every single day.

Structures do not deliver security, standards do. So do character, integrity, accountability and active citizenship. When Nigeria embraces those values, devolved policing will succeed, not because the structure changed, but because the nation did.

That is the choice before us. And the time to make it is now.

The views expressed by contributors are strictly personal and not of Law & Society Magazine.

Follow our WhatsApp Channel

By Kachi Okezie, Esq.

Last October, in just one night, the River Niger rose and swallowed entire streets in Lokoja. In Makurdi, families slept on rooftops as water took their homes. In Bayelsa, communities were cut off for weeks. Schoolchildren paddled canoes to class. Farmlands vanished. And yet, by January, the conversation had moved on.

This is the danger we face as a country. We treat climate shocks as “natural disasters” — acts of God we respond to, mourn, and forget. But they are not natural. They are governance failures. And they are landing, again and again, at the doorstep of local government.

Policymakers in Abuja and the states must understand this: the frontline of the climate crisis is not in international conferences. It is in the ward, the LGA secretariat, the market square, and the community town hall. If we do not build resilience from the bottom up, we will keep spending billions on relief while losing lives, livelihoods, and trust.

Climate resilience is not just bigger drains and sandbags. It is the ability of a community to anticipate a shock, absorb it without collapsing, adapt so it hurts less next time, and recover in a way that leaves people stronger. That is what resilience really means.

In simple terms: Can a community in Sokoto survive a 40-degree heatwave without losing elders? Can a community in Ogun survive 3 days of heavy rain without losing homes? Can farmers in Benue plant and harvest even when the rains come late?

Right now, for too many of our LGAs, the answer is no. Not because our people are weak, but because our systems are. The Nigerian reality: it is already here.

We do not need to look to Germany or Canada to understand the threat. It is in our backyard.

Take Jigawa, 2022. Weeks of rain collapsed roads, submerged 200 communities, and displaced over 200,000 people. The state government responded, but many LGAs had no contingency fund, no early warning system in Hausa and Fulfulde, and no updated list of vulnerable households. Relief came late. Preventable deaths happened.

Take Lagos, every rainy season. In Ajegunle and Ibeshe, a 2-hour downpour means waist-deep water. Why? Because waste blocks drainage. Because buildings sit on waterways. Because the LGA environmental department has 3 trucks for 1 million people, and community waste cooperatives are not formally part of the plan. 

Take the North Central. In Benue and Nasarawa, erratic rainfall and desertification have intensified farmer-herder clashes. This is not just “insecurity.” It is climate stress breaking down traditional agreements on land and water. Our LGA peace committees were not trained or funded to manage climate-driven conflict.

The Global North debates air conditioning and insurance payouts. In the Global South, including Nigeria, the debate is more basic: Will my children have water tomorrow? Will my shop survive the next flood? The missing piece: community-based governance.

For 30 years we have tried “government knows best.” It has not worked. Top-down projects collapse the moment the contractor leaves. 

Climate resilience demands something different: community-based environmental governance.

This means the LGA stops being only the “doer” and becomes the broker. The community brings local knowledge: where does water always enter first? Who are the elderly living alone? What trees have we always planted before rains? The private sector brings technology and financing. Government brings policy, coordination, and some funding. We already have proof it works in Nigeria.

In Lagos, the Waste-to-Wealth program succeeded where pure government collection failed because CDAs and youth cooperatives were paid to do house-to-house collection. They knew which streets to enter. Vandalism dropped because the bins belonged to them.

In Kano, some LGAs working with NGOs have revived traditional “fadama” water conservation and tree planting led by community leaders. Where there are trees and small dams, runoff is slower and farms survive dry spells better.

Resilience is built in these small, unglamorous places. Not in a press conference. Here is what must be done — and now:

To policymakers and LGA Chairmen reading this: the next flood season is 6 months away. Here is what is demanded of you:

First, budget differently. Every LGA should ring-fence at least 10% of its allocation for climate adaptation. Not for new SUVs. For clearing drainages before rain, for training “Resilience Champions” in every ward, for small contingency funds that can be released in 24 hours, not 24 weeks.

Second, plan with people, not for them. Before you approve any project, ask: “Which community committee co-designed this?” Publish flood and heat risk maps at the ward level. Use town criers, WhatsApp groups, and radio in local languages for early warnings. In 2022, many people in Jigawa did not get warnings because they came in English, days late.

Third, protect our land. Stop approving houses being built on floodplains and water channels. It is politically hard, but morally non-negotiable. Partner with traditional rulers and CDAs to enforce this. Give communities alternative, safe land.

Fourth, invest in green and social infrastructure. Plant trees in our markets. Restore wetlands. Support climate-smart agriculture. But also check on our elderly during heatwaves. Resilience is as much about neighbours looking out for each other as it is about concrete.

Finally, measure what matters. Stop reporting “we built 10km of road.” Start reporting “2,000 households in Ward 3 did not flood this year.” Let communities score their LGA on resilience every quarter.

The choice before us. Climate change will not wait for us to get our politics right. The rains will come. The heat will rise. The question is whether our communities will break or bend.

We cannot prevent every shock. But we can prevent shocks from becoming disasters. And that work happens at the local level.

To the leaders and managers in local government: your job description has changed. You are no longer just collectors of revenue and patchers of roads. You are the first line of defence for the people against the greatest threat of this century.

The floods will keep coming. The question is: Will our LGAs be ready? Our people are watching. And the water is rising.

Kachi Okezie, Esq, a thought-leader on environmental law and justice, is a member of the Abuja branch of the Nigerian Bar Association.

The views expressed by contributors are strictly personal and not of Law & Society Magazine.

Follow our WhatsApp Channel

By Kachi Okezie, Esq.

Nigeria is at a crossroads again. As election season approaches, the drums of citizen participation and grassroots mobilisation will sound in every ward, village, and market square. Politicians will come with promises, with bags of rice and branded face caps.

But after the votes are counted, one question will remain: Who will do the hard work of turning those promises into roads, clinics, jobs, and peace in our communities?

That, it would appear, was the thinking behind President Bola Tinubu’s appointment of Special Advisers on Community Development immediately on assuming office. It is the recognition of a truth we have ignored for too long, namely, that governance fails or succeeds at the community level. And community engagement cannot be left to chance, to party boys, or to goodwill. It must be practiced with professionalism.

For too long in Nigeria, “community development” has been treated as an afterthought. It is what we do when we want to win votes. It is what NGOs do with “donor” (international development partner) money. It is what a youth corper does for three weeks in the place of primary assignment (PPA). It is not what we train for, certify for or build a career in.

This must change, because the biggest problems and the biggest opportunities in Nigeria reside within local communities.

Those communities are littered with all manner of problems needing to be solved. Just look around. The borehole that was commissioned but broke down in three months. The classroom that has no teachers. The youth empowerment programme that gave twenty people POS machines and disappeared. The security vote that never made any community safer.

Why do these projects fail? Not because there is no money. But because there was no process. No one asked the community what they actually needed. No one trained locals to maintain it. No one created a structure for accountability.

We keep applying Abuja solutions to Tudun Wada problems. And it is not working. At the same time, the pressure on our democracy is growing.

Citizens are angry. Trust in government is low. Voter apathy is high. And yet, elections will still be won and lost at the polling unit. The power to mobilise, to calm tension, to deliver projects, still rests with community structures: Non-governmental organisations (NGOs), Civil society organisations (CDAs), Host Community Development Associations (HCDAs). Or, indeed, women leaders, youth leaders, faith leaders and traditional rulers.

This eclectic mix of people inspired by their shared vision of a better community and propelled by their passion to make it happen can only go so far, sadly. If we leave the task to amateurs, we will only keep obtaining amateur results. The case for professionalising Community Development is therefore profoundly persuasive.

A profession has three elements: knowledge, ethics, and tools. A doctor studies anatomy. A lawyer studies law. A community development practitioner should study people, power, planning, and participation.

What would this look like? First, it gives us a language and a method. Instead of “let’s do a town hall”, a trained practitioner knows how to do a participatory needs assessment. Instead of “let’s empower youth”, they know how to design a livelihood programme with market linkage. Instead of “let’s give them money”, they know how to do co-financing so the community owns the project.

Second, it creates a culture of accountability. When you have certified professionals, you can hold them to a code of ethics. You can measure their work. You can say: this LGA chairman recruited three certified Community Development practitioners and here are the ten projects they delivered with the community.

Third, in the case of Nigeria under President Tinubu’s Renewed Hope Agenda, it aligns with the President’s vision. The appointment of Special Advisers on Community Development only makes sense if those advisers are equipped with much more than political loyalty. They need skills in conflict mediation, project management, data collection, and stakeholder engagement. Otherwise we have just created another political office.

What is missing is a mastery of Community Development for Nigeria. Mastery turns mobilisation from a campaign gimmick into a governance strategy.

For political change agents, it means building a base that is not bought with money but built with trust. When you let a community choose three projects and you deliver them, they will defend you in the next election without you sharing a kobo.

For activists, it means moving from protest to proposition. Instead of only saying “government has failed”, you can walk in with a community development plan, a budget, and 200 signatures.

For government at all levels, it means better service delivery. Participatory budgeting reduces corruption. Community project committees reduce project abandonment. Mapping local assets reduces waste.

Countries that have done this well, like Rwanda, Brazil, South Korea, did not do it by accident. They invested in people who understand how communities work. Nigeria can follow suit. To do so, we must do three things urgently:

First, we must institutionalise training. Universities, polytechnics, and the NBA, NMA, and other professional bodies should offer certification in Community Development Practice. The National Institute for Policy and Strategic Studies (NIPSS) should have a Community Development track.

Secondly, we must create career paths. The Federal and State Ministries of Special Duties and LGA Departments should recruit certified Community Development Officers and make their jobs measurable with KPIs, not a favour.

Thirdly, we must introduce “fund and measure”. For example, 5% of LGA allocation should go to community-led projects, managed by trained Community Development practitioners and monitored with data.

The President’s advisers can be the pilot. But the goal must be bigger: a generation of Nigerian professionals whose job is to make sure democracy works in the place where people actually live. Afterall, Nigerians don’t live in “the economy”. They live on Allen Avenue. They live in Makurdi. They live in Bichi.

If we want to deliver real governance impact at the most local level, we must stop treating community development as politics and start approaching it as a profession.

The next election will test our ability to mobilise. But the 4 years after will test our ability to develop. Let us prepare for both.

Kachi Okezie, Esq is a Nigerian lawyer and management consultant with a passion for community development. He is a member of the International Association for Community Development (IACD).

The views expressed by contributors are strictly personal and not of Law & Society Magazine.

Follow our WhatsApp Channel

Juxtaposing life of opulence by public officials in the third world countries and acute public infrastructure deficits.

This is a deep socio-economic fractures and systemic governance challenge which contrast manifests through gated luxury existing directly beside systemic decay , forcing communities to individually compensate and improvised for failed public goods.

The striking contrast between public official wealth and crumbling public works in developing nations reveals severe resource misallocation, where elite self-enrichment starves essential sectors like power, healthcare, and roads of needed funding.

These challenges create an environment where criminalities developed for criminals to networks and insurgencies thrive.

Simply put, the example of Nigeria a country of over 230 million people grappling with fiscal stress, inequality, and weak public services, is not great. As the line between private innovation and economic vanity has become increasingly obscured.

Suffice it to say Nigeria struggles with a high cost of governance driven by large official convoys and expensive bulletproof vehicles for top public officials, contrasted with the modest behavior of these same politicians when traveling abroad.

GOVERNANCE COSTS IN NIGERIA

Large Convoys: Allegedly, top leaders maintain extensive vehicle fleets, including 50 cars for the president, 30 for the first lady, and 40 for the FCT minister.

Luxury Vehicles: Official cars often exceed ₦150 million each and feature heavy security upgrades.

Economic Impact: High public spending on administrative luxury contributes heavily to national financial strain and budget deficits.

SOCIAL-ECONOMIC CONSEQUENCES

Stunted Productivity: Decayed roads, erratic power grids, and weak transport networks raise business costs and choke local industry growth.

Widening Inequality: Pervasive deficits lock communities in poverty while political classes insulate themselves from daily hardships.

Eroded Trust: Visible wealth alongside systemic decay breeds deep public cynicism toward state institutions and governance models.

THE COST OF OPULENCE

Drained Resources: Public funds are diverted into heavy administrative costs, executive jets, luxury convoys, and generous allowances instead of vital infrastructure.

Deepened Inequality: A vast chasm separates the lavish lifestyles of public office holders from the daily hardships and poverty faced by ordinary citizens.

Stifled Growth: Money spent maintaining an over-bloated political class starves the education, health, and power sectors of necessary investments.

A PLEA FOR CHANGE

Redefining Service: Political power must be viewed as an assignment to serve the public rather than an avenue for personal enrichment.

Prioritizing People: Budgets should directly reflect the real-life needs of the populace by funding job creation, schools, and reliable healthcare.

Building Together: True national development arrives only when leaders demonstrate the same restraint and resilience they ask of the citizens.

Conclusively, I’d like join millions of our compatriots home and abroad to plead with leadership at all levels to consider the following:

Nigeria’s future depends on leadership sacrifice, structural discipline, and resource redistribution.

True progress requires leaders to abandon excessive luxury and embrace a modest, purposeful approach to governance.

Citizen Richard ODUSANYA.

Public Affairs Enthusiast and Good Governance Advocate[email protected]

The views expressed by contributors are strictly personal and not of Law & Society Magazine.

Follow our WhatsApp Channel

The abduction of a sitting High Court judge from his home ought to shake any nation to its core. When the news broke that Hon. Justice Faruku Hassan Bunza of the Kebbi State High Court had reportedly been kidnapped by armed men who stormed his residence in the early hours of the morning, it was yet another grim reminder that Nigeria’s insecurity has entered a dangerous new phase.

For years, kidnapping was often perceived as a crime directed at wealthy individuals, politicians, expatriates or business owners. It then spread to schoolchildren, farmers, commuters, religious leaders and traditional rulers. Today, it has become a national epidemic that recognises no social status, profession or geography. Judges, doctors, professors, security personnel, clergy, market women and ordinary citizens have all become potential targets.

Perhaps the most disturbing aspect is no longer that kidnappings occur, but that they have become so frequent that they barely shock us anymore. The nation has gradually become desensitised to stories that should ordinarily provoke outrage and sustained national action. We mourn briefly, express sympathy, await the payment of ransom or rescue, and then move on until the next victim appears in the headlines.

Read Also: ENDGAME (Part III): Why terror still pays

Read Also: ENDGAME (PART II): When the Constitution Comes Under Fire | Can the rule of law survive a permanent security crisis?

Read Also: WHEN TERROR PAYS|The Endgame: How do you make terror stop paying?

This cycle cannot continue.

A Crisis Beyond Crime

The kidnapping of a judicial officer is not merely an attack on one individual or one family. It is an assault on the very institutions that uphold the rule of law. Judges represent the authority of the state. When criminals can invade the home of a serving judge with apparent ease, the message sent to the public is deeply unsettling: no one is beyond the reach of criminal gangs.

More importantly, it exposes the frightening confidence with which armed groups now operate across Nigeria. Whether described as kidnappers, bandits, terrorists or criminal gangs, their methods have become increasingly sophisticated. They gather intelligence on their victims, exploit weak security networks, move across state boundaries with relative freedom and often negotiate ransoms with little fear of arrest.

The distinction between kidnapping, banditry and terrorism has also become increasingly blurred. Criminal groups have diversified their operations, combining cattle rustling, village raids, illegal mining, arms trafficking and mass abductions into highly profitable enterprises.

Kidnapping has effectively become an industry, sustained by access to sophisticated weapons, weak intelligence coordination, porous borders and limited consequences for perpetrators. This is not new; it’s a fact that has been stated many times in different ways.

The consequences extend far beyond the immediate victims. Farmers abandon their lands for fear of attack. Businesses relocate or shut down. Investors become wary. Schools close in vulnerable communities. Health workers decline rural postings. Judicial officers, teachers and civil servants hesitate to serve in high-risk locations. Communities become isolated, local economies collapse, and public confidence in government steadily erodes.

Insecurity is therefore no longer simply a security problem. It has become a development problem, an economic problem and, increasingly, a governance problem. The vast ungoverned spaces in Nigeria make it easy for the perpetrators to gain ground daily.

The Limits of the Current Approach

Nigeria’s security agencies have undoubtedly recorded notable successes. Numerous hostages have been rescued, including the more recent rescue of school children and teachers in Oyo State. Several notorious criminal leaders have been neutralised. Security personnel continue to make enormous sacrifices, often under extremely difficult conditions.

Yet these tactical victories have not translated into strategic success. There have also been casualties, including the Oyo school teachers, several security personnel and retired Major General Rabe Abubakar, a former defence spokesperson, who died in bandit captivity from medical complications on June 13, 2026, after being abducted alongside his wife in Katsina State.

The persistence of kidnappings suggests that our current security architecture is struggling to stay ahead of rapidly evolving threats. Criminal networks adapt quickly, while state institutions often remain constrained by fragmented intelligence systems, overlapping mandates, bureaucratic procedures and inadequate technological capabilities.

Much of our security response remains reactive. Security personnel frequently arrive after attacks have occurred rather than preventing them through timely intelligence. Communities repeatedly warn of suspicious movements, yet these warnings are not always translated into swift preventive action.

Technology also remains underutilised. Across the world, modern policing increasingly relies on surveillance systems, drones, digital forensics, biometric databases, predictive analytics and integrated intelligence platforms. Nigeria has made progress in some of these areas, but deployment remains uneven, and coordination across agencies continues to pose significant challenges.

Equally important is the question of accountability. Criminals thrive where prosecution is weak, investigations are slow, and convictions are uncertain. Justice delayed not only denies closure to victims but also emboldens perpetrators.

We must therefore move beyond viewing kidnapping as isolated criminal incidents. It requires a coordinated national strategy that integrates intelligence, policing, military operations, justice sector reforms, technology and community participation into one coherent framework.

Rethinking National Security

Nigeria needs more than additional checkpoints, military deployments or periodic security operations. It needs a fundamentally different approach to national security.

First, intelligence must become the centrepiece of security operations. Preventing attacks is always preferable to responding after lives have already been endangered. Better intelligence gathering, real-time information sharing among agencies and stronger collaboration with local communities can significantly improve early warning systems.

Second, technology should become a force multiplier. Wider deployment of surveillance cameras in urban centres, drone monitoring of vulnerable corridors, improved communications infrastructure and integrated criminal databases would substantially enhance operational effectiveness.

Third, community-based security deserves greater attention. Residents often know when unfamiliar persons arrive, when suspicious camps emerge or when criminal activities begin to take root. Building trust between communities and security agencies encourages timely reporting and improves local intelligence.

Fourth, tackling the financial incentives behind kidnapping is essential. Criminal enterprises flourish because they generate enormous profits. Disrupting financial networks, tracing ransom payments, targeting money laundering channels and dismantling supply chains for arms and logistics should become integral components of national security strategy.

Finally, Nigeria must address the underlying conditions that enable criminal recruitment. Poverty alone does not create criminals, but widespread unemployment, weak education systems, social exclusion and limited economic opportunities provide fertile ground for organised crime to recruit young people into violent networks. Security and development are therefore inseparable. Lasting peace requires both effective law enforcement and inclusive economic growth.

The Hon. Justice Bunza’s abduction should serve as another national wake-up call. Every high-profile abduction demonstrates not only the courage of criminal groups but also the vulnerability of our institutions. If judges are unsafe in their homes, what confidence can ordinary citizens have? Ultimately, the question Nigerians continue to ask is painfully simple: when will the kidnappings end? We are beginning to sound like a broken record.

The answer depends on whether we are prepared to move beyond temporary responses towards comprehensive reforms that match the scale and sophistication of today’s security threats. It requires political will, institutional coordination, sustained investment in intelligence and technology, stronger criminal justice systems and genuine partnership between government and citizens.

A nation cannot fulfil its economic potential or democratic promise while fear dictates the daily lives of its people. Restoring security is therefore not simply about defeating criminals. It is about restoring confidence in the Nigerian state itself.

Until that confidence is rebuilt, every successful kidnapping is more than an isolated crime. It is a reminder that, somewhere between the promises of security and the lived reality of Nigerians, something fundamental remains broken.

The views expressed by contributors are strictly personal and not of Law & Society Magazine

Follow our WhatsApp Channel