To deaden the pain of insecurity gripping the citizenry, Nigerians have resorted to their old pastime of gallows humour. They’ve even invaded the innocent territory of nursery rhymes. So, instead of “A for Apple; B for Ball; C for Cat”, you have “A for Axe; B for Bomb; C for Cutlass”. You’ve got to cry to laugh!

It is so sad to see how evil elements are destroying Nigeria one village at a time. Internally Displaced Persons (IDP) camps are everywhere. Most of the camps have virtually become makeshift villages too because there is little chance of their occupants returning to their original homes. But we pretend that things are not as bad as they really are. We use euphemisms for the civil war that is raging from state to state. We call them skirmishes, farmer/herder clashes, banditry, inter-tribal raids, etc.

Road Scare

To experience these variants of insecurity at the same time that Boko Haram and ISWAP are claiming territory and harvesting the lives of senior military personnel in the northeastern part of the country is like living in a roofless house at the height of the rainy season. Road travel has become a nightmare. Tourism is virtually dead. Educational excursions have been suspended indefinitely. If you must travel, make sure there’s a good ransom negotiator in your family before you set out.

See what Plateau State has become! Between Plateau and Benue, we had a food basket and a tourist destination. Now the basket is empty because the farmers have been chased off their land by terrorists. No tourist will dare go near Plateau now unless he has a death wish. We scream “Never again” after each tragic bloodletting, but underneath our breath, we know we shall soon gather again to commiserate with the bereaved.

I’m sorry to have to repeat the obvious: If we continue to do things the same old way, we shall continue getting the same results. Over the years, I’ve suggested that military contractors be employed in the interim to clear the gutters while we rebuild the policing system.

If past governments had introduced state policing, perhaps by now, we would have been in a better position to tackle the merchants of terror who have become so emboldened that they are challenging the armed forces. It is curious that despite the acquisition of tracking devices, we are unable to track and apprehend terrorists who negotiate ransom payments through open GSM lines. The outlaws now operate sophisticated drones in competition with the security forces. We are in trouble.

State Police

Mr Tunji Disu, the new Inspector-General of Police (IGP), started on a good note when he publicly supported the plan to introduce state police. His predecessors seemed to have operated under some ill-defined imperial philosophy that blinded them to whatever merits there were in the concept.

Now that we have an IGP who is not scared of re-engineering, we have no time to waste. The 60-month timeline that the new IG has given is rather long. The gradualist approach gives the impression that the government and its security agencies are not treating the issue with the urgency it deserves. Between the National Assembly and the government agencies, everything about state/regional policing can be tidied up in 18 months so that the law can take effect and foundational structures can be established.

Disu’s 75-page framework for restructuring Nigeria’s security system introduces a two-tier policing architecture. This system comprises a Federal Police Service (FPS) and 37 State Police Services, including the Federal Capital Territory (FCT). The FPS will primarily focus on national security issues such as terrorism, interstate crime, and the protection of federal assets. In contrast, the state police will be responsible for addressing localised crimes, including armed robbery, homicide, domestic violence, and gathering intelligence at the community level.

Central to this framework is the concept of community policing, which will serve as the operational backbone of the entire policing system. To alleviate concerns about potential misuse of police forces by state governors for political purposes, the framework includes robust constitutional and institutional safeguards. Notably, it proposes the establishment of independent State Police Service Commissions that are insulated from gubernatorial influence, granting them authority over recruitment, promotions, and disciplinary actions.

Additionally, the framework stipulates criminal penalties for unlawful directives, particularly those aimed at partisan deployment of police officers. It also empowers the Federal High Court to fast-track cases involving politically motivated abuses.

To further enhance accountability, the framework calls for the creation of State Police Ombudsmen, the mandatory use of body-worn cameras, and the implementation of public performance dashboards to monitor incidents of use-of-force and community satisfaction levels.

At the federal level, the framework advocates for the establishment of a National Police Standards Board (NPSB), an independent body consisting of 13 members tasked with setting and enforcing uniform standards across both federal and state police formations. This board would publish annual compliance ratings for each state, imposing penalties such as funding restrictions on those jurisdictions that fail to meet standards. This mechanism is designed to prevent fragmentation of standards and ensure professionalism throughout the federation.

On the matter of personnel management, the document proposes a Voluntary Transfer Programme (VTP), allowing officers from the current Nigeria Police Force to transfer to state commands without losing their benefits.

Like with everything in Nigeria, there are as many ‘experts’ as there are interlocutors. Some pessimists believe that state governors are irredeemable and that they will reduce the state police under their command to political thugs. I am not one of those pessimists. We can’t just throw up our hands and say that a law that is yet to be promulgated will not work. Let’s all put our ideas together and plug the holes now that the law is under construction. All effective policing is local.

Central to the entire proposal are targeted amendments to the 1999 Constitution, particularly Section 214, to allow the coexistence of federal and state police and to transfer policing from the Exclusive Legislative List to the Concurrent List. A new constitutional provision, Section 214A, is also being proposed to establish the National Police Standards Board as a legally recognised body.

Death Lurks

However, before the arrival of corn, won’t the chickens feed on something? Anyone who has watched the series of video clips purportedly shot in the northern part of Kwara State will agree that the same forces of terror that sacked villages in Benue, Plateau, and Niger are coming through that belt and knocking on the door of the Southwest and South-South. Already, some deaths have been recorded in the Oke-Ogun area of Oyo State and Edo North. Many of the forests are said to harbour bandits. Whichever direction of the compass a Nigerian faces, death lurks.

Expectedly, there is still plenty of work to do before state policing comes into effect. However, in terms of preparation, we are in a better place today than we were yesterday. The security situation in the country has recently been taking a nosedive because we are overusing the military for police duties for which they are ill-suited. Soldiers are trained to kill, not to negotiate ransoms. The earlier we get state policing going and return our soldiers to the barracks so that they can concentrate on their core mandate, the better for the country.

Whatever we choose to do, let’s do it quickly.

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

By Blaise Udunze

This piece speaks directly to the current consciousness of many Nigerians as some crises erupt with noise, explosions of violence, economic shocks, political upheavals and then some unfold quietly, steadily, almost invisibly, until their consequences become impossible to ignore. Nigeria today is living through the latter. Today, this hardly or rarely dominates the front pages of newspapers with the same sustained urgency. Still, the truth is that it depends on whether it is reshaping communities, distorting futures, and hollowing out the very foundation of the nation’s promise.

With the rate at which drug abuse has festered among young Nigerians, it is no longer a social concern. It is a national emergency, silent, systemic, and dangerously underestimated.

The big picture of a bright future led by the youth of today and leaders of tomorrow is gradually fading away, thanks to the menace of drugs. Unfortunately, it is a national problem linked to all other criminal activities, but the system does not consider it critical. A generation of people is gradually being wiped out. The implications of these are too dire even to contemplate.

It is now alarming, as the numbers alone are staggering. Looking closely at the report by the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime reveals that 14.4 percent of Nigerians between the ages of 15 and 64, roughly 14.3 million people, use psychoactive substances, nearly three times the global average. Even more troubling, which calls for public concern, is that one in five of these users suffers from drug-related disorders requiring urgent treatment. The implication is clear since this is not casual use; it is a deepening public health crisis.

To many Nigerians, these statistics, as revealed, appear alarming, but the underlying fact is that they are only a scratch on the surface of a much darker reality, which the eyes cannot see.

Across Lagos, Kano, Onitsha, and countless towns in between, drug abuse is no longer hidden. It is visible in motor parks where tramadol is sold as casually as bottled water, in university hostels where “home mixes” circulate as social currency, and in street corners where teenagers inhale toxic concoctions in search of escape. Substances that were once tightly regulated, codeine, opioids, and benzodiazepines, are now frighteningly accessible. Others, far more dangerous, are improvised through mixtures of gutter water, chemicals, and pharmaceuticals designed not for healing, but for oblivion.

What is emerging is not just a culture of drug use, but an ecosystem of addiction.

Let us consider the disturbing normalisation of concoctions like “Omi Gutter” (gutter water) or “Jiko”, lethal blends of tramadol, codeine, cannabis, and other substances, just to mention a few. The fear in all of this is that these are not isolated experiments; they are part of a growing subculture among young people seeking relief from pressures they can neither articulate nor escape. Let us see the irony from the point that the deaths incurred from overdoses, seizures, and organ failure are increasingly reported, yet rarely provoke sustained national outrage.

This silence is part of the problem and what society has failed to recognize is that they are yet to understand the scale of the crisis; one must go beyond the streets and into the systems that have failed to contain it.

What must be known today is that Nigeria’s drug epidemic is deeply intertwined with a mental health crisis that remains largely unaddressed, which appears difficult to deal with because the system’s attention is divided by other trivialities. According to the World Health Organization, one in four Nigerians, an estimated 50 million people, suffer from some form of mental illness. This is such a fearful trend, whilst among adolescents, the situation is even more fragile. Today to the trend in Nigeria, globally, is also on record that 14 percent of young people experience mental health challenges, with suicide ranking among the leading causes of death for those aged 15 to 29.

In Nigeria, however, these issues are compounded by stigma, neglect, and systemic absence.

A study conducted in a Borstal Institution in North-Central Nigeria found that 82.5 per cent of adolescent boys had psychiatric disorders. The breakdown actually revealed that disruptive behaviour disorders accounted for 40.8 per cent, substance use disorders 15.8 per cent, anxiety disorders 14.2 per cent, psychosis 6.7 per cent, and mood disorders five per cent. These are not marginal figures; they point to a generation grappling with profound psychological distress.

Many of these boys, according to the timely warning from Professor Olurotimi Coker of the Lagos State University Teaching Hospital, which he revealed, is that they suffer in silence. This, he discloses, is constrained by societal expectations that equate vulnerability with weakness. In a culture where young men are expected to “be strong,” emotional struggles are buried, not addressed. Drugs, in this context, become both refuge and rebellion, a way to cope, to escape, and sometimes, to belong.

The tragedy is that what begins as coping often ends in captivity. The clear fact, which the system must not ignore, is that the crisis does not exist in isolation, yes! because it feeds into and is fed by Nigeria’s broader challenges of insecurity and alongside economic instability. Research by scholars from Chukwuemeka Odumegwu Ojukwu University highlights a dangerous nexus between substance abuse and national security. Drug trafficking networks do not merely distribute substances; they sustain criminal economies, fund violent groups, and perpetuate cycles of instability.

A review of some of the developments will drive us to the activities in the Lake Chad Basin, for instance, an open secret is that insurgent groups such as Boko Haram and Islamic State West Africa Province have been linked to drug trafficking operations. According to regional security analyses, these groups rely on narcotics, from tramadol to cocaine, to finance operations, recruit fighters, and embolden combatants. The use of drugs to suppress fear and heighten aggression among fighters underscores a chilling reality, which obviously shows that Nigeria’s drug crisis is not just a health issue; it is a security threat.

To confirm this, only recently, during an interview with Arise TV, General Christopher Musa, the Minister of Defence, concurred that when many of these terrorists are arrested, they are often found to be under the influence of drugs.” He stated that they use different substances, including injectables, which affect their thinking and reduce their fear or sense of pain. In General Musa’s words: “You are dealing with somebody whose mind is made up that if he dies, he doesn’t care. Most times when we arrest them, they are on drugs, so they don’t care, they don’t even feel it, they have Injectables, you get them with all those drugs. So that is how they operate.”

This convergence of addiction and violence creates a vicious cycle. History has shown that drugs fuel crime; crime sustains drug networks and for this reason, young people, caught in the middle, are both victims and instruments, recruited as couriers, enforcers, and, in some cases, political thugs. One recent example that occurred earlier this month is that of a teenager aged 15 named Tijjani. He was arrested by the Nigerian Army in connection with the Boko Haram deadly attack on military positions in Borno that claimed the life of Brigadier-General Oseni Braimah and other soldiers.

In the political space, history offers a warning because it brings to mind the scenario that played out during the 2011 post-election violence in Nigeria, which claimed over 800 lives in just three days, with the same pattern occurring in the 2023 elections. What Nigerians must know is that these trends expose how easily unemployed, disillusioned youths can be mobilized for violence. In most cases, this happens under the influence of substances and of concern is that similar patterns are re-emerging currently, raising urgent questions about the future of Nigeria’s democracy.

Blaise, a journalist and PR professional, writes from Lagos and can be reached via: [email protected]

By Funke Egbemode

This is a true life story.

Poor Ashabi. She had gone to her place of business that day, like any and every day. It was not a penthouse corner office. Indeed, it was not the kind of office you are thinking of. It was an office built with palm fronds, the kind that rainstorm and April scorching sun like to smirk at and deal with. Makeshift stall by the roadside. You can see it now, right?

You see, life has not been kind to Ashabi but that fateful day tested her faith, her sanity and her belief that God is a God of mercy. She had hardly finished arranging her scanty wares for display when some Federal law enforcement people showed up and announced that Ashabi was guilty of many offences.

‘Woman, you are a front for smugglers.

‘Your stall is not a food canteen. We are sure you have contraband goods under those piles of dirt.’

‘You don’t have a permit to sell here.’

‘You are defacing the street, indeed the whole state.’

‘It is also an offence to cut palm fronds that are supposed to protect palm trees that are producing palm wine.’

‘Because you are guilty of all these offences, we are arresting you and everything you are selling. ‘

Ashabi didn’t know whether she should beg or scream. She chose the latter. Perhaps it was because sales were poor the previous day and she and her children went to bed on empty stomach. Maybe it was because she had begged or bribed these hard-faced officers before. That day, she flipped. Ashabi had had enough. She was just tired.

‘Kin lo de gan?’

‘What exactly is my offence?’

‘Is it a sin to want to make a living, honest living?’

‘Do you want me to steal or become a prostitute?’

Before the uniformed men could rally their thoughts (because they were not expecting that reaction from a roadside sinner), Ashabi ripped off her scarf, removed her wrapper and stood in her birthday suit daring all to see her nakedness. She let out a shrill, long scream that must have shocked angels in heaven. Yeah, the white-winged ones must have stopped singing for a brief moment. Ashabi’s traducers were rooted to the spot. They thought she had gone mad, stark raving mad. While they were trying to decide whether to run or haul her into their van, a sharp Nigerian got it all on record. Everything was captured and posted on someone’s social media page.

Somehow, that colourful event got to Dr Mike Adenuga. He watched it over and over again. His heart melted watching helpless Ashabi ‘s meltdown. He sent his lieutenants, male and female, into the field.

‘Go and find this woman. Don’t come back until you have her.’

His lieutenants, whom he selected carefully over the years, knew what every line of that instruction meant. They had never failed the Bull before and this time around, they didn’t. It took a while, pulling strings, calling in favours until they found her in a hinterland close to Badagry, Lagos State. They did not tell her who wanted to see her. When she saw him, her legs must have collapsed under her. I am sure she must have asked God for forgiveness a million times for ever doubting the long arms of the Almighty. If na you nko?

The bank draft Ashabi was handed that day was proof that the Angels heard her loud desperate scream in heaven. Or why else do you think the story ended up being watched by Adenuga, a channel of blessings when your back is against the wall?

For Ashabi, that traumatic day was a turning point because Adenuga came with divinely ordained help.

Mike Adeniyi Adenuga is the kind of man you don’t hear coming. No sirens. No drums. No desperate need to announce himself. He walks in quietly, sits in the corner, studies the room-and before you know it, he owns the building, the street, and half the city. Where other billionaires want trumpets and outriders, Adenuga wants to do his bit and go quietly back into his lux corner.

Let me retouch a well-known picture.

Years ago, in a country where making a phone call felt like applying for a visa, complete with long queues, high tariffs, voices breaking like tired promises, many Nigerians had accepted that communication was a luxury. Then, like rain after a stubborn drought, something shifted. Lines became cheaper. Access widened. Suddenly, the market woman in Mushin and her son in Nsukka could both afford to say, “Hello.” That quiet revolution carried the imprint of one man-Chairman of Globacom-who decided that Nigerians deserved more than crumbs.

That is the thing about Adenuga: he doesn’t just enter industries; he disrupts their arrogance. There are men who make money, and there are men who make meaning. Mike Adenuga belongs firmly in the second category-a quiet storm whose footprints are not loud, but lasts.

To speak of him is to speak of a Nigeria that refuses to be small.

On his birthday, one is tempted to list achievements: oil magnate, telecoms giant, banking investor, philanthropist. Chairman of Globacom, the man who dared to challenge entrenched monopolies and made the simple act of making a phone call affordable for millions of Nigerians. But to reduce him to titles is to miss the poetry of his journey because Adenuga’s story is not just about wealth. It is about will.

He built in seasons when others fled. He invested when uncertainty hung thick in the air. In an environment where excuses grow like weeds, he chose discipline. Where many sought quick applause, he embraced tranquil excellence. That is perhaps his most defining trait, silence that is not emptiness.

There is something almost mythical about his rise. From the classrooms of his alma mater, Ibadan Grammar School, to the oil fields, and boardrooms, he walked a path that demanded more than intelligence – it demanded audacity. The kind of audacity that looks at a system and says, “Why not me?” The kind that births empires.

And yet, for all his accomplishments, Adenuga remains an enigma. He does not chase the spotlight; the spotlight finds him. In a world obsessed with noise, he has mastered the power of restraint. You will not find him everywhere, but you will feel him everywhere – through businesses that employ thousands, through innovations that connect millions, through a legacy that continues to unfold, and timely gestures like the one that turned Ashabi to a multimillionaire.

Unlike other blessed men, there is a certain patriotism in his choices. He did not build from afar; he built from within. At a time when many of Nigeria’s brightest sought greener pastures, he chose to plant deeper roots in Nigerian soil. His investments speak a language of belief – a stubborn, defiant belief in the possibilities of this country. Perhaps that is why his story resonates so deeply. It mirrors what Nigeria could be: resilient, resourceful, and unyielding.

Beyond the boardrooms and balance sheets lies a man whose life’s work inspires both the young and the old, even the already successful.

To the young Nigerian watching from the sidelines, Adenuga’s life whispers a powerful truth: you do not have to follow the crowd to succeed. You can carve your own lane. You can build your own table. You can redefine the rules.

It’s another April 29, we celebrate not just a businessman, but a builder of possibilities. A man who turned vision into infrastructure, and ambition into access. A reminder that greatness does not always shout; sometimes, it simply works.

His fingers are in every fast-selling, successful pie. He went into oil and gas, went in and struck deep, building Conoil. Producing a formidable force, proving that indigenous companies could play and win on big tables once reserved for foreign giants. In telecommunications, he rewrote the meaning of resilience, broke barriers, slashed costs, and democratised access. Banking, real estate, philanthropy – his fingerprints are everywhere, though his voice is rarely heard.

In a generation that often mistakes visibility for value, Adenuga chose a different path. He built in silence, grew in silence, and let his results do the talking. No daily interviews. No social media theatrics. Just work-steady, deliberate, and undeniable.

And maybe that is why his story feels deeply personal, even to those who have never met him.

In his journey, many Nigerians see a reflection of their own quiet battles. The refusal to give up when the system is stacked. The courage to dream beyond limitation. The stubborn insistence that “it is possible”, even when evidence suggests otherwise.

There is also something profoundly patriotic about him. He did not outsource his faith in Nigeria. He invested it here. In soil that can be harsh, in systems that can frustrate, in moments when others packed their bags and left, he stayed and built. Not perfectly, not without challenges, but persistently.

That kind of commitment is not just business; it is belief, deep belief. On his birthday, it is tempting to count his billions, to list his awards, to call him “The Spirit of Africa”, a title well earned. But beyond the wealth lies something far more enduring: impact. The millions connected, the jobs created, the industries reshaped. The silent confidence he has given to a generation – that you can start here, stay here, and still matter globally – are all the essence of the Bull.

If you listen closely, his life is saying something simple but profound: you don’t have to be loud to be legendary.

Today, we celebrate a man who turned vision into access, silence into strength, and ambition into legacy. A man whose footsteps may be quiet, but whose journey echoes across a nation.

Happy birthday, Dr. Mike Adenuga, the gentle giant still walking softly, still building greatly, still reminding Nigeria what is possible when purpose meets patience.