When Security Becomes Everyone’s Business: Exploring Mandatory Military Service in Nigeria
By Jerry Adesewo
My knowledge of military affairs might be limited, but I have read and traversed the world enough to have a basic idea of what mandatory military service means—and what it does not.
Though I am yet to read the book itself, and when I do I will surely write a full review, I must confess that being part of the conversation around Serving the Nation: Exploring the Concept of Mandatory Military Service, as the book by Dr. MS Abunakar was unveiled yesterday, has forced a deeper reflection. Not about uniforms and drills alone, but about citizenship, responsibility, and the fragile architecture of security in Nigeria today.
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Across newsrooms, policy spaces, and civil society platforms in Nigeria, one question that should now resurface with unusual persistence is: Should Nigeria consider mandatory military service for its citizens?
The official response, for now, has been cautious. At the unveiling, the Defence Minister, General CG Musa, made it clear that there is no immediate plan to introduce mandatory military service. Yet, one could bet that this is one question that’s not going to go away so soon.
Truth is, nations do not debate conscription in times of comfort; they do so when existing systems feel overstretched.
Nigeria’s security crisis—banditry, insurgency, kidnapping, communal violence—has evolved beyond the capacity of conventional responses. Soldiers are deployed everywhere, yet insecurity remains stubbornly local, adaptive, and deeply embedded in social fault lines. This is where the conversation becomes less about the military and more about citizenship.
Mandatory military service, in its most responsible framing, is not primarily about producing soldiers. It is about producing citizens who understand the cost of peace.
Globally, countries that have experimented with conscription—Israel, South Korea, Switzerland, Finland—did not do so merely to swell troop numbers. They used it to instill discipline, national cohesion, civic responsibility, and a shared sense of ownership over national survival. Importantly, these models evolved alongside strong safeguards: clear duration limits, exemptions, civilian alternatives, and post-service reintegration pathways.
Nigeria, however, is not Israel. It is not Finland. And this is where caution becomes essential.
A poorly designed mandatory military service programme in Nigeria could become a tool of abuse, politicisation, or further alienation of already marginalised youths. In a country where trust in institutions is fragile, coercion without credibility would backfire. Any serious conversation must therefore begin not with force, but with structure.
The most compelling argument that would emerge from this conversation would be that Nigeria does not merely need more boots on the ground. It needs a citizen-driven security architecture.
This means security that is locally informed, community-rooted, and nationally coordinated. It means young people who understand early warning signs of radicalisation, who can support disaster response, who can participate in intelligence-adjacent civic vigilance without becoming vigilantes. It means redefining service beyond combat. It means market women who identify intruders in their communities, and know what steps to take to provide the necessary intel needed to neutralise them.
Mandatory national service—military or structured civilian alternatives—could, if properly designed, become a bridge between youth energy and national stability. Nigeria’s youthful population is often described as a “demographic dividend,” yet it remains largely untapped, undertrained, and underintegrated into statecraft.
What if service meant training in emergency response, cyber defence, border surveillance support, civil-military relations, national ethics, and conflict mediation—alongside basic military discipline? What if it created pathways into education, employment, and leadership rather than resentment?
Still, questions remain unavoidable.
Can Nigeria guarantee equity in enforcement, or would the burden fall disproportionately on the poor? Can we protect young people from abuse within such a system? Can we prevent politicisation? Can we ensure that service strengthens democracy rather than militarises society?
These questions are not arguments against the idea; they are arguments for deliberation.
Encouragingly, even within the military establishment, the tone has not been triumphalist. The Army Chief’s support for debate—rather than decree—signals an understanding that legitimacy matters. So does the Defence Minister’s insistence on balance. A country as complex as Nigeria cannot afford shortcuts on security.
Mandatory military service should never be a knee-jerk reaction to fear. It must be a carefully calibrated instrument of national renewal—if at all.
At its best, such a programme could rebuild the social contract, reminding citizens that security is not outsourced entirely to uniforms and checkpoints. At its worst, it could deepen mistrust and widen fractures.
Nigeria stands at a crossroads where insecurity is no longer just a military problem; it is a civic one. Whether or not mandatory military service becomes policy, the underlying message is clear: the state cannot secure itself without its citizens.
The debate, therefore, should not end with yes or no. It should mature into how, when, and under what safeguards.
Because in the end, the strongest nations are not those with the largest armies—but those whose citizens understand that peace is a shared duty.
And that conversation, uncomfortable as it may be, is one Nigeria can no longer afford to avoid. Hence, the relevant authorities must take interest in Dr. MS Abubakar’s book.
When Security Becomes Everyone’s Business: Exploring Mandatory Military Service in Nigeria