When the Powerful Begin to Fear
By Jerry Adesewo
Former Chief of Army Staff, Lt. Gen. Tukur Buratai (Rtd.), stirred national debate recently when he warned that governors, ministers, senators, and other top political office holders could soon become the next targets of bandits and terrorists if Nigeria’s security crisis continues unchecked.
READ ALSO: Nigeria, Sweden Explore Stronger Cooperation in Digital Innovation, Creative Economy
For many Nigerians, the statement sounded alarming. For others, it sounded overdue, because the truth is that insecurity in Nigeria has never been an equal-opportunity menace.
For years, its primary victims have been ordinary citizens: farmers on lonely roads, traders returning from markets, students in rural schools, worshippers in churches and mosques, and villagers whose names never make the front pages of newspapers.
The poor have borne the heaviest burden. The wealthy have often found ways around it. They travel with security escorts. They live in fortified estates. Their children attend schools with armed guards. When they move, sirens clear the roads ahead of them.
The average Nigerian enjoys no such luxury. Yet even that protective wall appears to be crumbling. Take for instance, the recent kidnap in Ibadan, of the younger sister to the former Minister of Power, Mr. Dapo Adelabu.
Across Southern and Northern Nigeria, traditional rulers—once regarded as sacred symbols of authority, and community identity—have increasingly become targets of kidnappers, terrorists, and bandits. Emirs, district heads, village chiefs, and community leaders have been abducted, attacked, humiliated, and, in some tragic cases, killed. Within a single calendar year, the South West has recorded eleven (11) of such fatality.
What was once unthinkable has become frighteningly common. The throne no longer guarantees safety. The crown no longer commands immunity. If traditional rulers can be kidnapped and murdered, who then is truly safe? That is perhaps the deeper warning embedded in Buratai’s remarks.
The former Army Chief was not merely predicting danger for politicians. He was describing the logical progression of a crisis that expands whenever it is left unchecked. Criminal violence rarely remains confined to one class of people. It grows. It adapts. It becomes bolder.
Yesterday it was farmers. Then it became schoolchildren. Then religious leaders. Then traditional rulers. Tomorrow, perhaps, governors and ministers. The uncomfortable question is whether Nigeria may need to reach that stage before the political will required to solve insecurity finally emerges.
History suggests that societies often respond most decisively to crises when those in positions of power begin to feel personally threatened by them.
For years, Nigerians have listened to official assurances that insecurity is being contained. Yet kidnappings continue to spread. Communities continue to be displaced. Entire local economies remain trapped by fear.
In some parts of the north, criminals operate almost openly, collecting taxes, enforcing local rules, and exercising authority that should belong exclusively to the state.
Buratai himself recently questioned the claim that bandits cannot be located, arguing that security agencies possess the capacity to track criminals who openly communicate and circulate videos online. He also warned that some politicians have historically benefited from insecurity and that criminal groups often exploit periods of political activity and transition.
Those observations point to a painful reality. Nigeria’s insecurity challenge is no longer simply a military problem. It is a governance problem. It is an intelligence problem. It is a political problem.
And, increasingly, it is becoming a leadership problem. The country has invested billions of naira in military operations, purchased equipment, recruited personnel, and launched numerous security initiatives. Yet the persistence of violence suggests that the challenge extends beyond firepower.
Communities need protection.
Intelligence networks need strengthening.
Criminal financiers need to be identified and prosecuted.
Justice systems need to work.
And political actors must stop treating security as a campaign talking point and begin treating it as a national emergency.
Perhaps the greatest tragedy is that many of the communities most affected by violence have become invisible to the rest of the country. Their suffering rarely dominates national conversations for more than a few days before another tragedy takes its place.
But insecurity has a way of travelling. It does not respect state boundaries. It does not respect titles. It does not respect political affiliations. And eventually, it reaches places that once believed themselves insulated from its consequences.
That is why Buratai’s warning deserves attention. Not because ministers or governors are more important than ordinary Nigerians. But because if Nigeria ever reaches the point where the country’s political elite
begin to experience insecurity in the same way that millions of ordinary citizens already do, the pressure for decisive action may become irresistible.
A nation ought to protect its poorest citizens with the same urgency it protects its most powerful. Yet if
history is any guide, meaningful reform often begins when those who make decisions become vulnerable
to the consequences of those decisions.
The hope, of course, is that Nigeria does not have to wait for that day.
The fear is that it might