Our Schoolgirls Again? By Alabidun Shuaib AbdulRahman

They have taken our daughters again. Another school, another night raid, another round of shock and condemnation delivered from our politicians both in Abuja and Birnin Kebbi. The latest tragedy in Maga, Kebbi State, where armed men stormed the Government Girls Comprehensive Secondary School in the dead of night, killed a vice-principal and abducted about twenty-five schoolgirls returns Nigeria to a familiar, unbearable question: why does this keep happening?

The attack, like so many before it, was swift, brutal, and predictable. Two of the girls escaped hours later, but the others were marched away into the dark bush, swallowed by the expanding geography of kidnapping that now defines northern Nigeria’s insecurity.

Since Chibok in 2014, Nigeria has lived in cycles of outrage, promises, search-and-rescue operations, whispered negotiations and quiet retreats. Governments change, uniforms change, spokespersons change, but the pattern remains what it has always been: repeating national grief wrapped in official denial.

In my column this week, I attempt what the Nigerian state has struggled to do by cataloguing this grim history, examine the policies proclaimed to address it and identify the failures that persist, including logistics and political evasions that have enabled this tragedy to endure.

The starting point is Chibok. In April 2014, 276 girls were taken from their hostels in Borno State in an operation that exposed the fragility of Nigeria’s security architecture. Boko Haram swept into the school with ease, herded the girls away, and vanished into Sambisa Forest. Dozens escaped or were released through negotiations, but many remain unaccounted for. Those images of grieving parents, empty metal bunks and students forced into trucks at gunpoint became an international symbol of Nigerian state failure.

Four years later, Dapchi happened. In February 2018, 110 girls were taken by another faction of Boko Haram. Weeks later, most of them returned in a convoy of insurgents who reportedly apologised to locals. Five girls died in captivity and one girl, Leah Sharibu, was held back allegedly for refusing to renounce her faith. The government denied ransom payments, but independent reports and community testimonies suggested that a financial or negotiated settlement was part of the release. As with Chibok, the truth remains tucked beneath layers of state secrecy.

By 2021, the epicenter of school abductions had shifted from the northeast to the northwest, where criminal gangs labelled “bandits” for bureaucratic convenience discovered that abducting schoolchildren offered a profitable business model. In February of that year, around 279 girls were taken from Jangebe in Zamfara State. The girls were released days later in circumstances that raised more questions than answers, especially regarding whether the government had adhered to its public stance of never paying ransom. The official line was that the girls were freed through “peaceful negotiations,” a phrase that Nigerians have learned to interpret with skepticism.

Then came the Kuriga raid in Kaduna State in March 2024. Gunmen seized scores of pupils and staff, prompting a frantic response from soldiers and vigilantes. The kidnappers demanded one billion naira, a figure that reflects the industrialisation of kidnapping in Nigeria. The government later announced rescues and recoveries, but the opacity surrounding negotiations and whether payments were made reinforced public distrust. Kuriga demonstrated how deeply entrenched the kidnapping economy had become, and how state responses often came too late or too tentatively to deter future attacks.

Now Kebbi joins this ledger of heartbreak. The Maga abduction, which took place on 17–18 November 2025, is a reminder that no policy documents, no televised condemnations, no promises of “never again” have fundamentally changed the ground realities for children in rural Nigerian schools. The attackers struck with confidence, knowing full well that response times would be slow, the terrain favoured them, and the state’s first instinct would be to issue a condemnation rather than a deterrent.

To understand the persistence of this crisis, we must examine the architecture of government responses. Each administration, from Goodluck Jonathan to Muhammadu Buhari to Bola Tinubu, has followed a familiar script. First comes loud condemnation, then high-level visits by ministers and security chiefs, then a declaration of intensified operations. Afterward, either the abductees reappear through rescue or release or they fade from media attention until the next tragedy.

In 2021, Nigeria released a National Policy on Safety, Security and Violence-Free Schools. On paper, it is an impressive document: it outlines minimum standards, coordination structures, and the responsibilities of federal, state and local governments to secure educational spaces. It is complemented by Nigeria’s earlier endorsement of the Safe Schools Declaration in 2015, an international pledge to protect education during conflict. But policies are not the same as implementation. Despite these commitments, most rural schools in the north still lack perimeter fencing, adequate lighting, trained security personnel, reliable communication systems or rapid-response mechanisms. The majority operate like soft targets, predictable, poorly defended, and accessible.

The logistics failures are basic and persistent. Attackers favour schools that are isolated, under-lit, and often undefended at night. They use motorcycles and pickup trucks that can navigate forest paths better than the armoured vehicles of Nigerian troops. Communication gaps delay alerts, while coordination problems between police, military and community vigilantes often lead to confusion rather than rapid mobilisation. In some cases, parents reach the school before security forces do.

The deeper problem is that the economics of kidnapping favour the criminals. Ransom payments whether officially acknowledged or not have become a major source of revenue for both insurgent groups and bandit gangs. Investigative reporting has alleged that millions of euros were exchanged in the negotiations that secured the release of some Chibok girls in 2017. The government denied the claims, but cannot provide transparent evidence to the contrary. Between 2022 and 2023 alone, compiled estimates suggested that over 3,600 people were kidnapped nationwide and around five billion naira was paid in ransoms. In an environment where ransom remains profitable and risks for perpetrators remain minimal, the incentives favour repetition. Children thus become economic assets in the underworld of Nigerian insecurity.

The Kebbi abduction fits this pattern. While kidnappers had not publicly stated their demand at the time of writing, the trajectory of past incidents shows that negotiations and financial incentives inevitably become part of the conversation. Communities already fear that the girls may be ransomed or exchanged for safe passage, even as officials continue to insist that government “does not pay ransom.”

The question, then, is what should Nigeria do differently? The first step is transparency. If the government ever pays ransom, openly or through intermediaries, it must be recorded, audited and overseen by a parliamentary mechanism. Denial has become a policy crutch that hides failures and permits the kidnapping economy to thrive. Citizens are not asking for operational details but for honest accounting. Democracies cannot manage national security challenges with secrecy as default.

The second step is to build a national school-security system that actually works. This requires ring-fenced funding, independent audits, and yearly progress reports. School security cannot be left to states alone, many of which are broke or conflicted by local politics. Fencing, lighting, guard recruitment, communication devices and training must be budgeted as essential infrastructure, not as emergency responses after tragedies.

Third, Nigeria must rethink its over-militarised approach. The presence of soldiers in a state does not automatically translate into safer schools. What works is community-integrated policing, properly trained rural response units, early-warning systems, and consistent policing presence around high-risk schools. Military raids may free hostages but rarely prevent the next abduction.

Fourth, the government must confront the ransom market directly. Either Nigeria adopts a strict no-ransom policy that is enforced transparently and consistently, or it acknowledges that negotiations are sometimes unavoidable and establishes a regulated oversight process. The current situation, denials masking back-channel payments is the worst of both worlds.

Finally, the nation needs public, verifiable data. Nigerians should be able to know how many schools have met minimum safety standards, how much has been spent on safe-school measures since 2014, how many perpetrators have been prosecuted, and how often early-warning systems have actually worked. Without measurement, improvement is impossible.

At the heart of this crisis is a moral dilemma. If the state refuses to pay ransom, captives may remain in the bush indefinitely. If the state pays ransom secretly, it fuels the market and endangers future generations. The choice requires honesty, not political performance.

The Kebbi abduction is not merely a news event; it is a national reckoning. Each time children are taken, Nigeria replays the same tragedy with the same official lines and the same institutional weaknesses. The country does not need more condemnations. It needs functioning fences, radios that work at midnight, guard training that is monitored, and a government that tells the truth about what it spends and what it pays.

If Nigeria continues down this path where policies exist on paper but not on the ground, where the kidnapping economy thrives in the shadows, where the security of schoolchildren depends on luck rather than system, then the question “Our Schoolgirls again?” will soon become an annual lament. It does not have to be this way. But to break the cycle, Nigeria must embrace transparency, discipline, and the mundane, unglamorous work of prevention.

Gumi, National Security and the Implications of Media Attention 

By Alabidun Shuaib AbdulRahman

In Nigeria’s protracted struggle with banditry, kidnapping, and insurgency, Sheikh Ahmad Abubakar Gumi has occupied a polarising space: simultaneously a respected Islamic scholar, a self-appointed mediator, and a frequent commentator in the national media. But as Gumi’s profile has grown, so too have concerns about the unintended or possibly deliberate consequences of elevating his voice.

His persistent presence comes at a cost: legitimising non-state armed actors, undermining state institutions, and, alarmingly, projecting a version of peace-making that risks normalising criminal violence. The events of May 2025, when Saudi authorities denied him entry into Medina for Hajj despite a valid visa, offer a sharp reminder that his influence is contested even beyond Nigeria, and public discourse must scrutinise it more carefully.

Gumi’s entrée into the national conversation rests on his dual credibility: he is both a former army captain and an Islamic scholar, a combination that lends him moral authority and access. He repeatedly depicts himself as a bridge between the Nigerian state and armed bandits, arguing that military force alone is no longer sufficient.

On 6 October 2024, in an interview reported by the International Centre for Investigative Reporting (ICIR), he declared: “Today, 90 per cent of our intelligence is garbage. What we have left is just about 10 per cent.” By publicly decrying the quality of intelligence, he undermines public confidence in Nigeria’s security architecture not merely offering critique, but positioning himself as someone whose moral insight fills a gaping institutional void.

He went further in that same interview, defending his deep access to bandit hideouts by insisting he always travels with state officials: “I have never been to any den of these people without officials … I go with the police because one cannot go alone.” This claim is double-edged. On the surface, it suggests cooperation with state institutions, but it also raises serious questions about the role of an unofficial, non-state intermediary in matters that typically fall within the purview of intelligence services and the military.

Gumi’s central argument revolves around negotiation. He frequently calls for dialogues and amnesty, suggesting that social and economic neglect, not ideology alone, drives banditry. But his approach tends to frame violent criminals as aggrieved moral actors rather than lawbreakers. By giving them a quasi‑political status as if they merit a seat at the negotiation table, he risks romanticising kidnapping and terror as merely “a reaction to deprivation.”

In his public interventions, he warns that an overemphasis on force may backfire, driving some bandits toward radicalisation. Yet this very narrative can be weaponised. When militants see themselves as wronged and mediated by a respected cleric, the notion of “negotiation” becomes a path to legitimacy rather than surrender.

These concerns are not theoretical. The security picture in Nigeria remains dire. According to the 2025 Global Terrorism Index, Nigeria recorded 565 terrorism-related deaths in 2024, up from 533 in 2023, placing the country sixth globally with a score of 7.658. The report highlights that the Islamic State in the Sahel (IS‑Sahel) carried out 16 attacks in Nigeria in 2024. These are not distant or abstract threats — they are real, rapidly evolving, and increasingly sophisticated. Amid this, Gumi’s message of negotiation may sound conciliatory, but it risks diluting the urgency of counterterrorism and deflecting pressure from strengthening state institutions.

Worse, by framing himself as the only viable interlocutor, Gumi may inadvertently weaken public trust in the military and intelligence services. If the populace is encouraged to believe that official agencies are fundamentally flawed, that “90 percent” of their intelligence is worthless, then his interventions risk replacing state authority with a parallel, informal alternative. That is perilous in a democracy where violence must be constrained by transparent, accountable institutions, not individual charisma.

Compounding these concerns, Gumi’s deportation from Saudi Arabia in May 2025 highlights that even foreign powers question his role. According to the Vanguard Newspapers, he was denied entry into Medina despite holding a visa. The Guardian reported that he publicly stated on his Facebook page that “for some obvious reasons — my views about world politics, the Saudi authorities are uncomfortable about my presence … even though they have granted me a visa.”

In a statement covered by PRNigeria, he echoed that sentiment: “the Saudi authorities are uncomfortable about my presence … because of my views on world politics.” According to Premium Times, he was part of a Nigerian delegation sponsored by the National Hajj Commission, yet was turned back by Saudi immigration officials upon arrival.

This development carries symbolic weight. A major Islamic country refused him entry not because of procedural oversight, but apparently because of ideological unease. The fact that Saudi Arabia, which presides over Islam’s holiest rites, barred him suggests that his influence is not merely spiritual; it is perceived as political and potentially disruptive. From a media-perspective, that should raise alarms. If a country like Saudi Arabia, deeply attuned to global Islamic discourse, regards him as a liability, why should Nigerian media continue to treat him purely as a peacemaker?

Moreover, his deportation recontextualises his domestic credibility. He claims moral authority born of negotiating in the forest, yet his rejection by Saudi immigration projects that his theological legitimacy is contested abroad. If his presence is deemed “uncomfortable” by conservative religious gatekeepers, then domestic coverage must interrogate what exactly he stands for, rather than granting him uncritical amplification.

Part of the problem lies in how the media portrays him. Often framed as the lone compassionate voice urging dialogue, his complex reality, as someone with ideological reach, political commentary, and informal security brokerage, is underreported.

Journalists must resist treating him as simply a “bridge man” and instead ask harder questions: What outcomes have his interventions produced? How many hostages has he secured release for? How many disarmed bandits has he helped return to society? These are not just moral questions but matters of public policy and security accountability. Without that scrutiny, his narrative risks overshadowing the very institutions that are constitutionally mandated to provide security.

Beyond accountability, the media must also centre the voices of victims. In Gumi’s discourse, bandits are portrayed as victims of neglect; yet the thousands of Nigerians who have suffered kidnapping, terrorism, and displacement rarely feature in his mediated narrative. The media must ensure that reconciliation does not eclipse justice: victims’ trauma, their demand for justice, and their right to a secure society must remain core to any public conversation. Otherwise, coverage risks valorising a peace built on negotiation without consequence, rather than on accountability, deterrence, and institutional strengthening.

It is true that dialogue and community engagement are important tools in conflict resolution. But Gumi’s approach should not become synonymous with peace. By allowing him to dominate public debate unchecked, the media risks endorsing a peace that lacks democratic legitimacy. He is not a government‑appointed envoy; he acts on his own authority. That distinction matters urgently. The credibility he commands must be matched by responsibility, transparency, and a willingness to submit to public accountability.

Gumi’s exclusion from the 2025 Hajj is a pointer that, despite his domestic influence, his ideas are contested at the highest levels of the Muslim world. It suggests that his ideological reach, far from benign, may be unsettling to states deeply invested in religious orthodoxy and geopolitical stability. For Nigerian media outlets both local and national, this signals a need for recalibration. His voice should be part of the discourse, but not its centrepiece; his interventions merit coverage, but not uncritical deification.

In sum, Sheikh Ahmad Gumi’s repeated media spotlight poses a strategic and moral dilemma. His critique of Nigeria’s intelligence architecture, delivered in moral tones, may resonate with citizens frustrated by insecurity but it also undermines institutional confidence and creates a parallel narrative of justice.

The media must rethink how it covers Gumi: not to silence him, but to demand rigorous accountability, data‑driven analysis, and a balanced framing that does not sideline victims or state legitimacy.

The Price of Nigeria’s Diplomatic Vacuum, by Alabidun Shuaib AbdulRahman 

There is a language nations speak without words: the handful of flags that fly over their embassies, the names on the placards at international conferences, the faces who present credentials to foreign heads of state. A steady, visible, and authorised presence is itself a powerful form of diplomacy. Conversely, absence speaks too: it is read as drift, as indifference, as lack of capacity. For over two years now, Nigeria has been sending a troubling message to the world by omission and the recent storm around U.S. reactions to violence in Nigeria has only made that silence more dangerous.

In September 2023, President Bola Ahmed Tinubu ordered an unprecedented recall of Nigerian envoys, a sweeping reset that swept through 109 missions worldwide. The recall was widely reported and framed as part of a “comprehensive restructuring” of the foreign service. Yet what followed was not a quick redeployment but a prolonged vacuum. Many of Nigeria’s 109 missions, by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs’ own count, made up of 76 embassies, 22 high commissions, and 11 consulates, have operated for over 25 months and counting without substantive ambassadors.

This is not trivia. Ambassadors are not ceremonial appointments; they are policy instruments. They lobby, they explain, they convene, they protect citizens, and often they move quietly to avert crises that would otherwise become headlines.

The danger of that deficit became painfully visible in the past fortnight when the United States took a dramatic step: Nigeria was added to a religious-freedom watch list and President Donald Trump publicly warned of sanctions and even threatened military “action” if alleged abuses were not addressed. The statement as reported across major outlets did not arise in a vacuum. It surfaced at a moment when narratives about insecurity in Nigeria, amplified by transnational networks and sympathetic political forces in Washington, had already gained purchase.

In such moments, a credible and well-placed ambassador can make an enormous difference — briefing congressional staff, arranging private meetings with State Department principals, convening diaspora interlocutors and think-tank experts, and getting the facts, context and data into the hands of decision makers. With a substantive ambassador absent, those lines of direct, high-level persuasion are far weaker.

Look back and you will see how effective envoys have been in previous crises. Nigeria’s ambassadors have repeatedly been the country’s first line of defence in moments of reputational peril. Joy Uche Angela Ogwu, who served as Nigeria’s Permanent Representative to the United Nations, chaired the UN Security Council and used that platform to shape debates about peacekeeping and African security, raising Nigeria’s profile at critical junctures. Christopher Kolade’s tenure in London helped restore confidence in Nigerian-UK relations in the early 2000s; his personal credibility smoothed rough political moments and opened space for trade and cooperation. And career diplomats such as Ade Adefuye in Washington combined scholarship with statecraft to keep complex bilateral channels open when tensions threatened to escalate. These are not anecdotal footnotes: they are evidence that skilled ambassadors change outcomes.

The facts of Nigeria’s current political economy make this vacuum all the more costly. Formal diaspora remittances rose sharply in 2024: the Central Bank of Nigeria reported that personal remittance receipts increased to about $20.9 billion in 2024 — a lifeline for families, a buffer for foreign-exchange reserves, and a major instrument of economic resilience. That stream of capital arrives and is mediated through embassies and consulates that service diasporas in the United States, Europe and the Gulf. Where missions are leaderless or under-resourced, vital consular functions suffer and diaspora engagement weakens.

At home, the macroeconomic and social context is thorny. Headline inflation after peaking in 2024 was reported to have eased to around 18.02% in September 2025, a signal of nascent stabilization but still a heavy burden for citizens struggling with the rising cost of living. Unemployment figures remain contested because of methodological revisions at the statistical office, but credible reporting and international observers warn that youth under-employment and precarious work remain structural challenges that require external partnerships (investment, skills exchanges, technology transfers) to address meaningfully. Ambassadors are key to courting that investment and to telling the nuanced story of reform on the ground.

So what precisely does Nigeria stand to lose and what could a full diplomatic corps still salvage?

First, influence in high-stakes bilateral relationships. The United States, the United Kingdom, China, the Gulf states and the European Union are not just partners; they are sources of investment, security cooperation and multilateral leverage. An ambassador with a direct line to Washington or Brussels can move quickly to protect bilateral programmes, reassure partners, and correct misrepresentations as past envoys have done during periods of acute scrutiny. The absence of properly accredited envoys reduces Nigeria to reactive press statements delivered from the Presidency rather than proactive personal diplomacy in the capitals that matter.

Second, the operational loss: trade facilitation, investor matchmaking and visa reciprocity. Nigeria’s spot at the table in negotiations over AfCFTA rules, digital trade norms, and technical cooperation is best defended by envoys who know both the domestic policy detail and the host country’s political rhythms. Several recent reports have highlighted how coordination problems between ministries and missions slowed post-summit follow-ups after presidential trips as opportunities erode faster than rhetoric.

Third, diaspora protection and remittances. Embassies are the interface for millions of Nigerians abroad. When missions are understaffed or run by officers with limited mandate, the timeliness and effectiveness of consular assistance from passport services to crisis interventions deteriorate. This is more than inconvenience. It damages confidence, reduces formal remittance channels and diminishes the state’s capacity to mobilise its diaspora as economic and political assets.

Fourth, reputational repair. Foreign-policy shocks stick. Narratives once set whether about corruption, insecurity, or human-rights violations become grist for activists, competitors, and foreign legislatures. Ambassadors are the corrective lens that present balanced data, context and counter-narratives. Without them, the field is left to town criers abroad and hostile networks who have incentives to amplify worst-case versions of our reality. The Trump episode is an instructive example: the designation and the rhetoric around it show how quickly international policy can be reframed by a small but influential political ecosystem.

This is not to excuse poor choices or to ask for haste without quality. Ambassadorial appointments must be meritocratic, transparent and strategic. Nigeria’s foreign service needs both seasoned career diplomats and well-qualified non-career appointees who understand the country’s reform agenda. Ambassadors must be given clear, measurable mandates: increase two-way investment by X percent within Y years; secure technical partnerships in health and security; deepen research and educational linkages; protect diaspora welfare; and actively manage national narratives in host countries. Those targets make appointments accountable and useful.

There are signs the presidency recognises the urgency. Reports in national outlets indicate that the administration has moved to finalise ambassadorial lists and that nominations are expected to be announced. If true, the moment is to get it right, but without turning diplomacy into patronage. A carefully selected diplomatic bench, empowered with clear objectives and proper resourcing, can begin the work of repairing lost ground and seizing opportunities.

Finally, a larger principle underwrites the immediate ask: diplomacy is national infrastructure. Like rail or broadband, it must be maintained lest the nation’s productive capacity shrink. For a country as large and consequential as Nigeria, diplomats are not expendable extras; they are assets of sovereignty. The choice to leave missions headless for too long is a strategic gamble that exacts real costs in economic, security and reputational.

The practical remedy is straightforward: nominate steadily, vet transparently, deploy decisively, and hold envoys to clear deliverables. But the moral case is as important: if a nation expects the world to take its reforms, its developmental aspirations, and its security concerns seriously, it must be present where the world decides. Silence in the corridors of influence will be read as absence of will. Nigeria cannot afford either.

A restored and purposeful diplomatic corps will not fix every problem. But it will restore Nigeria’s voice, the first indispensable step toward shaping the narratives that determine whether we are judged by our worst headlines or by our capacity to reform, to protect citizens, and to compete for the future. If the Tinubu administration is serious about the Renewed Hope Agenda, then it must treat ambassadorial appointments as policy imperatives, not political rewards.

Alabidun is a media practitioner and can be reached via alabidungoldenson@gmail.com