Insights
Reframing Nigeria’s Banditry Crisis: From Emotional Narratives to Strategic Clarity
Nigeria Banditry is once again trapped in a familiar and dangerous cycle: confronting a grave national security threat through emotionally charged narratives, partisan framings, and poorly differentiated solutions that blur the line between grievance and criminality. The armed banditry plaguing Northern Nigeria—particularly across the North-West and parts of the North-Central—has generated an avalanche of commentary for and against dialogue with bandits. While supporters of dialogue are often cast as well-intentioned, their opponents frequently argue that such a stance is insensitive to the victims of banditry.
This essay intervenes in that conversation. Its purpose is not to provoke a sterile debate between advocates of ‘dialogue’ and proponents of ‘kinetic action,’ nor to dismiss non-kinetic tools wholesale. Rather, it seeks to interrogate the assumptions, misdiagnoses, and conceptual errors that increasingly shape public discourse on banditry, often in ways that undermine Nigeria’s national security rather than strengthen it. What is urgently required is clarity of threat, precision of categorisation, and discipline in policy response. Banditry in Northern Nigeria is neither monolithic nor reducible to a single narrative of grievance. Treating it as such—through emotional understanding, ethnic profiling, or indiscriminate calls for amnesty—risks legitimising violent criminal enterprises, emboldening perpetrators, and eroding the state’s monopoly over the use of force.
I write neither as a passive observer nor as a theorist detached from the theatre of violence. Before entering public service, I spent over a decade as a journalist covering conflict and insecurity in Northern Nigeria. I later served as Spokesperson to the Government of Kaduna State and pioneer Commissioner of Internal Security and Home Affairs. For nearly a decade, I was a member—and later Secretary—of the State Security Council, actively involved in security operations, liaison between the Government of Kaduna State and security forces, coordination of intelligence gathering and internal security, among other responsibilities.
My work took me repeatedly into frontline areas: Birnin Gwari and its adjoining corridors; the forests and flashpoints of Zamfara, Katsina, and Niger States; and into out-of-reach locations in Chikun, Igabi, Giwa, Kajuru, Kachia, Kagarko, Kauru, Kubau, and other high-risk zones across the state and beyond. My submission is, essentially, a summary of the practical knowledge from my involvement.
Banditry in Northern Nigeria today is not primarily a grievance-based phenomenon seeking political redress. It is a violent, profit-driven criminal ecosystem that has evolved into a quasi-corporate enterprise, with diversified revenue streams, transnational arms supply chains, and entrenched leadership structures. To treat it otherwise is to misread the threat.
Banditry is not new to Northern Nigeria. Historical accounts trace cattle rustling and armed robbery as far back as 1891 around Dansadau, where some traditional rulers were accused of colluding with bandits. Cross-border criminality involving some Tuareg, Fulani, Gobirawa, and Asebenawa actors existed during the colonial period, but these activities were limited in scale and lethality, constrained by the absence of widespread small arms proliferation.
The contemporary mutation of banditry emerged gradually but decisively in the post-2011 period. What began as rural criminality—cattle rustling, highway robbery, and communal disputes—metastasised into mass kidnapping, village annihilation, sexual violence, arms and drug trafficking, territorial control, and many other challenges. The turning point was not merely grievance but weaponisation: the transition from sticks and swords to pump-action rifles and, eventually, AK-47s and other high-calibre weapons.
Scholarly work, including that of Dr. Murtala Rufai, identifies Alhaji Kundu and Buhari Tsoho (Buharin Daji) as architects of the first modern bandit gang. Their operations expanded rapidly across Zamfara and neighbouring states, eventually spawning over 120 gangs by 2021. Between 2011 and 2021 alone, these groups reportedly killed over 12,000 people, displaced tens of thousands, destroyed entire villages, and stole hundreds of thousands of livestock.
Crucially, the early victims of modern banditry were Fulani herders whose cattle were rustled en masse by bandits of the same Fulani extraction. Eventually, these legitimate cattle owners resorted to self-help by also acquiring low-calibre weapons to protect their livestock from being rustled by the bandits, as police and traditional rulers’ interventions failed and the authorities turned a blind eye—not seeing the dangers ahead and just perceiving the development as usual intra-Fulani herders feud. In return, because of their contacts and resources, the bandits started acquiring automatic weapons and overpowered these legitimate cattle owners and massively rustled their cattle. It also got to a stage where bandits were kidnapping these cattle owners and demanding herds of cattle or its equivalent in cash as ransom. Many cattle owners who had no herds of cattle to present nor money to pay as ransom were killed, and some of their daughters and wives were forcibly taken as sex slaves. This trend impoverished these owners, driving many of their kin to join banditry to recover stolen cattle. Others joined gangs like the ‘Kungiyar Gayu’ to demand pastoral unity and justice in response to cattle rustling, extortions, allegations of injustices by local traditional rulers, police partialities, politicians, local court corruption, and other abnormal practices that exposed them to extreme poverty without a source of livelihood. Some were also brainwashed by bandits to join banditry in the name of resisting a perceived agenda against their ethnicity in view of social discrimination and stereotyping.
As I have previously argued, the first main targets of Kundu and Tsoho’s gang were the legitimate Fulani cattle owners. Once they were finished with them, they turned to rustling the farming cattle (Shanun Huda) of Hausa farmers, alongside killings, kidnappings, gender-based violence of the Hausa women, confiscation of properties, and the destruction of farms. In response, Hausa farming communities formed volunteer groups, commonly referred to as ‘Yan-Sakai’ or ‘Yan-Banga’.
The excesses of these volunteers—generalising and categorising all Fulani, including herders who were also victims, as complicit—drew a dangerous ethnic battle line. The rural Fulani herders could no longer access towns and markets, while Hausa farming communities could not access their farms deep in the forest. Markets became inaccessible. Farms were abandoned. Forests became battlefields. This development set in motion killings and counter-killings, even as cattle rustling intensified. In the midst of this, kidnapping for ransom emerged, with bandits carrying out abductions and the ‘Yan-Sakai’ organizing counter attacks—excesses that affect the innocent based on shared ethnicity. This dynamic further compounds the crisis, as aggrieved innocents seek vengeance, since there is no justice system to dispense justice, while the bandits and ‘Yan-Sakai’ pursue their own, parallel cycles of retribution.
The ‘Yan-Sakai’ killing of a Fulani leader, Alhaji Isshe of Chilin village in Maru Local Government Area of Zamfara State—an event recorded as occurring on 16th August 2012—marked a decisive escalation. As Rufai noted in his thesis, they carried out the public murder on the accusation that he was harboring criminals and rustlers. Reprisal followed reprisal. What began as criminality hardened into an ethnicised cycle of violence, even as bandit gangs expanded operations against all communities regardless of identity. By the time the government acted, the criminality had become entrenched across several centres of gravity in Zamfara State and neighbouring corridors. Kidnapping and attacks intensified around 2013 and resurged in 2016 across Zamfara, Kaduna, Katsina, Kebbi, Sokoto, Niger, Plateau, and Benue.
A major obstacle to an effective response has been the tendency of some media sections to fracture the banditry narrative along ethnic and religious lines: one story for Zamfara and Katsina, another for non-Hausa communities in Plateau and Benue.
The criminality perpetrated by the bandits—for instance, in Benue and Plateau states—further ignited the long-standing farmers-herders, land-grabbing, and indigene-settler tensions and crises, which usually take on religious and ethnic dimensions because the farmers are largely non-Fulani Christians while the herders are Fulani Muslims. This escalation occurred despite a positive history of Fulani-Tiv and Fulani-Berom relations built on complementary farming and pastoralism over time.
The good side of Tiv and Fulani brotherhood was well captured by Akiga Sai (1898-1959) in his book ‘History of the Tiv’. The exact passage is: “Besieged with animosity from their neighbours, the Tiv pulled out from their neighbors, the Tiv pulled out from their midst and migrated north-east, if one uses a modern compass, until they met with another alien group called Fulani and mingled with them. The Fulani never troubled them by interfering with their way of life. They formed close bonds with each other. In case of any attack by another group, the Fulani would easily repel such an attack. The Tiv marvelled at the dexterity with which the Fulani fought and defeated aggressor ethnic groups and nicknamed the Fulani pul, meaning ‘conqueror’ in the Tiv language.”
Akiga Sai was a man of historic firsts. He was the first Tiv man to declare himself a Christian in 1912 and was among the first group of four to be baptised in 1917. He became the first Tiv to read and write, edited the first Tiv newsletter (Mwanger u Tiv) published by the Gaskiya Corporation, served as the first Tiv elected politician in the Northern House of Assembly, was one of the delegates sent to the London constitutional conference in 1953, and authored the first book ever written by a Tiv person. He completed the Tiv language manuscript for his book, ‘History of the Tiv’, in 1935. An edited English translation by Rupert East was first published by the International African Institute in 1939 under the title ‘Akiga’s Story: the Tiv tribe as seen by one of its members.’
In a separate 2016 article on Nigerian linguistics, the scholar Farooq Kperogi notes: “Again, although the Fulani and the Berom of Plateau State see themselves as belonging to the furthest poles of northern Nigeria’s political and cultural divide, especially in light of the recent internecine ethnic conflict in Plateau State, they not only belong to the larger Niger Congo language family (to which many languages in central and southern Nigeria belong); they actually belong to the same Atlantic Congo subfamily of the Niger Congo family.”
These historical and linguistic ties underscore how the contemporary framing of conflict along rigid ethnic lines is dangerous, one that bandits and partisan narratives exploit. Much as there’s a problem, the better part of the past can be used in reframing narratives to halt bloodshed and exploit the strengths of diversities and the ubiquitous of all humans.
Furthermore, the fact that banditry is perpetrated by criminals whose ethnic identity is traceable to Fulani has exacerbated the problem. I have argued elsewhere that, despite the symbiotic nature of banditry and farmers-herders conflicts, there is a fundamental difference between the two; and all parties (farmers and herders communities) are ultimately victims of the banditry perpetrated by these criminals and their collaborators who are driven by economics and terror. The book ‘The Root Cause of Farmers-Herders Crisis in North Central Nigeria’ by Plangshak Musa Suchi and Sallek Yaks Musa explores this problematic nexus in greater detail.
The media’s selective framing fuels polarization and obscures the underlying criminal logic that drives the violence. Banditry is not tribal or identity-based violence but a form of terrorism and criminality perpetrated by criminal elements who must be viewed and treated as such. Ethnic profiling weakens the collective battle against crime, complicates counter-banditry campaigns, and strengthens the bandits’ emotional narratives.
At its core, contemporary banditry is sustained by money. What began as cattle rustling evolved into a sophisticated criminal economy with multiple income streams: ransom payments, cattle sales, arms trafficking, illegal mining, protection levies, forced taxation, mercenary killings, drug peddling, and collaboration with transnational criminal networks across borders. Some kingpins transitioned from field operations into full-time arms dealing, supplying weapons not only to their own gangs but to other criminal actors. In certain forest corridors, weapons became easier to obtain than food. The accumulation of wealth allowed bandits to establish shadow governance structures in ungoverned spaces and thrive in their lucrative enterprise of crime.
Faced with mass casualties and public pressure, several state governments in the past turned to dialogue and peace accords. Early attempts at negotiation were documented, such as a reported meeting with the bandit leader Buharin Daji at Gobirawa Chali village in December 2016. Zamfara, Katsina, and others experimented repeatedly with negotiations, arms surrender ceremonies, and promises of reintegration. Key events include a peace agreement in Katsina on 15th January 2017, a major surrender ceremony in Zamfara on 16th December 2019, and another peace accord enacted by the Zamfara state government in 2019. Each time, violence temporarily subsided—only to return with greater ferocity.
Former Governor Aminu Bello Masari’s frustration was telling: peace accords rarely lasted beyond a few months. Bandits regrouped, rearmed, and resumed operations. In Kaduna State, an attempt to suggest dialogue was rebuffed, and the state maintained an outright rejection of negotiation—a stance hardened by major attacks in 2021 and 2022. This position stemmed from a hard-earned assessment: financially incentivised criminals have little reason to abandon lucrative violence. Dialogue is not inherently wrong. Its error lies in misapplication.
A central failure in Nigeria’s discourse is the refusal to distinguish between categories of armed actors involved in the banditry cycle. There exists a group of low-risk non-state actors: individuals who armed themselves defensively after suffering attacks from bandits or vigilantes, as earlier discussed. They do not engage in predatory kidnapping but in violence associated with the repercussions of attacks and criminality perpetrated by bandits. These actors and communities can be engaged through dialogue, disarmament, and state protection, alongside an emphasis on recourse to the law and the avoidance of stereotyping that creates chains of serial attacks and counter-attacks resulting in killings and displacement while banditry flourishes.
But there is a second group: heavily armed, profit-driven bandit networks responsible for mass killings as hired mercenaries; serial kidnappings of students, citizens and expatriates; cattle rustling; attacks on schools and hospitals to cripple education and healthcare service delivery; attacks and killings of worshippers at mosques and churches, as well as at markets, farms, and rivers during fishing; the burning of communities and territorial control; the displacement of communities; the enslavement of community members to run errands and service their logistical needs for petrol and food; and the conscription of others from these enslaved communities into armed banditry and other related crimes. They impose protection levies on communities and levies for the clearing of farms, farming, and harvesting. They engage in armed robbery, maintain informant networks that aid targeted kidnappings, and coerce communities to place their wards on routine sentry duty to report security force movements while forbidding them from volunteering information or responding to official inquiries—a directive enforced by the threat of execution. They are also involved in illegal mining, procuring and trafficking in arms and drugs, carrying out joint operations and fusing with ideologically based terror groups, attacks on critical national infrastructure, and gender-based violence, including the impunity with which they make minors and married women into sex slaves, and attacks on security forces—carting away arms and committing other forms of violent attacks for monetary gain and objectives that undermine national security and Nigeria’s sovereignty. These actors operate criminal franchises.
Appeasement or kid-glove approaches only strengthen them, as practical study shows they rush to embrace truces when weakened by the coercive power of the state, buying time to restock and rebalance their armoury. Within this category are those they conscripted; if these individuals surrender voluntarily and give up their arms, it should be honoured while they are profiled, further disarmed, and processed as guaranteed by law and protocols.
Advocates of dialogue often underestimate the intelligence advantage held by security agencies. Lawful interception, human intelligence networks, and post-operation verification provide a far clearer picture of bandit intentions than any forest-level engagement. For those familiar with security management trends, these capabilities provide intelligence agencies with crucial advantages. They enable the collection of real-time details and background intelligence on armed groups, putting strategic communications, tactics, and decoys at the agencies’ fingertips—all without the knowledge of the groups themselves or of the commenting public. Bandits stage theatrical performances for emissaries: choreographed displays of arms, rehearsed grievances, emotional appeals. These are psychological operations designed to conceal their real motive, which is fundamentally criminal and nothing more. What emissaries hear is not truth—it is an emotional narrative, as many advocates do not engage in post-intelligence verification that security agencies conduct and from which they glean actionable intelligence.
Nigeria has paid dearly for ignoring early warning signs: Maitatsine, Boko Haram, and now banditry. Each followed the same trajectory—dismissal, appeasement, escalation, catastrophe. Recent statistics underline the cost. According to a report issued by the National Bureau of Statistics (NBS) in December 2024, which calls for deeper reflection on the economy of banditry, between May 2023 and April 2024, the nation recorded more than 600,000 deaths from insecurity, with 614,937 citizens killed nationwide. The North-West had the highest figure with 206,030, followed by the North-East with 188,992, while the least was recorded in the South-West at 15,693. The Bureau, in the said report which has not been countered, added that 2,235,954 Nigerians were kidnapped and a total of ₦2,231,772,563,507 (approximately $1,438,040,707) was paid in ransom.
The report stated that the North-West remained dominant in Nigeria’s kidnap-for-ransom landscape, recording 425 incidents, or 42.6 per cent of total cases nationwide. The region also accounted for 2,938 victims, representing 62.2 per cent of all abducted persons. This report and the recent one issued by SBM Intelligence in December 2025 are worrisome, presenting a clear scenario and a sign that the nation must tread with caution.
Banditry in Northern Nigeria is not a misunderstanding to be resolved through sentiment and politicking. It is a national security threat that demands conceptual clarity, differentiated responses, and state resolve. Dialogue has a place—but only where actors are willing to genuinely disengage. Criminal enterprises masquerading as aggrieved must be confronted with lawful, proportionate, and decisive force. Nigeria’s future security depends not on emotional understanding, but on strategic honesty.
To move forward, Nigeria must formally abandon the tendency to treat “bandits” as a single category. A national threat differentiation doctrine should be adopted across federal and state security architecture, clearly distinguishing between low-risk armed non-state actors, who are defensive and grievance-driven, and high-risk entrepreneurial bandit networks, which are profit-driven, transnationally connected, and heavily armed criminal franchises. This distinction should guide who may be engaged, who must be disarmed, and who must be confronted with the might of the state. Without this clarity, dialogue and force will continue to be applied blindly, with counterproductive results.
Consequently, dialogue, reconciliation, and reintegration must be surgically applied, not morally universalised. Engagement should be limited to individuals who do not engage in kidnapping for ransom, do not command armed groups, have no history of mass killings or sexual violence, and are willing to submit to biometric registration, vetting, and monitoring. Such processes must be embedded within formal Demobilisation, Disarmament and Reintegration (DDR) frameworks, not ad hoc political expediency arrangements. Any negotiation with high-value bandit leaders constitutes strategic appeasement and should be reconsidered.
The bandit economy survives on cash flow. Therefore, payments by communities for “peace,” protection, access to farms, mining, or ceasefires must be officially discouraged because they are indirect terror financing and a source of oxygen for the crisis. Communities must be protected so that survival payments and ransom do not become their only option, and networks in communities involved in ceasefire payments or facilitation ought to be dismantled. Ending violence requires cutting revenue, and no line enabling or sustaining a revenue source should be taken lightly.
For entrenched, profit-driven bandit groups, force must be lawful, precise, relentless, and intelligence-led. Operations should prioritise command nodes, arms supply chains, logistics corridors, financial intermediaries, and forest-based staging areas. This is not collective punishment; it is targeted state enforcement of the monopoly of violence.
The Kaduna-bound train attack of 2022 and similar incidents demonstrate a dangerous convergence between bandit networks and ideological terrorist elements. Nigeria must treat this convergence as an early-stage insurgency risk, disrupt funding overlaps, shared training, and weapons transfers, and prevent bandit networks from evolving into full-spectrum terrorist organisations, as happened with Boko Haram. History shows the cost of ignoring this phase is catastrophic.
Bandits thrive where the state is absent. Security operations must be followed immediately by permanent security presence, the reopening of schools and health facilities, the restoration of markets and rural livelihoods, and the reinstatement of administrative control through courts and civil authority. Clearing operations without holding and governing will only recycle violence.
Furthermore, the state must lead a deliberate narrative reset. Official communication should describe banditry as criminal violence—a threat to the common good that must be addressed. Media framing that profiles entire communities must be actively discouraged, and law enforcement actions must be visibly even-handed. While community self-defence emerged from necessity, its excesses escalated violence. The security outfits being established by some states must be regulated and trained in human rights and rules of engagement, placed under clear legal authority, and held accountable for abuses. Unregulated activities compound the crisis and fuel cycles of attacks.
Nigeria’s history—Maitatsine, Boko Haram, now banditry—reveals a pattern of ignored warnings. Intelligence assessments must translate into early action, not delayed consensus. Political hesitation in the face of clear threat indicators must be treated as a national security failure. Prevention is always cheaper—in lives, legitimacy, and resources—than containment.
Finally, Nigeria must stop debating banditry primarily as a sociological misunderstanding. It is a violent criminal economy, and a threat to national security and all the negative consequences earlier discussed. The central lesson from the foregoing is simple: If emotional narratives continue to override intelligence, law, and experience, the country risks repeating the very mistakes that produced its gravest security catastrophes.
Obasanjo, Atiku and the Burden of Broken Trust, by Alabidun Shuaib AbdulRahman
In politics, alliances are often built on interests, sustained by necessity and destroyed by distrust. Few relationships illustrate this reality more profoundly than that of former President Olusegun Obasanjo and former Vice-President Atiku Abubakar. What began as one of the strongest political partnerships in Nigeria’s Fourth Republic gradually degenerated into one of its most bitter rivalries, leaving enduring consequences not only for the two principal actors but also for the country’s democratic evolution.
Their story is not merely about two ambitious politicians. It is a study of trust, betrayal, power, succession and the burdens of political ambition. More importantly, it explains why Atiku Abubakar, despite his enormous political network, financial resources and national appeal, has remained one of Nigeria’s greatest political nearly-men.
Politically, the relationship predates the return to democracy in 1999. During the military era, Atiku had become a leading figure in the Shehu Musa Yar’Adua-led Peoples Democratic Movement (PDM), arguably Nigeria’s most organised political structure at the time. Following General Sani Abacha’s death on June 8, 1998, General Abdulsalami Abubakar initiated a transition programme that opened the way for democratic elections.
As political parties emerged, the newly formed Peoples Democratic Party became the dominant platform. Within the PDP, Atiku was among the strongest presidential aspirants. He had built an extensive grassroots network through the PDM and enjoyed significant support among party delegates.
However, circumstances changed dramatically when former military Head of State, General Olusegun Obasanjo, who had recently been released from prison by General Abdulsalami Abubakar, entered the presidential race. Many influential political leaders believed Nigeria required a Yoruba president to heal the wounds created by the annulment of the June 12, 1993 presidential election won by late Chief Moshood Kashimawo Olawale Abiola.
At the PDP presidential convention held in Jos in December 1998, Obasanjo defeated Alex Ekwueme to secure the party’s ticket. Atiku, recognising the prevailing political mood, aligned with Obasanjo and reportedly mobilised substantial support from the PDM machinery for the former military ruler.
To reward both political loyalty and strategic value, Obasanjo selected Atiku as his running mate ahead of the 1999 presidential election. Together they defeated the Alliance for Democracy-All People’s Party ticket of Chief Olu Falae and Dr Umaru Shinkafi.
Initially, on what appeared a perfect political marriage, Obasanjo concentrated on governance and Nigeria’s re-engagement with the international community, while Atiku chaired the National Economic Council and the National Council on Privatisation. The vice-president became one of the principal architects of Nigeria’s economic reform programme, overseeing privatisation policies that fundamentally reshaped sectors such as telecommunications, banking and manufacturing.
Obasanjo’s military background inclined him towards centralised authority, discipline and firm control of government. Atiku, by contrast, was a consummate coalition builder whose strength lay in negotiation, consultation and political networking.
Interestingly, the first visible cracks appeared shortly after their inauguration. Several influential figures accused Atiku of maintaining an independent political structure outside Aso Rock. Rather than functioning merely as the vice, he continued nurturing relationships with governors, legislators and party leaders across the federation. For Obasanjo, this increasingly looked like preparation for succession rather than loyalty and by 2002, mutual suspicion had become impossible to conceal.
As the 2003 election approached, rumours circulated that Obasanjo considered replacing Atiku with another running mate. It was further rumoured that Atiku’s political associates equally questioned whether the President intended to honour what they believed was an understanding that power would eventually pass to the vice-president. Neither man publicly admitted the existence of such an agreement. The crisis intensified after the 2003 elections, which returned both men to office. The second term proved far more turbulent than the first.
Cabinet meetings reportedly became battlegrounds of competing interests. PDP leaders increasingly aligned themselves with either Obasanjo or Atiku. Government gradually transformed into two competing political camps operating under one administration.
Then came the defining episode. The proposed constitutional amendment that would have allowed a third presidential term for Obasanjo became the turning point. Although Obasanjo repeatedly denied personally sponsoring the amendment, many political actors believed forces loyal to him actively supported it. On the other side, Atiku vehemently opposed the proposal.
Going forward, on May 16, 2006, the National Assembly rejected the constitutional amendment, effectively ending any possibility of a third term. That single event irreversibly destroyed whatever trust remained between President and Vice-President. The aftermath was brutal.
Obasanjo publicly accused Atiku of disloyalty and corruption. The Federal Executive Council recommended investigations into allegations arising from the United States-based Jefferson bribery scandal involving former Congressman William Jefferson and Vice-President Atiku’s former wife, Jennifer Douglas. Atiku consistently denied wrongdoing and was never convicted of corruption either in Nigeria or the United States.
The administration also attempted to exclude Atiku from contesting the 2007 presidential election through the Independent National Electoral Commission, INEC, after the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission, EFCC listed him among politicians allegedly indicted for corruption.
However, in a landmark judgment delivered on April 16, 2007, the Supreme Court ruled that INEC lacked constitutional powers to disqualify candidates without a court conviction. That judgment remains one of Nigeria’s most significant electoral precedents. By then, however, political damage had already been done. Atiku had left the PDP for the Action Congress, contested the presidency against the late Umaru Musa Yar’Adua and finished third.
Since then, Atiku has contested the presidency repeatedly—in 1993 (Social Democratic Party primaries), 2007 (Action Congress), 2011 (PDP), 2019 (PDP) and 2023 (PDP)—without success.
Many factors explain these defeats, but the collapse of his relationship with Obasanjo remains among the most consequential. Since Obasanjo described Atiku as unreliable and overly ambitious, many Nigerians began viewing the former vice-president through that lens.
Perhaps the most quoted criticism came from Obasanjo’s 2019 public letter in which he wrote that “Atiku is not the person to entrust the future of Nigeria with.” Ironically, only weeks earlier, the same Obasanjo had publicly endorsed Atiku’s presidential ambition after reconciling with him under the Coalition for Nigeria Movement.
For Atiku, the consequences have been profound. The very networking ability that made Atiku indispensable to Obasanjo’s emergence in 1999 later became one of the reasons their partnership collapsed. Obasanjo reportedly interpreted Atiku’s independent political influence as a direct threat rather than an institutional asset. Trust, once broken, rarely returns unchanged, they say.
Although both men occasionally reconciled for political expediency, notably, before the 2019 elections, the warmth of their earlier partnership never fully returned. Ahead of the 2023 presidential election, Obasanjo endorsed Labour Party candidate Peter Obi instead of Atiku, reinforcing public perception that the former President had permanently lost confidence in his erstwhile deputy.
Even though to some extent, Obasanjo restored Nigeria’s global standing after years of military dictatorship and implemented significant economic reforms. Atiku played a pivotal role in driving those reforms and expanding Nigeria’s private-sector economy through privatisation and investment promotion. Together, they achieved more than either is often willing to acknowledge.
However, their fractured relationship offers broader lessons for Nigeria’s political class. Institutions suffer when personal distrust supersedes constitutional responsibility. Democracy weakens when political partnerships collapse under the weight of suspicion rather than being managed through dialogue and internal party mechanisms.
For Atiku personally, the Obasanjo years permanently shaped his political identity. He emerged as a formidable coalition builder, an indefatigable presidential contender and one of Nigeria’s most recognisable democratic figures. Yet he also carried the enduring burden of questions about loyalty, consistency and political trust—questions amplified by his multiple party defections between the PDP, Action Congress and the All Progressives Congress before returning to the PDP and now ADC.
Whether those perceptions are entirely fair remains debatable. What is beyond dispute is that the Obasanjo-Atiku rupture altered the trajectory of Nigeria’s Fourth Republic and influenced every presidential election in which Atiku subsequently participated.
As the ancient Roman philosopher Cicero observed, “Nothing is more noble, nothing more venerable than fidelity.” In politics, as in life, trust is difficult to build, easy to lose and almost impossible to restore. The Obasanjo-Atiku story remains Nigeria’s most compelling reminder that political alliances may win elections, but only trust can sustain leadership.
Alabidun is a media practitioner and can be reached via alabidungoldenson@gmail.com
Tinubu Takes the Bull by the Horns on Insecurity, by Alabidun Shuaib AbdulRahman
President Bola Ahmed Tinubu’s approval of a major restructuring of the Nigerian Army marks one of the most consequential security decisions taken by any administration since Nigeria’s return to democratic rule in 1999. On July 23, 2026, the Federal Government approved the expansion of the Army from eight to twelve divisions and authorised the recruitment of 28,000 additional personnel. The announcement immediately generated optimism among millions of Nigerians who have endured years of terrorism, banditry, kidnapping, communal violence and oil theft.
The significance of the decision lies not merely in its scale, but in what it represents politically and strategically. Tinubu has chosen to confront Nigeria’s insecurity through institutional restructuring rather than rhetorical promises. That is the essence of taking the bull by the horns. Nigeria’s security crisis is not a single conflict; it is a web of interconnected threats operating simultaneously across different regions of the country.
In the North-East, Boko Haram and the Islamic State West Africa Province, ISWAP continue to challenge state authority despite years of military operations. The insurgency, which began in 2009, has claimed tens of thousands of lives and displaced millions. According to the United Nations, more than 2 million people remain displaced across the North-East due to the conflict. In the North-West, armed bandit groups continue to terrorise communities in Zamfara, Katsina, Kaduna, Sokoto and in North Central’s Niger and Kwara states. Kidnapping for ransom has become a lucrative criminal enterprise. The South-East continues to experience separatist-related violence and attacks on security formations, while oil theft and pipeline vandalism in the Niger Delta continue to deprive the country of substantial revenue.
These overlapping crises have stretched military resources to their limits. For years, it has been argued that Nigeria’s military structure no longer reflects the country’s demographic realities or operational demands. Nigeria is now estimated to have a population of more than 240 million people, making it the most populous country in Africa. Yet much of its military architecture was designed for a smaller population and a less complex security environment. The threats have evolved, and the military must evolve with them.
Viewed from that perspective, the expansion from eight to twelve divisions is far more than an administrative adjustment. It is a deliberate attempt to decentralise military operations, reduce response time, improve logistics and bring operational command closer to emerging flashpoints. The restructuring is expected to establish additional divisional headquarters in Makurdi, Ilorin, Jalingo and Benin City, thereby giving the Army a broader national footprint and improving command efficiency across the six geopolitical zones.
Equally important is the approval of 28,000 new personnel. Manpower shortages have long been one of the Nigerian military’s most significant institutional weaknesses. Soldiers deployed in conflict zones often spend extended periods on the frontline with limited opportunities for rotation, a situation that affects morale, mental health and operational effectiveness. The recruitment initiative, first publicly disclosed by the Chief of Army Staff, Lieutenant General Waidi Shaibu, is intended to address that longstanding deficiency.
The economic implications are also significant. Nigeria continues to face a serious unemployment challenge, particularly among young people. The National Bureau of Statistics has repeatedly identified youth unemployment and underemployment as major socio-economic concerns. Recruiting 28,000 Nigerians into military service creates direct employment opportunities while also providing structured training, discipline and a pathway to stable income. In regions where criminal groups exploit poverty and joblessness to recruit young men, employment itself becomes a security strategy.
No nation has achieved sustainable prosperity without first securing lives and property. Investors do not commit capital where highways are unsafe. Manufacturers avoid areas threatened by violence. Farmers abandon fertile land when armed groups occupy forests and rural communities. Schools cannot function effectively where children fear abduction. Security is therefore not simply another government programme; it is the foundation upon which every other development objective rests.
Tinubu appears to understand this connection between security and economic growth. Since assuming office on May 29, 2023, his administration has increased defence allocations, approved the procurement of military hardware, strengthened intelligence coordination and encouraged domestic defence production through institutions such as the Defence Industries Corporation of Nigeria. The latest Army restructuring should therefore be seen as part of a broader effort to improve operational readiness and national security capacity.
Nevertheless, it would be intellectually dishonest to suggest that military expansion alone will solve Nigeria’s insecurity. It will not. The country’s security crisis is as much a governance problem as it is a military one. Poverty, unemployment, porous borders, weak intelligence gathering, corruption, illegal mining, proliferation of small arms, farmer-herder conflicts and inadequate policing all contribute to the prevailing instability.
A larger Army without stronger intelligence capabilities risks becoming a larger force reacting to attacks after they have occurred. Likewise, more soldiers cannot substitute for effective policing. Military forces are designed primarily for warfare, whereas internal security is traditionally the responsibility of the police.
This is where Nigeria faces a deeper institutional challenge. The United Nations recommends a ratio of one police officer to about 450 citizens. With a population exceeding 240 million, Nigeria would require well over 500,000 effective police personnel to meet that benchmark. Although the Nigeria Police Force has roughly 370,000 personnel on paper, the number available for frontline policing is considerably lower due to administrative deployments, VIP protection duties and other non-operational assignments. This shortfall explains why the military has increasingly been drawn into internal security operations that would ordinarily be handled by conventional policing institutions.
Financial sustainability is another critical issue. Recruiting 28,000 personnel is only the beginning. Training, accommodation, healthcare, salaries, pensions, weapons, vehicles, communication systems and continuous professional development require enormous and recurring expenditure. Establishing four additional divisions will also demand substantial investment in barracks, operational bases, logistics hubs and support infrastructure.
The Federal Government must therefore ensure that this reform is adequately funded beyond the initial announcement. Nothing undermines military morale more quickly than ambitious reforms that are not matched by consistent budgetary support.
Technology must also remain central to the new security architecture. Modern warfare is increasingly driven by drones, satellite surveillance, electronic intelligence, cyber capabilities, artificial intelligence-assisted analysis and precision operations rather than sheer troop numbers alone. Nigeria has already acquired various unmanned aerial platforms for counter-insurgency operations, but the effectiveness of the expanded Army will depend heavily on how well it integrates technology into intelligence gathering and battlefield decision-making.
Inter-agency cooperation is equally indispensable. Experience from operations in the North-East and other theatres has repeatedly shown that terrorism, kidnapping and organised crime cannot be defeated by a single institution acting in isolation. Intelligence sharing among the Army, Air Force, Navy, Department of State Services, Police, Civil Defence and other security agencies remains essential for operational success.
Public confidence is another factor that cannot be ignored. Citizens are often the first source of actionable intelligence. Communities will only volunteer credible information when they trust security agencies to respond professionally, respect human rights and protect informants from reprisals. Winning hearts and minds remains as important as winning military engagements.
Leadership often requires difficult choices. Expanding the Army at a time of competing fiscal pressures is neither politically convenient nor financially cheap. Yet insecurity has imposed even greater costs on Nigeria through lost investments, declining agricultural production, disrupted education, humanitarian crises and thousands of preventable deaths. In economic terms, the cost of inaction may well exceed the cost of reform.
Nigerians are therefore justified in demanding measurable results. Citizens will not judge this policy by the number of new divisions announced or personnel recruited. They will judge it by safer highways, peaceful farming communities in Benue and Plateau, secure schools across the federation, declining kidnapping incidents in the South-West, reduced oil theft in the Niger Delta and a restoration of public confidence in state authority. Those are the metrics that ultimately matter.
President Tinubu has undoubtedly taken a decisive step by approving one of the most significant military restructurings in recent Nigerian history. The move reflects strategic thinking and political courage. However, the journey from policy approval to tangible security outcomes is long and demanding.
Taking the bull by the horns is only the beginning. The greater challenge is maintaining the grip until the bull is completely subdued.
Nigeria now watches with cautious optimism. If this military expansion is properly implemented, professionally managed and complemented by governance reforms, intelligence-driven operations, police modernisation, border control and economic inclusion, history may indeed remember July 23, 2026, as a turning point in the country’s fight against insecurity.
The battle is far from over, but for perhaps the first time in many years, the nation can reasonably argue that its Commander-in-Chief is attempting not merely to react to insecurity, but to fundamentally redesign the architecture for defeating it.
Alabidun is a media practitioner and can be reached via alabidungoldenson@gmail.com
Nigeria’s Democracy and the Aluta Continua, by Alabidun Shuaib AbdulRahman
On June 12 every year, Nigerians are invited to celebrate democracy, reflect on the nation’s political journey and renew faith in the ideals upon which the country was founded. Yet beyond the ceremonies and speeches lies a deeper question: what exactly does democracy mean in the Nigerian context?
More than six decades after independence and twenty-seven years after the restoration of civil rule, democracy remains both an achievement and an aspiration. It is an achievement because generations of Nigerians fought, sacrificed and, in some cases, paid the ultimate price to secure the right of self-government. It remains an aspiration because the promise of democracy is yet to be fully realised in the lives of millions of citizens.
This contradiction explains why the phrase “Aluta Continua” continues to resonate. The struggle did not end with independence in 1960. It did not end with the departure of military rulers in 1999. It continues wherever Nigerians seek justice, accountability, opportunity and dignity.
The story of Nigerian democracy cannot be understood without revisiting the long road to independence. British colonial rule, formally consolidated through the amalgamation of the Northern and Southern Protectorates by Lord Frederick Lugard in 1914, created a political entity that brought together hundreds of ethnic nationalities under a single administrative framework. While colonial authorities justified their presence as a civilising mission, the primary objective was economic and strategic.
Nigerians were largely excluded from meaningful participation in governance, while political and economic decisions were taken in the interest of the colonial power. Resistance emerged gradually but steadily. Early nationalists recognised that political freedom was essential if Nigerians were to determine their own destiny.
Among the pioneers of this struggle was Herbert Macaulay, whose political activism laid the foundation for organised nationalism. He challenged colonial policies and inspired a generation of political thinkers who believed that Nigerians deserved self-rule. His efforts were later advanced by figures such as Nnamdi Azikiwe, Obafemi Awolowo and Ahmadu Bello, whose influence shaped the political landscape of the emerging nation. Azikiwe used journalism and political mobilisation to awaken nationalist consciousness. Awolowo articulated a vision of federalism, social welfare and regional development that remains influential today. Ahmadu Bello championed political modernisation in Northern Nigeria while seeking to preserve cultural identity within a rapidly changing environment.
The struggle for independence was not the work of politicians alone. Women, labour leaders, students and intellectuals played indispensable roles. Funmilayo Ransome-Kuti became a formidable voice against colonial oppression and social injustice. Margaret Ekpo mobilised women in the Eastern Region and expanded political participation beyond elite circles. Labour leader Michael Imoudu demonstrated the power of collective action through workers’ movements that challenged exploitative conditions. Anthony Enahoro’s historic motion for self-government in 1953 accelerated constitutional negotiations that eventually culminated in independence. These individuals represented different regions, ideologies and social classes, yet they were united by the conviction that Nigerians should govern themselves.
When independence finally arrived on October 1, 1960, it generated enormous optimism. The lowering of the British flag and the raising of Nigeria’s green-white-green banner symbolised the triumph of self-determination. However, political independence did not automatically translate into democratic consolidation. The years that followed revealed the difficulties of nation-building in a diverse society struggling to reconcile competing interests. Ethnic crises, electoral controversies and regional rivalries undermined the stability of the First Republic. The military coup of January 15, 1966 abruptly ended Nigeria’s first democratic experiment and ushered in a prolonged era of military intervention.
The consequences were profound. The Nigerian Civil War, fought between 1967 and 1970, tested the very survival of the federation. Although the war ended with the preservation of national unity, it exposed deep fractures that continue to influence political discourse. Military governments that followed promised order, discipline and development, yet their rule often concentrated power in ways that weakened democratic institutions. Successive regimes governed through decrees rather than popular consent. Civil liberties were restricted, political opposition was suppressed and public accountability diminished. While some military administrations pursued ambitious development projects, they could not substitute authoritarian command for democratic legitimacy.
Ironically, military rule also produced some of the most determined defenders of democracy. Throughout the 1980s and 1990s, journalists, lawyers, academics, labour activists and students confronted authoritarian governments. Newspapers challenged censorship despite the risk of closure. Human rights advocates defended constitutional freedoms despite harassment and imprisonment. University campuses became centres of political resistance. The slogan “Aluta Continua” became a rallying cry for citizens who believed that freedom required constant vigilance. It reflected a collective understanding that democracy was not merely a constitutional arrangement but a moral and political struggle.
No event illustrates this struggle more vividly than the annulment of the June 12, 1993 presidential election. Widely regarded as Nigeria’s freest and fairest election, the poll was won by Moshood Kashimawo Olawale Abiola, a businessman and philanthropist whose victory transcended ethnic and religious divisions. The decision by the military government to cancel the election triggered widespread outrage. Demonstrations erupted across the country. Civil society organisations intensified their campaigns. Pro-democracy activists faced detention, exile and intimidation. Abiola himself was imprisoned after declaring his mandate and eventually died in custody in 1998. His sacrifice transformed him into an enduring symbol of democratic resistance.
The restoration of civilian rule in 1999 marked a turning point. For the first time since independence, Nigeria began to experience a prolonged period of constitutional governance. Elections were held regularly. Political parties competed for power. Civil society expanded its influence. Courts increasingly became arenas for resolving electoral disputes. The peaceful transfer of power from one political party to another in 2015 was particularly significant, demonstrating that democratic transitions could occur without violence or military intervention. Compared with many periods in its history, Nigeria today enjoys greater political openness and civic participation.
Yet democracy cannot be judged solely by institutional survival. For the average Nigerian, democracy is meaningful only when it improves daily life. A citizen struggling with unemployment, insecurity, daily survival et al is unlikely to be impressed.
According to democratic theory, democracy is government of the people, by the people and for the people. In practice, however, many Nigerians perceive democracy as government of politicians, by politicians and for politicians.
Democracy, in its truest sense, must extend beyond elections. It must create conditions under which citizens can pursue their aspirations with confidence. It must guarantee equal protection under the law. It must ensure that public resources are used for public benefit rather than private enrichment. It must translate political rights into social and economic opportunities.
This is where contemporary Nigeria confronts its greatest challenge. Many citizens feel disconnected from the democratic process because they perceive governance as serving elite interests. Corruption continues to undermine public trust. Infrastructure deficits constrain economic growth. Insecurity threatens lives and livelihoods across various regions. Youth unemployment remains a source of frustration despite the country’s immense human potential. These realities fuel scepticism about whether democracy has delivered on its promises. They also reveal the difference between democratic procedures and democratic outcomes.
Nevertheless, abandoning democracy is not the answer. The failures associated with democratic governance are often failures of leadership and institutions rather than failures of democracy itself. History demonstrates that authoritarian alternatives rarely produce sustainable solutions. The challenge is therefore to deepen democracy rather than retreat from it. This requires stronger institutions, greater transparency, an independent judiciary, credible elections and active citizenship. It requires leaders who understand that public office is a trust rather than an entitlement. It also requires citizens who remain engaged beyond election day and insist that government remains accountable.
The freedom fighters who challenged colonial rule understood that independence was not an end in itself. They envisioned a society in which liberty would create opportunities for development, justice and national progress. The pro-democracy activists who confronted military dictatorship shared a similar belief. They understood that democracy was valuable not because it guaranteed perfection but because it provided the framework through which citizens could peacefully pursue collective aspirations. Their struggles remain relevant because the central questions they confronted have not disappeared.
Nigeria’s democratic journey is therefore best understood as an unfinished project. The country has travelled a remarkable distance from colonial subjugation and military authoritarianism. Yet the destination envisioned by generations of patriots remains ahead. The true meaning of democracy for the ordinary Nigerian is not merely the right to vote every four years. It is the assurance that government exists to serve the people, protect their freedoms and expand their opportunities. Until that promise is fully realised, the spirit of resistance, engagement and hope embodied in “Aluta Continua” will remain essential. The struggle continues not because democracy has failed, but because its highest ideals have yet to be fully achieved.
Alabidun is a media practitioner and can be reached via alabidungoldenson@gmail.com
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