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.

ECOWAS at 50: A Golden Jubilee or a Crisis of Credibility?, by Boniface Ihiasota

As ECOWAS marks its 50th anniversary, the moment calls for more than celebration. It demands a sober reflection on whether the regional bloc founded in 1975 has truly lived up to its promise of integration, stability, and shared prosperity. Five decades after the Treaty of Lagos brought together 15 West African states in a bold attempt to reshape the region’s fortunes, the aspirations of unity and development now confront a landscape marked by deepening insecurity, uneven economic progress, and political fragmentation.

The founders of ECOWAS envisioned a region where borders would cease to be barriers to opportunity. Visa-free travel for up to 90 days, adopted early in the bloc’s history, was a major leap toward that goal. Over the years, ECOWAS also established the Trade Liberalization Scheme to reduce tariffs and encourage intra-regional trade, created the ECOWAS Court of Justice and Parliament to strengthen governance, and set up the West African Health Organization to coordinate public health responses. These institutions reflect the early confidence that West Africa could chart a collective path towards economic integration and political stability.

However, the data behind the region’s economic performance reveals a more complicated picture. Intra-regional trade remains low, hovering between 8 and 13 percent according to recent analyses, which places ECOWAS far behind other regional blocs where intra-community trade accounts for over 40 percent of economic activity. This persistent underperformance stems from structural factors such as poor transport infrastructure, cumbersome border procedures, and inconsistent regulatory frameworks. Even more striking is the extent to which official trade figures underrepresent reality. A joint ECOWAS–Afreximbank–UNECA study shows that a substantial portion of cross-border trade remains informal and unrecorded, especially in agricultural commodities. An OECD study further notes that when unrecorded food trade is included, more than half of West Africa’s food exports stay within the region, a sign that the potential for integration exists but is not captured in formal statistics.

Institutional weaknesses continue to undermine the region’s prospects. A recent study published by Springer found that differences in institutional quality, including governance effectiveness, transparency, regulatory consistency, and rule of law, account for more than 30 percent of the variation in intra-regional trade flows among ECOWAS states. Such gaps make harmonisation difficult and weaken the foundation for deeper economic integration. The much-anticipated single currency, the “Eco,” has suffered repeated delays due to divergent macroeconomic conditions, inconsistent fiscal policies, and political hesitations. What was once envisioned as a catalyst for regional trade has become a symbol of stalled ambition.

The challenges extend beyond the economic front. Security has become the most destabilising factor in the region. The Sahel, which stretches across several ECOWAS states, has become the world’s deadliest zone for terrorism. The 2025 Global Terrorism Index reports that the Sahel accounted for 51 percent of global terrorism-related deaths in 2024, with an estimated 3,885 fatalities out of 7,555 recorded worldwide. Nigeria alone accounted for 565 terrorism-related deaths in the same year, placing it sixth globally in terms of terrorism impact. Groups such as Boko Haram, Islamic State West Africa Province, and IS-Sahel operate across borders, exploiting weak governance, economic desperation, and political instability.

The withdrawal of Mali, Burkina Faso, and Niger from ECOWAS has further deepened regional vulnerabilities. These countries, once central to ECOWAS’s security cooperation framework, now move toward new alliances outside the bloc, reducing coordination on counterterrorism and leaving borders even more porous. Their military juntas accused ECOWAS of “inhumane sanctions” following coups, but their withdrawal has weakened collective security mechanisms at precisely the moment when regional cooperation is most needed. Without a coordinated front, peacekeeping operations become overstretched and less effective. ECOWAS has discussed plans for a new regional standby force, but estimates suggest it could cost up to $2.6 billion annually, a figure that far exceeds the current budgetary capacities of most member states.

Meanwhile, ordinary West Africans increasingly view ECOWAS as distant from their everyday realities. Despite the free movement protocol, harassment at borders persists. Economic challenges such as unemployment, inflation, and weak social services erode confidence in regional institutions. Many citizens question whether ECOWAS serves the people or political elites.

From the diaspora vantage point, the contrast is glaring. Those living in Europe, North America, or parts of Asia observe how strong institutions, rule of law, coordinated monetary systems, and responsive governance create functional regional communities. In such places, borders are not tools of intimidation, and integration is built on shared values rather than declarations.

As ECOWAS enters its second half-century, it must re-imagine its purpose with people at the center. The bloc needs stronger institutions capable of enforcing decisions and harmonising policies. It must modernise its trade systems, formalise cross-border commerce, and invest in digital infrastructure that connects markets. It must repair its fractured security architecture with both military and socio-economic strategies that address extremism’s root causes. And it must recognise the diaspora as a strategic partner — not just a source of remittances, but a reservoir of knowledge, capital, and global exposure.

The founders of ECOWAS dreamed of a region united in prosperity and peace. Fifty years later, that dream is still alive, but dimmed by the realities of fragmentation, insecurity, and institutional fragility. The golden jubilee is therefore not merely a celebration, but a call to action. If ECOWAS is to remain relevant over the next fifty years, it must transform itself from a bloc defined by declarations into a community defined by delivery.

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.