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

Justice for Ochanya Ogbanje, by Boniface Ihiasota

In a country where injustice too often becomes routine, the story of Ochanya Ogbanje still stands out — haunting, unforgettable, and deeply symbolic of our collective moral failure. Hers is not just the story of a 13-year-old girl from Benue State; it is a painful reminder of what happens when society normalises silence in the face of cruelty.

Ochanya was a bright and hopeful student of the Federal Government Girls College, Gboko, until her life was brutally cut short on October 17, 2018. She died from complications arising from vesicovaginal fistula (VVF), a condition caused by repeated sexual assault. The perpetrators were not strangers lurking in dark alleys but they were family: her guardian, Andrew Ogbuja, a lecturer at the Benue State Polytechnic, and his son, Victor.

Reports later revealed that Ochanya had endured years of sexual violence under their roof in Ugbokolo, Okpokwu Local Government Area. When she finally broke her silence, her body had already borne more trauma than most could imagine. She was admitted to the Federal Medical Centre, Makurdi, where she died a few days later.

Her death sparked outrage. Nigerians, united by collective grief, demanded accountability under the banner of #JusticeForOchanya. Civil society organisations, women’s rights groups, and lawyers mobilised nationwide. For once, it seemed the system would act.

But seven years later, justice remains a mirage.

In April 2022, the Benue State High Court acquitted Andrew Ogbuja, the main suspect, of rape and culpable homicide, citing insufficient evidence. His son, Victor, remains at large. Their matriarch, Felicia Ogbuja, was convicted for negligence and handed a few months jail term, a slap on the wrist that mocked the gravity of the crime.

How does a case so clear, so public, and so painful collapse under the weight of “technicalities”?

The answer lies in a justice system ill-equipped to protect the weak. In Nigeria, sexual and gender-based violence is often treated as private misfortune rather than public crime. According to UNICEF, one in four Nigerian girls experiences sexual violence before the age of 18, but only 4.8 per cent of reported cases ever result in conviction. This statistic is not just a number, it is a damning verdict on our collective failure to protect children like Ochanya.

The legal process that followed her death exposed deep cracks in Nigeria’s justice architecture. Investigations were slow, evidence poorly handled, and witnesses inadequately protected. There were reports of institutional interference, procedural loopholes, and social pressures that diluted the pursuit of truth.

In a functioning system, child sexual assault cases receive priority attention. Evidence is collected within hours, witnesses are shielded from intimidation, and survivors (or their families) are supported with counselling. In Nigeria, the reverse is often the case. Victims are shamed, families are ostracised, and offenders are shielded by status or influence.

But beyond the courtroom, Ochanya’s story raises uncomfortable questions about our society. How many teachers, neighbours, or family friends suspected abuse but said nothing? How many community elders preferred to “settle it quietly”? Silence, in such cases, becomes complicity.

This culture of silence is what sustains impunity. The Child Rights Act of 2003 should have been our strongest weapon against such abuse. Yet, more than two decades later, 11 states, mostly in northern Nigeria have still not domesticated it. Even in states where it exists, enforcement remains weak. Without strong institutions and consistent public pressure, laws become mere words on paper.

From the Diaspora, where systems treat every child’s safety as sacred, it is painful to watch Nigeria stumble repeatedly over the same failures. In countries like Canada or the United Kingdom, a single case like Ochanya’s would trigger sweeping investigations, public apologies, and institutional reform. In Nigeria, it barely sustains public attention for a month. That indifference is deadly.

Justice for Ochanya must go beyond hashtags and memorials. It requires deliberate institutional reform from how police handle sexual crimes to how courts prioritise them. Benue State must reopen the case, locate Victor Ogbuja, and review the 2022 acquittal in light of fresh evidence or procedural lapses. The Federal Ministry of Women Affairs and NAPTIP must coordinate efforts to ensure that child protection is not just a policy goal but a daily practice.

Civil society must also remain vigilant. Organisations like WACOL, FIDA Nigeria, and The Coalition Against Rape and Sexual Violence (CARSV) have done commendable work, but they need sustained funding, collaboration, and public support to continue their advocacy.

Ultimately, justice for Ochanya is not about vengeance, it is about restoring faith in our humanity. Her death should provoke national soul-searching: how many more Ochanyas are suffering in silence across Nigeria today?

Every child deserves protection, dignity, and justice. The measure of any nation’s greatness lies not in its economic strength or political power, but in how it treats its most vulnerable.