Once upon a time, Kwara State was a land of calm, known more for its hospitality and agricultural promise than for the sound of gunfire. Today, that peace has been shattered, replaced by the echo of bullets and the cries of grieving families. From Oke-Ode to Babanla, from Agbonran to Patigi, the state is now a hunting ground for bandits, while citizens scatter like sheep without shepherds.
The death toll is grim. A dozen vigilantes, including the Baale of Ogbayo, cut down in cold blood. A police officer and four others slain in Babanla. Another police orderly gunned down while three of his colleagues were whisked away by kidnappers in Agbonran. A ward chairman, his son, and a villager murdered in Mari, while a 12-year-old child was dragged into captivity in Patigi. Six more lives lost in Edu, leaving a trail of widows, orphans, and broken communities. The numbers read like a war diary, yet this is no war zone. This is Kwara, the so-called State of Harmony.
It is said that when the shepherd sleeps, the wolves roam freely. The question before us is simple: where is the shepherd? Nigeria has a government, a Commander-in-Chief, a police hierarchy, and an army with generals. Yet citizens are fleeing their ancestral homes to become refugees in their own land. How can it be that under an elected government, people live in perpetual fear of marauders who arrive on motorcycles, kill, loot, and vanish into thin air?
The government’s response has been a broken record: condolences, promises, and calls for “increased deployments.” A governor calls for more soldiers. The Army orders a GOC to relocate. The police issue statements after every tragedy. But Nigerians have heard this song too many times, and the chorus no longer soothes the pain. When lives are lost daily, promises are not enough; they become salt rubbed into open wounds.
There is a saying that a stitch in time saves nine. Yet in Nigeria, the stitch often comes too late, when the fabric of society is already torn. Banditry in Kwara did not erupt overnight. The signs were there—sporadic attacks, abductions, and infiltration of rural communities. But the government turned a blind eye until the fire spread beyond control. Now, communities are left to their fate, forced to arm vigilantes who themselves fall in droves under superior firepower.
The irony could not be deeper. Vigilantes, who volunteer with little more than dane guns and raw courage, are being slain while the state that swore to protect them hides behind bureaucracy and excuses. What does it say of a government when villagers show more bravery than those entrusted with the nation’s vast security apparatus? Truly, the lion has been reduced to a paper tiger.
The killings in Kwara are not isolated. They form part of a larger pattern of insecurity that has become the new normal across Nigeria. From the forests of Zamfara to the highways of Niger, from the villages of Plateau to the farmlands of Benue, blood flows like a river while the government fiddles like Nero in ancient Rome. In a country so richly blessed, it is scandalous that citizens are hunted like game in their own homeland.
The government may argue that troops are overstretched, that resources are thin, that global crises are biting. But Nigerians are not buying these excuses. Security is not a privilege, it is a right. It is the first duty of any government. When a government cannot secure lives, its legitimacy comes under serious question. A nation that cannot protect its citizens risks losing not only its people but its very soul.
Banditry is not just a security problem; it is an existential threat to Nigeria’s unity and future. When people are uprooted from their communities, they lose not only their homes but their history, their heritage, and their hope. Children who grow up in fear cannot learn. Farmers who abandon their fields cannot feed the nation. Traders who run from markets cannot grow the economy. Insecurity is the termite eating away at the foundations of Nigeria.
Yet, amidst the despair, one must ask: why does the government appear so docile? Why is there no urgency, no visible determination to crush these criminals? Could it be that those in power have become desensitized to bloodshed, treating every massacre as just another statistic? If the house next door is on fire, should the occupant of the next house not pour water before the flames spread?
We cannot keep patching leaks with bare hands while the roof collapses over our heads. It is high time the government moved from words to action. Bandits do not drop from the sky; they travel, they gather, they hide in forests, and they sell stolen goods. With political will, intelligence gathering, and coordinated action, their networks can be dismantled. But without political will, all we will hear are speeches and press releases, while the killings continue.
The people of Kwara, like millions of Nigerians elsewhere, deserve more than condolences. They deserve protection, justice, and peace. The governor must rise beyond appeals and actively demand results from security agencies. The federal government must treat the bandit scourge as a national emergency, not a regional inconvenience. Security agencies must shake off complacency and prove that the uniform they wear is not just for decoration.
Nigeria cannot continue on this path. A government that allows its citizens to live in constant fear courts rebellion, mistrust, and eventual collapse. The time to act is now, before more blood is spilled, before more children are orphaned, before more citizens abandon their homes to join the swelling ranks of displaced people. As the proverb says, he who fails to chase the fox will one day find the henhouse empty.
The ball is squarely in the court of the government. Will it rise to the occasion or continue to play the ostrich, burying its head in the sand while wolves prowl the land? Kwara’s bloodstained fields demand an answer, and history will not be kind to those who had the power to act but chose to fold their arms.