There is something about Nigeria that troubles me deeply, and the closer we get to the 2027 general elections, the more concerned I become. Almost everywhere one turns, the conversations are about who will become president, who is defecting to which political party, who has secured the endorsement of a political heavyweight and which political alliance is likely to succeed at the polls. Politicians are moving from one meeting to another, campaign structures are being inaugurated, and supporters are already exchanging arguments over candidates whose manifestos many have not even examined.

I understand that elections are important. I also understand that democracy thrives on political participation, healthy competition and the freedom of citizens to choose their leaders. However, there is something fundamentally wrong when the excitement surrounding the next election begins to overshadow the suffering of the very people politicians are seeking to govern.

While we are busy discussing 2027, Nigerians are still being kidnapped. Families are still being displaced. Farmers are still abandoning their farmlands. Children are still growing up in communities where the sound of gunfire is more familiar than the peace every child deserves. And somewhere in this country, there are parents who have spent years waiting for children who left home and never returned.

What worries me most is not simply that these things are happening. It is the possibility that we are gradually becoming accustomed to them.

We hear that several people have been killed in a community, express our sympathy, condemn the attack and move on. A few days later, another incident occurs, and the cycle repeats itself. Meanwhile, the families affected by these tragedies do not have the luxury of moving on as quickly as the rest of the country. For them, the pain remains long after the headlines have disappeared.

I sometimes wonder how we arrived at this point. How did we become a society where the political future of one individual can generate more sustained public interest than the deaths of innocent citizens? Why do we spend hours analysing the political ambitions of people seeking office, yet struggle to maintain the same energy when discussing the security of ordinary Nigerians?

Perhaps we need to remind ourselves that behind every report of an attack is a human being whose life mattered. The farmer killed on his way to his field was somebody's husband, father or brother. The student abducted from school was somebody's daughter. The trader murdered on a highway had dreams, responsibilities and people who depended on his or her return.

These are not merely numbers to be quoted in a news report. They are lives that have been interrupted, families that have been broken and communities that may never completely recover.

When I think about insecurity in Nigeria, my mind often returns to April 2014, when 276 schoolgirls were abducted from Government Girls Secondary School in Chibok, Borno State. I remember the outrage that followed, the protests and the international attention generated by the Bring Back Our Girls campaign. Nigerians across different backgrounds demanded answers, and the world joined in calling for the release of the abducted girls.

More than twelve years later, the tragedy remains a painful chapter in our national history. Some of those girls have returned, but others remain unaccounted for. Their families have endured a kind of uncertainty that many of us can scarcely imagine.

Imagine sending your daughter to school, believing that education will give her a better future, only to spend years wondering where she is, whether she is safe and whether you will ever see her again. Imagine celebrating birthdays without knowing whether the person being celebrated is alive. Imagine watching other children graduate, marry and begin their adult lives while your own child remains missing.

No parent should have to endure such an experience.

Yet Chibok was not the end of school abductions in Nigeria. In February 2018, 110 schoolgirls were abducted from Dapchi in Yobe State. In December 2020, hundreds of schoolboys were kidnapped from their school in Kankara, Katsina State. Other attacks on educational institutions followed in different parts of the country.

These incidents occurred at different times and under different political circumstances, but they exposed a recurring weakness in our ability to protect some of the most vulnerable members of society.

I am not suggesting that the government has done nothing or that our security agencies have made no progress. Nigerian soldiers, police officers and other security personnel have made enormous sacrifices, and many have paid the ultimate price while confronting violent groups. Their courage deserves our recognition.

However, the continued occurrence of attacks should compel us to ask whether our security arrangements are sufficiently preventive, coordinated and effective. We cannot continue to measure security solely by the number of operations conducted or criminals arrested. We must also consider whether ordinary people can go about their daily activities without fear.

In the North-East, particularly Borno, Yobe and Adamawa, the consequences of insurgency have shaped the lives of entire generations. The activities of Boko Haram and the Islamic State West Africa Province have resulted in deaths, displacement and the destruction of communities over many years.

There are children in that region whose understanding of home has been shaped by displacement camps. There are farmers who cannot return to their communities because of persistent security concerns. There are families who have lost their sources of income, their homes and, in some cases, several loved ones to violence.

For people living under such circumstances, national development is not merely about the construction of roads or the announcement of economic reforms. It is about being able to sleep peacefully, send children to school and pursue a livelihood without constantly fearing an attack.

The situation in the North-West is equally troubling. Zamfara, Katsina, Kaduna, Sokoto and Kebbi have experienced repeated incidents of banditry, kidnapping and attacks on rural communities.

I still remember the March 2022 attack on the Abuja–Kaduna passenger train. Those passengers were ordinary Nigerians going about their lives. Some were travelling for work, others to visit relatives, attend engagements or return home. They boarded the train expecting to arrive safely at their destinations.

Instead, armed attackers turned that journey into a tragedy. Lives were lost, and several passengers were abducted and held captive for extended periods.

What happened on that train should have challenged our collective understanding of public safety. If citizens cannot travel confidently on major transportation routes, what does that say about the ability of the state to guarantee freedom of movement?

The problem of kidnapping has continued to impose an enormous burden on families across parts of the country. Beyond the immediate danger faced by victims, there is the financial and emotional distress experienced by relatives who must sometimes sell property, borrow money or exhaust their savings in desperate attempts to secure the release of loved ones.

And even after a victim is released, the trauma does not necessarily end. Some families spend years recovering from the financial consequences, while survivors struggle with memories of what they experienced.

I find it particularly painful that farmers in parts of the North-West have also been forced to abandon their fields because of insecurity. We frequently discuss food inflation and the rising cost of living, but we must recognise that a country cannot achieve sustainable food security when some of the people responsible for producing its food cannot safely access their farms.

The North-Central presents another heartbreaking reality. Communities in Benue, Plateau, Niger and neighbouring states have experienced repeated episodes of violence, including communal attacks, kidnapping and conflicts involving armed groups.

The June 2025 attack on Yelewata in Benue State was particularly disturbing. Human Rights Watch reported that at least 59 people were killed, citing figures from the state government, while other accounts placed the death toll considerably higher.

What makes such incidents even more distressing is that some of the victims had already experienced displacement. These were people who had fled insecurity elsewhere, hoping to find protection and some measure of stability.

How does one explain a situation in which people escape violence in one community only to encounter another attack in the place where they seek refuge?

I think about the mothers who survived and must now raise their children without their husbands. I think about children who may never again experience the comfort of being carried by their fathers. I think about elderly people who have spent decades building homes and communities, only to watch everything disappear within hours.

The violence affecting parts of Plateau State has also left deep wounds. Beyond the lives lost, recurring attacks have damaged trust among communities and complicated efforts to promote peaceful coexistence.

It is important to acknowledge that some of these conflicts involve longstanding disputes over land, resources, political representation and communal relationships. Their causes cannot always be explained by a single narrative. Nevertheless, no grievance justifies the deliberate killing of innocent civilians.

As politicians begin calculating the number of votes they hope to secure from Benue, Plateau and other North-Central states in 2027, I hope they will remember that these communities are made up of human beings, not merely electoral figures.

The South-West has also experienced tragedies that should remain fresh in our national memory. On June 5, 2022, worshippers gathered at St Francis Catholic Church in Owo, Ondo State, for what should have been a peaceful Sunday service.

They came to worship, pray and return to their families.

Instead, gunmen attacked the congregation, killing dozens of people and leaving others injured.

I have often wondered what it must have been like for the families who received calls informing them that their loved ones had been caught in that attack. Nobody should enter a place of worship wondering whether they will return alive.

The Owo tragedy demonstrated that insecurity cannot be treated as a problem affecting only a particular section of the country. The violence may take different forms across regions, but the suffering it produces is painfully similar.

When worship centres, schools, highways and rural communities become targets, the consequences extend beyond those immediately affected. People begin to lose confidence in their ability to carry out normal activities. Parents become anxious about the movements of their children. Travellers reconsider journeys, and businesses begin to adjust their operations around perceived threats.

In the South-East, the security situation has also caused enormous concern. The activities of armed groups, kidnapping networks and the violent enforcement of sit-at-home directives have disrupted economic and social activities in parts of Imo, Anambra, Enugu, Abia and Ebonyi states.

For a region renowned for its commercial enterprise, the consequences of insecurity are particularly damaging.

Imagine a trader who has invested years of savings into building a business but cannot confidently open a shop because of threats of violence. Imagine a commercial driver who depends on daily earnings to feed his children but cannot work because movement has become dangerous.

These circumstances gradually erode economic stability and weaken confidence in the future.

In August 2025, Amnesty International published findings documenting serious human rights abuses and violations in the South-East, reporting that at least 1,844 people were killed between January 2021 and June 2023 in incidents involving different forms of violence.

While the causes and circumstances of these deaths varied, the scale of the reported losses should concern every Nigerian.

Efforts to restore peace in the region must therefore address armed violence, criminal activity and the wider questions of justice and accountability. At the same time, security operations must respect the fundamental rights of citizens. Protecting society from violence should never become an excuse for unlawful conduct by those entrusted with enforcing the law.

Coming from Edo State, the security challenges in the South-South also trouble me personally.

For years, discussions about security in the Niger Delta have focused heavily on crude oil theft, pipeline vandalism and the protection of petroleum infrastructure. These issues are undoubtedly important because of their implications for Nigeria's economy.

However, the lives of ordinary people in the region deserve equal attention.

In Rivers, Bayelsa, Delta, Edo, Akwa Ibom and Cross River states, residents have experienced different forms of insecurity, including kidnapping, armed robbery, cult-related violence and communal disputes.

In some communities, business owners are concerned about operating late into the evening. Families are cautious about travelling along certain routes, and people whose livelihoods depend on waterways face the dangers associated with criminal activities.

I find it difficult to reconcile our aspirations for industrialisation, economic growth and foreign investment with the insecurity confronting some of our communities.

How do we attract sustainable investment when safety remains uncertain? How do we encourage agricultural development when farmers are afraid to work? How do we persuade young people to build their futures in their communities when the surrounding environment does not always guarantee their protection?

In Edo State, as in other parts of the country, discussions about infrastructure, employment and development must be accompanied by serious attention to community safety.

A society cannot build enduring prosperity where fear has become part of everyday life.

Looking across these six geopolitical zones, one thing becomes clear: Nigeria's insecurity is not uniform, but it is undeniably national in its consequences.

The insurgency in the North-East is different from banditry in the North-West. The recurring communal violence in parts of the North-Central has different historical and social dimensions from the security challenges in the South-East. Kidnapping, cult violence and organised criminal activities in southern Nigeria also require responses suited to their particular circumstances.

Yet beneath these differences lies a common reality. Nigerians are suffering, and the state has a responsibility to protect them.

What concerns me about the approach to 2027 is the possibility that political ambition will once again dominate the national conversation without sufficient attention to the security challenges that have persisted across successive administrations.

In 2015, insecurity was a major subject of electoral debate. In 2019, Nigerians continued to discuss the need for better security. By 2023, the conversation had become even more urgent in many communities.

Now, with another election approaching, similar questions remain.

This should concern us, irrespective of our political sympathies.

I do not believe it is intellectually fair to blame every security challenge on one administration or to pretend that complex problems accumulated over many years can be resolved through a single policy decision. Nigeria's insecurity is rooted in several interconnected factors, including institutional weaknesses, organised crime, poor intelligence coordination, social conflicts and economic vulnerabilities.

Nevertheless, the complexity of a problem does not diminish the responsibility of those in authority to address it.

President Bola Tinubu's administration, like those before it, must be assessed on the basis of its security policies, the effectiveness of their implementation and the outcomes experienced by citizens.

State governments equally have responsibilities within their constitutional powers, while the National Assembly must exercise meaningful oversight over relevant institutions and public expenditure.

Those seeking political office in 2027 should also be prepared to explain how they intend to address the country's security challenges, rather than relying on broad promises that are difficult to evaluate.

I have listened to political conversations in which supporters enthusiastically defend their preferred candidates, sometimes without giving comparable attention to the issues affecting ordinary Nigerians. In certain cases, criticism of government policy is interpreted as hostility towards a political party, while legitimate questions about security are dismissed through partisan arguments.

This tendency does little to improve the quality of public debate.

There should be no political disagreement about whether innocent Nigerians deserve protection. We may disagree about policies, strategies and leadership approaches, but the value of human life should never become a partisan issue.

It should be possible to acknowledge improvements in particular security operations while also drawing attention to continuing failures. It should be possible to criticise shortcomings without denying the sacrifices of security personnel. And it should be possible to demand accountability without turning the suffering of victims into an instrument of political propaganda.

That is the level of seriousness our democracy requires.

Another matter that deserves attention is the role of the media.

As someone whose academic and professional interests are rooted in Mass Communication, I understand the influence of news coverage on public perception and national priorities.

The media cannot determine everything Nigerians consider important, but sustained reporting can help ensure that critical issues remain visible.

As election campaigns intensify, there will undoubtedly be numerous reports about political endorsements, campaign councils, defections, alliances and public disagreements among politicians.

These developments deserve coverage. However, they should not completely displace reporting on insecurity, displaced communities, unresolved attacks and the experiences of victims.

Journalists must continue asking what happened after the cameras left a community that had suffered an attack. Were the perpetrators identified? Were investigations concluded? Did displaced residents receive assistance? Were promises made by public officials fulfilled? Have measures been implemented to prevent another tragedy?

These follow-up questions are essential because public accountability should not end with a press statement.

I am particularly concerned about how quickly some incidents disappear from public consciousness. We may hear that several people have been killed in a rural community, express our condolences and continue with our daily routines. But those who have lost relatives do not simply return to normal life because the rest of the country has moved on.

The absence of continued public attention does not mean their suffering has ended.

A widow may still be struggling to feed her children. A student may still be unable to return to school. A displaced farmer may still be waiting to recover his land. A family whose loved one was abducted may still be living with uncertainty.

These are the human consequences that can easily disappear when insecurity is discussed only in terms of casualty figures and official security operations.

And this is why I worry about the growing excitement surrounding 2027.

We are discussing who will govern Nigeria tomorrow while many Nigerians remain uncertain about their safety today.

We are calculating electoral votes in communities where some residents have been displaced.

We are discussing political structures in places where public institutions have struggled to guarantee basic security.

We are debating the future of our democracy while some citizens are living in circumstances that make meaningful participation in that democracy extremely difficult.

What does the right to vote mean to a person who cannot safely return to a community to participate in an election? What does political representation mean to families who feel that their suffering receives attention only after a major attack?

These are not arguments against democracy. They are reminders of the conditions necessary for democracy to have practical meaning.

The security and welfare of the people are recognised under Section 14(2)(b) of the Nigerian Constitution as the primary purpose of government.

I believe this provision should be displayed prominently in the offices of every political leader who seeks or currently occupies public office.

It is a reminder that governance is fundamentally about people.

Political power should not be pursued merely for the privileges attached to office. It carries responsibilities that affect the lives and dignity of millions.

The proposed establishment of state police, ongoing military operations, intelligence reforms and other security initiatives deserve serious examination. However, their value must be measured by their ability to protect people while respecting constitutional rights and democratic accountability.

We also need stronger criminal investigations, effective prosecution of offenders, improved border security, greater cooperation among security institutions and meaningful support for communities devastated by violence.

Economic and social interventions are equally important, particularly in locations where prolonged insecurity has destroyed livelihoods and weakened educational opportunities.

There is no single solution capable of resolving every security challenge across Nigeria's diverse regions. Effective responses must be informed by local realities, reliable evidence and sustained institutional commitment.

Above all, we must stop treating security as an issue that becomes important only when an attack attracts widespread attention or when politicians find it useful during an election campaign.

As I reflect on the tragedies Nigeria has experienced, I often wonder how many families are still waiting for justice.

How many children have grown up without parents because of insecurity? How many young people have abandoned their educational ambitions because their schools became unsafe? How many businesses have collapsed because their owners could no longer operate in the communities where they invested their lives and resources?

We may never fully understand the scale of these losses through statistics alone.

For the families affected, the pain is personal.

A child who loses a father does not simply lose a name on a casualty list. That child may lose a provider, a mentor and the person who once offered protection and reassurance.

A woman who loses her husband in a violent attack may suddenly become responsible for providing for a family under circumstances she never anticipated.

A community that loses its farmers, teachers and business owners loses more than human lives. It loses people whose contributions helped sustain its economic and social existence.

This is why every report of violence should disturb our conscience, regardless of where it occurs.

I sometimes imagine what Nigeria would look like if the same energy devoted to defending politicians were channelled into demanding credible security policies, transparent governance and justice for victims.

Imagine a country where citizens followed security developments with the same determination with which they follow political appointments and campaign activities.

Imagine if political leaders understood that Nigerians would examine their records on public safety as carefully as they examine their campaign promises.

Perhaps our national conversation would become less concerned with political personalities and more focused on the practical responsibilities of governance.

As we approach 2027, I am not interested in suggesting that Nigerians should abandon political discussions. We need those conversations, and we need an informed electorate capable of questioning every candidate seeking public office.

But we must not allow the excitement of another election to diminish our sense of urgency about the lives being lost.

The elections will take place. Political parties will present candidates. Campaigns will be conducted, votes will be counted, and successful candidates will assume office.

That is the democratic process.

However, some Nigerians who are alive today may never witness those elections because of violence. Some families may experience yet another tragedy before the first ballot is cast. Others may still be searching for missing loved ones when the next government is inaugurated.

That possibility should be enough to make every responsible citizen uncomfortable.

I think about the Chibok schoolgirls and the years their families have endured. I think about the passengers who boarded the Abuja–Kaduna train believing they would arrive safely. I think about the worshippers who gathered in Owo for a Sunday service. I think about the victims of violence in Benue, Plateau, Zamfara, Borno and other communities whose names may never be widely known.

I also think about the countless security personnel who have lost their lives while protecting the country and the families they left behind.

These people deserve to remain part of our national memory, not because their suffering provides material for political arguments, but because their lives matter.

Nigeria has experienced too many tragedies for us to become indifferent to another.

We cannot continue to measure the seriousness of insecurity by how long an incident trends on social media. We cannot allow political loyalty to prevent us from demanding accountability. Neither can we continue to speak of national development without giving adequate consideration to the safety of the people expected to participate in that development.

A nation is not made great merely by the number of elections it conducts or the sophistication of its political campaigns. Its strength is also reflected in the quality of its institutions, the protection of its citizens and the confidence ordinary people have in their ability to live without fear.

I want to see a Nigeria where a farmer can go to his farmland and return safely, where parents can send their children to school without anxiety, where travellers can move between cities without fear of abduction, and where worshippers can gather peacefully without becoming targets of violence.

These are not extraordinary expectations. They are the ordinary conditions of life that citizens should reasonably expect from a functioning state.

As political activities intensify, I hope those seeking public office will remember that the people they hope to govern are not merely voting figures, ethnic blocs or campaign supporters. They are human beings with families, aspirations and a fundamental right to security.

I also hope Nigerians will continue to ask difficult questions, not only of the government in power but of every political actor seeking responsibility for the nation's future.

The issue is bigger than any president, governor, political party or administration. It concerns the value we place on Nigerian lives and the seriousness with which we approach the responsibilities of government.

The 2027 elections will eventually become another chapter in our political history. Some candidates will celebrate victory, while others will accept defeat or challenge the outcome through lawful processes. Political alliances may change, and new administrations may introduce different policies.

But for families who have buried loved ones, the consequences of insecurity will remain.

Their pain will not disappear because an election has been concluded.

Their loved ones will not return because a new political party has assumed office.

And their demand for justice should not become less important because national attention has shifted elsewhere.

We must never become so consumed by the struggle for political power that we forget the people whose lives give meaning to that power.

As Nigerians prepare to decide who will govern them in 2027, I believe we must continue asking what is being done to protect those living under the government of today.

For a country that has buried too many innocent citizens, that question should never be considered secondary.

After all, what is the value of winning an election if the people you seek to govern are still struggling to stay alive?

That is the question I believe Nigeria must confront.

And until the safety of ordinary Nigerians occupies its rightful place in our national priorities, no amount of political excitement should persuade us that all is well.

Timothy Ekhueorohan
Media and Communication Scholar | Public Affairs Commentator
Sir Tim-Osa Media

www.sirtimosamedia.com