The Thin Line Between Law and Outlaws

Femi Akintunde-Johnson

Two years into President Bola Tinubu’s administration, Nigeria teeters on the edge of normalising chaos. From the forests of Zamfara to the checkpoints of Ibadan, the geography of terror has expanded beyond the grip of ragtag insurgents and opportunistic kidnappers – it now includes the very agents sworn to protect us. The gruesome killing of 14-year-old Kehinde Alade by a trigger-happy police officer in Ibadan is not just an isolated tragedy; it is the metaphorical punctuation mark in a long, grim sentence of institutional failure. It reflects the deepening insecurity of a country where violence comes not only from the shadows but also from the uniforms of state. On this second anniversary of the Tinubu presidency, it bears asking: Are Nigerians any safer today than they were two years ago?

  The bullet that killed Kehinde didn’t fly out of the chaos of a robbery or an ambush. It came from the calm authority of a uniformed officer aiming at a tyre – yet hitting a child. No warning. No justification. Just another Nigerian life extinguished in a moment of state-sanctioned recklessness. The car had violated a traffic rule. The child inside had done nothing. But Kehinde became the latest victim of a growing Nigerian syndrome: armed enforcers too quick to shoot, too slow to think, and too rarely held to account.

  It bears repeating, with vehemence and sadness, that the Nigerian state has become an active accomplice – wilfully or by sheer negligence – in the weaponisation of violence, criminality, and now, the very institutions meant to protect its people. This is no longer about ragtag bandits on motorcycles terrorising Zamfara farmers or the AK-wielding herdsmen trampling over Benue villages. This is now about the official, trained, salary-drawing, boot-wearing agents of law and order who have transformed extortion into a vocation, and extrajudicial killings into muscle-flexing pastimes.

  Once upon a time, it was convenient to rail against the impunity of insurgents, kidnappers, and the cult of transactional terrorists ravaging the North-East and North-West. But the lines are now blurred – dangerously so. The same way we condemned the bread-seller in Kaduna for supplying loaves to kidnappers, we must now interrogate those who supply logistics, ammunition, and psychological cover to uniformed criminals hiding behind the law. There’s little difference between the audacity of Sheik Gumi holding court with killers and the silence of commissioners of police when their men slaughter unarmed civilians. Both gestures embolden evil.

  The Nigeria Police Force has earned itself a reputation that rivals a gangster cartel – only less organised. From casual bribe requests to full-blown torture, from endless illegal detentions to digital-age Yahoo-boy profiling, the police are no longer just failing to serve and protect; they are now the central figures in the theatre of national trauma. What we witnessed in Ibadan is not an outlier – it is an encore performance. It has played out in Ughelli, in Port Harcourt, in Lekki, in Kano. We have seen too many hashtags, lit too many candles, and buried too many dreams.

  The brutal irony is that the very instruments of justice are now manufacturing injustice at scale. In a country where thousands languish in detention without charge, and suspects are paraded on TV like hunted game, one would think the police would at least pretend to uphold due process. But no, these days, it appears the uniform is a licence to extort, a baton is a tool of coercion, and a trigger is an expression of frustration. Little wonder that victims are often warned not to “argue with police” – not because they’re wrong, but because they might end up right and dead.

  What’s worse is the culture of silence and systemic endorsement that follows. Officers caught in the act are often reassigned, suspended with salary, or subjected to ‘orderly room trial’ – a curious Nigerian invention that functions like a dry cleaner for soiled uniforms. And so, we go round in circles: blood, outrage, suspension, silence, repeat. No convictions. No precedents. No deterrents. Every dead civilian is another advertisement for impunity.

  And then there’s the government. The same government that, in 2020, promised police reform with the same passion it promised steady electricity, job creation, and one-dollar-to-one-naira exchange rate. We saw how that ended. The EndSARS protest wasn’t just about disbanding a rogue unit; it was about confronting an entire system of sanctioned oppression. Today, that spirit is flickering, but the problems remain vivid. New uniforms, same attitude. New IGP, same denial. New bulletins, same bloodshed.

  Of course, our leaders will issue a statement soon – somewhere between condemning and condoling. It will contain the usual platitudes: “The government regrets this unfortunate incident…”; “The culprits will be brought to book…”; “We urge the public to remain calm…”. Then it will be back to business as usual: more budget padding for security agencies, more convoys with sirens, and more young boys at bus stops subjected to random stop-and-search by men who can barely write a report.

  What we are witnessing is a full-circle failure – where justice is denied by both hoodlums and heroes; where the thin blue line has merged with the dark red of bloodshed; where the law enforcer has become the law breaker. And so, the bandit in the forest and the corporal at the checkpoint are now competitors in the same league of national insecurity.

The implications are dire. When the police become indistinguishable from the predators they’re meant to chase, who then protects the citizen? When the tools of state coercion are turned against the people, how do you distinguish a rogue from a representative of the state? It is no longer enough to speak in hushed tones. We must confront this menace as we would confront terrorism – because that is what it has become: a domestic form of terror, dressed in regulation black, armed with government-issued rifles, and decorated with faded rank insignias.

  To be clear, not every police officer is guilty. There are brave men and women in the force who still believe in justice and uphold the law with courage. But their voices are drowned by the silence of their superiors and the arrogance of their colleagues. Until the system is purged, the badge will remain a symbol of fear rather than trust.

  We must demand more than orderly-room trials. We must insist on public inquiries, open prosecutions, real jail terms for offenders, and compensation for victims. We must ensure that police training includes not just tactical combat but also civic education, emotional intelligence, and basic human decency. And above all, we must remember that a nation that tolerates this level of internalised violence is already halfway down the road to anarchy.

  As the Tinubu administration clocks two years, the death of that schoolboy in Ibadan must transcend tragic headlines – it must become a referendum on governance and accountability. It must ask hard questions of a government that claims to be reforming security while Nigerians are being brutalised not just by criminals, but by those paid to chase them. In a season of political backslapping and anniversary galas, Kehinde’s blood is a brutal reminder: insecurity is no longer a crisis on the periphery – it is now embedded at the heart of the Nigerian state.

Sadly, when uniforms lose their honour, bullets become ballots – and every corpse becomes a vote of no confidence in the state.