A Late Fire Alarm, But Still A Fire Alarm

Femi Akintunde-Johnson

It has taken years of anguish, rivers of tears, and a proliferation of condolence messages to get us to this point, but here we are: President Bola Ahmed Tinubu has finally declared a nationwide security emergency. An emergency in a house already riddled with bullet holes may sound like a redundant proclamation, but Nigerians have learnt not to look a gift horse – or a belated presidential broadcast – in the mouth. What matters is whether this declaration, wrapped in stern rhetoric and patriotic appeals, marks the beginning of a genuine turnaround or is simply another item in the endless museum of governmental promises.

The President’s speech, on Wednesday, 26 November, 2025, was, by Nigerian standards, tidy and purposeful. For once, there were no riddles buried in metaphors. The message was clear: We are losing too many innocents, and the state is tired of looking helpless. Extra recruitment. Expanded police training. DSS deployment. Forest clearance. A nod to state police. A warning to bandits. A plea to the citizenry. One cannot fault the intention. Even his harshest critics would agree that something had to be said – and done.

But, as we have often asked in this column over the years: why do Nigerian leaders always arrive at the scene after the smoke has settled and the ashes are already cold?

Take the headline promise: an additional 20,000 police officers, bringing the total new intake to 50,000. One cannot deny the merit. Nigeria is grossly under-policed; Lagos alone has fewer officers than some London boroughs. Yet, the timing smells of a fire alarm pulled long after the building occupants have fled. Recruitment on this scale should have been underway since 2016, perhaps earlier. Instead, we indulged ourselves in VIP escorts, ceremonial parades, and “Operation Something” press conferences while villages were being sacked. Now we must turn NYSC camps – once havens for boredom and overpriced suya – into improvised police depots. Practical? Perhaps. Sensible? Likely. A little embarrassing? Without question.

Then, there is the order withdrawing officers from VIP guard duties. If implemented faithfully, this might be the most meaningful line in the President’s speech. For decades, security personnel have been assigned to the waistlines and egos of the powerful, leaving ordinary Nigerians to negotiate survival with God and their village hunters. Deploying these officers to actual hotspots is a rational move. But crash retraining within an already overstretched system has its own consequences: fatigued officers in dangerous zones, insufficiently debriefed, carrying both weapons and grudges. Let us hope this is managed with uncommon foresight.

The directive to the DSS to deploy forest guards is another potentially transformative idea. Nigeria’s forests are not merely lush landscapes; they have become sanctuaries for the deadliest elements of our insecurity equation – bandits, terrorists, kidnappers-for-hire. A well-trained, well-equipped forest guard unit could significantly disrupt these criminal networks. But it is worth recalling that we once had forest guards, rangers, game wardens and all manner of uniformed watchers until they were swallowed by the same bureaucratic incompetence that devours everything from refineries to research institutes. Will this new iteration fare better? Nigerians will watch closely.

In acknowledging states that have created local security outfits, the President opened another long-contentious door. State police has always been the unchewed bone in Nigeria’s federalism debate – desired, logical, yet feared. The President’s endorsement is politically consequential. But here lies the potential blowback: Without strict constitutional checks, some governors may be tempted to convert their policing units into private militias. Nigeria’s history offers enough cautionary tales. If the National Assembly takes up this review, it must design a system that protects citizens not just from terrorists, but from politicians with itchy palms.

The President’s admonition to states about boarding schools in remote areas felt like a quiet admission of the state’s incapacity. No one disagrees that vulnerable institutions need better protection, but suggesting a retreat of education from rural spaces risks compounding the problem. If children cannot learn safely in their communities, then the bandits have already won. Instead of moving schools, the government should ensure that the marauders cannot move freely. We can also embrace online classrooms for students in vulnerable communities – well, with infrastructural inadequacies permitting.

On the matter of worship centres requesting police presence, one could sense the exasperation of a President grappling with too many soft targets. Churches. Mosques. Markets. Funerals. Weddings. Every gathering is a potential ambush. But this advice, though well-meaning, further stretches an already thin security blanket. Unless the President intends to create a new battalion of “Sunday-Morning Police Volunteers,” this measure is unlikely to yield uniform protection.

The most controversial part of the speech may be the section on herder-farmer clashes. The President gently extends an olive branch, inviting herders to embrace ranching and discard illegal weapons. In principle, this is both rational and overdue. But we have heard this song before – from committees, panels, and well-financed “livestock transformation plans” that evaporated faster than morning dew. The risk here is simple: If the government does not enforce these directives with equal firmness across all regions, we will return to the dangerous narratives of ethnic favouritism. Nigerians no longer have the patience for selective justice.

Still, the President’s tribute to victims of attacks – and particularly the acknowledgement of Brigadier-General Musa Uba’s sacrifice – was a dignified touch. It reminds the nation that this war is not abstract; real men and women are dying to hold the line. But tributes, like emergency declarations, do not stop bullets. Implementation does.

Ultimately, the entire broadcast reads like a government jolted into action by the sheer scale of public despair. Nigerians are overwhelmed. They are tired of statistics, tired of condolence visits, tired of governors lamenting on television, tired of hearing that killers “will be brought to book.” They want safety, not speeches. Can Tinubu’s measures deliver that? If implemented with rigour, transparency, and a ruthlessness equal to that of the criminals, then yes, they could begin to shift the tide. But the battle is uphill. These policies are arriving late, in a nation where criminality has metastasised like untreated cancer. It will take months – possibly years – before citizens feel any palpable difference.

Yet, Nigerians are not unreasonable people. If they begin to see real movement – bandits flushed out, forests reclaimed, police presence restored, schools protected, hostages freed – they will respond with renewed confidence. But if this emergency becomes another ceremonial announcement, filed alongside “war on corruption,” “zero tolerance for indiscipline,” and other familiar declarations, the consequences could be dire. Public faith is already shallow; another disappointment may drain it completely.

President Tinubu has lit a fresh candle in a dark, windy room. Whether it burns long enough to illuminate a safer Nigeria depends entirely on what happens after the broadcast. Words have been spoken. Orders have been issued. Now, the real test begins.

For the sake of the innocent, may this not be another chapter in our long history of unfulfilled government proclamations. The nation can no longer afford such luxury.