WHEN CRIMINALS NEGOTIATE WITH THE STATE

 Who is in charge? asks ABIODUN OLUWADARE

Nigeria is approaching a moment of truth.

Not because the country lacks soldiers. Not because it lacks weapons. Not because it lacks laws. Nigeria is approaching a moment of truth because millions of citizens are beginning to ask a question that strikes at the very foundation of statehood:

Who is truly in charge?

The question sounds provocative, but recent events make it unavoidable. A serving Major General, a senior officer of the Nigerian Army who dedicated his life to defending the nation, was kidnapped and subsequently murdered by criminals. Across the country, schoolchildren are abducted from classrooms, teachers are seized from their places of duty, travelers disappear on highways, and traditional rulers live under the shadow of violent threats.

These are not isolated incidents. They are symptoms of a deeper national ailment.

For years, Nigerians have been told that insecurity is being contained. Yet every week seems to produce fresh evidence that armed groups continue to expand their reach, improve their capabilities, and challenge the authority of the state.

The most troubling aspect of this crisis is not the violence itself. Violence has always existed in human societies. The real danger lies in the gradual transfer of authority from lawful institutions to unlawful actors.

In many parts of Nigeria, armed groups now influence where people travel, where farmers cultivate, where businesses operate, and in some cases, whether communities survive. They impose levies, dictate conditions, negotiate from positions of strength, and compel governments to respond to them.

This should concern every citizen. The modern state was created to ensure that no private individual or group exercises coercive authority over society. Yet Nigeria increasingly finds itself in the uncomfortable position of negotiating with those who openly challenge that principle.

The growing culture of dialogue with bandits may be motivated by practical considerations. Governments are desperate to save lives and restore peace. But every negotiation carries strategic consequences. Every concession sends a message. Every amnesty creates perceptions. Every rehabilitation programme raises questions.

The ordinary citizen asks a simple question: What lesson is the state teaching?

That law-abiding citizens should remain patient while criminals receive attention?

That violence is a faster route to relevance than obedience to the law?

That those who terrorize communities can eventually secure negotiations, incentives, and reintegration?

These questions may be uncomfortable, but they cannot be ignored.

Even more troubling are reports that some individuals who surrendered under various reconciliation initiatives later returned to criminal activities. Whether these cases represent the majority or a minority is not the central issue. What matters is the damage done to public confidence. A state that repeatedly forgives without demonstrating accountability risks creating a cycle in which violence becomes a rational economic choice.

The reality is that insecurity in Nigeria is no longer merely a security problem. It has become an economic system.

Kidnapping generates revenue. Illegal mining generates revenue. Cattle rustling generates revenue. Arms trafficking generates revenue. Extortion generates revenue.

Entire criminal ecosystems have emerged around insecurity.

This is why military operations, no matter how courageous, often appear unable to produce lasting solutions. Soldiers can destroy camps, eliminate commanders, and recover weapons. But unless the economic and political structures that sustain criminality are dismantled, new groups inevitably emerge.

Nigeria’s armed forces deserve recognition for the sacrifices they continue to make. Thousands of officers and men operate under difficult and dangerous conditions. Yet patriotism demands honesty.

The military is being asked to perform functions that extend far beyond its traditional role. It is fighting insurgents, bandits, kidnappers, oil thieves, separatist agitators, and organized criminal networks simultaneously. It is supporting election security, protecting infrastructure, and filling gaps created by weaknesses in other institutions.

No military can permanently solve problems that originate in failures of governance.

The uncomfortable truth is that insecurity is often a mirror reflecting broader institutional weaknesses. Where justice is slow, insecurity grows. Where corruption thrives, insecurity grows. Where unemployment rises, insecurity grows. Where political leaders prioritize power over governance, insecurity grows.

Weapons do not create insecurity. Conditions create insecurity.

As another election season gradually approaches, Nigerians must remain vigilant. Security challenges often intensify during periods of political competition. Political actors seek advantage. Narratives become weaponized. Public trust declines. While accusations and counter-accusations should be treated with caution, history teaches that insecurity and politics frequently intersect in dangerous ways.

The nation must therefore resist the temptation to politicize security while simultaneously demanding transparency and accountability from all actors.

Questions have also been raised about foreign military cooperation, particularly with the United States and other partners. Yet Nigerians must understand a fundamental principle of international relations: no foreign country will secure Nigeria more passionately than Nigerians themselves.

Foreign partners act primarily in pursuit of their own national interests. They may provide intelligence, technology, training, and support. But they cannot substitute for effective domestic institutions.

The responsibility remains ours. Perhaps the most alarming development is the normalization of fear.

A society enters dangerous territory when citizens begin to adapt to abnormal conditions. Parents now calculate the risk of sending children to school. Travelers routinely inform relatives before embarking on journeys in case they disappear. Communities organize self-defence arrangements because they are uncertain whether help will arrive when needed.

This is not how a normal society functions.

History offers a sobering lesson. States rarely lose authority overnight. They lose it gradually. First, citizens lose confidence. Then communities seek alternative protectors. Eventually, the legitimacy of state institutions begins to erode.

Nigeria is not a failed state. It remains a strong and resilient nation with capable institutions and enormous human potential. But resilience should not be mistaken for invulnerability.

The warning signs are becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.

The country therefore faces a strategic choice.

We can continue treating insecurity as a series of isolated incidents, responding to each tragedy with temporary outrage before moving to the next crisis. Or we can recognize the deeper challenge confronting the nation: the gradual contest over authority between the Nigerian state and non-state actors.

This is no longer simply a battle against bandits, kidnappers, or terrorists.

It is a struggle to preserve the very idea of the Nigerian state. And unless that struggle is approached with urgency, honesty, and strategic clarity, future generations may look back on this period and ask a painful question:

When the warning signs were obvious, why did nobody act?

Oluwadare is a Professor of Political Science at the Nigerian Defence Academy