Last week, I examined the fractured language of Nigeria’s crisis communication, where evasive admissions, ransom endorsements and miraculous tales of escape have become the syntax of our security failures.
This week, the contrast is stark. In Kaduna, Governor Uba Sani announced the release of 183 abducted worshippers, explaining that they were kidnapped during an attack on January 18.
Eleven escaped during the incident, while the remaining 172 later returned, some rescued by security agencies, others finding their way back on their own, according to the governor.
Meanwhile, in Anambra, Governor Chukwuma Soludo walked through Onitsha Main Market to declare an end to the sit-at-home ritual, reframing fear as economic sabotage and reclaiming the rhythm of civic life: “Today marks the end of sit-at-home in Anambra. Fear cannot govern us. Anambra is open for business, and the era of sit at home is over.”
The sit-at-home order in the South East did not arrive with the majesty of law or the solemnity of democratic debate. It crept in through whispers, threats and the shadowy decrees of separatist agitators who sought to turn fear into obedience. Mondays became days of paralysis.
Streets emptied, shutters closed, and markets that once bustled with trade fell silent. What began as a symbolic protest against the detention of Mazi Nnamdi Kanu hardened into a ritual, a coercive grammar where silence was the subject, fear the predicate and commerce the casualty.
For months, this order was sustained across the South East. In Enugu, Awka, Aba and Onitsha, the pattern was the same: traders stayed home, transporters parked their vehicles, and schools remained shut.
Government statements condemning the practice fluttered like leaflets in the wind, ignored, irrelevant. Citizens learned to read the language of fear more fluently than the language of law. Democracy itself was suspended, replaced by a syntax of silence.
Into this climate stepped Soludo. His decision to end the Monday paralysis was not merely administrative; it was an act of crisis communication. He understood that the grammar of terror could not be dismantled by decrees alone. It required a new vocabulary, firmness laced with reassurance, authority tempered by dialogue.
His words were backed by visible action: security deployments, direct engagement with market leaders and symbolic gestures that showed government’s willingness to stand shoulder to shoulder with traders in the marketplace.
At first, resistance was palpable. Market leaders hesitated, wary of reprisals and mindful of a fragile peace. Their caution was understandable; defiance had carried consequences before.
Yet Soludo persisted, speaking consistently, acting visibly and reassuring repeatedly. Gradually, the tide shifted. The reopening of Onitsha Main Market was not mere obedience to a governor’s directive; it was a collective reclaiming of agency, a declaration that free enterprise could no longer be held hostage by threats.
This is the Soludo solution: a deliberate rewriting of the grammar of terror through clarity of communication. It demonstrates that democratic leadership can dismantle coercive practices without alienating the people, and that markets, organic spaces of negotiation and coexistence, can become theatres of resistance against fear.
The traders’ shift from reluctance to cooperation is proof that when leadership steadies the ground, citizens reclaim their freedoms.
Yet even the press is not immune. My colleague, Philip Nyam, recently compiled headlines from Nigerian dailies reporting on the same event, the reopening of Onitsha Main Market.
The Guardian spoke of residents observing sit-at-home; The Sun declared traders shunned it; Vanguard lamented empty stalls; New Telegraph painted deserted streets; while ThisDay triumphantly announced that Soludo had ended the ritual. 15 headlines, 15 versions of reality.
This cacophony is telling: in times of crisis, journalism itself struggles to find clarity. Conflicting narratives do not merely confuse; they reinforce uncertainty, leaving citizens unsure whether to trust the governor’s assurance or the shadows of fear.
This is why Soludo’s clarity matters. In a landscape where the press oscillates between threat, reprieve and partial compliance, his consistent communication provided a stabilising narrative. He did not leave the story to be written by rumour or fragmented reportage; he wrote it himself, aligning words with action.
Other governors must learn from this. In Katsina, the grammar of terror is written in the language of “swapping”, villagers are abducted and exchanged like commodities.
In Niger, ransom payments have become a shadow tax, levied by bandits and endorsed by silence. In Kaduna and Kwara, kidnapped victims re-emerge with tales of miraculous escapes, stories that read less like reality and more like parables designed to soothe a frightened populace.
That is why the tragedy in Woro and Nuku villages in Kaiama LGA followed so soon after the Eruku incident. These shadowy communications deepen the crisis, leaving citizens adrift in a sea of uncertainty where the state’s voice is drowned out by whispers of terror.
Governors are not merely administrators; they are custodians of meaning in times of crisis.
Their words can amplify fear or restore confidence. Poor communication deepens alienation, as seen in Imo State during the violence of 2021, when contradictory statements left citizens unsure whether to trust the government or retreat into silence. In Lagos, the clampdown on the #EndSARS protests revealed how communication framed as a threat rather than dialogue can transform grievances into hardened opposition.
Soludo’s example suggests a different path. Crisis communication must be layered: part reassurance, part demonstration and part dialogue. It must be consistent, backed by visible action and sensitive to the psychology of the people. It must recognise that markets are not just economic spaces but civic arenas where democracy breathes. To silence them is to suffocate freedom; to protect them is to nurture peace.
The grammar of terror thrives when fear dictates the sentence. Soludo’s intervention shows it can be edited, revised and ultimately replaced with the language of dialogue and enterprise.
The alternative, clampdowns without persuasion, decrees without reassurance, only reinforces the very terror it seeks to erase.
Nigeria’s fragile democracy demands more than elections. It demands leaders who understand that communication is not spin but substance, not slogans but trust. In Katsina, Niger, Kwara, Borno, Plateau or Benue and beyond, governors must learn that crisis communication is as vital as security operations. To speak clearly, act visibly and reassure consistently is to rewrite the grammar of terror. To remain silent, contradictory or coercive is to let fear continue its reign.
In the end, the Soludo solution is not a magic formula. It is a reminder that democracy is defended not only in courtrooms or chambers of government but in marketplaces, schools and streets where citizens insist on their right to live, to trade and to thrive.
The grammar of terror can be dismantled, but only if leaders choose dialogue over decrees, persuasion over repression and consistency over contradiction. That is the responsibility of crisis communication. And in Nigeria’s democrazy, it may be the only punctuation strong enough to end the sentence of fear.
The Soludo solution reminds us that the grammar of terror need not be Nigeria’s mother tongue; with clarity, consistency and courage, leaders can rewrite the sentence of fear into a language of dialogue, enterprise and democratic resilience. This approach should be the correct syntactic structure whether applied in Alaba Market in Lagos or Sabo Kasuwa in Kano. It should be universally internalised.
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