These are anxious times in Oyo State. Across communities in Oriire Local Government Area, fear now travels faster than traffic and arrives long before dusk. The recent abduction of teachers and pupils along the Ahoro-Esiele and Yawota axis has shaken public confidence, but the reported killing and decapitation of mathematics teacher, Mr Michael Oyedokun, has done something far worse. His only crime was going to school to teach his students. And that has signalled to citizens that in parts of Nigeria, criminal violence no longer seeks to harm. It seeks to rule. Such brutality is not an ordinary crime. It is psychological warfare designed to terrorise communities into submission and convince citizens that, in certain territories, criminal gangs have become alternative centres of power.
It is against this backdrop that Governor Seyi Makinde’s reported willingness to listen to the demands of abductors to secure the release of kidnapped pupils, students, and teachers has reignited an old and uncomfortable debate: should governments negotiate with terrorists and kidnappers? Around the world, states often proclaim a doctrine of non-negotiation. The phrase, “we do not negotiate with terrorists”, has become a staple of official rhetoric, repeated so often that it appears immutable. The logic is straightforward. Paying ransoms or conceding demands rewards criminality, strengthens violent groups, and encourages future attacks. In 2013, the G8 nations reaffirmed their commitment to denying ransom payments to terrorist organisations, arguing that every concession motivates further violence.
However, reality is rarely as neat as doctrine. Past events reveal that governments frequently find themselves trapped between principle and human life. Faced with the imminent death of hostages, many states have quietly abandoned public rigidity for private pragmatism. The moral certainty of refusing negotiations often collides with the painful responsibility of bringing citizens home alive. This is the dilemma confronting authorities in Oyo State today. It is easy to proclaim strength from podiums and press conferences. It is far more difficult when terrified families await news of loved ones whose lives hang precariously in the balance. No governor wants to preside over the execution of schoolchildren, teachers, or innocent citizens because the government chose principle over rescue.
Nevertheless, negotiations conducted from a position of weakness carry grave consequences. Security scholar Audrey Kurth Cronin argues that dialogue with violent actors can only be effective when the state retains the upper hand. A government must negotiate from strength, not desperation. Otherwise, what emerges is not negotiation, but coercion disguised as dialogue.
The deeper issue, however, extends beyond the payment of ransom or the release of hostages. It concerns the very nature of state authority. Political theorists have long argued that the defining feature of a functioning state is its monopoly over the legitimate use of force. When armed groups can seize citizens at will, dictate terms to governments, restrict movement, and extract wealth through ransom, they begin to perform functions traditionally associated with power. The question then ceases to be whether the government should negotiate. The more troubling question becomes: at what point does the state begin to lose its monopoly of authority?
That distinction matters because recent events suggest that the government is increasingly reacting to insecurity rather than controlling it. Residents reportedly welcomed the armed attackers because they initially believed they were soldiers finally responding to repeated security concerns in the area. That reaction shows something deeper than the deception employed by the kidnappers. It reflects communities that had long desired a stronger security presence and felt abandoned enough to mistake criminals for rescuers. This raises difficult questions. Were there prior warnings? Were local concerns adequately addressed? Could preventive measures have disrupted the attackers before they struck? These questions are uncomfortable, but they are necessary because every successful kidnapping represents a failure somewhere within the security chain.
Nigeria’s security architecture also exposes a structural contradiction. Governors are routinely described as chief security officers of their states, yet they possess limited operational control over the police. A governor may identify threats, mobilise local intelligence, and coordinate responses, but the command structure remains centralised. Delays occur. Information travels upward before action travels downward. In security operations, such delays can mean the difference between rescue and tragedy. A Divisional Police Officer may be constrained by procedure while decisions move through multiple layers of command before operational approval is secured. Criminals, however, do not wait for bureaucracy.
This is where the conversation about community policing becomes unavoidable. No security system can succeed without local intelligence. Criminals do not emerge from the clouds. They move through roads, forests, markets, and settlements. They buy supplies, gather information, cultivate informants, and exploit vulnerabilities. Somebody almost always sees something before violence occurs. Across many communities, local hunters, vigilantes, and informal security networks often possess deeper knowledge of terrain and human activity than conventional security agencies. Their familiarity with local realities allows them to detect unusual movements and identify threats quickly.
However, intelligence without operational support is insufficient. In many cases, local responders lack the equipment, communication systems, and institutional backing needed to act decisively. Reports from the recent attacks suggest that early efforts by local hunters were hampered by inadequate ammunition and limited support. By the time reinforcements arrived, the kidnappers had already established control of the situation, with victims effectively becoming human shields. Once that point is reached, military and law enforcement options become significantly more complicated, leaving authorities with difficult choices between force and negotiation.
The result is a dangerous cycle. Ransom payments may secure temporary relief and save lives in the immediate term, but they also provide criminal groups with resources to sustain and expand their operations. Funds extracted from one community often become the financial oxygen for future attacks elsewhere. Governments understand this danger, yet they also face immense public pressure to secure the safe return of victims. The humanitarian imperative frequently collides with long-term security considerations.
The solution, however, is not to romanticise vigilantism. History shows that informal security structures, left unchecked, can become as problematic as the threats they were created to confront. Vigilante groups often emerge because of security gaps, but without oversight, training, and accountability, they risk evolving into parallel centres of authority. The answer lies in creating an integrated model where community intelligence complements professional policing and state-backed security operations. Local knowledge and state capacity must work together rather than exist in separate worlds.
Across other parts of Nigeria, locally created security formations have demonstrated what conventional forces often struggle to achieve: timely intelligence, community trust, and rapid response. They know the terrain, understand community dynamics, recognise unfamiliar faces, and identify suspicious patterns before crimes occur. Their effectiveness reinforces a simple truth: security is strongest when communities become active partners rather than passive observers.
Long before CCTV cameras and digital surveillance systems began to hang around our houses and offices, African societies understood this principle instinctively. The Yoruba captured it elegantly in the saying, Àdáníkànrìn ejò ló ń jẹ ọmọ ejò níyà; it is the snake’s habit of moving alone that exposes it to danger. Long before modern security theories emerged, indigenous societies understood a truth that remains relevant today: communities survive when information circulates, and vulnerability is shared. Security flourishes where communities remain connected, observant, and responsive. Isolation creates vulnerability.
Modern life has gradually weakened many of the communal bonds that once served as informal security networks. Neighbours no longer know one another as they once did. Suspicious movements often go unreported because people increasingly regard security as the exclusive responsibility of the government. Yet no government, regardless of its resources, can effectively police a society whose citizens have withdrawn from collective vigilance.
Nigeria also faces another challenge. We lack the extensive surveillance infrastructure that supports crime prevention and investigation in many developed societies. It is only a place that has a stable supply of electricity that can discuss CCTV coverage or other forms of digital monitoring systems. In their absence, the most reliable security assets remain human eyes, ears, and voices. This does not mean citizens should take the law into their own hands. Rather, it means they must become active participants in safeguarding their communities. Suspicious activities should be reported. Unusual movements should attract attention. Community leaders, residents’ associations, traditional institutions, religious bodies, and local security formations must collaborate rather than operate in isolation.
Sadly, as insecurity deepens, public attention is increasingly consumed by another familiar national ritual: politics. Old alliances are breaking, new loyalties are emerging, and political gladiators dominate headlines while citizens argue passionately over personalities and platforms. Amid these distractions, insecurity continues its relentless advance. While politicians compete for power, ordinary Nigerians continue their daily struggle against fear and uncertainty. Kidnappers do not ask for party membership cards before striking. Bandits do not distinguish between supporters and opponents of any government. Their victims are simply vulnerable citizens.
The government must undoubtedly do more. Security agencies must become more proactive. Intelligence gathering must improve. Communities must be better protected. And beyond these immediate responses, three reforms deserve urgent consideration. First is a rethinking of Nigeria’s highly centralised policing structure to allow for greater local responsiveness. Second is the institutionalisation of community-based intelligence networks that can serve as the eyes and ears of law enforcement. Third is sustained investment in surveillance technology, emergency communication systems, and modern crime-monitoring infrastructure capable of detecting threats before they mature into tragedies.
Citizens, too, have responsibilities they cannot outsource. Security is neither a government project nor a community project. It is a shared enterprise. When one side fails, the other becomes exposed. When both sides work together, criminality loses the secrecy and freedom it requires to thrive.
The immediate task in Oyo may be securing the release of those currently in captivity. The greater task is ensuring that future kidnappers never acquire the leverage to negotiate in the first place. Candidly, until then, every ransom paid, every concession extracted, and every negotiation conducted under duress will harshly tell Nigerians the uncomfortable truth that where criminals set the terms of engagement, the battle for authority has already begun to slip from the state’s hands.
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