When citizens flee, not because of famine or flood but because the state has abdicated its primary duty of protection, the social contract fractures. A nation is built on the implicit promise that in exchange for loyalty, taxes and obedience to law, the state will guarantee security. When that promise is broken repeatedly and spectacularly, patriotism becomes a hollow appeal. It is difficult to ask citizens to love a country that cannot, or will not, defend their lives.
The two contiguous states of Niger and Kwara, and to some extent Kogi, have been at the short end of the security spectrum for long, witnessing killings and kidnappings for ransom without much searchlight beamed on them. Not until the attack on St Mary Catholic School in remote Papiri community in Niger State, where over 300 children and teachers were taken away, did we realise the overwhelming security challenge in that part of the country. It was soon followed by a bandit attack on a church in Kogi West, during which armed men kidnapped at least 13 people.
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And despite President Donald Trump’s Christian genocide rhetoric, the most brazen offensive against defenceless citizens took place. From mass abduction, the situation turned into mass massacre in Woro, Kwara State. In a predominantly Muslim community in Kaiama Local Government, a tragedy of insane proportions unfolded before our very eyes: the killing of over 200 residents on 3 February, making it the deadliest in years.
Note that in these parts of Kwara State, and the Kainji National Park, Ansaru and Lakurawa factions of Boko Haram also operate in competition, about which group causes maximum damage. In Kaiama Local Government, people were bound and executed. Others were set ablaze. When things settled relatively, the community spent days picking and preparing bodies for burial. It was horrific and gruesome, to say the least. Many were abducted too. The other day, the bandit-extremists had the audacity to show off those still in captivity and hopelessness, in order to convince the people of government’s incapacity and helplessness, and to demand ransom, of course.
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This atmosphere of fear and panic, the incessant threat and demand for money in millions, the inability of the Nigerian government to protect lives and property, led some of these communities to resort to the extreme measure of relocating to the nearby Republic of Benin. After two attacks in a week and orgies of violent killings in Borgu and Agwara local councils of Niger State, thousands of residents of Konkoso fled, an indication of a worsening security situation, humanitarian challenge, and the absence of concrete and purposeful plans for security and the resettlement of those displaced.
The exodus is an expression of the lack of faith and confidence in the Nigerian State. If citizens feel safer under a foreign flag, that government is outsourcing the responsibility of protection of its citizens. The government’s silence is against the principle of social contract between a nation state and its citizens, and an indictment of a defence architecture that is reactive rather than proactive.
Already there are over 3.7 million internally displaced persons in Nigeria, according to the UN, and most are at the mercy of non-state actors and NGOs. Rising attacks on rural communities and farmlands, as the senator from Niger State, Musa Sani said, are threatening food security, local economies, and broader national stability, as much as they are fuelling rural-urban migration.
He also expressed concern that repeated assaults on remote communities revealed gaps in intelligence gathering, coordination, rapid response capabilities, and sustained territorial security presence. He said the abduction of women and children had deepened the humanitarian crisis, inflicting lasting psychological trauma on families, while destabilising affected communities.
Therefore, it is not a surprise that thousands are fleeing these Nigerian communities to a safer haven in Benin Republic, where there seems to be government presence. For the senator, talk is not enough. He is in a position to mobilise support for troubled communities in his state. He should talk less and do more.
The psychological toll is incalculable. Children who should be in classrooms now grow up with memories of gunfire and hurried crossings into foreign lands. Their sense of belonging becomes fractured. Over time, this breeds alienation and weakens national cohesion. A country cannot thrive when segments of its population feel like refugees-in-waiting.
What do you expect from a place where police outposts are burnt down by terrorists, operatives flee the communities, while the terrorists have now set up base in Konkoso town? As a popular quote on migration by Warsan Shire says, “No one leaves home unless home is the mouth of a shark.” For the Konkoso people, their community had long ceased to be a place of comfort.
Left to their own devices, without any form of protection from government, it would be callous to blame these rural dwellers for taking the hard decision of walking away from their livelihoods, in search of succour and safety, one of the most basic human needs. But the consequences of that decision, forced as it is, extend far beyond the immediate safety of those who cross the border.
When citizens flee, not because of famine or flood but because the state has abdicated its primary duty of protection, the social contract fractures. A nation is built on the implicit promise that in exchange for loyalty, taxes and obedience to law, the state will guarantee security. When that promise is broken repeatedly and spectacularly, patriotism becomes a hollow appeal. It is difficult to ask citizens to love a country that cannot, or will not, defend their lives.
Their action is beyond humanitarian embarrassment; it is a profound political indictment. It signals to the world that sovereignty exists more on paper than in practice. Borders mean little when the state cannot exercise authority within them. If armed groups can overrun towns, burn security posts and hoist their own terror over public spaces, while lawful residents slip across frontiers in search of protection, then the idea of territorial integrity and national identity begin to erode in the minds of citizens themselves. After communities flee, and the terrorists occupy the space and entrench their reign of terror, imagine what happens next.
There are also grave economic implications. These are largely agrarian communities. Their departure leaves farms untended and markets deserted. Food insecurity deepens not only locally but nationally, feeding inflation and social unrest. Rural economies collapse, and the already strained urban centres absorb waves of displaced youth with limited opportunities. Idle, traumatised young people become susceptible to recruitment by the very criminal networks that displaced them in the first place, perpetuating a vicious cycle of insecurity.
Meanwhile, the near-silence of the government compounds the injury. There is no categorical reassurance, no bold recovery plan, no visible high-level engagement to restore confidence; just indifference. It is not considered a national emergency.
The psychological toll is incalculable. Children who should be in classrooms now grow up with memories of gunfire and hurried crossings into foreign lands. Their sense of belonging becomes fractured. Over time, this breeds alienation and weakens national cohesion. A country cannot thrive when segments of its population feel like refugees-in-waiting.
To rebuild, the government must go beyond rhetoric and do more. It requires a sustained territorial presence, the rebuilding of destroyed infrastructure, and a categorical commitment to the safe return and resettlement of these displaced persons. Anything less is a confirmation of the state’s total relegation of duties.
The abandonment and migration of these communities are being chronicled in history books. Someday, the story of a thriving Nigerian community in Benin Republic will be told as an indictment of today’s government.
This also speaks to the UN Secretary-General António Guterres’ view that migration is an expression of the human aspiration for dignity, safety and a better life. Yet, what does it say when that aspiration is pursued not across oceans in search of opportunity, but across a porous border in search of mere survival, but as escape?
It amounts to abdication of responsibility, and there is no better definition of a failed state than one that cannot guarantee the minimum condition of safety. That is how not to imbue patriotism in citizens, if ever they return.
If Nigeria is to stem the tide of outward migration born of fear, it must reassert its presence in these abandoned spaces, rebuild trust and prove that citizenship is not an empty designation but a bond that carries meaning.
Until then, every family that packs and crosses into Benin is casting a vote of no confidence in its own country. And that is a verdict no government should be comfortable ignoring, because it breeds a generational resentment that is far harder to heal than the physical scars of an insurgency.
A child who grows up in a refugee camp in Benin Republic, knowing that their home in Nigeria was a place of slaughter, while their government looked away, will never feel a sense of belonging to the Nigerian project.
To rebuild, the government must go beyond rhetoric and do more. It requires a sustained territorial presence, the rebuilding of destroyed infrastructure, and a categorical commitment to the safe return and resettlement of these displaced persons. Anything less is a confirmation of the state’s total relegation of duties.
Zainab Suleiman Okino chairs the Blueprint Editorial Board. She is a syndicated columnist and can be reached via: [email protected]
