On February 21, 2000, I was teaching at the Nigerian Defence Academy when the so-called Sharia crisis erupted in Kaduna. The first sign of the chaos came when two of my colleagues, visibly shaken, arrived after narrowly escaping an attack in Unguwar Sarki. Moments later, the academy gates were shut, locking us inside as uncertainty and fear took hold. We waited for hours. Eventually, a colleague and I decided to risk leaving through the back gate, hoping to find a safe path home. What we encountered on that journey was my first direct and harrowing confrontation with the brutal reality of communal violence.
At the time, I was drafting a PhD proposal on the military and democracy in Nigeria. That experience changed everything. I shifted my focus to what would become years of work on state and ethno-religious violence in northern Nigeria. Since then, I’ve worked in violent conflict zones and transitional justice processes in Rwanda, Liberia, Somalia and Nigeria. And one thing is clear: countries don’t collapse overnight; they erode under the persistent weight of unaddressed internal grievances and violence.
Nigeria’s journey since independence has been marred by cycles of violence, state–led, communal, and increasingly, criminal. Just six years after gaining independence, we descended into a brutal civil war. Decades later, conflict has become a defining feature of our national identity, with no region spared. From Boko Haram’s 15-year insurgency in the northeast to escalating banditry in the northwest and north-central, and historical farmer-herder clashes flaring anew. Violence is becoming a permanent feature of our national landscape.
Despite the return to democratic rule in 1999, the promise of peace and social cohesion through inclusive governance has not materialised. Instead, we’ve seen conflicts evolve in scale and complexity. Yet, what remains constant is the failure to bring any of these crises to a definitive close. We declared “no victor, no vanquished” after the Civil War, but the wounds fester, and we face a new rebellion and criminality in the southeast. Conflicts like Tiv-Jukun, Ife-Modakeke, and Zangon-Kataf still influence politics and intercommunal relations, and continue to erupt with little warning.
The Nigerian state appears increasingly overwhelmed, if not incapable, of effectively responding. Communities are taking matters into their own hands and arming vigilante groups, taxing themselves for protection, and losing faith in the state’s ability to provide security. With the escalating level of corruption at all levels, the situation cannot be more dire. When corruption and arms mix in such a context, collapse isn’t a question of if, but when.
More alarming is the growing chorus of prominent voices calling for self-help and community armament. While the frustration is understandable and the instinct to protect lives and property is legitimate, the widespread, unregulated use of arms is dangerous. It may offer short-term relief, but it ultimately deepens insecurity. We’ve already seen this play out. In several states, some of the most intense escalations of violence have stemmed from the unchecked actions of vigilante groups. Groups often formed with good intentions but lacking training, oversight, or accountability.
We must face the unpleasant reality that the Nigerian state has long lost its monopoly over the legitimate use of force. Today, the number of small arms and light weapons in the hands of non-state actors likely exceeds those held by our official security agencies. But the answer is not to match firepower with more firepower. More weapons will not bring peace. What we need is a new security architecture, one that is inclusive, community-driven, and anchored in legitimacy, not coercion.
Many Nigerians instinctively support military action as the default response to violence. While force may be necessary in some situations, it is clearly not sufficient. Despite massive investments over the past 15 years, military efforts have failed to deliver lasting security, not in the northeast, northwest, north-central, or southeast. This is not due to a lack of effort or sacrifice by security personnel. Many are doing their best under incredibly challenging circumstances. The problem is that our interventions are detached from the realities of the communities they aim to serve. Security responses that ignore the sociological and political economy of conflict will always fall short. Communities are complex. Their grievances are historical, structural, and deeply rooted. The military is not designed to resolve those kinds of issues. Until our crisis response strategies are built around people, not just territory or the interests of the powerful, we will continue to fight the symptoms, not the causes, of insecurity.
This is not an academic analysis of the causes or drivers of the situation. I’ve done that elsewhere. It’s a call for urgency and a radically different approach, not more of the same “kinetic vs. non-kinetic” policy talk but a participatory, bottom-up framework that brings citizens, not just the state, to the centre of the conversation.
It’s time for a single-agenda National Security Dialogue. Not another political talk shop but a focused, inclusive platform for action. One that convenes voices from all parts of society: traditional leaders, youth, civil society, academia, community actors, and yes, security professionals. We need fresh thinking and new societal and security architectures that reflect the realities on the ground, not top-down policies from disconnected offices. Ownership must shift to the people.
If we continue on this path, we risk a deeper crisis. The signs are there: Borno, Sokoto, Zamfara, Katsina, Plateau, Benue, and even the historically peaceful Borgu region are now battlegrounds. Some of these areas haven’t seen this scale of violence in almost three centuries. The escalation is real. And governments often believe they are in control, until they’re not. By then, it’s too late. Seeking help is not weakness. Vulnerability isn’t failure. But ignoring the crisis or mismanaging it is.
I fully acknowledge that a participatory process is often slow and complex, especially in a country as deeply fractured as Nigeria. But to survive this moment and shape a different future, we must find ways to bring people together and give them ownership of the solutions. This is not a burden the government can carry alone. Every segment of society has a role to play in confronting what is clearly an existential national crisis.
Civil society organisations must begin to organise around national security, not just elections. Retired public servants, military generals, academics, and labour unions must realign their focus and energies toward building a collective response to insecurity. The state-led, militarist approach has failed us. The security agencies are doing their best with the prevailing context, but their best has not been good enough to tame the situation. Conflicts across Africa, from Somalia to Congo, South Sudan to the Central African Republic, and across the Central Sahel, reveal the dangers of protracted, fratricidal crises.
We must act now, while we still have a semblance of government in Abuja and the state capitals. Many communities have already collapsed, and in too many places, the state has either been overwhelmed by violence or has simply abdicated its responsibility. We cannot afford to pretend anymore. The warning signs are unmistakable. The cracks are widening. And unless we respond with urgency, unity, and imagination, we may lose what remains of the state.
Dr. Hussaini Abdu is an international development and humanitarian specialist based in Abuja
