Prince Charles Dickson, PhD

A country’s security is not measured by the number of uniforms on the road. It is measured by whether an ordinary mother can sleep without one ear open, whether a trader can return from the market without rehearsing ransom instructions in her head, whether a doctor can drive to an emergency without praying not to meet a checkpoint more dangerous than the patient he is trying to save.

Nigeria today has security everywhere and safety nowhere.

That is the paradox. We have the architecture of force, but not the confidence of protection. We have commands, theatres, operations, task forces, and an alphabet soup of interventions. Yet for many citizens, insecurity still arrives first, and the state arrives later, sometimes not at all. Even the federal government has repeatedly acknowledged that the police ought to be the frontline institution for internal security, and that modern policing requires better training, technology, and professionalism. It has also admitted that police training facilities have fallen into serious dilapidation and need an overhaul.

So, the question is no longer whether Nigeria has security institutions. It does. The more uncomfortable question is whether the current federal policing model, as designed and practised, is still fit for the country we have become.

The Nigeria Police Force remains a centrally commanded institution, with authority cascading from the Inspector-General through Deputy Inspectors-General, Assistant Inspectors-General, Commissioners, and downward through the ranks. Administratively, it is split into eight departments. On paper, that looks orderly, neat, even reassuring. But Nigeria is not a paper country. It is a noisy federation of griefs, distances, fractures, ambitions, and emergencies. A chain of command that may satisfy legal elegance can also produce operational remoteness, delayed responsiveness, and a politics of policing in which local pain must wait for federal mood.

This is where the politics begins.

Who does the police truly serve in practice: the republic, the constitution, the citizen, or the powerful? That question hurts because Nigerians already know the answer in their bones. More than 100,000 officers are reportedly assigned to VIP protection out of an estimated 371,800 personnel. That means a startling share of police manpower is concentrated around the elite while ordinary communities make do with thin patrols, slow response, and the old folklore of “call anybody you know.” In effect, the state has built a two-tier policing culture: one for those with sirens, another for those with silence.

And when public policing weakens, Nigeria reaches reflexively for the military.

That too has become normal, and that is precisely the problem. The country now lives under a strange internal-security arrangement in which police are constitutionally primary, but the military increasingly occupies the emotional and operational space of first responder. Analysts have described this as a role lost to the military: a situation in which soldiers are overstretched, police are underpowered, and the public is trapped in a dangerous vacuum between both. New task forces and command theatres may project action, but they can also conceal a deeper institutional confession: that the police have not been built to carry the burden of modern internal security.

This is why I remain cautious when the state celebrates “combined operations,” “joint architecture,” and the multiplication of theatres. Coordination is necessary, yes. But coordination is not the same thing as competence. A nation cannot keep responding to civil insecurity as though every problem is a battlefield problem. Kidnapping, urban crime, community violence, organised extortion, digital fraud, and intelligence-led prevention all require policing that is forensic, local, trusted, and fast. The 21st century does not only ask for men with rifles. It asks for institutions with memory, data, integrity, and legitimacy.

And legitimacy is expensive.

You cannot demand ethical policing from men and women whom the system has abandoned to shabby welfare, poor housing, weak equipment, and thinning morale. Reuters reported in late 2025 that a low-ranking police officer earned about ₦80,000 monthly net pay. Around the same period, former IGP Mike Okiro publicly warned that economic hardship, poor welfare, and years of neglect were crippling police morale. An investigation by The ICIR in February 2026 described dilapidated barracks in Lagos where police families live inside cracked, ageing buildings that are tragedies waiting to happen. This is not merely a welfare issue. It is a security issue. A poorly paid, poorly housed, poorly equipped officer is not just vulnerable. He is recruitable by temptation.

So, is state police the answer?

Maybe. But only maybe.

The argument for state police is no longer fringe. In February 2024, federal and state authorities publicly agreed on the need for state police as insecurity worsened. As of March 1, 2026, the Senate says it intends to complete the constitutional amendment for state police before the end of the year, while also discussing safeguards against abuse by governors. That last phrase matters. Because state police can become either the localisation of safety or the localisation of tyranny. In the hands of disciplined constitutionalism, it may deepen community intelligence, faster response, and contextual policing. In the hands of bad politics, it could become a uniform errand boy for governors, godfathers, and vendetta.

So, let us not romanticise decentralisation. A broken institution does not become healthy merely by being copied 36 times.

State police without safeguards, independent oversight, diversity protections, judicial remedies, professional standards, and funding clarity may only decentralise abuse. Yet federal policing without radical reform has already produced a structure too centralised to feel local, too politicised to feel neutral, and too stretched to feel present. That is the Nigerian trap: the old model is failing, but the new model can also fail if designed as another elite bargain.

The real issue, then, is deeper than federal versus state. It is whether Nigeria truly wants citizen-centred policing or merely a rearrangement of command.

For years, we have treated the police as a ceremonial symbol, a regime accessory, or a checkpoint economy. We post them at politicians’ gates, attach them to convoys, and then act surprised when villages, highways, schools, and neighbourhoods feel abandoned. We invoke reform, but often mean procurement. We invoke modernisation, but often mean new uniforms and fresh rhetoric. Yet even the Presidency has admitted that true reform goes beyond repainting buildings or buying weapons. It requires a fundamental overhaul of institutional mentality and memory. That, perhaps, is the most honest sentence said about the police in recent years.

How secure is Nigeria?

Not secure enough to keep pretending that force projection is the same as public safety.

Until the police are rebuilt as a serious, modern, welfare-backed, intelligence-driven, citizen-facing institution, we will keep living inside a republic where the hierarchy is protected, the theatres are busy, the communiqués are polished, and the people remain one phone call away from abandonment—May Nigeria win!

By Blaise Udunze

Governance is not complicated. It is about people and the resources entrusted to serve them. When resources are managed wisely, the people prosper, and prosperity spreads. Mismanage them, and poverty multiplies. Nigeria’s tragedy is not scarcity. It is stewardship.

For decades, Nigeria, described as Africa’s largest oil producer, has earned hundreds of billions of dollars, yet remains home to some of the world’s poorest citizens. That contradiction is not accidental. It is systemic. It reflects policy distortion, institutional weakness, and a culture of impunity that has too often treated public wealth as political spoils rather than a national trust.

The Abuja-based Independent Media and Policy Initiative (IMPI) recently captured this paradox bluntly by saying, Nigeria’s poverty crisis is not the result of inadequate resources, but of persistent failure to manage them prudently and sustainably. It described the crisis as a “self-inflicted economic malady.” That phrase should trouble every public official.

Between 1980 and 2015, Nigeria rode multiple oil booms. Instead of converting windfalls into diversified productivity, the country succumbed to what economists call the Dutch disease. Oil revenues surged. The naira appreciated. Imports became cheaper. Domestic production became uncompetitive. Agriculture declined. Manufacturing withered.

IMPI’s analysis shows that between 1980 and 1986, exchange rate appreciation crippled local industries and turned Nigeria from a major agricultural exporter into a net food importer. Cocoa, palm oil, and rubber, once pillars of export strength, gave way to dependency. A parallel distortion emerged, the so-called “Nigerian disease.” Rural labour migrated to cities in search of oil-fueled wage spikes. Farming declined. Food insecurity deepened, which has continued to linger each day. Over-mechanised and poorly coordinated agricultural investments, uncompleted irrigation projects, and subsidies skewed toward politically connected elites widened inequality. Oil wealth created the wrong impression of prosperity while hollowing out the economy’s productive core.

Former Vice President Yemi Osinbajo once framed the issue plainly: Nigeria’s challenge is not geographical restructuring but resource management and service delivery. After decades of vast oil earnings, the uncomfortable question remains. Where is the infrastructure?

If mismanagement were purely historical, recovery might simply require time and discipline. But the problem is not confined to the past, and this is because between 2010 and 2026, an estimated $214 billion, roughly N300 trillion, has been flagged as missing, diverted, unrecovered, irregularly spent, or trapped in non-transparent fiscal structures. These figures reveal that they are not speculative but arise from audit reports, legislative investigations, civil society litigation, and investigative findings across administrations.

The oil sector alone provides sobering examples. In 2014, unremitted oil revenues triggered national outrage. Years later, audit queries continue to trail the Nigerian National Petroleum Company Limited. The names of institutions change. The pattern persists. The Central Bank of Nigeria has also faced audit alarms over trillions in unremitted surpluses and questionable intervention facilities. Auditor-General has flagged failures to remit operating surpluses into the Consolidated Revenue Fund, alongside hundreds of billions allegedly disbursed to unidentified beneficiaries under intervention schemes, which is alarming and a common fraudulent practice.

Across ministries, departments, and agencies, trillions have been cited in unsupported expenditures, unremitted taxes, procurement irregularities, and statutory liabilities left unrecovered. The institutions differ. The language of audit reports varies. The years change. The pattern does not.

A natural occurrence, which is the plain truth, and unarguably, is that when electricity funds disappear, the grid collapses. Also, when agricultural loans remain unrecovered, food prices surge. The same goes when social investment programmes stall due to bureaucratic lack of transparency; the vulnerable remain exposed. Nigeria borrows not only because revenue is insufficient but because leakage is persistent.

The 2026 fiscal projections sharpen the dilemma. This has continued to raise concern as seen in the proposed N58.47 trillion budget, which carries a N25.91 trillion deficit, with N15.9 trillion allocated to debt servicing. What signifies a systemic failure is that nearly half of the projected federal revenue will service past loans before development priorities are funded. The truth be told, borrowing is not inherently destructive. Economies such as the United States deploy deficit financing strategically to expand productivity. The difference lies in what the borrowing finances.

To date, Nigeria’s deficits are increasingly funded by recurrent obligations rather than productivity-enhancing infrastructure. This is why Nigeria’s domestic borrowing persistently crowds out private-sector credit, driving up interest rates and stifling enterprise. Time after time, the nation has continued to witness how weak revenue mobilisation, overt oil dependence, and institutional inefficiencies compound the strain, and for these reasons, public debt is projected to has surpass N177.14 trillion by the end of 2026, which is driven by the budget deficit in 2026 Appropriation Bill.

Based on what is obtainable in other advance country, debt becomes sustainable only when borrowed funds are channeled into growth-enhancing investments, institutions ensure transparency and value for money, and economic expansion outpaces debt accumulation. When these conditions weaken, deficits evolve into a fiscal trap.

Despite some of the challenges occasioned by mismanaged resources and leakages, policymakers project cautious optimism. The Central Bank forecasts GDP growth of approximately 4.49 percent, moderating inflation, and foreign reserves exceeding $50 billion. On paper, stability appears to be returning. But stability is not prosperity.

Take, for instance, between 2006 and 2014, Nigeria recorded average GDP growth rates of six to seven percent, peaking near eight percent. Yet poverty remained stubbornly high, judging by the lived experience of the populace. This shows that growth without inclusion is only an arithmetic, not development. Today, households confront elevated food prices despite the report that food inflation fell from 29.63 per cent in January 2025 to 8.89 per cent in January 2026, energy costs, and unemployment. Yes, one may say that the exchange-rate unification and fuel subsidy removal were economically rational reforms. However, without aggressive domestic production expansion and credible social safety nets, adjustment costs fall heavily on citizens.

The concept of the “resource curse,” coined by Professor Richard Auty, explains why resource-rich nations often experience weaker institutions and lower long-term growth than resource-poor peers. Nigeria truly exemplifies that irony. Yet the curse is not inevitable. This is because countries such as Norway and Botswana transformed natural resource wealth into long-term prosperity through disciplined institutions, sovereign wealth management, and uncompromising transparency, which happens to be foreign to Nigeria’s system. The difference was not geology. It was governance.

Former President Olusegun Obasanjo has never been quite over resource plundering as he lamented that Nigeria has squandered divine gifts. The same lies with the former Minister George Akume, who warned that no nation grows if a quarter of its resources are consistently mismanaged. The former Anambra governor, Peter Obi, observed bluntly that wealth cannot be entrusted to those without integrity. The United Nations is also amongst those who have repeatedly warned that mismanaged natural resources fuel instability and conflict. Where institutions are weak, resource wealth becomes combustible. Nigeria has navigated that edge for decades.

Nigeria does not suffer from a shortage of reform announcements. It suffers from a gap between announcement and enforcement. The Treasury Single Account was designed to consolidate public funds under constitutional oversight. Yet significant funds have periodically remained outside complete transparency. The problem is that audit findings often accumulate without visible recovery, prosecution, or systemic reform.

The reality is that if every naira saved from subsidy reform is not transparently reinvested in infrastructure, healthcare, education, and productivity, public trust will erode further. If intervention facilities are not tracked and repaid, agriculture will stagnate. If oil revenues are not fully remitted and independently audited, diversification will remain rhetorical, just as they have defined the system today. What will definitely propel a change when visible enforcement, recoveries, prosecutions, and institutional strengthening must replace quiet reports and circular memos.

President Bola Ahmed Tinubu stands at a consequential intersection due to the critical issues unfolding. His administration has initiated painful but necessary reforms in the areas of fuel subsidy removal, exchange-rate unification, and fiscal restructuring. One stands to say that these measures aim to restore macroeconomic order. But for a fact, macroeconomic stability is a foundation, not a destination. His presidency will either mark the beginning of Nigeria’s fiscal rescue or consolidate a system that mortgages tomorrow to survive today.

Human capital cannot remain peripheral. Education aligned with labour-market needs, vocational capacity, healthcare access, and social protection are economic multiplier, not welfare indulgences. Capital expenditure must prioritise integrated infrastructure like power transmission, logistics corridors, and digital connectivity, that unlocks productivity. Every earned naira must enter the Federation Account transparently. Every statutory surplus must be constitutionally remitted. Every diversion must carry a consequence.

One thing that must be understood today is that Nigeria’s future will not be determined solely by oil output or GDP growth percentages. It will be determined by whether resources translate into reliable electricity, functioning roads, expanding industries, competitive exports, and rising household incomes. A nation can borrow to build bridges. Or it can borrow to pay salaries. The former compounds growth. The latter compounds debt.

If deficits translate into visible infrastructure, industrial expansion, thriving private enterprise, and strengthened revenue generation, history will record this era as a bold recalibration. If not, it will be remembered as deferred reckoning.

Nigeria has been wealthy for decades. What it has lacked is disciplined guardianship of that wealth. End the era of systemic leakage and institutional silence, or preside over its continuation. The choice is stark but clear. The point is, this is not just about one leader’s legacy; it is about the future of over 200 million Nigerians and generations.

And for nearly 200 million Nigerians, the outcome will define not just a presidency, but a generation.

Blaise, a journalist and PR professional, writes from Lagos and can be reached via: bl***********@***il.com

It’s that time of year again, when Christians come together in fasting and prayer. Whether observing the traditional Lent or entering a focused period of reflection, it’s a chance to connect more deeply with God, and for many, this season even sets the tone for the year ahead.

Of course, staying focused isn’t always easy. Life has a way of throwing distractions your way, a nosy neighbour, a bus driver who refuses to give you your change, or that colleague testing your patience. Keeping your peace takes intention, and turning off the noise and staying on course requires an act of devotion.

Fasting is meant to create a quiet space in your life, but if that space isn’t filled with something meaningful, old habits can creep back in. Sustaining that focus requires reinforcement beyond physical gatherings, and one way to do so is to tune in to faith-based programming to remain spiritually aligned throughout the period and beyond.

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