“A Nation Adrift As Terror Tightens Its Grip”
By TIMOTHY HAGGERTY-NWOKOLO
THE recent attack on Eruku, a Kwara community ravaged by bandits, has revived a grim history many thought was long buried. Nearly 200 years ago, the town was devastated through a strategy of deception and isolation—one quarter at a time—until only ten people and a dog remained. Today, residents fear a haunting repetition. Comments from locals last year warned that strangers had infiltrated the community, behaving “like children of the land.” The past, it seems, never truly left.
Across northern Nigeria, the pattern is frighteningly familiar. From school closures to mass abductions and brazen attacks, a dark shadow stretches from Kwara to Kogi, Jos to Katsina. Last week alone, the federal government shut 47 unity schools after relentless raids. Several states followed. Education—“life itself,” as John Dewey wrote—has been paused, with little clarity on when safety will return.
The situation has drawn global criticism. Former U.S. President Donald Trump bluntly labeled Nigeria “a disgrace,” condemning the scale of killings as genocide. While his tone is provocative, the sentiment reflects a sobering truth: Nigeria is losing its long war against terror. Even as officials scramble for international sympathy, communities across the country are left to face their nightmares alone.
The scenes are chilling—old women too frail to flee, children crying as gunmen storm churches, and families torn apart in minutes. The agony resembles accounts from 1821, when Samuel Ajayi Crowther described the chaos of his capture: families scattered, homes burned, lives shattered by marauding forces. Two centuries later, the details are eerily unchanged.
The spread of terror is pushing Nigeria toward a precipice. Authors Kajsa and Jonathan Friedman warn that societies in decline often turn inward, cannibalizing themselves. In Nigeria, polarization grows, institutions weaken, and violence deepens. The destroyers roam freely, unmasked and unchallenged, confident in their impunity.
Northern Nigeria now mirrors the early days of Afghanistan’s collapse. Four years after the Taliban banned girls from secondary schools, young activists still speak of learning “in secret, in the dark.” Many here long for a similar order, and their influence is growing.
Meanwhile, families wait helplessly for news of abducted relatives. In Niger State, over 300 schoolchildren were taken last week. “We don’t know what is happening,” said a grandfather whose four grandchildren were among them. Days later, his question still hangs in the air.
Nigeria’s crisis is not just a security failure—it is a historical cycle repeating with deadly precision. Banditry, extremism, and state paralysis have merged into a national tragedy. The country risks descending into a permanent state of fear unless a decisive, united response emerges.
The clock is ticking. Terror needs no invitation to return; history shows it always will. Whether Nigeria chooses to confront it or continue sleepwalking into deeper chaos will determine whether more communities, like Eruku, relive the horrors of their past—or finally break free from them.
