IN the theater of Nigerian politics, tragedy often serves as the opening act for a farce. The recent, gut-wrenching abduction of schoolchildren and teachers in Oyo State has been met with the predictable roar of the political class—a cacophony where empathy is sidelined for the sake of opportunistic grandstanding.
Among the loudest voices in this grim chorus is former Ekiti State Governor, Ayodele Fayose, whose recent assertion that Governor Seyi Makinde “orchestrated” these abductions to blackmail President Bola Tinubu is not just a grotesque political slur; it is a profound insult to the intelligence of Nigerians and a dangerous distraction from the structural rot that is actually fueling our national insecurity.
To suggest that a democratically elected governor, one known for his urbane and meticulous approach to governance, would trade the lives of his own citizens—the very children entrusted to his care—for a shot at political leverage is beyond the pale.
It is a testament to the moral bankruptcy of a political culture that views human carnage as merely another currency for petty partisan scores.
The Myth of the “Chief Security Officer”
The persistent narrative that a state governor is the “Chief Security Officer” of their domain is a cruel constitutional fiction. It is a title without a mandate, a label without the machinery. In Nigeria’s current federal architecture, a governor oversees the security vote, yes, but they command absolutely nothing.
The Police, the military, the DSS, and the Civil Defense all answer to Abuja. They operate under a centralized command structure that renders the governor a mere spectator in his own state’s security operations.
Governor Makinde, like his counterparts, is essentially a landlord who is blamed for the security of a house for which the federal government holds all the keys, has changed the locks, and refuses to allow the occupant to even carry a whistle.
When critics point fingers at Makinde, they are willfully ignoring the reality that he cannot order the deployment of a single battalion, cannot arrest a suspect without federal police clearance, and has no jurisdiction over the intelligence-gathering networks that are the bedrock of modern counter-terrorism.
To demand that a governor stop a coordinated, well-armed criminal syndicate while tethered to a rigid, centralized bureaucracy is akin to tying a person’s hands behind their back and then mocking them for failing to perform surgery.
Amotekun and the Limits of Valor
Against this backdrop of federal inertia, Governor Makinde has done what he could, often exceeding the expectations of his citizens by robustly funding the Amotekun Corps. This regional security network has become the frontline defense for a populace largely abandoned by the federal security apparatus.
However, we must be intellectually honest about the limitations. We are asking men armed with bows, arrows, and dane guns to stand against the industrial-grade weaponry of transnational terror franchises. Governor Makinde’s disclosure that over 200 Amotekun operatives have paid the ultimate price in the fight for Oyo’s safety is a sobering reminder of their sacrifice.
These brave individuals are not failing their state; they are being failed by a system that refuses to empower them with the necessary firepower, legal backing, and modern surveillance technology to combat terrorists who are, quite literally, better equipped than the state’s local defenders.
These criminal syndicates are not ragtag bandits; they are a multi-trillion-naira enterprise. Between 2023 and 2026, they have generated wealth that eclipses the nation’s entire security budget for the same period. They operate with high-caliber, military-grade weapons, moving freely across borders and through forests that are supposedly monitored by federal forces.
To blame a governor for failing to stop this tide with a regional security network that is legally barred from bearing the same caliber of arms as the terrorists is a cynical, malicious exercise in scapegoating.
The Specter of “Blackmail”: A Politician’s Fever Dream
Ayodele Fayose’s claim that this abduction is a calculated attempt to blackmail President Tinubu is a narrative that collapses under the slightest scrutiny. What does a governor gain by creating an atmosphere of terror that undermines his own legitimacy, cripples his state’s economy, and demoralizes his constituents?
Governor Makinde’s administration has consistently focused on infrastructure, agricultural reform, and educational development. To suggest he would jeopardize his own state’s stability to score a point against the Presidency ignores his track record as a leader who prioritizes administrative competence over the primitive politics of his predecessors.
The accusation is a classic political hit designed to deflect from the systemic failures of the central government. By pointing the finger at the state house, figures like Fayose provide the federal government with a convenient scapegoat, allowing the status quo of insecurity to continue unabated.
If the kidnapping were “staged,” the federal government’s top-tier response—involving the Chief of Staff, the National Security Adviser, and specialized rescue units—would be a comedy of errors. But it is not. The pain of the families in Oriire LGA is real, the loss of life is documented, and the fear in our schools is palpable.
To cheapen that suffering with conspiracy theories is a stain on the conscience of the accuser.
The Path to True Security: Constitutional Reform
The blame-game serves a single purpose: it preserves the rot. By turning the spotlight onto Governor Makinde, critics divert attention from the real culprit—the primitive, ossified Nigerian Constitution that centralizes security control while decentralizing the consequences of failure.
Unless and until state police legislation is signed into law, the “Chief Security Officer” label will remain a decorative title for those who are effectively powerless. Without the constitutional empowerment to control the security architecture within their states—to recruit, train, and arm their own personnel to meet modern threats—the human carnage we see in our schools will remain a recurring nightmare.
Seyi Makinde is not a puppeteer of terror; he is an administrator operating within a broken system. The tragedy in Oyo is not a political conspiracy; it is the inevitable cost of a federal structure that demands responsibility without giving the tools to deliver it.
It is time we stop hunting for villains in the government houses and start addressing the structural dysfunction that is bleeding Nigeria dry.
We need a devolution of power. We need a security architecture that allows states to protect their own.
We need to stop the primitive obsession with centralization that has, in the last three years, seen our security situation deteriorate to near-catastrophic levels. Governor Makinde has been a quiet, unsung hero in a state struggling against overwhelming odds. Deriding him for his lack of “control” over agencies that he cannot legally control is not just unfair; it is a betrayal of the truth.
The carnage will continue until we stop playing politics with the lives of our children. If we truly want to secure Nigeria, we must stop the blame-trading and start the hard work of constitutional overhaul. Anything less is just noise—the desperate, shrill cries of a political class that is more interested in its own survival than the survival of the nation.
Erasmus Ikhide contributed this piece via: ikhideluckyerasmus@gmail.com.
