Two weeks ago, in what may aptly be termed security diplomacy, Nuhu Ribadu—the super cop who proved his mettle as a corruption-fighting czar and now serves as National Security Adviser—brought all his experience, and more, to bear on the task of dousing the fire threatening to engulf us from the guns of a ‘trigger-happy’ Donald Trump.
The outcome of that effort, a delicate exercise akin to shuttle diplomacy, has offered Nigeria a new lease of life and renewed global respect. It has been a multi-pronged initiative that has simultaneously deflected Trump’s fury and vitriol from us while reorganising our security architecture for maximum effect. Today, we may finally hope to be free from two profound fears.
I write from a land where one genuinely feels the absence of those fears—fears my compatriots in Nigeria have neither the privilege nor the luxury to escape. Many above forty once knew such freedom, but we have lost it; those below that age never experienced it. But all of us long for it.
These fears are twofold. The first is the dread of attack, balkanisation and recolonisation by a more powerful nation. It is akin to knowing a bully waits at the gate to beat you black and blue. You know the excuse he concocts to justify the assault is false, yet there is no one to challenge him or come to your rescue. True or not, he can do as he wishes. And you find yourself in a dreamlike stupor, muttering, “So, I am about to be beaten to pulp for no reason—and no one can save me!”
The second is the fear of marauders who traverse the land, wreaking havoc at will.
In April 2021, in an article entitled A Nation Bleeding from Many Wounds, I wrote:
“(Nigeria) has become a traveller’s nightmare. From Rijau, Birnin Gwari, Gwanin Gora, Rijana, through Kaduna and down to the suburbs of the Plateau, one travels at one’s risk. Even four-star generals are not safe. They killed one (at Dura Du, in Jos), and that was that. Herders kill at will and sack villages, burning everything to ashes. Kidnappers are also having a field day.”
Here in Makkah – where I am writing from – and, by extension, in Saudi Arabia, neither fear exists. One can sleep with both eyes closed, doors and windows wide open, assured that Trump will not come charging in with “guns a-blazing”. Here, no one dares rise against even a neighbour, let alone the state. Mount a roadblock? Kidnap people? Demand ransom? Sack a village? Here? Absolutely impossible.
But Makkah is not your ordinary city. Its peace and security (a topic for another day) are divine, prayed for by Prophet Ibrahim (Abraham), AS, over 4,000 years ago. He prayed in Surah Al-Baqarah (2:126): “My Lord, make this (Makkah) a secure city and provide its people with fruits, whoever among them believes in Allah and the Last Day.”
In Surah Ibrahim (14:35), he beseeched: “My Lord, make this city (Makkah) secure and keep me and my sons away from worshipping idols.”
And verse three of Surah At-Tin (95:3), “Wa hādhāl-baladil-amīn”, affirms the answer to Ibrahim’s supplication. Islamic tradition holds that Makkah’s enduring peace is the result of this aged prayer.
Yet Nigeria, too, once knew peace and commanded respect. There was a time when no nation, not even the “almighty” USA, could threaten us with impunity. We were feared because we could, if necessary, punch above our weight.
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Consider when General Olusegun Obasanjo, as Head of State, refused to meet American President Jimmy Carter because the US was not doing enough to dismantle apartheid in South Africa. Obj had to be practically pleaded with before he consented to receive him in Lagos. He did not fly to the USA, as we now see with some African leaders, going there to give away their resources while being looked down upon patronisingly.
In 1997, during what became known as the “Sky War”, Britain banned Nigerian Airways in an attempt to isolate Nigeria. Instead of cowering, General Sani Abacha retaliated by banning British Airways. Britain lost so much revenue and diplomatic leverage that it was forced to lift its ban, conceding the move had backfired. Yet Abacha refused to lift Nigeria’s own ban, a task left for General Abdulsalami Abubakar when he assumed office.
About fifteen years ago and earlier, no non-state actor could hold Nigeria to ransom indefinitely. In the 1980s, Lawrence Anini (known as The Law), the then equivalent of today’s Bello Turji, albeit with less firepower, ensured no one in the old Bendel State slept with even one eye closed.
Between August and December 1986, his gang painted the streets of Benin City red with blood from bank robberies and carjackings, murdering at least twenty people, including eleven police officers and nine civilians. He held an entire region by the jugular until General Ibrahim Badamasi Babangida famously asked his Inspector-General of Police: “My friend, where is Anini?”
And in no time, Anini was arrested, tried and executed by firing squad, along with his gang members and collaborators.
There was a time in Nigeria when no one could be bigger than the state. That is how it ought to be.
But we are now witnessing a reversal. Bandits now run their own fiefdoms, creating “banditrates”, appointing village heads, market leaders, their own police and tax collectors. They even move in convoys and carry out attacks with drones, according to security sources.
And then Donald Trump vowed to “deal” with us, “guns a-blazing”! Anyone who knows Trump – or Americans and their penchant for big things – knows those guns will not be Temu guns.
So, with all this before us, where do we turn? How do we reverse the “curses”, catch our breath and return to who we ought to be – security-wise – not merely to avoid Trump’s threat, but to make Nigeria once again a haven for all, irrespective of race, region or religion. It is in light of this that we will see the effect(s) of the Ribadu shuttle.
Hassan Gimba is the Publisher and Editor-in-Chief of Neptune Prime.
