-By Abdul Mahmud
There is a way Nigerians talk about insecurity. They lower their voices, to the point of whispering. They change the subject, no sooner fear kicks in. They say it will pass. They insist that Abuja is safe because it must be safe. A capital city cannot fall. The federal government cannot lose control of its own seat of power. These are comforting assumptions. They are also dangerous. In recent weeks, I have teased friends about the steady tightening of the noose around the Federal Capital Territory. Not because it is amusing. It is not. But because sometimes humour is the only way to force attention to what we would rather not confront. Terrorist groups now operate across swathes of territory in Niger, Kogi, and Kwara States. These are not distant borderlands. They sit in the country’s north-central corridor. They form the outer ring around Abuja. This is not speculation, but it appears so. Communities have been overrun. Villages have emptied. Highways have become corridors of fear. Kidnapping has turned into an industry. In some places, armed groups collect levies. They decide who farms and who does not. They dictate movement. They impose their will. That is not mere criminality. It is territorial control. When non-state actors exercise sustained authority over territory, it must be called what it is. It is a direct challenge to the state. It is an assertion that the monopoly of violence has shifted. It is an invitation to chaos.
Abuja is not just another city. It is not an illusion, it is a lived city with life and blood. It is the symbolic and administrative heart of the federation. It houses the presidency, the National Assembly, the Supreme Court, the diplomatic corps, and the command structure of the armed forces. If Abuja is threatened by terrorist groups, the message travels far beyond its borders. It signals weakness at the core. Some of these groups openly speak of the caliphate. They speak of power and destiny. They see the capital as a prize. Whether they have the capacity to seize it is another matter. The danger lies in their intent and in the steady erosion of the state’s aura of control, which is increasingly turning into an illusion. A state survives not only on weapons and manpower but on perception. Once citizens begin to believe that the government cannot protect its capital, fear multiplies. Investors withdraw. Diplomats reassess. Citizens retreat into self-help and private security.
The problem is not only the gun. It is the slow corrosion of confidence.
It is troubling that those entrusted with securing the capital appear to treat these developments as routine. There is a tendency to downplay. To reassure without action. To blame political opponents for raising alarm. That instinct is fatal. History teaches that capitals fall not only because of superior firepower but because leaders misread warning signs. Look at other countries that once believed their capitals were insulated. In Afghanistan, Kabul fell with shocking speed in 2021 when the Taliban advanced across provinces and the state’s will collapsed. In Iraq, Mosul fell in 2014 when security forces melted away in the face of insurgents’ march. Even the Sahel states of Mali and Burkina Faso have retreated into the shells of their national capitals while terrorists tighten the noose around them. In all of the cases above, the crisis did not begin in the capital. It began in neglected peripheries. It grew in ignored villages. By the time it reached the centre, the damage had already been done.
Nigeria is not Afghanistan, Iraq, Mali or Burkina Faso. Nigeria’s circumstances differ. The military is larger. The country is more diverse. But the lesson is simple. A state that allows large territories to slip from effective control invites a dicey test at its core.
There is another layer to this crisis. While insecurity spreads, the ruling party appears consumed with narrowing the political space. There is a belief that if the opposition is weakened, if dissent is muffled, if electoral competition is reduced, stability will follow. That belief is mistaken. A healthy democracy is not a luxury in times of insecurity. It is a necessity. Open political competition allows grievances to be expressed through ballots rather than bullets. It allows criticism to expose weaknesses before enemies exploit them. It creates channels for accountability and correction. When a ruling party behaves as if total dominance is the same as total security, it confuses control with legitimacy. Legitimacy is earned through popular participation in democratic governance. It is sustained by fairness and inclusion. It is not manufactured by closing space. In fact, narrowing the democratic space can deepen insecurity, make marginalised groups feel unheard and citizens to lose faith in institutions while turning inward. When politics becomes winner takes all, governance becomes reactive rather than strategic. Energy that should be directed at reforming the security architecture is spent on silencing opponents. This convergence of insecurity and political indiscipline is dangerous. It suggests a state distracted from its primary duty. The first duty of any state is protection. Protection of lives. Protection of territory. Protection of institutions. Everything else is secondary. If terrorist groups continue to entrench themselves in communities surrounding the capital, several outcomes are possible.
The first is the normalisation of fear. Abuja could become a city under siege in all but name, ringed by instability. Movement would be restricted. Military checkpoints would multiply. Civil liberties would shrink in the name of safety.
The second is economic decline. Investors do not commit long term capital to countries whose capitals appear vulnerable. Insurance costs rise. Infrastructure projects stall. Jobs disappear. A struggling economy then feeds further unrest.
The third is regional contagion. Nigeria is the largest economy and most populous country in Africa. Instability at its core would reverberate across West Africa. Extremist networks thrive on porous borders and weak states. A destabilised Nigeria would embolden similar actors elsewhere.
The fourth is the erosion of national unity. As fear grows, citizens retreat into ethnic and religious identities. Trust in the federal project weakens. Calls for self defence groups intensify. Fragmentation becomes thinkable.
These are not predictions. They are warnings. They are trajectories that can be altered if there is urgency and honesty. What then is required? First, a candid acknowledgement of the scale of the threat. No more comforting half truths. Second, a comprehensive security overhaul that integrates intelligence, community engagement and sustained presence in vulnerable areas. Deploying soldiers to communities that have been attacked is not enough. Developing a lasting and strategic national security is essential. Third, political maturity. The ruling party must understand that a strong opposition does not weaken the state. It strengthens it because it compels the government to justify its choices, defend its policies, and constantly measure its actions against credible alternatives. Where opposition parties are viable, organised, and free to operate, they function as early warning systems. They amplify local grievances before they metastasise into rebellion. They interrogate security lapses before they become national disasters. They provide citizens with lawful channels through which anger, frustration and disappointment can be expressed. In this sense, opposition is not sabotage. It is ventilation. When political space is open, discontent circulates within institutions. When it is closed, pressure builds outside them. A state that suffocates dissent often discovers too late that it has also suffocated its own capacity for self-correction.
Democracy, therefore, is not an inconvenience to be managed through procedural compliance while power is consolidated elsewhere. It is the live wire of restraint and accountability. Extremism thrives where citizens conclude that ballots change nothing and that public institutions merely ratify predetermined outcomes. In such environments, radical actors present themselves as the only authentic challengers of a closed system. By contrast, a competitive democratic order deprives extremists of oxygen. It demonstrates that change is possible without violence and that authority can be contested without bloodshed. If the ruling party narrows the opposition space in pursuit of dominance, it may win temporary tactical advantage, but it risks strategic decay. The weakening of pluralism erodes legitimacy, and legitimacy is the moral force that sustains the state when coercion alone cannot.
A nation state that appears incapable of securing itself sends signals to its enemies and to its citizens. To its enemies, it signals opportunity. To its citizens, it signals abandonment. Both signals are dangerous. Nigeria stands at a crossroads. The path of denial leads to deeper crisis. The path of reform demands courage. It demands that those in power look beyond electoral calculations and focus on survival of the republic. Abuja must not become the symbol of state fragility. It must remain what it was meant to be. A centre that reflects unity, stability and hope. That outcome is still possible. But only if we act before the circle tightens further.