By Abdul Mahmud
These are not the best of times for Nigerians, and no honest observer of our national condition can pretend otherwise. Across the length and breadth of the country, fear has settled into daily life, shaping decisions, shrinking freedoms, and altering the meaning of home. To live in Nigeria today is to negotiate fear in its many forms, whether in the shadow of armed groups who claim lives with impunity, or in the silent anxiety that accompanies every journey on our roads, every night spent in unprotected communities, and every report of yet another abduction carried out with chilling ferocity.
Here at home, the evidence is overwhelming.
Kidnappings for ransom have grown into a grim industry, sustained by desperation, weak law enforcement, and absence of deterrence. Families sell land, empty savings, and borrow beyond their means in the hope of securing the release of loved ones, while others are left to mourn when negotiations fail or when violence precedes any demand. In many parts of the country, armed groups mask their violence with religious language, presenting terror as proselytisation, and turning faith into a weapon against the innocent. Villages have been emptied, farmlands abandoned, and livelihoods destroyed, leaving behind large parts of the country marked by grief and displacement. The state, expected to guarantee safety, often appears distant or overwhelmed, and citizens are left to improvise their own forms of protection.
This condition has consequences that extend beyond the immediate loss of life and property. A country under sustained threat begins to internalise insecurity as normal, and in that process loses something essential about its own character. When trust completely erodes communities retreat into suspicion, and the idea of a shared national space disappears. Citizens who don’t feel safe in their own country are often driven by the impulse to flee from the country. Flight into self-exile becomes more than aspiration, as much as it becomes more than a necessity.
For many Nigerians, the search for safety and opportunity leads beyond our borders, and here another layer of precarity emerges. Abroad, Nigerians often encounter hostility shaped by economic competition, cultural misunderstanding, and the easy politics of scapegoating. In South Africa, waves of xenophobic violence have repeatedly targeted Nigerians, casting them as convenient victims of broader social frustrations. Shops are looted, homes attacked, and lives disrupted, all under the banner of protecting local interests. In Ghana, recent protests against Nigerian traders have revived old tensions, framed in the language of economic protectionism, and reinforced by legal and administrative measures that restrict foreign participation in certain sectors.
These developments are not isolated incidents. They form part of a pattern that reveals how quickly solidarity among African nations can give way to exclusion when domestic pressures rise. The removal and deportation of Nigerians from parts of Ghana in recent years, following court orders and administrative enforcement, echoes a painful history that many would prefer to forget. In 1969, during the turmoil of the Nigerian civil war, Nigerians were expelled from Ghana in large numbers, forced to return home under difficult conditions. Years later, Nigeria responded with its own expulsions of Ghanaians; an episode that long entered popular memory as “Ghana Must Go”, a phrase that now carries the weight of mutual resentment and historical irony.
History repeats itself in new forms.
The cycles of expulsion and retaliation reveal a troubling failure to learn from the past. Each generation inherits the consequences of earlier actions, and without deliberate effort to break the pattern. The lesson from 1969 and its aftermath should have been clear. Economic hardship and political tension must not be allowed to justify the targeting of vulnerable populations. The dignity of individuals should not be subjected to expedient national sentiments. African unity, so often invoked in speeches and declarations, must find expression in the treatment of ordinary people who cross borders in search of better lives.
The present moment calls for a deeper reflection on what has been learned and what remains unlearned. At home, the lesson is that security cannot be treated as an intangible promise. It requires consistent investment, accountable institutions, and a willingness to confront the root causes of violence, including poverty, inequality, and the manipulation of identity for political ends. A country that fails to protect its citizens weakens its own foundation, and no amount of rhetoric can substitute for the lived reality of safety.
Abroad, the lesson is that migration within Africa is both inevitable and necessary. Economic disparities will continue to drive movement, and host countries must find ways to manage this reality without resorting to exclusion or violence. Legal frameworks should be clear and fair, enforcement should respect human rights, and public discourse should resist the temptation to reduce complex problems to simplistic narratives about foreign influence. Nigerians, for their part, must also confront the perceptions that accompany their presence abroad, and work collectively to project values of integrity, respect, and lawful enterprise.
Nigeria’s record in hosting migrants calls for a different reading of the present tensions. For decades, Nigerians have lived alongside fellow Africans and other foreign nationals with a level of openness that reflects both economic necessity and cultural disposition. Markets, neighbourhoods, and workplaces across the country bear witness to this quiet accommodation, where immigrants pursue livelihoods without harassment or state-backed exclusion. The hostility faced by Nigerians abroad therefore cannot be justified as a mirror of their country’s conduct. It arises from domestic pressures within host nations, shaped by economic anxieties and political narratives that cast foreigners as convenient scapegoats. Diplomatic engagement must move beyond reactive statements and toward firm, sustained dialogue that insists on the protection of Nigerian lives and livelihoods, while regional bodies are challenged to uphold principles of free movement, mutual respect, and shared responsibility among member states.
The story of Nigerians today is one of endurance in the face of insecurity. Endangered at home, many carry their hopes across borders, only to encounter new forms of uncertainty. Haunted abroad, they navigate environments where acceptance can be conditional. This precarity should provoke a collective response that goes beyond lamentation. It should inspire a renewal of purpose, grounded in the recognition that the safety and dignity of Nigerians, whether within the country or beyond, are inseparable from the broader project of building a just and stable society. The path forward will not be simple, though it remains necessary. It will require honesty about the scale of the challenges, humility in acknowledging past failures, and courage in pursuing reforms that may be difficult but essential. Nigeria must become a place where its citizens can live without fear, and a country whose citizens are received with respect wherever they go. So long as that vision remains unrealised, the phrase “endangered at home and haunted abroad” will continue to capture the painful truth about the Nigerian condition that demands not only reflection but decisive action.