A viral video can sometimes reveal what a thousand official statements cannot. A few days ago, the Governor of Oyo State, Seyi Makinde, visited Oriire in Oyo State to sympathise with families whose children remain in captivity after the abduction of pupils and staff of three schools in the community. The video that emerged from the visit which has refused to leave the mind showed an elderly man, standing among others, his face contorted by grief, weeping profusely, and with tears flowing freely. The man was Pa. Alamu, husband of Mrs. Rachael Alamu, the vice principal of Esiele Community Grammar School, whose desperate voice had reached our country through a video recorded in captivity. In that video, Mrs. Alamu pleaded for her life and the lives of the children snatched from Baptist Nursery and Primary School and the Local Authority Primary, Ahoro-Esinele. Her pleas were stripped bare of rhetorical pretence. She spoke as a mother trapped in the forest with frightened children, exposed to the elements and uncertain of what the next hour might bring.
Her husband watched from home. He could not protect her. He could not rescue the children. He could only wait, like many Nigerians who have since taken to the streets to demand that this government does something drastic and urgent. The video captured what waiting does to the human spirit. Of course, there are also many who have become accustomed to reading reports of kidnappings, and who scan headlines, exchange a few messages and move on without expressing outrage.
Tears resist such I-Don’t-Care attitude.
The tears of Pa. Alamu brought the tragedy into sharp focus. They reminded us that every kidnapping creates circles of suffering extending far beyond those held captive. Behind every victim is a family caught between hope and despair. There are husbands who stare endlessly at telephones, praying for news. There are wives who struggle to answer questions from her children. There are parents and grandparents who sit silently through the night, fearing the arrival of devastating information. For eighteen days, the families of these schoolchildren have lived in that state of torment.
Eighteen days of torment.
For a child, two weeks in captivity can feel like an eternity. A child does not measure time as adults do. Each day carries its own fears, discomforts, and uncertainties. The forest offers no classroom, no playground, and no familiar embrace. It offers only fear. One can only imagine what these children have witnessed and endured. Our country reveals much about itself through the value it places on the safety of its children. When schoolchildren are taken from their schools and transported into captivity, the injury extends beyond the immediate victims. It strikes at the confidence of every parent who sends a child to school, weakens faith in public authority, and creates anxiety in communities far removed from the scene of the crime. Education and learning cannot flourish where fear becomes a constant companion.
Across many parts of our country, parents increasingly calculate risks that previous generations never contemplated. They ask whether the roads to schools are safe. They wonder whether boarding facilities can be protected. They question whether governments at all levels possess the capacity to respond effectively when danger arrives. These are painful questions because education has long been presented as the pathway to opportunity. Families make enormous sacrifices to educate their children. Many deny themselves basic comforts to pay school fees. They do so because they believe the classroom offers a better future. When children are abducted from that space, the social contract suffers a profound rupture.
The anguish visible on Pa. Alamu’s face should also provoke reflection about the emotional cost of insecurity. Public discussions often focus on operational responses, security deployment and tactical considerations. Those matters are important. Human suffering deserves equal attention. What support exists for families navigating such trauma? How do elderly parents cope with prolonged uncertainty? What assistance is available to children who eventually return from captivity, carrying sad memories that may remain with them for years?
These questions deserve serious engagement.
Our country has spent years confronting kidnapping in its various forms. Villages have virtually been emptied out. Farmers have abandoned farm lands. A generation is growing up in an environment where stories of abduction have become distressingly familiar. But familiarity should never breed acceptance. Every prolonged captivity carries consequences that may not immediately appear in official reports. Trust erodes. Anxiety deepens. The country retreats into fear. Citizens begin to organise their lives around fear. That is a heavy burden for any country to carry.
The video from Oriire, viewed as more than a moment of personal grief, reflects a collective failure that demands urgent attention. The tears of Pa. Alamu symbolise the fears of countless families scattered across our country. His sorrow not only speaks to parents who lie awake waiting for children travelling on dangerous roads, it also speaks to families whose loved ones remain missing and to communities that feel exposed and forgotten.
Pa. Alamu did not need to deliver a speech. His tears conveyed enough. They told the story of a husband separated from his wife. They told the story of children who should be at home with their families. They told the story of a country struggling to guarantee one of the most basic responsibilities of governance: the protection of life. Governor Makinde’s visit offered comfort and solidarity to grieving families. Such gestures matter. Human beings need reassurance that they have not been abandoned. Compassion from public officials carries value during moments of crisis. Families, however, need more than sympathy. They need results. They need to see their loved ones returned safely. They need confidence that future tragedies can be prevented. They need evidence that the security of schoolchildren remains an overriding national priority.
Our country should never become comfortable with scenes of children and their teachers disappearing into the dark of the forest. An elderly man should not have to weep publicly while his wife and schoolchildren remain captive. A teacher should not be forced to plead for the lives of children through videos recorded under duress. Childhood should not be interrupted by terror. As the days pass, the image from Oriire remains. It endures because it strips away political arguments and exposes the simple truth: an old man wept. He wept for his wife. He wept for the children. He wept for a country that constantly sleepwalks into tragedies of unimaginable proportions.