-By Abdul Mahmud
I did not know Somnachukwu Maduagwu. I never met her in the studios of Arise Television in Abuja, where I have gone many times for interviews. But her death touched me deeply. She was young. She was bright. She was a lawyer. She was a news anchor. She was her parents’ pride. Now she is gone. She died in the hands of armed robbers. Another life wasted in a country that treats life as disposable. Another dream crushed before it could take flight. Another family left to grieve in public. Her parents did not deserve to hear of their daughter’s death as a breaking news item. No parent deserves that. I am a parent. I have a daughter of Somnachukwu’s generation, only a few years younger. Like her, she worked hard to be called to the Bar. I look at her and I imagine what Somnachukwu’s parents now feel. I imagine the grief, the confusion, the anger. To lose a daughter that way is to lose the future. To bury a child is to bury hope. Nothing can console her parents. Nothing can restore what was taken.
Somnachukwu was my colleague at the Bar. Her career was just beginning. She had walked the long road of law school, survived the interviews and the newsroom, built a place for herself in a country where young people are made to struggle for everything. And then she was cut down. Just like that. No warning. No second chance. This is not just about her. It is about our country. A country where lives are lost daily to the carelessness of leaders and the boldness of criminals. A country where public safety has collapsed. A country where families are broken by grief too often and too easily. The Constitution is clear. Section 14 says the security and welfare of the people shall be the primary purpose of government. That is not decoration. It is duty. It is the first obligation of any state. Without safety, there is no life. Without life, there is no country. Nigeria has failed in that duty. We are not safe anymore. Not in our homes. Not in the streets. Not on the highways. Not in the markets. Not on the farms. Not in our schools. Not in our places of worship. Not even in the studios of television stations where journalists come and go. We live in fear. And fear is now the air we breathe. Armed robbers shoot at will. Bandits operate unchecked. Kidnappers turn highways into hunting grounds. Terrorists bomb villages. Ritual killers prey on the vulnerable. Every week brings new names, new faces, new tears. Somnachukwu is one of many. This country eats its young.
What country eats its young? What country allows its brightest to die so cheaply? What country leaves its children unprotected while the old feast on privileges and power?
The answer is Nigeria. The human cost is unbearable. Behind every headline is a family broken forever. Behind every statistic is a mother who will never hear her child’s voice again. Behind every killing is a father who has lost the reason to live. Behind every abduction is a household plunged into debt and despair. We must not forget that these are people. Sons. Daughters. Brothers. Sisters. Dreams. Futures. Somnachukwu’s parents will never forget. They will grow old with her picture on their walls. They will remember her voice on television. They will remember the day she wore her wig and gown at the call to Bar. They will think of the grandchildren who will never be born. They will live with the emptiness that Nigeria gave them. That is the price of insecurity.
How did we get here?
Our policing system is broken. We have too few police officers for a country this large. The ones we have are badly trained, poorly paid, and ill equipped. Half of them are guarding politicians, businessmen, and their families. The rest are left to improvise with worn-out vehicles and ancient rifles. Criminals know this. Citizens know this. That is why nobody trusts the police. That is why people feel abandoned. So, every killing is proof of neglect. Every robbery is proof of state failure. Every kidnapping is proof that our rulers have priorities other than us. Billions are allocated for security every year. Yet the killings continue. Where does the money go? Who accounts for it? Who takes responsibility? Nobody. The result is fear everywhere. We fear the night. We fear the fork of the road. We fear the knock at the gate. We fear the silence of government. We fear because we know the police will not come. We fear because we know even when criminals are caught, justice will not follow. We fear because we know it could be us tomorrow. This is not how a country should be. Citizens should not live this way. Parents should not bury children like this. Dreams should not be extinguished on the highway. Talent should not be wasted in gunfire.
We must say this clearly. Enough. Nigeria must choose life. We must reform the police. We must insist that community policing is not a slogan but a system that protects. We must insist that governors take real responsibility for the safety of their states. We must insist that politicians cannot keep police officers as personal guards while citizens die in the streets. We must insist that every naira budgeted for security is used for security. We must insist that justice is not selective. This is what it means to honour Somnachukwu. Not just with words, but with action. If her death passes without consequence, then we have failed her. If her parents’ grief becomes another headline that fades, then we are guilty of indifference. If her name is forgotten, then we too are lost. Her story should not end with silence. Her story should make us angry. It should make us demand more. It should make us ask why young people must die for nothing. It should make us confront the truth: Nigeria has become a country that eats its young. But it does not have to stay that way. We can build a country that values life. We can build a country that protects children and gives parents peace of mind. We can build a country where the brightest are allowed to shine, not to bleed on the roadside.
For Sommie. For her grieving parents. For my daughter. For yours. For every child of this land. May her memory live as an unanswered question to a country that devours its young. How many more must fall before Nigeria admits its guilt? How many more must die before the state understands that its silence is complicity, and its failure is blood on its hands? The truth is simple. A country that cannot protect its children has already written its own obituary. Nigeria is walking that path. Every unpunished killing deepens the grave. Every unresolved murder is a pointer to another death, if not more deaths. Every life wasted by neglect widens the gulf between government and governed. Every parent burying a child is a monument to national shame. We must face it squarely. There are no more excuses. There are no more evasions. The time to act is not tomorrow but today. Leaders who fail to secure lives must be held accountable. Budgets that vanish without protecting anyone must be traced. Security that serves the few at the expense of the many must be broken and rebuilt. We cannot continue to weep and move on. If we fail, then Somnachukwu’s death will be one more in an endless list, and our lament will be wasted breath. But if we rise to demand safety, justice, and reform, then her memory will not be in vain. Her voice will still speak. Her promise will still live. And her loss will mark the point where a broken country finally said: no more.