“Insecurity is increasing because election is coming. As soon as the election is over, watch out, the first two weeks you’ll not hear a single bomb blast”. -Godswill Akpabio, Senate President.
When the Senate President, Godswill Akpabio, spoke about insecurity rising because elections are approaching, and casually suggested that violence would disappear within “the first two weeks” after the 2027 polls, he did more than misspeak. He revealed something deeply troubling about the mindset at the highest levels of governance in Nigeria. Words matter, especially when they come from those entrusted with power. They shape public understanding, signal intent, and often betray the moral compass of those who utter them.
What are Nigerians to make of such a statement?
That the killings, the bombings, and the abductions that have become the daily cycle of national life are somehow seasonal? That bloodshed obeys the electoral calendar? That those who die are collateral in a political game whose rules are known only to Akpabio and his friends in power? The remark is reckless not simply because it is insensitive, but because it hints at knowledge that no ruler should possess without immediate and decisive action. If insecurity is increasing because elections are coming, as Akpabio suggests, then the government is admitting to an awareness of orchestrated violence. That admission is damning. It raises a question that cuts to the bone of governance. If the state knows that violence is politically motivated and anticipates its decline after elections, why is it not acting decisively to prevent it now? Why are security agencies not deployed with urgency to disrupt whatever networks are allegedly behind this cyclical bloodletting?
Silence or inaction in the face of such knowledge is complicity by another name.
There is another, equally disturbing interpretation.
The statement not only reflects a cynical attempt to normalise violence as an inevitable feature of Nigeria’s political landscape, but also attempts at reducing the deaths of citizens to something to be endured as part of the electoral process. This is the language of moral exhaustion, the rhetoric of a bandit ruling class that has grown too comfortable with the sufferings of the people it governs. It speaks to a dangerous detachment, and the willingness to rationalise tragedy rather than confront it.
Akpabio’s defenders might argue that he was speaking off the cuff, that his words were taken out of context, or that he merely sought to make a point about the politicisation of insecurity. Such defences collapse under scrutiny. The statement is clear, direct, and unambiguous. It was not a slip of the tongue or a gaffe. It was a reflection of his worldview. Public officials do not operate in a vacuum. Their words carry the weight of their office, and when those words trivialise human life, they erode the very foundation of public trust.
Nigeria is not short of examples where careless statements from those in authority have deepened public cynicism. What makes this instance particularly egregious is the context. The country is grappling with a security crisis of staggering proportions. Communities are being wiped out. Senior military officers are being slaughtered. Students in captivity are meted cruelty of unimaginable bestiality in front of cameras, in order to extract ransom. Families are displaced. Fear has become the companion for millions. In such a moment, citizens look to their leaders for reassurance, for empathy, and for the sense that those in power understand the gravity of the situation. What they received instead was a remark that appears to reduce their sufferings to piteous political calculation.
Leadership demands more than technical competence. It requires moral clarity, and the capacity to recognise the human cost of policy failures and to respond with humility and urgency. Akpabio’s comment reflects a deficit in both. It suggests a mindset that views insecurity through the narrow lens of political advantage rather than as a humanitarian crisis that demands immediate attention.
This is not merely a failure of communication. It is a failure of leadership.
The broader implication of such remarks is the normalisation of impunity. When those at the top speak carelessly about violence, it sends signals down the chain of command. It tells security agencies that accountability is optional. It tells perpetrators that their actions may be tolerated, even if not openly endorsed. It tells victims that their pain is secondary to political considerations. This is how states slide into deeper crises, not through dramatic collapses, but through the steady erosion of standards and expectations.
Akpabio occupies one of the highest offices in the land. The Senate Presidency is not a ceremonial position. It is central to the functioning of Nigeria’s democracy. It carries with it the responsibility to uphold the dignity of the institution and to act as a voice of reason in times of crisis. That responsibility was abandoned in the moment he chose to make light of a grave national tragedy. Public office is a trust, not a platform for flippant commentary. There is also a deeper, more unsettling question raised by his words. If violence can be predicted to rise and fall with electoral cycles, what does that say about the integrity of the political system itself? It suggests a system in which power is pursued at all costs, where the lives of citizens are expendable in the quest for electoral victory. This is a betrayal of the very idea of democracy, which is meant to be a peaceful contest of ideas, not of bloodshed.
Nigerians deserve better.
They deserve leaders who speak with care, who understand the weight of their words, and who place the safety and dignity of citizens above political expediency. They deserve a government that treats insecurity as an urgent priority, not as a phenomenon to be explained away with casual remarks. They deserve accountability, not excuses. Akpabio’s statement should not be allowed to pass without consequence. It demands a response, not in the form of defensive clarifications, but in concrete actions that demonstrate a commitment to addressing the security crisis. It also demands a broader reflection on the quality of leadership in the country. How did Nigeria arrive at a point where such remarks can be made so casually by those in power? What does this say about the standards to which public officials are held?
The answer lies in the culture of impunity that has taken root in our country today. It is a culture that tolerates mediocrity, excuses failure, and shields those in authority from the consequences of their actions. Breaking this culture requires more than outrage. It requires sustained demand for accountability, and the refusal to accept the normalisation of the unacceptable. Akpabio’s reckless remarks have done more than provoke anger. They have exposed a troubling mindset at the heart of governance. They have reminded Nigerians of the distance between those who wield power and those who bear its consequences. Closing that distance is the challenge of our time. It begins with insisting that those who lead must do so with responsibility, empathy, and a clear understanding that every word they speak carries the weight of the lives they are sworn to protect.