When Katsina State Governor, Malam Dikko Umaru Radda, cut short his three-week medical leave, it was not politics that drove him home early, but tragedy. The massacre at Unguwar Mantau had shaken Katsina to its core, and a governor who had gone abroad for treatment following a road accident knew that his place was with his people. That decision alone spoke volumes: it showed a leader willing to endure his own pain to share in the pain of those he serves.
The journey to Mantau was no smooth motorcade. It was a battle with the elements—one hour and forty minutes on a road that barely deserved the name, with stretches of mud so deep the governor himself had to alight, slogging through the dirt as his vehicle was tugged free. It was symbolic of his resolve: if his people had to walk through mud to survive, then he too would walk through mud to console them.
When he finally arrived, he was not the distant politician behind tinted glass. He listened. He stood face to face with the Imam who had been leading prayers when bandits stormed the mosque. Seventeen killed inside. Eight more outside. Homes reduced to ash, families shattered, lives permanently scarred. Some reports even put the number higher—thirty-two dead, over twenty houses burned, and dozens kidnapped before the Air Force intervened. But statistics, as brutal as they are, never capture the raw grief on the ground.
Radda did not stop at sympathy. He pledged to rebuild the mosque. He promised that every family would receive ₦500,000 in relief. He committed to rebuilding homes, constructing a school, and bringing a hospital to a community that had long been left behind. And he ordered the Ministry of Works to fix the road to Mantau—because development is not only about comfort, it is about survival.
Beyond the village, he convened lawmakers, local government chairmen, traditional rulers, and stakeholders to forge a collective front against insecurity. He vowed to take the state’s case to President Bola Ahmed Tinubu, insisting that Katsina needed urgent federal support. He appealed even to the opposition to drop partisanship and contribute ideas, reminding everyone that security is about humanity, not politics. His words carried the weight of sincerity: “We do not have a monopoly on knowledge. If you have superior ideas, bring them. If they work, we will adopt them.”
And yet, amid the compassion and bold promises, a painful truth remains. Governor Radda admitted that his government had received intelligence reports of the Mantau attack and reported to the security agencies more than fifteen hours in advance. Another SOS went out three hours before the bandits struck. Nothing was done. The security agencies did not act. And this raises a haunting question: what does it really mean for a governor to be called “chief security officer” of a state when he cannot command a single police unit or mobilize troops without Abuja’s approval?
This tragedy reignites the debate on state police. For years, the argument has lingered: should governors have their own police formations, trained and accountable at the state level, to respond swiftly to threats? Opponents fear abuse, warning of governors turning such forces into instruments of political persecution. But what is the greater danger—the misuse of state power, or the helplessness of leaders who watch their people die while waiting for orders from distant headquarters?
Unguwar Mantau is not just a story of loss; it is a reminder of the limits of Nigeria’s centralized security structure. Governor Radda showed empathy, resilience, and action. He walked in the mud, sat with the grieving, opened the state’s wallet, and promised development. But even the most responsive governor remains shackled by a system that gives him responsibility without authority.
Katsina’s tragedy should therefore be a national wake-up call. If we truly expect governors to protect their people, we must give them the tools to do so. Otherwise, they remain little more than caretakers of grief, condemned to offer condolences where prevention should have been possible.
Governor Radda has shown how a leader should respond in the aftermath of bloodshed. The bigger challenge now is ensuring that he—and other governors—have the power to stop such carnage before it happens again.
Tags
Articles