Nigeria’s constitution may crown state governors as the “Chief Security Officers” of their domains, but in practice, this title is little more than smoke and mirrors. They bear full responsibility for public safety, yet have no control over security forces—only Abuja issues marching orders. This tragic paradox has become a national security Achilles’ heel.
The tragedy unfurled at Gidan Mantau in Katsina brought this issue into stark relief. Governor Dikko Umaru Radda revealed that he had alerted federal security agencies fifteen hours—and again three hours—before bandits stormed the village. Yet, no preventive action was taken. Lives were destroyed, faith was broken, and frustration mounted.
Not far behind in that anguish is Zamfara’s Governor, Dauda Lawal. He recounted paying for logistics and vehicles to aid security agencies, only to watch helplessly as attacks unfolded—he couldn’t command the forces when every second counted. Lawal admitted to shedding tears during those helpless moments, lamenting that if only he had command over security deployments, he could have ended banditry within two months, citing his deep knowledge of their movements.
Unable to wait for federal responses, both governors turned to local solutions. In Katsina, Radda launched the Community Watch Corps, funded with over ₦36 billion, equipped with 10 armoured personnel carriers, 65 Hiluxes, 700 motorcycles, drones, tactical gear, and rigorously trained 1,466 officers, later expanded with another 550 recruits and 1,100 volunteers. Yet, despite such heavy investment, the imbalance remains glaring—their weapons remain rudimentary and non-military-grade, hampering them in face of heavily armed gangs.
Zamfara’s approach has seen even broader mobilization. In February 2024, Governor Lawal launched the State Community Protection Guards (Askarawan Zamfara), a 4,000-strong local armed group with the first 2,645 graduates formally inducted across all 14 local government areas. These volunteers have undergone rigorous training, drilling, and instruction in rules of engagement—and were deployed alongside security agencies .
Together, these local initiatives have re-ignited Nigeria’s debate over state police. Advocates argue that legally empowered, professional police forces under state command could respond rapidly to local intelligence and fill the yawning gap between responsibility and authority. Critics warn they could be abused for political purposes or used to intimidate the opposition. Amid this, the Community Watch Corps and Askarawan Zamfara remain halfway measures—locally grounded and well-intentioned, but consistently outgunned and constrained by law.
Meanwhile, the implications of federal delay persist. Some communities in Katsina have resorted to informal peace pacts with bandits, offering them freedom of movement in exchange for peace. These fragile agreements often backfire, emboldening criminals who continue to harass and rob locals even under “peace” terms.
Governor Radda has since addressed the issue at the highest levels, leading a powerful delegation to President Bola Tinubu and receiving promises of enhanced security support. But these pledges are not new. Buhari’s 2015 relocation of military command to Maiduguri was meant to quell Boko Haram—yet the insurgency endured; Goodluck Jonathan declared “total war” after the Chibok abductions in 2014, and yet attacks continued; Yar’Adua’s 2009 Niger Delta Amnesty brought relative calm there, but in the North West, the security vacuum persisted; Under Obasanjo, responses to crises like Odi and Zaki-Biam were heavy-handed and centralised, with no shift in how states command forces.
What unites these episodes is a repeating pattern: strong words, episodic operations, but no real shift in command structure. Governors remain blame-takers, not takers of duty. Without constitutional reform to authorize state-level command—either through a formal state police or a binding joint-command protocol—this cycle will persist. And Nigeria’s frontline communities will continue to bear the brunt of both violence and inaction—while promises echo from Abuja, fading into another void.