When Government sleeps, terror wakes. When Government fails, people suffer.
In the once peaceful towns of Southwestern Nigeria, fear now walks the streets freely. From the farmlands of Ondo to the villages of Osun and the highways of Kwara, gunfire and grief have become part of daily life. People now sleep with one eye open, praying that dawn will meet them alive. The hum of daily life has been replaced by the wail of grief and the silence of deserted farmlands.
This region, long known for its calm, culture, and commerce, is bleeding. Farmers no longer go to their fields. Traders close shops before dusk. Even schools struggle to stay open because parents are afraid to let their children out of sight. A cocoa farmer in Ondo, Adebayo, speaks with tears in his eyes. “I lost three workers to kidnappers,” he says quietly. “They asked for money I didn’t have. I left everything behind. Now I do menial work just to feed my family.”
His story echoes across the region. Every day, new victims are added to the growing list of those displaced, missing or killed. In some communities, villagers have fled entirely, seeking refuge with relatives or sleeping in churches. In Osun, widows gather in groups, sharing tales of pain. In Kwara, market women speak of journeys they no longer dare to take.
The tragedy in the Southwest is not only human but economic, with fear crippling trade and halting growth across the region. Small and medium-sized businesses struggle to survive while larger companies scale back operations or relocate entirely. In Ondo, a textile factory that employed over 200 workers shut down after repeated attacks on staff commuting from nearby villages. The losses forced dozens into unemployment, leaving families without income or security. Investor confidence has plummeted as local and foreign partners perceive the region as high-risk. The Nigerian stock market has reflected this unease, with banking, oil, and consumer goods sectors registering significant sell-offs, illustrating that insecurity is no longer a distant social problem but a tangible economic threat.
Farmers in Kwara and Osun are abandoning fertile lands after repeated raids. Tomatoes rot in trucks stranded on unsafe roads, and maize and yams spoil in storage because distribution networks cannot operate. Market traders recount how the cost of transporting goods has doubled, pushing prices of essential items like rice, beans, and pepper to levels ordinary families cannot afford. Inflation bites harder while income shrinks, forcing households into impossible decisions between food, medicine, and safety.
The disruption of commerce also hits long-term growth. Local entrepreneurs who once invested in expanding operations now hesitate, fearing losses and extortion. Foreign investors withdraw quietly, leaving jobless workers and empty factories. In Ibadan, a furniture company shut down its second branch after employees were attacked on the road, and in Ado-Ekiti, a small garment factory stopped production entirely due to insecurity-related disruptions. These are not isolated incidents; they reflect a regional pattern where insecurity has become a barrier to both opportunity and survival.
A roadside trader, Aishat, captures the reality in a few words. “We are living like refugees in our own land,” she says. “You can’t go to the farm, you can’t stay at home, you can’t even sell pepper in peace. The government has forgotten us.” Her pain is shared by millions who feel abandoned by a leadership more interested in photo opportunities than real protection.
Schools and health services are not spared. Parents in Osun now keep children home for fear of kidnappings. Clinics in rural areas operate with skeletal staff after nurses and doctors fled attacks or extortion attempts. Children miss lessons, farmers cannot attend training programs, and patients risk long journeys through dangerous roads to reach hospitals. These failures reveal how insecurity destabilizes every layer of society, from the economy to education and health.
Billions of naira are allocated every year for security, yet ordinary citizens sleep with one eye open. The same leaders who swore to defend the people now live behind barricades, guarded by convoys of armed men. The government’s failure is not just inaction; it is betrayal. It has allowed fear to become a permanent resident in people’s lives.
Communities are attempting to respond where government has failed. Vigilante groups and local security initiatives have emerged in some areas, but these are often under-resourced and operate under constant threat. In Ondo, villagers have organized nightly patrols after a series of kidnappings, but they admit that without official support, their efforts only offer temporary relief. This patchwork of protection highlights the absence of coherent policy and leadership at the state and federal levels.
The #OurLivesMatter campaign has emerged as a cry from the soul of a wounded region. It is not just another hashtag; it is the collective voice of those who refuse to die in silence. It calls on citizens, community leaders, and civil society to rise and demand accountability. Every Nigerian life counts, and the people will no longer accept excuses.
Southwestern Nigeria deserves better. Its people deserve safety, dignity, and peace. The time for government promises has passed. The people are demanding action, not speeches. Until those in power wake up to the pain on the streets, the cry will only grow louder. Because in the end, no government that fails to protect its people has the moral right to rule them.