Tinubu’s 130,000 Forest Guards and the Missing Links By Kabir Abdulsalam
I am terrified—not just for myself, but for everyone I know. One of my uncles was kidnapped in mid-2024 in Dakwa, a quiet settlement near Madala on the outskirts of Abuja.
The bandits came around 1 a.m., launching a coordinated attack that lit up the night with relentless gunfire for nearly half an hour. There was no response from police, military, or local defense—only fear.
When the shooting ceased, they stormed into his home and dragged him out, along with two boys aged 10 and 13, sons of neighbors who had sought refuge there that night.
For three days, barefoot and beaten, they were marched through dense forests all the way to Katsina State, underscoring just how vast, lawless, and unguarded these woodlands have become.
He was held for three weeks until ransom was paid. As dusk settles over communities from Utonkon in Benue to Tangaza in Sokoto, it is no longer wild animals that instill fear but men with guns.
Men who vanish into the forest after ransacking homes, kidnapping schoolchildren, and demanding ransoms with impunity. What once were symbols of nature’s serenity now stand as fortresses of dread.
So, when President Bola Ahmed Tinubu announced the federal government’s plan to recruit 130,000 forest guards to secure Nigeria’s embattled green belts, it felt like a long-overdue response.
Yet, beneath the surface of this bold initiative, important questions arise: Are we preparing adequately, or are we sending young men into a perilous struggle without the necessary tools and support?
Nigeria’s forests today are no longer simply reservoirs of biodiversity. From the savannah grasslands of Niger State to the dense rainforests of Cross River, these areas have transformed into ungoverned territories.
Bandits, insurgents, arms smugglers, illegal miners, and cattle rustlers have staked claims, navigating the woods with a knowledge far superior to government forces.
In regions like Kamuku and Kuyambana forests spanning Kaduna and Zamfara, violent raids have become so routine that locals refer to them as “sweeps.”
These forests have evolved into battlegrounds where multiple criminal factions operate with local informants and superior intelligence compared to those charged with stopping them.
This is not Nigeria’s first encounter with forest security challenges. Over the past decade, various state governments quietly recruited forest watchers and rangers, and in the North, engaged local hunter associations.
These grassroots efforts have produced mixed results, hindered by lack of funding, coordination, and formal recognition. Groups like the Nigerian Hunters and Forest Security Service, an informal network of trackers and hunters, have long sought official status.
Despite operating largely unsupported, they have rescued kidnap victims and tracked bandits—yet a nationwide scaling of such efforts has only now been proposed.
The government’s plan to recruit 130,000 forest guards is the largest in Nigeria’s history, a staggering scale that reflects the urgency of the crisis. But this scale also poses significant risks.
Where will these recruits come from? Will they be trained professionals with military or paramilitary experience, or will this become a politically motivated recruitment exercise filled with underprepared individuals seeking jobs?
Security is not a numbers game; it is a discipline requiring preparation, intelligence, endurance, and strategy. Without rigorous training, proper equipment, and mental readiness for the complexities of guerrilla-style forest warfare, these recruits risk becoming victims rather than defenders.
While reports indicate that training will include weapons handling, bush survival, and rules of engagement, the question remains: Who will conduct this training?
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Will it be the military, the Nigeria Security and Civil Defence Corps, or private contractors? And how long will the training last? One does not become an effective forest operative overnight—months of psychological conditioning and tactical preparation are essential.
What Nigeria’s forests need extends beyond mere firepower. Criminal networks operating within these dense woodlands are not simply hiding; they are thriving.
They have established logistics, weapons supply chains, food sources, and rudimentary healthcare deep in the forest. Thus, an intelligence-led security approach is vital.
Forest guards must be adept in tracking, surveillance, and human intelligence operations, working closely with the communities on the forest’s fringes.
As a retired DSS operative once remarked, “In the forest, the trees don’t talk. The people do.” This highlights the critical importance of community engagement, fostering trust, and empowering locals to become stakeholders in securing their environment.
Modern security efforts in the forest must blend tradition with technology. Sending guards into vast, complex terrains without drones, GPS tracking, satellite imagery, and reliable communication systems is a recipe for failure.
Nigeria’s forests—stretching hundreds of kilometers in places like Taraba and Nasarawa—demand real-time monitoring tools and rapid response capabilities.
We can learn from countries like the Congo Basin, where rangers employ mobile alerts, satellite heat signatures, and AI-driven terrain mapping, or Kenya’s use of aerial surveillance to monitor poachers in Maasai Mara.
We cannot continue sending men into twenty-first-century conflict zones armed with twentieth-century tools. At the same time, indigenous knowledge is invaluable.
Local hunters, trackers, and herbalists understand forest pathways and ecology in ways no satellite image can capture. A hybrid approach—melding cutting-edge technology with traditional expertise—is the most promising path forward.
Sustainability is another vital consideration. Security is not a one-time investment but a continuous commitment. The forest guards will require monthly salaries, hazard pay, life insurance, medical care, equipment maintenance, and operational logistics.
Many past initiatives in Nigeria have faltered when budgets dried up. Will this program be different? Will it endure political changes, or will it fade away after initial fanfare?
Coordination is equally essential. Nigeria’s forest security ecosystem currently involves multiple actors—the military, police, civil defense, state forestry departments, hunters’ associations, vigilantes, and now federal forest guards.
Without a clear command structure and legal framework, there is a danger of jurisdictional conflicts, duplicated efforts, or gaps that criminals could exploit.
Urgent legislative action is needed to define the mandate, jurisdiction, accountability, and chain of command for this new force. Only with legal clarity and centralized coordination can this ambitious project achieve coherence and effectiveness.
If properly managed, the forest guard initiative could become far more than a security measure. It could spark a green jobs revolution, preserving biodiversity, curbing deforestation, reducing carbon emissions, and bringing governance and economic opportunity to long-neglected communities.
However, without vision, strategy, trust, and effective execution, it risks becoming another costly experiment—an army of brave Nigerians sent into the woods without clear direction or sufficient support.
The idea is bold. The intention commendable. The urgency undeniable. But success will depend on far more than recruitment numbers.
It will require meticulous planning, sustained funding, technological investment, community partnership, and above all, political will that transcends short-term cycles.
We can recruit 130,000 forest guards. Yet without clear vision and robust strategy, these forests will not just swallow them—they will bury the hope that inspired this bold initiative.
Kabir Abdulsalam writes from Abuja and can be reached via: [email protected].
