On Kwara’s Silent Crisis By Aromaradu S. Salihu
In the tranquil corridors of power in Ilorin, a narrative of calm and control is being carefully curated. The Kwara State Government continues to project an image of peace and normalcy, assuring citizens displaced by violence of their safe return. But travel to the heartlands of Ifelodun, Kaiama, and Patigi Local Government Areas, and you will find that these assurances are little more than hopeful speeches, starkly disconnected from the grim reality on the ground. Behind the official statements and military briefings lies a deepening unease, a silent scream muffled by distance and a growing string of violent incidents that reveal a state quietly slipping into a security abyss.
While Kwara may not dominate national headlines like the restive North-East or North-West, to ignore its plight is to misunderstand the fluid and metastasizing nature of insecurity in Nigeria. In the last few months alone, the state has witnessed repeated, brutal attacks by armed men—identified by locals simply as bandits. These are not isolated events; they are the symptoms of a systemic failure, painting a picture of a region struggling to maintain its rural stability against an invisible, roving enemy.
The chronology of violence is as heartbreaking as it is revealing. In late September 2025, gunmen invaded Oke-Ode, a community in Ifelodun LGA, in a raid of devastating brutality. They killed more than a dozen people, including a traditional leader and the very forest guards sworn to protect the community. Houses were reduced to ashes, farms were abandoned in panic, and over 90 percent of residents fled for their lives. Barely a week earlier, another group had struck Motokun and Egboro villages in Patigi LGA, killing a pregnant woman and a police officer and abducting eight others in broad daylight. In Kaiama, the violence morphs into localized terror, with groups like the so-called ‘Mahmuda group’ attacking villages, killing, and kidnapping at will.
Behind these statistics are shattered lives and a pervasive culture of fear. “My father was not a hunter. He was returning from the market when they shot him and the motorcycle rider carrying him,” recounted 27-year-old Rilwan Tajudeen, his story a testament to the random and indiscriminate nature of the terror. Another community leader from Patigi lamented, “When the government says peace has returned, they are not talking about us. Every week, someone is missing, a trader, a farmer, a child.”
Across Kwara’s vulnerable communities, a new, harrowing daily routine has taken hold. Displacement is no longer an emergency but a permanent condition. Families sleep in open fields or crowd into relatives’ homes in slightly safer towns. Children have lost entire school terms. Women travel in armed groups to fetch water. “We lock ourselves indoors before sunset. Even the sound of a motorcycle now makes us panic,” a resident of Babanla confessed. This is not peace; this is a society in captivity.
Read Also:
The government’s response has been a study in tragic irony: swift in rhetoric, but painfully slow and inadequate in effect. The closure of 45 public schools across volatile border communities, while a necessary temporary measure, ultimately underscores the extent of the problem rather than its resolution. It is an admission of defeat, a signal that the state cannot guarantee the most basic security for its children to learn.
The roots of Kwara’s vulnerability are not mysterious. The state shares porous borders with Niger and Kogi States, creating a haven for armed groups who move undetected through vast forest corridors. Unlike Boko Haram’ territorial insurgency, Kwara’s insecurity takes the form of fluid banditry. The attackers do not hold ground; they strike and disappear, raiding for money, cattle, and food. They are enabled by a perfect storm of socio-economic vacuum: chronic unemployment, a crippling lack of intelligence infrastructure, and a weak local policing system that leaves rural communities exposed.
In this vacuum, courage alone is not enough. Local vigilantes, though heroic in their defiance, are hopelessly outgunned. “We defend our villages with dane guns while they come with rifles,” one vigilante in Ifelodun stated plainly. Their bravery is a stopgap, not a solution. While the military has recorded tactical successes—foiling kidnappings and recovering weapons—these victories are overshadowed by the pervasive fear that continues to grip ordinary people. The socio-economic impact is equally devastating. Farming, once the pride of communities like Babanla and Oke-Ode, has been severely disrupted, with crop yields in affected areas dropping by nearly one-third.
It is evident that Kwara’s security response must evolve from reaction to prevention. The current strategy of responding after the fact is a recipe for perpetual failure. A more robust, proactive, and multi-pronged approach is urgently required.
First, there must be a concerted effort to build community intelligence networks that formally link traditional rulers, hunters, and vigilantes with the police and military. These local actors possess the granular knowledge of the terrain and its people that formal forces lack.
Second, the state and federal government must establish permanent rural patrol bases and employ technology, such as drone surveillance, across the forest corridors of Ifelodun, Kaiama, and Patigi. Denying bandits the freedom of movement through these forests is critical.
Third, we cannot secure poverty. A comprehensive economic recovery program for displaced farmers, including soft loans, fertilizer support, and cooperative farming schemes, is essential to restore livelihoods and drain the swamp of desperation that crime thrives in.
Finally, public communication must be reformed. Residents deserve accurate, timely security updates, not just blanket assurances that mock their lived experiences. Transparency builds trust, and trust is the foundation of effective community cooperation.
The people of Kwara’s hinterlands are not asking for the impossible. They are asking for the fundamental right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of their livelihood without fear. The calm in Ilorin must not become a curtain that hides the storm raging in the countryside. It is time for the government to match its words with decisive action, lest its assurances become nothing more than epitaphs for a peace that was lost.
Aromaradu Salahudeen Salihu is a PRNigeria Fellow
