Untold Story Of Nigeria’s ‘Safe’ State Facing Rising Violence – Independent Newspaper Nigeria

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 From Woro to Omu- Aran, from forest corridors to Ilorin, a state once defined by calm confronts a creeping siege — and leaders vow it will not fall, writes NICHOLAS UWERUNONYE

Kwara was never meant to be part of Nigeria’s expanding geography of fear.

For decades, it occupied a peculiar but comforting space in the na­tional psyche — a bridge between the volatility of parts of the North Central and the commercial dynamism of the Southwest. It was agrarian but cosmo­politan, politically measured, religious­ly layered yet largely peaceful. Violence happened elsewhere. Kwara watched, sympathised and carried on.

Today, that illusion of insulation has thinned. The crisis did not erupt in one dramatic moment, nor is it con­fined to one senatorial district. From the Kaiama axis in Kwara North to forest-fringe communities in Kwara South and into the uneasy calm of Ilorin in Kwara Central, a pattern has emerged — kidnappings, targeted killings, coordinated raids and ransom networks weaving through the state’s geography with disturbing agility.

For many residents, the psycholog­ical turning point was Woro. The kill­ings in the Kaiama belt were not quiet abductions negotiated behind closed doors. They were violent and visible.

Armed men stormed the commu­nity with precision, attacking homes and cutting down villagers before re­treating into surrounding forests. “It was like a war zone,” a middle-aged res­ident recalled. “They were not hiding. They moved confidently. We ran into the bush while people we knew lay on the ground.”

Another survivor said the shock came not just from the brutality, but from the realisation that it could hap­pen there. “We used to hear of these things in other states. We never imag­ined it would be here.”

Security assessments in the after­math pointed to extremist elements operating within forest corridors, individuals described by officials as twisting religious narratives to justify violence and territorial ambition.

Governor AbdulRahman Abdul­Razaq visited the affected commu­nities, condemned the massacre in strong terms and pledged that the per­petrators would be brought to justice. He reaffirmed his administration’s commitment to strengthening secu­rity logistics, enhancing intelligence coordination and working closely with federal agencies to stabilise vulnerable areas.

President Bola Ahmed Tinubu also denounced the killings, declaring that criminals and extremists exploiting faith would find no sanctuary in Ni­geria. He assured the state of federal backing and reiterated his administra­tion’s determination to confront terror decisively.

But while official statements were swift, grief in Woro lingered.

“We buried our people and went back to empty houses,” a local cleric said. “The promises are important. But what we want is to sleep peaceful­ly again.”

Woro, however, did not mark the beginning of Kwara’s insecurity. Nor did it confine it to the North.

Even before that massacre, commu­nities in Kwara South had grappled with a steady stream of kidnappings linked to forested routes and inter-state corridors. Residents in the Omu-Aran and Isin axis recount ambushes that followed a chillingly similar script — sudden interception by armed men, swift movement into the bush, ransom calls within hours.

A trader from the southern district described how his younger brother was seized while returning from a neighbouring town. “They called us the same evening,” he said. “They warned us not to involve security. They mentioned our family compound. It was clear they had information.”

The family raised funds through loans and property sales. The victim was released after days in captivity.

In Ilorin, the state capital and melt­ing pot of everything Nigerian, the cri­sis manifests differently. The city has not witnessed the kind of rural mas­sacres seen in Woro, but it absorbs the consequences.

Displaced families relocate quietly to safer neighbourhoods. Ransom ne­gotiations are coordinated from within the metropolis. Security meetings mul­tiply in government offices while anxi­ety spreads through markets, mosques, churches and civil service corridors.

A senior civil servant in Ilorin described the mood as tense but re­strained. “You may not hear gunshots here,” he said, “but the fear is close. Ev­erybody knows someone who has been affected — in the North or the South.”

Security analysts say this diffusion across districts is characteristic of evolving terror networks. Forest belts linking Kwara to Niger, Kogi and Ekiti provide mobility and cover. Pressure in one region pushes armed actors into another. A raid in the North may be followed by an abduction in the South. Planning can occur far from where vi­olence erupts.

“When groups fragment, they do not respect political boundaries,” a retired military officer explained. “If the response is not statewide and re­gionally coordinated, they exploit the weakest link.”

Farmers in Kwara North now hes­itate to cultivate lands close to forest edges. In Kwara South, similar caution is emerging. “Some of our people no longer go deep into their farms,” a com­munity leader said. “They fear being surrounded.”

The economic implications are quiet but consequential. Kwara’s agri­cultural base feeds local markets and contributes to regional supply chains. Reduced farming and altered transport routes affect income, food availability and price stability.

“Terror does not only kill,” the civil servant in Ilorin observed. “It disrupts confidence and commerce.”

Displacement, too, is dispersed across the state. Unlike the Northeast, where sprawling IDP camps symbol­ise prolonged insurgency, Kwara’s displaced often blend into host com­munities. Extended families absorb relatives fleeing attacks. Churches and community halls provide temporary refuge. Some resist formal registration as internally displaced persons, reluc­tant to accept the label.

An NGO worker assisting affected families described the strain. “We are seeing people from different parts of the state — North and South. The sto­ries are similar: motorcycles at dawn, gunshots, ransom calls. Children stop school. Women lose income. Trauma is largely unaddressed.”

In conversations across districts, one theme recurs: the adaptability of the attackers. Ransom remains a pow­erful incentive. Families recount sell­ing land, livestock and household as­sets to secure the release of loved ones. Such payments sustain operations and create a cycle difficult to break.

But analysts caution that financial motives may be intertwined with ter­ritorial ambition. “If armed groups es­tablish safe havens in forest corridors, they gain leverage over surrounding communities,” a defence analyst in Abuja noted. “It becomes about dom­inance, not just ransom.”

In the Woro killings, extremist un­dertones were identified. In other parts of the state, violence appears primari­ly economically driven. Yet Nigeria’s broader terror ecosystem resists neat categorisation. Criminality, ideology and opportunism often intersect.

Governor AbdulRazaq has con­sistently reiterated that security remains his administration’s top pri­ority. In recent briefings, he pledged enhanced support for security agen­cies, improved surveillance capacity and stronger community engagement mechanisms to detect early warning signs.

He has emphasised collaboration with traditional rulers and local lead­ers, insisting that intelligence from the grassroots is critical to prevention.

“We will not allow Kwara to descend into chaos,” a senior government source said. “Every necessary step is being taken.”

President Tinubu’s administra­tion, meanwhile, continues to frame security as a national imperative re­quiring coordinated military action, intelligence reform and international cooperation.

Nigeria’s partnership with allies, including the United States, provides support in surveillance, training and counter-terror financing efforts. Ex­perts argue that sustained collabora­tion could help disrupt emerging cells before they entrench.

However, some security observ­ers warn that intensified pressure in long-standing hotspots can displace armed actors into states perceived as less militarised.

“If you squeeze one zone without sealing corridors, they relocate,” the retired officer said. “The strategy must be simultaneous across regions.”

In Kwara, youth groups have organ­ised informal patrols in some commu­nities. Religious leaders urge vigilance without panic. Town hall meetings stretch late into the night as residents debate how best to protect themselves.

“We don’t want to normalise this,” said a trader in Ilorin whose extended family was affected in the North. “We want government action to be felt, not just heard.”

The crisis has not yet hardened into full-scale insurgency. But history from other parts of Nigeria demonstrates how quickly sporadic attacks can cal­cify into entrenched conflict if early containment falters.

Woro exposed the brutality. Kwara South revealed the persistence. Ilorin reflects the anxiety.

The state now stands at a delicate crossroads. The governor’s pledge and the president’s backing signal political will. The test lies in sustained imple­mentation — intelligence-led opera­tions, protection of vulnerable corri­dors, swift prosecution of suspects and robust support for victims.

For families who buried loved ones in Kaiama, negotiated ransom in for­est-fringe communities or absorbed displaced relatives in Ilorin, the stakes are personal and immediate.

“We used to think it was happening somewhere else,” a displaced mother said softly. “Now everywhere feels con­nected.”

The untold story of Kwara is not about one district’s tragedy. It is about a state confronting a fluid threat that recycles through geography — forest to village, village to highway, highway to city.

Across North, South and Central, the question lingers: will coordinated resolve outpace the adaptability of those who have turned forests into theatres of fear?

Whether Kwara remains a corridor of moderation or becomes another frontline in Nigeria’s long war against terror will depend on what happens next — not just in speeches and visits, but in the forests, highways and com­munities where ordinary citizens are asking for one simple thing: the right to live without fear.