*Photo: Suleyman A Ndanusa PhD*
Every now and then, an article appears that does more than provoke debate; it compels introspection. Lasisi Olagunju’s Why Oriire Was Not Chibok is one such article.
It is uncomfortable. It is provocative. At times, it overstates its case. Yet it raises questions that those of us from Northern Nigeria cannot afford to dismiss simply because they come wrapped in uncomfortable comparisons.
My first instinct, as a Northerner, was to challenge parts of the argument. Comparing Oyo with Borno without acknowledging the vastly different security realities of the two states inevitably leaves gaps. Borno has endured almost two decades of insurgency. Entire communities have been uprooted, thousands have lost their lives, and millions have lived under a level of sustained violence that has few parallels elsewhere in Nigeria. Context matters, and no serious conversation should ignore it.
Yet context should never become a refuge from self examination.
The enduring value of Lasisi’s article lies not in its comparison between the South-West and the North, but in the uncomfortable question it asks: what happens to a society when repeated violence gradually becomes normal?
That, I believe, is the conversation before us.
Years of terrorism, banditry and kidnapping have inflicted more than physical destruction on Northern Nigeria. They have also taken a psychological toll. Repeated tragedies have a way of dulling public outrage. Communities that once reacted with disbelief now respond with weary resignation. Kidnappings that should dominate national discourse sometimes disappear from public attention within days. Fear discourages protest, disappointment weakens hope, and silence slowly acquires the appearance of normality.
Nothing could be more dangerous.
This is not because Northerners value life less than other Nigerians. Every father in Zamfara cherishes his child no less than a father in Ibadan. Every mother in Borno grieves no less deeply than her counterpart in Oyo. Love, fear and loss recognise neither geography nor ethnicity.
The challenge is different.
The challenge is that prolonged insecurity can gradually erode a society’s collective confidence. People begin to doubt that speaking out will make any difference. Communities become cautious where they should be courageous. Outrage gives way to fatalism, and exceptional tragedies begin to look disturbingly ordinary.
If that happens, terrorism has already won half the battle.
Lasisi argues that the rescue of the Oriire pupils reflected not only effective security operations but also the determination of a community that refused to allow the fate of its children to become yesterday’s news. There is wisdom in that observation. Families, traditional rulers, civil society, the media and ordinary citizens sustained attention until the children returned home. That persistence deserves recognition.
The lesson, however, is not that one region loves its children more than another. Such a conclusion would be both unfair and untrue.
The real lesson is that evil must never be allowed to become routine.
Every act of terrorism, whether in Oriire, Chibok, Dapchi, Kaiama, Katsina or Zamfara, deserves the same moral outrage and the same national urgency. No Nigerian child should become a regional statistic. No grieving family should feel abandoned because tragedy has become familiar.
That responsibility does not belong to government alone.
It belongs equally to traditional institutions, religious leaders, community organisations, professional bodies, the media and ordinary citizens. Terrorism thrives where fear silences communities, where outrage is selective, and where society gradually adjusts to the unacceptable. It retreats when people speak with one voice and refuse to grant evil either legitimacy or accommodation.
Perhaps this is where the North owes itself an honest conversation.
For too long, we have explained our challenges almost exclusively through poverty, illiteracy, weak governance and historical disadvantage. Those explanations are important, but they are no longer sufficient. We must also ask difficult questions about ourselves. Have we become too accepting of violence? Have we sometimes confused patience with passivity? Have we allowed fear to diminish our collective voice? Have we expected government to do what only a united society can sustain?
These are uncomfortable questions.
They are also necessary ones.
The strength of any society is measured not by its freedom from criticism but by its willingness to confront uncomfortable truths. Self examination is not self condemnation. It is an affirmation that a people believe they are capable of doing better.
That is why I choose to read Lasisi Olagunju’s article not as an attack on the North but as an invitation to reflection. I disagree with some of his conclusions, and I believe his regional contrasts are at times too sweeping. But I would rather engage an uncomfortable truth than embrace a comforting illusion.
The North has produced men and women of extraordinary courage. It has endured unimaginable suffering with remarkable resilience. It has also paid the highest price for terrorism. Precisely because of that sacrifice, it cannot afford to normalise what should forever remain abnormal.
If Lasisi’s essay encourages us to speak more boldly against terror, demand greater accountability from those who govern us, strengthen our communities and recover the moral confidence to insist that every Northern child matters as much as every other Nigerian child, then it will have achieved something far more valuable than winning a newspaper argument.
History is kind to societies that possess the courage to look inward.
Perhaps that is the courage Northern Nigeria now needs most.
*”Suleyman A. Ndanusa, PhD, OON, is an economist, lawyer, strategic studies scholar, and public policy thinker and practitioner with extensive experience in financial markets, regulation, governance, national Security and development.”*