THERE was a time when insecurity was something happening somewhere else — a disturbing headline on the evening news, a tragedy in a distant village, or an attack in another state far removed from our daily lives. We would read the reports, shake our heads in sadness, offer prayers for the victims and their families, and then move on with our routines, believing that such horrors belonged to places beyond our immediate reality.
Today, that feeling has changed.
Insecurity no longer feels distant. It no longer feels like someone else’s problem. It has moved closer, quietly but steadily, until it now sits at the doorstep of ordinary Nigerians. In many communities across the country, people lock their gates and secure their homes, yet sleep refuses to come. Parents wait anxiously for their children to return from school, work, or social engagements, their hearts filled with worry until they finally walk through the door. A telephone call at an unusual hour no longer signals good news; instead, it triggers anxiety and dread. The mind immediately races to frightening possibilities.
Even the places where many of us once sought relief and distraction have changed. Social media platforms that once provided moments of laughter, entertainment, connection, and escape have become endless streams of grim updates. Every scroll reveals another kidnapping, another killing, another violent attack, another accusation, another grieving family, and another community struggling to recover from tragedy. The cycle seems endless.
I used to think my room was the safest place in the world.
Today, I am no longer sure.
Perhaps the greatest tragedy of all is that the most painful thing insecurity has taken from Nigerians is not merely our roads, our farms, our businesses, or even our money. It is our peace of mind. It is the quiet confidence that allowed people to go about their lives without constantly anticipating danger. That confidence has been replaced by uncertainty.
We have gradually become a people who are always looking over our shoulders. Every unfamiliar sound in the middle of the night commands attention. Every unknown phone number creates suspicion. Every journey, whether short or long, carries a silent burden of worry. Families wait for loved ones to arrive safely before they can truly relax. What once seemed ordinary now feels uncertain.
Social media, which many people once used to escape the pressures of everyday life, no longer offers the refuge it once did. Open any platform and the pattern is painfully familiar. Another kidnapping. Another attack. Another grieving family. Another disturbing video. Another community mourning its dead. The headlines keep coming, and with every new report, the weight becomes heavier.
The result is a nation carrying invisible wounds.
We are bleeding from the inside. We are exhausted. We are frightened. We find ourselves wondering who the next victim will be, which community will be attacked next, or whose family will receive the call nobody ever wants to receive. Our hearts are carrying more grief than they were ever meant to hold.
Yet perhaps the saddest reality of all is how deeply fear has embedded itself into everyday life. It has changed the way we think, the way we travel, the way we raise our children, and even the way we sleep. It has quietly reshaped our expectations and altered our sense of safety.
And perhaps the saddest part is this:
Many Nigerians no longer fear what might happen tomorrow.
We fear what might happen tonight.
Voice just cleared its throat.
- Kabara is a writer and public commentator. Her syndicated column, Voice, appears in News Point Nigeria newspaper on Monday. She can be reached at hafceekay01@gmail.com.