THERE is a particular kind of pain Nigerians are now forced to live with the kind that no longer shocks because it has become routine. It has been attack after attack, another community shattered, another set of families burying their dead.
And as always, the pattern repeats itself with chilling precision: blood is shed, statements are sometimes released, condolences are offered, and then, nothing.
When Bola Ahmed Tinubu addressed the bereaved in Jos, the words came, but the weight did not. And perhaps the deepest wound was not even in what was said, but in how it was done. Imagine surviving horror, burying loved ones, standing in the wreckage of your life… only to be met with a visit so distant it felt like an obligation. Addressed at the airport. At the airport! And then told them he would be leaving in ten minutes because there was no light.
No light in a country where electricity is not an accident of fate but a direct responsibility of leadership. The same leadership that once made bold promises, that asked for trust on the guarantee of change, that said failure would not deserve a second chance. And yet here we are, where even grief must now compete with inconvenience. Where mourning citizens are given a countdown, not comfort.
But perhaps we should be grateful. At least he went to Jos. Because in places like Borno State, Zamfara State, and Katsina State, where blood has flowed just as freely, where lives have been just as violently erased, such visits have apparently not been urgent enough.
Maybe tragedy needs to trend louder, bleed wider, or echo closer to power before it earns presence. Until then, condolences can wait. After all, there is always more blood to be shed, so why hurry to comfort the grieving, or even acknowledge those still waiting in captivity?
Insecurity in Nigeria is no longer a “challenge.” It is a failure, a prolonged, devastating failure of leadership. Communities are attacked repeatedly, yet no one is held accountable in any meaningful way. The killers are rarely caught, rarely prosecuted, rarely punished. And so, the cycle continues, because it can.
What message does that send? That Nigerian lives are negotiable, that grief is expected, and justice is optional. And most painfully, those in power have learned how to manage tragedy, not prevent it.
We are always told to be patient, to trust the process, and to believe that something is being done behind the scenes. But how many more lives must be lost before “behind the scenes” becomes visible? Before security stops being a campaign promise and starts becoming a lived reality?
Because let’s be honest, this is not just about one administration. It is about a political culture where outrage is temporary and accountability is almost nonexistent. Where leaders rise on the backs of promises they never fully intend to keep. Where public office becomes less about service and more about survival, influence, and the next election cycle.
Do these politicians truly have our best interests at heart? Or are we simply part of the script—numbers to be counted during elections, voices to be quieted with statements, lives to be mourned and then forgotten?
It is a painful question. But it is one we must confront.
Real leadership is not measured by how well condolences are delivered; rather, it is measured by how effectively lives are protected, by how quickly justice is pursued, and how seriously human life is valued—not in speeches, but in action.
We, the people, do not just need sympathy.
We need safety, we need justice, we need proof that our lives matter beyond a press statement.
It is no longer a regional problem; it is a national crisis spreading across zones. The North carries the heaviest burden, but no region is untouched.
As heartbreaking as this sounds, that’s how we will keep watching to see if this will be another moment that fades, another tragedy absorbed into the long list of the forgotten, and another reminder that in this country, grief is constant, but change is always postponed.
It does not have to be this way. It cannot continue this way. Because at some point, a nation must decide: Are we going to keep surviving tragedy, or are we finally going to demand an end to it?
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.