BY LANRE OLAGUNJU

One of the earliest signals that Inspector-General of Police, Olatunji Disu, intended to approach policing reform differently came barely days after assuming office. Rather than waiting for the constitutional debate to mature, he inaugurated an eight-member committee headed by Professor Olu Ogunsakin to develop a practical framework for state policing. It was a proactive decision that acknowledged a simple reality: if Nigeria was eventually going to embrace state police, the conversation should be informed by research rather than rhetoric. The committee’s recommendations were subsequently presented to the National Assembly as part of the ongoing constitutional reform process, reinforcing the Police Force’s willingness to contribute constructively to one of Nigeria’s most significant security conversations.

That spirit deserves recognition.

The proposed constitutional amendments now represent perhaps the boldest policing reform since 1999. For the first time, Nigeria appears ready to move away from a fully centralised policing model towards one that shares responsibility between the Federal Police and State Police.

Yet constitutional moments are often defined not only by what they answer, but by the questions they leave behind.

The current draft addresses many longstanding concerns. It establishes separate chains of command, outlines conditions for federal intervention and creates safeguards against arbitrary interference. But before the ink dries, there are a few questions that deserve clearer answers—not because the proposal should be abandoned, but because reforms of this magnitude should leave as little room for uncertainty as possible.

The first question is perhaps the most practical: who ultimately pays when security becomes expensive?

The proposed amendment rightly places primary responsibility for funding State Police on the states while allowing the Federal Government to provide grants through the National Police Council with legislative approval. But the framework stops short of explaining how those grants will be determined or distributed. States with stronger economies may establish capable police services relatively quickly. Others facing the greatest security pressures may struggle to fund even basic operations. If policing quality begins to depend largely on a state’s fiscal capacity, could Nigeria unintentionally create unequal levels of public safety across the federation? That question may ultimately require answers in the accompanying Police Act rather than the Constitution itself.

A second question concerns the delicate boundary between federal authority and state autonomy.

The draft wisely limits federal intervention to exceptional situations, including a breakdown of law and order or when requested by a governor. Yet determining precisely when a “breakdown” has occurred could become one of the most contested constitutional questions in future. Security emergencies rarely announce themselves neatly. At what point does a deteriorating situation become severe enough to justify federal intervention? Greater clarity may help prevent future disagreements that distract from the very objective both police structures are designed to achieve.

The third question is about accountability.


A third question concerns implementation itself. The Constitution establishes the framework, but many of the most important details—including certification standards, funding formulas, operational protocols and inter-agency coordination—are deferred to a future Police Act. That sequencing creates an obvious question. What happens if constitutional approval arrives before the enabling legislation is fully in place? States eager to establish police services could find themselves constitutionally empowered but operationally constrained, while the Federal Police continues to shoulder responsibilities under a system already acknowledged as overstretched. The transition may therefore depend less on constitutional amendment than on how quickly the implementing law follows.

Finally, there is the question that perhaps matters most over time: coordination.

Crime rarely respects administrative boundaries. Kidnapping networks, organised criminal groups, cybercrime syndicates and arms traffickers routinely operate across multiple states. The proposed framework recognises this reality by preserving a Federal Police with nationwide responsibilities. Even so, operational cooperation between both services will require far more than constitutional language. Intelligence sharing, interoperable communication systems, common databases and joint operational protocols will become just as important as jurisdiction itself. Without seamless coordination, decentralisation could unintentionally create operational gaps that sophisticated criminal networks may seek to exploit.

None of these questions diminishes the importance of the reform.


Indeed, they reinforce why this constitutional exercise matters. The objective is not simply to establish another police institution. It is to build a policing architecture capable of responding to Nigeria’s evolving security landscape more effectively than the one it replaces.

The debate has matured considerably. Credit belongs to the National Assembly for advancing the constitutional amendments and to stakeholders—including the Nigeria Police Force under IGP Disu—for engaging the process early with research-based recommendations rather than institutional resistance.

History may well remember this as the moment Nigeria embraced a more federal approach to policing.

But history also teaches that the strength of institutions often lies in the details that seem technical today and become decisive tomorrow.

Before Nigeria redraws the map of policing, it would be wise to ensure that every important question has an equally convincing answer. Because when it comes to national security, clarity is not merely good governance—it is itself a form of protection.

Olagunju wrote in from Abuja

BY LANRE OLAGUNJU

Leadership is often most visible from a distance. It is associated with command centres, operational briefings and intelligence reports. But every so often, leadership leaves the office and walks into the field.

When the commissioner of police for the Federal Capital Territory, CP Ahmed Muhammed Sanusi, joined a joint security operation into the Paze-Byazhin forests on the outskirts of Abuja to dismantle kidnappers’ hideouts, he did more than supervise another police operation. He demonstrated a style of leadership that placed the commander alongside those expected to carry out the assignment.

The operation dismantled kidnappers’ camps, led to arrests, rescued victims and disrupted criminal enclaves. Yet its greatest significance lay beyond the arrests. It demonstrated that visible leadership can be a force multiplier, inspiring confidence and reinforcing the idea that policing is a shared mission rather than a delegated responsibility.

Success has a way of travelling within institutions. It shapes expectations, influences behaviour and encourages others to believe that what once appeared exceptional can become the new standard.

Great football managers rarely win because they possess the best players. They win because they build cultures where healthy competition, collaboration and shared purpose become habits.

There are growing signs that something similar is quietly unfolding within the Nigeria Police Force.

For decades, criminals have understood something the police often struggled to operationalise. Crime does not recognise state boundaries. Kidnappers flee across jurisdictions. Armed robbers exploit administrative gaps. Criminal gangs establish safe havens wherever they believe pursuit will slow at the edge of a command.

Increasingly, however, the police appear to be responding differently. The shift is not merely operational. It is increasingly cultural.

The recent launch of Operation Kosaye by the Lagos and Ogun State Police Commands is perhaps the clearest indication yet that policing is beginning to outgrow administrative borders. The operation, which has already led to the arrest of dozens of suspects, the rescue of kidnapped victims and the recovery of weapons, was built on a simple but powerful premise: criminals may recognise state boundaries, but they should never be allowed to exploit them.

A similar philosophy is unfolding hundreds of kilometres away.

Along the Rivers-Akwa Ibom boundary, commissioners of police from both states have intensified joint patrols, operational inspections and intelligence sharing. Rather than treating the interstate boundary as the end of one command and the beginning of another, both commands are increasingly treating it as shared operational space.

Viewed separately, these developments may appear routine. Viewed together, they reveal the outlines of a new policing playbook.

Taken together, the Abuja forest operation, Operation Kosaye and the Rivers–Akwa Ibom collaboration point to a policing philosophy built on four interlocking principles: visible leadership, intelligence-led operations, collaboration across jurisdictions and healthy competition among commands. Individually, none of these ideas is revolutionary. Collectively, however, they represent a significant shift from reactive policing towards a more integrated operational culture.

That broader philosophy is increasingly becoming visible under inspector-general of police Olatunji Disu. Commissioners are no longer judged merely by the peace within their own jurisdictions, but by their ability to work across jurisdictions. Every successful operation now raises the benchmark for the next command.

Collaboration is becoming an operational expectation. Yet leadership is measured by more than operational outcomes.

Recent reports from Rivers State generated public debate after allegations emerged that some officers were subjected to undignified treatment during an inspection over standards of appearance, despite claims by some of the affected personnel that underlying medical conditions contributed to their appearance. While discipline remains central to professional policing, the episode illustrates an equally important principle: professionalism must always be accompanied by dignity.

Demanding excellence from officers and respecting their humanity are not competing objectives. They reinforce one another.

The Nigeria Police Force is asking more of its officers than at any other period in recent history. They are expected to pursue kidnappers through forests, confront terrorists employing increasingly sophisticated tactics and disrupt criminal syndicates that move seamlessly across state boundaries. In such an environment, operational discipline is indispensable. But leadership that inspires confidence rather than fear is equally essential.

That balance may well define the next phase of police reform.

The next logical step is already becoming apparent.

If commissioners of police can collaborate across state boundaries, why should that philosophy stop there?

Nigeria’s divisional police officers and Area Commanders should become the next frontier of collaborative policing. Criminal gangs rarely operate within a single police division. Intelligence gathered in one division may prevent a kidnapping in another. A robbery pattern identified in one area command may expose a criminal network operating across several local government areas.

Imagine neighbouring divisional police officers (DPO) meeting routinely to compare intelligence instead of waiting for formal directives. Imagine Area Commanders sharing operational resources before criminals exploit jurisdictional gaps. Imagine divisions competing, not over statistics, but over response times, crime prevention, community engagement and public confidence.

Collaboration should become part of performance, not merely personality. A command should not depend on whether two neighbouring officers happen to have a good relationship. It should become standard operating culture.

That would represent more than administrative reform. It would signal a cultural transformation.

Of course, collaboration alone will not solve Nigeria’s security challenges. The Force still requires better welfare, modern training, improved equipment and greater technological capability. Those fundamentals remain indispensable.

The early signs suggest that the Nigeria Police Force is beginning to embrace a culture in which commissioners no longer see one another as isolated commanders but as teammates pursuing a common objective.

Great football teams do not win because every player is brilliant. They win because ordinary players learn to operate as an extraordinary unit.

Perhaps policing works the same way.

Every successful joint operation strengthens confidence. Every shared intelligence breakthrough encourages deeper cooperation. Every criminal denied the opportunity to exploit a state boundary reinforces the idea that policing is strongest when it operates as one team.

If that culture continues to spread—from commissioners to area commanders, from Area Commanders to Divisional Police Officers, and from divisions to communities—it may prove to be one of the most consequential institutional changes the Nigeria Police Force has witnessed in recent years.

Criminals learnt long ago that cooperation multiplies their strength. The Nigeria Police Force appears to be embracing the same principle for a higher purpose.

If collaboration becomes a habit rather than a headline, future historians may remember this period not simply for successful operations or impressive arrests, but for changing the culture of policing itself.

Because the strongest police force is not necessarily the one with the largest numbers.

It is the one that learns to think—and fight—as one.

Olagunju wrote in from Abuja

By Festus Adedayo


The words, “hunger” and “Onanuga” are almost homophones; words of similar sounds. I am goaded on by the Yoruba epistemology which counsels that likes should be compared with likes. As tortoise’s head safely compares with the big toe, so does a groundnut shell compares with the cocoon of the world’s tiniest rat Yoruba call the eliri. But comparison is not my bother here. My interest is the decimation of the cries of the afflicted by the powers that promised hope, a people ensconced in the barn in Abuja.

Presidential media adviser and frontline journalist, Bayo Onanuga, is in the eye of the storm. His curt, off-the-cuff, and seemingly unfeeling remark on a television programme last week — “I don’t see the level of hunger people are talking about” — has earned him the rough edges of Nigerian tongues. He didn’t end there. The siege on the country by terrorists, bandits, and kidnappers, Onanuga suggested, is contrived by the media. “The way they report insecurity is as if the entire country is consumed,” he said. To Onanuga, the abduction of 39 pupils and teachers, and the maniacal slitting of Michael Oyedokun’s throat, are seemingly a mirage; perhaps just another of Shakespeare’s farcical plays.

Onanuga’s recent outing can be figuratively compared to two local vegetable variants. The Yoruba call them tètè and dágunró. By all standards, Onanuga is a Nigerian media icon. The history of the Nigerian press’s battle against military autocracy cannot be written without a sizeable chapter reserved for him and colleagues of similar persuasions, many of whom were martyred for the democracy we have today.

Tètè and dágunró are species of the same mother with a Siamese semblance. However, while tètè is an edible culinary recourse, dágunró is harmful, a punishing broth of a cuisine. Elders warn that attempting to cook them together in the same pot ends in disaster (Ìje tí e je tètè, e má je dágunró). That, to me, was what happened to Onanuga last week. How did a man who fought valiantly with his pen on the side of the people during military regimes now irreverently smash both dágunró and tètè with his molars? By cavalierly dismissing the widespread hardship and insecurity that ordinary Nigerians suffer, Onanuga seems to have mistaken dágunró, the Nigerians of military rule Nigeria, for tètè, Nigerians under Bola Tinubu’s suzerainty. To the Nigerian people, this felt like a friend plunging a dagger into their hearts.

This same dagger to the heart echoes the Ides of March on March 15, 44 B.C. When Roman dictator Julius Caesar was assassinated by a conspiracy led by his trusted ally and protege, Marcus Junius Brutus, literature and history offered different accounts. Shakespeare famously invented the line “Et tu, Brute?”—And you, Brutus? But historians note that a popular rumor in Rome at the time was that a dying Caesar, struck by the ultimate betrayal, groaned in Greek: “Kai sy, teknon?”—You too, child?

That figurative question is exactly what the Nigerian common people asked Bayo Onanuga last week. His interventionist trajectory on their side decades ago belies his current off-hand dismissal of their travails. When the Yoruba are pained beyond measure, let down, and colossally betrayed, they go pensive. From the stabs of their hearts emerge profound philosophical sayings. One of such is, “if the one restfully leaned on contemplates shifting from the comfort they offer, they at least should inform those who leaned on them, lest them fall face flat on the floor. This, they articulate as, “eni a f’èyìn tì, bí ó ba yè, wíwí níí wí”. Did Onanuga give ample notice he had defected to the ranks of their suppressors? Another aphorism, which I reproduced a few weeks ago here, comes when they are anguish-propelled. Permit me to again bring it out of my scabbard. It is a rhetorical question. It is, “Broken bottle on our forehead, bludgeon on the back; Is this how they play comradeship at the Ede market?” Its parent word is actually, “Òpáláńbá ń’wájú, kùmò l’éyìn orùn, sé b’òjú ti rí nìyí, t’áa fi ńje obì l’ójà Ede?”

Or, could Onanuga’s sin be more than mere betrayal? Beyond an inability to see naked insecurity and extreme poverty, could it be a failure to propitiate Èṣù, the god of the mouth; and the human mouth deity, which the Yoruba call Olúbọbọtiribọ? In Yoruba spiritual anatomy, the mouth is the “Baba Ebo” — the father of all sacrifices. It occupies a delicate placement, balancing both ingress and egress forces of the body. Just as no human bone is as strategic as the teeth – a la Ayinla Omowura – so is the mouth. The graveyard of political power in Nigeria is littered with bones of officeholders who run foul of Olúbọbọtiribọ by failing to give the mouth its cross-functional due regards. Those who despise the god of the mouth are cast in the sewage of history. Did Onanuga fail the mouth deity in this regard?

Consider April 9, 1992, when General Ibrahim Babangida proscribed the African Concord magazine. A publication by the magazine, which marked Onanuga’s 30th month as editor, had published a highly critical cover story titled “Has Babangida Given Up?” It questioned the military government’s sincerity. Earlier, IBB had told editors of The Guardian in an interview that he was enamoured of Chaka, the Zulu warrior and Hannibal, the Carthaginian war General of the Second Punic war. Reminded by the astounded editors that both were ruthless, smilingly, his gap tooth flipped open, Babangida reiterated that, regardless, he was in love with the deadly Generals. In that offending edition penned by another media icon, Dapo Olorunyomi, African Concord then concluded, “Will (IBB) the man who has pulverized the civil society and noble institutions make it?”

Thoroughly embarrassed, Babangida told the magazine’s publisher, his friend, MKO Abiola, that only a personal apology penned by the impious Onanuga could bring back the Concord press. Abiola then summoned Onanuga, demanding an apology to propitiate the gap-toothed god.

Rather than yield, Onanuga penned a resignation letter to Abiola, stating: “Journalism, especially the one to which I subscribe, is not meant to make the environment cosy for leaders of nations; it is meant to cause them sleepless nights… What shall I be apologizing for?” When Onanuga and his friends went on to found TheNews, he declared their ideological underpinning by saying, yes, they were independent, but this “is no excuse for opportunism and spineless neutrality in the major issues that affect the well being of the Nigerian people. We shall be partisanly (sic) neutral on the side of truth, justice and good government.”

Thirty-four years later, sitting regally as a media adviser to a principal who is eighth in the line of succession to IBB, the military General, why would Onanuga eat dágunró and tètè with the same teeth?

In that same television interview, Onanuga was mealy-mouthed. While on one hand denying the harrowing fate of Nigerians, he advised civil servants earning 70,000 minimum wage thus: “If I work for government and I am earning 70k, except I am crazy or dumb lazy, I will go and do something at (sic) the side to add to my income”. Does he know he was urging workers to run counter to Section 2(b) of the Fifth Schedule of the 1999 Constitution which forbids “something at (sic) the side”, as well as the 2021 Public Service Rules which prohibits most public servants, with few exemptions, from engaging in any other business?

In the interview, Onanuga said further: “We have been pigeon-holed into certain assumptions and conclusions.” Assumptions of hunger, conclusion of suffering? By this, he placed the people in a pigeonhole, rubbishing as non-existent the hunger and suffering of selfsame Nigerian poor he fought for, took barbs for and escaped military juntas’ death pills for.

But, come to think of it, what has the pigeon, eyelé, got to do with a hole? The pigeon is a totem of fidelity, one of the most loyal animals on earth. The Yoruba believe that when a pigeon hibernates with a landlord, sharing meals and drinks with him, she will not abandon him on the day of his travail. In emergencies, pigeons even alert neighbors with their chirrups. So, why would Onanuga use this metaphor to torment ordinary Nigerians with their friend, the eyelé? If he says the prevailing national agony is contrived, could we logically conclude that the tyranny he painted of the military era was equally contrived?

Indeed, the graveyard of political power is filled with victims of Olúbọbọtiribọ. On September 22, 2017, presidential spokesperson, Garba Shehu, was similarly struck. The Buhari presidency, he announced, neither believed nor classified killer herdsmen as terrorists, but merely as “criminal gangs.” Later, in June 2021, reports emerged claiming the government had reached a truce worth N100 billion with Miyetti Allah, allegedly offered as ransom for wanton killings and kidnappings. Today, Nigerians see Buhari – God rests his soul – as complicit in the orgy of terrorist strikes we face today, as much as his hirelings dressed in media visor.
Take Alhaji Umaru Dikko as another instance. As the powerful Minister of Transport under Shehu Shagari, amid widespread cries of poverty, Dikko infamously stated that he could not believe Nigerians were hungry because they had not yet started eating from dustbins. Dikko alone has the patent of the Onanuga statement.

Olúbọbọtiribọ similarly struck then-Colonel David Mark. At the height of his majesty as Nigeria’s Minister for Communications, in 1989, during an infrastructure inspection tour in Akure, Mark told debtors that “Telephone is not for the poor.” It was seen as the ultimate symbol of elitism, class division, and disdain for the ordinary people.

The deity was equally unsparing of Mohamed Sa’ad Abubakar, the Sultan of Sokoto. As reported by the BBC on July 29, 2011, while fuming against a military crackdown on Boko Haram insurgents, Abubakar told a gathering of religious leaders, “We cannot solve violence with violence.” This was at a time when gallant Nigerian forces had brutally suppressed the uprising of the sect and killed its leader, Mohammed Yusuf. The Sultan even demanded that the five policemen on trial for Yusuf’s killing must never be given bail.

Recently, First Lady Oluremi Tinubu became a victim of Olúbọbọtiribọ. Addressing the nation’s economic despair, she touted the “hope” of granting women money to start roasting corn or making àkàrà and kúlí-kúlí. In an address to State House Correspondents last Wednesday, she said: “We’re trying to give hope, and to start Akara business doesn’t take a lot of money. To start roasting corn, or somebody even said kúlí-kúlí doesn’t take much…” she said.

The remarks have since been provoking nation-wide outrage. This was the same woman who, a few weeks prior, mandated APC state governors to gift party women befitting vehicles, most likely SUVs worth multiple of millions of Naira. Did Nigerian women vote for her husband only to be tied down to a “renewed hope” of frying àkàrà? Invoking the parallelism of literature that can be tied to this “àkàrà frying”, we can conveniently say, for the Nigerian women in the hands of the First Lady, they are in a ‘from frying pan to fire’ situation. It reminded citizens of the ancient Yoruba saying about governmental duplicity: the same dog that tenderly feeds her own baby with breast milk ferociously hunts down the offspring of the grasscutter. Did Nigerian women vote her husband as president only to be tied down to a renewed hope of bakers of kúlí-kúlí and àkàrà?

In saner climes, an infraction against Olúbọbọtiribọ earned its victims banishment from representing the people. Here, they are garlanded. Some say it is due to the highly-burnished Nigerian short memory.

It reminds me of Nigeria’s only Prime Minister, Tafawa Balewa. By 1964, the violent political crisis in the Western Region of Nigeria had escalated. Balewa, who projected the image of an “unworried” and “unconcerned” Prime Minister with his “ominous silence,” was pummeled by the Western Region media. It is same way Bola Tinubu is harangued for worsening hunger and killings in Nigeria today. Balewa still advertised a façade of insulation from the worsening fate of the West and someone who didn’t read newspapers. On a tour of Benin in June, 1964, still feigning ignorance of the crisis, Balewa was quoted to have said that he could not judge the intensity of lawlessness in the West on account of newspaper report of the brigandage. Onanuga, last week, also took sizeable slices of this Balewa omelette that precipitated blood when he said media reportage of insecurity and hunger was contrived.


Worse still, as Balewa departed Nigeria for Accra to attend an OAU meeting in October, 1965, he was still quoted to have alleged that the violence in the region was contrived. While at the Ikeja Airport, he was asked by journalists what he was going to do about the fire raging in Western Nigeria. Successfully tucking his bother inside his flowing babanriga, Tafawa Balewa reportedly looked round and cynically declared; “Ikeja is part of the West and I cannot see any fire burning.” That same fire consumed him on January 15, 1966. It was a case of a disease that would kill one which is always pampered and treated with kid gloves.


While Dikko’s unguarded comment on the state of the Nigerian people riled the people, it survived three and half decades before Bayo Onanuga picked it from its inglorious rafters. Dikko’s was widely remembered as a symbol of governmental disconnect from the reality of the people. Like Second Republic Nigeria where politicians mismanaged the economy amid dwindling oil revenues, which resulted in mass suffering and extreme scarcity of basic commodities, Nigerians are back to this inglorious era. With Onanuga’s claim and Remi Tinubu’s condescending take on development of the Nigerian woman, we may have heard the defining summary of the Tinubu government about Nigerian citizens’ plight.

As Dikko’s comment reflected the Shagari government’s tone-deafness to the people’s plight, Onanuga and Mrs. Tinubu’s have effectively summarized what the current administration thinks of its citizens. No wonder Dikko, who waited for Nigerians to feed from dustbins, was eventually given the dustbin treatment in December 1983 — abducted in London, drugged, and crated like a bin commodity. Olúbọbọtiribọ, it seems, smilingly takes its pound of flesh.

This is the only defence I can offer for my senior colleague in journalism’s fascination with Diko, Balewa and other victims of Olúbọbọtiribọ.