There is a sentence now whispered in villages, markets, and motor parks across parts of the Southeast that would have sounded unthinkable a ...
There is a sentence now whispered in villages, markets, and motor parks across parts of the Southeast that would have sounded unthinkable a few years ago: “God forbid Tiger Base should pick you, bandits might at least keep you alive.” It is not said lightly. It is said with dread. This is not a statement made to excuse terrorism. It is an indictment of a system that has collapsed so badly that citizens now fear the state more than criminals.
This is the depth of fear that has settled into everyday life. The common people, farmers, traders, students, and transport workers now weigh two nightmares against each other. On one side are armed bandits and kidnappers who operate in forests and on highways. On the other hand is an elite police unit whose name alone makes families panic, not because of justice, but because of what often follows an arrest: disappearance, torture, fabricated charges, or death without explanation.
Across communities, stories repeat themselves with chilling similarity. People picked up without warrants. Phones seized. Families told nothing. Detainees resurfacing weeks later, broken, or not resurfacing at all. When loved ones ask questions, they are warned to keep quiet “for their own good.” Justice has become something you survive, not something you trust.
Tiger Base, once presented as a special response to insecurity, has instead become a symbol of terror in its own right. Its operations are described not as investigations but as hunts. Its methods resemble punishment rather than law enforcement. And its presence has not restored peace, it has multiplied fear.
Many now openly say what officials refuse to confront. This unit has lost all legitimacy in the eyes of the people. A security structure that terrifies the population it claims to protect has already failed. Scrapping Tiger Base is no longer a radical demand; it is a plea for survival. But the problem goes deeper than one unit or one state. What is unfolding in the Southeast is the logical outcome of a country held together by force rather than consent. A system in which justice depends on ethnicity, power, or proximity to authority cannot be reformed by slogans or by reshuffling commanders. It reproduces abuse because abuse is built into its foundations.
An increasing number of voices, once cautious but now resolute, are openly stating a critical truth: Nigeria, in its current structure, can no longer provide justice for all its citizens. Police brutality, arbitrary detention, and institutional intimidation are not mere accidents; they are symptoms of a union that fails to serve those trapped within it.
For the Southeast, the demand is no longer just reform. It is self-preservation. The belief taking root is stark: only a peaceful dissolution into sovereign, accountable regions can end the cycle where citizens are crushed between terrorists on one side and state violence on the other.
This is not a call for chaos. It is a call for dignity. For a future where no mother has to choose which uniform she fears less. For a society where security means safety, not silence.
The international community must understand the gravity of this moment. When people begin to say they would rather face kidnappers than the police, the social contract is already broken. Ignoring that reality does not preserve stability; it only postpones the reckoning.
The Southeast is not asking for pity. It is asking to live. And increasingly, it believes that freedom, not force, is the only path left.
Written by
Nwaugwu E
Edited by
Chidi Ibe
For States Media Team
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