In the week that just ended, Nigeria was again jolted by a brutal reminder of the unchecked terror plaguing its northeastern region and other parts of the northwest and central regions. Over 50 lives were violently cut short in Borno State as Boko Haram’s JAS faction descended on the villages of Gatamarwa and Tsiha in the Chibok Local Government Area. Survivors recounted horrors too gruesome to forget, residents rounded up, accused of treason for supposed collaboration with rival factions, and then slaughtered in cold blood.
But as if the massacre wasn’t damning enough, a more sinister truth now weighs heavily on the national conscience.
Governor Babagana Zulum, a voice that has persistently echoed the anguish of his people, did not mince words. He alleged, again, that some elements within Nigeria’s military and government may be complicit, either by direct collaboration or by willful negligence, in fueling the insurgency. These allegations aren’t new. But when the blood of innocent villagers still stains the soil and the pain remains fresh, the country must no longer avert its eyes or dismiss these claims as political posturing.
The question becomes urgent and painful: Who benefits from this endless cycle of bloodshed?
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For over a decade, the people of Borno have borne the brunt of a war they neither started nor sustained. Entire communities have been displaced. Children orphaned. Women widowed. And still, the attacks continue—strategic, brutal, and relentless. If Boko Haram is a beast, it appears to be fed not just by ideology, but by complicity within the very structures meant to protect the people.
Governor Zulum has been both a witness and a victim. His motorcades have been attacked multiple times. He has walked through burned-down villages, dug shallow graves with survivors, and attempted to rebuild what little remains. His warning should shake the nation to its core.
Compounding this crisis is another quiet tragedy: the systematic erosion of humanitarian support. In recent weeks, critical international aid programs that offered maternal healthcare, safe childbirth, and trauma support in the northeast have been slashed or withdrawn due to funding gaps. Clinics in conflict zones, often the only refuge for pregnant women and sexual violence survivors, are being shut down.
What does this mean in real terms? It means more women will bleed to death while giving life. It means more girls raped by insurgents will have nowhere to turn. It means the broken will be left without healing, the sick without medicine, and the poor without hope.
This is not just a security emergency. It is a betrayal—a betrayal of the Nigerian people by a system that allows impunity, silences whistleblowers, and treats the suffering of the northeast as mere background noise.
President Tinubu and the leadership of Nigeria must confront this crisis with a rare kind of courage. An independent, transparent investigation into Zulum’s allegations must be launched. The military cannot investigate itself. If certain officials are aiding terrorists for profit, power, or political gain, they must be exposed and prosecuted, no matter how high their rank.
Furthermore, the federal government must work with international partners to restore and expand humanitarian funding in the northeast. Every shutdown clinic is a silent death sentence. Every untreated wound is another scar in a long war of neglect.
Nigeria cannot move forward while leaving millions behind to face the twin monsters of terror and abandonment. This moment demands accountability, empathy, and action—not tomorrow, but now.
The people of Borno have cried for too long. It’s time Nigeria listened.
