By Shu’aibu Usman Leman
Across Northern Nigeria, the seasonal migration of Fulani pastoralists continues year after year—largely unchecked and seemingly undeterred by decades of debate, policy failures, and escalating communal tensions. Despite repeated promises to resolve the frequent and often deadly clashes between these nomadic cattle herders and sedentary farming communities, little has been done to stem the tide of violence or meaningfully address the root causes.
Unfortunately, political actors in the North, motivated by narrow electoral interests rather than the common good, have only exacerbated the crisis. They have persisted in defending the unrestricted movement of the Fulani herders, many of whom are heavily armed with sophisticated assault rifles, under the guise of constitutional rights to free movement. In doing so, they have consistently overlooked the troubling reality that some of these armed herdsmen are not even Nigerian nationals.
This political posturing, while perhaps expedient in the short term, ignores the deeper and far more insidious crisis festering beneath the surface—a crisis not merely of security or governance but of neglect. As schools stand abandoned, and hospitals lie empty and ill-equipped across the region, we have failed our children. And in that failure, we have not only created a generation of the disenfranchised; we have cultivated a generation of insurgents. We are not merely confronting banditry—we are, in effect, raising bandits.
This tragedy did not begin overnight. It is the result of systemic and long-standing neglect— decades of failure to integrate the Fulani herding communities into settled society, and an even broader national failure to prioritise the education and welfare of millions of Northern children.
For far too long, the North has topped national indices for out-of-school children. Year after year, alarming statistics have emerged, only to be met with silence or token responses. There has been no sustained investment in large-scale education infrastructure, no robust programmes to integrate nomadic populations, and no political urgency to reverse the cycle of poverty and illiteracy. Education was treated not as a right but as a luxury—an optional extra for those who could afford it or who happened to live in urban centres.
Equally, the nomadic migration of herders has been treated as sacrosanct, a cultural practice that could not be questioned. Yet even these herders have a right to a stable life—a right to settle in secure communities, to send their children to school, to access healthcare, and to aspire to a future not defined by movement, violence, or marginalisation.
But today, many of those children, once left to wander dusty roads and informal settlements, are no longer aimless. They have found belonging in something more sinister—banditry. They have discovered an identity, power, money, and purpose in taking up arms.
Across Zamfara, Katsina, Kaduna, Sokoto, and Niger States, increasingly grim reports surface of young boys—some barely teenagers—brandishing AK-47s, forming alliances with other armed groups, and establishing parallel systems of rule. These are not foreign invaders. They are homegrown. They are our sons—shaped not only by their own pain and poverty but also by our silence, our inaction, and our collective failure.
While the immediate impulse may be to condemn them—and indeed, they are criminals—the deeper truth is far more uncomfortable. Before they were bandits, they were victims of hunger, ignorance, exclusion, and abandonment. They were children in communities where the state was absent, where opportunities did not exist, and where the only visible form of authority came from the barrel of a gun.
In some parts of the North-West, banditry has evolved into an alternative economy. It is more profitable, more structured, and more rewarding than any government job or agricultural venture. Some now view it as a viable path to wealth and influence—a tragic commentary on the failure of the state to offer a better option.
Perhaps the most harrowing manifestation of societal collapse is the now commonplace practice of families marrying off their daughters to bandits—not out of tradition, but as a means of survival. In many communities, this is considered a form of protection. When gunmen become guardians, and violence becomes a social contract, then truly, we have reached the depths of failure.
What level of desperation must compel a mother to hand her child over to an armed criminal? What kind of state allows such vulnerability to become normalised? These are not rhetorical questions—they are indictments of governance, policy, and conscience.
Negotiating with bandits is a flawed Peace Gamble. It is tragic to note that in a bid to restore a semblance of peace, some state governments have resorted to negotiating with bandits—offering amnesty, vocational training, and promises of reintegration. In Katsina, bandit leaders have reportedly demanded basic infrastructure—schools, hospitals, and grazing lands—as conditions for disarmament.
This should alarm us—not because their demands are unreasonable, but precisely because they are so fundamentally basic. If, two decades ago, we had provided these necessities to pastoralist communities, we might have prevented the emergence of armed groups entirely. It is a grave indictment of state failure that violence is now the only language through which marginalised groups can demand basic rights.
We must not delude ourselves because what we are witnessing is not peacebuilding, but a surrender. Peace on the terms of criminals is not justice. It is an admission of institutional collapse. There can be no shortcut to lasting peace. Drone strikes may displace combatants, but they do not provide hope. Armoured convoys may protect officials, but they do not build classrooms or train teachers.
Northern State Governments must urgently embark on a comprehensive strategy that places education, youth empowerment, and social inclusion at the very heart of regional security. This means settling nomadic communities in well-planned locations across the Sahel and the Savanna regions, where they can live in dignity and security, and where their children can access education and healthcare as a matter of right, not charity.
This is not an act of benevolence—it is an existential imperative. At the same time, justice must be done. Those who have committed atrocities—murder, rape, kidnapping, and mass extortion—must be held accountable. There can be no peace built upon a foundation of impunity. Without justice, reconciliation is a mirage. Yet, we must also recognise that this is not solely a matter of crime control. It is a social crisis born out of state absence, broken promises, and unfulfilled obligations.
It is easy to call for more soldiers, more arms, and more raids. It is much harder to demand better schools, better policy, and a better social contract. But unless we choose the harder path now, we are sowing the seeds of deeper instability.
The herdsmen we have ignored, and the children we have failed to educate, will not forget. Many are already mobilised. Some have risen as commanders of armed camps, controlling territory, collecting “taxes”, and maintaining supply chains. These are no longer ragtag criminals. They are emerging militias—potential warlords in the making.
We have seen this before, elsewhere in Africa and beyond, where statelessness breeds insurgency and where violence becomes a form of governance. If we continue to delay serious and holistic intervention, we edge ever closer to a tipping point from which we may never recover. Let us, therefore, confront the bitter truth. We are not merely the victims of banditry. We are its architects.
Until we change course, until we build schools with the same urgency with which we build White elephant projects , and until we value every child with the same seriousness with which we guard every border—we are not simply fighting bandits. We are raising them.
Leman is a former National Secretary of the Nigeria Union of Journalists (NUJ)
