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Reframing Nigeria’s Banditry Crisis: From Emotional Narratives to Strategic Clarity

My work took me repeatedly into frontline areas: Birnin Gwari and its adjoining corridors; the forests and flashpoints of Zamfara, Katsina, and Niger States; and into out-of-reach locations in Chikun, Igabi, Giwa, Kajuru, Kachia, Kagarko, Kauru, Kubau, and other high-risk zones across the state and beyond.
My submission is, essentially, a summary of the practical knowledge from my involvement.

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By Samuel Aruwan

PROLOGUE

Nigeria is once again trapped in a familiar and dangerous cycle: confronting a grave national security threat through emotionally charged narratives, partisan framings, and poorly differentiated solutions that blur the line between grievance and criminality.

The armed banditry plaguing Northern Nigeria—particularly across the North-West and parts of the North-Central—has generated an avalanche of commentary for and against dialogue with bandits. While supporters of dialogue are often cast as well-intentioned, their opponents frequently argue that such a stance is insensitive to the victims of banditry.

This essay intervenes in that conversation. Its purpose is not to provoke a sterile debate between advocates of ‘dialogue’ and proponents of ‘kinetic action,’ nor to dismiss non-kinetic tools wholesale.

Rather, it seeks to interrogate the assumptions, misdiagnoses, and conceptual errors that increasingly shape public discourse on banditry, often in ways that undermine Nigeria’s national security rather than strengthen it.

What is urgently required is clarity of threat, precision of categorisation, and discipline in policy response.

Banditry in Northern Nigeria is neither monolithic nor reducible to a single narrative of grievance.

Treating it as such—through emotional understanding, ethnic profiling, or indiscriminate calls for amnesty—risks legitimising violent criminal enterprises, emboldening perpetrators, and eroding the state’s monopoly over the use of force.

Author’s Background

I write neither as a passive observer nor as a theorist detached from the theatre of violence.

Before entering public service, I spent over a decade as a journalist covering conflict and insecurity in Northern Nigeria.

I later served as Spokesperson to the Government of Kaduna State and pioneer Commissioner of Internal Security and Home Affairs.

For nearly a decade, I was a member—and later Secretary—of the State Security Council, actively involved in security operations, liaison between the Government of Kaduna State and security forces, coordination of intelligence gathering and internal security, among other responsibilities.

Bandits Frontline Areas

My work took me repeatedly into frontline areas: Birnin Gwari and its adjoining corridors; the forests and flashpoints of Zamfara, Katsina, and Niger States; and into out-of-reach locations in Chikun, Igabi, Giwa, Kajuru, Kachia, Kagarko, Kauru, Kubau, and other high-risk zones across the state and beyond. My submission is, essentially, a summary of the practical knowledge from my involvement.

Banditry in Northern Nigeria today is not primarily a grievance-based phenomenon seeking political redress.

It is a violent, profit-driven criminal ecosystem that has evolved into a quasi-corporate enterprise, with diversified revenue streams, transnational arms supply chains, and entrenched leadership structures.

To treat it otherwise is to misread the threat.

Banditry is not new to Northern Nigeria. Historical accounts trace cattle rustling and armed robbery as far back as 1891 around Dansadau, where some traditional rulers were accused of colluding with bandits.

From Cross -Border to Rural criminality

Cross-border criminality involving some Tuareg, Fulani, Gobirawa, and Asebenawa actors existed during the colonial period, but these activities were limited in scale and lethality, constrained by the absence of widespread small arms proliferation.

The contemporary mutation of banditry emerged gradually but decisively in the post-2011 period.

What began as rural criminality—cattle rustling, highway robbery, and communal disputes—metastasised into mass kidnapping, village annihilation, sexual violence, arms and drug trafficking, territorial control, and many other challenges.

The turning point was not merely grievance but weaponisation: the transition from sticks and swords to pump-action rifles and, eventually, AK-47s and other high-calibre weapons.

First modern bandit gang

Scholarly work, including that of Dr. Murtala Rufai, identifies Alhaji Kundu and Buhari Tsoho (Buharin Daji) as architects of the first modern bandit gang.

Their operations expanded rapidly across Zamfara and neighbouring states, eventually spawning over 120 gangs by 2021.

Between 2011 and 2021 alone, these groups reportedly killed over 12,000 people, displaced tens of thousands, destroyed entire villages, and stole hundreds of thousands of livestock.

Crucially, the early victims of modern banditry were Fulani herders whose cattle were rustled en masse by bandits of the same Fulani extraction.

Eventually, these legitimate cattle owners resorted to self-help by also acquiring low-calibre weapons to protect their livestock from being rustled by the bandits, as police and traditional rulers’ interventions failed and the authorities turned a blind eye—not seeing the dangers ahead and just perceiving the development as usual intra-Fulani herders feud. In return, because of their contacts and resources, the bandits started acquiring automatic weapons and overpowered these legitimate cattle owners and massively rustled their cattle.

It also got to a stage where bandits were kidnapping these cattle owners and demanding herds of cattle or its equivalent in cash as ransom.

Many cattle owners who had no herds of cattle to present nor money to pay as ransom were killed, and some of their daughters and wives were forcibly taken as sex slaves.

This trend impoverished these owners, driving many of their kin to join banditry to recover stolen cattle.

Others joined gangs like the ‘Kungiyar Gayu’ to demand pastoral unity and justice in response to cattle rustling, extortions, allegations of injustices by local traditional rulers, police partialities, politicians, local court corruption, and other abnormal practices that exposed them to extreme poverty without a source of livelihood.

Some were also brainwashed by bandits to join banditry in the name of resisting a perceived agenda against their ethnicity in view of social discrimination and stereotyping.

The Kundu and Tsoho’s gang

As I have previously argued, the first main targets of Kundu and Tsoho’s gang were the legitimate Fulani cattle owners.

Once they were finished with them, they turned to rustling the farming cattle (Shanun Huda) of Hausa farmers, alongside killings, kidnappings, gender-based violence of the Hausa women, confiscation of properties, and the destruction of farms.

In response, Hausa farming communities formed volunteer groups, commonly referred to as ‘Yan-Sakai’ or ‘Yan-Banga’.

The excesses of these volunteers—generalising and categorising all Fulani, including herders who were also victims, as complicit—drew a dangerous ethnic battle line.

The rural Fulani herders could no longer access towns and markets, while Hausa farming communities could not access their farms deep in the forest.

Markets became inaccessible. Farms were abandoned. Forests became battlefields.

This development set in motion killings and counter-killings, even as cattle rustling intensified.

Kidnapping for ransom

In the midst of this, kidnapping for ransom emerged, with bandits carrying out abductions and the ‘Yan-Sakai’ organizing counter attacks—excesses that affect the innocent based on shared ethnicity.

This dynamic further compounds the crisis, as aggrieved innocents seek vengeance, since there is no justice system to dispense justice, while the bandits and ‘Yan-Sakai’ pursue their own, parallel cycles of retribution.

The ‘Yan-Sakai’ killing of a Fulani leader, Alhaji Isshe of Chilin village in Maru Local Government Area of Zamfara State—an event recorded as occurring on 16th August 2012—marked a decisive escalation.

As Rufai noted in his thesis, they carried out the public murder on the accusation that he was harboring criminals and rustlers. Reprisal followed reprisal.

What began as criminality hardened into an ethnicised cycle of violence, even as bandit gangs expanded operations against all communities regardless of identity.

By the time the government acted, the criminality had become entrenched across several centres of gravity in Zamfara State and neighbouring corridors. Kidnapping and attacks intensified around 2013 and resurged in 2016 across Zamfara, Kaduna, Katsina, Kebbi, Sokoto, Niger, Plateau, and Benue.

A major obstacle to an effective response has been the tendency of some media sections to fracture the banditry narrative along ethnic and religious lines: one story for Zamfara and Katsina, another for non-Hausa communities in Plateau and Benue.

The Tiv and The Fulani

The criminality perpetrated by the bandits—for instance, in Benue and Plateau states—further ignited the long-standing farmers-herders, land-grabbing, and indigene-settler tensions and crises, which usually take on religious and ethnic dimensions because the farmers are largely non-Fulani Christians while the herders are Fulani Muslims.

This escalation occurred despite a positive history of Fulani-Tiv and Fulani-Berom relations built on complementary farming and pastoralism over time.

The good side of Tiv and Fulani brotherhood was well captured by Akiga Sai (1898-1959) in his book ‘History of the Tiv’.

The exact passage is: “Besieged with animosity from their neighbours, the Tiv pulled out from their neighbors, the Tiv pulled out from their midst and migrated north-east, if one uses a modern compass, until they met with another alien group called Fulani and mingled with them. The Fulani never troubled them by interfering with their way of life.

They formed close bonds with each other. In case of any attack by another group, the Fulani would easily repel such an attack.

The Tiv marvelled at the dexterity with which the Fulani fought and defeated aggressor ethnic groups and nicknamed the Fulani pul, meaning ‘conqueror’ in the Tiv language.”

Akiga Sai was a man of historic firsts.

He was the first Tiv man to declare himself a Christian in 1912 and was among the first group of four to be baptised in 1917.

He became the first Tiv to read and write, edited the first Tiv newsletter (Mwanger u Tiv) published by the Gaskiya Corporation, served as the first Tiv elected politician in the Northern House of Assembly, was one of the delegates sent to the London constitutional conference in 1953, and authored the first book ever written by a Tiv person.

He completed the Tiv language manuscript for his book, ‘History of the Tiv’, in 1935. An edited English translation by Rupert East was first published by the International African Institute in 1939 under the title ‘Akiga’s Story: the Tiv tribe as seen by one of its members.’

Ethnic Conflicts in Plateau State

In a separate 2016 article on Nigerian linguistics, the scholar Farooq Kperogi notes: “Again, although the Fulani and the Berom of Plateau State see themselves as belonging to the furthest poles of northern Nigeria’s political and cultural divide, especially in light of the recent internecine ethnic conflict in Plateau State, they not only belong to the larger Niger Congo language family (to which many languages in central and southern Nigeria belong); they actually belong to the same Atlantic Congo subfamily of the Niger Congo family.”

These historical and linguistic ties underscore how the contemporary framing of conflict along rigid ethnic lines is dangerous, one that bandits and partisan narratives exploit.

Much as there’s a problem, the better part of the past can be used in reframing narratives to halt bloodshed and exploit the strengths of diversities and the ubiquitous of all humans.

Furthermore, the fact that banditry is perpetrated by criminals whose ethnic identity is traceable to Fulani has exacerbated the problem.

I have argued elsewhere that, despite the symbiotic nature of banditry and farmers-herders conflicts, there is a fundamental difference between the two; and all parties (farmers and herders communities) are ultimately victims of the banditry perpetrated by these criminals and their collaborators who are driven by economics and terror.

The book ‘The Root Cause of Farmers-Herders Crisis in North Central Nigeria’ by Plangshak Musa Suchi and Sallek Yaks Musa explores this problematic nexus in greater detail.

Media Reportage

The media’s selective framing fuels polarization and obscures the underlying criminal logic that drives the violence. Banditry is not tribal or identity-based violence but a form of terrorism and criminality perpetrated by criminal elements who must be viewed and treated as such.

Ethnic profiling weakens the collective battle against crime, complicates counter-banditry campaigns, and strengthens the bandits’ emotional narratives.

At its core, contemporary banditry is sustained by money.

What began as cattle rustling evolved into a sophisticated criminal economy with multiple income streams: ransom payments, cattle sales, arms trafficking, illegal mining, protection levies, forced taxation, mercenary killings, drug peddling, and collaboration with transnational criminal networks across borders.

Some kingpins transitioned from field operations into full-time arms dealing, supplying weapons not only to their own gangs but to other criminal actors. In certain forest corridors, weapons became easier to obtain than food.

Bandits Shadow Goverance

The accumulation of wealth allowed bandits to establish shadow governance structures in ungoverned spaces and thrive in their lucrative enterprise of crime.

Faced with mass casualties and public pressure, several state governments in the past turned to dialogue and peace accords.

Early attempts at negotiation were documented, such as a reported meeting with the bandit leader Buharin Daji at Gobirawa Chali village in December 2016.

Zamfara, Katsina, and others experimented repeatedly with negotiations, arms surrender ceremonies, and promises of reintegration.

Key events include a peace agreement in Katsina on 15th January 2017, a major surrender ceremony in Zamfara on 16th December 2019, and another peace accord enacted by the Zamfara state government in 2019.

Each time, violence temporarily subsided—only to return with greater ferocity.

Former Governor Aminu Bello Masari’s frustration was telling: peace accords rarely lasted beyond a few months. Bandits regrouped, rearmed, and resumed operations.

In Kaduna State, an attempt to suggest dialogue was rebuffed, and the state maintained an outright rejection of negotiation—a stance hardened by major attacks in 2021 and 2022.

This position stemmed from a hard-earned assessment: financially incentivised criminals have little reason to abandon lucrative violence. Dialogue is not inherently wrong. Its error lies in misapplication.

A central failure in Nigeria’s discourse is the refusal to distinguish between categories of armed actors involved in the banditry cycle.

There exists a group of low-risk non-state actors: individuals who armed themselves defensively after suffering attacks from bandits or vigilantes, as earlier discussed.

They do not engage in predatory kidnapping but in violence associated with the repercussions of attacks and criminality perpetrated by bandits.

These actors and communities can be engaged through dialogue, disarmament, and state protection, alongside an emphasis on recourse to the law and the avoidance of stereotyping that creates chains of serial attacks and counter-attacks resulting in killings and displacement while banditry flourishes.

But there is a second group: heavily armed, profit-driven bandit networks responsible for mass killings as hired mercenaries; serial kidnappings of students, citizens and expatriates; cattle rustling; attacks on schools and hospitals to cripple education and healthcare service delivery; attacks and killings of worshippers at mosques and churches, as well as at markets, farms, and rivers during fishing; the burning of communities and territorial control; the displacement of communities; the enslavement of community members to run errands and service their logistical needs for petrol and food; and the conscription of others from these enslaved communities into armed banditry and other related crimes.

They impose protection levies on communities and levies for the clearing of farms, farming, and harvesting.

They engage in armed robbery, maintain informant networks that aid targeted kidnappings, and coerce communities to place their wards on routine sentry duty to report security force movements while forbidding them from volunteering information or responding to official inquiries—a directive enforced by the threat of execution.

They are also involved in illegal mining, procuring and trafficking in arms and drugs, carrying out joint operations and fusing with ideologically based terror groups, attacks on critical national infrastructure, and gender-based violence, including the impunity with which they make minors and married women into sex slaves, and attacks on security forces—carting away arms and committing other forms of violent attacks for monetary gain and objectives that undermine national security and Nigeria’s sovereignty.

These actors operate criminal franchises.

Kid-glove approaches

Appeasement or kid-glove approaches only strengthen them, as practical study shows they rush to embrace truces when weakened by the coercive power of the state, buying time to restock and rebalance their armoury.

Within this category are those they conscripted; if these individuals surrender voluntarily and give up their arms, it should be honoured while they are profiled, further disarmed, and processed as guaranteed by law and protocols.

Advocates of dialogue

Advocates of dialogue often underestimate the intelligence advantage held by security agencies.

Lawful interception, human intelligence networks, and post-operation verification provide a far clearer picture of bandit intentions than any forest-level engagement.

For those familiar with security management trends, these capabilities provide intelligence agencies with crucial advantages.

They enable the collection of real-time details and background intelligence on armed groups, putting strategic communications, tactics, and decoys at the agencies’ fingertips—all without the knowledge of the groups themselves or of the commenting public.

Bandits stage theatrical performances for emissaries: choreographed displays of arms, rehearsed grievances, emotional appeals.

These are psychological operations designed to conceal their real motive, which is fundamentally criminal and nothing more.

What emissaries hear is not truth—it is an emotional narrative, as many advocates do not engage in post-intelligence verification that security agencies conduct and from which they glean actionable intelligence.

From Maitatsine, Boko Haram, and now banditry

Nigeria has paid dearly for ignoring early warning signs: Maitatsine, Boko Haram, and now banditry.

Each followed the same trajectory—dismissal, appeasement, escalation, catastrophe. Recent statistics underline the cost.

Banditry Statistics

According to a report issued by the National Bureau of Statistics (NBS) in December 2024, which calls for deeper reflection on the economy of banditry, between May 2023 and April 2024, the nation recorded more than 600,000 deaths from insecurity, with 614,937 citizens killed nationwide.

The North-West had the highest figure with 206,030, followed by the North-East with 188,992, while the least was recorded in the South-West at 15,693.

The Bureau, in the said report which has not been countered, added that 2,235,954 Nigerians were kidnapped and a total of ₦2,231,772,563,507 (approximately $1,438,040,707) was paid in ransom.

The report stated that the North-West remained dominant in Nigeria’s kidnap-for-ransom landscape, recording 425 incidents, or 42.6 per cent of total cases nationwide.

The region also accounted for 2,938 victims, representing 62.2 per cent of all abducted persons.

This report and the recent one issued by SBM Intelligence in December 2025 are worrisome, presenting a clear scenario and a sign that the nation must tread with caution.

Banditry in Northern Nigeria is not a misunderstanding to be resolved through sentiment and politicking.

It is a national security threat that demands conceptual clarity, differentiated responses, and state resolve.

Dialogue has a place—but only where actors are willing to genuinely disengage.

Criminal enterprises masquerading as aggrieved must be confronted with lawful, proportionate, and decisive force. Nigeria’s future security depends not on emotional understanding, but on strategic honesty.

To move forward, Nigeria must formally abandon the tendency to treat “bandits” as a single category.

A National Threat Differentiation Doctrine

A national threat differentiation doctrine should be adopted across federal and state security architecture, clearly distinguishing between low-risk armed non-state actors, who are defensive and grievance-driven, and high-risk entrepreneurial bandit networks, which are profit-driven, transnationally connected, and heavily armed criminal franchises.

This distinction should guide who may be engaged, who must be disarmed, and who must be confronted with the might of the state.

If emotional narratives continue to override intelligence, law, and experience, the country risks repeating the very mistakes that produced its gravest security catastrophes

Without this clarity, dialogue and force will continue to be applied blindly, with counterproductive results.

Dialogue, reconciliation, and reintegration

Consequently, dialogue, reconciliation, and reintegration must be surgically applied, not morally universalised. Engagement should be limited to individuals who do not engage in kidnapping for ransom, do not command armed groups, have no history of mass killings or sexual violence, and are willing to submit to biometric registration, vetting, and monitoring.

Such processes must be embedded within formal Demobilisation, Disarmament and Reintegration (DDR) frameworks, not ad hoc political expediency arrangements. Any negotiation with high-value bandit leaders constitutes strategic appeasement and should be reconsidered.

Bandit Economy

The bandit economy survives on cash flow.

Therefore, payments by communities for “peace,” protection, access to farms, mining, or ceasefires must be officially discouraged because they are indirect terror financing and a source of oxygen for the crisis.

Community Protections

Communities must be protected so that survival payments and ransom do not become their only option, and networks in communities involved in ceasefire payments or facilitation ought to be dismantled.

Ending violence requires cutting revenue, and no line enabling or sustaining a revenue source should be taken lightly.

For entrenched, profit-driven bandit groups, force must be lawful, precise, relentless, and intelligence-led. Operations should prioritise command nodes, arms supply chains, logistics corridors, financial intermediaries, and forest-based staging areas.

This is not collective punishment; it is targeted state enforcement of the monopoly of violence.

The Kaduna-bound train attack of 2022 and similar incidents demonstrate a dangerous convergence between bandit networks and ideological terrorist elements.

Nigeria must treat this convergence as an early-stage insurgency risk, disrupt funding overlaps, shared training, and weapons transfers, and prevent bandit networks from evolving into full-spectrum terrorist organisations, as happened with Boko Haram.

History shows the cost of ignoring this phase is catastrophic.

Bandits thrive where the state is absent. Security operations must be followed immediately by permanent security presence, the reopening of schools and health facilities, the restoration of markets and rural livelihoods, and the reinstatement of administrative control through courts and civil authority. Clearing operations without holding and governing will only recycle violence.

Furthermore, the state must lead a deliberate narrative reset.

Official communication should describe banditry as criminal violence—a threat to the common good that must be addressed.

Wrong Media Profiling

Media framing that profiles entire communities must be actively discouraged, and law enforcement actions must be visibly even-handed. While community self-defence emerged from necessity, its excesses escalated violence.

The security outfits being established by some states must be regulated and trained in human rights and rules of engagement, placed under clear legal authority, and held accountable for abuses. Unregulated activities compound the crisis and fuel cycles of attacks.

Nigeria’s history—Maitatsine, Boko Haram, now banditry—reveals a pattern of ignored warnings. Intelligence assessments must translate into early action, not delayed consensus.

Political hesitations

Political hesitation in the face of clear threat indicators must be treated as a national security failure. Prevention is always cheaper—in lives, legitimacy, and resources—than containment.

Conclusion

Finally, Nigeria must stop debating banditry primarily as a sociological misunderstanding.

It is a violent criminal economy, and a threat to national security and all the negative consequences earlier discussed.

The central lesson from the foregoing is simple: If emotional narratives continue to override intelligence, law, and experience, the country risks repeating the very mistakes that produced its gravest security catastrophes.

Aruwan is a postgraduate student at Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria.

aruwansamuel@aol.com

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PAYE Tax, Stakeholder Concern and Country Development, By Tony Monye

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In point of fact, Lagos State is beyond a state. And, that is written without any sense of exaggeration. Lagos is more or less a country. The state can be compared to the other countries in Africa, especially along the continent’s west coast. Take a look at the state’s GDP and compare to Liberia, Sierra Leone and Togo’s figures.

The state’s economic indices completely outclass theirs while competing favourably with even Ghana or Cote D’Ivoire’s. Analogously, the Federal Capital Territory – (not yet recognised as a state) – Abuja – perhaps, with no one noticing – is rapidly morphing, racing up the path that shaped the Lagos’ development trajectory.

The end outcome is for time to reveal. And, it surely will. Comparatively, the other thirty-five states in the Nigerian federation are less than what one would call a state in terms of revenue generation, infrastructural presence and the other state-determinant economics and features, as they are straddled by very weak eco-financial profiles.

In fact, their Treasuries are often said to be in chaos, which I think should be some wake-up call to all their stakeholders. For instance, benchmarking the VAT and IGR (largely driven by consumption and the spate of economic engagements) numbers across the states in Nigeria presents another vivid revelation of immense size.

The disparity between Lagos and Abuja’s VAT and IGR figures, on the one hand and the other 35-states’ is frankly too dizzying for comfort and should raise some concern. Some (constitutional – largely fiscal) arrangements must have led to this.

Therefore, truly concerned elected political office-holders and economic planners should know it’s time they spoke up. Their continued silence rewards no one, not even the present benefitting states, especially in the long range.

The gap also does not speak in favour of country-wide development, especially when it negates the exact arrangements the nation badly and urgently needs.

Of many of the factors driving the unwholesome developmental optics, the structure of the country’s tax (particularly the PAYE system – how this is shared) can be considered to be at the heart of this misnomer.

Nigeria, Stakeholder Concerns and Taxes
Interestingly, Nigeria is a federation of states. Our federating structure is like no other in the world. How most of its holding pillars are defined are not evolving. They are stuck in their original letters, negatively impacting real development.

The Nigerian constitution recognises the clearly inflexible dichotomy between state of origin and state of residence for various reasons. There is also an aspect of the Nigerian state that is often de-emphasised in discourses even though it’s an integral part of its politico-administrative architecture – the local government.

Every economically-engaged Nigeria (especially in the formal sector) is at least a stakeholder in the three politico-administrative jurisdictions of state of residence, state and local government of origin. But of all the three, allegiance is most tightly expressed in one’s state of origin.

How deeply true is this when the PAYE-tax structure favours the state of residence while neglecting his supposed allegiance to his state of origin?

To help the government at each of the levels – federal, state and local – meet with their responsibilities and duties, every working/ earning adult is, amongst others, expected to be tax-responsible as a citizen-stakeholder.

Nigeria has adopted the PAYE-tax structure for its workers. Don’t we know that tax is a sine qua non for development? The existing PAYE-tax architecture is defective. It directs that PAYE-tax should be on the basis of the state of residence (where the typical worker is domiciled).

It does not take into consideration the many ‘fates’ of the Nigerian worker outside his state of origin and his stakeholder responsibility bent. In other words, the PAYE-tax structure demands him to be tax-responsible to a state where he is more or less regarded as a ‘stranger’.

That way, he is therefore tax-irresponsible to his state and local government area of origin, where according to the Nigerian constitution he also has some stakes.

The drawbacks of this long-standing arrangement are so easily seen and they are enormous, reflecting in the development hiatus between the two (of Lagos and Abuja) and the rest.

The development gap also comes with its socio-economic challenges if we think in terms of migration. On the other hand, a critical evaluation will also reveal that, like some have argued, Lagos and Abuja’s development is at the price being paid by the other 35-states.

For instance, a Deltan living and working in Abuja can be tax-responsible to the FCT while being tax-irresponsible to Delta State – where he is also a stakeholder (isn’t it wrong to be a stakeholder only on paper?). How this insalubrious tilt has remained the case for too long is what I do not know.

The existing PAYE-tax arrangement completely turns its back on many of our highly engraved and pronounced peculiarities as a nation, which should not be.

A Fairer PAYE-TAX Structure for Nigeria
It is time everyone – the politicians and economic planners – sat at the roundtable to develop a new and more equitable PAYE-tax sharing arrangement, which must take into reckoning our many oddities as a nation.

Furthermore, it must also align with the stakeholder leanings of the average Nigerian worker, which in the final argument will benefit country-wide development.

Argue against this if you can. A stitch, like they say, can actually stop the necessary need for nine.

Tony Monye Publisher
The TMBC Business

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Xenophobia: Do South Africa’s Attacks Give Credence to Botha’s Assertion?

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By Emeka Monye

In 1988, as international pressure against apartheid reached a crescendo, South Africa’s then State President Pieter Willem Botha allegedly declared that Black Africans lacked the capacity to govern themselves.

The statement, widely circulated but never verified in an official transcript, was stark: “Black people cannot rule themselves because they don’t have the brain and mental capacity to govern a society.

Give them guns, they would kill themselves; give them power, they will steal all the government money; give them independence and democracy, they will use it to promote tribalism, ethnicity, bigotry, hatred, killings and wars.”

A longer version of an alleged 1985 speech described Black people as “a symbol of poverty, mental inferiority, laziness and emotional incompetence.”

Botha was the architect of “reform apartheid” — a policy that eased some racial restrictions while entrenching white minority rule. He legalized interracial marriage, relaxed the Group Areas Act, and granted limited political rights to Coloured and Indian South Africans.

But he drew the line at Black majority rule, refusing to negotiate with the African National Congress or release Nelson Mandela for most of his tenure.

His words, whether authentic or apocryphal, reflected the ideological core of apartheid: that white minority rule was necessary because Black Africans were incapable of self-governance.

More than three decades after apartheid ended and South Africa became a democracy, that assertion has resurfaced in public discourse — not from white supremacists, but from some Africans reacting to a painful reality: the periodic eruption of xenophobic violence against fellow Africans in South Africa.

Since 2008, South Africa has witnessed repeated waves of attacks on African migrants. Shops owned by Nigerians, Somalis, Zimbabweans, and Mozambicans have been looted and burned. Foreign nationals have been beaten, killed, and displaced from townships.

In September 2019, mobs targeted foreign-owned businesses in Johannesburg and Pretoria, forcing hundreds to flee. In 2021 and again in 2023, similar violence flared in Durban and Gauteng, often justified by perpetrators as a response to unemployment and crime.

The victims are not Europeans or Asians. They are Africans — fellow members of the African Union, fellow signatories to the African Continental Free Trade Area, fellow citizens of a continent that preaches Pan-African solidarity.

The irony is bitter. A country that itself endured decades of racial exclusion now finds sections of its population directing similar exclusion toward other Black Africans.

This is the context in which Botha’s alleged statement is being recalled. For some commentators, the attacks are not just criminal acts.

They are seen as evidence of a deeper dysfunction — a failure of governance, social cohesion, and civic responsibility that extends beyond South Africa’s borders and into the broader African experience.

Africa is the world’s youngest continent, with 60 percent of its population under 25. It is also the richest in natural resources, holding 30 percent of the world’s mineral reserves and 65 percent of its arable land.

Yet it remains the least developed continent on nearly every index — from GDP per capita to healthcare, education, and infrastructure.

The reasons are complex and historical. Colonialism dismantled indigenous governance structures, imposed arbitrary borders, and created extractive economies designed to serve European powers.

Post-independence, many African states inherited weak institutions and were immediately confronted with Cold War proxy conflicts, debt burdens, and the challenge of nation-building across diverse ethnic groups.

The result has been a pattern of instability: civil wars in Liberia, Sierra Leone, Rwanda, and Sudan. Military coups in Mali, Burkina Faso, Niger, and Guinea. Election rigging, corruption, and weak rule of law in numerous countries. Banditry and insurgency in the Sahel and North-East Nigeria.

These are not abstract problems. They have consequences — for economic development, for migration, and for the way Africans are perceived both at home and abroad.

South Africa has not been immune. Despite its advanced infrastructure and democratic institutions, it struggles with inequality, unemployment hovering above 30 percent, and high levels of violent crime. In this environment, foreign nationals often become scapegoats.

They are accused of taking jobs, running informal businesses without permits, and contributing to crime. The narrative is familiar: when institutions fail to deliver economic opportunity, blame is shifted to the outsider.

The core of Botha’s argument — and the uncomfortable question it raises today — is about institutions. Governance is not just about holding elections. It is about building systems that protect property rights, enforce contracts, deliver public services, and hold leaders accountable.

It is about a culture where the rule of law supersedes tribal loyalty, where constitutional authority is respected, and where citizens feel safe and included.

In many African countries, those institutions remain weak. Courts are slow or compromised. Police are under-resourced and often seen as predatory. Civil service is politicized. Corruption is normalized. When the state fails to provide security and economic opportunity, informal power structures — ethnic militias, vigilante groups, criminal gangs — fill the vacuum.

South Africa’s xenophobic attacks reveal the same deficit. The state has been slow to prosecute perpetrators. Political leaders have at times used anti-foreigner rhetoric for political gain.

Communities feel abandoned by law enforcement and take justice into their own hands. The result is a breakdown of social order that mirrors the instability seen in other parts of the continent.

To raise this question is not to endorse Botha’s racism. His worldview was rooted in white supremacy and designed to justify domination. History has disproven him in the most fundamental way: Black Africans have governed themselves since independence, building nations, universities, businesses, and cultural institutions.

Countries like Botswana, Rwanda, Ghana, and Mauritius have shown that stable governance and economic growth are possible in an African context.

But it is also true that self-governance has not delivered the prosperity and unity that early independence leaders like Kwame Nkrumah, Julius Nyerere, and Patrice Lumumba envisioned. Instead, many African states remain trapped in cycles of conflict and underdevelopment. The African Union’s Agenda 2063 speaks of a “peaceful and prosperous Africa,” but the reality on the ground often falls short.

The xenophobic attacks in South Africa force a difficult conversation. If Africans cannot protect other Africans within their own borders, what does that say about the project of African unity? If economic competition between Africans leads to violence rather than cooperation, how can the continent achieve meaningful integration under the African Continental Free Trade Area?

Botha’s assertion was meant to deny Africans agency. The proper response is not to accept it, but to confront the failures that give it superficial resonance.

That means African governments must do more to strengthen institutions, protect migrants, and address the economic grievances that fuel xenophobia.

It means civil society must challenge hate speech and promote a culture of tolerance. It means citizens must hold leaders accountable for delivering governance that works.

It also means rejecting the temptation to generalize. South Africa’s attacks do not represent all South Africans. Many South Africans have condemned the violence, sheltered foreign nationals, and called for solidarity.

Similarly, Africa’s governance challenges do not define all 54 countries on the continent. There are islands of stability and progress that offer a counter-narrative.

The real danger is silence — the refusal to acknowledge that something is broken. Africa cannot afford to normalize dysfunction or to dismiss criticism as neo-colonialism. Self-determination comes with responsibility: the responsibility to build societies that are just, safe, and prosperous for all who live within them, regardless of nationality.

Pieter Willem Botha’s words were born out of prejudice and intended to perpetuate oppression. They should be rejected for what they are — a justification for racial exclusion. Yet the recurring xenophobic violence in South Africa, and the broader governance challenges across Africa, demand honest reflection.

The path forward lies not in proving Botha right, but in proving him wrong through action. That means building institutions that work, economies that create opportunity, and societies that uphold the dignity of every person — African or otherwise. Until then, the question of Africa’s capacity to govern itself will remain open, not because of race, but because of the unfinished work of state-building.

Africa’s renaissance will not come from denying its problems. It will come from facing them, learning from them, and resolving to do better. That is the only answer worthy of the continent’s future.

Emeka Monye Is A Journalist

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Obi, Kwankwaso Will Move To The NDC As The 2027 Chessboard Takes Shape

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*By Emeka Monye*

As the race for the 2027 presidential election gathers momentum, Nigeria’s political landscape is already shifting like a chessboard before the first move.

Major political bigwigs are jostling for party tickets, testing alliances, and calculating the odds of securing the ultimate prize: Aso Rock. Permutations have begun in earnest, with analysts and party insiders reading between the lines of every handshake and every press statement.

At the center of these calculations are some of the most recognizable names in Nigerian politics: former Vice President Atiku Abubakar, former Anambra Governor Peter Obi, former Transport Minister Rotimi Amaechi, and former Kano Governor Rabiu Kwankwaso.

Each of these men carries political weight, regional influence, and a base that believes he represents the best chance to dislodge the incumbent, President Bola Tinubu. Tinubu himself is widely regarded by political observers as a master strategist, a man who understands the mechanics of power better than most.

Beating him will not be easy. It will require not just popularity, but structure, resources, and most importantly, unity among opposition forces. Whether that unity will materialize remains the great unknown of 2027.

The most delicate variable in this equation is the willingness of these aspirants to step down for one another under the banner of a single party. Right now, much of the speculation centers on the African Democratic Congress, ADC, which has quietly become a possible platform for an opposition coalition.

But the question hanging over the ADC is simple: who will blink first? And more importantly, who will be willing to sacrifice personal ambition for the greater good of a unified front?

Atiku Abubakar remains a central figure in this debate. The former Vice President has pursued the presidency since 1992, and his ambition has not dimmed with age.

For Atiku, 2027 may represent one last shot at realizing a lifelong dream. But his candidacy faces a structural hurdle: the argument that it is still the turn of the South to produce the president. After eight years of Muhammadu Buhari from the North, many within the political class believe power should remain in the South for another term.

That arrangement does not favor Atiku, and whether he will adhere to it in principle is a matter of political conscience. Based on history, many doubt he will. Atiku’s camp has always played hardball, and stepping down for a southern candidate would require a level of self-restraint he has not shown before.

This is where Peter Obi enters the frame. Obi’s performance in the 2023 election proved that he commands a movement that transcends traditional party lines. His supporters, often called the “Obidients,” see him as the face of a new Nigeria, one less tethered to the old guard. But Obi’s path to the ADC ticket is far from clear.

The party’s structure, insiders say, is already leaning toward Atiku. For Atiku, Obi’s movement represents a useful support base to stay afloat, but not necessarily a platform he is willing to surrender. If Atiku remains a stumbling block, Obi may be forced to look elsewhere.

That “elsewhere” could be the National Democratic Congress, NDC. Unlike the ADC, the NDC is currently free of the kind of internal infighting that has plagued other parties. It has no entrenched godfather dictating its direction, no legacy structure dominated by a single aspirant.

For now, it is clean. But that could change the moment Obi walks in. His arrival would bring with it the same energy and attention he brought to the Labour Party in 2022, when he left the PDP and captured national imagination. That move shocked the political establishment. A move to the NDC in 2027 could do the same.

There are strong pointers that Obi will not secure the ADC ticket. The party’s machinery is gradually being aligned with Atiku’s network, and it is unlikely that Atiku will hand over the reins without a fight.

If Obi stays and loses the primary, he risks being sidelined. If he leaves, the NDC offers a ready-made alternative, a platform where he can once again define the narrative on his own terms. It would be a repeat of 2022, but with higher stakes and greater visibility.Kwankwaso’s role in this unfolding drama cannot be ignored.

The former Kano Governor commands significant influence in the North, and his political base remains loyal. Like Obi, he is also weighing his options. A joint ticket or alliance between Obi and Kwankwaso under the NDC would be a game-changer. It would combine Obi’s southern and youth appeal with Kwankwaso’s northern structure, creating a formidable challenge to both Tinubu and any coalition the ADC manages to build.

The NDC, in that scenario, would transform from an obscure party into a national force overnight.Of course, this is all speculation for now. Politics in Nigeria is fluid, and alliances can shift in weeks, sometimes days.

But the underlying reality is clear: the opposition’s best chance in 2027 lies in unity. Divided, they will hand Tinubu an easy victory. United, they could force a real contest.

The ADC was supposed to be that unifying platform, but with Atiku’s shadow looming large, it may end up replicating the same internal conflicts that weakened the opposition in previous cycles.Obi’s supporters argue that he has already shown he is willing to sacrifice for the greater good by engaging across party lines.

But they also insist that sacrifice must go both ways. If Atiku refuses to step aside, they say, Obi owes no one the duty to play second fiddle. The NDC then becomes not just an option, but a necessity. For Kwankwaso, the calculation is similar.

He has always positioned himself as an alternative to the status quo, and joining forces with Obi under a new banner could finally give him the national reach he has long sought.

The NDC’s advantage is its neutrality. It is not burdened by the baggage of the PDP or the APC. It has no history of failed primaries or bitter court cases. It offers a fresh start, and in Nigerian politics, fresh starts can be powerful.

Voters are tired of recycling the same faces under different party logos. A new platform with new energy could capture that fatigue and turn it into votes.

But fresh starts come with risks. Building a party structure from scratch is expensive and time-consuming. It requires funding, grassroots mobilization, and a clear message.

Obi proved he could do it in 2023 with limited resources. Kwankwaso has the network to complement that effort. Together, they could make the NDC a serious contender.

Alone, each risks splitting the opposition vote and handing victory to Tinubu on a silver platter.This is why the next few months will be crucial. Party primaries, backroom negotiations, and public statements will all serve as indicators of where these aspirants are headed.

Atiku will test his influence within the ADC. Obi will test the patience of his movement. Kwankwaso will test the waters for a broader coalition. And Tinubu, from his vantage point, will watch it all unfold, ready to exploit any cracks.

For now, the signal is clear: I see Obi and Kwankwaso moving toward the NDC. It is not yet a done deal, but the logic is compelling. The ADC may offer a coalition on paper, but in reality, it looks like another battleground for old rivalries.

The NDC offers something different: a clean slate, a chance to rewrite the rules, and an opportunity to build something new.

Whether Obi and Kwankwaso will seize that opportunity remains to be seen. But if they do, 2027 will not just be another election.

It will be a referendum on whether Nigeria’s political future belongs to the old guard or to a new generation willing to break away and chart its own course.

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