Nigeria is reeling from two grim episodes that, while seemingly unrelated, reveal a deeper, more troubling pattern of systemic failure. The brutal ambush in Niger State that claimed the lives of more than 20 Nigerian soldiers, and the conviction of Aisha Alkali Wakil, widely known as “Mama Boko Haram”, for defrauding a businessman under the guise of humanitarian service, both underscore a nation grappling with a dangerous credibility crisis, one that now haunts not only its government and military but also its civil society.
In the first instance, heavily armed bandits launched coordinated attacks on military outposts in Kwona Dutse and Gulbin Boka, despite forewarning from local authorities. The scale of the assault, and the tragic loss of life, show once again that vast swathes of Nigeria remain vulnerable to violent non-state actors. Rural communities continue to exist in a precarious state of siege, while overstretched soldiers serve as both frontline responders and sacrificial shields. How did these killers move across state borders with impunity? Why were the troops not reinforced, even after intelligence of the threat had been received?
Days later, another betrayal came in the form of a courtroom conviction. Aisha Wakil, once praised as a mediator between the state and extremist groups, was sentenced alongside her collaborators to 14 years’ imprisonment for duping a businessman out of N11 million. They posed as humanitarian actors, promising to supply medical equipment. That someone known for peacebuilding and negotiation turned out to be an agent of fraud sends a devastating message: even in spaces meant to foster healing and hope, deception can thrive unchecked.
These events may differ in nature, but they converge on one painful truth: Nigerians are being failed by institutions and individuals who were meant to protect, uplift, and serve them. When soldiers cannot be shielded from predictable threats and charitable figures exploit trust for profit, what hope is left for the ordinary citizen?
The consequence is not just anger or grief, it is a corrosion of public trust. Trust in the government’s ability to keep its word. Trust in the armed forces’ capacity to defend the nation. Trust in the NGOs that operate in volatile regions, often with donor funding and minimal oversight. Trust, once broken, is hard to repair. But without it, no state can function.
This is a moment for radical accountability.
For the security sector, President Bola Tinubu and defence chiefs must urgently conduct a transparent audit of frontline deployments, response protocols, and intelligence coordination. Our soldiers should not die in ambushes that could have been prevented.
For the non-profit sector, the Corporate Affairs Commission and donor agencies must enforce stricter compliance, transparency, and oversight mechanisms. Too many organisations operate without credible checks, exploiting causes, communities, and international sympathy.
We owe the fallen soldiers justice. We owe the defrauded businessman redress. But more than that, we owe the Nigerian people the assurance that the systems meant to protect and serve them will no longer be hijacked by incompetence or greed. Nigeria must rebuild trust or risk losing its soul.