Editorial

Nigeria’s position on ransom payments rests on a sound principle: Every ransom paid strengthens criminal organisations by financing the purchase of more weapons, and encouraging more kidnappings. Every naira handed to kidnappers today may finance tomorrow’s abduction.

Yet, another reality is far more uncomfortable. It is a reality experienced daily by families whose loved ones have disappeared into forests, insurgent camps, and criminal enclaves across Nigeria. The state asks them not to pay. The same state often cannot prevent the abduction nor guarantee the rescue of the victim.

For years, successive governments have urged Nigerians to reject ransom payments as a matter of national security. The argument is strategically sound. Kidnapping has evolved into one of Nigeria’s most profitable criminal economies, sustaining terrorist groups, insurgent groups, and organised kidnapping networks across several regions. Every successful payment reinforces that economy and makes future attacks more likely.

But public policy cannot exist only in theory. It must also survive contact with human reality.

For many women and girls held captive, every additional day increases the risk of rape, forced marriage, sexual slavery, and repeated abuse. Men and boys frequently endure forced labour, torture, starvation, beatings, and execution. Children lose months or years of their education while entire families descend into financial ruin attempting to negotiate for survival.

For parents, spouses, and siblings, this is not an abstract debate about national security. They know that every phone call may be the last and that every delay may carry irreversible consequences. It is therefore unsurprising that many families choose life over policy.

Critics often ask why families continue paying ransom despite repeated warnings, but the more humane question is whether society has offered them a credible alternative.

Military rescue operations have succeeded in some high-profile cases, and security forces continue to make sacrifices under extremely dangerous conditions. However, they remain the exception rather than the experience of most victims. Across vast areas of Nigeria, rescue is uncertain, negotiations are prolonged, intelligence is limited, and families are frequently left to navigate kidnappers alone. That gap creates an impossible moral burden.

The law tells a father not to pay, but his daughter remains in captivity and the government cannot tell him when, or whether, she will come home. What should he choose?

Many policymakers evaluate ransom through the lens of national security. Families experience it through the lens of survival. Both perspectives are legitimate, but they collide in painful ways.

The contradiction becomes even sharper where governments contemplate criminalising ransom payments. Such laws may satisfy an important strategic objective, but without dramatically improving prevention, intelligence, rapid response, and hostage rescue capability, they risk punishing victims twice. First, by failing to protect them. Second, by denying them the only option they believe remains.

No family should ever have to choose between financing organised crime and abandoning someone they love. The responsibility for breaking this cycle belongs to the state, not to traumatised families.

A credible anti-ransom policy requires far more than a legal prohibition. It demands professional policing, intelligence-driven operations, rapid hostage recovery capabilities, functioning emergency response systems, stronger border control, disruption of kidnapping finances, and sustained prosecution of those who organise and profit from this industry.

Only then can the government reasonably ask citizens to bear the enormous moral cost of refusing to pay ransom. Until that day arrives, Nigeria’s ransom debate will remain trapped between principle and reality. Ending ransom payments begins with ending the conditions that make ransom appear to be the only path home.

Nigeria’s security crisis is not only unfolding in forests, highways, villages and cities. It is unfolding inside the institutions responsible for confronting it.

The Nigeria Police Force faces a threat that receives far less attention than inadequate funding, obsolete equipment or personnel shortages: the gradual erosion of merit as the basis for advancement.

Every institution reveals its values through what it rewards. When competence, courage, and sacrifice are rewarded, then professionalism grows. But when proximity to power is rewarded, a different culture emerges.

Across Nigeria, police officers are risking their lives daily against insurgents, terrorists, organised armed groups, kidnappers, and violent criminals. Yet many are watching a different reality unfold. They see colleagues whose careers were built around powerful politicians, governors, ministers, and other influential figures rise rapidly through the ranks, often ahead of officers who spent years in dangerous operational theatres.

Some officers remain Superintendents of Police (SPs) while coursemates have risen to Assistant Commissioners of Police (ACPs). Similarly, some officers are Deputy Superintendents of Police (DSPs) while their contemporaries have become Chief Superintendents of Police (CSPs), largely as a result of special promotions granted at different times. Due to these irregularities, an Assistant Commissioner of Police who has spent years on the frontlines can find themselves taking orders from a coursemate who has advanced higher than them, largely because of political connections and privileged appointments rather than demonstrated operational excellence.

Promotions signal to young officers and the outside world what behaviour the institution values. If political visibility matters more than operational excellence, ambitious officers will pursue access instead of experience. Dangerous assignments become career risks rather than opportunities for leadership. No security institution can survive such incentives.

This is not the time for a leadership pipeline shaped by patronage, but a time for leaders tested under pressure and promoted because they have demonstrated competence.

The Police Service Commission exists to protect the integrity of promotions and shield them from political influence. That responsibility has never been more important. The Commission has tried to tie promotion to examination, but has not been able to completely resist the pressure to award “special promotions”. Consequently, officers have questioned promotion outcomes that appear disconnected from performance, operational achievements and professional record. Whether every complaint is justified is not the point. Confidence in the system is eroding.

As thousands of police officers converge in Abuja for promotion examinations, this conversation must be a wake-up call for the institution. The credibility of the process matters as much as the process itself.

The consequences extend beyond morale. A police force that ceases to reward merit eventually ceases to attract and retain its best leaders. When this happens, strategic thinking suffers, professional standards decline, operational effectiveness weakens, and public trust erodes.

These concerns are compounded by longstanding allegations of corruption, extortion, abuse of authority and weak accountability. The EndSARS protests reflected years of public anger over police brutality and impunity. Although reforms were promised, many Nigerians remain unconvinced that accountability has become deeply embedded within the institution.

Merit is not only about promoting the best. It is about ensuring that leadership positions are occupied by individuals whose conduct strengthens public trust. Officers who demonstrate integrity, discipline, and excellence must see those qualities rewarded. Officers whose records are tainted by corruption, abuse, or chronic underperformance should not continue advancing without scrutiny.

Citizens are also noticing a troubling pattern. Some officers attached to powerful political figures are increasingly perceived as beneficiaries of privileges unavailable to most of their colleagues.

The reforms required are straightforward. Promotion criteria should be transparent and publicly accessible. Exceptional promotions should remain exceptional and be clearly justified. Service in high-risk operational environments should carry significant weight. Promotion records should face greater scrutiny. The Police Service Commission must demonstrate visible independence from political pressure.

Nigeria is moving steadily toward state police. If we do not fix the obvious gaps in the federal police before 36 states establish their own police services, the consequences could be chaotic. State policing requires a strong, disciplined, and professional federal police capable of setting standards, enforcing accountability and preventing abuse. A weak federal police cannot effectively keep state police in check.

The future leadership of the Nigeria Police Force is being determined today. Every promotion creates tomorrow’s commanders, investigators, and strategists.

A system built on merit produces leaders. A system built on influence produces loyalists. Nigeria cannot afford a police force where political proximity outranks professional excellence. The country is already paying too high a price for failure.

Palestinian journalist and mother Aya Shamaa wrote about how an Israeli strike killed her children, newborn Ryan and seven-year-old Yaman. Like countless mothers in Gaza, she saw her children as gleams of hope amid a fragile ceasefire. Narrated by Al Jazeera’s Al Anoud Al Aqeedi.