By Lawan Musa Danlami
(Baba Lawan)
March 2, 2026
In a country struggling under the weight of insurgency, kidnapping, and rural banditry, words are not ordinary sounds; they are moral instruments. They define where leadership stands, who is protected, and whose pain is acknowledged. When Nigeria’s National Security Adviser, Nuhu Ribadu, was reported to have described violent actors as “our brothers,” the phrase stirred public discomfort, especially across northern communities that have endured repeated attacks. For families who have buried fathers, mothers, and children, such language does not sound like reconciliation. It sounds like a wound reopened.
Northern Nigeria has seen years of devastating violence stretching across Zamfara State, Katsina State, Kaduna State, Sokoto State, and Niger State. Rural villages and small hamlets have been attacked in the dead of night. Houses have been set ablaze. Livestock—the primary wealth of many families—has been stolen. Farmers have been killed on their own land. In some areas, entire communities have emptied as survivors fled into towns or internally displaced persons camps. Schools have closed out of fear. Markets that once bustled with trade have fallen silent. Agriculture has declined, contributing to food insecurity that affects even those far from the conflict zones.
For those who live in such conditions, the word “brother” carries deep emotional meaning. Brotherhood implies trust, loyalty, and protection. A brother is someone who stands with you in danger, not someone from whom you must hide your children. When that same word is used in reference to individuals accused of kidnapping, killing, and terrorizing communities, it feels like a contradiction of lived reality. It feels as though the moral line between victim and aggressor has been blurred.
Yet it is important to approach this matter with clarity and responsibility. Criminality has no tribe. Violence has no legitimate ethnic identity. Attempts to reduce banditry to an ethnic struggle between Hausa and Fulani communities oversimplify a complex security crisis. African political scholar Ali Mazrui warned repeatedly that conflicts in post-colonial Africa are often wrongly ethnicized. Criminal networks exploit weak governance, economic hardship, and ungoverned spaces, but their actions are later framed as tribal wars. Such framing deepens division and obscures the real drivers of insecurity.
Historian Murray Last documented how Hausa and Fulani communities historically coexisted in deep social, economic, and religious interdependence. Trade, Islamic scholarship, and governance structures bound them together for centuries. Even today, countless Fulani families suffer from the same violence attributed to armed groups operating in forests. The victims of banditry include Hausa, Fulani, and minority ethnic groups alike. Entire communities—regardless of identity—have mourned their dead.
Therefore, the core issue is not ethnicity; it is accountability. When individuals commit armed robbery, kidnapping, or murder, society does not defend them because of shared language or ancestry. Justice demands impartiality. The state’s responsibility is to protect all citizens equally. English philosopher Thomas Hobbes argued that the legitimacy of government rests upon its ability to provide security. Without protection from violence, the social contract weakens. Italian criminologist Cesare Beccaria emphasized that punishment must be certain and proportionate to deter crime and maintain order. Ambiguous rhetoric risks undermining that certainty.
In societies where religion shapes moral understanding, sacred texts provide further clarity. The Holy Qur’an declares in Surah al-Ma’idah (5:32) that
"whoever kills a soul unjustly is as though he has killed all mankind."
In the following verse (5:33), it prescribes firm penalties for those who wage violent disorder against society. The Qur’an further commands believers in Surah an-Nisa (4:135) to stand firmly for justice, even if it is against their own relatives. This verse eliminates tribal loyalty as a defense for wrongdoing.
The Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) reinforced this principle when he said, “Help your brother whether he is an oppressor or oppressed.” When his companions asked how one helps an oppressor, he replied that one does so by preventing him from oppressing others. Brotherhood, therefore, does not mean shielding injustice. It means stopping it.
The Bible echoes similar principles. Genesis 9:6 affirms accountability for the shedding of innocent blood. Deuteronomy 16:19 commands that justice must not be perverted by partiality. In Romans 13:4, governing authorities are described as agents responsible for punishing wrongdoing. Across religious traditions, justice is foundational to peace. Compassion without accountability leads to disorder; forgiveness without truth leads to instability.
None of this suggests that reconciliation is impossible. Societies emerging from cycles of violence often pursue reintegration programs for repentant offenders. Dialogue and rehabilitation can reduce long-term conflict. However, reconciliation must follow acknowledgment of harm. Victims must not feel that their suffering is minimized in the process. Language from leaders must reflect empathy for the wounded before extending metaphors of kinship toward perpetrators.
Brotherhood, in its highest sense, is not biological or geographical. It is ethical. A brother protects the vulnerable. A brother defends the dignity of women and children. A brother builds, rather than burns. When individuals choose violence, they distance themselves from the moral qualities that define communal bonds.
At the same time, citizens must guard against collective blame. Entire ethnic groups cannot be held responsible for the crimes of armed networks. Justice must be precise, not sweeping. Security operations must isolate criminals while preserving the dignity of innocent communities.
Nigeria’s path forward requires careful balance. Leaders must speak with sensitivity. The state must demonstrate firmness against violent crime. Communities must resist narratives that divide along ethnic lines. Unity cannot be built on silence about suffering, but neither can it be sustained by hatred.
In moments of national pain, words either heal or harm. They either reassure citizens that justice stands firm or leave them uncertain about the moral direction of leadership. In a land where villages have burned and families have wept, clarity matters. Criminals must face accountability. Victims must feel heard. And the language of those in authority must reflect the gravity of the nation’s wounds.
Brotherhood is a noble ideal. But it must rest on shared commitment to peace and justice. Without that foundation, it becomes an empty word in a time that demands moral courage.
Abuja Network News
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