By Prince Charles Dickson
Nigeria does not lack early warning signals. It lacks early response. Across the country, communities whisper the coming danger long before the first shot, yet those whispers evaporate into our harmattan air. In meetings, workshops, and dashboards, we map the risks with the precision of meteorologists. But on the ground, especially in states like Plateau, Kaduna, Benue, now Kwara, Niger and an increasing list, violence still arrives like an appointment everyone secretly knew about but no one prepared for.
A few months ago, during fieldwork in one such places, an elderly woman told me something that has stayed with me. Her community had reported unusual movement near the forest line for weeks. Strangers camping. Motorcycles at odd hours. A child overheard men speaking in hushed tones about “cleaning the town.” They reported it, first to a vigilante contact, then to the local government office, and finally to a police DPO who sighed, nodded, wrote carefully in a notebook, and never came back.
When the attack happened, it was not a shock. It was a confirmation.
That quiet resignation is the tragedy: communities are no longer surprised by violence; they are surprised when institutions respond.
Plateau offers a painful mirror. From Bassa to Mangu to Barkin Ladi, residents have mastered the art of reading danger: cattle patterns shifting, unusual visitors in mining corridors, depleted markets on a day that should be busy. These are highly localised, decades-old intelligence streams. Yet nationally, Nigeria has built an architecture where intel rises, but action stays flat. The political economy of inaction remains undefeated: no consequences for ignoring reports, no incentives for early response, and no accountability for violence that was foreseen but unaddressed.
Across ministries, agencies, and donor-supported platforms, we have improved documentation but not intervention. Early warning has become a kind of moral alibi—“We knew, we tracked, we wrote a report”—without the uncomfortable political will required to act.
Nigeria must shift from event reporting to mandated response protocols, especially at the local government and security command levels. A warning that produces no action should trigger an audit, not a shrug. Strengthening early response is not about new technology; it is about governance discipline.
If communities are consistently reporting risks but violence still occurs, what exactly are our early warning investments achieving—and for whom?
Maybe the real problem is not that Nigeria cannot act early, but that someone benefits when we don’t.
As we roll into another year of crisis dashboards, community briefings, and donor consultations, this is the uncomfortable line we must hold: preventable violence is still violence. Normalising it is not fatigue—it is a choice.
And choices, sooner or later, demand accountability.
If this resonates with your work in peacebuilding, humanitarian response, governance, or security reform, let’s push this conversation beyond the usual circles. Nigeria deserves better than early warnings that simply become early laments.
@as seen on Facebook.
