One of the most troubling legacies of the Muhammadu Buhari presidency, for many Nigerians, was not merely the persistence of insecurity, but the gradual normalization of horror that accompanied it. Over time, Boko Haram attacks, bandit massacres, and mass abductions became so frequent and so devastating that the nation appeared to lose its collective capacity to feel. What should have triggered outrage instead produced resignation. What should have united the country in grief instead faded into routine headlines. This emotional numbness—this dangerous inurement to bloodshed—may ultimately prove as damaging as the violence itself.
It is against this backdrop that current events must be examined. Nigeria cannot afford a repeat of that era, not under President Bola Ahmed Tinubu. The massacre of roughly 200 citizens in Worro, a community in Kwara State, is not just another tragic episode in the country’s long struggle with insecurity. It is a defining moment—one that tests not only the capacity of the Nigerian state to protect lives, but also the moral and emotional leadership of its president.
To be clear, the governor of Kwara State has done what is expected of him. He has gone to brief the president directly, seeking federal support and intervention after one of the deadliest attacks in the state’s history. From a governance standpoint, that is due diligence. From a political standpoint, the optics favor the governor: he appears proactive, responsive, and engaged on behalf of his people.
However, the same optics do not favor the president.
When nearly 200 Nigerians are murdered in one coordinated act of violence, the image of the president remaining silent in his office—no matter how busy or well-intentioned—creates a troubling gap between leadership and lived reality. In a democracy, perception is not a superficial concern; it is an extension of legitimacy. Citizens need to know not only that their leader is acting, but that he understands, acknowledges, and shares in their pain.
This is why a mere closed-door briefing, followed by silence, is not enough.
Immediately after meeting with the governor and security chiefs, the president should have addressed the nation. Such an address would not have been ceremonial or performative; it would have been a statement of shared humanity. It should have been laden with empathy, unmistakably clear in tone and content: “I feel your pain. All Nigerians feel your pain.” Those words matter, especially to grieving families who feel abandoned by a system that failed to protect them.
Beyond empathy, the address should have communicated decisive action. Nigerians needed to hear that an army battalion had been ordered to Worro. They needed reassurance that intelligence assets were being deployed, that security agencies were under clear directives to hunt down the perpetrators, and that this massacre would not be treated as just another statistic in Nigeria’s long casualty list. According to verified security analyses and reports from organizations such as the International Crisis Group and SBM Intelligence, swift and visible responses from political leaders play a crucial role in restoring public confidence after mass-casualty attacks. Silence, on the other hand, breeds cynicism and despair.
Equally important, the president should have committed to visiting the affected community in the near future. Such visits are not about optics alone; they are about presence. History shows that when leaders stand among victims, listen to survivors, and see devastation firsthand, it humanizes governance and sends a powerful message that no community is too remote or insignificant to matter.
Optics matter—especially in a democracy—but this goes deeper than optics.
A president is not only a leader during times of celebration, economic growth, or political triumph. In moments of national tragedy, he becomes something else entirely: the nation’s Chief Mourner. This is a role that cannot be delegated, postponed, or performed quietly behind closed doors. It is a role rooted in empathy, visibility, and moral authority.
Nigeria is a nation of human beings, not abstractions. Blood flows through our veins. Families grieve. Communities are shattered. When citizens are massacred in cold blood, as they were in Worro, mourning is not a weakness—it is a duty. It is possible, and necessary, to mourn while simultaneously mobilizing the full force of the state to prevent recurrence and punish those responsible.
Yet, even amid justified criticism, there is a silver lining worth acknowledging.
An image circulating from the president’s office reveals something important: Bola Ahmed Tinubu is, undeniably, a working president. On an erasable board behind him are visible plans, including what appears to reference the ambitious Lagos–Lekki–Maiduguri Standard Gauge Railway project. For many Nigerians, especially those who remember the historic rail connections to the North-East before decades of insurgency, the idea of once again taking a train to Maiduguri is profoundly symbolic. It represents not just infrastructure development, but national reintegration and hope.
The details in that image matter. Color-coded erasable markers suggest structured planning. An hourglass hints at time management and task prioritization. Post-it notes indicate active engagement with details and milestones. These are not the tools of a disengaged leader. They point to a president who is focused, methodical, and intent on leaving a tangible legacy.
In that sense, President Tinubu may well be one of the most industrious presidents Nigeria has seen in its history. His reform agenda, from economic restructuring to infrastructure expansion, reflects seriousness of purpose. Few doubt that he cares deeply about Nigeria’s progress, or that he feels genuine sorrow for victims of violence.
But leadership in moments like this demands more than private feeling.
It is not enough for the president to feel for the victims; he must be seen to feel for them. Public empathy is not a public relations exercise—it is a form of governance. Studies in political psychology and democratic leadership consistently show that citizens’ trust in institutions rises when leaders visibly acknowledge suffering and communicate transparently during crises.
Nigeria today stands at a crossroads. The country cannot afford another era where mass death is met with muted reactions and emotional distance from the highest office in the land. Nigerians are already burdened by economic hardship, insecurity, and uncertainty. What they seek, above all, is reassurance that their lives matter—that when tragedy strikes, their president stands with them not only as a strategist and administrator, but as a fellow human being.
President Tinubu still has the opportunity to define his presidency differently. To combine action with empathy. To pair policy with presence. To prove that Nigeria can have a leader who not only works tirelessly behind the scenes, but also steps forward in moments of grief to say, clearly and convincingly: “You are not alone.”
In the end, history will judge not just what was built or reformed, but how leaders responded when their people bled. And in those moments, silence is never neutral—it speaks volumes.
0 Comments