When the Financial Times published its latest report on Nigeria’s deepening insecurity, the world took notice. The London-based newspaper, one of the most respected voices in global finance and policy, painted a bleak and unsettling portrait of a nation slipping into chaos—a country where fear has become routine, where kidnapping has evolved into a multibillion-naira enterprise, and where the basic promise of safety, one of the most fundamental roles of any government, has all but collapsed.
The report, written by British-Nigerian journalist Aanu Adeoye and published on October 23, 2025, went beyond statistics. It chronicled the human toll of Nigeria’s spiraling crisis: families destroyed by abductions, entire communities living under siege, and a society where the rich barricade themselves behind private armies while the poor navigate daily life with a constant sense of dread.
It was a damning assessment, not only of Nigeria’s security forces but also of the leadership under President Bola Ahmed Tinubu, whose administration, according to the report’s subtext, has presided over one of the most rapid declines in internal stability since the return of democracy in 1999.
A Nation Held Hostage
The Financial Times investigation revealed a chilling transformation—what began decades ago as politically motivated abductions in the Niger Delta has now metastasized into an unchecked nationwide criminal enterprise.
In the 1990s and early 2000s, militants in the oil-rich Niger Delta turned kidnapping into a weapon against multinational corporations. They targeted foreign oil workers to demand ransom and political concessions. But as Adeoye’s report explains, “the business of kidnapping” did not die with the end of militancy—it simply spread. It evolved, adapted, and found new markets in Nigeria’s fragile state structure.
Today, kidnapping for ransom is one of the fastest-growing criminal economies in Africa’s largest country. From rural villages in Zamfara to bustling highways in Lagos, from the forests of Kaduna to the creeks of Bayelsa, no region is immune. The FT report describes Nigeria as “a nation where nearly all parts of the country are blighted.”
Figures from SBM Intelligence cited in the investigation reveal that kidnappers demanded nearly $1.7 million in ransom between mid-2024 and mid-2025. But analysts caution that this is likely just a fraction of the true figure. Most ransom payments are made quietly, unreported to the police, as desperate families negotiate directly with abductors to avoid repeat targeting or retaliation.
“What we are seeing,” said SBM’s senior analyst Confidence MacHarry, “is not just a crime wave but a social breakdown. It’s now a free-for-all—rich or poor, it doesn’t matter anymore. Everyone is vulnerable.”
The Economy of Fear
The Financial Times report described a chilling new normal in Nigeria: a privatized security system where wealth determines safety.
Across the country, the elite—business magnates, politicians, and senior civil servants—have transformed their personal security into mini-militias. Some employ as many as twenty armed police officers on permanent detail, paid for with state resources. These officers, who should be policing the streets, are instead assigned to guard convoys, children’s schools, and private compounds.
A former Nigerian governor, speaking anonymously to the paper, summarized the rot succinctly: “You’re dealing with a collapsed system because you have now privatized official security. Why should a minister or governor have a battalion of officers? It is because general policing has broken down. Everything collapses when you don’t address security and welfare.”
This two-tier security reality is part of why ordinary Nigerians feel abandoned. The police, underpaid and overstretched, often respond hours—or days—after kidnappings occur. Many communities now rely on vigilante groups, hunters, or local militias for protection, a move that has created more weapons in circulation and occasionally sparked clashes between civilians and state security.
The Numbers Behind the Breakdown
According to the Financial Times, Nigeria has roughly 370,000 active police officers for over 220 million citizens—a ratio far below the United Nations’ recommendation of one officer per 450 people.
Worse still, a significant portion of this already inadequate force is assigned to private duties. Analysts estimate that more than 100,000 officers are engaged in “VIP protection,” guarding politicians, business tycoons, and other influential figures. That leaves barely enough personnel to police one of the most populous nations in the world.
This imbalance, combined with low morale and corruption, has hollowed out Nigeria’s law enforcement system. Many officers, unable to survive on their meager salaries, extort motorists, demand “bail fees” from suspects, or collude with criminals. Others seek posting to wealthy individuals or private companies, where unofficial bonuses supplement their income.
The Financial Times noted that even within police barracks, officers lack basic living conditions—no clean water, no functioning electricity, and no health insurance. Under such circumstances, loyalty to the state has been replaced by survival instinct.
A Nation Desensitized to Horror
For most Nigerians, kidnapping has become part of daily life. Highway travelers fear abduction as much as accidents. Parents worry when their children go to school in rural areas. Churches, mosques, and markets have all been targets.
In the last few years alone, mass kidnappings have struck virtually every region: schoolgirls in Chibok and Dapchi; students in Tegina, Kagara, and Kaduna; commuters on the Abuja-Kaduna railway; priests and traditional rulers in the South East; and farmers in Benue and Niger states. Each incident makes headlines briefly before being replaced by the next one.
“The saddest thing,” said a security consultant quoted in the FT report, “is that Nigerians are no longer shocked. They have normalized fear.”
Communities have also adapted to their new reality. Villages now collect communal ransom funds. Churches and mosques organize security patrols during services. In some cases, families sell land or withdraw children from school to pay for a relative’s release.
For criminals, this has created a predictable and profitable cycle. “Kidnapping has become an industry,” the Financial Times concluded. “The richest people have money but no security, while the middle class is left at the mercy of armed gangs.”
The Tinubu Administration’s Deafening Silence
Although the Financial Times report did not explicitly name President Bola Tinubu, the implications were unmistakable. The piece reflected widespread frustration with his government’s failure to reverse Nigeria’s security collapse.
Since taking office in May 2023, Tinubu’s administration has promised “renewed hope,” but across the country, the reality is one of renewed fear. Despite budget increases for defense and police, the impact has been negligible. Banditry in the North West has persisted. Terror groups like Boko Haram and ISWAP remain active in the North East. Separatist violence continues in the South East. And in the Middle Belt, deadly clashes between herders and farmers still claim lives weekly.
Critics argue that Tinubu’s security approach is reactive rather than strategic—focused on military showmanship rather than intelligence reform. Others say the president has surrounded himself with loyalists rather than professionals capable of tackling the multifaceted crisis.
“The Financial Times report reflects what Nigerians already know,” said a former intelligence officer. “There is no coordination, no accountability, and no clear national security framework. Each security agency works in isolation, and corruption continues to cripple operations.”
The Politics of Denial
Inside government circles, officials routinely downplay the scale of the problem, blaming “media exaggeration” or “political sabotage.” Yet the facts are impossible to ignore.
From 2015 to 2025, Nigeria’s recorded kidnapping incidents have risen by more than 400%, according to data from multiple research organizations. Armed attacks, once confined to remote villages, now occur in state capitals and on major highways. Meanwhile, prison breaks, mob justice, and police desertions have further eroded confidence in the rule of law.
Even the military, once revered as Nigeria’s last line of defense, has been stretched thin across multiple internal operations. Soldiers fight insurgents in the North East, guard mining sites in the North Central, and chase bandits in the North West—all while facing chronic underfunding and low morale.
A Future on the Edge
The Financial Times report ends on a haunting note: Nigeria, it says, is a country “where citizens have learned to live with fear.” That statement encapsulates the paradox of modern Nigeria—Africa’s largest economy and democracy, yet one of its most unsafe places to live.
The consequences are far-reaching. Investors are reluctant to build in regions plagued by insecurity. Farmers abandon fields, deepening food shortages. Professionals emigrate in droves, joining the “Japa” wave of talent flight. Insecurity has become not just a human tragedy but an economic catastrophe.
Unless there is urgent reform—rooted in police professionalism, intelligence sharing, and community trust—the Financial Times warns that Nigeria risks becoming a “permanently fragile state.”
A Cry for Reform
As the global community reacts to the report, many Nigerians see it as both a condemnation and a call to action. Civil society groups are demanding greater transparency in how security funds are spent. Experts are urging the government to overhaul policing, strengthen local governance, and deploy technology-driven surveillance systems.
But others are less hopeful. “We’ve had reports like this for years,” said a political analyst in Abuja. “The question is not whether Nigeria’s leaders will read the Financial Times—it’s whether they will listen.”
For now, the reality remains grim. In the words of one grieving father interviewed by Adeoye, whose son was kidnapped and never returned: “In this country, life has no value anymore. Every day you survive is a miracle.”
In that single sentence lies the tragedy of Nigeria today—a nation where survival has become a form of resistance, and where the government’s most fundamental duty, the protection of its people, has collapsed under the weight of corruption, neglect, and indifference.
If President Tinubu’s administration fails to confront this crisis decisively, the Financial Times’ assessment may prove prophetic: that Nigeria, once the “Giant of Africa,” is now a giant adrift—held hostage not only by kidnappers but by its own failure to protect its citizens.
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