In the still, breathless darkness of Suleja, a bustling satellite town on the edge of Nigeria’s Federal Capital Territory, the sound of tires crunching gravel shattered the uneasy calm of a Monday morning. It was barely 3 a.m. when two white Coaster buses, headlights dimmed, rolled quietly through the narrow streets of the town. Moments later, men in black tactical gear — armed and wearing the familiar insignia of the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission (EFCC) — poured out into the sleeping neighborhood. Residents peered through curtains and narrow windows as doors were kicked open, phones snatched, and young men pulled out of houses half-dressed and startled. What unfolded in those early hours was not just another anti-crime operation; it was an incident that would stir anger, disbelief, and a fierce national conversation about power, accountability, and the limits of law enforcement in Nigeria.
According to eyewitnesses and video footage that circulated across social media later that morning, the EFCC operatives, numbering more than two dozen, carried out a large-scale raid in various parts of Suleja, Niger State, reportedly targeting suspected internet fraudsters. The timing, however, and the manner of execution, immediately raised eyebrows — not only among the public but within the EFCC’s own leadership. Just months earlier, the Commission’s chairman, Ola Olukoyede, had publicly and unequivocally banned all night operations following public outrage over several controversial midnight raids that had led to accusations of abuse, wrongful arrests, and even deaths. The directive, issued in April 2024, was meant to draw a clear line between legitimate anti-corruption enforcement and unlawful intimidation.
But what happened in Suleja that night seemed to mock that directive.
The Raid That Broke the Silence
Residents of Anguwan Gwari, Old Barracks, and the Madalla axis of Suleja reported that the EFCC buses arrived at around 2:45 a.m. The men, believed to be from the Abuja Zonal Command, were heavily armed and moved with calculated precision. In one of the videos recorded secretly by a resident, a young man’s voice can be heard whispering nervously: “They’ve come again… EFCC don enter Suleja this night.” In the dim light of the streetlamps, figures in red and black jackets could be seen moving briskly from house to house.
Witnesses said the operatives broke into several houses without search warrants, seizing phones, laptops, and cash. “They didn’t even introduce themselves properly,” said one resident who asked not to be named. “They just said they were EFCC and that we should cooperate. They were dragging boys out of their rooms, shouting, and taking them away in the buses.”
By dawn, dozens of young men had been rounded up, blindfolded, and herded into the Coaster buses. “They were packed like criminals,” another witness told reporters, “but some of them were just students or people sleeping in the wrong house at the wrong time.”
The videos of the operation, uploaded on X (formerly Twitter) and TikTok, quickly went viral. Nigerians woke up to the disturbing footage: EFCC officers conducting what looked like a commando-style raid in complete violation of the Chairman’s standing order. The public outcry was immediate.
A Directive Ignored
The raid struck a particularly sensitive nerve because it wasn’t just a case of alleged misconduct — it was a clear violation of the EFCC’s own policy. Chairman Olukoyede, who took over the Commission’s leadership in 2023, had made it one of his first priorities to rebuild public trust. He openly acknowledged that previous administrations had allowed the agency’s reputation to be tarnished by reckless operations, especially those carried out at night without proper authorization. “No more night raids,” Olukoyede had said in a widely circulated memo. “Every operation must be conducted with professionalism, transparency, and accountability. We must never again be seen as an institution that terrorizes the same citizens we are mandated to protect.”
Yet, here were his own operatives — acting in apparent defiance of that directive. The question that immediately emerged was: why?
Sources within the EFCC, speaking on condition of anonymity, revealed that the Suleja operation was “unsanctioned” by the headquarters in Abuja. “It was not approved by the Chairman,” one senior officer said. “It appears to have been coordinated at the zonal level. The team claimed they had intelligence that some cybercrime suspects were planning to flee that night, and they acted without clearance.”
If that account is true, it suggests a deeper institutional problem within the EFCC — one of discipline and internal control. The EFCC, once seen as a symbol of Nigeria’s anti-corruption resolve, has long been dogged by allegations of rogue operations, internal rivalry, and regional power struggles. Under Olukoyede, efforts were underway to reform the agency’s command structure, but the Suleja raid may have exposed how entrenched those problems remain.
The Fallout: Public Outrage and Official Silence
As dawn broke over Suleja, the streets buzzed with confusion and fear. Mothers wept as they recounted how their sons were taken away without explanation. Others gathered outside the EFCC office in Abuja later that morning, demanding to know the whereabouts of those arrested. Some of the victims were reportedly released within 24 hours, but several remained in detention days later, fueling anger and speculation.
By mid-morning, journalists had begun calling the EFCC’s Abuja office for clarification. The agency initially declined to comment, but a source confirmed that the operation “did take place” and that “intelligence-driven arrests” had been made. The official line was that the raid was part of an ongoing cybercrime investigation. But that explanation did little to calm public frustration. Nigerians demanded to know why an operation was conducted in the dead of night, against standing orders, and why innocent residents had to endure such terror.
On social media, hashtags like #EFCCRaid and #SulejaOperation trended for hours. Activists and legal experts weighed in, accusing the agency of “institutional lawlessness.” Human rights lawyer Inibehe Effiong described the incident as “a disgraceful betrayal of the Chairman’s reform agenda,” saying, “When law enforcement agencies operate outside the law, they lose moral authority. The EFCC must not become a night-time terror squad.”
Civil society organizations, including the Socio-Economic Rights and Accountability Project (SERAP) and Amnesty International Nigeria, demanded an immediate investigation. SERAP’s statement read in part: “The EFCC must explain why its operatives are flouting lawful orders. If the Commission cannot police its own officers, how can it be trusted to police corruption?”
The Man at the Center: Olukoyede’s Reform Agenda Tested
For Olanipekun Olukoyede, the EFCC Chairman, the Suleja raid represented more than a disciplinary lapse—it was a direct challenge to his leadership. Since assuming office, Olukoyede had positioned himself as a reformer determined to shift the EFCC away from its reputation for brutality and politicization. His directive banning night raids was not just a procedural order; it was a symbolic statement meant to draw a line between past impunity and a new era of professionalism.
Olukoyede’s approach had been widely praised. Under his leadership, the Commission had begun emphasizing intelligence-led investigations over mass arrests. He had also introduced stricter rules for the seizure of suspects’ property and insisted that every operation must be recorded and logged for accountability.
But as the Suleja incident shows, reforming an institution as complex and deeply rooted as the EFCC is no small task. Insiders describe the Commission as a “house divided,” where younger officers, hungry for quick results, often clash with superiors pushing for slower, evidence-based operations. “Some of these zonal units still think they’re operating in the 2010s,” one senior staff member admitted. “They believe that to catch a Yahoo boy, you have to storm his house in the night. They haven’t fully adjusted to the Chairman’s new rules.”
The Suleja operation thus revealed an uncomfortable truth: the EFCC’s transformation is far from complete.
The Human Side of the Raid
Behind every statistic and policy statement are human stories—frightened residents who woke up to banging on their doors, children crying, and phones seized. Interviews with some of the victims painted a grim picture of chaos and fear. A 25-year-old student of the Federal Polytechnic Bida, who gave his name as Ibrahim, said he was visiting his cousin in Suleja when the raid occurred. “They broke the door and entered,” he recalled. “They asked for my phone, searched my bag, and before I could explain that I was just a visitor, they dragged me outside. I didn’t even have slippers on. We were more than 30 inside that bus.”
Others described being taken to an undisclosed location, where they were allegedly screened and interrogated. “They checked our phones, some people were slapped, and they said they would release anyone who wasn’t found guilty,” said another victim. “But they never told us what we did wrong.”
For the people of Suleja, the raid reopened old wounds. Similar incidents in the past—such as the 2022 Ibadan night raids and the 2023 Lagos Island operation—had already eroded public trust in the EFCC. The Suleja episode, therefore, struck many as proof that the agency’s culture of impunity remains alive.
The Institutional Implications
Within the corridors of power, the Suleja raid has triggered quiet but intense debate. Senior government officials reportedly expressed frustration that such a blatant violation could occur under Olukoyede’s watch. Some have called for disciplinary action against the officers involved, while others are urging the Chairman to go beyond mere reprimand and implement structural reforms.
Analysts warn that if left unchecked, incidents like this could derail the EFCC’s credibility. “The EFCC’s greatest asset is public trust,” said Dr. Abubakar Danladi, a political scientist at Ahmadu Bello University. “If Nigerians begin to see it as a rogue institution, its work becomes meaningless. This Suleja case must be handled decisively. The Chairman must show that his word still carries weight.”
There are also legal implications. Under Nigerian law, any arrest or search conducted without a warrant—especially during restricted hours—can be deemed unconstitutional. Human rights groups are reportedly preparing petitions demanding redress for victims. The National Assembly’s Committee on Anti-Corruption is said to be monitoring the situation closely, with potential hearings on EFCC operational conduct expected.
The Broader Question: Power, Fear, and Reform
The Suleja raid has once again forced Nigerians to confront a broader question: Can institutions of power truly reform themselves? The EFCC’s mandate—to fight corruption and financial crime—is noble, but its methods have long been controversial. The agency walks a delicate line between enforcement and abuse, between fear and respect.
Night raids, once defended as a tactical necessity, have now become a metaphor for the EFCC’s internal contradictions—its struggle to balance aggression with accountability. The Suleja incident underscores how institutional habits, once ingrained, are difficult to unlearn.
And yet, there is a glimmer of hope. In the days following the incident, insiders confirm that Olukoyede summoned the zonal commanders to Abuja for a high-level meeting. The agenda: full compliance with the no-night-raid directive, immediate investigation of the Suleja incident, and disciplinary measures for any officer found complicit. Whether these steps will lead to real change remains to be seen, but they signal a Chairman unwilling to tolerate defiance.
Conclusion: A Test of Credibility
The events of that early morning in Suleja have become more than a local controversy; they have become a litmus test for Nigeria’s fight against corruption and for the integrity of its institutions. A single operation, carried out under the cover of darkness, has illuminated the deep challenges facing the EFCC — an agency caught between old habits and new expectations.
As the nation waits for answers, one truth remains unavoidable: reforms cannot exist only on paper. They must be enforced in practice, even when they challenge the system’s entrenched culture. The EFCC cannot afford to be both the enforcer and the violator of the law it claims to uphold.
For now, Suleja has returned to uneasy calm. The Coaster buses are gone, the streets quiet again, but the echoes of that 3 a.m. raid still linger in the public’s memory — a haunting reminder that justice, to be trusted, must never be done in the dark.
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