How Do Nigerian Leaders Sleep While Children Remain in Kidnappers’ Dens?

By Joke Kujenya 

While politicians fight for power, many Nigerian children remain trapped in kidnappers’ dens. How does any leader sleep comfortably knowing this?

SOMEWHERE IN Nigeria tonight, a child is crying in a forest.

Not because of hunger alone. Not because of cold alone. But because fear has become the only language that child now understands.

A little girl who should be asleep beside her mother is instead lying on bare ground inside a kidnappers’ den.

A small boy who should be preparing for school tomorrow is staring into darkness, surrounded by men carrying guns bigger than his body.

Somewhere, a teacher is praying silently not to be killed before morning.

Somewhere, parents are pretending to be strong while their hearts break every second.

And yet, across this same country, politicians are smiling on campaign posters.

Convoys are moving.

Billboards are rising.

Music is playing at rallies.

Millions are being spent on defections, elections, endorsements and power games while innocent children remain in captivity.

How does any politician sleep comfortably in such a country?

How does anybody seeking votes stand on a podium and promise “progress” when helpless children are still trapped in forests, abandoned to terror and uncertainty?

What exactly is the meaning of leadership in Nigeria today?

The tragedy is no longer just the kidnappings.

The real tragedy is the growing silence around them. Nigeria has slowly become a country where mass abductions shock people for two weeks, trend online for a month, then disappear into political dust.

The Chibok girls became symbols of national pain.

Years later, many Nigerians still cannot say with certainty that justice truly came for all of them.

Some escaped. Some returned. But many dreams were destroyed forever.

Families were broken forever.

Childhoods were stolen forever.

Then came Dapchi.

Then Kaduna.

Then Niger State.

Then Zamfara.

Then Kwara.

Then Oyo . . .

Then countless unnamed villages where poor Nigerians disappeared without television cameras to tell their stories.

The pattern continues: children taken, parents crying, government officials issuing statements that lack genuine intents or any hopes, politicians moving on.

But the children do not move on.

The mothers do not move on.

The fathers do not move on.

Pain does not move on simply because headlines have changed.

This is the question Nigerians should be asking every politician seeking office today: what concrete efforts are you making to bring these children home alive? 

Not speeches.

Not condolences.

Not hashtags.

Not empty assurances.

Real action.

Where is the intelligence network capable of preventing these attacks before they happen?

Why do kidnappers continue to operate boldly for years as if they are untouchable?

Why are schools in many rural communities still vulnerable despite repeated tragedies?

Why do citizens often contribute ransom money themselves while governments argue over responsibility?

Most painful of all is the emotional distance of the political class from ordinary suffering.

A mother whose child is missing does not care about party defections.

A father whose daughter was kidnapped does not care about political alliances.

Hungry, terrified children hiding in forests do not understand campaign slogans.

Yet, Nigerian politics often behaves as though the nation’s deepest wounds are merely side issues.

A country where children are routinely stolen should be operating in a state of moral emergency.

The President, every governor, senator and ministers should wake up daily with one obsession: how do we make Nigeria safe for Nigerians and our children again? 

Because when a nation cannot protect its children, it has failed at the most basic duty of government.

Security is not about press conferences. It is not about statistics. It is not about propaganda.

Security is the confidence of a mother that her child will leave for school and return alive.

Can Nigerians honestly say they still have that confidence?

Parents now pray harder than ever before their children leave for school.

Students study with fear.

Teachers work with anxiety.

A mother, a teacher, begging profusely that her government should come rescue them. Who’s listening to her pleas?

Communities sleep with one ear open.

And politicians still celebrate victories with loud music and dancing and bold insensitivity.

There is something deeply cruel about that contrast.

History may not celebrate how many political coalitions were formed in these years.

History will definitely remember whether Nigeria protected its children or abandoned them.

Leadership is not measured by convoy length.

It is measured by how many tears a leader prevents.

The real campaign Nigerians should demand today is not about who insults opponents better.

It is about who can genuinely secure lives better.

Until the last frightened child leaves captivity and returns home safely, no celebration by Nigeria’s leaders should feel complete.

Because somewhere tonight, while powerful people negotiate positions and share microphones, a little Nigerian child is still crying in the dark.

Quote: 
“Nigeria continues to battle kidnappings and mass abductions, yet politicians appear consumed by elections and power struggles. This emotional column questions the conscience of leadership while children remain in captivity.”