Don’t Label Oyo Kidnappers as ‘Islamic Jihadists’ – Saudi-Based Nigerian Scholar Warns

• Says criminality remains criminality, warns against dangerous religious profiling

A Saudi-based Nigerian Islamic scholar, Mallam Ibrahim Agunbiade, has cautioned against the growing tendency to brand criminal gangs operating in Oyo State and other parts of the South-West as “Islamic jihadists,” warning that such narratives are misleading and capable of igniting dangerous religious tension.

In a statement issued on Sunday, Agunbiade, a Taalib (student) at Jami’ei, Islamic Propagation Rabwa in Saudi Arabia, expressed deep concern over the direction of public discourse surrounding insecurity in Oyo State, particularly following the recent abduction of pupils and teachers from three schools in the Oriire Local Government Area.

The scholar specifically referenced a programme on Splash FM 105.5 FM, “State of the Nation,” anchored by Edmund Obilo, where, according to him, repeated references were made to kidnappers and criminal gangs as “Islamic jihadists” allegedly bent on conquering the South-West and establishing dominance.

“Such sweeping and emotionally charged narratives may attract public attention, but they are not only misleading; they are also capable of creating dangerous religious tension in an already fragile society,” Agunbiade wrote.

He described the recent attacks in Oriire as “indeed tragic and condemnable,” adding that every responsible citizen must rise against such barbaric acts. However, he questioned the logic of automatically labelling criminal activities as religious missions.

“Since when did kidnapping schoolchildren become an Islamic mission? Since when did abducting innocent teachers and pupils become a religious obligation?” he asked.

“It is both irresponsible and intellectually dishonest to automatically label every violent criminal activity involving suspected Fulani bandits or kidnappers as ‘Islamic jihad.’ Criminality should remain criminality. Evil should be called evil without dragging religion into matters where religion itself clearly stands opposed to such actions.”

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Agunbiade pointed out what he described as a critical irony: many of the victims of these attacks are themselves Muslims. He noted that among the kidnapped pupils and affected families are Muslims whose lives have been shattered by the same criminals.

“So, how does one logically arrive at the conclusion that these kidnappers are fighting an ‘Islamic cause’ while terrorizing Muslim communities and targeting Muslim children?” he queried.

The scholar emphasised that Islam has never permitted the kidnapping of innocent people, attacks on schools, or the creation of fear and instability in society. He stressed that those who commit such crimes are enemies of humanity and enemies of peace, regardless of the language they speak or the religion they claim.

He further noted that respected Islamic bodies and leaders in Oyo State have openly condemned these criminal acts. He cited the Oyo State chapter of the Muslim Rights Concern (MURIC), which has issued statements condemning insecurity and calling for urgent government intervention. He also mentioned the Grand Imam of Oyo, Sheikh (Barrister) Bilal Husayn Akinola Akeugberu, as well as prominent Islamic organizations including MUSWEN, who have publicly expressed concern and called on authorities to intensify efforts toward rescuing victims and restoring peace.

“These are the voices that deserve amplification in our public discourse — voices of reason, peace, unity, and responsibility,” Agunbiade said.

He warned that when media narratives lean toward religious profiling instead of objective analysis, they risk inflaming ethnic and religious suspicion among citizens who have coexisted peacefully for decades.

“The role of the media in times of insecurity is not merely to sensationalize fear or promote divisive assumptions. Journalism carries a moral burden. Broadcasters and public commentators must exercise caution in their choice of words, especially in a multi-religious and multi-ethnic society like Nigeria. Words are powerful. A careless narrative repeated consistently can gradually poison public perception and sow seeds of hatred among innocent people,” he cautioned.

Agunbiade acknowledged the seriousness of insecurity in the South-West, noting that communities are under pressure, farmers are afraid, travellers are anxious, and parents are worried. However, he insisted that solving insecurity requires facts, intelligence gathering, effective policing, and sincere governance — not religious stereotyping.

“We must avoid turning a security crisis into a religious war narrative. Once criminality is wrongly framed as a battle between religions, the real perpetrators hide behind the confusion while innocent citizens suffer discrimination and hostility,” he said.

The scholar called on government at all levels to strengthen local security architecture, equip law enforcement agencies adequately, improve intelligence operations, and ensure that criminal elements are arrested and prosecuted. He also urged traditional rulers, community leaders, religious institutions, and civil society groups to work together in promoting vigilance and unity instead of suspicion and division.

“At this critical moment, Nigerians must refuse to allow fear to destroy the peaceful coexistence that binds communities together. Kidnappers are criminals, not representatives of any faith. Terrorists are enemies of humanity, not ambassadors of religion,” Agunbiade stated.

He concluded: “The fight before us is not Islam versus Christianity, nor North versus South. The real battle is between law-abiding citizens and criminal elements threatening the peace of society. Anything short of this understanding only deepens the crisis.”

Mallam Ibrahim Agunbiade is a Taalib (student) at Jami’ei, Islamic Propagation Rabwa, Saudi Arabia, and can be reached via agunbiadeib@gmail.com.

Don’t Label Oyo Kidnappers as ‘Islamic Jihadists’ – Saudi-Based Nigerian Scholar Warns

IGP Disu: Inside the rotting walls of Zone II

Tunde Odesola

(Published in The PUNCH, on Friday, May 22, 2026)

Except for its motto and morality, there is hardly anything wrong with the Nigeria Police Force. If burnished in the furnace of grammar, the statement, “Police is your friend,” which is the motto of the Nigeria Police, is wrong because ‘police’ is a plural noun, and so, cannot legally coexist with ‘is’, a singular tense. Therefore, to put the motto in the right grammatical drive, the statement should read, “The police are your friend(s).” Aside from the test of grammar, the motto also fails the test of authenticity because, as everyone knows, the Nigeria Police Force is friendless and loveless.

But this wasn’t the fate of the force some 40 years ago when I walked into the Okigwe police station, stranded and needing a place to lay my head for the night. Early in the day, before the second crow of cock, I had boarded ‘The Young Shall Grow’ bus from Lagos en route to Okigwe, the home of Imo State University, where I had just been admitted.

It was a mobileless era when a letter sent by post to a distant state travelled like a tortoise with arthritis, crawling for weeks or months before reaching its destination. As soon as I got my admission letter from JAMB, I headed eastwards, afraid of missing the registration window and ultimately forfeiting my admission. The Lagos Liaison Office of the school had no information because it was on recess. Quickly, I borrowed the wisdom in a Yoruba proverb that says: “Kí ojú má rí’bi, gbogbo ara ni ògun ẹ̀’. Translated: “For the eyes not to see evil, the whole of the body must be agile.” So, I hit Oshodi, boarded a bus, and moved agilely to Okigwe.

However, Nigeria happened on the road.

Head of Zone II, Assistant Inspector-General Moshood Jimoh

Due to mechanical delays and a poor road network, the bus didn’t reach Okigwe until late in the night when the whole town was in bed, except the dingy police station. Though I was a lad who had never travelled outside the south-west and spoke not a syllable of Igbo, I knew police stations across the country were a place of refuge and fortress. I knew the Nigerian police, in a good measure, embodied the spirit of service and protection.

Similarly, “To protect and to serve” is the spirit behind the motto of police departments across the United States. But somewhere along Nigeria’s broken national journey, the Nigeria Police Force lost its spirit, service, and protection.

The reasons for this monumental loss are clear to the blind eye. With a numerical strength of 371,800 officers and men, the police-to-citizen ratio in Nigeria is about one police officer to every 637 citizens, which falls short of the United Nations’ recommendation of one cop to 430 persons. To attain the UN benchmark, experts say the country’s police force must hit between 650,000 and 684,000. A force starved of funding, adequate welfare, modern technology, equity and fairness cannot produce saints in uniform.

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The officer on duty that night in Okigwe was courteous but pitiable. I introduced myself and showed him my admission letter. He wondered why someone would leave Lagos for Okigwe. “Uhmm! My brother, you can see di way we dey here o. NEPA don take light. If you fit manage for dat place till morning; day go soon break,” he pointed to a concrete slab that was about to be my king-size bed. But providence had a deal lined up for me. As I sat on the slab, contemplating how I was going to sleep, a man in mufti walked in, spoke with the policeman on duty, and went to rummage through a chest of drawers at the back of the counter. He was a policeman. On his way out, he stopped and shot a glance at the man on duty, asking with his eyes who I was. “The boy na student of IMSU. He no know say di school never resume, and na from Lagos im come. He wan sleep here till morning.”

The man in mufti spoke Igbo to me. I smiled and told him I didn’t understand Igbo.

“So, you bi Yoruba from Lagos?”

“Yes, sir.”

Ha!” Why you come suffer come dis far? Why you no stay for Lagos or Ibadan?”

“I have spent all my life in Lagos and wanted a change.”

“Hia! Mosquitoes go chop you finish for dis station o. If you no mind, you fit come and manage with me till morning. Day go soon break.”

Though I felt safe in the station, I couldn’t bring myself to reject the Good Samaritan’s offer. So, we both left the station in a pall of darkness and headed to his abode, which was a stone’s throw away. As we made our way through bush paths to his house, I asked if there was a watering hole where we could have some beer. “All of dem don close. Okigwe dy sleepy once university no dey session,” he said, and added, “You dey hungry? I no get food for house o,” smiling. I told him I was hungry. So, we went to a house where he knocked on the door, and a sleepy woman opened the door and sold us bread, moin-moin and soda, which I paid for. On the way to his house, I fished a packet of Consulate cigarettes out of my pocket, the policeman whistled in admiration and said, “You bi original Lagos boy!”

Darkness escorted us to his house, which looked like an abandoned poultry shed. “This is where I dey manage o,” he said in a welcome. The house was built with corrugated iron, with holes that let in the rays of the moon through cracks. He showed me his mattressless king-size bed. “I go sleep on the floor,” he said, “You fit sleep on the bed.” It was a large-hearted moment of benevolence, and I was deeply moved. I spread my clothes over the naked springs, lay down and pretended to sleep, peeping at the sky through the cracks in the roof, silently asking God if He could see what I was going through. I prayed silently that I may succeed in my academic journey in the land of the rising sun.

At dawn, he showed me his bathroom – if courtesy permits me to call it a bathroom. Four sticks rammed into the earth, wrapped with palm fronds, roofless and doorless. In that jacuzzi, the heavens watched your nakedness while passersby viewed your legs as your towel or wrapper served as a door. I took my bath with the brown water my benefactor provided and headed to the school to see things for myself, offering profuse thanks for the memorable accommodation.

That was the situation of the police force 40 years ago: poor, neglected, unpaid – yet still recognisably human. Today, the situation has not changed, the motto has not changed, but the morality and purpose of the force have changed drastically. Today, poverty remains, but humanity has fled. The bloodstream of the police has been infected. Police stations are no longer safe for the police and the citizens.

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I have encountered one thousand and one ugly police experiences bordering on corruption, impunity, wickedness and opportunism. I can’t mention all, but the sheer devilry behind police actions was shocking. One was when my uncle, Abel Odesola, was killed on the Ife-Ilesa Expressway by a drunk driver in an accident in 2005, and the police at Atakumosa police station demanded a bribe from my family before they could release his corpse. I refused to pay the bribe and got my uncle’s corpse out. Another was when a team of policemen arrested me in the Ajegunle area of Osogbo, took me to the station for standing up to their impunity. On the way to the station, they told the eldest among them to lie that I slapped him. Little did they know that I was recording all our exchanges on the way to the station. The Osun Commissioner of Police threatened to sack them, and I had to beg on their behalf.

Now, age has tempered my intolerance of police impunity. Today, I often resist the temptation to escalate police misconduct on the pages of newspapers because I understand the internal mechanics of the force. The recklessness of a corporal can stain the career of a commissioner. One scandal can trigger a chain reaction. So, I often let things slide.

This was exactly what happened two years ago when officers made unprofessional demands of me at the Zone II Command Headquarters of the NPF, Onikan. I declined to comply but let it slide. This was after I went upstairs and complained to one of their bosses. I knew if I went to the press with the unprofessional actions of the junior officers, the embarrassment would travel upwards.

Thunder struck the same spot early again this year when I took a case of fraud to the notorious Zone II Zonal Command Headquarters, Onikan. It took PUNCH authorities to call the IG’s office to complain about the actions of the officers of the zone before the case could even be listed for investigation. The immediate past leadership of the zone appeared disturbingly indifferent, maybe deliberately so, for some reasons best known to it.

In a petition I wrote to the command on December 11, 2025, I complained about a suspected fraudster named Wole, who fraudulently obtained $8,800 from me during the process of helping him to buy a 2014 Toyota 4Runner from the US. The criminal suspect had lied to me that he was working with Dangote Refineries and repeatedly assured me repayment was guaranteed. This was in 2022. When I realised the suspect had no job, I personally helped him secure job opportunities, including two banking jobs and an accounting position with a major newspaper in the country.

The suspect turned all the jobs down, citing flimsy excuses.

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That was when it finally dawned on me that the suspect was playing games. So, I gave him an eight-month deadline, warning that I would initiate legal actions if he failed to pay me by November 2025. When he failed to pay, I wrote a petition to Zone II, titled “Re: Fraudulent Obtainment of $8,88,” which was received and signed by the zone on December 11, 2025. Wole wrote an undertaking at the zone that he would pay me the equivalent of N500,000 in dollars every month. He only paid for January, February and March. Efforts to get the zone to reach Wole had been futile as excuses tumbled down from Onikan, with the investigating police officer, Mrs Priscilla Erroim, telling me that the suspect was not picking up her calls, while he cruised the streets in the silver-coloured Toyota 4Runner with number plate LSD 388 HS.

I had thought that when an officer goes on transfer, the cases they were handling would be transferred to another officer. More so, the suspect included his residential address in the undertaking. This was not the case with Zone II. The case was just left in limbo. At the commencement of the case, I had a very rough time with Erroim, who is a Chief Superintendent of Police, and her subordinate named Francis. But we later resolved the conflict between us.

When I could not make a headway with Erroim and Francis, I called the Zonal PRO, Mr Gbenga Afolayan, a deputy superintendent of police, who said the officers handling the case before they were transferred should tell me who they had handled the case to. Thus, the case ran into a cul-de-sac. But an Assistant Commissioner of Police, Mr Ojugbele, distinguished himself by making genuine efforts to intervene.

I had thought that the recent shake-up within the force by the Inspector General was yielding results when I texted the new Head of Zone II, Assistant Inspector-General Moshood Jimoh, who acknowledged my text and promised that the zone would look into the case. I was pleasantly shocked! “Here’s an AIG responding to a random citizen personally, while the former AIG in charge of the zone wouldn’t respond,” I thought to myself. The Nigeria Police Force is working!

I acknowledged Jimoh’s prompt response in my article published in THE PUNCH on Friday, May 15, 2026, titled, “IG’s deployments and the rebirth of Zone II.” The article was published under another article, “Adeleke: Crime cannot dethrone Apetu and enthrone Oluwo.”

How wrong was I! Little did I know that what appeared to attract Jimoh to respond to my texts was not duty, but the allure of my foreign telephone number. Or, how do I explain that calls and texts to him after I introduced myself and made the publication were ignored? It left me wondering what manner of service and protection the common man gets from the police force if a columnist with the most widely read newspaper in the country could be tossed up and down by officers?

As it happened to me two years ago at Zone II, Onikan, so it has happened to me again this year: officers deliberately erect obstacles before citizens, preparing the ground for exploitation. I’m sure the shake-up initiated within the force by the IG is part of ongoing reforms aimed at re-energising the force. But for men and officers of Zone II, Onikan, this reform is like water bouncing off a rock. The IG must break that rock; otherwise, his efforts would go down the drain.

There is no nobler honour than for men and women to put their lives on the line for the safety of their country. This is why I spare no effort in commending the nation’s security agencies whenever they do right. But when corruption takes the place of conscience, then the walls of police institutions begin to rot from within.

Email: tundeodes2003@yahoo.com

Facebook: @Tunde Odesola

X: @Tunde_Odesola

…

Understanding Ahmad Gumi Controversy and Nigeria’s Security Power Structure

By Mudashir “Dipo” Teniola

The conversation did not begin with Sheikh Ahmad Gumi. Like many discussions about Nigeria’s worsening insecurity, it started with another painful story — the abduction and killing of a schoolteacher in Oyo State. Frustration filled the room like thick harmattan dust before someone shifted the mood with a pointed remark:

“But this Gumi sef, despite everything, he’s still moving freely.”

That single sentence captured a deeper national confusion: how can a cleric repeatedly associated in public discourse with dialogues involving bandits, kidnappers, and armed groups continue to operate openly while the government’s response appears cautious and restrained?

To ask that question is not necessarily to defend or condemn Ahmad Gumi. Rather, it is to move beyond headlines and confront the complicated realities of Nigeria’s power structure — a system shaped by history, institutional relationships, religion, military culture, and elite influence.

Why Public Outrage Feels Understandable

Many Nigerians, especially in Southern Nigeria and among Northern Christian communities, react strongly to Gumi because their anger is rooted in lived trauma.

They remember the violence that plagued the Kaduna–Birnin Gwari corridor, the March 2022 Abuja–Kaduna train attack that left passengers kidnapped for months, and the repeated mass abductions in Zamfara and other northern states that normalised ransom negotiations and deepened public fear.

During some of the country’s darkest moments, Gumi’s visits to forest camps, his advocacy for negotiation alongside military action, and comments interpreted by critics as sympathetic to bandits generated widespread backlash.

For victims and their families, complex political analysis often matters less than justice and safety. Their frustration is therefore legitimate. When many Nigerians ask, “Why is this man still free?” they are expressing accumulated national pain and distrust in state institutions.

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Still, public anger alone does not fully explain the situation.

Who Ahmad Gumi Is Beyond the Headlines

Public conversations often reduce Gumi to a “controversial cleric,” but his background is far more layered.

He is:

• Son of the late Sheikh Abubakar Gumi, one of Northern Nigeria’s most influential Islamic scholars with longstanding ties to the old Ahmadu Bello political establishment.
• A trained medical doctor who served in the Nigerian Army Medical Corps and retired with the rank of captain.
• An Islamic scholar who furthered his religious studies in Saudi Arabia.

The military aspect of his identity is particularly important in understanding his influence.

In Nigeria, military affiliation often extends beyond active service. Retired officers frequently maintain strong institutional relationships, networks, and influence long after leaving the armed forces. This does not automatically provide immunity, but it can shape how the state approaches sensitive figures connected to security-related matters.

For many within government and security circles, Gumi is not viewed solely as a cleric. He represents a combination of religious authority, elite northern pedigree, and military familiarity — factors that complicate any simplistic interpretation of his role in Nigeria’s security discourse.

Nigeria’s Long History of Negotiating With Armed Groups

Another uncomfortable reality is that Nigeria’s security strategy has rarely relied on military force alone.

Successive governments have, at different times, adopted negotiation or reintegration strategies with violent non-state actors. Examples include:

• The Niger Delta Amnesty Programme introduced under late President Umaru Musa Yar’Adua.
• Reported backchannel discussions with factions linked to Boko Haram.
• Quiet engagement efforts by some northern governors seeking dialogue with armed bandit groups before publicly distancing themselves from such approaches.

Gumi has also claimed in previous interviews that elements within the Nigerian state were aware of, or indirectly involved in, some of his engagements with armed groups.

Whether Nigerians agree with that approach or not, these realities place him within a broader historical pattern of state inconsistency in handling insecurity.

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That inconsistency partly explains why many citizens struggle to understand why he has not faced harsher official consequences.

Why Many Nigerians Perceive Double Standards

For many observers in Southern Nigeria, comparisons are often drawn between Gumi and separatist figures such as Nnamdi Kanu or Sunday Igboho.

To such critics, the difference in state response reinforces perceptions of ethnic or religious bias within Nigeria’s power structure.

However, reducing the matter solely to religion or ethnicity oversimplifies a more complex system.

In Northern Nigeria, religious authority, military influence, bureaucracy, and political elite networks have historically overlapped in ways that differ from the more fragmented power structures in many southern states.

As a result, when Gumi speaks, some Nigerians hear not just an Islamic cleric but echoes of a broader establishment network with historical institutional influence.

At the same time, dismissing all criticism against him as Islamophobia or anti-Fulani sentiment is equally dishonest. Many citizens genuinely fear that rhetoric perceived as accommodating bandit grievances may unintentionally normalise criminality or deepen the suffering of victims.

The Bigger Lesson for Nigeria

The “Ahmad Gumi phenomenon” is not about mystery or untouchability. It reflects the layered realities of power in Nigeria.

In the country’s political and security landscape, influence is rarely straightforward. Military history, religious authority, elite networks, ethnicity, and institutional memory often intersect in ways outsiders may not immediately understand.

Recognising this complexity does not excuse insecurity, nor does it erase the pain of victims. But it helps explain why figures like Gumi occupy controversial yet enduring spaces within national conversations.

The killing of innocent Nigerians — from abducted teachers to victims of mass kidnappings — demands a more effective security strategy, stronger governance, and reduced tolerance for criminal economies built around ransom and violence.

Nigeria cannot move forward if outrage replaces analysis or if difficult national questions are reduced to simplistic talking points.

Understanding the structures that shape influence in the country is uncomfortable, but necessary. Nigeria is a deeply layered society, and navigating it requires the ability to hold multiple truths at once: anger over violence, awareness of institutional realities, and a commitment to justice without fear or favour.

Only then can the country move beyond endless outrage toward meaningful understanding and lasting solutions.

Understanding Ahmad Gumi Controversy and Nigeria’s Security Power Structure