By Philemon Adjekuko
Nigeria’s security crisis has become so persistent that fresh outrage now follows each new attack with weary predictability. Kidnappings for ransom have spread from isolated highways to entire communities. Banditry continues to displace thousands of families. The cycle of killings linked to herder-farmer conflicts remains unresolved, while violent extremism still casts a long shadow over parts of the country. Armed robbery, cult violence and homicides have become recurring features of daily life in many states. Despite the sacrifices of the armed forces and other security agencies, the sheer scale and diversity of these threats have stretched available resources to their limits.
Successive governments have responded with military operations, intelligence-driven raids, new security formations and increased defence spending. The debate has now shifted towards the establishment of state police, with many presenting it as the missing piece in Nigeria’s security architecture. At the same time, the Federal Government has sought greater international cooperation, including support from the United States, in confronting violent extremist groups. These are understandable responses to an extraordinary challenge. Yet they also reveal an uncomfortable truth. Nigeria is still searching for a strategy capable not only of suppressing violence but of preventing it.
More than two decades ago, Scotland confronted a crisis that many believed had become woven into its social fabric. Glasgow had acquired the unenviable reputation of being Europe’s murder capital. Knife attacks, gang warfare and violent assaults had become so commonplace that violence was almost accepted as an inevitable feature of life. The police arrested offenders in large numbers, the courts imposed stiff penalties and prisons filled up. Yet the violence persisted. Every successful prosecution seemed only to create room for another young recruit to step into the same destructive cycle.
Then Scotland asked a different question. Instead of asking only how violent offenders could be caught, it began asking why violence was flourishing in the first place.
That single shift in thinking transformed public policy.
In 2005, Scotland established the Violence Reduction Unit, bringing together police officers, doctors, psychologists, teachers, social workers, youth workers, community organisations and former offenders. Violence was no longer viewed solely as a criminal justice issue. It was treated as a public health challenge, one whose roots often lay in childhood trauma, poverty, addiction, family instability, social exclusion, educational failure and hopelessness.
This did not mean abandoning law enforcement. Those who committed serious crimes were still arrested and prosecuted. What changed was the recognition that policing alone could never solve a problem whose causes extended far beyond the reach of a police station.
The Scottish authorities identified neighbourhoods where violence was concentrated and directed resources accordingly. Schools became partners in identifying vulnerable children before they drifted into gangs. Hospitals intervened when stabbing victims were admitted, offering counselling and mediation before revenge attacks could occur. Employers created pathways into legitimate work for young people seeking to leave criminal groups. Former gang members spoke directly to teenagers about the realities of violence, often succeeding where uniformed officers could not. Families received support before domestic instability produced another generation of offenders.
Perhaps the most remarkable feature of Scotland’s approach was that it demanded patience. Politicians resisted the temptation to chase quick headlines. Governments changed, but the strategy endured. Violence reduction became a national commitment rather than an electoral slogan.
The results have been striking. Homicides have fallen dramatically. Serious assaults have declined. Knife crime has reduced substantially. Communities once associated with fear have become safer places to live. Scotland did not achieve perfection, nor did it eliminate every form of violent crime. What it achieved was something arguably more important. It proved that societies can reverse deeply rooted cultures of violence when they understand that prevention deserves as much attention as punishment.
Nigeria’s circumstances are undoubtedly more complex. Its population is vastly larger, its ethnic and religious diversity more intricate, and its security challenges range from organised criminal gangs to insurgent movements with ideological motivations. No foreign model can simply be transplanted onto Nigerian soil. Nevertheless, Scotland offers an insight that deserves serious consideration.
Every kidnapper, bandit or extremist was once a child. Many passed through broken homes, dysfunctional schools, drug abuse, untreated trauma, chronic unemployment or communities where violence had become normal long before they ever picked up a weapon. If the nation waits until that individual appears in a police file, the intervention has already arrived dangerously late.
State police, if eventually established, may strengthen local policing and improve intelligence gathering. Better equipment for the military is equally necessary. Stronger border control remains essential. International cooperation should continue. None of these measures should be dismissed. But none, standing alone, addresses the conditions that continuously produce new recruits for violent crime.
Nigeria’s greatest security investment may ultimately lie outside the barracks. It may be found in classrooms that keep vulnerable children engaged, hospitals that treat psychological trauma alongside physical wounds, communities that identify young people at risk before criminal networks do, employers willing to offer genuine second chances, and institutions capable of working together instead of operating in isolation.
History suggests that nations do not arrest their way out of violence. They prevent their way out of it. Scotland understood this before much of the world did. Nigeria, confronted by one of the greatest security challenges in its modern history, may find that its most powerful weapon is not simply a larger security force, but a broader understanding of what creates violence in the first place.
Adjekuko, a public affairs analyst, wrote in from Abuja. He can be contacted via padjekuko@yahoo.com.com.
