In a nation shadowed by violence, a generation is growing up too soon—carrying wounds that may shape the future we all must live in.
There is a quiet question many of us are afraid to ask, what happens to a child who grows up in fear, not the fleeting fear of childhood that fades with reassurance, but the kind that settles, stays, and quietly becomes a way of life, shaping how that child sees the world, how they respond to it, and who they eventually become.
What does it do to a child’s mind to hear about kidnappings almost every day, to watch their parents speak in hushed, anxious tones, to notice how quickly doors are locked, how movements are calculated, how safety is no longer assumed but constantly negotiated, how even laughter sometimes carries an undertone of worry.
Imagine the night, deep and still, like any other, then suddenly pierced by screams, the smell of smoke, confusion, the sharp, terrifying sound of gunfire, children instinctively crouching close to their mothers, fathers rising in fragile defiance to protect what they love, and then in moments that feel both endless and abrupt, everything unravels, some children watching their fathers fall, others seeing their mothers dragged, beaten, violated, some being pulled away into darkness they do not understand, while behind them the only world they have known burns into memory.
Imagine what remains in the mind of that child.
Or the child who wakes on a Sunday morning filled with simple excitement, clothes carefully laid out, the promise of church, of family, of a favourite meal afterwards, only for that ordinary joy to be shattered by violence, on Easter Sunday, on quiet Sundays, on days that were meant to reassure them that life still holds something good.
Or the child sent to school like every other day, unaware that something is about to break that sense of normalcy, that a place once associated with learning and growth can suddenly become a place of fear, confusion, and loss.
A mother, Mrs Amina Hassan, recounted such a night in Kebbi State. It was around 3:30 a.m. when she heard movement behind their window. Armed men forced their way in. Her husband, a vice principal, was killed in the struggle. The attackers ordered her and her children to follow them, and in that confusion her daughter asked to step outside. For a brief moment, attention shifted, and the girl ran. She escaped. Twenty-five others in that school did not, nor did over 200 students in Niger State and many others elsewhere. And although some were later rescued, the question lingers quietly — what truly returns with them? What happens after rescue? What happens inside the mind?
Another mother in Kwara State cried out for her missing child after an attack on a church where they had gathered to give thanks for others previously released, a moment meant for gratitude turned again into grief, her voice carrying the weight of uncertainty that words can barely hold, and across the country these stories echo in different forms but with the same underlying ache, from Chibok to Dapchi, from Kankara to Jangebe, from Niger to Kaduna to Kwara, children taken, some returned, some still missing, many forever altered.
Even for those who return, something has shifted, fear lingers in quiet ways, sleep becomes uncertain, nightmares interrupt rest, sudden sounds trigger panic, trust begins to erode, school no longer feels safe, home no longer feels certain, and the world that once made sense becomes something harder to navigate.
This is no longer only about insecurity, it is about the minds we are shaping without fully realising it, children learning to be alert instead of carefree, cautious instead of curious, learning survival before they have truly learned how to live, and when trauma settles this deeply it does not remain in childhood, it grows, it follows them into adulthood, into relationships, into decisions, into the way they engage with society.
Many adults are still living from wounds formed in their early years, wounds that were never named, never treated, never given room to heal, and pain left unattended rarely disappears, it finds expression, sometimes quietly, sometimes in ways that ripple outward, and so the cycle continues, communities begin to normalise fear, parents carry anxiety almost as a second skin, families stretch under the weight of uncertainty, of ransom demands, of grief without closure, and children watch, absorb, internalise.
What we are witnessing is not only a security crisis, it is a psychological one, a slow shaping of a generation under the weight of fear, and yet responses often stop at rescue, at statements, at reassurance, rarely extending to healing, to accountability, to prevention, while perpetrators grow bolder and consequences remain uncertain, creating a dangerous message that violence can persist without interruption.
But what of the children, the ones who now flinch at sounds, who struggle to sleep, who cannot return to school without fear sitting quietly beside them, who have seen too much too soon, what are we doing to help them find their way back to themselves.
Because trauma does not stay contained, it spreads, it deepens, it shapes not only individuals but the society they will one day lead, and there is a dangerous comfort in believing that what does not touch us directly does not concern us, but it does, because the children we are raising in fear today will shape the society of tomorrow, and what they carry within them will find expression in ways we may not immediately see.
If fear is what they learn, fear may be what they give, if pain is what they carry, pain may be what they pass on, and we cannot afford to keep looking away, not when the signs are this clear, not when the cost is this deep.
Because long after the noise fades and attention shifts elsewhere, something remains, in the minds of children, in the quiet they carry, in the lives they are still trying to understand.
Until we learn to hear the pain we silence, the echoes will never fade.
Okenwa, a journalist, lawyer and Publisher of Law & Society Magazine, could be reached on lillianokenwa@gmail.com
