By Lillian Okenwa
There is something especially haunting about children being taken away shortly after morning assembly. One moment, they are reciting the national anthem, laughing with classmates, adjusting oversized school uniforms and clutching lunch packs hurriedly prepared by anxious mothers before dawn. The next moment, terror storms the classroom and childhood itself is violently interrupted.
The violent abduction of pupils and teachers across three schools in Ahoro-Esinle, Oriire Local Government Area of Oyo State, happened in the quiet innocence of the morning between 8:00 a.m. and 9:30 a.m., according to reports from the Oyo State Police Command and accounts from victims.
The children had only just finished their morning assembly.
Some were probably still reciting the national anthem and pledge minutes earlier. Some would have been clutching tiny lunch packs packed in a hurry by anxious mothers before dawn. Teachers had barely settled into classrooms when armed men stormed the schools and tore through that ordinary school morning with terror.
And then came the chaos.
Tiny children, some barely old enough to properly explain their home address, were dragged into uncertainty by men carrying guns. A two-year-old child, Christianah Akanbi, was among those taken. Two years old. Sikiru Salami is only three years old.
At that age, a child still reaches for comfort with trembling hands. Still cries for home at the slightest fear. Still believes adults can stop monsters.
But in that moment, there were no adults powerful enough to stop the horror unfolding.
The attack on Community High School, Ahoro-Esinle, and Yawota Baptist Nursery and Primary School reportedly left no fewer than 46 persons abducted, including teachers, toddlers, primary school pupils and teenagers.
The list reads like something no nation should ever grow used to.
Four-year-olds.
Five-year-olds.
Seven-year-olds.
Eight-year-olds and more.
Children who should be worrying about homework, cartoons and playground games instead found themselves swallowed by fear most adults may never recover from.
And perhaps that is the most painful part of terrorism in Nigeria today. It is no longer only about attacks. It is about the slow destruction of emotional safety.
Children understand fear even when they cannot explain it.
The trembling.
The screaming.
The confusion.
The desperate crying for parents.
The sight of armed strangers shouting orders.
The terror of being pushed into unfamiliar places away from home.
These moments do not simply disappear after rescue. Trauma rarely leaves quietly.
Long after freedom comes, many children continue reliving frightening moments in their minds. Some become withdrawn. Some stop speaking freely. Some begin waking up terrified at night. Others develop deep anxiety around schools, strangers, uniforms or loud sounds.
Sometimes the body escapes captivity while the mind remains trapped there for years.
Even the teachers who were abducted are victims in another painful way. Teachers are custodians of safety. They stand daily before children entrusted to their care by parents. One can only imagine the anguish and helplessness of watching terrified pupils being marched away at gunpoint while having no power to protect them.
That helplessness leaves scars, too.
Then there are the parents.
No language fully captures the agony of not knowing where your child is. Every passing minute becomes torture. Every phone call triggers panic. Every rumour becomes another wound. Mothers cannot sleep. Fathers pace endlessly. Families cling desperately to hope while imagining unspeakable possibilities.
Some parents probably still hear their children’s voices in their heads.
“Mummy, don’t let them take me.”
“Daddy, I’m scared.”
Nigeria has witnessed several mass abductions over the years, but somehow the horror never truly settles in national consciousness for long before another tragedy arrives.
When the mass abduction at St. Mary’s Catholic School in Papiri village, Niger State, occurred on November 21, 2025, and gunmen reportedly seized over 300 pupils and teachers, the youngest victims were said to be only six years old. Yet even that horrifying incident was only one among many attacks happening across villages and communities that rarely make national headlines.
The bleeding continues quietly across the country.
And increasingly, Nigerians are beginning to feel abandoned inside their own homeland.
The insecurity in Nigeria has reached a frightening point where schools are no longer seen merely as places of learning, but potential crime scenes. Parents now fear sending children to school. Young graduates heading for the National Youth Service Corps worry whether they will return home safely. Families travelling on highways pray not only against accidents anymore, but against kidnappers and terrorists.
A country slowly teaching its children to grow up afraid is damaging its own future.
Perhaps this is why many Nigerians are asking difficult questions as political campaigns and alignments ahead of the 2027 elections quietly intensify.
Who exactly are politicians hoping to govern if citizens continue living under siege?
What nation will remain if terrorists and bandits continue overrunning communities while the state responds mostly with condolences, promises and rehabilitation programmes for so-called repentant terrorists?
People are tired of reassurances. They want protection.
They want intelligence-driven security. They want safer roads. They want stronger local policing. They want proactive action before attacks happen, not sympathy visits after lives have already been shattered.
Counterterrorism experts often warn that terrorism succeeds not only through violence but through fear. Once people begin to feel permanently unsafe, terrorists have already achieved psychological dominance over society.
And this is exactly what many Nigerians now feel.
The tragedy is even deeper because Nigeria once consciously tried to heal national trauma and build unity after the Civil War through the establishment of the National Youth Service Corps in 1973. Young graduates were deployed across regions to foster understanding, integration and national identity. Friendships were formed. Inter-ethnic marriages happened. Hope slowly returned.
But insecurity is steadily eroding that vision.
Parents are increasingly reluctant to allow their children travel across regions for national service. Young Nigerians now move around the country with suspicion and dread instead of excitement and patriotism.
Fear is replacing trust. Survival is replacing unity.
And perhaps one of the saddest realities is that trauma spreads quietly through generations. Children who grow up constantly exposed to violence, fear, instability, and uncertainty often carry emotional wounds into adulthood. Trauma shapes confidence, relationships, emotional stability, parenting and even national identity.
This is why insecurity must never be reduced to statistics.
Behind every number is a child waking up screaming from nightmares. Behind every headline is a traumatised teacher replaying moments of helplessness. Behind every abduction is a mother whose heart may never fully rest again.
Somewhere at this very moment, perhaps, frightened and exhausted, little Christianah may still be crying for home.
And that thought alone should trouble every conscience.
A lawyer and equity advocate, Lillian is the publisher of Law & Society Magazine. She can be reached at Lillianokenwa@gmail.com
