Nigeria did not arrive at this controversy by accident. It was triggered by events widely reported in the media: armed men intercepted in Kwara State, later identified by government sources as members of Miyetti Allah, operating within a security arrangement said to involve federal coordination from the office of National Security Adviser to the President .
From that moment, suspicion became inevitable. In a country bleeding from banditry associated with Fulani ethnic groups and communal violence, Nigerians do not need imagination to fear the consequences of such revelations.
Miyetti Allah is a Fulani socio-cultural and social ethics group, much like Afenifere in the South-West and Ohaneze Ndigbo in the South-East. But never in the history of Nigeria has Afenifere or Ohaneze been armed, or involved in any arms race, to demand resource control or true federalism.
The reports were not fringe gossip. Mainstream media quoted state officials confirming the identity of the armed men, while federal authorities hurriedly denied that the Office of the National Security Adviser supplied weapons to any socio-cultural group. Those denials exist, but so do the facts as presented: Miyetti Allah members were armed, and their presence was linked—directly or indirectly—to a security framework connected to the office of NSA. That alone is enough to raise serious alarm.
The problem is not only whether NSA Nuhu Ribadu personally authorised the handing out of guns. The deeper issue is that the Nigerian state once again appeared unable—or unwilling—to draw a hard line between formal security forces and politically sensitive associations.
When a group as controversial as Miyetti Allah is found carrying weapons under any form of official cover, Nigerians are entitled to ask uncomfortable questions. These questions do not disappear because of press statements.
For years, Miyetti Allah has featured prominently in national debates around herder-farmer clashes, insecurity, and ethnic tension. It is therefore reckless, at best, for its members to surface in armed operations without immediate, clear, and convincing explanations.
The optics are disastrous. To communities ravaged by violence, this looks less like security coordination and more like selective empowerment.
Media reports also indicate confusion even among authorities—state officials confirming identities, federal officials denying authorisation, and no detailed public account of who recruited these men, who armed them, and under what law they were deployed.
In the absence of clarity, the public fills the gaps with suspicion, and history gives them ample reason to do so.
Ribadu’s defenders insist there is no proof that he armed Miyetti Allah. That may be true. But it is also true that the situation has been handled with a level of opacity that fuels public distrust. National security cannot be managed like political damage control. When lives are at stake, “we did not do it” is not enough.
Nigerians want to know what was done, by whom, and why.
This controversy is dangerous not because of what has been conclusively proven, but because of what it suggests. A state that appears to blur the line between official force and identity-based groups invites chaos. Nigeria has seen how informal security arrangements can mutate into monsters the state can no longer control.
Pretending this fear is irrational is both dishonest and insulting.
As reported in the media, armed Miyetti Allah members were involved in a security operation. As officially stated, the NSA has denied supplying them with weapons. Between these two positions lies a credibility gap that only transparency can fill.
Until then, the story will not go away—because in Nigeria, silence and half-answers are often read as confessions.
This is not about witch-hunting Ribadu. It is about confronting a pattern in which the Nigerian state repeatedly underestimates the power of perception, ignores historical wounds, and then acts surprised when public trust collapses.
National security demands more than denials. It demands openness, restraint, and the wisdom to know that in a fragile country like Nigeria, some lines should never even appear to be crossed.
Mogaji Wole Arisekola, Publisher of The Street Journal Newspaper, writes from Ibadan.
