Forests Of Fear, Nation Drenched In Tears

(Written by Destiny Tamunoala Emmanuel)

“When it’s hurting, then it calls for serious prayers, actions, and empathy.” Those words are not merely emotional expressions. They are a cry from the wounded soul of a nation gradually becoming accustomed to pain. A nation where blood stains the soil, tears flood homes, and silence echoes louder than leadership.

Nigeria is hurting.

And nowhere has this pain become more terrifying than in our schools — the sacred places where children should learn alphabets, dreams, patriotism, and hope, not the language of fear, gunshots, and captivity.

The recent abduction of schoolchildren and teachers in Oriire Local Government Area of Oyo State is another frightening chapter in Nigeria’s long and exhausting story of insecurity. Armed men invaded Community Grammar School, Baptist Nursery and Primary School, and L.A Primary School in the Ahoro-Esinle/Yawota axis near Ogbomoso, abducting pupils, students, teachers, and school officials in broad daylight. Reports revealed that over thirty victims were taken away into captivity, including toddlers, teenagers, and educators. One assistant headmaster was reportedly killed during the attack for resisting the invaders, while later developments exposed an even darker horror — the gruesome beheading of one of the abducted teachers, Michael Oyedokun, allegedly captured in a disturbing video released by the kidnappers.

(Imagine being a child whose only “crime” was attending school that morning.)

(Imagine a teacher who left home to educate lives but never returned alive.)

(Imagine parents waiting helplessly, staring at roads that may never bring their children back.)

This is no longer just “news.” This is national trauma.

The frightening thing is not only the kidnapping itself. It is the normalization of evil. Nigerians now wake up to horrifying headlines with dangerous familiarity. Another school attacked. Another community invaded. Another mass burial. Another press statement. Another promise. Another silence.

And the question keeps returning:

How did we get here?

How did classrooms become hunting grounds?

How did forests become stronger than governments?

How did innocent children become bargaining chips in a criminal economy thriving on fear?

Perhaps the tragedy is not merely that these incidents happen, but that many within the political class appear emotionally detached from the suffering of ordinary Nigerians. While citizens mourn, politicians strategize. While mothers cry, power blocs negotiate relevance. While communities bury their dead, leaders prepare for elections that seem more important than human lives.

(What is power worth in a country where children cannot safely hold pencils?)

Nigeria has seen this nightmare before.

From the Chibok girls abducted in 2014, to the Kankara schoolboys, to the Greenfield University killings, to the Kaduna train tragedy, to the endless attacks across Benue, Plateau, Zamfara, Niger, Borno, and now Oyo — the nation has steadily drifted into a frightening culture where insecurity no longer shocks people the way it once did.

The Chibok abduction shook the world.

Yet years later, many families are still healing from wounds that never fully closed.

The Kankara incident exposed the vulnerability of educational institutions.

Yet schools remained exposed.

The Greenfield University killings reminded Nigerians that even tertiary institutions were no longer safe.

Yet fear continued to spread.

And now, Oyo — a state many once considered relatively safer — has joined the growing map of territories stained by blood and fear.

(When insecurity migrates unchecked, nowhere remains truly safe.)

This is the calamity that has lingered over the years: a gradual collapse of national sensitivity. We mourn briefly and move on quickly. We trend hashtags but rarely sustain accountability. We hold prayer vigils while structural failures remain untouched. And somehow, citizens are expected to continue living normally in abnormal conditions.

But this moment demands more than social media outrage.

It demands serious prayers.

It demands serious action.

It demands empathy.

Not performative sympathy.

Not carefully rehearsed condolences.

Real empathy — the kind that makes leaders sleepless until citizens are safe.

The soul of Nigeria is weary.

The blood of innocent citizens cries from the ground daily. Children kidnapped from classrooms. Farmers slaughtered on their lands. Worshippers attacked in churches and mosques. Travelers abducted on highways. Communities erased overnight.

And sadly, the greatest danger is when a nation becomes comfortable with mourning.

Because once people normalize pain, evil grows without resistance.

Yet, amidst the darkness, Nigerians must refuse hopelessness. Citizens must continue demanding accountability from government at all levels. Security architecture must become proactive rather than reactive. Intelligence gathering must improve. Rural communities must not be abandoned. Schools must become fortified safe spaces rather than vulnerable targets. And above all, human life must become more valuable than political calculations.

(Every child deserves to return home safely from school.)

(Every teacher deserves dignity, not death.)

(Every Nigerian deserves peace.)

The tragedy in Oyo is not just Oyo’s tragedy. It is Nigeria’s mirror.

A painful mirror reflecting leadership failures, weakened institutions, rising criminality, economic desperation, and collective exhaustion.

But even in pain, truth must still be spoken.

A country that cannot protect its children is standing on dangerous moral ground.

And until Nigeria begins to value human lives above politics, above propaganda, above selfish ambition, the cries from the soil may continue rising louder than the promises from podiums.

May God comfort the grieving families.

May He protect those still in captivity.

May He avenge innocent blood.

And may peace finally reign over Nigeria.