Some national tragedies do not happen all at once. They arrive quietly, until people start living in fear. Travelling becomes a risk. Farming feels uncertain. Going to school turns into an act of hope. This is now the reality in Nigeria’s North-West. It stands out not because other regions are safe. The violence here is so intense and persistent that it weighs on the nation’s conscience, especially for leaders from this area.

In the North-West, banditry now shows a much larger breakdown. Ongoing farmer–herder conflicts, cattle theft, kidnappings for ransom, gender-based violence, and high youth unemployment all feed this crisis. States like Zamfara, Katsina, and Sokoto are mentioned so often that people risk tuning out. However, the data shows this is not random chaos; instead, it is a growing system. By 2024, thousands have died, and over a million have been displaced, with violence increasing since 2018. Furthermore, some reports say deaths in the first half of 2025 already exceed those in all of 2024. Such rapid escalation is rarely just about anger; it is often about money.

Understanding why the North-West’s banditry persists requires seeing it as more than a security crisis; it is a political economy. Here, the gun becomes a tool of taxation, the forest turns into a marketplace, and the victims are valued as revenue streams. This shift in perspective is essential to grasp the distinct dynamics of the crisis.

In many places, insecurity is seen as a failure of policing or military capacity. However, in the North-West, that explanation is too small. Here, the crisis is deeply tied to illicit economies. Illegal mining, ransom markets, rustled livestock, and “protection” rackets now regulate movement, farming, trade, and even community life. Notably, these illicit streams are not isolated; they interlock. For example, a successful kidnapping funds weapon. Those weapons expand criminal control, enabling illegal extraction. That extraction, in turn, buys political protection. Political protection weakens accountability. As accountability weakens, more room emerges for further kidnapping. The circle tightens, and the state keeps arriving late.

At the centre of this ecosystem sits a truth many Nigerians sense but few institutions take seriously. The absence of effective grassroots governance is not just background—it is a catalyst. When local government is reduced to a payroll centre, rural policing is inconsistent, justice is slow or absent, and conflict resolution is improvised, a vacuum opens. As communities lose faith in formal systems, the vacuum grows. In that space, armed actors do not merely terrorise; they begin to govern. They decide which roads are passable, which markets operate, which farms can be cultivated, and which villages must pay to avoid attack. They build a parallel authority—crude, violent, and corrupt, but present.

When such authority takes root, a new transition occurs: the problem evolves from being a simple crime to an organised industry. This evolution is critical to understanding the crisis’s enduring nature.

This is especially clear in small-scale gold mining. Instead of prosperity, gold brings conflict. In a healthy economy, such mining is regulated, taxed, and made safer, creating jobs and revenue. In the North-West, however, gold has become an untraceable asset: it can be easily moved, traded, and turned into cash or weapons. Where the government is weak, reports and field accounts describe illegal mining sites beyond regulation, guarded by armed power and linked to smuggling networks. A chain of actors keeps them running, not ending with the gunman. In such places, bandits do more than raid: they tax, control access, demand tribute, seize output, and punish disobedience. What appears as chaos is often an organised system. Gold becomes the silent sponsor of violence—portable, valuable, obscure, and convenient enough to keep the machine running.

Kidnapping for ransom is now a key part of this system. It has become a business with its own rules. Targets are chosen. Routes are watched. Others handle negotiations. Payments are organised, and releases are planned. Families pay because they do not trust the state to help. Communities collect money because refusal is too costly. Employers pay to avoid panic and business problems. Each payment makes the criminals stronger, better equipped, and more certain that violence works.

Cattle rustling is no longer just opportunistic theft. It is now an asset seizure that drains rural economies and funds more crime. Livestock is wealth in motion. Stealing is not only theft but economic sabotage. When herds disappear, households collapse. When households collapse, young men become vulnerable. Armed groups recruit from this group. The illicit economy is not separate from society; it feeds on society.

To understand why the crisis persists despite efforts to tackle it, a deeper question must be asked: who benefits? This question exposes another layer beneath the visible crimes and should haunt every serious policy conversation.

Many know that large-scale ransom kidnappings, illegal mining, and cattle rustling need support to continue. Some provide information, help movement, launder money, or offer protection. Others make sure investigations go nowhere. This is where ‘political bandits’ come in—politicians and associates who take resources meant for farmers, misuse government funds, profit from illegal mining, and use chaos for personal gain. The person in the forest is dangerous. The officeholder protecting these activities is even more so. He uses public power for private benefit.

A society can handle occasional crime. It struggles with organised crime. It may not survive organised crime protected by politicians.

This is why banditry’s illegal economy continues. It is not just about poverty and unemployment; it is also about weak governance and poor enforcement. Additionally, transnational networks move gold, weapons, and money across borders with little oversight. As a result, when the state is weak, criminals grow stronger. When institutions are slow, illegal markets move fast. When justice is uncertain, violence looks logical for those who see low risk and high reward.

Yet it would be dishonest to speak about this crisis without naming its social and economic roots. The decline of vocational centres and basic education, rising costs of higher education, and the lack of digital or agricultural training are not just development failures. In the North-West, these weaknesses supply recruits and become security multipliers. When a young person sees no ladder, the gun looks like a career. When communities lose skills and schooling, they lose. The government cannot rely only on force. While force might reduce violence for a while, it cannot break an economy that funds itself in many ways and is part of daily life. Since banditry works like a business, it should be fought like one: cut off its money, raise its costs, strip away its protection, and create better legal options.

Start where the system is strongest: money. Follow the gold, not just the gun. Illegal mining should be a national security emergency. In this context, it is not just an economic crime; it is conflict financing. Formalisation is important. But formalisation without enforcement is mere theatre. The state must regulate access, monitor supply, prosecute smugglers, and dismantle extraction networks. If gold finances violence, every unpoliced mining corridor feeds the crisis.

Next, treat kidnapping as an organised business, not just random violence. Break up networks of informants, negotiators, couriers, and financiers—not just the criminals with guns. Make prosecutions clear and consistent. Improve intelligence and response time so people believe the government can help. The ransom business depends on a perception of state weakness. Change that belief, and the market will weaken.

However, these efforts will not last without restoring local governance. Rural security needs more than occasional raids. It needs real local presence: effective policing, trusted community intelligence, working conflict resolution, and accessible justice. If the government cannot protect people where they live—on farms, in forests, markets, and village roads—it only treats symptoms while the problem grows.

Finally, rebuild opportunity with urgency. Do this not as charity but as a strategy. Revive vocational centres. Expand affordable paths into skills for real markets—digital, agricultural processing, construction, repairs, logistics, and modern trades. Make education a shield, not a privilege. The illicit economy recruits where legitimate opportunity is absent. If the government wants fewer bandits tomorrow, it must produce more viable livelihoods today.

The North-West is not just experiencing violence; violence is changing how society works. When fear becomes normal, people adjust in ways that make the abnormal seem ordinary. People stop reporting crimes because nothing changes. Communities start dealing with criminals directly because the government feels far away. Officials use slogans rather than face the truth. In this environment, banditry does not just continue—it grows stronger.

Nigeria must choose what it is really facing: isolated criminals or a parallel economy protected by armed groups and political cover. If it is the second—and it seems to be—then the country’s response must be just as complex. Unless we address those who benefit, stop illegal funding, and rebuild local governance and opportunities, we will keep sending more soldiers into a conflict where money is the real shield.

And the cost will continue: more families forced to leave, empty schools, abandoned farms, traumatised communities, and a nation troubled by what it has come to accept.

•Dr Dakuku Peterside is the author of “Leading in a Storm” and “Beneath the Surface”.

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