The haunting cadence of W.B. Yeats’ The Second Coming, quoted so often by the late Chinua Achebe, has ceased to be mere poetry. It has become a grim, real-time mirror reflecting our national existence: “Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; / Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.”
In a nation that boasts some of the brightest minds globally, a land steeped in the communal sanctity of “it takes a village to raise a child,” we have descended into an unthinkable abyss. Daredevil criminals have reached into the heart of Oyo State, snatched our children—the very architects of our future—and vanished. Yet, as the sun rises and sets, from the gilded halls of the Presidency to the dusty corners of the local street, we remain paralyzed, tethered to a collective ignorance that is as chilling as it is shameful.
The Theatre of Performative Outrage
We have become a nation of “noises.” We trade blame with surgical precision—the Presidency points to the state, the state points to the security architecture, and the populace directs its vitriol toward the political elite. We have seen the press releases, the hashtags, the fleeting television appearances, and the hollow promises of “concerted efforts.”
But let us be painfully honest: these are not efforts; they are performances. There is not even a whisper of a “near-success syndrome.” While we debate and defend our preferred political affiliations, our children are sleeping under the cold, unforgiving stars of a forest floor. They are subjected to the kind of trauma that shatters souls long before it breaks bodies. They are waiting for a rescue that we are too divided to coordinate.
The Mirror of Empathy
Let us strip away the facade of civic detachment. I challenge every father in this country: if that abducted child were your only son, would you be content with a tweet? To every mother: if that child were the fruit of your old age, would you accept a press statement as enough?
