Ribadu: The Steady Hand Nigeria Forgot It Needed

Ribadu: The Steady Hand Nigeria Forgot It Needed

Let us speak plainly. Nigeria has always been generous in producing men who speak thunder but deliver drizzle. The country has no shortage of promises, nor of those who make them in designer agbada and sanctimonious tones. Yet now and then, out of the smoke and noise, someone steps forward who does not seek applause, who does not dance for cameras, who simply works.

Nuhu Ribadu is one such man.

He is remembered still, perhaps with a mix of reverence and fear, as the relentless enforcer who once held the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission with an iron will and an incorruptible conscience. But the story has turned a new page. Today, he stands again in the service of a restless nation, this time not as the hunter of treasury looters, but as the quiet steward of national security.

And his presence, though understated, has begun to change the air.

From the Chase of Looters to the Orchestration of Order

There was a time, not long past, when corruption flowed through the veins of government as freely as palm wine at a village feast. It was a time when stealing was rebranded as entitlement, and silence was bought in hard currency. Into that season came Ribadu, uninvited and unafraid. As the EFCC’s first chair, he did not nibble at low-hanging fruit. He climbed the tree and shook it.

Governors were dragged to courtrooms. Senior police officers were humbled. Ministers fell like cracked statues. Over two hundred convictions in four years. That is not the stuff of slogans. That is architecture.

Among his many high-profile cases, none rang louder than the takedown of Tafa Balogun, the former Inspector General of Police, who was made to disgorge over one hundred and fifty million pounds in stolen funds. Because of this and other acts of courage, Nigeria began to emerge, slowly and hesitantly, from the grey lists of global shame.

But then, as often happens here, politics bared its teeth and pushed him aside. Nearly twenty years later, the same man walks a new path. Same resolve. Different war.

The Language of Numbers and the Silence of Results

Since June of twenty twenty-three, when Ribadu assumed the role of National Security Adviser, something has shifted in the country’s posture. Not the usual shift of words and headlines, but the kind that whispers itself into daily life.

Fifteen thousand terrorists neutralised. Over one hundred and twenty-four thousand fighters from Boko Haram and ISWAP have surrendered their arms. These are not just statistics. These are entire ideologies retreating. These are towns breathing again.

In the space of three months, the armed forces achieved the following:

• Sixty five commanders of terror taken down
• Over one thousand nine hundred militants killed
• Nearly two thousand eight hundred suspects arrested
• More than one thousand eight hundred captives rescued from darkness

These numbers speak softly but carry weight. They do not shout from podiums. They come from the dust and heat where soldiers stand between chaos and what remains of order.

And consider Ogoniland. For decades, oil exploration there was synonymous with blood. Now, for the first time in nearly thirty years, drilling has resumed. No gunshots. No smoke. Just work. Quiet work. The kind that heals.

The Return of Coordination in a Previously Broken Orchestra

What separates Ribadu from many who have held the post before him is not merely intellect or experience. It is instinct. The instinct to listen, to connect, to harmonise a cacophony into a single note.

For the first time in years, the military, the police, the air force, the navy, the DSS, and intelligence bodies are not operating like strangers forced into the same room. They are cooperating. Sharing intelligence. Planning together. Acting as one. The machinery is finally moving in rhythm.

Look to the southeast, where once the mere mention of IPOB or ESN turned men pale. Today, those groups are increasingly cornered. In the northwest, banditry is losing its swagger. The responses are swift, coordinated, deliberate. What was once patchwork has become a quilt. And in that quiet stitching lies the return of state authority.

It Is Not Paradise Yet, But There Is Purpose

Let us not fall into delusion. There are still tears in the fabric. Attacks still occur. Entire communities remain on edge. In many regions, sleep is still interrupted by distant gunfire. These are not illusions. They are the lived realities of people who have seen too much.

But something has changed. Intelligence gathering is no longer an exercise in hindsight. Threats are being intercepted before they manifest. The DSS and NIA are preventing crises that will never make headlines. Cross-border weapons are being stopped before they become tools of sorrow.

Of course, the work is not perfect. Concerns have been raised, rightly so, about how some operations are carried out. And the police, along with immigration, still struggle beneath the weight of bureaucracy and inefficiency. But this time, something feels different. The silence is not apathy. It is attention. Someone is watching. Someone is acting.

The Wind Beneath the Strategy

All this would crumble without political will. But President Bola Tinubu has chosen to throw his weight behind the security structure, and it shows. Not just in speeches but in the speed of budget approvals, in the urgency of arms procurement, and in the accountability demanded of service chiefs.

This is not the old game of pass-the-blame. This is responsibility backed by power. And in that rare alignment, results are blooming.

Why This Moment Matters

Because without security, there is no life. Schools shutter. Roads empty. Markets rot. Hope becomes a fugitive. Even the most poetic democracy dies when people cannot sleep in peace.

What Ribadu and his team are doing is not merely a war against terror. It is a slow, patient rebuilding of the right to live. To gather. To dream.

For the first time in many years, there is a whisper rising. Not a cheer, but a cautious murmur. A question that perhaps things might change. That this nation, so battered by its own hands, might yet find a rhythm of peace.

And if we nurture this fragile moment, if we support those who protect us, demand honesty from those who lead us, and continue to lean toward unity instead of division, then maybe—just maybe—we will arrive at a place where Nigerians do not just endure.

They will live. And live fully.