By Israel Adebiyi
In an animal village long lost to history, chickens lived under constant siege. Hawks had taken over the skies and terrorised the land. They came at will, snatching chickens from their homes, carrying them off in broad daylight, leaving feathers and grief behind. There was no warning, no mercy and no pattern. Each day arrived with fear, and each night ended with counting losses.
The elders of the village eventually gathered at the square. They admitted what everyone already knew. The chickens were weak. They had no claws, no beaks sharp enough, no wings strong enough to challenge the hawks. Fighting back, they reasoned, would only bring more destruction. So they chose what they believed was wisdom over resistance.
A delegation was sent to the landlord of the hawks. The message was simple. There would be peace, if the hawks agreed to restraint. In return, the chickens would offer seasonal sacrifices, their own children handed over willingly. At first, it seemed to work. The skies were quieter. The raids reduced. The elders congratulated themselves for choosing dialogue over defiance.
But like a shark that tastes blood, the hawks grew bolder. The sacrifices were no longer enough. The scent of submission emboldened them. They returned not just for the offered children, but for entire families. They ravaged the village with renewed hunger. The chickens soon learnt a bitter lesson. Reasoning, when mistaken for courage, does not stop an unrelenting predator. Cowardice dressed as strategy only postpones destruction.
That story feels uncomfortably close to home today.
The decision by the Katsina State Government to offer amnesty to bandits in exchange for the release of abducted civilians may appear, on the surface, as a humane and practical response to an unbearable crisis. Lives matter, and any leader confronted with the daily reality of kidnappings, killings and displacement will feel the pressure to act, quickly and decisively. But not every action that feels urgent is wise, and not every calm secured is peace.
This move raises fundamental questions about the nature of the Nigerian state, the meaning of authority, and the dangerous signals we send when violence becomes a bargaining tool.
Dialogue with armed groups is not inherently evil. History shows that negotiations can end conflicts, but only under very strict conditions. Those conditions include a clear defeat or weakening of the armed group, a unified state position, accountability mechanisms and a post-conflict justice framework. What Katsina appears to be offering is none of these. Instead, it looks like concession without leverage, peace without justice, and negotiation without consequence.
The suggestion that bandits should be offered amnesty in exchange for releasing abducted civilians carries an uncomfortable implication. It frames kidnapping as a legitimate pressure tactic rather than a crime. It turns victims into negotiating chips and elevates criminals to the status of political actors. In doing so, it subtly but dangerously shifts the moral balance.
More troubling is the growing narrative that attempts to recast bandits as victims of the Nigerian state. Poverty, marginalisation and governance failure are real problems, but they do not explain the organised slaughter of villagers, the rape of women, the burning of homes and the industrial-scale abduction of schoolchildren. To dress terror in the language of grievance is to insult the victims and erode the meaning of justice.
Nigeria has experimented with this logic before, and the outcomes are written plainly in our recent history.
In the Niger Delta, militancy was met with amnesty. Weapons were exchanged for stipends, training and contracts. While oil production stabilised temporarily, the deeper lesson was disastrous. Violence became profitable. Armed struggle became a career path. New militant groups emerged, each seeking to outdo the other in destruction to gain relevance. Years later, the region remains trapped in cycles of criminality, oil theft and insecurity, despite billions spent in the name of peace.
In the North East, repeated attempts at negotiating with Boko Haram yielded nothing but heartbreak. Ceasefires were announced, only to be broken within days. Prisoner swaps occurred, only for attacks to resume with renewed intensity. The insurgents learnt quickly that negotiations bought them time, legitimacy and breathing space. They were not seeking peace. They were seeking advantage.
Zamfara State offers perhaps the closest parallel to the current Katsina situation. Amnesty deals were struck with bandit leaders. Public ceremonies were held. Weapons were surrendered for cameras, while others were hidden away. Communities were encouraged to believe the violence had ended. It had not. Attacks returned, more brutal and more organised. The bandits had learnt that the state would blink.
Each of these episodes reinforces a painful truth. Negotiation with armed groups in Nigeria has repeatedly failed not because peace is impossible, but because the state has negotiated from a position of fear rather than strength.
There is also the matter of national coherence. The Federal Government has maintained a public stance that it does not negotiate with terrorists. When a subnational government chooses a different path, it creates confusion and weakens the entire security architecture. Armed groups do not respect jurisdictional boundaries. They read signals. They exploit inconsistencies. A divided strategy is an invitation to escalation.
The Katsina decision also carries grave implications for investor confidence and Nigeria’s international image. A country where governments negotiate with bandits projects fragility. It suggests that the rule of law is conditional and that security is transactional. Investors, diplomats and international partners pay attention to such signals. They understand that capital avoids uncertainty, and nothing breeds uncertainty faster than the normalisation of armed coercion.
Beyond policy and perception lies the human cost. Amnesty without accountability tells victims that their suffering is negotiable. It tells families who lost loved ones that justice can be deferred indefinitely. It tells communities that survival, not dignity, is the highest aspiration.
There is also the strategic folly of believing that armed groups negotiate in good faith. Bandits do not seek peace. They seek profit, control and relevance. Every negotiation buys them time to regroup, rearm and recalibrate. Every concession strengthens their hand. The silence that follows such deals is not resolution. It is intermission.
Supporters of amnesty often argue that saving lives justifies any compromise. But the lives saved today may be multiplied losses tomorrow. When kidnapping is rewarded, it becomes contagious. When terror is indulged, it spreads.
What this episode ultimately exposes is the deeper failure of Nigeria’s security governance. A lack of coordination between federal and state authorities. A lack of clear doctrine on how to deal with non-state armed actors. A lack of sustained political will to confront hard truths and make unpopular decisions.
Peace is not cheap, but false peace is far more expensive.
Nigeria must resist the temptation to outsource security to negotiations with criminals. The state must reclaim its authority, not bargain it away. Dialogue should follow stability, not precede it. Amnesty should conclude justice, not replace it.
The village in the old story learnt too late that negotiating with raiders did not bring peace. It taught the raiders something far more dangerous. That the village could be pressured. That fear could be weaponised. That violence worked.
Nigeria must not make the same mistake.