The elders have always told us that a disease that afflicts the chieftain’s household will soon be found in the farmer’s hut if care is not taken. We hear the news from Ebonyi — from Ohaukwu — and it is like the chilling murmur of a stream before the flood breaks its banks.
Mrs. Blessing Adagba, a coordinator, a woman known in her community, was taken from her own home in the deep quiet of the night. It is a story that chills the bones, not just for its violence, but for what it signifies about the land we now inhabit.
There was a time, not so long ago in the memory of man, when such brazen acts were spoken of in hushed tones — associated, perhaps, with the very wealthy, those whose riches were like a bright cloth attracting the covetous eye. We told ourselves, perhaps foolishly, that it was a problem for the big men, for those who travelled in gleaming cars and lived behind high walls. The ordinary man — the farmer, the trader, the teacher — may have felt a distant pity, but not the cold grip of personal fear.
But the fire, once lit, does not ask the name of the grass it burns. This affliction — this kidnapping — that has become like a persistent cough in the chest of our nation has refused to stay within the confines we imagined for it. It has spread, like ink spilled on white cloth, staining everything it touches. Now, it reaches into the homes of those who serve the community, like Mrs. Adagba. It finds the farmer on his lonely path, the trader returning from the market, the child walking home from school. The kidnapper’s shadow falls long and dark, and it no longer distinguishes between the powerful and the weak, the rich and the poor.
The report speaks of men dressed in uniforms — the very attire meant to represent order and protection. Is there a more bitter irony? When the symbols of security become the masks of terror, where does the citizen turn? It signifies a deeper sickness — a fraying of the very fabric that holds a society together. Trust, like a clay pot, is easily broken but hard to mend. When the guardians — or those disguised as such — become the predators, then the fence has indeed fallen, and the goats are left to the mercy of the leopards.
They say the police are investigating, that the Anti-Kidnapping Unit is mobilized. This is as it should be. We pray for Mrs. Adagba’s safe return, for her reunion with her people. But even as we pray, we must ask the hard questions. How did we arrive at this place — where a woman is not safe in her own home, where armed men roam freely, spreading fear like a contagion?
The tension reported in Ohaukwu is not just about one woman; it is the collective anxiety of a people who feel the ground shifting beneath their feet. It is the fear that the norms are collapsing, that the bonds of community and the assurance of safety are becoming mere memories.
This incident concerning Mrs. Adagba is not just news from Ebonyi. It is a mirror reflecting a harsh truth about Nigeria today. What began as a whisper of kidnapping in distant corners has grown into a deafening roar that echoes across the land — reminding us that when the centre cannot hold, things indeed fall apart for everyone.
We are all, in our own ways, becoming vulnerable. The bell tolls — and we must not ask for whom; it tolls for all of us.
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