Trending 
You are the Grand Commander of the Order of the Federal Republic of Nigeria, Mr President. That is not a nickname. That is not a courtesy. That is the highest honour this nation can bestow upon a single human being. It means, in theory, that you are the first citizen, the first soldier, the first servant, and the first protector of every Nigerian from the Atlantic to the Sahara. It means that when a child is taken, you are the one who is supposed to answer. It means that when a teacher is beheaded, you are the one who is supposed to bring the hammer down. It means that when thirty-nine human beings are held in a forest for more than two weeks while the rain falls and the little ones cry for mothers who cannot reach them, you are not permitted to say, “If you lost sleep, I’ve lost some too. If you’ve lost weight, I’ve lost some too,” as if that were a sufficient response from the Grand Commander of the Order of the Federal Republic.
Let me tell you what that title actually means, because I do not think anyone has explained it to you. It means that you are the shield. It means that you are the sword. It means that when every other Nigerian can hide, can look away, can say “this is not my problem,” you cannot. You are the Grand Commander. There is no one above you to pass the buck to. There is no one behind you to blame. There is only you and the weight of a title that demands action, not sympathy. Your predecessors understood this, some of them. They understood that a Grand Commander does not send statements. A Grand Commander does not send spokesmen. A Grand Commander does not tell a nation about his weight loss as if he were competing for a sympathy vote. A Grand Commander goes, a Grand Commander leads, a Grand Commander gets in the machine and goes to the problem because the title itself is a contract written in blood.
You have broken that contract, Mr President. You have broken it in full view of the nation. Two weeks ago, in broad daylight, armed men walked into Baptist Nursery and Primary School in Yawota, near Alawusa, as well as Community Grammar School and L.A. Primary School in Esiele, all in Oriire Local Government Area of Oyo State. They walked out with children. Christianah Akanbi was two years old. Sikiru Salami was three. Idowu Taiwo was four. Soliu Salami was four. Juwon Sunday was seven. Abdulsalam Toyib was four. Emmanuel Oyedele was four. Samuel Oyedele was seven. Testimony Jacob was five. They took a nursing mother with her infant as well because even infants are not safe when the Grand Commander is in Abuja. They killed a teacher, Michael Oyedokun. Beheaded him in front of those children, in front of Christianah, Sikiru, Idowu, Soliu, Juwon, and all the others, or close enough that the terror travelled through their small bodies like a disease.
Let me read the names, Mr President, because you have not said them. From the schools in Oriire, from the communities of Yawota, Esiele, Oniya, and Alawusa, these are the people waiting for you: Mrs Alamu Folawe is waiting. Mr Ojo Jonathan, Vice Principal, is waiting. Mr Olatunde Zacchaeus, a teacher, is waiting. Mr John Olaleye, a teacher, is waiting. Mr Michael Oyedokun is awaiting a proper state burial. Mrs Oladeji, a teacher, is waiting. Mary Akanbi, teacher at Yawota Baptist Nursery and Primary School, is waiting. Rashida Tajudeen, eleven years old, is waiting. Ahmed Ramoni, eight years old, is waiting. Abdulsalam Toyib, four years old, is waiting. Baraka Abioye, sixteen years old, is waiting. Fatimo Jimoh, fifteen years old, is waiting. Hassan Azeez, fourteen years old, is waiting. Joshua Adeleke, thirteen years old, is waiting. Samuel Oyedele, aged seven, is waiting.
Emmanuel Oyedele, four years old, is waiting. Idowu Taiwo, four years old, is waiting. Christianah Akanbi, two years old, is waiting. Juwon Sunday, seven years old, is waiting. Sikiru Salami, three years old, is waiting. Soliu Salami, four years old, is waiting. Ojo Joseph, aged eight, is waiting. Lydia Adewole, eight years old, is waiting. Testimony Jacob, five years old, is waiting. Kehinde Kaosara, seven years old, is waiting. Sewa Seyi, seven years old, is waiting. Waliya Bello, four years old, is waiting. Lydia Olohunloluwa, seven years old, is waiting. Damilare Oderinde, eight years old, is waiting. Deborah Adebowale, five years old, is waiting. Aisha Oguntowo, ten years old, is waiting. Lege Taiwo, twelve years old, is waiting. Balkis Ayanwale, eight years old, is waiting. Asa David, ten years, is waiting. Shuaibu Aliyu, ten years old, is waiting. Ahmed Aliyu, seven years old, is waiting. Muiz Aliyu, five years old, is waiting. Jomiloju Ogunlola, six years old, is waiting. Agune Noah, eight years old, is waiting. Elizabeth Abadi, five years old, is waiting. Tosin Abadi, nine years old, is waiting. Pius Stephen, five years old, is waiting. Hannah Ojo, fourteen years old, is waiting. Habidat Ayanwale, seven years old, is waiting. Mary Gabriel, six years old, is waiting. Jacob Gabriel is waiting.
Forty-six human beings, Mr President. Forty-six. And you, the Grand Commander of the Order of the Federal Republic, have responded with a Children’s Day statement, a confession about your sleep patterns, and a promise that the Inspector General of Police is leading a tech-driven operation. A tech-driven operation. Good. Keep it. Use every satellite, every drone, every spy. I want the full weight of Nigerian technology pointed at that forest. But here is the question that no drone can answer, Mr President. What happens when the technology has done everything it can and the children are still in the mud? What is the next tool in the box of the Grand Commander?
A Grand Commander would have been in that forest on day one. A Grand Commander would have landed in Oyo before the sun set on the first night. A Grand Commander would have told every general, every spy, every soldier in the country that nothing else matters until those children are home. A Grand Commander would not be accepting a nomination for 2027 while toddlers sleep in the rain. I want you to imagine something, Mr President. Imagine that you are not the Grand Commander. Imagine that you are just a father. Just a man with a child who was taken from a classroom. Imagine standing in a community square in Yawota or Esiele, surrounded by other parents who have also lost children, waiting for news that never comes. Imagine watching the President of your country on television, the man who holds the title Grand Commander of the Order of the Federal Republic, and hearing him say that he has lost some sleep. Would you feel protected? Would you feel that the honour of the nation was standing behind you? Or would you feel abandoned?
Mr President, I am sorry to say, but you have abandoned them. Every hour that passes is another hour of abandonment. Every statement that does not end with “I am going there myself” is another statement of abandonment. Every time you say “we expect a breakthrough soon” instead of “I am on my way,” you are telling those parents that they are alone. That the Grand Commander is too busy. That the title is just decoration. That the Order of the Federal Republic does not actually mean that the person wearing it will show up when children are dying in the mud.
I am not asking you to be a hero, Mr President. I am asking you to be what you already claimed to be. You asked for this job. You reminded us of that on Saturday, May 23, 2026: “In 2022, I asked for this job. You all supported me, and I got it. So I must do it.” Then do it. Not from Abuja. Not from a podium. Not from behind a spokesman. Do it from the forest. Do it from the front. Do it as the Grand Commander of the Order of the Federal Republic, a title that means nothing if it does not mean you are the first one in and the last one out. Get your gun, Mr President, not because you are a soldier but because you are the Grand Commander. Refill it, not because you expect to fire it, but because the men holding those children need to see that you are carrying something heavier than a statement. Let us go to the forest together. Not because I am brave. Because I am tired. Tired of titles without teeth. Tired of honours without action. Tired of watching Grand Commanders talk about their sleep while children sleep on mud.
The forest is waiting, Mr President. For you and me. Christianah is waiting. Sikiru is waiting. Idowu, Soliu, and Juwon are waiting. All forty-six of them are waiting with their parents, and the title you wear is waiting to mean something for the first time in three years. Do not disappoint it. Do not disappoint them. Do not disappoint the nation that gave you that honour and expects you to earn it when the technology has done all it can and the only thing left is a man.
Go to the forest, Mr Grand Commander, and bring them back home; until then, everything else you say is just noise, and we have been listening to your noise for far too long.
