In a striking and candid address that has reverberated through the conflict-torn landscapes of northern Nigeria, Kachalla Ummaru, a figure long branded by authorities as a "notorious bandit kingpin," has issued a stark warning to security agencies. He cautioned against their heavy reliance on military force as a panacea for the region's spiraling insecurity, asserting that such approaches do nothing but exacerbate the cycle of violence. Ummaru's words, delivered amid a fragile peace dialogue in Katsina State's Matazu Local Government Area, underscore a growing frustration with conventional tactics and a tentative push toward reconciliation in one of Nigeria's most volatile frontiers.
The event unfolded in the dusty, sun-baked expanses of Matazu, a local government area nestled in Katsina State, where the line between pastoralist herders, farming communities, and armed factions has blurred into a tapestry of resentment and reprisal. This dialogue, convened between representatives of armed groups—often euphemistically referred to as bandits—and community leaders, was no ordinary gathering. It was a high-stakes forum, brokered by local mediators and attended by elders whose faces bore the etched lines of years spent navigating survival in a land plagued by abductions, cattle rustling, and ambushes. Security representatives, including police officials, were present, their uniforms a stark contrast to the flowing robes and turbans of the traditional figures, symbolizing the uneasy bridge between state power and grassroots realities.
A video clip of Ummaru's intervention, shared by the counter-insurgency watchdog Zagazola Makama, has since gone viral on social media platforms, drawing reactions ranging from outrage to cautious optimism. In the footage, Ummaru, seated cross-legged on a mat amid a circle of his peers, speaks with the measured cadence of a man who has seen too many sunrises stained with blood. His voice, gravelly and unyielding, cuts through the murmurs of the assembly as he dismantles the logic of kinetic operations. "If today you kill 10 bandits, tomorrow you’ll see 20… you kill 20, another 30 will rise both in our bushes and villages," he declares, his words hanging in the air like the acrid smoke from a distant campfire. This, he argues, is the inexorable math of retribution: each fallen fighter seeds a harvest of recruits, drawn from the dispossessed youth of villages where opportunity is as scarce as rainfall in the dry season.
Ummaru's critique extends beyond the battlefield, piercing the heart of governance itself. He levels a blistering accusation at the Nigerian government, painting it as an entity more attuned to the clink of revenue streams than the cries of its citizens. "Truth be told, the government doesn’t care about anyone, all it’s after is how to generate money," he states flatly, his eyes scanning the faces around him for acknowledgment. "If the government cared about the people, all these things won’t be happening." This sentiment echoes a chorus of grievances long voiced by northern communities, where economic neglect has festered into a breeding ground for unrest. Katsina, once a cradle of Hausa-Fulani heritage and trans-Saharan trade, now grapples with the fallout of underinvestment: crumbling schools, erratic power supplies, and youth unemployment rates that hover perilously high. In this vacuum, armed groups have positioned themselves not just as predators, but as alternative power brokers, offering protection or purpose to those the state has overlooked.
Yet Ummaru's ire is not reserved solely for distant Abuja bureaucrats. He turns his gaze inward, admonishing the very residents of Matazu LGA for their complicity in perpetuating the strife. "You people are also part of the problem because you are fond of complaining to security operatives and giving them information," he chides, his tone laced with a mix of exasperation and betrayal. He recounts a familiar pattern: locals whisper intelligence to patrolling forces, raids ensue with much fanfare, yet the outcomes are as elusive as desert mirages. "Even when they come to where we are, they don’t kill even a bird, but you’ll hear in the news that 10 bandits have been killed and they’ll be paid," Ummaru reveals, alluding to what many perceive as inflated success stories designed to appease superiors and secure bonuses. This revelation strikes at the core of trust deficits in the region, where communities caught between loyalty to kin and fear of reprisal often find themselves damned either way.
His frustration boils over into a direct ultimatum: "If these security operatives won’t be told to leave us alone then I don’t think these peace talks have any importance." It's a gauntlet thrown down, a reminder that dialogue is a two-way street, not a surrender. Ummaru's words here reveal the fragility of these parleys; they are not born of altruism but necessity, forged in the forge of mutual exhaustion. For armed groups like his, relentless military pressure has eroded operational capacities, while for communities, the toll of endless insecurity—lost livelihoods, orphaned children, and fortified homes—demands respite.
The dialogue's tone shifts as Ummaru addresses the divisional police officer (DPO) of neighboring Danmusa LGA, a gesture that injects a rare note of personal diplomacy into the proceedings. Leaning forward, his expression softening just a fraction, he invokes the ethos of reciprocity. "To you the DPO of Danmusa LGA, if you want these our peace talks to yield anything tangible, then every favour we seek should be considered and done for us and from your end," he implores. He draws a parallel to their own commitments: "Anything you request from us we see to it that it is done. This is just the truth of the matter. It would be shameful if you come to us for something and we don’t do it for you and the same thing goes for you… it would be shameful if we come to you for something and you don’t do it for us." In this appeal, Ummaru humanizes the process, framing peace not as capitulation but as a pact of mutual aid. "Let us help one another and live in peace," he concludes, his prayerful words—"I pray all that we have discussed is something that will be of benefit to us all"—lingering like a benediction over the assembly.
To fully grasp the weight of this exchange, one must contextualize it within the broader maelstrom of insecurity engulfing Nigeria's northwest. Katsina State, bordering Niger Republic to the north, has become a nexus for banditry, where loosely organized militias exploit porous borders and ethnic tensions to orchestrate kidnappings-for-ransom and territorial dominance. What began as localized disputes over grazing rights between Fulani herders and sedentary farmers has metastasized into a hydra-headed insurgency, claiming thousands of lives and displacing tens of thousands since 2011. Federal responses, often spearheaded by the Nigerian Army and Air Force, have leaned heavily on airstrikes and ground offensives—tactics that have neutralized high-profile targets but at a steep human cost. Reports from human rights organizations like Amnesty International highlight collateral damage: civilian deaths, razed villages, and deepened alienation, which in turn swell the ranks of armed groups, validating Ummaru's grim arithmetic.
This peace dialogue in Matazu is but one thread in a larger tapestry of reconciliation efforts. Similar initiatives have sprouted across Katsina, Zamfara, and Sokoto states, often facilitated by traditional rulers, religious leaders, and even repentant ex-bandits. The stakes are existential; last year alone, over 1,000 abductions were recorded in Katsina, with ransoms running into millions of naira, crippling families and local economies. Yet glimmers of hope persist. Just last week, in a tangible sign of progress, 28 abductees—mostly women and children from Faskari LGA—were released following negotiations orchestrated by local authorities. The operation, devoid of gunfire, involved pledges of amnesty and community reintegration, underscoring the potential of soft power over brute force.
Stakeholders at the Matazu meeting, including grizzled community elders and uniformed security personnel, echoed calls for sustained commitment. "Genuine peace requires more than words; it demands action from all sides," intoned one elder, his voice trembling with the weight of collective memory. Security representatives, though tight-lipped in public, privately acknowledge the limitations of their arsenal. The DPO of Danmusa, targeted by Ummaru's plea, later described the talks as "a step toward de-escalation," hinting at behind-the-scenes concessions like safe passage for herders or eased restrictions on arms amnesties.
Ummaru's intervention, for all its audacity, invites uncomfortable questions about the path forward. Can reciprocity truly bridge the chasm between state and outlaw? Will the government's revenue-driven priorities pivot to address root causes like poverty and climate-induced resource scarcity? And what of the residents, ensnared in this web of suspicion—can they trust a process that implicates them as informants? As the sun dipped below the horizon on that day in Matazu, casting long shadows over the gathering, these queries loomed larger than ever.
In the days following, reactions poured in from across Nigeria. Civil society groups hailed the dialogue as a breakthrough, urging federal funding for community-led mediation. Critics, however, decried it as legitimizing criminals, with some politicians in Abuja decrying "bandit emboldenment." Social media buzzed with memes juxtaposing Ummaru's quotes against images of empty promises from past peace accords, like the ill-fated 2019 Zamfara deal that collapsed amid mutual accusations of bad faith.
Yet amid the noise, Ummaru's core message endures: violence begets violence, and only equitable dialogue can prune its roots. For the people of Katsina—farmers tilling parched fields, mothers bartering for their children's freedom, and youth teetering on the edge of enlistment—this plea resonates as a lifeline. As Nigeria's northwest teeters on the brink, the Matazu talks remind us that peace is not the absence of conflict, but the presence of justice. Whether this fragile accord blossoms or withers remains an open chapter, but for now, in the quiet aftermath, a whisper of possibility stirs.
