In a significant development that underscores the deepening frustration with Nigeria's centralized security apparatus, the Speaker of the Plateau State House of Assembly, Rt. Hon. Naanlong Daniel Gapyil, has formally petitioned the National Assembly to endorse the creation of state police forces. This move comes as the nation grapples with unrelenting waves of violence, banditry, and communal clashes that have claimed thousands of lives and displaced countless communities. Gapyil's open letter, addressed to both the Senate and the House of Representatives, positions state policing not merely as a regional plea but as a national imperative to salvage the country's deteriorating security landscape. His advocacy highlights a growing consensus among subnational leaders that the federal monopoly on policing has proven inadequate, failing to stem the tide of insecurity despite substantial budgetary allocations.
To fully appreciate the gravity of Gapyil's intervention, it is essential to delve into the historical evolution of policing in Nigeria, which provides critical context for the current debates. The roots of the Nigeria Police Force trace back to the colonial era, beginning in 1820 with the establishment of a 1,200-member armed paramilitary unit known as the Hausa Constabulary. This force was primarily designed to maintain order in the northern regions under British colonial administration. By 1896, a similar entity, the Lagos Police, was formed in the south, followed by the creation of the Niger Coast Constabulary in 1894. These early policing structures were not intended to serve the indigenous population's interests but rather to enforce colonial rule, suppress dissent, and protect British economic exploits such as trade routes and resource extraction. The amalgamation of these forces in 1930 into the Nigeria Police Force marked the formalization of a centralized system, which was further entrenched post-independence in 1960.
During the colonial period, policing was inherently repressive, often used as a tool for subjugation rather than protection. Historians note that the police were deployed to quell uprisings, enforce taxation, and maintain the status quo of exploitation, with little regard for community welfare. This legacy persisted into the post-colonial era, where military regimes from the 1960s to the 1990s bolstered the police's role in internal security, often at the expense of civil liberties. The 1999 Constitution, which ushered in Nigeria's Fourth Republic, retained this centralized model, vesting exclusive control of the police in the federal government. This structure has been criticized for creating a disconnect between security forces and local communities, as officers are frequently deployed far from their home regions, lacking familiarity with local languages, cultures, and terrains.
Over the decades, this centralized approach has faced mounting challenges, particularly as Nigeria's population exploded from about 45 million at independence to over 200 million today, straining resources and response capabilities. The Nigeria Police Force, with an estimated strength of around 370,000 personnel, falls short of the United Nations' recommended police-to-citizen ratio of 1:450, hovering instead at approximately 1:600. Corruption, inadequate training, and poor equipment have further eroded public trust, leading to widespread calls for reform. The debate on decentralizing policing gained traction in the early 2000s, intensified by the Boko Haram insurgency in the northeast, banditry in the northwest, and farmer-herder conflicts in the Middle Belt, including Plateau State.
Fast-forward to 2025, and Nigeria's security situation remains dire, with no signs of abatement. The country has witnessed a surge in violent incidents, including kidnappings, armed robberies, and ethno-religious clashes. In the first half of 2025 alone, thousands were killed in conflict-related violence nationwide, with the Middle Belt and northern regions bearing the brunt. Plateau State, often dubbed the "Home of Peace and Tourism," has ironically become a hotspot for such turmoil. The state has endured persistent attacks, primarily attributed to armed herders, bandits, and militia groups, resulting in mass displacements and economic devastation.
Recent incidents paint a harrowing picture. Between March and April 2025, coordinated attacks in Plateau claimed dozens of lives across various local government areas. In April, gunmen killed scores of people in northern Plateau, displacing nearly 2,000 residents. By July, the violence escalated further; in Riyom, suspected herders killed over two dozen individuals in a single assault, prompting local leaders to decry the near-daily burials. Another tragic episode in Bokkos saw sustained attacks leaving hundreds dead and entire villages abandoned. In Jebu village, militias reportedly killed dozens in July, part of an ongoing wave targeting rural communities. By February 2025, hundreds had been killed in Plateau and neighboring states, with thousands displaced. A specific attack in Zikke village, Bassa, saw dozens slain in a midnight raid, labeled an inexcusable security failure.
These incidents are not isolated; they form part of a broader pattern of farmer-herder conflicts exacerbated by climate change, resource scarcity, and ethnic tensions. In Plateau, communities in Bokkos, Barkin Ladi, Bassa, Mangu, Riyom, Wase, Qua’an Pan, and Jos South have been particularly hard-hit, as highlighted in Gapyil's letter. Bokkos has seen villages razed, farmlands destroyed, and residents forced into internally displaced persons camps. Barkin Ladi, known for its mining activities, has experienced retaliatory violence that has crippled local economies. Bassa and Mangu have reported cycles of attacks and reprisals, leading to ghost towns and abandoned schools. Riyom and Jos South, closer to the state capital, have not been spared, with urban spillover effects threatening stability in Jos. Wase and Qua’an Pan, in the southern parts, face banditry intertwined with cross-border incursions from neighboring states.
The human cost is immeasurable. Families have been torn apart, with women and children often the most vulnerable. Education has suffered, as schools in affected areas remain closed or underattended due to fear. Health services are strained, with hospitals overwhelmed by trauma cases and displaced persons facing malnutrition and disease outbreaks. Food security is at risk, as farmers abandon fields, contributing to Nigeria's inflation woes. Psychologically, survivors grapple with trauma, fostering a cycle of mistrust and vengeance that perpetuates the violence.
Against this backdrop, Rt. Hon. Gapyil's letter emerges as a clarion call for systemic change. Penned on September 24, 2025, the open missive argues that the existing federal security architecture has abjectly failed, despite trillions of naira allocated annually to defense and policing. He points out that killings, banditry, and violent attacks continue unabated, rendering the current model unsustainable. Gapyil advocates for state police as a decentralized solution, empowering governors to deploy officers who are intimately familiar with local terrains, dialects, and social dynamics. This, he posits, would enable swifter responses to threats, reducing response times that currently span hours or days under federal command.
Excerpts from the letter reveal a passionate plea: “The prevailing security challenges in our country demand urgent attention and collective action. The creation of state police is a critical step towards addressing these challenges. By empowering state governors to take responsibility for law and order, we can respond more effectively to threats.” He emphasizes that the agitation for state policing transcends Plateau, evolving into a nationwide demand fueled by escalating violence and communal strife. Gapyil laments the persistent attacks on specific Plateau communities, detailing how they have led to loss of lives, mass displacement, and the erosion of livelihoods. He warns that insecurity undermines foundational sectors like education, health, and food production, while inflicting psychological scars on victims.
Acknowledging potential pitfalls, such as the abuse of power by governors, Gapyil proposes safeguards including strict accountability mechanisms, national oversight bodies, and comprehensive training programs to ensure professionalism and human rights adherence. He urges lawmakers to transcend partisan divides and prioritize citizen safety, cautioning that their decisions could either heal or exacerbate conflicts. “The interest and survival of Plateau people must guide our actions. Our words and decisions have a way of swaying followers and must never fuel further conflict,” he admonishes.
The debate on state police in Nigeria is not new, but Gapyil's endorsement adds fresh momentum. Proponents argue that decentralization would enhance local accountability, as governors, being closer to the people, could tailor security strategies to specific needs. Local recruitment would foster community trust, reducing the "us versus them" mentality prevalent in federal deployments. Economically, states could allocate resources more efficiently, potentially integrating technology like drones and surveillance for proactive policing. Comparisons with federal systems like the United States, where state and local police handle most law enforcement, suggest that such models can be effective if balanced with federal standards.
Experts highlight additional pros: improved intelligence gathering through community policing, faster emergency responses, and the ability to address region-specific crimes like herder-farmer clashes in the Middle Belt or oil bunkering in the Niger Delta. A former senior police official has noted that state police could remedy the federal system's inefficiencies, provided there are constitutional safeguards. In the Southeast, discussions emphasize how state forces could curb secessionist agitations and cult violence through culturally attuned approaches.
However, critics raise valid concerns about cons. Chief among them is the risk of political misuse, where governors might weaponize police against opponents, stifling dissent or rigging elections. Resource disparities between wealthy states like Lagos and poorer ones like Yobe could exacerbate inequalities, leading to uneven security coverage. There's also the fear of ethnic bias, where state police might favor dominant groups, intensifying communal tensions. Historical precedents, such as colonial-era local forces used for oppression, fuel skepticism.
To mitigate these, proposals include a constitutional framework mandating federal oversight, independent recruitment boards, and funding formulas to ensure equity. Training curricula could incorporate human rights education, with periodic audits by independent bodies. Community engagement would be pivotal, involving civil society in oversight to prevent abuses.
In Plateau's context, state police could revolutionize security. Imagine locally trained officers patrolling familiar hills and valleys, using indigenous knowledge to preempt attacks. Governors could integrate traditional leaders into early warning systems, fostering peacebuilding dialogues. This aligns with global best practices, where decentralized policing has reduced crime rates in countries like Canada and India.
Nationally, Gapyil's letter resonates amid similar calls from other states. The Southwest's Amotekun and the Southeast's Ebube Agu vigilante groups already signal a de facto shift toward regional security, underscoring the urgency for formalization. As Nigeria approaches constitutional amendments, the National Assembly faces a pivotal moment. Delaying action risks further erosion of state legitimacy, potentially fueling separatism or vigilantism.
In conclusion, Rt. Hon. Gapyil's advocacy for state police is a timely intervention in Nigeria's security discourse. By addressing the failures of centralization and proposing balanced reforms, it offers a pathway to a safer nation. Lawmakers must heed this call, prioritizing lives over politics, to forge a policing system that truly serves the people. The survival of communities like those in Plateau hangs in the balance, demanding bold, collective action now.
