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By Pat Onukwuli
Once hailed as the “Light of the Nation,” Anambra has been dragged into darkness. Under Governor Chukwuma Charles Soludo, the people no longer speak of their renowned entrepreneurial prowess but of fear and survival. Armed militias now prowl the streets like conquerors, security has collapsed into empty slogans, and bullets and blood stalk daily life. Ndi Anambra no longer ask if their state is at war. They wonder only how long they can endure this siege, and who, if any, will rescue them from it.
The so-called security forces, now feared as nothing less than an Army of Occupation, march brazenly through towns and markets, extorting, humiliating, and brutalising the very citizens they were sworn to protect. The Agunechemba group has become a lightning rod for criticism, and their modus exposed how quickly a supposed crime-fighting outfit can degenerate into lawlessness. The stories come thick and fast, too grim for a land once famed for peace. A serving female Youth Corps member was thoroughly beaten and stripped naked in public. Amaka Igwe, a trader, was felled by bullets at the Onitsha Main Market. Mrs. Chiamaka was gunned down at Ibeto Junction in Nnewi.
Anambra now lies like a once-proud eagle, its wings clipped not by hunters from afar but by the very hands meant to guard its nest. The streets that once rang with the sounds of trade and mirth now echo with the heavy boots of men who bear guns in one hand and chains in the other. The land bleeds, not from the strike of an enemy’s spear, but from the slow poison of betrayal, as the protectors turn predators and the guardians become tormentors.
Add to these the daily humiliation of extortion at roadblocks, the grotesque crushing of suspects’ joints with pestles (aka odo), and one begins to wonder if these are protectors or predators. They move openly, bearing arms, issuing threats, running makeshift detention centres where citizens are locked away without trial, a usurpation of powers meant solely for the Federal Government’s custodial service. What, then, is Anambra today: a state in a federation, or an occupied territory under siege from its own sanctioned militias?
Rather than nurturing professional policing and justice, Soludo appears to rely on these vigilante-styled displays of power to burnish his image as a strong leader. For ordinary people, this translates into a climate of fear and intimidation, where security uniforms serve political theatre more than public safety. In effect, Anambra risks becoming a state where the display of force outweighs the rule of law.
Governor Soludo promised bold solutions. From “Operation Udo Ga-Achi” to Agunechemba, he unveiled slogans and uniforms that looked decisive on paper. Yet Ndi Anambra know the truth: these were mirages, houses built without foundations. For nearly three years, the government delayed meaningful action, waiting until the crisis deepened before scrambling to act. Why? If insecurity was so dire, why did they not strike on day one?
The timing reeks of opportunism. Udo Ga-Achi, marketed as “Peace Shall Prevail,” doubles as “Soludo Ga-Achi”, a campaign jingle masquerading as policy. Peace, reduced to a political brand, feels less like a promise of security and more like an election gimmick.
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This decline is bitter precisely because expectations were so high. Ndi Anambra believed they were electing an eminent scholar, a former Central Bank Governor, a man of pedigree who would blend intellect with action. They dreamed of a leader who would confront insecurity at its roots: poverty, unemployment, despair. Instead, they got a government that demolishes in haste, punishes without due process, and blames prophets and outsiders while the state bleeds.
The first duty of any government is to safeguard life and property. When citizens live in fear, when mothers bury children gunned down at markets, when those paid to protect become the very instruments of oppression, governance collapses. The buck stops not in the pews of preachers but on the Governor’s desk.
On a more sober reflection, the crisis in Anambra is more than a breakdown of order; it is a violation of the social contract itself. Political philosophers from Hobbes to Locke remind us that citizens surrender part of their freedom to the state in exchange for the protection of life and property. When the state, instead of shielding them, unleashes fear through its sanctioned forces, it breaks this foundational covenant. Jurisprudence is clear: no authority can be legitimate if it abandons due process and tramples on the rights of the governed.
Appropriately, today’s Anambra under Soludo feels like Pandora’s Box that has been flung wide open. Now opened, the box of fear has scattered despair across the land. To allow militias to masquerade as law, crushing joints with pestles and locking citizens away without trial, is to replace justice with jungle, and law with lawlessness. In the name of peace, forces are unleashed to prowl unchecked, and militias to extort, humiliate, and kill.
And yet, just as in the myth, one thing lingers stubbornly at the bottom: hope. It waits for leaders with the courage to reach for it, to close the lid of chaos and restore dignity to the people. Redemption is possible. Other states have shown it can be done. Enugu, for instance, moved early, deploying technology, engaging communities, and making safety a shared enterprise. Why can’t Anambra do the same? Must Ndi Anambra always endure delayed, reactive governance, paying the price with their blood while leaders chase slogans?
Soludo can still change course. He can dismantle the militias, restore statutory order, engage traditional rulers and civil society, and tackle the deeper roots of crime. However, it requires courage; the courage to abandon slogans, to govern with humility, and to put Ndi Anambra above political survival. Peace is not a campaign mantra. It is a birthright.
Anambra is not at war with foreign invaders; it is at war with bad governance, with silence in high places, with a state-sanctioned betrayal of trust. If it was once a lantern lighting the path for the nation, today its flame flickers, choked by the smoke of blood and broken promises. A homeland that should soar like the eagle now stumbles like a wounded bird, grounded by fear and misrule. Yet even in its bleeding, the seed of renewal remains. The actual test before Ndi Anambra is this: will they let the eagle die in fear, or summon the courage to lift it once more into the skies, wings outstretched, to reclaim its place in the sun?
•Dr. Onukwuli, a legal scholar and public affairs analyst, writes from Bolton, UK, Email: [email protected]
