Homebound by Fear: How Insecurity Is Redefining Life in Nigeria

There was a time when traveling across Nigeria felt ordinary. Weddings, funerals, family visits, conferences, and holidays were opportunities to reconnect with loved ones and create memories.

Today, I find myself making a calculation that no one should ever have to make, and asking myself this question whenever there's a need for me to travel, “Is this journey worth my life?”

I live in Nigeria, a country blessed with resilient people and abundant resources, but increasingly held hostage by fear. Fear has become an unwelcome companion, dictating decisions that used to be simple. It influences where we go, how we live, and whether we dare to even dream.

Sometimes this year, my mother lost her younger brother, her only brother. News of his death brought grief to our family, and naturally, I wanted to travel to Benin City in Edo State to mourn with relatives and support my mother during that painful time. But as I began to make plans, another emotion overwhelmed my grief.

Fear.

Fear of the roads.

Fear of being kidnapped.

Fear of becoming another tragic story.

What should have been a simple journey to comfort family suddenly became a risk assessment. I weighed my desire to be present against the possibility that I might not make it back home.

And so, I stayed back.

Even now, I carry the guilt.

I have had to turn down several programs and opportunities because of insecurity. Invitations arrive, and instead of excitement, I feel anxiety, I find myself asking the same questions over and over again:

When will this be over?

Will this phase ever come to an end?

Will these insecurities ever stop?

Will the kidnappings and killings ever cease?

Will Nigerians ever travel freely again?

These questions linger in my heart because fear has made many Nigerians prisoners within their own country.

I cannot remember the last time I traveled without anxiety. What should be a routine journey has become a gamble. News of kidnappings on highways, attacks on travelers, and accidents caused by dilapidated roads have transformed our roads into places many of us dread.

Sometimes, I stare at invitations from family and friends and quietly decline, not because I do not want to go, but because I am afraid.

Afraid of becoming another headline.

Afraid of receiving that phone call no family ever wants to receive.

Afraid that a journey meant to create memories could instead end in tragedy.

Fear has made many Nigerians homebound.

Recently, I listened to stories of parents whose children left for school but never returned. Mothers whose hearts have been suspended between hope and despair. I cannot begin to imagine the pain of waking up every day not knowing where your child is, whether they have eaten, whether they are alive, or whether you will ever hear their voice again.

As a mother, these stories haunt me.

I look at my son and wonder what kind of future we are building for our children. I think of the mothers whose children have been abducted and whose lives have been divided into two parts: life before the disappearance and life after it.

Their pain reminds me that insecurity is not merely a political issue. It is deeply personal. It enters homes uninvited and leaves scars that statistics cannot capture.

The effects of insecurity stretch far beyond fear. Farmers abandon their lands because cultivating crops has become a dangerous endeavor. Entire communities have been displaced by terrorism and banditry.

Food prices continue to rise because those who feed the nation are struggling to survive themselves.

Children are missing school because their parents no longer feel safe sending them away. Businesses suffer because movement is restricted. Dreams are postponed. Opportunities are lost. Families are separated.

And slowly, fear becomes normal.

That, perhaps, is what scares me the most.

Not the headlines.

Not the stories.

But the possibility that we have become accustomed to living this way.

That we have accepted fear as part of our identity.

Yet, despite everything, Nigerians continue to hope.

We continue to pray.

We continue to show kindness to strangers.

We continue to rebuild after loss.

We continue to believe that another Nigeria is possible.

I dream of a Nigeria where mothers do not have to pray their children back home every day.

A Nigeria where farmers can return to their fields without fear.

A Nigeria where education is a place of hope, not danger.

A Nigeria where roads connect families instead of separating them.

A Nigeria where traveling does not feel like saying goodbye forever.

I long for the day when I can pack my bags without anxiety, embrace loved ones without calculating risks, and board a vehicle without silently praying that I will make it back alive.

Because freedom is not merely the absence of chains.

Freedom is being able to live.

To move.

To dream.

To hope.

And no one should have to live imprisoned by fear in their own country.

Until that day comes, I will continue to speak.

Because silence cannot heal what fear has broken.

And because every Nigerian deserves more than survival.

We deserve peace.