When Musa was sixteen, his biggest worry should have been preparing for his school exams. Instead, he was crouched in the back of a dusty pickup truck, the dry wind stinging his eyes as an older cousin shoved a rifle into his hands. His school bag, once filled with exercise books, had long been abandoned at home when his family could no longer afford his fees. “This is your chance to be a man,” his cousin told him. “Here, you’ll never be disrespected again.”Musa’s stomach twisted. He had once dreamed of becoming an engineer, of building things that lasted. But now, surrounded by poverty, hunger, and despair, weapons felt like the only door still open to him, a door that promised dignity but led only to destruction.
In another part of the country, far from Musa’s dusty village, Tunde, a 400-level student, sat on the edge of his hostel bed, shaken after another night of ridicule. His classmates mocked him for being “on his own,” for not belonging to any group. His mother, who worked two jobs, cooking by day and cleaning offices by night. She had raised him on the values of honesty and hard work. But those values offered little comfort in the loneliness of campus life. That evening, when a group of older boys invited him to a meeting, he followed. In a dimly lit lecture hall, candles flickered against cracked walls and cigarette smoke filled the air. One of the boys clapped him on the back. “Here, you’ll never be alone again. Here, you’ll have brothers. A seat at the table.” Tunde thought of his mother, asleep after another exhausting shift, unaware that her son was being initiated into a family built not on love but on fear.
These stories are not rare, whether in the North or the South. They reflect the reality of countless young Nigerians pulled into crime, cultism, banditry, and terrorism. And beneath each story lies a deeper truth: what these young men were seeking was not violence but belonging.
I know this because I have walked closely with young people like Tunde, who felt safer in the embrace of a cult than in the arms of his community. I have spoken with boys like Musa, who believed that picking up a weapon would finally give them the respect society had denied. And I have also seen what happens when alternatives arrive in time. Through peace clubs, mentorship circles, and leadership training, I have watched young people rediscover dignity, Find purpose, and turn away from destructive paths. These experiences shape my conviction: force alone cannot end violence; we must provide authentic alternatives to false brotherhood.
This conviction is echoed in the voices of ordinary Nigerians. When I asked why these cycles of violence persist, their responses were strikingly consistent. “Bad governance and poverty in the state and also corrupt police,” one said. “Poverty, illiteracy, unemployment, and competition over resources,” another added. Still another lamented, “Drugs like tramadol and kush are enslaving many youths, making them easy recruits.” And perhaps the most straightforward plea of all: “Every child should go to school. More jobs for people. No more children begging on the streets.”
Throughout various regions, the underlying causes remain consistent: poverty, ineffective governance, unemployment, subpar education, manipulation through religion or politics, and drug issues. Similarly, the remedies are aligned: improved education, increased job opportunities, prompt and responsible security, enhanced community bonds, and mentorship. Picture if Tunde’s university had presented him with a lively peace club instead of an underground cult, where discussions, sports, and mentorship provided him with a sense of belonging without secrecy or violence. Envision if Musa had discovered a vocational center where he could acquire skills in solar installation or carpentry, with mentors supporting him through life’s challenges instead of relatives instructing him on how to use firearms.
The interventions required are not theoretical. They are immediate, practical, and based on human dignity: establishing peace clubs and mentorship programs to counter cult promises; enhancing education and apprenticeships to restore self-worth; providing economic empowerment through job opportunities, small grants, and youth-led enterprises; and creating grassroots early-warning mechanisms to ensure community safety before crises escalate.
If these initiatives are to be tested, they should start where the need is most acute. In the South, where campus cults and substance abuse jeopardize the futures of students like Tunde, the emphasis must be on implementing peace clubs in educational institutions, mentorship initiatives, and drug awareness efforts. The result? A reduction in the number of students drawn into cults and an increase in those engaged in supportive communities.
In the North, where poverty, porous borders, and radicalization ensnare boys like Musa, the priority should be vocational hubs, family support networks, and community peacebuilding projects. The outcome? Fewer guns in the hands of teenagers, more tools for building sustainable lives.
Musa and Tunde are not isolated cases. They are portraits of Nigeria’s youth, hungry not just for bread, but for dignity, belonging, and hope. Their choices were shaped by absence: absent fathers, absent jobs, absent communities. If we do not offer them authentic brotherhood, cults and armed groups will always counterfeit it.
That is why my call is clear: create peace clubs and mentorship circles; strengthen education and apprenticeships; empower youth economically; and build grassroots security networks. If piloted in regions battling cultism in the South and terrorism in the North and then scaled nationwide, these interventions could rewrite countless stories. Stories where boys like Musa never leave the classroom for the back of a pickup truck, and where students like Tunde never trade their mother’s prayers for the false comfort of a cult. In the end, the battle is not only against violence. It is against despair, loneliness, and false belonging. And if we win that battle, we will not only curb crime, banditry, and terrorism, wewill build a Nigeria where every young person can say with confidence: “I belong.
These narratives are common occurrences, regardless of whether one is in the North or the South. They illustrate the harsh reality faced by countless young Nigerians who find themselves drawn into crime, cult activities, banditry, and terrorism. Beneath each narrative lies a more profound truth: these young men were searching not for violence, but for a sense of belonging.
I know this because I have closely engaged with young individuals like Tunde, who felt a greater sense of safety within a cult than among his own community. I have talked to boys like Musa, who thought that taking up arms would finally earn them the respect that society had withheld. Moreover, I have witnessed the positive transformations that occur when alternatives are provided in a timely manner.
