Nigeria: Where Tragedy Files a Police Report, Not a Bill by Lawson Akhigbe

When 9/11 happened in the United States, America did what America does best after a catastrophe: it legislated furiously. Out of the rubble rose the Transportation Security Administration (TSA), the Department of Homeland Security, and enough airport security theatre to make even toothpaste feel suspicious. Shoes were removed, belts surrendered, and grandmothers frisked. The message was clear: something bad happened, so Congress must look busy.

Centuries earlier, London had its own crisis. Industrial smoke turned the city into a Victorian vape lounge. People coughed, wheezed, and occasionally disappeared into the fog, never to be seen again. Parliament responded with laws regulating pollution. Chimneys were tamed, coal was discouraged, and over time London stopped trying to murder its own residents through the air they breathed. Progress.

Now, welcome to Nigeria, where tragedy knocks, kicks the door down, sets the house on fire—and the legislature asks for a committee to “look into it” sometime in 2037.

Bandits roam the countryside like they’re on a National Geographic special. Kidnappings have become so common that ransom payments are practically a line item in family budgets. People die on highways in numbers that would trigger national mourning elsewhere, thanks to articulated vehicles driven like they’re late for the apocalypse. Yet legislative response? Silence. Not even a strongly worded press release. Just vibes.

In functioning societies, law is society’s moral reflex. Something goes wrong, people get angry, and that anger is channelled into legislation. The law says, “This nonsense ends here.” In Nigeria, outrage goes on Twitter, grief goes to church, and the National Assembly goes on recess.

Our lawmakers treat catastrophe the way Nigerians treat potholes: complain loudly, drive around them, and accept that they are part of life. Thousands die? Thoughts and prayers. Bandits abduct schoolchildren? Security meetings with catered lunch. Road carnage wipes out families? Road safety jingles on the radio.

This is not resilience; it is political numbness. It is leadership failure dressed up as normalcy. Nigeria does not lack problems that demand laws. It lacks a political class that believes legislation is the answer rather than an inconvenience.

Other countries legislate after tragedy. Nigeria mourns, adapts, and moves on—until the next disaster. And the next. And the next. Here, mischief doesn’t inspire reform; it simply gets used to test how much suffering the people can endure without demanding accountability.

In Nigeria, disaster is not a call to action. It is just another headline waiting to be forgotten.