By AINOKO Isaac Festus
For years now, in our contemporary living, Abocho—an ancient historical town southwest of Dekina—has increasingly found its name associated with a disturbing catalogue of crimes allegedly perpetrated by gangs of vicious felons and outlaws drawn from the town, neighbouring settlements, and surrounding villages.
These miscreants have demonstrated a frightening mobility in the perpetration of crime. They continue to write dark pages into the story of Abocho, pages that can bewilder the imagination of the average Igala person. In this town, even the dead are not always left to rest in their graves, as reports persist of ritualists seeking human body parts for their supposed money-making rituals.
Kidnapping has become a particularly notorious speciality. Through terroristic forays, criminal gangs lay siege to routes leading to and from Abocho, hunting for travellers to abduct for ransom. Political violence and thuggery, too, appear to have acquired a language of their own, expressed in distinctive tones of viciousness. Compared with these heinous acts, crimes such as petty theft, pilfering, crimes of passion, and other forms of social dissension may appear almost insignificant.
But this is not the kind of chronicle that should define the fortunes of a people.
Crime is a loud talker. A single robbery incident, whether successful or unsuccessful, can generate fear and dread far beyond the location where it occurred. It can assume regional or even national dimensions and eventually attach a damaging sobriquet to an entire community. This is the mistake we must avoid: allowing the crimes of a few to become the borrowed robes in which the ancient town of Abocho and its surrounding communities are permanently dressed.
Abocho has historically stood as an important symbol of courage and an impregnable fortress in the development of the Igala Kingdom. Its people are energetic, affable, commercially enterprising, educated, intelligent, practical, clear-thinking and shrewd. Yet, from within this community have emerged elements determined to redesign its public image and distort its historical identity.
Must this be our fate?
Obviously, Abocho, like every other Nigerian community, is experiencing its share of the consequences of moral decline, distorted national leadership, social disorientation and human depravity. But this menu of moral decadence is far too heavy for the cultural appetite of the Igala people.
There was a time when we prided ourselves on propriety and raised the flag of integrity on the hilltop of probity. It was a period when the Igala person valued his name and reputation; when communities gathered around the table of decency and seized every opportunity to rebuff anti-social conduct.
In those days, the community knew the categories of wrongdoing and even had distinct names for different kinds of thieves. There was the oji—the thief; the ikpelima—the thief believed to employ mystical means to evade detection; and the arenya (obaladegu)—the thief who stole through violence.
A community of nine villages could exist without knowing anyone who stole. And one of the greatest insults that could be hurled at a neighbour was to call him a thief.
Today, however, we appear to be witnessing a dangerous reversal of values. In some quarters, being known as a thief is no longer a source of shame; it can even become a badge of status and celebration. There is also an alarming fascination with displays of valour and bloodletting—not on the battlefield, not in legitimate combat, and not in defence of the community, but in criminal hideouts where abducted human beings are reduced to commodities for ransom.
And that is where the story begins: money.
Money has become the idol of the age. Almost anything can be sacrificed at its altar—personal integrity, family reputation, communal honour and, most tragically, human life.
The old are caught in the race for it. Some clerics compromise their calling in pursuit of material wealth. Husbands and wives turn against one another over money. Young people, impatient to attain wealth, become increasingly desperate to find shortcuts to prosperity. They simmer and spume like a boiling cauldron, eager to spill over at the slightest provocation.
Thus, some take up arms and move onto the highways, whether in the thick darkness of night or in broad daylight. They erect barricades, stop vehicles, seize travellers and haul their victims into the bush. Then the bargaining begins. Ransom negotiations commence, and the proceeds of crime are transformed overnight into symbols of wealth and, in some disturbing instances, social status.
This is the poisonous appeal that recruits vulnerable young people into gangs of heartless, reckless and remorseless criminals, spreading fear, despair and disillusionment across the land.
The frequency, notoriety and brazen audacity of these crimes have placed Abocho among communities affected by insecurity across the region, including the Aloji and Ajegwu–Idah axis, the Idah–Odolu road, the Ejule–Ikebe road, the Dekina–Olowa–Abocho road, and the Dekina–Anyigba road.
The reported killing of a suspected kidnapping kingpin by security personnel in Abocho yesterday will naturally resonate with residents who have long lived under the shadow of insecurity. But much more remains to be done.
The elimination of a gang leader is not the same as dismantling the entire criminal network. Removing the head of a gang may disrupt its operations, but it does not automatically extinguish the system of recruitment, financing, intelligence, concealment and community-level support that enables criminality to survive.
The real victory, therefore, must go beyond the death or arrest of individual criminals. It must involve dismantling the networks that sustain them, recovering the confidence of residents, securing the roads and communities, and restoring the moral authority of families, traditional institutions, religious leaders and the wider society.
Abocho must not allow the sins of a few to become the identity of the many.
Its history is older than these criminals. Its dignity is greater than their crimes. Its people are more than the headlines generated by insecurity. And its future cannot be surrendered to those who have chosen the path of violence, kidnapping and bloodshed.
The task before Abocho is therefore both a security challenge and a moral one. Security agencies must do their duty with professionalism and firmness. Community leaders must refuse to harbour or protect criminals. Families must confront the recruitment of their children into criminal gangs. Young people must be offered legitimate pathways to dignity and economic advancement. And the entire community must rediscover the old understanding that a good name is wealth, while a stolen fortune is ultimately a burden.
Abocho must reclaim its narrative.
Let the story of Abocho be told not by the guns of kidnappers, the greed of ritualists or the violence of thugs, but by the courage, enterprise, intelligence, dignity and communal solidarity for which its people have historically been known.
The criminals may have written some dark pages, but they must not be allowed to write the final chapter.
● Ainoko, a public affairs commentator, is based in Lokoja, Kogi State.