In the beginning, it was all whispers in Ilorin, with people lowering their voices when talk turned to roads. But for months now, violence has swaggered from Kwara’s southern flank, accompanied by bandits in the forests, kidnappers on the highways, and frightened villagers streaming north. And since the tone of conversation has shifted from sympathy to apprehension among people of means, safe to conclude that the fear has arrived home.
Since early this year, attacks have cut through at least nine of the state’s sixteen local governments. Oke-Ode saw a massacre in September; Patigi lost a village head just last week. The Nigerian Air Force now flies sorties over Kwara’s borders, and the Army has moved men into the forests. Yet, like stubborn smoke after a large fire, the unease lingers.
Even the privileged no longer feel beyond reach. The Ilorin elite, once certain that the crisis was a distant headline, now speak of “contingency plans.” Children are allegedly being sent abroad. Estates are reportedly hiring private guards. Social events are ending earlier than normal. All in all, it is a quiet panic—dignified, polite, but real.