Freed at Last, By Abdul Mahmud
On Friday, October 24, 2025, hope returned to Ebira Camp in Auchi. After nearly two weeks in captivity, Aisha Wahab, the young woman whose abduction had broken hearts and shaken her community, was freed. The circumstances of her release remain unclear. No one knows if ransom was paid. No one knows how she came home. But for her family, her return is nothing short of a miracle. They wept, they prayed, they rejoiced. In a town where silence often follows tragedy, laughter was heard again, faint but real. Aisha’s release should have been a moment of relief for the entire state. Instead, it is a mirror held up to our broken system. Her abduction exposed the depth of insecurity in Edo State. Her ordeal, like those of many others, revealed how far governance has drifted from the people it was meant to serve. That a young woman could be taken from the heart of a town, held for days in the forests, and only returned after public outrage, tells a bigger story of failure.
Auchi, once a bustling town of trade and peace, now lives under the shadow of fear. It was here, years ago, that my friend and brother, Apostle Johnson Suleman, barely escaped death when armed men ambushed his convoy. His police escorts were not so lucky. Today, that same spirit of danger stalks the streets again. Ebira Camp, where Aisha was taken, has become a symbol of a country where life is cheap and the state is absent.
For ten days, Aisha’s family lived through horror. The kidnappers called each day, demanding twenty million naira. They beat her. They starved her. They made her beg for her life on camera. That video, with Aisha on the floor, hands tied, tears streaming down her face, a gun to her head, spread across phones and social media. It was not just a cry for help; it was an indictment of a government that could not protect its people. While her captors taunted her family, the state government remained silent. Governor Monday Okpebholo offered no words of comfort, no visit, no plan. Even when the story of Aisha’s abduction went viral, the governor’s office stayed mute. That silence was louder than gunfire. It spoke of indifference. It told citizens that their lives were not worth an official statement.
Leadership, in its truest form, is about empathy. It is about the willingness to feel the pain of others and to act with urgency. But what we see today is the theatre of neglect. Governors move in motorcades, surrounded by armed escorts, while the people they govern move in fear. They speak of progress, yet the forests that swallow their citizens remain unguarded. Aisha’s release should not be mistaken for victory. It is a temporary reprieve in a long war against insecurity. For every Aisha who returns, there are many others who never do. Their names fade into the dust of forgotten headlines. Their families continue to grieve in silence. This is how a country loses its soul, one disappearance at a time.
The people of Auchi know this pattern too well. Kidnapping has become an economy. It feeds on poverty, unemployment, and a failing justice system. When criminals act without fear of consequence, crime becomes enterprise. Every ransom paid sustains the cycle. Every official who looks away becomes complicit. Governor Okpebholo must understand that silence is not governance. To govern is to act, to protect, to restore order. The forests between Ehor and Auchi have become sanctuaries for armed gangs. The roads are unsafe. The police are underfunded and overwhelmed. Local vigilantes risk their lives with little support. Yet, there is no coordinated response from the state. What we see instead is the politics of complacency.
Aisha’s story offers the governor a second chance, a chance to show that the state still cares. He must move beyond empty statements. He must reclaim the forests, repair the roads, strengthen community policing, and create jobs that pull young men away from crime. Security is not an act of charity. It is the first duty of government. In the days ahead, Aisha will try to heal. But trauma leaves long shadows. The fear she endured, the humiliation she suffered, will take years to fade. Her story is now part of a larger national tragedy. It is the story of women who cannot walk freely, of parents who dread the ring of the phone at night, of communities where faith struggles to survive fear.
We should not allow her release to become another forgotten headline. Her survival should awaken our collective conscience. She is not just a victim who returned home; she is a reminder of how broken our society has become. The state owes her more than sympathy; it owes her justice.
Let her freedom mean something. Let it mark a turning point in Edo State’s response to insecurity. Let it remind our leaders that protecting life is not optional. Aisha Wahab came home, but too many others have not. Until the forests are safe, until the roads are free of fear, until the state reclaims its moral authority, we cannot say we are free.
Aisha is home, but the question remains: who will defend the next daughter taken from our streets?
