Nigerian senators, citing selective enforcement and unfair targeting, are seeking exemption from President Tinubu’s directive to withdraw police escorts from VIPs, arguing that the order is being flouted by ministers, business figures, and celebrities while they are left exposed.
By Nij Martin
In the grand theatre of Nigerian politics, few symbols carry as much immediate, visceral weight as the police escort. The wailing sirens, the outrider motorcycles, and the stern-faced officers are not merely about security; they are a performance of power, a moving declaration of importance in a society where status is both armor and currency. It is against this backdrop that President Bola Tinubu’s directive to withdraw police officers from VIP escorts must be understood—not just as a security reform, but as a profound recalibration of political symbolism. The fierce pushback from the Senate, demanding exemption and alleging selective enforcement, reveals a deep-seated anxiety that cuts to the core of political identity, personal safety, and perceived privilege in a nation besieged by insecurity.
The senators’ primary public argument hinges on a potent cocktail of perceived injustice and fear. Their motion, spearheaded by Senator Abdul Ningi, is less an objection to the policy in principle and more an indictment of its implementation. “It should be done across the board,” Ningi argued, painting a picture of a two-tiered system. He recounted the withdrawal of his lone orderly while witnessing “convoys of ministers… business concerns, Chinese and other business concerns… daughters and sons of political office-holders… [and] singers” all still enjoying police protection. This narrative transforms the policy from a national sacrifice into a targeted slight. The Senate’s collective grievance is that they are being “used as a scapegoat,” forced to bear the brunt of a reform that more powerful or connected elites are circumventing. This perceived selectivity strikes at the Nigerian political psyche’s acute sensitivity to fairness—or the lack thereof. It frames the withdrawal not as a patriotic contribution to pooling security resources, but as a demotion, a public stripping of a perquisite that others retain.
Beneath this complaint of unfairness lies a more visceral driver: genuine and profound fear. Nigeria’s security landscape is not an abstract concept to lawmakers; it is a daily reality. Kidnappings for ransom, often targeting the affluent and prominent, are a thriving industry. Assassinations and armed attacks, while not daily occurrences, are constant enough possibilities to breed paranoia. For many senators, the police orderly is not a status symbol first, but a last line of personal and family defense. In a country where state protection is often absent and the line between political disagreement and mortal threat can be blurry, the withdrawal of a state-assigned guard feels like being thrown to the wolves. Deputy President of the Senate Barau Jibrin’s assurance that leadership was seeking exemption because “it’s in line with international practice” hints at this deeper concern. It is an attempt to reframe a personal security need as a standard parliamentary privilege, arguing that the unique threats faced by public figures necessitate exceptional measures.
However, this personal fear intertwines inextricably with a crisis of political identity. The police escort is a key prop in the performance of high office. Its removal is seen as a diminishment of stature, a blurring of the lines between the powerful and the ordinary citizen. In a system where influence is often projected and perceived through such trappings, losing them feels like a disarmament in the theatre of power. The senators’ outrage at seeing “singers” and “business tycoons” with escorts speaks to this. It is an affront to the political class’s sense of natural hierarchy—that state-conferred authority should outrank commercially acquired or celebrity-based influence. To be stripped of their escorts while a wealthy businessman or pop star retains theirs is a symbolic inversion of the established order they represent and benefit from.
The executive’s stance, as reiterated forcefully by Tinubu, frames the issue through a diametrically opposed lens: one of national emergency and equitable resource allocation. The President’s directive is rooted in the stark arithmetic of security. With over 11,000 officers—a small army—reportedly attached to private individuals, their redeployment to core policing duties in crime hot spots, schools, and highways is presented as a tactical imperative. Tinubu’s admonition that “the protection of a select group of VIPs and VVIPs was not their [the police’s] responsibility” is a fundamental redefinition of the police’s mandate, away from personal retinues and towards the “most vulnerable in society.” From this viewpoint, the senators’ demand for exemption is not just selfish but antithetical to the policy’s goal of creating a more generalized sense of security for all citizens.
This clash exposes the perennial Nigerian conflict between individual prerogative and collective priority. Critics of the senators, like columnist Dele Momodu, see a conspiracy to weaken opposition, while supporters of the policy hail it as long-overdue housekeeping. The Inspector-General of Police’s report of withdrawing 11,566 officers underscores the scale of the embedded privilege. The Senate’s response—to probe the selective enforcement while simultaneously seeking exemption for itself—perfectly captures the contradiction. They acknowledge the policy’s rationale but seek to exempt their own class from its consequences, attempting to reconcile their role as lawmakers representing a vulnerable populace with their self-interest as individuals navigating a dangerous political terrain.
Ultimately, the standoff over police orderlies is a microcosm of Nigeria’s broader governance challenges. It is a struggle over the allocation of scarce state resources, the symbols of power, and the very definition of security. The senators’ resistance is not merely about keeping an armed guard; it is about navigating a system where state protection is unreliable, personal risk is high, and visible trappings of power are considered essential armor. Until the state can guarantee a basic, equitable level of security for all citizens, the powerful will cling tenaciously to their personalized fragments of it, seeing not luxury, but necessity in the shadow of a speeding convoy and the glint of an orderly’s rifle. The path forward requires more than a presidential directive; it demands building a police force so robust and effective that its officers are no longer seen as private trophies, but as public servants whose presence is felt most strongly not in the halls of power, but on the streets they are sworn to protect.