Zamfara: Attack On Deputy Governor False- Spokesman

The dusty roads of Gwashi town, in Bukkuyum Local Government Area of Zamfara State, became the stage for a deeply painful confrontation on Sunday. A delegation led by the State Deputy Governor, Mani Malam Mumini, had arrived with what was meant to be a gesture of compassion: relief materials for families shattered by a recent, brutal bandit attack that killed at least nine security operatives and a number of civilians. But instead of receiving the delegation with open hands, a crowd of young men, their faces tight with grief and rage, blocked the entrance to the town. They chanted “Bamayi,” a Hausa phrase that means “We don’t want you,” and their voices carried more than anger; they carried the weight of repeated loss, unanswered cries for help, and the bitter feeling of being abandoned by the very government that is supposed to protect them. For the deputy governor and his security detail, what should have been a routine visit turned into a moment of real danger, forcing them to take cover as the situation escalated. The scene was not simply a protest against one official. It was an eruption of long-suppressed frustration from a community that has lived for too long under the shadow of banditry, watching loved ones die while feeling that those in power only appear when they want to be seen, not when they are truly needed.

To understand why the youths reacted with such fury, one has to understand the context of the attack that preceded the visit. Bukkuyum is one of the worst-hit local government areas in Zamfara State, a region that has become synonymous with banditry, kidnappings, and mass abductions. The latest assault was devastating: at least nine security operatives were killed, alongside several innocent civilians. For the people of Gwashi, this was not just another news item; it was a lived nightmare. They buried their dead, tended to the wounded, and comforted orphaned children, all while waiting for some sign that the state acknowledged their suffering. But days passed, and no senior government official came to see the destruction, to offer a word of sympathy, or to promise that something would change. In the immediate aftermath of the attack, the community felt invisible. One resident, Kabiru Garba, spoke to Leadership by telephone and voiced what many were thinking: “The people are angry. We lost nine security personnel and many innocent citizens. Nobody from government came when we were under attack and mourning our people. Now they are here, we don’t want them.” That simple, raw statement captures the essence of the betrayal they felt. The relief materials, the official condolences, and the presence of the deputy governor all arrived too late, not because of the timing of the visit itself, but because the government had been absent during the moments that truly mattered: during the attack, during the funerals, during the first sleepless nights of grief.

As the chants grew louder and the crowd pressed forward, the atmosphere turned from tense to frightening. The deputy governor and his security personnel were forced to take cover, unsure whether the crowd would turn violent. It was a symbolic moment as much as a physical one: the representatives of state authority, protected by guns and armored vehicles, suddenly found themselves powerless in the face of public contempt. The youths were not necessarily violent by nature, but their desperation had reached a point where they no longer feared the consequences of expressing their anger. To them, the deputy governor was not a person but a symbol of a government that had failed them again and again. They had heard promises before. They had seen officials pose for photographs with relief materials before. And yet the attacks continued, the deaths continued, and their lives remained trapped in a cycle of fear and mourning. For the security detail, the immediate priority was to protect the deputy governor from harm. But for the community, the act of forcing him to take cover was a way of saying: you cannot hide from us, just as we cannot hide from the bandits. It was a moment of raw, unfiltered accountability, and it revealed how deep the trust deficit has become between the people of Bukkuyum and the government that claims to serve them.

On Monday, however, the official narrative offered a very different picture. The spokesman for Zamfara State Governor Suleiman Bala Idris addressed the reports and pushed back against the idea that the deputy governor had been humiliated or trapped. In an exclusive chat with Leadership, the spokesman insisted that the visit had been successful, and that the deputy governor had managed to donate relief materials to the victims of insecurity in Bukkuyum. According to this version of events, the mission was accomplished: the government reached out, provided support, and fulfilled its duty of commiseration. But the contrast between the official statement and the residents’ account is stark. One side speaks of success, the other speaks of rejection. One side highlights the donation of relief materials, the other highlights the emotional and psychological need for presence and solidarity. This disconnect is not uncommon in Nigeria’s conflict-affected regions, where government officials often measure their interventions by the quantity of goods delivered, while affected communities measure them by the quality of attention and empathy received. The residents of Gwashi did not need bags of rice or blankets to know that they had been abandoned; they needed someone to stand with them in their pain, to acknowledge their loss, and to show genuine commitment to ending the violence. Without that, every relief material feels like a consolation prize, a way of saying “we care” without actually having to change anything.

Beyond the immediate clash between the deputy governor’s delegation and the angry youths, there is a much larger story about the crisis of governance and security in Zamfara State. For years, Bukkuyum and its neighboring areas have been battered by heavily armed bandits who attack villages, steal cattle, kidnap residents for ransom, and kill anyone who resists. The security forces have paid a heavy price too, with soldiers, police officers, and local vigilantes losing their lives in the line of duty. Yet the violence continues, and the state seems unable to provide lasting protection. The people of Gwashi are not opposed to the government because they enjoy confrontation; they are opposed because they have been failed so many times that they have lost faith. Every time an attack happens, they ask themselves: where were the soldiers? Where were the police? Where were the political leaders? And when no one comes, they conclude that their lives do not matter. This is not just about banditry; it is about the social contract between the state and its citizens. When people feel that the government only remembers them in moments of political convenience, they begin to see every official visit as an insult rather than an honor. The deputy governor’s experience in Gwashi is therefore not an isolated incident, but a warning sign of what happens when institutional trust collapses in communities that have been pushed to the edge.

In the end, the story of Gwashi is a story about the human need to be seen, heard, and valued. The angry youths who chanted “Bamayi” were not simply rejecting a visitor; they were demanding that their suffering be acknowledged on their own terms, not on the government’s schedule. The deputy governor’s spokesman may be correct that the visit was successful in logistical terms, and that relief materials were delivered. But success in matters of grief and trust cannot be measured by the number of bags distributed. It must be measured by whether the people feel that their leaders truly understand their pain and are committed to protecting them. Until that happens, every official visit to places like Bukkuyum will be shadowed by suspicion and resentment. The government must learn that condolence cannot be transactional; it must begin with listening, with humility, and with a genuine willingness to address the root causes of insecurity. The residents of Gwashi have shown the world their anger, but beneath that anger lies a deep longing for peace, for safety, and for a government that will not abandon them again. Until that longing is met, the barricades may come down, but the walls between the people and their leaders will remain. And no amount of relief materials can tear those walls down.