Emo Ti Wo Ilu: Why South West Governors Must Act and Act Fast—Kayode Ogunjobi

There is an old Yoruba warning that carries more weight than many modern security briefings
that ten thousand Seyi Makinde or any other governor can have.

Elders say when strange
footsteps begin to echo at the edge of the village at night, when dogs bark toward the forest and
not toward the road, when the market women close early and the drummers in the palace
suddenly stop rehearsing, then someone will whisper the words every elder fear: emo ti wọ ilu.

In old Yoruba settlements, that phrase was not spoken casually. It was a declaration that danger
was no longer at the boundary. It had crossed into the heart of communal life. It meant the
invader had moved past the forest path, crossed the stream, and was already studying the streets.

It meant that the enemy knew the shortcuts to the palace, the paths to the farms, the hidden
footpaths children used to return from school and entered the streets where children played and
farmers returned at dusk. Once that declaration was made, the village did not wait for another
sign. The hunters were summoned. The gong sounded.

The gates were watched. Every
household knew that normal life had ended until the danger passed. Once that phrase was heard, every household knew sleep could no longer be taken for granted.

That old warning has returned to the Southwest, and many leaders are still pretending not to
hear it. For years, many believed the Southwest was insulated from the wave of banditry and
kidnapping ravaging other parts of Nigeria. The Southwest once carried a quiet confidence that
many other parts of Nigeria envied. It was not entirely free from insecurity, but there was a
strong public perception that the region’s communal structure, educational advancement, and
local vigilance had created a protective shield against the wave of banditry and kidnappings
devastating other zones.

Unfortunately, that confidence is now cracking and at an alarming rate. Recent events have torn that illusion apart. The enemy is no longer at the gate. The signs show
he is already within the compound.
The signs are becoming impossible to ignore. The region is suddenly in the headlines for
mindless attacks that hit the soul of society. When a church is attacked, worship is violated.
When a palace is attacked and a monarch is killed, heritage is assaulted. When a school
becomes a site of bloodshed, the future itself is under attack. These are not isolated incidents
and should never be considered as such. They are strategic signals.

On 5th of June 2022, worshippers gathered at St Francis Xavier Catholic Church in Owo for
Sunday mass. It was supposed to be a sacred environment, but what began as a peaceful service
turned into one of the most horrifying attacks in recent years.

Armed assailants stormed the
church, detonated explosives, and opened fire on congregants. Dozens of lives were lost, and
many more were injured. The sanctuary, once a place of prayer and refuge, became a scene of
grief and shock. Worship, once seen as a sacred refuge, was breached and defiled. Men, women,
and children who had gathered to pray became victims of violence. A church attack is not only
an attack on people. It is an attack on collective confidence. It is an attack on faith. It was
strategic!

Then came the attack on the palaces and the traditional leaders. A palace is more than a
building. It is the historical soul of a people. It carries authority, memory, and identity. The
palaces on their own serve as a refuge to people in distress/ To invade it and kill a king is to
announce contempt for heritage and to test the weakness of the state’s response.

His Royal Highness Onimojo of Imojo, Ọba Olatunde Samuel Olusola, and His Royal Highness
Elesun of Esun, Ọba David Babatunde Ogunsona, were brutally murdered by suspected Fulani.

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Bandits on January 29, 2024 while the Alara of Ara, His Royal Highness, Ọba Adebayo Fatoba
narrowly escaped. Most recently, Oba Kehinde Faledun was hacked to death by bandits at his
Ondo State Palace on 18th February 2026. These were strategic! Smite the shepherd, and the sheep shall be scattered. If the kings could be attacked, how much more the subordinates.

The tragedy deepened in Oyo State with the school attack. The attack, which occurred on May
16, 2026, saw armed assailants invade the Ahoro-Esiele/Yawota axis of Ogbomoso and abduct
pupils, students and teachers from Community Grammar School, Baptist Nursery and Primary
School, and L.A. Primary School in a coordinated attack.

One teacher died during the hostility. Public outrage intensified on Monday after a viral video
allegedly showed one of the abducted teachers being beheaded by the kidnappers. The victim was later identified as Mr Michael Oyedokun. Once schools become targets, no one should
continue pretending the crisis is random. Schools represent hope.

Schools are where societies
plant tomorrow. When violence enters a school environment, society should understand that
the danger has moved beyond random crime into a pattern designed to destabilise daily life.

To strike in a school is to declare war on continuity itself.
The forests have become silent accomplices to the growing insecurity. What once stood as
sources of timber, medicine, farming, biodiversity, and hope now serve as shields for
kidnappers and armed gangs. The trees that once protected communities from erosion now
protect those who prey on those communities. Today, many have become hidden corridors for
kidnapping, illegal movement, arms storage, and coordinated attacks. The same trees that once
symbolised hope now conceal criminality. This did not happen suddenly. It came through years
of gradual occupation, weak oversight, and the silent occupation of spaces authorities failed to secure and dangerous complacency.

One governor who appeared to understand this reality was late Rotimi Akeredolu. Whatever
political differences existed, one undeniable quality stood out. He understood early that the
forests were becoming staging grounds for external criminal networks and was determined to
push intruders out. His stance was not popular with everyone, but he recognised a danger many
preferred to ignore.

Personally, I understood the danger before the headlines multiplied. My consultancy work
exposed me directly to operational realities that are often not visible in academic or office-
based environments. Through field engagements, site assessments, and stakeholder interactions
in rural and hard-to-reach areas, I gained firsthand awareness of how forests can become zones
of risk when governance and surveillance are weak. Working in those environments helped me
understand how difficult terrain, limited communication networks, and sparse security
presence can create opportunities for criminal activity and delay emergency responses. I joined
other professionals and well-meaning Nigerians in raising concerns both through press releases and interactions on radio.

During a consultancy project in a forest estate, the risk was impossible to ignore. One could
feel it as if it were human. Having taught modules on safety for close to two decades, I could
smell danger from afar. As the Senior Resource Fellow, I took a personal decision to drive the
team to the site myself anytime we were visiting and deliberately followed an erratic time of
visit. Each time we arrived, I parked the vehicle in what I called “ready to fly out” position.

The car was always turned toward the exit. No reverse manoeuvre. No delay. It was a practical
survival habit. I was always close to the jeep, and once I was ready to leave, we left.

The representatives of the owners of the forest estate never visited without heavily armed
escorts. That was the reality about five years ago. On one occasion, my principal and boss, an
elderly professional, decided to visit the forest estate for an on-site assessment of our activities
and I had to insist that he leave quickly. I told him clearly that remaining there was a risk. I
could feel the risk even though a military barracks was close by.

Anyone taken deep into some of those forests could reappear in another part of the state entirely or another state. That is how connected the forests are. What makes this even more dangerous is that many of these intruders and criminal elements appear to know these forests better than the indigenous communities.

As a matter of fact, we are surrounded by these intruders, and it is a crisis waiting to happen.
Many estates and rural communities are now saturated with motorcycle riders. Some know every hidden path, farm track, and forest trail. Many residents unknowingly expose themselves by directing riders all the way to their compounds, insisting they stop right in front of the house.

What they fail to realise is that they are handing strangers an intelligence map of their homes
and community. We have become vulnerable in our own land!
Those riders know the shortcuts. They know the blind corners. They know which compounds
have fences and which have none.

They know where ambushes can be staged and where escape can be guaranteed. If those networks were mobilised for criminal purposes, many communities would struggle to resist. It is a dangerous thing when the enemy knows the environment better than the people who live there.

From Abeokuta to Oluyole to Ajure to Ijero and other environs, the foreigners riding Okada into various communities are a security risk.

The South West governors must urgently document everyone operating within vulnerable
communities. There must be comprehensive records of residents, riders, transient labourers, and forest-based workers. The number of people involved is too high for informal monitoring.

The only practical response is technology-driven intelligence gathering and coordinated
information sharing. The concern is not about the riders themselves, but about the broader
system in which they operate. Without effective monitoring and structured engagement, such
widespread movement across rural and forest-linked routes can reflect an environment where
risks can escalate quickly if left unaddressed. Amotekun and other security outfits require
stronger operational capacity, improved equipment, enhanced intelligence sharing, and clearer legal and logistical backing from state governments

This is not the time for communities to retreat into silence. Communities must rebuild internal vigilance. There should be designated points beyond which unknown riders cannot go. Every
settlement should create its own internal access protocol. Allowing unrestricted movement into
residential interiors is a major risk.

The poor state of roads has worsened the challenge. Many vehicle owners are forced to depend on Okada transport because roads are nearly impassable and fuel has become very expensive.

The sound of “Ẹ ̀ mò ti wọ ìlú” is not just folklore. It is a warning against complacency. The
South West stands at a critical moment. Action today may prevent mourning tomorrow. The
governors still hold the chance to prove that leadership is not measured by speeches during
peace, but by swift decisions when danger approaches. History will remember whether they
rose in time or watched until fear became normal.

The most dangerous stage of insecurity is not when attacks happen. It is when attacks become
normal and leaders continue speaking as though they are isolated incidents.

When churches are attacked, when palaces are invaded, and when schools become scenes of
bloodshed, the region must understand the pattern. This is no longer about single criminals. It reflects organised testing of vulnerable institutions. It is a strategy to spread fear, break trust, and weaken social confidence.

South West governors must stop treating this as an issue for political rhetoric. The signs suggest a coordinated pressure against the peace of the region. Leadership now demands courage, intelligence, and immediate action.

The old Yoruba warning was never meant for storytelling. It was a call to defend home.

The South West must hear it now. Emo ti wọ ilu. The enemy is already sleeping with us. The
response cannot be tomorrow.
Practical suggestions Deploy drone surveillance across all major forest reserves.

Create a unified South West intelligence sharing command.
Register and digitally track all commercial motorcycle riders.
Restrict non-resident riders from entering deep residential zones.
Conduct a forensic mapping of forest routes and illegal settlements.

Strengthen community vigilante systems with professional training.
Repair access roads to reduce dangerous reliance on motorcycles.

Enforce identity documentation for transient workers and settlers.
Establish emergency community alarm systems linked to security agencies. This was very
effective during the COVID-19 pandemic.

Partner with traditional rulers to monitor unusual movement patterns.
Create special forest response units with technology-enabled tracking and analysers.
Carry out periodic audits of communities bordering forests.
The time for speeches has passed. The time for strategic action is now.

Kayode Ogunjobi is an environmental researcher, public affairs analyst, and passionate
advocate for nature conservation, with a strong interest in environmental sustainability,
ecological safety, and responsible public policy.