Hauwa Ali
This June, President Bola Tinubu signed off on a bold and controversial plan: to recruit and deploy up to 130,000 armed Forest Guards across Nigeria’s 1,129 forest reserves. These reserves, once symbols of biodiversity, have become havens for bandits, kidnappers, and terrorists. Now, forests like Sambisa and Katsina lie at the center of a high-stakes gamble in the fight for Nigeria’s future security.
But beneath the political fanfare, key questions loom large: Can hundreds of thousands of newly minted paramilitaries truly dislodge seasoned criminal groups? Is the plan feasible? And will this truly restore peace, or risk a dangerous militarization of remote regions?
Banditry and insurgent attacks in forests have become deeply entrenched. Tinubu’s government argues that existing security forces—army and police—lack presence and agility in dense rural terrain. A new agency of Forest Guards, trained, armed, and locally deployed, could plug that gap.
Proponents like the Ooni of Ife champion the move, praising it as a security anchor that could unlock rural investment and stability: “Once security is addressed, there will be a solid platform for investment to flow into Nigeria,” he told reporters after visiting the president.
The initiative is also framed as a youth employment engine, providing jobs in troubled rural areas, while re-establishing government authority in forest zones.
Not everyone is convinced. Security analysts warn that creating a new, largely inexperienced force on a scale never before attempted carries serious risks.
Dennis Amachree, former DSS director, argues forest guards lack the tactical training to confront organized, battle-hardened gangs—insisting that elite police and Special Forces remain essential.
Chidi Omeje, a security expert, cautions that under-equipped guards could be swiftly overwhelmed or co-opted. Others warn of jurisdictional confusion and inter-agency rivalries that could paralyze coordination.
A security report by Nigeria Risk Index flags implementation challenges—from funding shortfalls to corruption risks, accountability deficits, and overlap with police, military, and vigilante structures.
The proposed Forest Guard framework is ambitious in scale: for recruitment, each state would recruit 2,000–5,000 guards; nationwide, this totals 130,000. With training and equipment, guards would be supervised by the NSA and Ministry of Environment, with promises of arms and modern training. Coordination between the Federal and States, plus alliances with policing and intelligence, are still being defined, according to the proposal.
Critical details remain vague. Recruitment criteria, vetting standards, funding sources, and clearly defined roles of the military and community vigilantes are not yet formalized.
This is not the first time Nigeria has turned to unconventional security approaches. In the early 2000s, outfits like the Civilian JTF in Borno State emerged to support the army against Boko Haram. Similarly, regional security outfits like Amotekun in the Southwest and Ebube Agu in the Southeast were formed in response to growing insecurity.
But those outfits were often poorly armed, underfunded, and accused of human rights abuses. If Tinubu’s Forest Guards repeat those mistakes, they risk inflaming tensions instead of restoring peace.
Security analysts like Dr. Wilson Esangbedo urge rigorous funding, training, and intelligence collaboration. Frank Oshanugor also calls for tech-led approaches—drones, surveillance networks—before boots hit the forest floor.
Ondo-based group Citizens for Good Governance has openly opposed the new corps, recommending instead professionalizing existing Amotekun units to avoid duplication and promote accountability.
Some internet commentators suggest community policing offers more immediate protection: “…the only remedy is for you to be armed too… community policing… let the people choose who they trust to guard them.”
Others voice frustration at perceived insecurity: “Tinubu needs to flush out those forests.”
If successful, this initiative could: disrupt criminal networks entrenched in forest hideouts, restore government presence and investor confidence in rural areas, create jobs, and foster national unity.
But if the plan stumbles: ethnic or political capture of the force may deepen existing divisions, inter-agency clashes with the army, police, and vigilantes could create chaos, and abuse of power and human rights violations could erode trust and legitimacy.
Experts have agreed on a pathway to make this initiative credible and sustainable: first is defining jurisdiction vis-à-vis military, police, Amotekun, and vigilantes. Formal memorandums of understanding, joint SOPs, and intelligence-sharing frameworks are needed.
Next is robust vetting and training, where candidates must undergo background checks, human-rights training, and education in tactical forest operations. Discipline and professionalism must be at the core.
There should be established sustainable funding from a ring-fenced national trust fund, subject to legislative audit and oversight. State governments must contribute, and external donor support may be considered.
Tech integration is key. Use drones, GIS, and surveillance tools to monitor hideouts and track forest activity before and during deployments.
Involving traditional rulers, community heads, and youth associations in recruitment is a must for the success of the initiative. Set up public complaint mechanisms to handle abuse claims and instill transparency.
This initiative may no doubt become a test of Tinubu’s administrative philosophy: does he centralize authority or decentralize responsibility? Critics say the idea reeks of federal overreach. Supporters argue it’s a bold correction to years of decentralized insecurity.
Either way, it places Tinubu’s presidency at a critical intersection: nation-building through force or reform? Will the guards be seen as saviours or as just another state-backed outfit ill-prepared for asymmetric warfare?
Over the next 12 months, Nigerians should watch for: the release of transparent recruitment guidelines, training partnerships with police academies or foreign trainers, clarity on who commands the guards and their relationship to local police, reports of early deployments and any incidents.
If pilot programs show professionalism, collaboration, and effectiveness, public confidence may grow. If, however, the program suffers from corruption, delays, or abuse allegations, it may be dead on arrival.
Tinubu’s Forest Guard Initiative is imaginative but lofty. The terrain they’re entering is dense not just in trees, but in criminal networks, political sensitivities, and deep-seated distrust of government and military.
If Nigeria can tie the initiative tightly to training, technology, accountability, funding, and local buy-in, they might clear a path to safety.
But without that structural foundation? This may become another uniformed outfit without impact—or worse, a trigger for deeper instability.
In Nigeria’s forests, the fight for the country’s future is being waged—not just against terrorists, but against the vacuum of security and trust. Whether Tinubu’s Forest Guards fill that vacuum or fall into it remains to be seen.