_By Shu’aibu Usman Leman_ The recent visit of President Bola Ahmed Tinubu to Plateau State, following the harrowing tragedy in Angwan Rukuba, Jos North, has prompted a vital reflection on the nature of leadership during periods of national mourning. While the President’s intention to offer condolences was a commendable gesture of statecraft, the logistical decision to remain at the airport—requiring bereaved families to be transported to meet him—created an unfortunate perception of detachment.
In the delicate aftermath of such a disaster, the visuals of engagement are not merely superficial; they are the primary lens through which a leader’s empathy and sincerity are scrutinised. When a community is bleeding, the physical presence of a leader serves as a bridge between the state and the suffering individual. By choosing the sterile environment of an airport over the dust and grief of the affected streets, that bridge felt unnecessarily long.
In moments of acute crisis, communities grappling with the weight of sudden loss require more than official assurances or formal statements issued from a distance. They seek a presence that feels genuine, grounded, and shared. To stand on the same ground where blood was shed is a powerful act of solidarity that no boardroom meeting or airport reception can truly replicate.
The direction of engagement—whether a leader chooses to go into the heart of the community or requires the people to come to them—can leave a permanent impression on the collective psyche. For many observers and locals alike, the airport meeting suggested a form of engagement that felt somewhat removed from the lived realities of the grieving families. It implied that the leader’s comfort and security took precedence over the community’s need for a witness to their pain.
This tragedy, which claimed numerous lives and left families in a state of profound devastation, has once again underscored the fragile security situation persisting in various regions of Nigeria. The recurrence of such violence suggests that the current protocols are failing to protect the most vulnerable. Beyond the immediate provision of condolences, such moments demand deeper, more empathetic forms of engagement that acknowledge these systemic failures.
Leadership in these instances must extend well beyond the realm of symbolism, evolving into a meaningful human connection. It is about demonstrating that the state views its citizens as more than just statistics in a briefing report. When a leader avoids the site of a tragedy, it can inadvertently signal that the area is either too dangerous to be governed or too broken to be healed.
A similar concern regarding the logistics of empathy arose during Governor Caleb Mutfwang’s subsequent visit to the affected community. His decision to address the residents from atop an armoured vehicle, whilst entirely understandable from a security and tactical perspective, inadvertently conveyed a sense of separation and hierarchy. The vehicle, designed to repel threats, also acted as a barrier to human connection.
During periods of intense public mourning, even the most necessary safety precautions can be interpreted as emotional distance. When a Governor speaks from behind steel plates, the message received by the public is one of fear rather than fortitude. People navigating the depths of grief desire to feel seen, heard, and acknowledged as individuals with inherent dignity, rather than as distant subjects of governance to be managed from behind a turret.
This is precisely why leadership, particularly during a crisis, must strive to balance the requirements of authority with high levels of emotional intelligence. It is rarely a question of a leader’s personal commitment or intent, but rather a matter of public perception—because in the crucible of national grief, perception often becomes the de facto reality.
A visible physical barrier, however justified by the prevailing security climate, can inadvertently reinforce feelings of detachment and abandonment at a time when public trust is already at its most fragile. If the people are expected to live in these insecure environments every day, seeing their leaders briefly share that environment—even at risk—is what builds the moral capital required to lead.
Plateau State has long been a flashpoint for communal and sectarian tension, making the style of leadership here even more consequential. The residents of Jos North have grown weary of “flying visits” that seem to tick a box rather than address the soul of the community. A leader who stays at the airport risks being seen as a visitor to their own country’s problems.
There is also a broader, more significant opportunity that these moments of crisis present for national leadership to foster unity. In a country as diverse and complex as Nigeria, the presence of the Commander-in-Chief in a troubled region acts as a unifying force. It signals to the entire nation that no corner of the republic is forgotten, and no citizen’s life is considered less valuable than another’s.
An expanded approach—one that involves visiting multiple affected sites and engaging directly with the grassroots—would help reinforce a sense of shared national concern. It would allow the President to hear the unvarnished truth from those on the front lines of the security crisis, providing insights that are often lost in the sanitised reports delivered by aides and security chiefs.
Furthermore, the involvement of local traditional and religious leaders in these visits should be more than ceremonial. When a leader walks side-by-side with local elders through the ruins of a community, it validates the local structure of authority and builds a collaborative front against violence. This is the essence of “servant leadership”—being amongst the people, not above them.
The psychological impact of a leader’s “touch” cannot be overstated. History remembers leaders not for the speeches they gave at airports, but for the hands they held in the ruins of a crisis. From the world’s most stable democracies to its most troubled regions, the rule remains the same, the closer the leader is to the people, the stronger the bond of loyalty becomes.
The security challenges in Nigeria are admittedly immense, and no one would suggest that a President or Governor should be reckless. However, the technology and expertise available to modern security details should be used to facilitate engagement, not to prevent it. Security should be a silent enabler of presence, not a loud proclamation of distance.
We must also consider the message this sends to the perpetrators of violence. When a leader appears hesitant to enter an affected area, it emboldens those who seek to create “no-go zones.” Conversely, a defiant and visible presence by the state’s highest officials signals that the government is in full control and will not be intimidated by those who sow discord.
The families in Angwan Rukuba deserve to feel that their government is willing to walk the same streets they do. They deserve to see their leaders’ eyes, not just their motorcades. This is the standard to which we must hold our elected officials, for a mandate is a contract of service that is signed in the hearts of the people.
Ultimately, true leadership must move beyond the safety of distance and the ease of symbolism. It must be brave enough to be vulnerable and close enough to be felt. The office of the President and the Governor carries immense weight, but that weight should be used to anchor the people’s hope, not to crush their sense of inclusion.
As Plateau State begins the long process of healing yet again, let the lesson from these visits be one of reform. Let future engagements be defined by presence, empathy, and a genuine connection with the people. Only when leadership truly honours the people it serves can the foundations of trust and security be rebuilt for a lasting peace.
