“Haipang is not Jos”, “We want to see you in Angwan Rukuba”, “That’s not the way to show empathy in Africa”, “Visit us, Mr President”, “Come to us.”
Chants like these, and many more, filled the air at Angwan Rukuba on Thursday, April 2, 2026, where thousands of Nigerian citizens gathered, eagerly waiting for the arrival of their President. It was a motley crowd, but largely dominated by mourners—those who had lost their loved ones in the recent massacre of March 29, 2026. Emotionally devastated, the mourners had hoped that the presence of the President would give them emotional succour. For the grieving, it would at least have been a huge comfort to have the No. 1 citizen of the country come to console them. But that did not happen.
Africa, like any normal society, has its own body of customs, traditions, and practices that govern relationships—within families, clans, and tribes—as well as morality, law, worship, politics, social status, economics, etiquette, war, and peace. Prominent among these is empathy, usually shown through condolence visits to the bereaved. Our rulers are Africans, and they know this for a fact. In Africa, you do not mourn alone. Sympathisers pay personal visits to console and empathise with the bereaved.
So, for Mr President to visit Plateau State with the intention of consoling residents of Angwan Rukuba, yet remain at Haipang Airport, is not only insultingly disingenuous, it is also a complete contravention of African ethos and values. Or has our President forgotten African norms because of his exalted office?
One of the most virulent ailments that destroys rulers is distance. Our rulers do not know “We the People” because of distance. Distance is a destructive disease. It creates a wedge between the ruler and the ruled through the juggernaut of power. There is always a wide gap between “We the People” and our leaders.
On the eve of elections, our rulers are willing to risk their lives—even in the dead of night—to meet us, hold rallies, and seek our votes. They come with sweet words, promising schools and hospitals, water in every backyard, roads to every village, an end to poverty, and victory over terrorism. Sometimes, they even promise to build bridges where there are no rivers. But once they assume office, distance sets in.
The man of power forgets “We the People” whose votes legitimised his authority. He becomes too important to visit us. Even greetings become too much of a burden. The very roads he once travelled become “impassable.” Local airports suddenly become “unfit” for his aircraft. There is always an excuse to avoid direct contact with the people. Perhaps he knows we have been short-changed—and he is afraid.
In another sense, distance makes rulers forget how they struggled to the top. Nowhere is this more vividly illustrated than in an analogy by Nigerian poet, Niyi Osundare:
There was a day an emperor saw a milling crowd surging towards his palace and instantly called for his robes in a euphoric bid to join what he saw as a great rejoicing. He had almost reached the door when his wife pulled him by the collar and asked him to take another look.
He did. Not until then did he see the dagger in each eye, and the thunderbolt in each voice. The emperor had seen a mob and fancied a rally; he had mistaken a vengeful riot for a thanksgiving carnival.
There is no doubt that the people of Angwan Rukuba feel neglected, betrayed, abused, and angry. But is that why the President avoided visiting them? Has he seen the daggers in their eyes and the thunder in their voices? Or has distance made his feet too presidential to step on Angwan Rukuba soil?
It appears that our rulers do not truly know “We the People.” Consider this: while the President was on a visit to London some weeks ago, suicide bombers killed 23 people in Maiduguri. He sent only a condolence message. In February this year, there was an attack in Woro village in Kwara State—he did not visit. In June 2025, nearly 200 people were killed in Yelewata, Benue State. He cited bad roads as the reason for not visiting.
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In the case of Plateau State, the reasons given for not visiting Angwan Rukuba are deeply unconvincing. The claim that Yakubu Gowon Airport in Haipang lacks facilities for night flights is hardly sufficient. Is it not the duty of government to fix infrastructure, including airports and roads? This, again, is distance at work—the man of power has forgotten his promises.
Our rulers move about as though “We the People” are conquered subjects. The Plateau State Governor reportedly visited Angwan Rukuba—commendable—but with overwhelming security presence. Residents cannot help but ask: where were these security forces when the attack occurred? Why should one man require such heavy protection while villages in Riyom and Bokkos lack even basic security presence? If a leader is truly connected to the people, must he always be shielded from them?
We live in a country where rulers suffer from a troubling blindness—the refusal to see, analyse, and confront the scale of the challenges facing ordinary citizens.
Our leaders govern as though the people do not matter. Once they ascend the verandah of power, they lose touch. They do not know the people because they are far removed from them.
But this must be said: We the People are greater than the ruler. Terrorists may attack us, kill, and destroy, but they cannot erase us. We may suffer losses today due to neglect and distance, but ultimately, power is transient.
The ruler may appear victorious for a time, but “We the People” will outlast the palace. Nothing lasts forever.
Jeff Godwin Doki, Ph.D, is a creative writer, a Professor of Comparative Literature