My Only Crime Is Being A Teacher When Schools Become Killing Fields and Education Dies in Nigeria -By Isah Sani

I wake up every morning with a silent prayer: Let today not be the day.

Not the day gunmen invade my classroom.

Not the day parents run barefoot towards the school gate screaming their children’s names.

Not the day I become another headline; another teacher killed simply for trying to educate children.

My only crime is being a teacher. Yet in Nigeria today, that alone can make one a target.

On the afternoon of May 15, 2026, armed men stormed schools in Ahoro-Esinele and nearby communities in Oriire Local Government Area of Oyo State. They arrived on motorcycles, heavily armed, spreading fear within minutes. Reports indicated that at least one assistant headmaster, Joel Adesiyan, was killed during the attack, while another teacher reportedly died later in captivity. Several teachers, including a school principal, were abducted alongside dozens of pupils.

The images and videos that surfaced afterward were heartbreaking. Mothers cried uncontrollably. Fathers stood helplessly before cameras. Children appeared terrified in proof-of-life clips circulated online. Security operatives launched searches through forests and nearby routes while schools in affected communities shut their gates indefinitely.

For many Nigerians, the attack was shocking because it happened in the Southwest; a region once considered safer than the violence-ravaged Northeast or bandit-prone Northwest.

But for teachers like me, the shock was mixed with something else: fearfully familiar resignation.

My heart is shattered.

I remember telling a colleague in the aftermath of the Kagara school abduction in 2021 that we are all victims now. At the time, many Nigerians still believed insecurity was distant; something happening somewhere else to other people. But deep down, I feared the danger was spreading beyond regions, beyond religion, beyond social class.

Today, that fear has become reality.

What started as a bastardised act, a flame many assumed would eventually die out has grown into a raging fire consuming us as citizens of Nigeria. From Chibok to Dapchi, from Kankara to Kagara, from Jangebe to Kaduna, and now to Oyo, the pattern is painfully clear: insecurity no longer respects boundaries.

No one is truly safe anymore.

It does not matter whether you live in the North or the South, in a rural village or a major city. It does not matter whether you are rich or poor, Christian or Muslim, teacher or trader. Our collective safety has been dangerously compromised.

And perhaps that is the most terrifying part.

Many Nigerians now hear news of killings and kidnappings and move on almost immediately. The killing and kidnapping of innocent citizens is no longer new, neither is it something that emotionally nails us down the way it once did. Many of us hear the news, shake our heads briefly, type “so sad” online, and continue with our daily activities.

That normalization is dangerous.

A nation should never become comfortable with children being abducted from classrooms or teachers being murdered for simply doing their jobs. But repeated violence has exhausted the emotions of many Nigerians. Tragedy now competes with daily survival. People are struggling to earn a living, buy food, pay rent, and navigate uncertainty, so even horrifying incidents disappear quickly from public attention.

But teachers cannot move on so easily.

Nigeria’s education crisis did not begin in Oyo State. The attack is only the latest chapter in a terrifying national pattern that has stretched across more than a decade.

The world first paid serious attention on April 14, 2014, when Boko Haram militants stormed the Government Girls Secondary School in Chibok, Borno State, abducting 276 schoolgirls in the middle of the night. The incident sparked the global “Bring Back Our Girls” campaign and became one of the most infamous school kidnappings in modern history. Yet more than ten years later, some of the girls are still missing.

Rather than ending after Chibok, attacks on schools multiplied.

In February 2018, Boko Haram abducted 110 girls from Government Girls Science and Technical College in Dapchi, Yobe State. Most were later released, but Leah Sharibu remained in captivity after reportedly refusing to renounce her Christian faith.

Then came Kankara.

On December 11, 2020, gunmen attacked Government Science Secondary School in Kankara, Katsina State, abducting more than 300 boys. Barely two months later, armed men invaded Government Science College, Kagara, Niger State, kidnapping students, teachers, and family members living within the school premises.

Only days afterward, another horror unfolded in Jangebe, Zamfara State, where more than 300 schoolgirls were abducted and forced to trek through forests at gunpoint.

The attacks continued relentlessly.

In March 2021, gunmen stormed the Federal College of Forestry Mechanisation in Afaka, Kaduna State, abducting dozens of students despite the institution’s proximity to military facilities. In July that same year, bandits kidnapped more than 100 students from Bethel Baptist High School in Kaduna State.

Even in recent years, the nightmare has refused to end.

In March 2024, gunmen abducted nearly 300 pupils and staff from schools in Kuriga, Kaduna State, reigniting national outrage and international concern over Nigeria’s inability to secure learning environments.

Now, in 2026, the violence has spread deeper into the Southwest.

That is what makes the Oyo attack especially frightening.

For years, many Nigerians comforted themselves with the belief that school kidnappings were largely confined to the Northeast and Northwest. But the attack in Oriire Local Government Area has shattered that illusion completely.

The fear is now national.

I remember my childhood years when education felt safe. We trekked long distances to school carrying notebooks under our arms without fear of abduction. Teachers were respected in society. Classrooms represented hope, discipline, and possibility. Parents believed education could lift children out of poverty and open doors to a better future.

Today, many parents send their children to school with anxiety buried in their hearts. Some no longer send them at all.

The emotional burden on teachers is difficult to explain. We stand before children every day pretending to be calm while internally calculating escape routes. We scan unfamiliar movements near school compounds. Sudden sounds trigger panic. Every motorcycle passing near a classroom can send hearts racing.

Teaching has become an act of courage.

Parents are afraid. Students are traumatized. Enrollment continues to decline in many vulnerable communities. Even where schools remain open, learning suffers because fear cannot coexist comfortably with concentration. A child who worries about survival struggles to focus on mathematics. A teacher battling anxiety cannot fully inspire curiosity.

The long-term consequences for Nigeria are devastating. Millions of children are already out of school due to poverty, insecurity, displacement, and social barriers. Continued attacks on schools will only deepen illiteracy, unemployment, extremism, and instability.

Girls face particularly grave dangers. Insecurity pushes many families to withdraw daughters from school permanently, fearing abduction, sexual violence, or forced marriage. Once education is interrupted, many never return.

An entire generation is at risk.

What makes the situation even more painful is that teachers are among the least protected workers in Nigeria despite carrying one of the nation’s most important responsibilities. We shape future doctors, engineers, journalists, lawyers, and leaders. Yet many schools lack perimeter fencing, security personnel, emergency communication systems, or basic safety infrastructure.

In rural communities especially, schools are frighteningly exposed.

The attackers understand this.

Why have schools become targets? The reasons are complex but interconnected. Criminal gangs view mass abductions as profitable businesses. Insurgents see education as a threat to extremist ideology. Weak policing, poor intelligence gathering, porous borders, unemployment, poverty, and ungoverned forest spaces all contribute to the crisis.

Unfortunately, government responses often appear reactive rather than preventive.

After every attack, officials issue condemnations. Security operations intensify temporarily. Promises are made. Yet another school is attacked months later.

Condemnation alone cannot stop bullets.

Nigeria urgently needs a comprehensive national strategy to protect schools and restore confidence in education.

Vulnerable schools must receive immediate security upgrades. Rural schools especially need perimeter fencing, alarm systems, improved lighting, rapid response mechanisms, and stronger collaboration with local security networks. The Safe Schools initiative must move beyond speeches and policy documents into visible action.

Teachers also deserve greater protection and support. Beyond salaries, educators need insurance coverage, trauma counseling, emergency preparedness training, and recognition as frontline defenders of Nigeria’s future.

At the same time, Nigeria must confront the deeper roots of insecurity, unemployment, poverty, corruption, weak governance, and the proliferation of armed groups. A country battling widespread insecurity cannot build a stable education system.

Every attack chips away at our national confidence. Every abduction tells children that even classrooms cannot protect them. Every murdered teacher sends a chilling message that knowledge itself is under siege.

I became a teacher because I believed education could transform lives. I still believe that. Every child holding a pencil instead of a weapon is proof that education remains our strongest tool for national progress.

But belief alone is no longer enough.

Teachers should not have to choose between educating children and staying alive.

Children should not associate classrooms with fear.

Parents should not experience panic each morning at school drop-off.

Nigeria cannot afford to normalize attacks on education.

We must refuse to accept this as our reality.

Government authorities, security agencies, community leaders, civil society organizations, and citizens all have roles to play in defending schools. Silence and indifference only embolden those who profit from fear.

My only crime is being a teacher.

That must never become a death sentence.

Because when education dies, hope dies with it.