n my last week’s essay, “The Discipline of Power and the Question of State Police”, I argued that power is not merely force. Drawing from Michel Foucault, I noted that modern power is disciplinary, and it works through institutions, routines, and surveillance. It shapes behaviour and creates habits of obedience. It can restrain arbitrariness, but only where institutional discipline prevails. I also invoked Hannah Arendt, who distinguished power from violence. In my re-reading of Foucault and Arendt, I argued that power rests on legitimacy and collective purpose. Violence appears when legitimacy collapses. My central argument was simple. An undisciplined political class cannot be trusted with expanded coercive authority. Without moral and institutional restraint, state police risk becoming instruments of domination rather than guardians of security.
That argument leads naturally to history.
We have travelled this road before. Nigeria is not debating state policing in a vacuum. Before independence and in the First Republic, policing was regional and local. The record is instructive and sobering. Under colonial rule, Native Authority police forces operated across the Northern, Western, and Eastern Regions. They were designed to maintain order under indirect rule. In theory, they were closer to the people. In practice, they often answered to local chiefs and political authorities rather than to neutral legal and policing standards. In the Northern Region, the Native Authority police were embedded within the emirate system. The structure reflected the logic of indirect rule. Authority flowed from traditional rulers who were integrated into the colonial state. On one level, this created order and administrative coherence. On another level, it blurred the line between law enforcement and political authority. Dissent was easily be framed as disorder. Loyalty to the emirate hierarchy often determined outcomes.
Policing was not insulated from politics. It was part of politics. The picture was more turbulent in the Western region. The 1950s and early 1960s were marked by intense rivalry between the Action Group and its opponents. The crisis that followed the split within the Action Group in 1962 degenerated into violence, arson, and intimidation. Regional police structures were drawn into the conflict. Allegations of partisanship became widespread. For many, law enforcement was not seen as a neutral arbiter but as an extension of political struggle. The breakdown of order in the West contributed to the broader instability that culminated in the military coup of 1966.
In the Eastern Region, Native Authority police also operated within a politically charged environment. As nationalist politics intensified in the 1950s, local policing structures were sometimes perceived as tools in the hands of dominant regional actors. Minority groups within the region frequently complained of marginalisation. Where political competition was fierce, the temptation to influence local law enforcement was ever-present. Even where abuse was not systemic, the perception of bias weakened public trust.
Across the three regions, a common pattern emerged. Policing was closely tied to regional executives and traditional authorities. Oversight mechanisms were weak. Professional standards varied. Recruitment and promotion were not always insulated from patronage. In periods of political calm, these weaknesses were manageable. In periods of crisis, they proved fatal. Decisively fatal.
After independence in 1960, Nigeria retained a federal structure that allowed regional police. But the experience of political violence, especially in the Western Region, fuelled arguments that decentralised policing was contributing to instability. By 1966, with the collapse of the First Republic, the military government moved decisively toward centralisation. The Nigeria Police Force became a unified national institution. The architects of centralisation believed that removing policing from regional control would reduce partisan misuse.
History, however, does not offer us simple lessons.
Centralisation did not eliminate abuse. It merely relocated it. Federal authorities have always been accused of deploying the Nigeria Police Force in partisan struggles. The problem was not geography alone. It was discipline. It was culture. It was the absence of deep constitutional restraint. So, what should we learn from the failures of regional and Native Authority policing? First, proximity is not the same as accountability. It is often argued that state police will be closer to the people and therefore more responsive.
That may be true. But the Native Authority experience shows that closeness without institutional safeguards can entrench local tyranny. When law enforcement officers depend on governors or powerful local actors for their careers, neutrality becomes fragile. Accountability must be structured, not assumed. Second, history teaches us that policing cannot be detached from the broader political environment. In the Western Region crisis, the degeneration of politics preceded the degeneration of policing. Where political actors treat opponents as enemies, coercive institutions become weapons. If we do not reform party systems, electoral processes, and legislative oversight, new state police formations will inherit old pathologies. Third, we must distinguish between structural design and civic virtue. It is tempting to believe that a constitutional amendment alone can solve insecurity. But constitutional text cannot substitute for democratic culture. The regional and Native Authority police did not fail simply because they were both regional. They faltered because they operated in systems where checks were weak and executive dominance was strong. Without a culture of restraint, decentralisation multiplies centres of coercion without multiplying centres of accountability.
This does not mean that state police are inherently doomed. It means that their design must be informed by historical memory. We should not romanticise the past, nor should we dismiss it. Instead, we must interrogate it carefully. A disciplined model of state police for the future would require clear constitutional boundaries. The appointment of state police commissioners should not rest solely with governors. Confirmation processes involving state legislatures must be transparent and meaningful.
Security of tenure must be guaranteed to reduce political pressure. Independent state police service commissions should oversee recruitment, promotion, and discipline. Financial autonomy is also crucial. If state police budgets depend entirely on executive discretion, operational independence will be compromised. Legislative appropriation and public audit mechanisms must be strengthened. Civilian complaint boards with real investigative powers can provide an additional layer of accountability. Equally important is federal oversight that respects autonomy while guarding against abuse. A re-imagined federal framework could establish national standards for training, human rights compliance, and operational conduct. States would operate their forces, but within enforceable constitutional limits. This hybrid model would acknowledge federalism without abandoning national cohesion.
Above all, we must cultivate what I earlier called the discipline of power, not as a slogan but as a code of conduct and framework of restraint built into the marrow of institutions. Michel Foucault teaches us that power is not merely possessed. It circulates. It embeds itself in routines, files, uniforms, reports, and everyday practices. If that is so, then the answer to abuse is not moral appeal alone but structural design. Those who watch must themselves be watched. Surveillance must be layered, reciprocal, and institutionalised through independent oversight bodies, transparent complaint systems, legislative scrutiny, and an active civil society. Power must never enjoy the comfort of invisibility. It must operate in the full glare of procedural accountability. Records must be kept. Reasons must be given. Decisions must be reviewable.
When institutions are designed in this way, discipline is no longer a personal virtue. It becomes a systemic condition that shapes behaviour before abuse even arises. From Hannah Arendt, we learn that authority collapses the moment it relies on fear rather than consent. Authority, in her sense, flows from legitimacy, from a shared belief that power is exercised within known and accepted limits. When citizens obey only out of fear, the state has already failed. Fear produces silence, not respect. It breeds compliance without loyalty. A disciplined police system, therefore, must consistently apply and enforce the law. Citizens must recognise their place in the norms that govern them. The police officer must see himself not as the arm of a governor but as a trustee of the constitutional order. Only then does authority rise above coercion. Only then does power command obedience without violence.
State police and the ghosts of our past
This does not mean that state police are inherently doomed.
ABDUL MAHMUD • March 9, 2026
Bola Tinubu and Tunji Disu
In my last week’s essay, “The Discipline of Power and the Question of State Police”, I argued that power is not merely force. Drawing from Michel Foucault, I noted that modern power is disciplinary, and it works through institutions, routines, and surveillance. It shapes behaviour and creates habits of obedience. It can restrain arbitrariness, but only where institutional discipline prevails. I also invoked Hannah Arendt, who distinguished power from violence. In my re-reading of Foucault and Arendt, I argued that power rests on legitimacy and collective purpose. Violence appears when legitimacy collapses. My central argument was simple. An undisciplined political class cannot be trusted with expanded coercive authority. Without moral and institutional restraint, state police risk becoming instruments of domination rather than guardians of security.
That argument leads naturally to history.
We have travelled this road before. Nigeria is not debating state policing in a vacuum. Before independence and in the First Republic, policing was regional and local. The record is instructive and sobering. Under colonial rule, Native Authority police forces operated across the Northern, Western, and Eastern Regions. They were designed to maintain order under indirect rule. In theory, they were closer to the people. In practice, they often answered to local chiefs and political authorities rather than to neutral legal and policing standards. In the Northern Region, the Native Authority police were embedded within the emirate system. The structure reflected the logic of indirect rule. Authority flowed from traditional rulers who were integrated into the colonial state. On one level, this created order and administrative coherence. On another level, it blurred the line between law enforcement and political authority. Dissent was easily be framed as disorder. Loyalty to the emirate hierarchy often determined outcomes.
Policing was not insulated from politics. It was part of politics. The picture was more turbulent in the Western region. The 1950s and early 1960s were marked by intense rivalry between the Action Group and its opponents. The crisis that followed the split within the Action Group in 1962 degenerated into violence, arson, and intimidation. Regional police structures were drawn into the conflict. Allegations of partisanship became widespread. For many, law enforcement was not seen as a neutral arbiter but as an extension of political struggle. The breakdown of order in the West contributed to the broader instability that culminated in the military coup of 1966.
In the Eastern Region, Native Authority police also operated within a politically charged environment. As nationalist politics intensified in the 1950s, local policing structures were sometimes perceived as tools in the hands of dominant regional actors. Minority groups within the region frequently complained of marginalisation. Where political competition was fierce, the temptation to influence local law enforcement was ever-present. Even where abuse was not systemic, the perception of bias weakened public trust.
Across the three regions, a common pattern emerged. Policing was closely tied to regional executives and traditional authorities. Oversight mechanisms were weak. Professional standards varied. Recruitment and promotion were not always insulated from patronage. In periods of political calm, these weaknesses were manageable. In periods of crisis, they proved fatal. Decisively fatal.
After independence in 1960, Nigeria retained a federal structure that allowed regional police. But the experience of political violence, especially in the Western Region, fuelled arguments that decentralised policing was contributing to instability. By 1966, with the collapse of the First Republic, the military government moved decisively toward centralisation. The Nigeria Police Force became a unified national institution. The architects of centralisation believed that removing policing from regional control would reduce partisan misuse.
History, however, does not offer us simple lessons.
Centralisation did not eliminate abuse. It merely relocated it. Federal authorities have always been accused of deploying the Nigeria Police Force in partisan struggles. The problem was not geography alone. It was discipline. It was culture. It was the absence of deep constitutional restraint. So, what should we learn from the failures of regional and Native Authority policing? First, proximity is not the same as accountability. It is often argued that state police will be closer to the people and therefore more responsive.
That may be true. But the Native Authority experience shows that closeness without institutional safeguards can entrench local tyranny. When law enforcement officers depend on governors or powerful local actors for their careers, neutrality becomes fragile. Accountability must be structured, not assumed. Second, history teaches us that policing cannot be detached from the broader political environment. In the Western Region crisis, the degeneration of politics preceded the degeneration of policing. Where political actors treat opponents as enemies, coercive institutions become weapons. If we do not reform party systems, electoral processes, and legislative oversight, new state police formations will inherit old pathologies. Third, we must distinguish between structural design and civic virtue. It is tempting to believe that a constitutional amendment alone can solve insecurity. But constitutional text cannot substitute for democratic culture. The regional and Native Authority police did not fail simply because they were both regional. They faltered because they operated in systems where checks were weak and executive dominance was strong. Without a culture of restraint, decentralisation multiplies centres of coercion without multiplying centres of accountability.
This does not mean that state police are inherently doomed. It means that their design must be informed by historical memory. We should not romanticise the past, nor should we dismiss it. Instead, we must interrogate it carefully. A disciplined model of state police for the future would require clear constitutional boundaries. The appointment of state police commissioners should not rest solely with governors. Confirmation processes involving state legislatures must be transparent and meaningful.
Security of tenure must be guaranteed to reduce political pressure. Independent state police service commissions should oversee recruitment, promotion, and discipline. Financial autonomy is also crucial. If state police budgets depend entirely on executive discretion, operational independence will be compromised. Legislative appropriation and public audit mechanisms must be strengthened. Civilian complaint boards with real investigative powers can provide an additional layer of accountability. Equally important is federal oversight that respects autonomy while guarding against abuse. A re-imagined federal framework could establish national standards for training, human rights compliance, and operational conduct. States would operate their forces, but within enforceable constitutional limits. This hybrid model would acknowledge federalism without abandoning national cohesion.
Above all, we must cultivate what I earlier called the discipline of power, not as a slogan but as a code of conduct and framework of restraint built into the marrow of institutions. Michel Foucault teaches us that power is not merely possessed. It circulates. It embeds itself in routines, files, uniforms, reports, and everyday practices. If that is so, then the answer to abuse is not moral appeal alone but structural design. Those who watch must themselves be watched. Surveillance must be layered, reciprocal, and institutionalised through independent oversight bodies, transparent complaint systems, legislative scrutiny, and an active civil society. Power must never enjoy the comfort of invisibility. It must operate in the full glare of procedural accountability. Records must be kept. Reasons must be given. Decisions must be reviewable.
When institutions are designed in this way, discipline is no longer a personal virtue. It becomes a systemic condition that shapes behaviour before abuse even arises. From Hannah Arendt, we learn that authority collapses the moment it relies on fear rather than consent. Authority, in her sense, flows from legitimacy, from a shared belief that power is exercised within known and accepted limits. When citizens obey only out of fear, the state has already failed. Fear produces silence, not respect. It breeds compliance without loyalty. A disciplined police system, therefore, must consistently apply and enforce the law. Citizens must recognise their place in the norms that govern them. The police officer must see himself not as the arm of a governor but as a trustee of the constitutional order. Only then does authority rise above coercion. Only then does power command obedience without violence.
Our historical failures are not arguments for paralysis. They are warnings against naïveté. The ghosts of Native Authority and regional police remind us that coercive power is easily captured by politics. If we are to build state police in the future, we must do so with humility and vigilance. We must embed them in a culture of constitutionalism that values restraint over expediency. History does not chain us. But it instructs us. If we confront it honestly, we can design institutions that correct past errors. If we ignore it, we risk repeating them.
The question is not whether Nigeria can have state police. The more searching question is whether Nigeria can subject power to discipline at every tier of government. Until restraint becomes not an occasional gesture but a settled political habit, no architecture of reform will suffice. Without that inward culture of limitation, structural adjustments will amount to little more than rearrangements of authority. And so, lacking the discipline that tames power, we will continue to walk in the long shadow of our own history, pursued by the ghosts of the past that still haunt us.
