The Man Died—Solomon Arase and Community Policing -By Prince Charles Dickson PhD

“One day a dog came to the lion and challenged him to a fight…”—the lion refused, because a lion knows that sparring with a dog diminishes its pride. That is the moral dilemma of Nigeria’s policing system today. A lion reduced to chasing after N20 notes at checkpoints, while the real criminals loot in billions. The Nigeria Police Force—supposedly the majestic lion of law enforcement—has been reduced to a stray dog snapping at the heels of market women, bus conductors, and hapless citizens.

And yet, in the midst of this grim reality, there was a man named Solomon Arase—a gentleman, a professional, a thinker in uniform. His recent passing has reopened conversations about what policing in Nigeria could have been, and what it must still become if we are to avoid the abyss of social chaos.

This essay is not a eulogy, but a provocation. For if the man died, the idea must not die with him.

Let me state it plainly: the Nigerian police is broken. Not wounded. Not sick. Broken.

Infrastructure of humiliation as Police barracks often look like dilapidated orphanages, yet these are the homes from which law enforcers emerge to demand respect. When a man’s family bathes in open gutters, don’t be surprised when he takes out his frustration on the innocent.

Stations as banks—every Divisional Police Office is less a command post than a branch of an unlicensed bank. The DPO is the manager, junior ranks are “marketing executives,” and citizens are the ATM. Your withdrawal slip? A bribe.

How about what I refer to as the comedy of Firearms: Robbers with AK-47s roam with precision, while policemen wield rusty rifles with no bullets—or worse, loaded with anger instead of ammunition. Statistics, bitter as they sound, suggest you stand a better chance surviving a robbery encounter than a police “stop and search.”

How could I not talk of the recruitment and literacy? Where, once policing was a profession of pride, today it is a last resort. Young men and women who could not find a path elsewhere put on that black. Many cannot spell their names, but they can spell extortion.

The late Chinua Achebe wrote, “The trouble with Nigeria is simply and squarely a failure of leadership.” The police is a microcosm of that national tragedy. Change of uniforms, new mottos, and fancy mottos like “Bail is Free” amount to schlimbesserung—German for “improvement that makes things worse.”

Into this madness stepped Solomon Ehigiator Arase, Inspector General of Police between 2015 and 2016. His tenure was short, but his imprint was delicate and deliberate. Unlike many before him, Arase understood that policing was not just about the gun, but about trust.

He emphasized intelligence-led policing, the need for proper training, and most importantly, community partnership. He believed the uniform should not be a barrier between police and citizens but a bridge. In many of his speeches, he reminded his officers that legitimacy comes not from fear, but from service.

Arase also pushed for better welfare for officers, quietly lobbying for reforms in housing and retirement benefits. He knew that a hungry policeman is a dangerous one, and that a man who sees no pension will collect his gratuity at the roadblock.

Above all, he was a gentleman. Not the perfect man, but one who knew that policing is about human dignity. And for that alone, he deserves to be remembered differently from the long parade of black-clad rent-seekers who preceded and succeeded him.

Nigeria today faces a simple question: should policing remain a centralized federal dinosaur, or should it evolve into responsive state and community units?

Consider this: a policeman in Sokoto receives orders from Abuja about crime in Bayelsa. A DPO in Jos must wait for “signal” from Force Headquarters before mobilizing against a local threat. By the time the “signal” comes, the town has been burnt to ashes.

Community policing is not merely about decentralization; it is about legitimacy, trust, and proximity. When the man in your neighborhood wears the uniform, you know his mother’s shop, you know his children, you can hold him accountable. Conversely, he knows your culture, your language, your market square.

State police is controversial, with fears of abuse by governors who may turn them into private armies. But let us be honest: is the abuse not already here? Do federal police not serve as errand boys for those in power? The current system has failed; clinging to it for fear of abuse is like refusing to treat a disease for fear of side effects.

Community policing, if built on transparency, training, and constitutional safeguards, can restore some dignity to the profession. Arase saw this. He spoke it. He worked towards it. That is why his death feels like the silencing of a crucial voice. Many might ask, what did he do? He did a lot, I met him once and I know that he did a lot!

Sometimes, humour is the only way to survive the absurdity. Because I can imagine the look on the face when I said I met him once.

Take the tale of a policeman who once stopped his own commissioner at night and demanded N20 for “night movement.” The commissioner, baffled, asked, “Do you know who I am?” The officer replied, “Na you sabi. If you no drop something, na station you dey sleep tonight.”

Or the madman who, when asked by a DPO if he wanted to join the police, replied, “I dey mad.” The tragedy is that today, madness is no longer a disqualifier—it is practically a qualification.

When the public so deeply distrusts its protectors that the sight of a checkpoint inspires fear rather than relief, what we have is not policing but parody.

We are caught in a dilemma. On one hand, an endless hope that maybe one reform, one leader, one uniform change will save the police. On the other hand, the hopeless end of watching the force sink deeper into corruption, inefficiency, and public hatred.

But perhaps hope lies in voices like Arase’s, which refuse to let the idea of community policing die. Hope lies in civil society, media, and citizens refusing to normalize extortion as “how things are.” Hope lies in demanding from government not only more police, but better police.

As Frantz Fanon once warned, “Each generation must discover its mission, fulfill it or betray it.” For Nigeria, the mission is clear: we must reimagine policing, or perish in lawlessness.

Solomon Arase has joined the ancestors. But in his memory, let us debate honestly: Do we need state police? Do we need community policing? The answer is yes—if we are serious about survival.

Let us stop pretending that a central force in Abuja can secure every village in Zamfara, every street in Lagos, every farm in Benue. Let us stop deceiving ourselves that uniforms, sirens, and parades equal policing.

The man died, but the question he left us remains: Can Nigeria build a police force that is respected, not feared?

As I write these words, I hear again my own refrain: May Nigeria win.

And win she must—not by bullets fired in error, but by communities secured in trust.