(ANALYSIS) State Police Bill and the Hypocrisy of Self-Interest
By Lawrence Oladotun
When the National Assembly began work on the Constitution of the Federal Republic of Nigeria (Sixth Alteration) Bill 2025—a proposal to establish state police—it was hailed as one of the most far-reaching reforms in Nigeria’s democratic history.
On paper, the bill seeks to replace the centralised Nigeria Police Force with a dual structure: a Federal Police Service and State Police Services. For a country battling insecurity, this sounds like long-overdue progress.
But beneath the rhetoric of reform lies a familiar story of political self-interest, hypocrisy, and control—a reform designed to look revolutionary but built to fail.
The draft bill proposes sweeping amendments across the Constitution.
Sections 34, 35, 39 and 42—covering dignity, liberty, expression, and equality—will replace all references to the “Nigeria Police Force” with “Police or other Security Agencies established by law.”
Financial reforms are also included. Section 81 now lists the Federal Police Service as a direct beneficiary of statutory transfers, while Section 121 provides for state police to receive funding directly from state Consolidated Revenue Funds.
Section 214, which currently forbids the creation of any other police force, is to be repealed. The new version empowers states to establish their own police services under federal guidelines, while the Federal Police will retain control over interstate and national crimes.
It all seems progressive—until you read between the lines. The real issue is not what the bill promises, but what it preserves.
By placing policing on the Concurrent Legislative List, both the federal and state governments will share jurisdiction over law enforcement. That structure ensures that Abuja’s influence remains intact.
In contrast, under true federal systems like the United States, “police power” is exclusively a state prerogative. The Tenth Amendment of the U.S. Constitution reserves all powers not delegated to the federal government to the states or the people, and policing falls squarely within that domain. The federal government runs its own agencies—like the FBI or DEA—but state police are fully created, controlled, and funded by the states.
“The Nigerian model is deceptive,” said a constitutional lawyer, Fatai Babatunde. “It decentralises on paper but centralises in practice. You cannot call it state police when Abuja still holds the purse and the power.”
It’s like handing the states a car, but keeping the key in Abuja.
Additionally, the fiscal structure of the bill betrays its contradictions.
Section 121 of the proposed amendment provides that state police services will receive direct funding from their respective state Consolidated Revenue Funds. Yet, Section 81 still places the Federal Police Service as a beneficiary of direct statutory transfers from the national Consolidated Revenue Fund—ensuring that federal oversight over security finances continues.
This means that the entire policing framework still depends on federal oversight and approval. Abuja retains power to issue guidelines, control training, and influence funding formulas.
By implication, any “state police” that emerges from this arrangement would remain tethered to the centre—financially and politically.
This financial entanglement ensures that the federal government remains a shadow over state policing, retaining control through budgetary dependence.
In essence, what Nigeria is crafting is not true decentralisation but a cosmetic reform designed to pacify the growing agitation for localised policing.
The politics of power and fear
Why are state governors—many of whom have long demanded state police—suddenly comfortable with this half-measure? The answer lies in political self-preservation.
A truly independent state police would empower local authorities to maintain law and order without interference. But it would also expose governors to greater accountability. It would bring scrutiny to the opaque “security votes” that have become permanent fixtures in state budgets—massive allocations often spent without audit or transparency.
To embrace full autonomy would mean inviting oversight. For many governors, that is an unacceptable cost.
So, rather than push for a police system they can truly control—and be held accountable for—they prefer the safer ambiguity of a concurrent structure that allows them to share the blame when things go wrong.
Thus, while the federal government refuses to relinquish control, state leaders quietly accept a compromised version of autonomy that keeps everyone’s interests intact—except the people’s.
The hypocrisy of the current reform echoes in the story of regional security outfits like Amotekun in the Southwest and Hisbah in the North.
When the late Ondo State governor, Arakunrin Rotimi Akeredolu, championed the establishment of Amotekun to tackle rising insecurity, he faced resistance from the federal establishment and internal political interference. Despite its noble intentions, Amotekun has remained largely toothless—undermined by limited powers, political meddling, and federal resistance to any semblance of autonomy.
Similarly, northern Nigeria’s Hisbah Corps—a moral and security outfit—operates within the boundaries of state laws but without federal recognition or authority.
Both examples show that decentralisation in Nigeria is tolerated only when it does not challenge federal dominance.
Jurisdictional chaos looms
Beyond politics, the legal complications of this bill could be disastrous.
Nigeria already struggles with overlapping powers in land, road, and housing matters—where federal and state governments routinely clash over jurisdiction.
If policing follows the same path, Nigeria could see conflicting orders between federal and state police over arrests, prosecutions, or political rallies. Imagine a scenario where a governor’s order to a state police chief conflicts with a federal directive—the constitutional chaos would be profound.
The deeper question is whether this bill is about security at all.
From its language to its structure, it seems more concerned with political leverage than with solving insecurity. It preserves Abuja’s dominance while giving governors a symbolic victory.
It’s a compromise between two power blocs—not a reform for the people. You can’t fight insecurity with hypocrisy. Until leaders are willing to lose power to protect lives, no reform will work.
To make this reform meaningful, Nigeria must go beyond half-measures.
Policing should be moved from the Concurrent List to the Exclusive Legislative List of the states.
Funding must come from state treasuries, not Abuja.
Recruitment should be local and community-based.
Oversight should be transparent and independent of political interference.
The Federal Government should focus strictly on national crimes—terrorism, trafficking, and interstate security—leaving local policing to the states and communities that understand their own realities.
Anything short of that is a deception—a continuation of the same centralised dysfunction dressed up as reform.
The Yoruba have a saying: “You cannot offer someone a ram and still hold on to its rope.”
That proverb perfectly describes Nigeria’s State Police Bill—an offer laced with control, a promise buried under politics. The federal government dangles reform before the people but refuses to let go of control. The state governors, fearful of accountability, nod in quiet agreement.
The result is a policy trapped between promise and pretense—an illusion of progress that could deepen the very insecurity it claims to cure.
Until Nigeria learns that security begins with true autonomy and honest intent, every new reform—no matter how well drafted—will remain another victim of the nation’s greatest enemy: self-interest.
The tragedy is that while politicians negotiate control, ordinary Nigerians continue to pay the price—with their lives.
