Mob's barbaric lynching of woman exposes Delta Govt's criminal neglect in Child theft crisis
Agbarho, Delta – In a gut-wrenching spectacle of savagery that shatters any illusion of civilized society, an enraged mob in Agbarho community, Ughelli North Local Government Area of Delta State, descended upon a woman accused of attempting to kidnap a 7-year-old boy on Wednesday afternoon, beating her into unconsciousness before dousing her with petrol and setting her ablaze in broad daylight.
The inferno, captured in harrowing videos circulating online, reduced the unidentified victim – reportedly from nearby Ughelli town – to a charred corpse on a public street, her screams drowned out by the bloodthirsty cheers of her attackers.
This grotesque act of "jungle justice," as it is euphemistically termed, is not justice at all – it is the barbaric unraveling of the rule of law, a descent into anarchy where presumption of guilt overrides due process, and human life is snuffed out on the altar of mob hysteria.
The tragedy unfolded around midday, September 24, when the woman was allegedly caught red-handed trying to lure the young boy away from his home. What should have been a swift handover to police – allowing for interrogation, evidence gathering, and a fair trial – devolved into a frenzy of vigilante violence.
Witnesses recounted how pleas from bystanders to spare her life and involve security agencies were drowned out by the mob's primal rage, fueled by over a year of pent-up terror over the community's vanishing children.
Tires were procured, the woman was bound, and flames engulfed her as the crowd bayed for more.
"This is the message kidnappers need," one anonymous resident was quoted as justifying, revealing a chilling calculus: better a wrongful death than the risk of a guilty one slipping through the cracks of a broken system.
In a nation where courts are clogged and police are under-resourced, mobs become self-appointed executioners, but at what cost? Innocent lives are forfeit – this woman, presumed guilty without a shred of verified evidence, joins a macabre tally of lynching victims across Nigeria, from petty thieves to those ensnared in rumors.
It breeds fear, not safety; it invites copycats, not closure. Delta State, with its oil wealth and political clout, must end this cycle now: empower police with rapid response units, educate communities on the perils of vigilantism, and prosecute mob leaders with the full fury of the law. Anything less is an endorsement of chaos.
Yet, this lynching is merely the explosive symptom of a far graver malaise: the Delta State government's scandalous abdication of its duty to protect the most vulnerable – its children – from the shadowy epidemic of abductions ravaging Agbarho and beyond.
Since December 2024, no fewer than 30 children have vanished from this tight-knit Urhobo community, snatched in broad daylight or lured away under the nose of a supposedly watchful society.
Mothers, their hearts shattered, have marched in black attire, placards aloft with cries of "Stop Stealing Our Children" and "Where Are Our Kids?", only to be met with bureaucratic shrugs and empty platitudes.
The Ovie of Agbarho Kingdom, HRM Ogurimerime Okorefe I, has thundered that these thefts amount to "a declaration of war" on his people, warning of impending lawlessness if security agencies do not act.
Even the Nigeria Union of Journalists' Warri Correspondents Chapel, in a September 21 communique, lambasted the "rising unwholesome act of child theft" and beseeched government intervention.
Governor Sheriff Oborevwori's administration stands indicted in this hall of shame. When the crisis first erupted, he offloaded the burden onto the Ughelli North local government chairman, who in turn punted it to the traditional ruler – a powerless figurehead in the face of organized crime.
Token gestures abound: a ban on "iron scavengers" suspected in some disappearances, an investigative committee headed by an Area Commander, and sporadic arrests of peripheral gang members.
But where are the results? The missing children remain ghosts, their families in perpetual limbo. Child rights advocate Comrade Ighorhiohwunu Aghogho has dragged the Nigerian government to the ECOWAS Community Court just days ago, on September 19, accusing it of complicity through inaction, demanding the activation of a specialized Children Police Unit under the Child Rights Act and the shutdown of unmonitored orphanages.
This is not governance; it is gross negligence, a betrayal of the sacred trust to safeguard the innocent.
Delta's coffers overflow with crude oil billions, yet its children are commodified, sold like chattel – as in the January case of a 15-year-old girl who hawked her own 7-year-old brother to a stranger for cash.
Oborevwori's failure is not mere oversight; it is a moral catastrophe.
While politicians jet to Abuja for photo-ops, Agbarho's parents live in nightly dread, their playgrounds turned hunting grounds for predators. The state's security apparatus, bloated with budgets yet starved of will, has allowed this plague to fester, displacing fear of ritual killings onto a community now policing itself with fire and fury.
How many more must burn – vigilante or victim – before the governor wakes from his torpor?
As the acrid smoke clears from Agbarho's streets, the echoes of that woman's final agony serve as a clarion call: End jungle justice with iron-fisted enforcement. But more urgently, Delta must confront its child theft scourge head-on – flood the area with dedicated task forces, profile and regulate high-risk actors like scavengers and orphanages, and deliver every missing child home alive.
The inferno, captured in harrowing videos circulating online, reduced the unidentified victim – reportedly from nearby Ughelli town – to a charred corpse on a public street, her screams drowned out by the bloodthirsty cheers of her attackers.
This grotesque act of "jungle justice," as it is euphemistically termed, is not justice at all – it is the barbaric unraveling of the rule of law, a descent into anarchy where presumption of guilt overrides due process, and human life is snuffed out on the altar of mob hysteria.
The tragedy unfolded around midday, September 24, when the woman was allegedly caught red-handed trying to lure the young boy away from his home. What should have been a swift handover to police – allowing for interrogation, evidence gathering, and a fair trial – devolved into a frenzy of vigilante violence.
Witnesses recounted how pleas from bystanders to spare her life and involve security agencies were drowned out by the mob's primal rage, fueled by over a year of pent-up terror over the community's vanishing children.
Tires were procured, the woman was bound, and flames engulfed her as the crowd bayed for more.
"This is the message kidnappers need," one anonymous resident was quoted as justifying, revealing a chilling calculus: better a wrongful death than the risk of a guilty one slipping through the cracks of a broken system.
In a nation where courts are clogged and police are under-resourced, mobs become self-appointed executioners, but at what cost? Innocent lives are forfeit – this woman, presumed guilty without a shred of verified evidence, joins a macabre tally of lynching victims across Nigeria, from petty thieves to those ensnared in rumors.
It breeds fear, not safety; it invites copycats, not closure. Delta State, with its oil wealth and political clout, must end this cycle now: empower police with rapid response units, educate communities on the perils of vigilantism, and prosecute mob leaders with the full fury of the law. Anything less is an endorsement of chaos.
Yet, this lynching is merely the explosive symptom of a far graver malaise: the Delta State government's scandalous abdication of its duty to protect the most vulnerable – its children – from the shadowy epidemic of abductions ravaging Agbarho and beyond.
Since December 2024, no fewer than 30 children have vanished from this tight-knit Urhobo community, snatched in broad daylight or lured away under the nose of a supposedly watchful society.
Mothers, their hearts shattered, have marched in black attire, placards aloft with cries of "Stop Stealing Our Children" and "Where Are Our Kids?", only to be met with bureaucratic shrugs and empty platitudes.
The Ovie of Agbarho Kingdom, HRM Ogurimerime Okorefe I, has thundered that these thefts amount to "a declaration of war" on his people, warning of impending lawlessness if security agencies do not act.
Even the Nigeria Union of Journalists' Warri Correspondents Chapel, in a September 21 communique, lambasted the "rising unwholesome act of child theft" and beseeched government intervention.
Governor Sheriff Oborevwori's administration stands indicted in this hall of shame. When the crisis first erupted, he offloaded the burden onto the Ughelli North local government chairman, who in turn punted it to the traditional ruler – a powerless figurehead in the face of organized crime.
Token gestures abound: a ban on "iron scavengers" suspected in some disappearances, an investigative committee headed by an Area Commander, and sporadic arrests of peripheral gang members.
But where are the results? The missing children remain ghosts, their families in perpetual limbo. Child rights advocate Comrade Ighorhiohwunu Aghogho has dragged the Nigerian government to the ECOWAS Community Court just days ago, on September 19, accusing it of complicity through inaction, demanding the activation of a specialized Children Police Unit under the Child Rights Act and the shutdown of unmonitored orphanages.
This is not governance; it is gross negligence, a betrayal of the sacred trust to safeguard the innocent.
Delta's coffers overflow with crude oil billions, yet its children are commodified, sold like chattel – as in the January case of a 15-year-old girl who hawked her own 7-year-old brother to a stranger for cash.
Oborevwori's failure is not mere oversight; it is a moral catastrophe.
While politicians jet to Abuja for photo-ops, Agbarho's parents live in nightly dread, their playgrounds turned hunting grounds for predators. The state's security apparatus, bloated with budgets yet starved of will, has allowed this plague to fester, displacing fear of ritual killings onto a community now policing itself with fire and fury.
How many more must burn – vigilante or victim – before the governor wakes from his torpor?
As the acrid smoke clears from Agbarho's streets, the echoes of that woman's final agony serve as a clarion call: End jungle justice with iron-fisted enforcement. But more urgently, Delta must confront its child theft scourge head-on – flood the area with dedicated task forces, profile and regulate high-risk actors like scavengers and orphanages, and deliver every missing child home alive.
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