By Lemmy Ughegbe, Ph.D
There are moments in the life of a nation when leadership is not measured by eloquence, not even by policy declarations, but by presence.
Not the distant, choreographed presence that satisfies protocol, but the raw, uncomfortable, human presence that walks into grief, sits with pain, and looks tragedy in the eye.
The recent so-called condolence visit to Jos, following the horrific killings in Angwan Rukuba, raises a troubling question that goes beyond politics and into the very meaning of leadership: what exactly constitutes a condolence visit?
When murderous men invade a community, slaughter defenceless citizens, and leave families shattered, the expectation of the state is not symbolic convenience. It is moral proximity.
A condolence visit is not an administrative errand executed from the safety of an airport lounge. It is an act of national mourning embodied in the physical movement of leadership into the heart of tragedy. It is where power meets pain.
So one must ask, without malice but with necessary clarity: what manner of condolence visit takes place at the airport? Was the airport the site where blood was spilt? Was it where the wounded lay, struggling between life and death? Was it where mothers wept over the lifeless bodies of their children? Or has grief now been relocated to tarmacs for the convenience of officialdom?
Globally, the standards are neither ambiguous nor negotiable. When tragedy strikes, leaders go to where the pain lives. In the United States, presidents have stood in school halls where children were killed, met parents whose lives were permanently altered, and visited hospitals where survivors fight for breath.
In the United Kingdom, prime ministers have walked through communities scarred by terror, standing shoulder to shoulder with grieving citizens, not above them, not away from them. These are acknowledgements that leadership must be seen to share in the burden of loss.
A proper condolence visit is intimate, even when public. It is solemn, even when brief. It involves meeting the bereaved, often behind closed doors, where cameras are absent, and humanity is present.
It requires visiting the injured, offering words that may not heal, but at least recognise suffering. It demands symbolic acts that communicate a nation’s shared grief. Above all, it calls for reassurance that the state understands, cares, and will act.
What we witnessed, however, falls disturbingly short of this standard. An airport stopover, no matter how well intentioned, cannot substitute for the moral weight of standing in Angwan Rukuba. It cannot replicate the impact of holding the hands of those who lost everything.
It cannot convey the depth of empathy required in the aftermath of such brutality. Instead, it risks appearing as a gesture designed to tick a box rather than touch a wound.
And symbolism matters. In governance, perception is often as powerful as action. An airport is a place of transit.
It suggests movement, not commitment; departure, not presence. To locate a condolence visit within such a space inadvertently communicates distance from the very grief it seeks to acknowledge. It sends an unintended but unmistakable message that the pain of the people can be addressed without truly encountering it.
Governance is not without its constraints. Security considerations are real. Logistical complexities exist. The office of the President is not that of an ordinary citizen who can move freely without risk. These realities must be acknowledged, but they cannot justify diminishing the essence of leadership.
Indeed, the Presidency has since explained the decision to receive victims at the airport.
According to presidential aides, the President’s schedule was disrupted by a prolonged bilateral security engagement. At the same time, logistical constraints, including limited flight windows and operational challenges, made a full visit to the affected community difficult within the available time.
These are not trivial considerations and deserve acknowledgement. Yet, even within these constraints, the question persists: should logistical limitations redefine the moral expectations of leadership in moments of national grief?
Where direct presence is difficult, extraordinary effort must be made to approximate it as closely as possible. Anything less risks eroding public trust.
What then should a condolence visit in such a circumstance look like? It should begin with a deliberate journey to the affected community, however brief. It should include engagement with victims’ families, not as a public spectacle but as a genuine encounter.
It should extend to hospitals where survivors are receiving treatment. It should involve consultations with community leaders and security agencies, not merely for optics but for action. And it should culminate in a clear articulation of steps to prevent recurrence and ensure justice.
Anything short of this reduces a condolence visit to a performance, a script read without emotional investment. It becomes what many citizens recognise as governance by optics, where appearances are carefully curated while substance quietly recedes.
This is why the characterisation of the visit as “just like Balablu” resonates beyond humour. It captures a deeper frustration with a pattern of communication that often appears disconnected from lived realities.
It reflects growing impatience with gestures that seem to prioritise image over impact. It is, in essence, a citizen’s shorthand for perceived insincerity.
But this moment should not merely be an occasion for criticism. It should be an opportunity for reflection.
Leadership, especially at the highest level, carries not only authority but also the responsibility to embody the nation’s conscience.
In times of tragedy, citizens do not expect perfection. They expect presence. They expect empathy that is visible, tangible, and undeniable.
The people of Angwan Rukuba did not need a visit to an airport. They needed their President to come to them, to stand where their loved ones fell, to see what they saw, and to feel, even if briefly, what they feel daily.
They needed reassurance that their pain had reached the highest office in the land, not as a report, but as a reality encountered.
There is a lesson here that extends beyond this incident. In a country grappling with insecurity, economic strain, and social fragmentation, the symbolic actions of leadership carry immense weight.
They shape narratives, influence trust, and define the relationship between the state and its citizens. When these actions fall short, the consequences are not merely political. They are deeply psychological.
A condolence visit that does not reach the grieving, does not touch the wounded, and does not confront the site of tragedy is not a condolence visit. It is a political appearance. And in moments of profound loss, political appearances are not enough.
Nigeria deserves leadership that understands this distinction. Leadership that knows that in the face of bloodshed, presence is not optional. It is essential.
Dr Lemmy Ughegbe, FIMC, CMC
lemmyughegbeofficial@gmail.com
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