Every year, we flood social media with smiling pictures, colourful uniforms, dancing school children, and cheerful “Happy Children’s Day” messages. We post captions about the future. We celebrate innocence. We organize events. Politicians make speeches.
But somewhere in this same country, there are children who cannot celebrate.
Children whose names have become fading posters on walls.
Children trapped in kidnappers’ dens, terrified, hungry, beaten, and praying for someone to find them.
Children who disappeared on their way to school, church, or the market and never returned home.
And somehow, life just continued.
That is perhaps the most painful part of it all.
The speed with which society moves on after tragedy has become deeply disturbing. A kidnapping trends for a few days. People express outrage. Hashtags fly around. Television stations discuss it briefly. Then another topic arrives. Another celebrity scandal. Another political fight.
And the children are forgotten.
Just recently in Oyo State, gunmen invaded schools in Oriire Local Government Area, abducting dozens of pupils, students, and teachers. One of the teachers, identified as Michael Oyedokun, was reportedly killed in captivity, while another teacher, Adesiyan Adegboye, was murdered during the attack. The horrifying incident shook Nigerians briefly before the country slowly returned to its usual routine.
But for the families involved, life did not move on.
Some parents are still unable to sleep peacefully. Some children are still traumatised. Some families are still waiting for their loved ones to return home alive. The grief remains fresh long after public attention disappears.
And that is the tragedy of Nigeria today: horror has become temporary news.
Politicians continue their power games. Campaign posters go up. Convoys speed through potholes. Luxury parties continue. Public office holders argue over elections and positions while ordinary Nigerians quietly carry unbearable pain.
And even among the people, there is often silence. Not because the pain is not real, but because many have become emotionally exhausted. Some only pay attention when tragedy touches someone close to them. Others have normalized horror because survival itself already feels difficult enough.
Still, there is something terribly wrong with becoming comfortable in a society where children are unsafe.
What exactly are we celebrating on Children’s Day when fear has become part of childhood in Nigeria?
How do we smile through ceremonies when some parents do not even know where their children are sleeping tonight?
How do we call children “leaders of tomorrow” when many cannot safely make it home from school today?
This is not to say children should never be celebrated. They absolutely should. They deserve joy, protection, education, peace, and hope. But maybe Children’s Day should also force us into uncomfortable reflection.
Maybe beyond the colourful outfits and speeches, it should become a national moment of mourning for the children we have failed.
A moment to ask difficult questions.
Why are schools still vulnerable?
Why do kidnapping stories now feel routine?
Why has accountability become so rare?
Why do we recover from national outrage so quickly while victims remain trapped in trauma forever?
Because the truth is this: a society that cannot protect its children is a society already bleeding from within.
And until every child can sleep safely without fear of abduction, exploitation, violence, or disappearance, celebrations will continue to feel incomplete.
Children’s Day should not only be about balloons and matching clothes.
It should also be about conscience.
It should remind us that somewhere tonight, a child is crying for help in darkness while the world scrolls past another headline.
And that should break every one of us.