The faint mechanical buzz that drifted across Ejiba, a community in Yagba West Area of Kogi State, sometime between 8 and 9 a.m. on Sunday, was unusual enough to make residents look up. In this agrarian settlement, morning sounds usually come from grinding cassava mills or the call to prayer β not the high-pitched hum of aerospace technology.
At first, villagers assumed the device was harmless β perhaps a wedding videographer testing equipment. But as the sound lingered, moving slowly and deliberately across the sky, a sense of unease began to settle. The drone wasnβt passing through; it was circling. It was watching.
Minutes later, armed men stormed the Cherubim and Seraphim Church, where worshippers were deep in prayer. Guided, it seemed, by the invisible eyes above, the attackers abducted the pastor, his wife, and several congregants before melting into the surrounding bush.
For locals, the connection was unmistakable: the drone was the scout; the gunmen were the infantry.
But for the Kogi State Government, the immediate concern appeared not to be how bandits launched a drone-assisted operation in the heart of Nigeria, but why the church held its service βin a bush.β In a statement confirming the attack, Commissioner for Information Kingsley Fanwo queried the churchβs location and warned residents to βapply wisdom.β
His remarks revealed a troubling disconnect between official rhetoric and the sophistication of emerging threats.
The Ejiba attack is among the clearest indications yet that Nigeriaβs insecurity has entered a more advanced phase β one defined by aerial surveillance, operational mobility, and a renewed appetite for symbolic targets.
And it was only one chapter in a weekend of coordinated desecration.
A Weeken
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