The Civil War had just ended, and the country needed a unifying project. The solution was simple yet ambitious: send young Nigerian graduates to regions outside their own, make them live with strangers, teach in schools, work in communities, and, in doing so, foster bonds across Nigeria’s cultural divides. This led to General Yakubu Gowon introducing the National Youth Service Corps (NYSC) in 1973. It was a bold attempt to heal a fractured nation. 

For decades, the NYSC was a rite of passage. Parents watched proudly as their children donned the khaki uniform, while graduates embraced the promise of adventure and service. But 55 years later, that dream is clouded by fear. The scheme that was meant to build bridges now often places young Nigerians in harm’s way.

What becomes questionable is whether the NYSC is a practice that fosters unity or, in fact, only vulnerable people, who were caught between insecurity and a broken system.

This question became painfully urgent last week when a viral video showed a female corps member, Jennifer Edema Elohor, being stripped and flogged by security operatives in Anambra State. Her only “crime” was being at a corps member’s lodge during a raid by a vigilante group called “Agunechemba”. Instead of protection, she and her colleagues were humiliated by those meant to defend them.

Also Read: Lawyer to Sue NYSC Over Withheld Certificate of Corps Member Raye

The Anambra State Government condemned the act almost immediately, promising justice and arresting the group involved. Yet, for many Nigerians, the damage runs deeper. How can a country justify sending its brightest and youngest to “serve” when the very institutions tasked with their safety turn into their abusers?

Jennifer’s ordeal was shocking, but not unusual. Over the years, corps members have faced dangers that were never part of Gowon’s original dream. Some have been kidnapped in states like Zamfara, forced into captivity for ransom. Others have lost their lives in preventable road accidents while travelling to orientation camps, often on treacherous highways. During elections, corps members deployed as ad hoc staff have found themselves in the crossfire of political violence.

For parents, the sight of their children packing bags for NYSC is now bittersweet and a moment of national duty wrapped in a blanket of dread and endless prayers for safety.

If corps members cannot be shielded from terrorists, kidnappers, or even overzealous security operatives, then what remains of the programme’s promise?

Defenders of the NYSC insist it is still relevant. They argue it creates bonds across ethnic lines, exposes graduates to cultures beyond their own, and occasionally opens doors to jobs. For many Nigerians, lifelong friendships and even marriages began in NYSC camps.

However, many are unconvinced. They believe the risks now outweigh the rewards. With insecurity worsening across the country, the scheme feels less like national service and more like an unnecessary gamble with young lives. Because Jennifer’s story could have been anyone’s. Every graduate remembers the moment of boarding a bus to an unfamiliar state, with a small box of belongings and a head full of uncertainty. NYSC is supposed to be a year of growth, exploration, and service. Instead, it is increasingly a year of fear, anxiety, and survival.

If the nation cannot guarantee the safety of its youth in service, it risks more than the collapse of a programme. It risks eroding the fragile trust between the state and its budding leaders. Whether the NYSC scheme has come to stay or not, one thing is clear: it cannot survive on broken trust. Without safety and dignity for those sent to serve, the very purpose of the scheme stands defeated.

Anita Chinedu