Years ago, while driving in Lagos, a police officer stopped me. Nothing unusual. He asked for my vehicle particulars, and I handed them over—perhaps not in the most cheerful manner at first. But somewhere between the routine and the silence, a conversation started. I asked him about his work, just casually, and then I mentioned a name—Olatunji Disu.
At the time, he wasn’t the Inspector-General yet; I believe he was still a Commissioner of Police. But the moment I mentioned the name, something changed in the officer’s expression. “Ah! That man…” he said, almost cutting himself short. Curious, I asked what he meant.
What followed stayed with me. He told me that when he served under Disu in Owo, Ondo State, there was one thing he could never forget: you could not work with him and be hungry. Not because of charity or handouts, but because he genuinely cared about the welfare of the officers under his command. Then, he added something that struck me deeply—he could beat his chest and say that this was a leader who cared.
That immediately reminded me of something a mentor once told me: “You can measure a leader by how much they care about the welfare of their people.” That day, on the roadside, in a conversation I didn’t plan to have, I heard a testimony, not from a podium or a press release, but from someone who had experienced that leadership up close.
When he was eventually appointed Inspector-General of Police, one theme stood out clearly: welfare. And I believed it, not because it sounded good, but because I had already heard the evidence. But beyond words, actions began to follow, and what stood out was not just the actions themselves, but the speed with which they came. In a system where delay is often the norm, responsiveness becomes a language of its own.
One of the earliest signals was symbolic, yet powerful, the decision to organise a proper pulling-out parade for his predecessor, something that had not happened in about 16 years. Institutions are not only built on systems; they are sustained by memory, respect, and continuity, and that moment quietly restored all three.
Beyond symbolism, there were more structural signals. There has been a renewed push around accountability, with a visible willingness to ensure that erring officers are not shielded but disciplined. There has also been a reawakening of channels like the Complaint Response Unit, reinforcing the idea that citizens should not feel voiceless in their encounters with the police. Alongside this is a clear direction toward modernisation, strengthening investigative capacity, embracing technology, and repositioning policing to be more intelligence-led than force-driven.
Aside from these developments, there has also been public conversation around the legality of tenure, particularly in light of existing age and compulsory retirement provisions within the service. However, the Police Act 2020 introduced a defining shift. Section 7(6) provides that the Inspector-General of Police shall hold office for a term of four years, establishing a fixed tenure framework that differs from the traditional retirement structure.
In many ways, this reflects an attempt to balance institutional continuity with leadership stability. And while such interpretations may continue to generate debate, what often matters most is not just the legal framework itself, but how the time it creates is used. In this instance, the focus has remained less on tenure and more on direction, how leadership translates time in office into action, presence, and measurable signals of change.
Beyond these structural efforts, there has also been a pattern of presence. In moments of crisis, leadership has not remained distant. From visits to places like Jos and Kwara following incidents of violence, there has been a visible effort to show up, not just as a figurehead, but as a steadying presence in difficult times. In a country where communities often feel abandoned in the aftermath of tragedy, such gestures carry weight. They signal attention, urgency, and a willingness to engage realities on the ground rather than from afar. Sometimes, presence itself becomes a form of reassurance, both to officers on duty and to citizens watching closely.
Then came a moment that, for me, brought everything into perspective. I watched him oversee the disbursement of funds to families of fallen officers, and as I did, something unexpected happened; I found myself emotional. Yes, the funds were not his personally, but leadership is not just about ownership; it is about priority. He could have delayed it or treated it as routine, but he didn’t, and that mattered.
I watched widows and families step forward, each carrying a weight that words cannot fully capture. One woman, in particular, struggled to receive her cheque, not because it was heavy, but because she was overwhelmed with emotion. That moment said more than any speech ever could. It was a reminder that beyond the uniform, beyond the structure, beyond the system, there are people, and in that moment, they were seen.
Perhaps, this is where the conversation about reform truly begins. This year’s National Police Day, held on April 7, 2026, at Eagle Square, Abuja, carried a theme that feels less like a slogan and more like a direction: “Community Partnership: Building Trust.” When placed alongside these actions—welfare, accountability, institutional respect, responsiveness, and presence- it begins to feel less like ambition and more like alignment.
Trust is not declared; it is built slowly and consistently. When an officer feels cared for, he carries himself differently. When he feels seen, he is more likely to see others. When accountability becomes real internally, credibility begins to form externally. What we may be witnessing is not just administrative change, but the early signs of a cultural shift, the kind that cannot be forced, only lived.
In the end, the relationship between the police and the people will not be repaired by announcements. It will be rebuilt through moments, moments like a roadside conversation, moments like a widow being seen, moments residents feel safe in their communities, and each time they spot police officers, moments where leadership moves from position to presence. And perhaps that is where real reform begins, not when it is declared, but when it is felt.
Adeniran Bamisaye writes from Lagos
