As a boy in secondary school, like many restless teenagers, I dreamt of what I might become someday. My imagination traveled wide: doctor, lawyer, journalist, teacher but never once did I see myself as a soldier. It wasn’t out of disrespect for the profession or ignorance of its prestige. No. The idea of being a soldier simply terrified me. Something deep within, perhaps an extra X chromosome in my emotional wiring, whispered that I was not built for that life of rigid duty, harsh command, and emotional detachment.
In school, many of my friends fantasized about wearing khaki. It was a dream woven with admiration for discipline, courage, and the honor of defending a nation. But I understood where the attraction came from. Boarding school itself was a military simulation — seniors barking orders, punishments masquerading as “training,” and the hierarchy enforced with a kind of militant pride. To be respected, one had to act like a soldier. We were constantly commanded to kneel, crawl, or run errands to prove our loyalty. That endless cycle of control, domination, and forced obedience planted in me a quiet resistance. I could never love a life that looked like my worst days in school.
I had a friend then, Baba Alhaji — rugged, loud, and always ready for a fight. He dreamt passionately of becoming a soldier. To him, it was glory. Today, ironically, he is the calmest of us all, proof that people can evolve beyond what they once admired. But even now, I recall an uncle of mine who used to say he would rather grind pepper at home for a living than serve in an army that would keep him away from his family and freedom. His words, simple as they were, carried profound wisdom.
Growing up, my image of soldiers was that of men sculpted in iron: strong, fearless, daring, sometimes even aggressive. The world expects soldiers to be that way — emotionless, reactive, commanding. What ordinary society calls anger or arrogance becomes, in the barracks, a symbol of bravery. It’s almost as if soldiers must shed their humanity to wear their uniform. Some even believe, whether myth or truth, that recruits are given substances to heighten aggression in order to replace fear with fury.
And yet, beneath that armor of authority lies a troubling question: how does a soldier, trained to react without hesitation, live peacefully at home where love demands patience, empathy, and emotional restraint? How does one turn off the instincts that war and training have sharpened?
Recent news has only deepened that fear. The story of a young woman accused of setting her army husband ablaze after five months of marriage shocked the nation. In her tearful defense, she insisted it was an accident. She recounted how their marriage had been marred by violence and threats. How fuel spilled in their store, how a lighter sparked tragedy. Her husband, she claimed, forgave her on his deathbed. Whether one believes her or not, her story echoes a recurring anxiety about life behind military marriages: the struggle between discipline and domestic peace, command and compassion.
And just when the nation was still processing that story, another broke — a soldier in Niger State shot his wife dead before turning the gun on himself. His name: Lance Corporal Femi Akinleye. His story: another reminder that those trained to protect can sometimes destroy what they love most.
But it isn’t just the army. Police officers too have been caught in similar tragedies — pulling the trigger over mere arguments or minor bribes, sometimes for as little as two hundred naira. These are not just crimes; they are emotional collapses — moments when the power to protect mutates into the impulse to harm.
Daniel Goleman, in his groundbreaking work Emotional Intelligence, argues that “what really matters for success, character, happiness, and lifelong achievements is a definite set of emotional skills — your EQ, not just your IQ.” Sadly, in our security institutions, emotional intelligence is rarely part of the training curriculum. We teach our soldiers to fight enemies but not to manage anger, fear, or love. We celebrate their strength in war but neglect their fragility at home.
This contradiction is profound. How do we ask a soldier to be emotionally reactive on the battlefield but emotionally restrained at home? The human mind is not a switch that toggles easily between war and tenderness. As psychologist Philip Zimbardo demonstrated in his famous Stanford Prison Experiment, people tend to internalize the power and aggression of their roles, even in simulated environments. What then happens to those who live that reality daily?
Perhaps that’s why many civilians fear soldiers, not just for their guns but for what their uniforms represent — unchecked authority. Stories abound of soldiers punishing civilians over trivial misunderstandings, of tempers flaring faster than reason. I once witnessed a man forced to do frog jumps near Anguwar Rogo security post in Jos, Plateau state for nothing more than “looking too long” at a soldier. Such moments reveal how authority, when combined with emotional fragility, can become oppression.
Yet it doesn’t have to be this way. In more advanced societies, soldiers are not feared but respected. They smile, wave, and assist civilians with warmth. They are trained not just to fight wars but to manage emotions. Their power is guided by conscience. Their discipline extends beyond the battlefield into their humanity.
So, what is wrong in our case? Why do we produce warriors who cannot find peace within themselves?
The truth is that while nations rely on soldiers for protection, those same nations often fail to protect the soldiers from their own emotions. When bravery is glorified without balance, it breeds brokenness. When aggression becomes a badge of honor, compassion dies quietly. Soldiers, too, are humans — sons, husbands, fathers and without emotional education, they carry their battles home.
Emotional control is not weakness; it is strength refined by wisdom. Every soldier, every police officer, every protector of peace must learn that power without restraint is destruction in uniform.
And perhaps, before anyone asks how safe it is to marry a soldier, we should first ask: how safe is it to train men to fight wars without teaching them how to love?
Bagudu can be reached at bagudumohammed15197@gmail.com or on 0703 494 3575.
