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<p>By Ismail Auwal</p><div class="fcyqjkvF" style="clear:both;float:left;width:100%;margin:0 0 20px 0;"><script async src="https://pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js"></script>

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<p>For politicians, even death is just another game—a stage to manipulate, a tool to wield. In Rimin Zakara, the dead did not just die. They were killed—not by accident, not by fate, but by the recklessness of a government that never saw them as lives worth protecting.</p><div class="u2KvjPKU" style="clear:both;float:left;width:100%;margin:0 0 20px 0;"><script async src="https://pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js"></script>

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<p>The recent violence in Rimin Zakara, which claimed innocent lives, was not an unforeseen disaster. It was the inevitable consequence of political negligence, a system that thrives on the oppression of the poor while securing the comfort of the powerful. When the demolition exercises sparked clashes between security forces and civilians, it was not just buildings that were destroyed—it was lives, futures, and hope.</p>
<p>Their only crime? Being poor. A poverty not of their choosing, but one crafted, sustained, and imposed by the very leaders who now twist their deaths into political spectacle. NNPP and APC, two opposing parties have since flooded the grieving community, parading their concern, handing out money, and making empty promises—all while ensuring their own hands remain clean of bloodstains.</p>
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<p>To make it even more painful, the state governor—whose duty it is to protect all citizens—shamelessly admitted to the mourning community that he had never even heard of the name Rimin Zakara before the tragic incident. A revelation that speaks volumes about the level of neglect and abandonment the poor endure. The past governor, who ruled the state for eight years, never once cared to know about their existence until now, when he, too, saw an opportunity to play his game. And yet, the most heartbreaking sight of all? The poor residents, instead of rejecting these opportunistic politicians, clapped their hands and jubilated at the sight of them, as though the architects of their suffering were their saviors.</p>
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<p>Somewhere, a mother still sets an extra plate at the table, forgetting her child will never come home. A father stares blankly at the spot where his son once stood, his hands trembling with grief and rage. But soon, the families will be forced to move on. Not because they have healed, but because poverty does not allow the luxury of prolonged mourning.<br />
Meanwhile, the politicians—the ones who signed off on the policies that led to these deaths—continue shaking hands, making speeches, and playing their endless, soulless games. </p>
<p>The same system that allowed this tragedy to unfold will recycle itself, ensuring that, in time, another Rimin Zakara will emerge. Another community will grieve. Another set of families will be forced to smile for the cameras while their pain is buried under empty sympathies and political calculations.</p>
<p>The saddest part? This is not a tragedy. This is routine. This is Nigeria.</p>
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