Law and order do not begin at the police station or the courthouse; they begin at home, in the quiet corners where parents teach their children right from wrong. When this foundation cracks, society inherits the fallout.

As a police officer, I’ve witnessed this truth play out in heartbreaking ways—parents arrive at stations, not with pleas for justice, but with demands for us to parent for them. “I want you to detain my child, I want you to discipline him.” “Torture him,” as though pain alone could rewrite a life long gone astray.

A retired soldier once came into my office in Ago Iwoye, demanding we kill his son, a university student arrested for cultism. His rage was volcanic. Yet, the very next day, that same man returned, food in hand, asking after his son’s well-being. When I joked, “So you don’t want us to kill him again?” his eyes betrayed a truth every parent knows: anger is often the flipside of helpless love.

Years later, I met that young man again in Shagamu. He’d survived his schooling, married, and become a father himself. When I asked if he’d ever want his daughter near cultism, his “No!” was instant.

Another father once begged us to help keep his drug-addicted son for weeks. “Keep him here,” he insisted. We refused—not out of indifference, but because cells are not rehabilitation centres. If anything were to happen to the boy, or if he escaped, who would the father blame? The police. Yet discipline cannot be outsourced. It must be nurtured, patiently and persistently, at home.

This brings me to a delicate truth: many of us grew up in an era where parents and teachers wielded firmer hands. My own father believed in the “reset button” of a good beating—a method he swore straightened my stubbornness (and yes, I laugh about it now). Teachers, too, disciplined freely, with canes and stern words. But times have changed.

Today, some see corporal punishment as archaic, even abusive. I am not here to debate methods—what worked for one generation may not work for another. What matters is engagement.

The problem today isn’t a lack of discipline; it’s a lack of presence. Parents once corrected their children directly, even if harshly. Some have handed that duty to strangers—teachers, police, and social workers. But no institution can replace a parent’s guidance. A child raised without boundaries at home will test them elsewhere—in cults, drug dens, or crime.

To be clear: I am not discouraging parents from reporting wayward children. If your son steals or your daughter vanishes, come to us. We will help. But do not confuse reporting with surrendering. When you hand us your child and say, “Fix them,” you misunderstand our role. We enforce laws; we cannot replace love. We investigate crimes; we cannot teach values.

The retired soldier’s son changed not because we jailed him, but because his father chose to fight for him, not against him.

Parents, hear me: society’s fabric is woven in your living rooms, at your dinner tables, in the quiet moments when you choose patience over fury, presence over absence. The police cannot replace your voice. We cannot instil the values you withhold. Our cells are not classrooms; handcuffs are not teaching tools. When you outsource parenting to the state, you gamble with life—and with the peace of communities.

Yes, parenthood is hard. It is exhausting, thankless, and often terrifying. But it is also sacred. Your children watch how you love, how you forgive, and how you rise after failing. They notice when you prioritize work over conversations, screens over eye contact, and fear over understanding. The boy who joins a cult, and the girl who slips into addiction—they are not born rebels. They are shaped by unmet needs, unheard cries, and lessons left untaught.

To the father who sees his son slipping away: Stay. To the mother who feels out of her depth: Ask for help. To the parent who thinks it’s too late: It isn’t. Discipline without love breeds resentment, but love without discipline breeds entitlement. Find the balance.

My generation’s parents were far from perfect, but they owned their role as first teachers. They scolded, they punished, and they stayed. I urge present parents to do the same—not with the harshness of the past, but with the wisdom of your own heart. Meet your children where they are. Listen. Correct and love.

I write this not as a Commissioner of Police, but as a witness. I’ve seen the worst of humanity—and the best. I’ve watched reformed cultists become devoted fathers. I’ve seen shattered families rebuild. Let us embrace hope and commit to being the first lawmakers in our homes.