The events at the Lagos State House of Assembly on February 17, 2025, were more than just another political crisis; they were a moment of dangerous miscalculation that put both the reputation of the Department of State Services (DSS) and the lives of its field operatives at unnecessary risk. As a psychologist and writer, I am not here to take sides but to raise an important concern—one that should trouble even the most hardened defenders of the DSS. The viral video footage does not lie. It captured DSS operatives in the kind of physically vulnerable, life-threatening situation that an elite force should never find itself in. These were not inexperienced recruits; they were trained officers of a national security agency who suddenly found themselves struggling for breath, pinned between determined lawmakers and legislative workers pushing forward against them. Their faces—half-covered by helmets, masks soaked in sweat—showed visible distress. Their bodies were strained under the pressure of the confrontation. And as the tide of lawmakers pressed forward, those officers were seconds away from being completely overpowered.

And so, I ask, what if one of them had not made it out?

What if a DSS officer had collapsed from exhaustion, suffocated in the heat of the struggle?

What if a law enforcement operative had suffered serious injury from the physical force of the crowd?

What if the lawmakers, in the heat of frustration, had retaliated more aggressively?

What if an officer, under extreme stress, had reacted with force that escalated into violence?

This is not speculation. This is exactly what was set into motion on that day. This was not a strategic operation; this was a dangerous misjudgment, one that could have turned fatal within seconds. And that should concern the DSS more than anything else. Because while politicians play their games, it is always the men on the ground—the uniformed officers—who bear the real consequences.

The official statement from the Lagos Assembly, signed by Ogundipe Olukayode, Chairman of the House Committee on Information, Strategy, and Security, confirmed what Nigerians already knew:

Yes, the DSS was invited to provide security—but not to invade the chamber.

Yes, the Clerk requested their presence—but not to seal the Speaker’s office.

Yes, there were security concerns—but on that day, the DSS itself became the biggest threat.

How did an elite security force—an agency feared for its intelligence, operational precision, and enforcement power—allow itself to be turned into the story? The DSS is supposed to neutralize threats before they escalate, yet this time, it became the crisis. Instead of being the force that ensured peace, DSS operatives were physically caught in a power struggle, outnumbered, overwhelmed, and left struggling against the force of a determined Assembly. This is not how an elite force should operate.

There are bigger questions DSS leadership must now answer. Who made the call to position these officers in such a confrontational stance? Who in DSS believed that physically blocking lawmakers from their own chamber would not lead to open resistance? Who in command failed to anticipate that emotions would flare, that the situation would escalate, and that the officers placed at the doors could be trapped in a physical struggle that endangered their own safety?

If the DSS’s true mission was security enforcement, how did it end up in direct physical conflict with lawmakers and Assembly workers? If DSS officers were meant to prevent instability, why were they the ones visibly struggling, unable to maintain control, and ultimately being forced out?

Because the truth is, this was not a strategic operation. This was a tactical failure.

And what was achieved? Despite deploying DSS operatives, sealing the Speaker’s office, blocking the chamber doors, and physically engaging with lawmakers—nothing was stopped.

The Speaker, Mojisola Meranda, still presided.

The lawmakers still convened.

The Assembly still held its session.

Democracy still went on.

And DSS? What did they gain?

If the goal was to stop the session, it failed.

If the goal was to scare the lawmakers, it failed.

If the goal was to prove dominance, it failed.

Instead, DSS officers were physically overpowered, outnumbered, and exhausted, forced to retreat from a battle they should never have been sent into. What was the real objective here? And at what cost

DSS is not a riot squad. DSS is not a political enforcement agency. DSS is not a tool for individual interests. It is an elite security force, designed to protect national stability, not to be thrown into politically motivated conflicts that leave its own officers gasping for air at the doors of an Assembly building.

This incident should serve as a serious warning. It was not just a failure of tactics—it was a failure of leadership within DSS. It was a reckless deployment of operatives, without a clear strategy to ensure their success or safety. The officers involved were placed in harm’s way, while those who issued the orders watched from a distance.

This time, the officers walked away.

But next time?

Next time, the outcome may not be so fortunate.

Next time, someone may not survive the encounter.

Next time, no politician, no government official, and no DSS commander will take responsibility.

And that is why DSS must rethink its approach now. Not because of political pressure. Not because of public scrutiny. But because the lives of its own officers are at stake. No security force should be put in a position where it becomes the crisis instead of the solution. No law enforcement agent should be forced into a battle they were never meant to fight.

DSS must ask itself: Is this what we have become? Are we an agency that strategically ensures security, or one that blindly walks into chaos without a plan?

The time to rethink tactics is now. Because next time, the cost may be irreversible.