The Pacesetter Frontier Magazine

Category: Opinion

  • The Schools’ Graduation Ban

    The Schools’ Graduation Ban

    -By Abdul Mahmud

    A few States have announced the ban on graduation ceremonies in public and private schools. Ekiti State, in particular, the ban affects pupils in kindergarten, nursery, primary, and secondary schools. These states say the practice is unnecessary, costly, and distracting. They insist that schools should focus on learning rather than ceremonies. On the surface, the ban sounds like discipline. In reality, it raises troubling questions about constitutionality, overreach, and the role of the State in shaping childhood experiences. At its heart, this ban is about memory. For many parents, school celebrations are not frivolous things. They are part of the social fabric. In the 1970s and 1980s, primary schools’ leavers were sent forth with assemblies, plays, prize-givings, and little parties. The schools gathered to applaud their efforts. Parents brought food and drinks. Teachers gave certificates of merit and School Leaving Certificates were handed out to pupils who performed plays and dances in turn. There was no degree involved. No official qualification. Yet, it was an important rite of passage. Those ceremonies marked a transition. From childhood to adolescence. From primary to secondary. From one stage of life to the next.

    That is why the ban cuts deep. It tells families and children that memory and joy do not matter. It tells them that the state knows best how childhood should be experienced. It puts the government’s heavy hand where it should not be. The 1999 Constitution provides a clear framework for the limits of state power. Section 36 guarantees the right to freedom of thought, conscience, and expression. Section 40 protects freedom of assembly and association. Section 42 guarantees freedom from discrimination. The ban raises issues under these provisions. If parents, teachers, and pupils freely choose to organise an end-of-school celebration, does the state have the power to stop them? Is that not a violation of freedom of assembly? When the state prevents children and families from gathering to mark milestones, is it not infringing on rights that the Constitution protects? Supporters of the ban argue that many schools abuse the idea of graduation. They impose heavy financial levies on parents. They turn ceremonies into money-making events. They stage elaborate occasions, with expensive clothes and pageantry. There is truth in this complaint. Some schools exploit parents’ desire to celebrate their children. But is banning the answer? Must the government always reach for the instrument of ban when regulation or guidance could suffice? Couldn’t the states simply issue rules to prevent exploitation? A cap on levies. A code of conduct. A requirement that participation be voluntary. Instead, it reached for the axe.

    This is not the first time our states have chosen prohibition over engagement. We live under governments that see control as the first reflex – a certain reflexivity which lies at the heart of ill-thought public policy. From banning Okadas to banning street processions to banning social gatherings, the instinct is the same: to stop, not to guide. But societies evolve. And when they evolve, governments should respond with care, not with bans.

    But, how did we get to this point? In the 1970s and 1980s, our country was different. Schools were simpler. Communities were close-knit, and tighter. Parents came to watch their children march or perform a drama on the last day of school. Nobody called it a graduation. Yet, it was a celebration of achievement. These small events mattered. They created memories that stayed with children long into adulthood. They gave children a sense of recognition. A sense that their efforts were noticed. Fast forward to today. Society has changed. Education is more competitive. Families want to acknowledge their children’s progress. Celebrations have become more elaborate. Some are excessive. Some are modest. But at the root, they are about joy. A child leaves the crèche for nursery; and then for primary school. A girl completes junior secondary and moves to senior secondary. A boy finishes his WAEC examinations. Parents want to mark these steps. They are not trivial. They are phases in a child’s growth.

    So the question arises: are these States responding to this evolution in the wrong way? Should governments tell families how to celebrate their children? Should they insist that childhood must be stripped of public markers of achievement? When governments deny children these moments, they risk creating a sterile environment where joy is suspect. This is why the ban feels cruel. It is not about education. It is about control. The state says: “We know what is best for your child”. Parents and proprietors of schools say: “We know how to mark our children’s and pupils’ growth”. The Constitution sides with parents and proprietors, not with arbitrary public policies and the whimsical actions of States’ governors. Unless a celebration violates public order, governments have no business forbidding it.

    Critics will say, “But children are underage. They do not decide for themselves”. That is true. But parents and guardians do. And under Nigerian law, parents have rights to bring up their children in line with their values. The state should not interfere except where harm is clear. There is no harm in a modest school celebration. There is only joy.

    To humanise this debate, we return to Ado-Ekiti and see the folly of the ban through the eyes of a ten-year-old girl, or picture it in the experience of an eight-year-old child in Orlu. She has finished primary school. She has worked hard. She has learned to read and write. She has made friends. On the last day, she expects a party. A small event where she will sing a song, receive a prize, and take photographs with her classmates. That memory will carry her forward. It will give her confidence as she enters secondary school. Now, imagine telling her: “No. There will be no party. No gathering. The government says it is banned”. What message does that send? That her effort is invisible? That joy must be regulated? That memory must be denied? What memory will that leave her with? What does she learn from this? That her progress is unworthy of celebration? That even childhood joy lies at the mercy of state decrees?

    This is not trivial. Psychologists remind us that rites of passage are essential to human growth. They help children make sense of transitions. They provide closure and anticipation. They bind communities together. By banning them, the state undermines children’s social and emotional development. But, the larger issue is constitutional in my estimation. Our country is a federation. States have powers to administer schools. But those powers are not unlimited. They do not have authority to outlaw private gatherings of parents and children in schools. When they do so, they trespass into rights protected by the Constitution. They mistake administration for ownership. This is the heart of the problem. Our states often behave like masters of society rather than servants of it. They imagine they can dictate how citizens live their lives. But, governments exist to enable, not to disable. To guide, not to control. To facilitate joy, not to ban it.

    The schools’ graduation ban is a small example of a larger malaise. The creeping idea that the state is wiser than the society. That citizens cannot be trusted to organise their lives. That every excess must be met with prohibition. It is a philosophy of fear. And it is wrong.

    What should be done instead?

    Governments can regulate without banning. They can set rules to stop exploitation, and to enthrone the regime of transparency in levies. They can encourage modesty in celebrations. They can even partner with communities to make events educational as well as joyful. Plays that teach history. Prizes that reward academic excellence. Speeches that inspire. That is how societies evolve. By guidance, not by prohibition. Come to think of it, how do governments that inaugurate every flyover and bridge with extravagant fanfare, that turn ribbon-cuttings into carnivals, and that dress up the most routine achievements as if they were feats of civilisation, suddenly presume to teach parents restraint? Is this not hypocrisy dressed as virtue? The same officials who convert public duty into private spectacle now lecture families about the dangers of celebrating their children. It is the old parable of the physician who refuses to heal himself. For what is more excessive, parents buying cake and fabric to mark the passage of childhood, or governments spending millions to stage ceremonies for projects already funded by taxpayers?

    Truth be told, this is not just about graduation ceremonies. It is about how governments see  citizens as children to be placed under control? Or as partners to be engaged? If the former, then bans will multiply. If the latter, then society will flourish.

    Those governors rubbing their hands in premature triumph should stop and reflect on the shortsightedness of such a ban. Childhood is short. Memory is precious. Education is not just about books. It is also about community, recognition, and joy.  States’ governors that deny this deny their own future. For today’s children will remember. And what they will remember is whether their society celebrated them, or silenced their joy. Think.

  • Africa’s Debt Paradox: Rising Liabilities vs Stalled Development – Why Borrowing Has Not Delivered Growth

    Africa’s Debt Paradox: Rising Liabilities vs Stalled Development – Why Borrowing Has Not Delivered Growth

    By Dr. Okelue David Ugwunta 

    Africa’s mounting debt crisis reveals a troubling paradox: a continent rich in natural wealth yet burdened by rising liabilities, infrastructure gaps, persistent poverty, and weak institutions. From Ghana’s prolonged debt distress to Nigeria’s liabilities consuming 75% of revenue alongside $24.14 billion in external borrowing—the pattern is clear: borrowing without transformation. In contrast, Rwanda has deployed debt more strategically, echoing Asian success stories like South Korea, Singapore, and China, where disciplined investment turned liabilities into engines of growth. Although Rwanda’s debt-to-GDP ratio surged from 20% in 2010 to over 80% in 2025 triggering a Fitch downgrade its borrowings have been capitalized into infrastructure, health, and technology, anchored by long-term planning and relatively strong governance. The contrast is stark: while African giants struggle with rising debt and limited returns, Rwanda and Asia demonstrate that, under the right conditions, debt can drive growth. The central question for Africa is no longer whether to borrow, but why decades of borrowing have failed to deliver sustained prosperity and what lessons can be drawn to rewrite the continent’s debt path in line with productivity.

    2.0 Public Debt vs Growth Productivity: Africa vs Asia

    The “Debt Productivity Index” (DPI), an analytical construct using debt-to-GDP and GDP per capita growth, captures the correlation between debt and productivity.

    Nigeria’s debt-to-GDP ratio rose from 39.1% in 1989 to 56.6% in 1990, then declined to 39.4% in Q1 2025 after GDP rebasing. Yet Nigeria’s DPI has steadily declined, mirroring Ghana’s trajectory despite Ghana’s debt-to-GDP peaking above 80% in the mid-2010s and again in 2023–2024. Rwanda’s debt-to-GDP rose from 20% in 2010 to over 80% in 2025, but its DPI shows a corresponding positive increase. This mirrors patterns in South Korea, Singapore, and China. For example, South Korea’s debt-to-GDP is forecast to reach 53.6% by 2028, China’s to 110% by 2029, and Singapore’s to 175% in 2025. These countries demonstrate that rising debt, when tied to productivity, can yield transformative outcomes.

    3.0 Africa’s Debt Landscape

    Over the past 15 years, Africa’s debt has surged. The Sub-Saharan Africa median debt-to-GDP ratio reached 60% in 2025—double the 30% recorded in 2010. Nigeria’s 2025 ratio of 45% sits below the continental average, while Ghana’s exceeds 80%. Sudan remains in chronic debt distress, unable to regain international creditworthiness.

    Africa’s debt structure is increasingly dependent on external borrowing—Eurobonds and bilateral loans from China. Domestic debt markets remain shallow, constrained by weak savings and fragile financial systems. Global shocks, commodity price volatility, and interest rate hikes have pushed many African countries into unsustainable debt service positions.

    4.0 The Debt Paradox in Africa: Rwanda as an Outlier

    Africa’s paradox is multifaceted: resource-rich yet fiscally distressed, attracting financial inflows but suffering from debt overhang. The continent faces power shortages, food insecurity, and illicit financial flows exceeding $89 billion annually. Debt servicing diverts funds from health, education, and infrastructure, undermining human capital and deterring investment.

    Rwanda stands apart. Its long-term plans such as Vision 2050 focus on productivity-enhancing investments in transport, ICT, and health. Stronger governance and alignment with donors and multilaterals rationalize its debt-to-GDP climb to over 80% in 2025. While not risk-free, Rwanda’s debt strategy shows that high debt can support transformation if well managed.

    5.0 Africa vs Asia: What Went Wrong?

    Asian economies once faced similar savings gaps. South Korea’s economic miracle was driven by heavy borrowing tied to industrial policy, mass education, and export-oriented manufacturing. Singapore’s borrowing between 1970 and 1990 funded world-class infrastructure and human capital. China’s 1978 reforms leveraged debt to finance infrastructure and technology, lifting over 800 million people out of poverty. The common thread: long-term planning, institutional discipline, and strategic use of debt for development. In contrast, African borrowing has often been reactive, fragmented, consumption-driven, and applied to politically motivated projects rather than productivity multipliers. Weak institutions and corruption crowd out fiscal space, trapping governments in cycles of refinancing without growth.

    6.0 Lessons for Nigeria and Africa

    To escape perpetual fiscal fragility, Africa must go beyond debt restructuring. Key reforms include:

    •Fiscal discipline and transparency: Align debt with credible development strategies and national priorities.

    •Domestic revenue mobilization: Tax reforms must reduce dependence on borrowing. In Nigeria, scepticism around the 2025 tax reforms fuels non-compliance, highlighting the need for public trust. This is because trust in governance is critical to long-term fiscal sustainability.

    •Growth-enhancing investment: Debt must fund projects tied to measurable growth multipliers and long-term planning.

    •Institutional strengthening: Democratic institutions must be fortified to eliminate inefficiencies and inconsistent borrowing.

    •Governance and accountability: Prevent misuse of debt and ensure high returns on public investment.

    •Strategic deployment: Debt must be a deliberate development tool—not a reactive deficit plug.

    Unproductive debt must not define Africa’s destiny. Rwanda, South Korea, Singapore, and China show that debt, when anchored in discipline, vision, and strong institutions, can fuel transformation. For Nigeria and its peers, the debt paradox is not just fiscal, it is systemic. The task is clear: close governance and strategy gaps, turn liabilities into productivity, inclusive growth and lasting prosperity.

    David Ugwunta
    David Okelue Ugwunta, PhD

    Dr. Okelue David Ugwunta is a Nigerian University Lecturer and an Economic Planning Specialist.

  • University Admission Corruption and Nigeria’s Educational Decline: How Admission by Lists, Not Merit, Threatens the Future

    University Admission Corruption and Nigeria’s Educational Decline: How Admission by Lists, Not Merit, Threatens the Future

    By Sebastine Chukwuebuka Okafor, Ph.D

    According to Nelson Mandela, “Education is the most powerful weapon which you can use to change the world.” This implies that this sector should be seen as very important, owing to how crucial it is in the development of a country. In Nigeria, we have primary, secondary, and tertiary education, which produce the end products of what we see in our various workplaces and homes. This is aside from the formal and informal education that we know, where people learn from their homes, families, churches, schools, and so on.

    Of the three tiers of education, one of the most abused and endangered aspects currently is university education, where all sorts of unthinkable things happen. This is gradually causing more harm than good, which requires urgent action to curb. Of all the problems facing university education in Nigeria, the major one is the admission process, which in most cases negates what excellence means. While Nigeria as a country kills excellence in university education under the guise of “educationally less developed states,” catchment areas, and concessions, the universities themselves use executive lists, VC’s lists, registrar’s lists, staff lists, among others, to cause this travesty. This act has discouraged many brilliant students from achieving what they aspired to.

    On a personal note, I was a victim of this shabby admission process in 2012 at one of the schools in Enugu, where I scored 62 in the post-UTME exam with a cutoff mark of 47 but still lost out on admission. The worst was that I later saw people who scored 27 gaining admission while I languished at home. The trauma from that act was so deep that I almost became depressed because I wanted to study. As usual, people tagged it as the will of God.

    Some who attended universities and other higher institutions can attest to the fact that while they met the cutoff marks, many of their course mates scored lower grades yet made their way into school, whereas their friends who had better scores either went to polytechnics, were forced to study courses they did not like, or were frustrated out of school. This is an anomaly that has to be addressed by policymakers, university management, and other stakeholders. How someone who scored 220 is studying law or medicine in a university whose cutoff for that same course was 280 should be examined thoroughly.

    Moreover, it is quite unfortunate that most universities hardly publish their departmental cutoff marks these days, for reasons not far-fetched from what we have been assuming. This brings about the call for admission transparency. Years back, despite all the merit-killing technicalities used to grant admission in our universities, admission lists were published and students got to know their scores, performances, reasons for admission, and reasons for rejection or transfer to other departments.

    This travesty has also affected student intake for residency by Nigerian government-owned hospitals. These days, most hospitals do not publish the results of their screening exams, neither do they publish the admission cutoff marks. When you make inquiries, you will hear incomprehensible stories that make one begin to imagine the type of country we are in and the future we are trying to build. The most affected disciplines in this travesty are the dental and nursing sectors. Ndia atagbuo onwe ha na afufu ime internship. But that will be a story for another day.

    It is worthy of note that the 2025/2026 academic year admission process is on, but many vice chancellors and registrars are under pressure to commit admission crimes. This pressure comes from governing councils, state and federal governments, top management staff, host communities, among others. Recently, I visited schools in Ebonyi, Anambra, Enugu, and Imo. Believe you me, you will cry. These cabals submit lists with questionable scores and want them to be given medicine, law, pharmacy, nursing, and so on. The worst is that these lists come with signatures and letterheaded papers, and when the requests are not granted, the vice chancellor or registrar is branded a bad person.

    This calls for conscience evaluation for those submitting lists. How do you feel seeing a student who scored 290 in JAMB being denied admission to study law or medicine because your subordinate with an empty brain, who scored 180 or 210, wants the same course? It is not just bad but evil before God and man. How do you feel when someone who scored 60 in an internship exam is denied access because of your subordinate who did not even write the exam at all or who scored a lower mark?

    The ills of giving admission to the wrong persons are countless. Firstly, it kills the motivation of hardworking students who believe that effort pays. When they see the opposite happening in reality, they lose faith in both the system and themselves. Secondly, it produces a generation of professionals who cannot stand the test of competence. A doctor who got into medical school through influence but cannot pass his exams on merit is a danger to society. A lawyer who smuggled his way into law school but cannot interpret the law is a liability to justice. Thirdly, it perpetuates corruption in every other sector because these wrongly admitted students carry the same mindset into their future offices, where they repeat the cycle of favoritism and nepotism.

    In the health sector, it is even more dangerous. Many bright and deserving students are denied residency in medicine, nursing, and dentistry, while others who cannot defend their certificates are smuggled in. Such practices not only ruin careers but also put the lives of patients at risk when incompetent hands are allowed to handle delicate human lives.

    As the 2025/2026 academic year admissions begin, university management should be careful about admitting wrongly through lists. They must learn to say no to requests and so-called favors. Anybody whose subordinate did not meet the required score should be redirected to another course or encouraged to go to private universities where they will be accepted wholeheartedly without delays. If this culture of impunity continues unchecked, our institutions will keep producing half-baked graduates who neither have the passion nor the competence for the professions they find themselves in.

    This is not just an academic issue but a moral one. When someone who labored hard and scored high is denied admission while another who failed is rewarded, what message are we sending to society? We are telling our young people that connection is more important than hard work and that corruption is stronger than integrity. This is destroying the very foundation of education in Nigeria.

    The universities and hospitals must therefore rise above sentimental lists and selfish interests. If someone cannot meet the merit standard, let them wait, prepare harder, or seek other legitimate opportunities. This is the only way to restore confidence, protect excellence, and build an educational system that produces capable leaders, doctors, lawyers, engineers, and administrators for Nigeria’s future.

  • Becoming a green shoot: Tribute to Frank Nweke II @ 60

    Becoming a green shoot: Tribute to Frank Nweke II @ 60

    By Omoniyi Ibietan

    “Honourable Minister, where is the next port of call for you after the ministership?” I asked my principal in January 2007, as we commenced the final phase of his tenure at Radio House. “Niyi, I am going back to school.”, he responded with full metacommunication and paralinguistics, with a tincture of jocular appurtenances. Indeed, it came to pass. As soon as his tenure ended on May 29, 2007, he was off to the Kennedy School of Government, Harvard University in the United States.

    Before Harvard, he attended good schools and was properly educated in Nigeria, a persistent reader, humanist, statesman, decidedly dedicated patriot, impeccable dresser, an organically organised thought leader, with rare personal effectiveness that finds the first expression in the fact that he was never late to a meeting. Okeifufe Frank Nnaemeka Nweke II, traditional leader of Ishi Ozalla, in Nkanu West Local Government Council of Enugu State, more popularly known as Frank Nweke Jr., (or still, FNJ as we call him in close circles), is a forthright, inimitable and phenomenal leader who continues to demonstrate that he is first and foremost human before becoming Igbo and Nigerian. But the Igbo republicanism, egalitarianism, enterprise, and industry run in his blood to the last mile, including the distinctive devotion, painstakingness and resolute nature of Ishi Ozalla people, a community noted for extraordinary commitment to trading (distinctively in animal protein) and particularly agriculture. Ozalla’s soil is largely ‘stony and granitic’. So, farmers in Ozalla would count among the most painstaking, devotional species. That is the spirit FNJ brought to bear on national assignments as Minister.

    Scion of the Nweke family, FNJ is pedigreed. His archetype was his father, the family’s patriarch, Igwe Frank Nweke I, Okeifufe Napkparu Ujo Nku I, of Ishi Ozalla Born in Kano, raised across Nigeria, FNJ speaks Nigeria’s three major languages fluently, but his humanity extends to embrace people of languages he does not speak fluently. A princely prince through and through, FNJ is not just lovely. He is kind, convivial, empathetic, and communicative. Though sometimes reticent, he could take no prisoners and can be as fiery as Sango. Let me instantiate, FNJ’s fury. One day in 2006, he came into my office, a space on the other side of his, which I shared with all my assistants in a conference room style. Please read the ergonomics of FNJ’s media office at the comment section.

    That day of rage and fury, FNJ came into the office, and everyone rose to greet him as usual. He responded so economically. We all sensed trouble. After taking a bird’s view of the room to be sure we were in order, his eyes were still full of fury, almost ready to spit fire like Sango. Then, he muttered: “Niyi, come with me.” The first time he had said so in almost a year. So, I followed him like a disciple. He did not tell me where we were headed, but when the tour was over, I knew why he was furious. He had complained a number of times about how some people deliberately held on to official files and delayed the turn around time of works and routine activities, and he had issued a directive that turnaround time was 48 hours except there were objective grounds for delays. He was emphatic that such delays must be reported to the Permanent Secretary or the Minister’s Office. So, we visited some offices that were notorious for keeping files. One after another, he barged in and asked: “Oga (Madam), tell me why files are delayed in your office unnecessarily.” You can imagine the panic and the speed with which affected officers rose from their seats. And before they could mutter a word, FNJ would end his mission with a warning: “Please, don’t let me come back here for the wrong reason.”

    A cherished friend, brother, and mentor, my fortuitous meeting with FNJ at the National Youth Summit in May 2004, shortly after I defended my MA Dissertation at the University of Ibadan, was a turning point in my life. He provided the nudge I required to partake in the upturn unfolding in Nigeria at that time. He was Minister for Intergovernmental Affairs, Special Duties, and Youth Development. He took special interest in my contribution at the summit, looked out for me at the syndicate sessions, and later requested my mobile number. He rang my line two days after I arrived back in Ibadan and requested that I return to Abuja to be part of the 7-man committee emplaced to draft a youth policy for Nigeria. By the time the committee work was completed, I was enlisted among the 5-man team that represented Nigeria at the International Youth Festival organised by the Arab Republic of Egypt in El-Arish.

    For those who are very discerning and able to recall, youth administration politics since the beginning of Nigeria’s Fourth Republic took a decisive and intriguing turn. I was a member of one of the radical tendencies of the Nigerian student movement represented by the National Association of Nigerian Students (NANS). So, I was patently way off the curve of the emergent agency of the politically mainstreamed, supposedly liberal but sometimes sycophantic student/youth movements. So, while I do not know how other members of the team to Egypt made the list, I knew I was FNJ’s nominee. But I recalled a familiar face in the Nigerian team, Dr. Umar Tanko Yakasai, a hitherto tenacious Northern star in NANS, who was studying medicine at the University of Maiduguri in the truculent days of Abacha. Umar had become the national secretary of the National Youth Council of Nigeria (NYCN).

    We quickly bonded and formed a coded ‘minority group’ on the road to Egypt, an alliance that impacted the report of the conference we submitted to the Ministry after the Egypt journey. FNJ did not only accept our report, but he implemented it with speed. A central element of that report was the imperative of inclusiveness and expanding the geography of the democratic space for youth participation in governance through conscious self-activity; making entrepreneurship a component of education curricula, immersion of young people in the didactic experience of the emerging digital culture; and finally, the centrality of cultural intelligence in leadership.

    As we left Egypt and headed to the ‘promised land’, I continued to relate with FNJ and I contacted him later that year when the organisers of the International Student Festival in Norway accepted my proposal to speak at the forum. He was not only excited about the information; he personally sponsored my trip. My relational exchanges with FNJ grew in leaps and bounds, and we discussed ideas frequently. Perhaps I was an aide incognito until December 2005 when I visited him at Radio House after an evening lecture. I was an instructor at the International Institute of Journalism, and he had become the Minister of Information and National Orientation (later Information and Communication). I visited him in the company of my brother and comrade, High Chief Ezenwa Nwagwu, whose office was in the same facility where I was teaching. During my next visit to FNJ, we had series and fragments of conversations and then lunched in his inner office.

    Thereafter, we relocated to the main office and continued the conversation. His spiffy jacket hung appropriately on the coat tree hanger made of polished steel and leather; his tie readjusted to business style, and his sleeves rolled up the Obama way. As he took his seat, he asked me to sit too. Then, in a voice that took oxygen from both spiritual and temporal realms unequivocally immersed in serious tenor, he uttered: “Niyi, you are coming here as my Special Assistant on Media.” He did not wait for a response. Then, he called one of his secretaries: “Tony!” The man heard him, came into his office with his pen and paper to join us. “Niyi is going to join us here as my SA on Media. Do a letter to the President through the Secretary to the Government of the Federation and request special approval.” Chief Ufot Ekaette was the SGF at that time. I requested time to consult, and he refused. He then recalled my contribution at the Women Development Centre, venue of the summit in 2004, where he first met me, and said his offer had provided a platform for me to make my views to reflect in government policies.

    So, I stepped out of his office with his permission and quickly rang three people to seek their opinions. The first was Dapo Olorunyomi Olorunyomi (a principal mentor who particularly shaped my intellection in relation to my identity and role in social actions). The second was the late Prof. Alfred Opubor (Nigeria’s, possibly West Africa’s first professor of Mass Communication, who was my intellectual grandfather and mentor in the Nigeria Community Radio Coalition). The third was Dr. Olajide Ibietan (now a professor), my first consanguineous brother. I then returned to FNJ’s office and accepted the offer. Then, I mustered courage from residual strength and asked him when I should resume as his new SA Media. ‘Yesterday!’, he said magisterially.

    That evening, I received a provisional letter of appointment from him. I then rang the Registrar of IIJ to discuss what had happened and proceeded to the office to write my resignation letter. I indicated the forfeiture of the monthly salary scheduled to be paid the day after, since I had served an emergency notice and was ready to leave the Institute immediately, although I continued to teach pro bono as my circumstances permitted.

    The following day, I resumed at Radio House. The security personnel who had put me under ‘inquisition’ before granting me access to the Minister’s Office the evening before was the same man I met that morning. I greeted him, and before I could say I had come to resume duties, he said no one was around to attend to me. I told him I was appointed SA to the minister yesterday, and I already knew my office, so I did not need anyone to guide me. I then showed him the letter of provisional offer of appointment. God willing, I will capture in detail what transpired at Radio House in my memoirs.

    For this moment, I would like to place on record, so history may bear witness that as Minister, FNJ demonstrated unconditional love for Nigeria. He discharged his duties with the most scrupulous conscientiousness of honour. He was offered citizenship of Atlanta, right in my presence in the United States, but he declined and invited his hosts to come to Nigeria first to receive Nigerian citizenship. He was so emphatic and unequivocal that Nigeria was the best place to be, and it was the reason we had visited the United States to market the Nigerian brand. On another occasion, I sat by him as he sat next to Dr. Christopher Kolade (Nigerian High Commissioner to the United Kingdom). We were at the Gallery of the House of Lords in the United Kingdom in 2007 during a public hearing on Nigeria. I could practically hear his heartbeat. He told me he believed Nigeria would not be blemished at that sitting, and it came to pass. Okeifufe’s faith in Nigeria has been as strong as it was. He never gave up on our country, and he continuously rekindled that faith in me. He resents bigotry. He has intolerance for atavism. He is nauseated by clannishness and nepotism. You won’t find him in the ranks of uneducated people who judge people first by their social status, ideological orientation, circumstances of birth, religion, and regional origin. He loves Igbos unashamedly, but he loves Nigeria in the true definition of the term. He stood (and still stands) out as a great exemplar of agile leadership, cultural intelligence, and our ebullient national spirit.

    FNJ and I have no blood relationship. The last time I checked, I was still Yoruba from North Central Nigeria, whereas FNJ is Igbo from South East Nigeria. But he had three special assistants while he was Minister of Information and Communication, and none of us is Igbo. Of course, there were Igbos in our team, but I was clearly more visible. There were times people walked into my office and spoke Igbo. I would respond with the little proficiency I had acquired but would politely inform my visitors I do not speak Igbo beyond basic greetings and sociolects, although I understand the language much more than I speak it. Often, I noticed whiffs of shock in people’s countenances whenever they found that none of my parents is Igbo and I see people asked non-verbally: “How could an Igbo man appoint a non-Igbo to such a strategic desk?”

    FNJ was not just a Minister of the Republic. He also acted in a manner that left imprints of Nigeria’s culture and pride, and thus, helped to repudiate negative perceptions about Nigeria. In one of our many visits to the United Kingdom, an Egyptian man who used to chauffeur us around London asked me on two occasions if FNJ was truly a minister in Nigeria. Of course, I responded in the affirmative. Then, the man retorted, “But Nigerian Ministers and government officials do not act like this in London”. “How do they behave?” I asked. And our man went on and on to characterise how our people often behaved and described FNJ as a rare Nigerian official. Frank Nweke Jnr was an exemplary national reputation manager, and the national brand management programme, “Nigeria: The Heart of Africa” project, provided the swivel to showcase Nigeria in a manner it was never done. From Washington to Toronto, London to Johannesburg and beyond, FNJ told the Nigerian story in impeccable narratives.

    One day in Washington, we visited quite a number of places, including Voice of America (VOA) to speak about Nigeria. Hon. Sunday Dare was then Head of VOA Hausa Service. Then we arrived at a community radio station in the District. FNJ was so tired. When our consultant called on him to take his seat in the studio, he ordered me to takeover from him. The consultant was shocked, but FNJ ignored her. What happened at the station will be sweeter when gleaned from my memoirs.

    Today, we have community radio stations in Nigeria because FNJ instituted the policy drafting processes when he was Minister of Information and Communication. We would have retained our status as the only West African (possibly African) country without community radio culture, against the spirit of the African Charter on Broadcasting. Fortuitously, the draft policy became our weapon of advocacy in the Nigeria Community Radio Coalition (NCRC) until President Jonathan approved 17 community radio licenses in 2015.

    The foregoing suffices to say that FNJ pushed me beyond what I thought was my boundary. At the public presentation of my book, CYBER POLITICS: SOCIAL MEDIA, SOCIAL DEMOGRAPHY, AND VOTING BEHAVIOUR IN NIGERIA, in July 2023, FNJ noted, “Dr. Ibietan was my special assistant on media when I was Nigeria’s minister of Information and National Orientation (later Information and Communication), His patriotism, creativity, intellection and devotion to continuous improvement in the Nigerian condition are rare. A scholar-activist with an uncommon spirit of innovativeness, especially in utilising new technology to address a social challenge. It was he who essentially popularised the use of new media in public communication in Nigeria while working with me. I remember how, using email, he disseminated government communication to far-flung places, both locally and internationally. That was before the advent of social media as we have them today.” I read and heard these words with teary eyes, but they spoke to FNJ’s generosity because it was he who drove me so crazily to go beyond the limits.

    In 2014, my friend, Andy Green, autographed a copy of his book, THE UPTURN: YOUR PART IN ITS RISE (2009), and gave it to me. It was in Banjul, The Gambia, at the annual International Public Relations Congress, organised by Mazi Mike Okereke’s Business Education and Examination Council (BEEC). In the introductory part of Green’s book, ‘How nature creates green shoots’, the most philosophical public relations book I have read, he stated, “Even in nature it is mystery. No one knows exactly what is the spark. The starting signal is for a seed to start germinating and create a new seedling for becoming a green shoot.” As Green noted, to germinate, a seed will require water, ‘oxygen for energy’ and a modicum of temperature. Indeed, Green reasoned that seeds require particular conditions to germinate, including a possible transportation through an animal’s digestion system to weaken the seed’s coat and enable germination. My maker provided many conditions before me to germinate afresh, FNJ is principal among them.

    Okeifufe Frank Nweke II, Happy Birthday, sir. May your days be longer and blissful.

    Dear friends, join me to celebrate the 60th birth anniversary of one of Nigeria’s most culturally intelligent personalities and objectively one of her most vibrant ministers of information.

  • Reuniting with the Past

    Reuniting with the Past

    -By Abdul Mahmud

    Last week, my phone rang. The voice on the other end was familiar. It was Mike Igini, the former Resident Electoral Commissioner of the Independent National Electoral Commission and my old comrade from the student movement. “Comrade Mahmud, how you dey na?” he asked with a chuckle. His call was brief, yet loaded with memory. After a few pleasantries, he said, “I’ve passed your number to Kennedy. He will call you”. I didn’t ask who this Kennedy was. The name was enough to stir my mind. I instantly thought of my former classmate at Essi College, Warri. Kennedy, the boy with quick wit and a restless mind. I had not seen him since late 1994. That year, I had returned to the High Court of Justice in Warri to challenge the expulsions of student leaders from Delta State University, Abraka. We met by chance, exchanged words, then life again took us in different directions.

    The following day, the phone rang again. This time, it was Kennedy. His voice carried across the Atlantic. Ecstasy reborn. We spoke as though the years had collapsed into seconds. We caught up on our boyhood years, old teachers, and forgotten mischiefs. The laughter was genuine, the kind that makes the chest lighter. That call sparked many more. Kennedy reconnected me to other former classmates, some in Nigeria, others scattered abroad. The joy was overwhelming. But grief came too. Some of our friends had gone ahead. Daniel Ifemeni. Emuesiri Osagada. Names once called in classrooms and dormitories, now only spoken in remembrance. May their souls rest in power.

    Memory is cruel and kind at the same time. It gives us joy, then leaves us with loss.

    While I was still swimming in nostalgia, another surprise came. My former classmate, Akan Akpan, added me to the WhatsApp group of my year group at Lutheran High School, Ikot Ekpene. Another reunion, though virtual. Another rush of excitement. Names I hadn’t heard in decades suddenly lit up my phone screen. Those who departed our earthly shores. “War Party”, who wore his nickname like a warrior on the football pitch. “Tolade”, who was fascinated by the nickname he adopted from the Yoruba nation he had not visited. And the recently diseased Vincent whose remains have not been interred. We greeted each other with emojis, memes and laughter. Stories began to pour in. I realised something simple. Reuniting with the past is both an act of joy and an act of healing. I lived an itinerant life as a boy. My late father’s job as a senior federal government employee meant constant movement. Town to town. School to school. Friendships began and ended in cycles. Every new place was a chance to start again. At the time, I resented the uprooting. But looking back, it gave me a country of memories. Our country became my oyster.

    These recent reunions have forced me to reflect. What is it about reconnecting with old friends that touches us so deeply?

    First, it is the reminder of who we once were. Life has a way of pushing us into roles that are professional, political, and parental. We wear these masks daily until we forget the raw, unpolished versions of ourselves. Talking to Kennedy and chatting with my former classmates pulled me back to Warri, Ikot Ekpene and to the restless teenager I once was. That boy had dreams, fears, and an unshakable belief in our country and its people. He still lives in me, though buried under adult responsibilities.

    Second, reunions remind us of the passage of time. Hearing the names of those who have died struck me deeply. Daniel. Emuesiri. “War Party”. “Tolade”. Vincent. They were once full of energy, running across fields, arguing in classrooms, laughing at jokes. Now they are gone. Death turns classmates into memories. And yet, in remembering them together, we honour them. We keep them alive in the small spaces of our conversations.

    Third, reconnecting with old friends is a mirror. We see ourselves reflected in their stories. Some have succeeded. Some have struggled. Some carry scars we never imagined. But, through them, we recognise how far we have come. The boyhood fears and the mischiefs of teen years that have shaped the men and women we are today.

    The virtual WhatsApp groups of my Lutheran High School and Essi College classmates have been a revelation. Technology has collapsed distance. Former classmates in Lagos, Abuja, Port Harcourt, Warri, Benin City, Ikot Ekpene, London, and cities in the United States now speak as though they sit in the same room. The groups are alive with memories. “Do you remember this teacher?” one asks. “Who recalls the mischief of the palm plot?” another teases. “Do you remember the cries of the bush baby?”  another asks. Each story builds a bridge to the past. But these reunions are not just about nostalgia. They are about grounding. They remind us that we belong to a web of shared experiences. In a society where politics divides and hardship isolates, reconnecting with old friends brings warmth. It restores a sense of the family, one community of shared love and lived experience.

    Old friendships are unique. They are not based on power, money, or status. They are rooted in innocence. They were formed before titles mattered, when all we had were chalkboards, football fields, and teenage dreams. That is why they feel pure when we return to them. Yet, there is also a lesson in humility. Reuniting shows us that life is unpredictable. Some of my classmates have achieved success beyond imagination. Others have endured pain, loss, or poverty. In these conversations, there is no competition. We share as equals. We encourage one another. We laugh at our past. We grieve our dead. And in doing so, we recognise the simple gift of life.

    I have also realised that reunions are acts of gratitude. Gratitude for friendships that once carried us. Gratitude for memories that still make us smile. Gratitude for survival, for being alive to answer the call of an old friend. As I reflect, I think about the young people of today. Will they, in thirty years, find the same joy in reconnecting? Or has technology changed friendship too much? Our bonds were forged in classrooms, assembly grounds, and on football pitches. Today’s bonds are formed on screens. Time will tell if they endure the same way.

    For now, I hold on to these reconnections. They remind me that the past is never truly gone. It waits quietly, until one phone call, one message, one WhatsApp group brings it rushing back. Reuniting with former classmates is more than nostalgia. It is a reminder of who we are, of what we have lost, and of what we still share. It is an act of memory, an act of love, and above all, an act of hope. So, when the phone rings and a familiar voice says, “Comrade, how you dey na?” – answer it. It may carry you back to the boy or girl you once were. And it may remind you that life, despite its trials, still holds spaces of joy reborn. While I wait for that call from a classmate of my primary school years in Benin City, Kwale, Sapele, or Warri, I am reminded that friendship is a river. It may dry in places, it may bend and twist, yet it always seeks a way to flow again. May the bonds of old companions be replenished, not merely by memory, but by love, and love again. For in the quiet return of friendship lies the miracle of time redeemed, and in its renewal, the heart learns once more that nothing of true value is ever truly lost.

  • As Enugu Cannot Thrive in Isolation, See The Wisdom in Mbah’s Inclusive Approach [VIEWPOINT]

    As Enugu Cannot Thrive in Isolation, See The Wisdom in Mbah’s Inclusive Approach [VIEWPOINT]

    By Wordshot Amaechi Ugwele

    In today’s interconnected Nigeria, no state can afford to operate as an island. This is precisely why I have continued to maintain that Governor Peter Mbah’s policy of inclusivity, in awarding contracts and extending opportunities beyond only indigenous Enugu people, reflects both wisdom and foresight.

    At present, local contractors still handle about 80 percent of government projects within the state. However, Mbah has deliberately resisted the temptation to turn public opportunities into an ethnic entitlement. Why? Because Enugu people themselves have benefited from open-door policies in other states. It would be both hypocritical and self-defeating to slam shut the same doors that were once, and in many cases, still are open to us.

    Several prominent Enugu based firms and individuals have built their fortunes outside the state, thanks to inclusive policies elsewhere. Companies like COMAG, FEROTEX, and ANBEEZ have executed significant contracts across Nigeria. Why did other states engage them? Because competence, not origin, was the basis for partnership, and because development thrives when merit is given room to flourish.

    A personal example illustrates this point. During Governor Amaechi’s first term in Rivers State, I was initially passed over for a major microcredit project aimed at supporting widows, simply because I wasn’t from Rivers, despite my professional records and competencies. Amaechi insisted that “Rivers money is for Rivers people.” Unfortunately, those initially entrusted with the project mismanaged it, squandering millions. Eventually, he turned to my team. We delivered, managing ₦3 billion efficiently and transparently. So impressed was Amaechi with our work that he personally invited me to lunch and served me food himself. For those who need confirmation, the then Rivers State Commissioner for Women Affairs, Mrs. Vivian Breid, can attest to this.

    Further examples abound. FEROTEX built its business in Port Harcourt, winning supply jobs from both government and the private sector as a Caterpillar spare parts dealer. Ideke became a billionaire in the same city as a shipping tycoon, leveraging the economic infrastructure and opportunities created by a government that didn’t discriminate against non-indigenes.

    Cosmos Agu from Umuoka in Udi local government area of Enugu State went to Imo State for menial jobs as a young man. The man he was doing a digging job in his compound came back from Port Harcourt, loved his dedication to his work as a labourer and took him in as an apprentice iron monger. COMAG would later grow to become one of the biggest dealerships in iron in Port Harcourt from where he branched out into construction. The Enugu State government was not among his initial patrons as he was doing road works in Ebonyi, Abia, etc before he would later be patronised by his own state. Today he is doing one of the most important roads to our people for the state government.

    These are not isolated stories. They are reminders that Nigerian states benefit from a culture of openness and economic integration. By insisting that Enugu should only patronize its own, we would be denying our people the moral high ground to continue thriving elsewhere. We would also risk isolating the state from beneficial partnerships and outside expertise that could help accelerate its development. The Igbo states and their people are already wrongly being profiled as selfish and closed to outsiders in economic prospects and opportunities. How do you want such false narratives to be corrected?

    Some critics may not fully grasp how this open model benefits the state in the long run, but that doesn’t make their skepticism valid. The truth is, opportunities, when guided by merit, build bridges between communities, improve standards, and promote unity.

    Governor Mbah’s refusal to limit Enugu’s economic space to only indigenes is a principled, pragmatic policy we would like to be seen replicated across the country. It ensures that Enugu remains a welcoming, competitive, and progressive player in the Nigerian federation, just as we would want other states to be for our people. Meanwhile, how many reading this are in Enugu with everything about their lives confined within the state?

    Rivers State gave me my solid foundation. In the cradle of it all, I met my respected brothers like Ibuchukwu Ezike, Hippolytus Onah and Chris Ezugwu there as students. The question is, why did we all leave UNN in Nsukka to suffer to go all the way to Uniport in Rivers State?

  • Enugu Smart School Debate and Mbah’s Relentless Vision

    Enugu Smart School Debate and Mbah’s Relentless Vision

    By Dan Nwomeh

    I have taken time to peruse the avalanche of comments that have trailed the Enugu Government and Sujimoto saga. They range from those who genuinely mean well, to those who think they have finally found the soft underbelly of Governor Peter Mbah’s administration to viciously attack, sometimes for unrelated grudges, to the habitual armchair critics who neither understand nor care to understand the concept of the Smart Green School, nor even what it looks like. I noticed some private school entrepreneurs and their beneficiaries who are threatened by the very idea of tuition-free, free-uniforms, free-learning-materials, and free-meals-per-day Smart Schools. There are also those who persist in asking why the government should construct new schools rather than renovate the existing dilapidated ones, most of them relics of the colonial era, eyesores that stand shamefully beside magnificent churches in many of our villages.

    But let us pause and ask: Who among these loud critics would renovate a crumbling family house left by their grandfather when they have the resources and desire to build a new home designed for modern living? Who among them would patch up cracked walls, replace leaking roofs and broken windows, instead of constructing a brand new house with electricity, ensuite rooms, screeded walls and tiled floors, POP ceilings, conduit wiring and plumbing, solar lights, internet connectivity, smart security doors, and CCTV camera surveillance? Who does that? If no one in their right senses does that for their family, why do we want such treatment visited on our children, especially those who cannot afford expensive private schools? Why should we condemn them to learning in depressing classrooms that belong to the past, while their age mates elsewhere enjoy environments tailored for today’s realities and tomorrow’s opportunities? And would those who advocate for renovation alone send their own children to those schools? If not, what does that say of their wish for other people’s children, so long as nobody asks them to pay taxes?

    The Smart Schools initiative is not about erecting just another set of classrooms; it is about redefining the very idea of education in Enugu State. The brick and mortar, 260 expansive pentagon-shaped buildings across all wards, are only the beginning. Within those walls lie the foundations of an entirely new model of learning, a complete shift from rote memorization to experiential, hands-on education. A space where tech and innovation are embedded into daily learning — coding and robotics, digital labs and libraries, innovation hubs, and multimedia studios. These schools are designed to prepare our children not only to pass exams, but to create tools, solve problems, and compete with their peers across the world. The children of Enugu deserve better. For too long they have been cheated, their today and tomorrow denied and mortgaged, forced to endure outdated structures and outmoded methods while their counterparts in organized societies moved ahead.

    Governor Mbah has left no one in doubt as to the depth of his commitment. He has said repeatedly that his dream is for his grandchildren, if not his children, to be educated in the Smart Schools right here in Enugu. He is not allocating 33% of the state budget to education, back-to-back in two years, if he did not consider this the most consequential paradigm shift in the life of our state. Investment and spending are always a statement of priority, and in Mbah’s case, he is literally putting our money where our mouths are.

    It is therefore astonishing that some would question the integrity of the governor, who has shown uncommon transparency in this entire matter. When questions arose over Sujimoto, owned by Olasijibomi Ogundele, it was the governor himself who invited the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission (EFCC), opened the books, and placed every transaction on the table for scrutiny. Who does that if he has anything to hide? Which leader engaged in shady deals has so openly embraced accountability, welcoming investigators to track the financial trails? If anything, this is the clearest sign that the governor has nothing to conceal, only a determination to deliver a bold vision for our children.

    Some have even raised the disappointing argument of why 22 Smart Schools were awarded to a Yoruba contractor in the first place. But this is petty tribalism at its worst, however it is dressed. Let’s face it: should an Enugu boy who conquered the downstream oil sector in Lekki, Lagos, thanks to the accommodation and support he enjoyed there, end his story by erecting walls of ethnic suspicion at home? Do Igbo contractors not get contracts in Lagos, Abuja, Kano, and elsewhere? Why then should 22 schools out of 260, a mere 8.4 percent, be turned into an ethnic slur? What matters is whether the job is delivered, not where the contractor comes from. A Yoruba contractor may have failed Ndi Enugu, but his failure lies squarely with him.

    Sujimoto tried to rationalize his failure by citing price increases. Yet other contractors delivered the same Smart Schools within the same cost framework. He also argued that N523 million per school (buildings only, it must be added) was insufficient, but that claim only further demolishes the falsehoods of government critics. If indeed the amount was not enough, then it proves there was no contract padding, and no excess slush funds to siphon. This is a case of a contractor with fraudulent motive ab initio, a contractor defaulting on a contractual agreement, not of a government conniving in fraud.

    Our people love to speak of Lee Kwan Yew of Singapore, the man who transformed a small island into a global economic powerhouse. Yet very few care to understand the painful side of reforms, the sacrifices the people endured for the tomorrow they now enjoy. Smart Schools are that kind of reform. They may disrupt the old order, they may demand more investment and patience, but they are the road to a future where Enugu’s children are no longer left behind. Greatness is never built on convenience; it is built on vision, sacrifice, and perseverance.

    The Smart Schools are far too advanced to be derailed. Beyond the hoopla, the construction and equipping of these schools are ongoing across the state, with many already completed and equipped. The vision is undimmed and the pace undeterred, whatever the minor challenges. The governor remains focused on giving our children a new learning experience, one that rivals the best private schools and outclasses anything public education in this state has ever known. It is not about optics; it is about outcomes. It is about ensuring that the child in my village of Ozalla, or in Umuida, or Nkwe, has the same chance at a 21st-century education as the child in advanced societies.

    In the end, the voices of destructive criticisms and sponsored attacks will fade. Those attacking the government today will tomorrow return to praise it because results will speak louder than rhetoric. When the Smart Schools open their doors, when children in uniform sit behind computers, design robots, create gadgets, act on modern stages, learn in well-lit classrooms cooled by solar power, use digital boards and android tablets with internet access, and are inspired by teachers trained in modern pedagogy, the truth will be undeniable that Enugu State has raised a new standard in public education and produced new generations of tech-savvy children equipped to take on the world.

    Again and again, Governor Mbah will not be deterred by detractors. He is not in the business of appeasing cynics or seeking public applause or cheap popularity. He is in the business of preparing our children for a tomorrow that is already here.

  • The Hollow Nigerian Way of Fighting Terror

    The Hollow Nigerian Way of Fighting Terror

    -By Abdul Mahmud 

    Simon Ekpa has been sentenced to six years in Finland for terrorism-related crimes. His arrest by Finnish police in 2024, which was public was followed by criminal charges, trial, and conviction handled by the courts of that country – in quick time.  No politics. No ethnic undertones. No religious sentiment. No ifs. No buts. Just the law. That is how serious nations combat terrorism. They use laws. They use institutions. They make the courts, not politicians, the final arbiters. Finland has shown that when citizens wage wars against the state, there is only one path; the path of justice. Our country and its puissant rulers should take notice. But, will they?

    For years, our country has lived under the weight of terrorism and banditry. From Boko Haram in the Northeast, to bandits in the Northwest, to armed herdsmen across the Middle Belt, to secessionist violence in the Southeast, our country has been battered. Yet, ask yourself: who are the high-profile terrorists that our country has ever successfully tried and jailed? Tukur Mamu, the man the SSS named as a terrorist who was arrested in September, 2022? Three years later the hearing of the criminal charges filed against him at the Federal High Court, Abuja, has not gone bail hearing. Who else? None. Rather than pursue justice, our country has embraced appeasement. Rather than resort to trials, it has embraced settlements. Rather than apply the law, it has enthroned the politics of kid gloves. Terrorists, rather than being dragged before our courts, they are courted with amnesty. That kind of détente plays out in grotesque rituals. Men who once stormed villages, who left behind charred homes and unmarked graves, now appear draped in camouflage. Bandoliers of ammunition hang across their chests. Kalashnikovs, the same weapons that mowed down innocents, slung confidently across their shoulders. They grin for the cameras. In those staged moments of “surrender”, the mass killings and abductions they committed, including the humiliation inflicted on our sovereign state, are made to vanish into thin air. Governors pose beside them as though they were statesmen, not outlaws. Soldiers and police officers stand by in silence, complicit in the theatre. What should be a reckoning becomes a performance. What should be justice becomes indulgence. And what should reaffirm the authority of the state instead diminishes it, making the law itself look like a prop in a grotesque show.

    They also have a way of christening the rituals to make them appear legit. They call it “deradicalisation”. They call it “reintegration”. They call it “rehabilitation”. In truth, it is a capitulation. It is the surrender of the state to its enemies. The hypocrisy is glaring. When petty thieves are caught, they rot in jail. When kidnappers without political links are arrested, they face endless trials. When poor youths are caught for petty crimes, they are paraded before cameras. When the hideouts of Yahoo-Yahoo boys, the so-called Aza men, as the streets now describe them, are raided, it dominates the headlines and fills the evening news. But when men with blood on their hands, when men who sack villages and massacre innocents are caught, they are offered seats at the table. They are told to lay down their arms. They are “reintegrated” into the very society they destroyed.

    This policy of appeasement did not begin today. It has a history. Nasir El-Rufai, former governor of Kaduna State, openly admitted that he paid bandits to stop attacks. He was not ashamed. He said he travelled out of the country to meet them. He said he settled them. His justification was crude: to stop them from killing his people, he had to give them what they wanted. Other governors followed the same path. Bello Matawalle of Zamfara embraced negotiations with bandits, granting them amnesty. Aminu Masari of Katsina tried the same. In Niger State, Abubakar Bello also pursued dialogue and settlement. The logic was always the same: better to settle killers than confront them. Better to appease terror than uphold the law. But what has this brought our country? Nothing but emboldened terrorists. Bandits who now fly helicopters into forests. Bandits who tax farmers before they can plant or harvest. Bandits who shoot down military aircraft. Terrorists who walk free while victims bury their dead.

    Ekpa’s sentencing in Finland throws all this into sharp relief. Here was a man who incited violence from abroad. Here was a man who issued threats, who enforced stay-at-home orders in the Southeast, whose words and actions paralysed local economies and endangered lives. Our puissant rulers cried out, again and again, until their voices broke and turned hoarse. Our country itself wailed in anguish. But nothing tangible happened here. It took a foreign country, thousands of miles away, to act. Why? The answer isn’t farfetched. In Finland, the law is supreme. In our country politics is supreme and it trumps law. Yet, hypocrisy rises to the surface, traded as the common currency of power and persuasion. Our leaders say they are fighting terrorism; but, they refuse to use the one tool that makes nations strong: the impartial force of justice. They are quick to parade the poor. They are quick to jail the powerless. But they refuse to jail terrorists. They refuse to even try them. So we must ask again: who are the high-profile terrorists that Nigeria has jailed? Is it Shekau? No. He died by his own hand. Is it any of his commanders? No. Is it the masterminds of the Chibok abductions? No. Is it the killers of students in Katsina, Kankara, Kagara, or Yobe? No. Is it the men who sacked hundreds of villages in Zamfara, Benue, Plateau? No. The answer is clear. No one.

    But, every other market day, the military announces the surrender of hundreds of “repentant” Boko Haram fighters. They are fed. They are clothed. They are trained. They are sent back into society. Their victims, the widows, the orphans, the displaced, are left with nothing. This is not justice. This is betrayal.

    Our country has turned upside down the meaning of justice. Instead of trials that affirm the rule of law, it creates photo opportunities for terrorists and bandits who shake hands with governors. Instead of courtrooms, it arranges negotiation tables. Instead of jail cells, it sets up reintegration camps. Ekpa’s case is instructive. He was not tried here. He was not punished here. He was punished in Finland. And he was punished because a nation that values law and order cannot allow terrorism to fester unchecked. Our country, by contrast, has allowed terrorism to become an industry. An industry of settlements. An industry of amnesty. An industry of deals. The consequences are dire. Terrorism has metastasised. Banditry has grown. Kidnapping for ransom has become the national enterprise. Farmers are abandoning their land. Children are being denied education because schools are unsafe. Citizens are paying for the failure of the state to act. It is time to say the truth: our country is not fighting terrorism. Our country is accommodating it. Our rulers are bargaining with it. Our rulers are feeding it.

    Those who defend the appeasement policy argue that our country lacks the capacity to fight. They argue that the military is overstretched. They argue that negotiation saves lives. But they miss the point. No country has ever secured itself by appeasing terror. No state ever won peace by rewarding killers. Peace without justice is an illusion. Finland has shown what is possible. Finland has shown that when institutions work, the law can confront terror. Our country must learn. Our country must rise. Our rulers must stop hiding behind appeasement and confront the reality that they have abandoned justice.

    The question remains: who will bell the cat? Who will summon the courage to prosecute terrorists? Who will put Shekau’s successors on trial? Who will bring the leaders of bandit cartels to court? Who will give our citizens the assurance that the state is not in league with killers? Our hypocrisy will remain exposed. We jail the petty thief. We reintegrate the mass murderer. We punish the weak. We reward the strong. We claim to fight terror while pampering terrorists. This is why trust in the state is collapsing. Citizens see a government that cannot protect them, yet embraces those who butchered their families. They see widows mourning while killers are feted. They see children out of school while warlords are called “repentant”. In such a climate, the idea of justice becomes hollow, the meaning of citizenship erodes, and the authority of the state shrinks into ridicule.

    A nation that cannot punish its worst offenders cannot command the loyalty of its people.

    And so the cycle continues. Bandits strike, the state negotiates. Terrorists kill, the state forgives. Villages are burnt, the state calls for dialogue. The message is clear: in our country, crime pays when it is scaled high enough. Small men are crushed by the system; big men are courted by it. This inversion of justice is not only obscene; it is suicidal for a fragile state. For no republic can endure when the sword is turned against the weak while the strong are shielded from the law. The lesson from Finland is plain. Nations that survive are those that make no distinction between the weak and the powerful in the eyes of the law. They understand that justice is not an option, but the very lifeblood of order. Our country with its rulers must decide whether its wants to remain a theatre of indulgence or a country governed by law. Until it chooses justice, our citizens will keep burying the dead, keep mourning the abducted, keep watching governors shake hands with killers. And our hypocrisy, already naked before the world, will become the grave digger of our republic.

    Ekpa’s sentencing is a mirror. A mirror that shows us the face of our country’s failure. The question is: will our country’s rulers look into it? Or will they, as always, look away?

    Time will tell.

  • [OPINION] Police Misconduct and Public Complicity: Why Reform Requires Collective Action

    [OPINION] Police Misconduct and Public Complicity: Why Reform Requires Collective Action

    By Daniel Ndukwe 

    Public conversations about policing in Nigeria often focus on misconduct, extortion, and unprofessional behaviour by security operatives. These concerns are genuine and troubling. Yet, an equally important but less discussed issue is the role of citizens in enabling and sustaining such misconduct.

    Corruption, particularly bribery, is never a one-sided affair. For every officer who solicits or accepts a bribe, there is usually a citizen who, out of fear, impatience, or convenience, chooses to give it. This shows that while reforms and accountability are necessary within the police institution, citizens must also reflect on and address their own role in this cycle.

    Examples are common: drivers who prefer to “settle” at checkpoints rather than pay official fines, face arrests or other penalties. Individuals who pay to skip due process, or bystanders who watch officers collect money without speaking up. Each of these actions reinforces the perception that unethical behaviour pays.

    Of course, many citizens feel intimidated when confronted by armed officers, and this reality cannot be ignored. However, over time, the widespread acceptance of “settling” has normalised corruption, making it an informal but entrenched system. Public condemnation in speeches or online contrasts sharply with private compliance in daily encounters, thereby perpetuating the problem.

    Police misconduct cannot be eradicated if citizens remain willing participants. Reporting wrongdoing, resisting bribes, and insisting on due process may be inconvenient or even risky, but they are essential first steps toward reform. Complaint mechanisms and accountability units exist, yet they remain underused because many Nigerians choose not to engage them.

    There is no excuse for corruption or unprofessional conduct in law enforcement. Officers must be held accountable, and reforms within the police must be strengthened and sustained. At the same time, citizens cannot demand professionalism while actively enabling shortcuts and bribery.

    Real and lasting reform will require collective responsibility. The police must embrace transparency and professionalism, while citizens must refuse to be complicit. Only then can Nigeria move towards building a policing system that is trusted, accountable, and effective.

    Daniel Ndukwe is an expert in strategic and crisis communication, public relations, security, and development, as well as a writer and public speaker.

  • Chijioke Edeoga Again?

    Chijioke Edeoga Again?

    By Sebastine Chukwuebuka Okafor , Ph.D

    On Saturday, August 30, 2025, political leaders from Enugu East Senatorial District gathered at the Enugu International Conference Centre to discuss the progress of the state. Many notable figures from the zone who are progressives attended, and serious deliberations were made on unity and development, especially in the zone.

    During the session, Barr. Chijioke Edeoga was invited to move a motion affirming that Governor Peter Ndubuisi Mbah has performed well and therefore deserves the full support of the zone beyond 2027, so that power could eventually rotate to Enugu West Senatorial District which he did unapologetically. After Edeoga moved the motion, Hon. Anioma Frank, the Special Adviser to the Governor on Political Matters, who served as moderator, called on Dr. Ben Nwoye, leader of the progressives, to second it.

    In the course of seconding, Dr. Nwoye digressed a bit to speak about Minister Uche Nnaji. He also used the opportunity to call on Governor Mbah to join APC and realign Enugu with national politics, because his roadmap to development aligns with that of the renewed hope agenda of President Ahmed Bola Tinubu.

    It was at this point that some paid persons deliberately twisted Edeoga’s mere presence on the podium to suggest that he was part of Nwoye’s remarks. Such a false narrative is not only dishonest but also a show of cowardice and immaturity. Everyone present knew that Edeoga’s mission was solely to move a motion in support of Governor Mbah, not to contribute to what Nwoye said. He has devoted his time and energy to support the Governor, after being convinced that such is the best way to approach development through politics and it seems his support to the Governor is even more pure than that of many who are even in PDP.

    For the record, there is a political battle currently in Enugu APC, that is between APC Progressives led by Dr. Ben Nwoye, which I am part of, and those who have weakened the party, led by Minister Uche Nnaji. Linking Barr. Edeoga to APC quarrels where he has no involvement is nothing but an attempt to create needless unrest in Enugu and those behind it should abstain from that.

    What they intend to achieve is still oblivious to me, howbeit, it is also important for all to know that Barr. Edeoga has been a friend of the Minister since 1998, and nothing visible has happened to change that relationship.

    Therefore, the social media attacks that followed against the Isi Uzo born legal luminary are clearly coordinated onslaughts by sponsored data boys and political actors unsettled by the implications of his return to the PDP and his decision to stoically work with Governor Mbah. To me, these attacks might have also come from different directions, but all of them are threatened by Edeoga’s renewed alignment and still allegedly and conveniently sponsored through the machinery of those in the APC, Labour Party and no party.

    Using his appearance on the podium as an excuse to launch attacks with deepfake apps is childish. Rather than embrace progress, these groups have chosen to spread deepfake videos and manipulated narratives to tarnish his image. Their fear is simple. They know that unity between Edeoga and Governor Mbah strengthens not just the Governor but also the political stability of the state.

    Politics of development should not be about falsehoods or propaganda. It should be about service, loyalty, and truth. Governor Mbah has already shown leadership that inspires confidence, and Edeoga believes that supporting the Governor is the right step for the people of Enugu.

    Those who attack him today will later understand that his actions may have been guided by a higher principle, which is the pursuit of unity and progress. No deepfake or propaganda can erase the fact that his role at the meeting was only to move a motion of support for Governor Mbah in the collective interest of the zone.

    When I had a chat with Edeoga to understand his position on the politics of Enugu State, he made it very clear that Governor Mbah’s performance is already building and nourishing a special brand new unity across the state and thus has his full support. Such is the position of a man who is experienced in the game and though I may not like the Governor, that is his stance which he does not look perturbed.

    Instead of resisting this progress, those who are sad should either respect his decision or mind their business. To me, Edeoga’s decision may favour or harm him, depending on the sincerity between Governor Mbah and him even though I still do not trust the latter. In all honesty, the future of Enugu State lies with leaders who can work across divides and put the people first.

    Until then, no amount of lies, manipulations, or manufactured controversies will succeed in hiding the truth, which is simple. To tell the truth, APC needs Governor Mbah, and he should listen to the calls made by the progressive agenda leader led by Dr. Ben Nwoye.

    Those attacking Barr. Edeoga should remember that he simply exercised his right to take a political decision that he believes will serve his people. It is better for others to also make their choices openly instead of spreading confusion.

    No one should create tension in the state because of differences in political direction. Peace is more useful than strife, and progress can only come when leaders allow one another the freedom to choose their path.

    “Dey your dey, and allow ndị ọzọ to also dey their dey, to avoid imebi Enugu; makana onye mebie Enugu, ọ kwụọ anyị ụgwọ.”

  • First Lady Turns Chief Librarian-in-Begging

    First Lady Turns Chief Librarian-in-Begging

    -By Abdul Mahmud

    Nineteen years ago, our country set out to build Africa’s largest library. The site was perfect. A cultural landmark between the National Mosque and the Ecumenical Centre in Abuja. The vision was bold. A national monument to scholarship, research, and civic learning. The contract was awarded in 2006 to Reynolds Construction Company. Cost: N8.59 billion. The project was to be finished in record time. Some of our country’s finest architects, engineers, and surveyors were on board. Abuja would boast a library complex that matched the grandeur of its religious monuments.

    It never happened.

    Costs ballooned. First to N17 billion. Then N38 billion. Now almost N100 billion. Work stalled. The site is abandoned. When you visit today, weeds cover the grounds. Cranes rust. Steel rots. Rain eats away at the concrete. A national dream has become a national embarrassment. Why? Funding problems. Exchange rate fluctuations. Ministerial inertia. Bureaucratic apathy. The project was eventually abandoned twelve years ago. Every government since then has promised revival. Every promise wasn’t unfulfilled. In 2019, the then Education Minister, Adamu Adamu, said “alternative funding” was being pursued. He told whoever cared to listen that Buhari has directed TETFUND to look at the possibility to resuscitate the project. Typically, that entered into the voice mail. In 2025, President Tinubu reportedly directed TETFUND to complete the library. Still, nothing moved. Now, the President’s wife is soliciting public donations for her 65th birthday. Donations to complete the national library. A project meant to stand as a public monument. Government business reduced to crowd-funding. It is madness.

    Our country spends billions on frivolities. Billions vanish daily in corruption. Yet, it cannot build a library. It cannot finish a building that should symbolise knowledge, culture, and civic pride. Look at Egypt. In 2019, terrorists attacked Dar El Kotob, the national library. Within record time, the government restored it. In Alexandria, the Bibliotheca Alexandrina was rebuilt in seven years. Reopened in 2002, it stands today as a global hub of culture and tourism. Both libraries are monuments of pride. Both generate revenue. Both embody the Egyptian spirit of cultural reimagination and renewal. In our country, the rulers abandon legacies in pursuit of the mundane.

    A national library is not just a building. It is a statement. It is the mind of a people made concrete. It is where young people learn, researchers explore, and the public gathers to exchange ideas. It is a place of memory and imagination. A pillar of lifelong learning. Libraries also have practical value. They support literacy. They provide access to ICT. They train citizens in digital skills. They serve as delivery points for government services. They build social inclusion. They foster community. To abandon a national library is to abandon national imagination. It is to say that books, knowledge, and culture do not matter. It is to treat learning as a luxury, not a necessity.

    Our country has built monuments to faith. The mosque. The church. Both completed. Both maintained. But our monument to knowledge stands derelict. What does that say about our priorities?

    The Abuja National Library should have been a symbol of our country’s future. Rather, it is an eyesore. A ruin in the making. A silent reminder of wasted ambition. If Egypt could rebuild its libraries after terrorist attacks, why can’t our country finish one after 17 years? This is not about money. It is about will. It is about what we value as a people. Do we value prestige projects that do not produce knowledge? Or do we invest in monuments that shape minds and societies? Consider France. The Bibliotheque nationale de France was modernised in the 1990s as part of a presidential legacy project. Today it anchors Paris as a city of letters. Consider Qatar. In 2018, it opened its national library with a vision of linking the Gulf to the world of ideas. These are not just buildings. They are declarations of ambition. They are signals to citizens and the world that knowledge matters.

    Our country and its rulers have chosen the opposite path. They have chosen decay. They have chosen the weeds and the rusting cranes. They have chosen to treat learning as optional. They have chosen to turn a public obligation into a private fundraiser.

    A library is the most democratic of spaces. Anyone can walk in. Anyone can read. Anyone can learn. It is the one place where class dissolves. It is the one place where the son of a poor can sit beside the child of the Rich, the wealthy and the nouveau riche.  Both bent over books. Both reaching for the same light. That is what our country has denied itself. A library is also a place of memory. It holds the records of a people. It preserves history against forgetfulness. It safeguards the written word against decay. It ensures that future generations know where they come from. Without libraries, nations drift. Without libraries, memory is lost. Without libraries, culture dies.

    The shame is profound. Abuja is a capital built on symbols. Monuments dot the skyline. The National Assembly dome. The Aso Rock Villa. The Supreme Court. The Central Mosque. The National Christian Centre. But the one symbol that should embody knowledge, enlightenment, and civic imagination stands unfinished. What legacy does this leave? What story does it tell to the young? That worship matters more than knowledge? That politics matters more than culture? That corruption matters more than memory? It is a cultural disgrace. A nation that cannot build a library cannot build a legacy. A nation that abandons its books abandons its future.

    The government must act. Now. TETFUND has the mandate. The presidency has the authority. The Education Ministry has no excuse. The National Library should be completed before it collapses. Delay is dishonour. Here, the more poignant point which underlines this piece sticks out as a crest: if a country cannot build a library, it cannot build a nation. For a library is more than bricks and mortar; it is the vault of a people’s memory. If a country cannot preserve knowledge, it cannot preserve culture, for culture is nothing without the written and remembered word. If it cannot value reading, it cannot value progress, because progress is born from ideas, and ideas are born from books. A nation without libraries is a nation without imagination.

    It is a house without windows. It is people wandering without maps. It is a state condemned to repeat mistakes because it refuses to keep records. A country that leaves its national library in ruins leaves its future in ruins.

    The National Library must not become another ruin. It must not be allowed to sink into history as a failed monument. It must be completed and opened. Not in another seventeen years. Not as a birthday fundraiser. Not as a political token. But as a statement of national renewal. Other nations build legacies through culture. Our country must do the same. This is the test of leadership. This is the call to government. In the end, the question is simple: what kind of a country do we want to be remembered as? One that built churches and mosques but abandoned its library? Or one that built a future on books, knowledge, and learning? The answer lies in the weeds of Abuja. The shame lies in the unfinished walls. And the responsibility lies with those in power today.

    History is watching.

    And history will not forgive our rulers, past and present.

  • Justice for Sale

    Justice for Sale

    -By Abdul Mahmud

    When the Sultan of Sokoto rose at the just concluded Nigerian Bar Association (NBA) Conference in Enugu to declare that “justice is now purchasable in Nigeria”, his words struck a raw national nerve. It was not merely an observation; it was an indictment. It was the voice of moral authority saying what Nigerians whisper under their breath in court corridors and in the dark alleys of daily life. Justice, once the hallowed preserve of principle, has become a commodity in the open bazaar of our democracy. The Sultan’s lament is not a hyperbole. It reflects a crisis that has eaten deep into the marrow of our legal system. Justice is not blind in Nigeria; it peers closely at the purse of the litigant. Those who command higher purchase power buy it. The poor man, unable to raise the Shekels, is left stranded on the steps of a courthouse that has become hostile to his hope. What should be the last sanctuary of the common man has mutated into a trading post of the powerful. No country progresses this way.

    In a previous op-ed, I noted that we now live with “judges who have become kings who sit on imperial thrones where they measure justice by the Shekels”. That is not a metaphor stretched beyond its shape. It is reality. We have enthroned judges as kings in black robes, surrounded by the rites and rituals of power, dispensing justice not by law but by patronage. Richard Joseph’s conceptual coinage, prebendalism, which Oby Ezekwesili deployed at the same conference to rebuke the legal profession, best describes the patronage-clienteleism within the bench. The gavel, that ancient symbol of fairness, no longer falls with the weight of principle but with the heaviness of cash. In this new order, judgments are not delivered; they are purchased.

    But how did we get here?

    Two forces sustain this decay. The first is the culture of unaccountability. In Nigeria, judges are rarely punished – in the real sense of punishment – for misconduct. A judge who’s found to have fudged his age is merely given a wrap on the wrists. Voila, he is compulsorily retired! The act of forgery, which is a crime, is thus overlooked. No trials. No convictions. Only newspaper reports of the NJC dismissing judges – which are, of course, framed as aberrations, not the failure of a judicial system which provides soft landing for errant judges. The result is a bench that behaves like an untouchable caste, shielded from scrutiny by the black robe. The judicial branch that bends to its obsequious convenience, with unbothered judges sitting as kings above the law. The second force is more pernicious: the politicisation of the judicial process. As I wrote in the same op-ed, “A politicised judicial process invites corruption. When judges are seen as gatekeepers to power, the temptation to influence them becomes overwhelming. The judiciary, once the last hope of the common man, has become a marketplace of elite bargains. Those who command higher purchase power buy justice”. Politics has corrupted justice because every election dispute, every transfer of power, every clash of political titans, ends at the altar of the court. The judge, in such moments, ceases to be an impartial arbiter. He becomes a broker in the grand bazaar of power.

    We are left with a tragic irony: the very institution meant to defend the law is now guilty of betraying it. And the consequences are grave. When justice is sold, the poor retreat from the law, and with them retreats faith in the social contract. When justice is sold, the rich grow more arrogant, convinced that the courts are but one more arm of their wealth. And when justice is sold, the very idea of the rule of law collapses. What replaces it is anarchy dressed in the garments of legality.

    This is why the Sultan’s words must not be dismissed as mere rhetoric. They are an urgent call to conscience. Nigerians already live with cynicism about every institution. The legislature is seen as self-serving. The executive is viewed as predatory. The only branch that once retained a flicker of reverence was the judiciary. But now that flame is dimming. Once the judiciary becomes an auction house, what remains of our republic? Let us remember that nations do not collapse first through war or famine. They collapse when their institutions lose legitimacy. Rome did not fall merely because of the barbarian invasion; it fell because its institutions rotted from within. Nigeria faces the same danger. A judiciary that sells verdicts undermines the very possibility of citizenship. It tells the ordinary Nigerian: you do not belong here unless you can pay. And a citizen who does not belong ceases to believe in the nation itself. We have seen this rot play out in high-profile cases. Gubernatorial elections decided not by ballots but by dubious rulings. Here is that familiar case in point: a governorship candidate who came fourth in a returned poll was subsequently declared by the judges as the winner! Billionaire politicians escaping accountability with a wave of a judge’s hand. Corruption cases dragging for decades, only to end in acquittals for the wealthy while petty thieves rot in jail. Each of these stories is a needle piercing the fragile fabric of trust between citizens and the state. Each confirms the marketplace that our courts have become.

    The question, then, is whether reform is possible. Can Nigeria reclaim its judiciary from this descent? Reform will require courage, courage from within the legal profession, and courage from the society that empowers it. Lawyers must refuse to be agents of manipulation, filing frivolous applications that clog the system and trading influence on behalf of their clients. Judges must be subjected to real accountability: transparent trials, open disciplinary records, and the removal of those who disgrace the robe. And above all, politics must be decoupled from justice. So long as the judiciary remains the final battlefield for political wars, it will remain compromised. But reform also requires something deeper: a cultural shift in how Nigerians think of justice itself. Justice cannot be reduced to transactions. It cannot be a trophy won by the rich. It must be a common good that protects the weak, restrains the strong, and binds society together. Without justice, there is no order; without order, there is no society. As the philosopher Heraclitus once said, “The people should fight for their law as they would for their city wall”. In Nigeria, we must fight for our judiciary as if our very survival depends on it.

    Surely, we won’t realise that our lives depend on it, until Nigeria happens to us!

    The Sultan’s cry at the NBA Conference is more than a passing lament; it is the cry of a nation wounded in its soul. His words carry the anguish of countless litigants who have knocked at the temple of justice only to be turned away by the gatekeepers of power. It is the voice of citizens who have been betrayed by the very institution meant to defend their dignity. It is the sigh of a democracy steadily hollowed out by corruption and elite bargains. In that moment, the Sultan did not speak for himself alone; he gave voice to the unspoken despair of millions.

    We deceive ourselves if we think this is only about the poor. When justice is commodified, it poisons the entire body politic. The wealthy may think they can purchase verdicts, but in doing so they dismantle the very foundations that protect their own power. A court that sells judgments to one bidder today can just as easily sell them to another tomorrow. What begins as the privilege of the powerful ends as the peril of all. A nation that abandons justice abandons stability, for injustice is a fire that consumes indiscriminately.

    History teaches us that when the courts fail, society itself unravels.

    Rome, in its decay, learned that law without justice is merely violence in disguise. Nations of our own time, scarred by authoritarianism, remind us that when courts become markets, the people cease to believe in the state. Nigeria stands dangerously at that threshold. The gavel, once a symbol of fairness, risks becoming a tool of oppression. If this collapse is allowed to continue, the people will no longer seek redress in the courts; they will seek it in the streets. And when lawless streets replace lawful courts, democracy dies. A nation without justice is not a nation; it is a mere marketplace of power. And in marketplaces, bargains are struck, but no one truly wins. The powerful may strut like victors for a season, but the erosion of justice eventually sweeps them into the same abyss as the weak. The warning of the Sultan, therefore, is not a cry to be ignored. It is a summons to conscience, a call to rescue the judiciary before the ground beneath us gives way. For without justice, we are not citizens bound by law; we are only traders in a soulless bazaar where, in the end, everyone loses.