The Pacesetter Frontier Magazine

Category: Opinion

  • Mbah: A Tale of Enduring Vision, Grit and Innovative Disruption

    Mbah: A Tale of Enduring Vision, Grit and Innovative Disruption

    By Nana Ogbodo 

    Mario Cuomo, the former Governor of the state of New York, in the United States must have had the conventional Nigerian politician in mind when he intoned his now famous saying that politicians usually campaign in poetry and govern in prose.

    On campaign trails, politicians are typically bullish and are sarcastically said to live in a bubble. On accession, however, the reality of office soon sets in – and the bluster of old is lost. The ease with which most politicians abandon the beautiful platitudes usually painted during electioneering campaigns when they are baptized by the reality in office is quite interesting. This syndrome had become so pervasive such that even as a spokesman, one would remain tongue-in-cheek while pontificating on the promises of your principal.

    Governor Peter Mbah’s ideas were out of this world, given the parlous state of affairs in the state. He brimmed with uncommon confidence and ideas that were largely novel, even esoteric. He talked about disruptive innovation; he talked about converting the dormant assets; he talked about a quantum leap, exponential growth, and moving Enugu from the pipeline system of governance to a platform module of engagement. He captured all these within his now famous mantra: “Tomorrow is here” which isn’t just another fancy one-liner created to woo voters.

    As he explained, “Tomorrow is here” speaks to the urgency of the country’s current economic outlook but from an optimistic perspective and not despondency. It is a rallying call to action, spurred by the realization that we can truly shape the social and economic realities of the future through the decisions we make today. It encapsulates our hopes and expectations about the future. It reminds us that our dreams are not utopian as long as there exists the requisite capacity, willingness, and indeed the courage to take that vision from the realm of contemplation into an actual state of being. Besides the fact that it is an affirmative development proposition, it is essentially an abnegation of complacency.

    When we reminded him that these noble dreams could prove so difficult to realize, given that Enugu is about the 5th from the bottom of the federation account revenue receipts log, he baulked at such naivety. He reminded us that Enugu has every endowment that could place it at the top of consideration in the country, especially given our history, location, and the abundance of human resources available in the state. To him, Enugu remained where it was because of a lack of imagination or what he called paralysis of the will! We reminded him that as a sub-national under a party that is not in power at the federal level, such dreams could be scuttled by realpolik. He countered with a reference to Dubai, a sub-national like Enugu, and which has been transformed by the sheer vision and courage of just one man, Sheikh Rasheed bin Saeed Al Maktoum. The rest is now seemingly history!

    Two years down the line, Governor Mbah has proven that the difference between ordinary and extraordinary lies in the vision, the passion, the courage, and indeed the ability to inspire those around you. He campaigned in poetry and governs in poetry. His achievements are as breathtaking as they are unending. Those things we had considered impossible were actually the issues he simply regards as low-hanging fruits. The water problem, which Enugu residents had given up on was cracked in just 180 days after his inauguration! Now, Enugu’s water supply has moved up ultra-exponentially from a paltry 2 million cubic meters to over 120 million cubic meters. Given that the previous reticulation pipes had ossified over the several decades of dryness, new pipes are vigorously laid and many residents now enjoy uninterrupted water supply. The International Conference Centre previously regarded as untenable is now one of the defining monuments in Enugu. Ditto the decrepit and abandoned Presidential Hotel and even the moribund Nike Lake Resort Hotel, which for decades were the defining and iconic landmarks in Enugu. These assets had diminished all administrations that had delved into reinventing them. But they are now beauties to behold. The Enugu Palm Plantation, the Sunrise Flour Mill, the Niger Gas, have all been revitalized. Remarkably, their transformation came through the platform module of engagement where government’s credibility is enough to inspire private partnership and investment! There have also emerged 260 state-of-the-art Smart Schools in much the same way as the Type 2 Primary Health Centres. We now have ultra-modern transport interchange centres, and Enugu Air is set to fly.

    In two years, Gov. Mbah’s scorecard is proof that the best way to silence cynics is through remarkable accomplishments. Yet, with some benefit of hindsight, you might be inclined to forgive his skeptics to whom the grand vision he outlined from the outset seemed like the usual theatrics of politics.

    There’s always a sense of pride recalling the optimism stirred up by his constant reference to the Dubai experience during those early planning days. Like Dubai, which built a global emporium in the desert, Mbah is literally bringing the world to Enugu through a combination of business and leisure. In a few days’ time, Enugu Air, the state-owned airline, would make its inaugural flight into the Akanu Ibiam International Airport from Abuja to a water cannon salute and resounding applause. Recalling the entire project list is often a huge challenge. The debate regarding which project may be considered the most significant is no less challenging. No project eclipses the other in terms of significance.

    Doing all these simultaneously is by no means driven by a desire to be validated or for public acclaim. Governor Mbah clearly understood that only a quantum leap – occasioned by massive capital and social investments – can sufficiently alter the uninspiring growth trajectory, of which the state had been long accustomed. So, when he talks about “disruptive innovation”, he is not merely mouthing political platitudes. He is talking about the mindset that represents a total abnegation of complacency. Mbah’s disruptive innovation speaks to the expediency of a radical vision able to harness available resources, agricultural, industrial, and human, to enthrone an economy that is increasingly less-reliant on the monthly federal allocation.

    Two years ago, only a few would have believed that land documents could be processed and issued in 72 hours. But that is what currently obtains. The introduction of the Enugu State Geographical Information System has eliminated every red tape and made the process entirely transparent. Such is the power of innovation. Enugu is experiencing an industrial rebirth. It is a rebirth that banishes for good, the old narrative that casts Enugu as a “civil service state”. This is very significant. As capital of the defunct Eastern Region, Enugu is being transformed in ways that pay a fitting homage to its illustrious history. The oil palm plantation that was the economic mainstay of the region has been revived through a partnership deal. Nigergas Company Limited is on the verge of returning to full production. The similarly moribund Sunrise Flour Mills is also on the cusp of a rebirth, courtesy of a new multi-billion naira investment. The lease of life that Nike Lake Resort is currently experiencing is also emblematic of this new flurry of private enterprise sweeping across Enugu State.

    It is remarkable that Governor Mbah views the economy of the South East through an inclusive lens. His keen pursuit of an inter-regional rail line sets him out as a man ahead of his time. The transformative power of the railway is well-established in history. Without the railway, the Industrial Revolution, which paved the way for the modern world economy, would certainly have been short-lived. Governor Mbah understands that a rail line that crisscross the states of the region, cutting through cities, towns, and the hinterlands, would likewise spur economic activities and prove a major boost for agriculture. There cannot be a better time to achieve that dream than presently when railways is on the Concurrent List. So, he is essentially seizing the moment.

    One of the most enduring lessons of Governor Mbah’s first two years in office is the primacy that human capital enjoys. As he often rightly says, human capital is the real wealth of any nation. But he doesn’t merely pay lip service to that; he commits substantial resources to fund education. The outcome arising from investing in education is normally not immediately discernible. That’s the reason many politicians tend to pay only perfunctory attention to the sector. But Governor Mbah is no typical politician. He always bucks the trend. He understands that making our students competitive requires consistent requisite investment in education in order to imbue them with the right learning and skills for a merit-driven global workplace. That is why the Smart School project will unarguably rank among his best legacies.

    In Governor Mbah, Enugu State has regained its groove and pride of place. He didn’t simply campaign in poetry and governed in prose, as most politicians are wont to. Governor Mbah campaigned in poetry and also governs in poetry. From modest baselines in nearly all socio-political indicators, he has grown Enugu State into a roaring economy that ticks every relevant development box. The next two years – and the subsequent term – can only be better. We often speak with confidence concerning the future when a people’s collective dreams are being curated by a visionary. For sons and daughters of Enugu, the yearning for improved living conditions is certainly not a dream deferred; it is a dream realized. Tomorrow is indeed here!

    Nana Ogbodo, spokesman of the Peter Mbah Campaign Organisation, writes from Enugu.

     

  • No Two Siblings Have The Same Parents

    No Two Siblings Have The Same Parents

    By C.V.C Ozoaniamalu

    Enugu. 042. Ugwuonyeama. New Haven. Abakpa. Names that resurrect the events of yesterday, of the things that would not be anymore. Indelible thoughts, pronunciations that are still stiff, inelegant yet appreciating. Writing this makes me feel stupidly emotional and happy at the same time.

    I remember when I first came here. In the early Christmas season of 2019. I was in my early twenties and Obeleagu was in his early thirties. We were a fresh couple, fresh in many ways, green in the best possible sense, and secured that the future would remain as we imagined it. Our traditional wedding had just been concluded in my hometown in Boki Local Government of Cross River State. It was love at first hearing, not at sight, a phrase I had coined myself to explain that I first fell for his name and not the person; even without knowing the meaning, the name sounded so funny. When he told me that it meant, “The Little Lion”, I was some kind of confused: why did his parents, after beholding such a huge, broad shouldered, tall and aesthetically-carved face of a man choose to name him a “Small Lion”? Perhaps , he had none of these features when he was born.

    Months later I met his father, now my father in-law (Papa).

    Papa indeed was the bigger lion. He was everything my husband was and more. At his age of almost 69, he was standing the same height as my husband. He spoke rapidly, with a hoarse voice and had the same quick temper as Obeleagu. One could hardly differentiate when he was ranting or when he was talking calmly—the cadences are all the same. To crown it all, his name is Agu. This made my husband’s name “Obele-Agu, Agu” and now his only friend had shortened it to ‘O.B.A’. But teasingly, I would call him “Nnukwu-Agu”, especially when money was involved, and then Obeleagu when he annoyed me.

    Becoming Mrs Obeleagu-Agu came with its uncertainties. Unlike the many stories I had heard of the risk of marrying outside my ancestral home, the fear of adaptation to a new culture, a new people, and the uncertainties of acceptance into a new family, made mine seem like an exception. That is not to say that my marriage to Obeleagu was one without difficulties, a rose without thorns. Of course, it was not. I would be the flagbearer of any eerie little cult of patented young liars if I even think so, not even talk about it.

    We had our moments of doubt, our moments of despair and anger, but like a child in love with hiking, we waited for the harmattan on rolling hills.

    Obeleagu and I did not agree on many things. I was the gregarious one while he was the quiet one. He never went to parties and had fewer friends. He kept his emotions in check and was always expressionless. He was interested only in his work, his family and me. He played West Life when in his elements and insisted we play Osadebe when we made love instead of blues. He had a fatalism for flying and would escort me to the airport while he drove back to meet me in Lagos. There was an old-fashioned quality about him that I loved and hated at the same time. He loved to wear natives to every event, but only had to wear jeans because I insisted.

    In the political sphere, he believed classism could only be curtailed by the government’s ownership of all properties, while Papa and I always advocated that private ownership follows nature. In one of those our heated arguments during Christmas reunions at Mgbagbu-Owa, Papa would no longer take to sitting but would stand, his voice filling the room and his hands gesticulating in support of his argument. He would lecture, “Man not only should possess the fruits of the earth, but also the very soil, since from the produce of the earth he has to lay by provision for the future. Man’s needs do not die out, but forever recur; although satisfied today, they demand fresh supplies for tomorrow. Nature accordingly must have given to a man a source that is stable and remaining with him always, from which he might draw continual supplies.”

    Then I would chip in, supporting Papa, “Needless to say that man precedes the State, and possesses, prior to the formation of any State, the right of providing for the substance of his body”.

    My mother-in-law, who always joined the supposed winning team, would scream “Oh yes, ride on” from her bedroom, and a deep ineffable pride would engulf me, knowing fully well that Obeleagu would hold that against me later. Such that when I asked him for something afterwards, he would half-jokingly tell me to go ask my father-in-law and mother-in-law.

    As an only child of my parents who had come to embrace the Agu’s as my home and siblings, I noticed that there was also a kind of subtle uniqueness of each of my husband’s siblings, a custom peculiar to every home, and as my husband would always describe it, though of the same blood, but not of the same Chi, a phrase I may not strongly agree with. Because I had come to the belief that all siblings do not have the same parents. Allow me to explain.

    Let us start with my husband and Omalinze, his brother, the first two of their kind who Papa and Mama had when they were almost our age, I guess. Both inexperienced in child upbringing, like many young parents, were placing their hands on a lot of options. As I gathered from Obeleagu, Mama and Papa were very strict parents. There were a lot of rules, and breaking any came with severe punishment. My husband always told stories of how he had gotten the beating of his life after a neighbour had visited them at night to report to his father that he was amongst the boys who had broken the windscreen of his Volkswagen while playing football in the street; of how Omalinze had bought eggs with the money given to them by a relative and how Papa who would rant and rant that it was an act of greed and would trigger stealing, and had beaten him instead of Omalinze on the ground that he should have guided him better as an older person.

    These stories and a lot more were, in a way, building two different people. My husband, who, as a child, had assumed the role of a second parent, had become the man who looked out for his siblings and their well-being, the one who, though emotionally, screamed when things were not done the right way. That rigid, stick-to-the-rule, and non-philandering teetotaler.

    Omalinze, on the other hand, had grown to become the carefree spender-uncle everyone would like to visit. He obeyed his own rules and fears no one. He was a man who only thought of today, as he believed tomorrow would speak for itself. Papa called him “The wolf amongst lambs,” while Mama would always stick to his side while reassuring Papa that he would change.

    Then came Amalu, the last of their kind. who was born fourteen years after Omalinze, that is to say, that he met a different version of their parents, unlike his brothers. A different version, both in physical appearance and emotions. This explains why he insisted that the older pictures of their parents be used for their 25th Wedding Anniversary celebration rather than the younger pictures of them, as required by my husband and Omalinze, as those were the parents he could relate to. My husband mentioned how surprising it was to see that the things which were a big issue to Papa and Mama became not so much an issue during the early days of Amalu. “He was not police maned like the rest of us. He got the love, and that is why he had so much love to give. They allowed him to cry in situations where they confronted us with “Be a man”. He had the best relationship with our parents as he stayed longer with them than us all. He is the one who remembers everyone’s birthday, even those of our grandparents. He cries at every discomfort of my parents or ours. He never buys his clothes even when he has the money to, because he knows the ones before him would get it for him. He got a pattern of treatment different from everyone else because Mama and Papa now know better than they knew years back.”

    That explained why he had mourned so much after the accident at Milikien Hills, which took the lives of Papa, Mama, Omalinze and my husband. The tragedies of yesterday.

    Having had no child with Obeleagu, I left Nigeria six months later to cure myself of grief. It is six years now, and Amalu and I still extend our littlest pleasantries and kindness. Coming to Nigeria, on his invitation, to stand in as his parents and siblings at his convocation, resurrects the events of yesterday.

    Amalu is family and will forever be.

    To the loved ones who went before us, cheers.

  • Good governance isn’t rocket science

    Good governance isn’t rocket science

    By Oseloka H. Obaze

    Nigerians rarely take pride in their incumbent leaders. They have good reasons not. As a sixty-five years old nation, Nigeria has never been blessed with a leader, who Nigerians freely elected and loved for his charisma, ideology, vision or disruptive thinking; or for being an unrepentant patriot who imbues a deep sense of patriotism. Nigerians never had a Nelson Mandela, Jerry Rawlings, Julius Nyerere, or Thomas Sankara. We covet being like Singapore, but have never produced a Lee Kuan Yew. The fault is not in the nation’s God endowed destiny, but in those who choose third-rate leaders and their acolytes, who follow such bad leaders blindly.

    Our national bane remains bad leadership. We continue to pay for it. Still there’s plentiful evidence that Nigerians are resigned to electing compromise candidates to public offices. In return, they have infinitely paid the high price of such poor leadership. Thus, Nigeria’s perverse politics and associated comeuppance is not so much the fault of the leaders as it is of the followers. Because Nigerians never elect seminal leaders, inefficient governance becomes the norm, as they opt for sectionally preferred leaders, who though they meet the compromise criteria, are hobbled by partisan clientelism.

    Nigerian leaders become heroes only after they die. Being leadership heroes and legends in their lifetime is a rarity and that reality is toxic to good governance. These facts impact on our national development and good governance credentials.  Also, our poor governance statecraft has domestic and international implications. Domestically, our youths are being radicalized nationwide. Traveling abroad with a Nigerian passport tells the pathetic story.

    As a nation, Nigeria has carved a niche of providing new indices of underdevelopment.  Recently, as the Economist magazine was disclosing that “Nigeria has more people without electricity than any other country” and that “fixing that will be fiendishly difficult,” Abdullahi Umar Ganduje, National Chairman of the ruling All Progressives Alliance (APC), brazenly avowed that there was nothing wrong with Nigeria being a one-party state, since China a one-party state was developmentally well off.  Well, what percentage of the people in China has electricity?  100%. Conversely, our non-salutary story is that the presidency is going off the national electricity grid and resorting to solar power. Was the announcement supposed to be a confidence-building measure? What electricity fate awaits Nigerians? Such dubious and contentious comparison coming from a prominent political leader overlooked a notable corollary: in China corrupt politicians and public officials are executed. Same should be true for Nigeria in order for Ganduje’s comparison to be valid.

    The consequences of Nigeria’s poor governance are sorely felt, when bad leaders make frivolous and tactless comments aimed at blanking out or justifying prevailing ineptitudes. The political opposition has enough arsenals to rubbish the APC government as being apathetic and incompetent. Take for instance our budgetary accounting. There is nothing more emblematic of fuzzy math and corruption, than when we don’t know the barrels of oil we produce daily or quarterly; or how much oil is stolen. On both counts, the figures emanating from the CBN, the Ministry of Finance and NNPC are frequently at variance. Concerning our national deficit, at the close of 2024, the Ministry of Finance had it pegged at N6.6 trillion; the World Bank at N10.5 trillion and the CBN at N14.7 trillion. DMO figures were astronomically higher. The only commonsensical deduction is that as a nation, we are badly leveraged and criminally indebted. Still, we continue borrowing for non-regenerative ventures.

    The bucket list of what constitutes good governance is short.  Benchmarks of good governance are also few and easily achievable to provide an elongated value chain of dividends of democracy. Regrettably, as Nigerians, we play politics for the sake of politics, not for the sake of good governance or entrenching true democracy.  Our leadership elite do not play politics as the grounding norm for good governance.  They play politics to belong, to be in the corridors of power and to cash in.

    Good governance is not rocket science.  It will never be. But like democracy, good governance is hard work fostered by discipline. Good governance demands strict respect for the rule of law. So we have to work hard at it in order to fix our politics.  In a presidential system like ours, the separation of powers is imperative. As such, we must resolve to entrust our national interest chores to those with the capacity and commitment to serve.  We must also grasp that the enablers of good governance consists of the leaders, the people and the national institutions.  These are the pivotal operatives. Each has a critical, consistent and resolute role to play. Weak leaders, weak institutions and weak people cannot produce a robust government, society or sustainable development.  To wit, they cannot produce a vibrant democracy. Yet, working together they can be adaptive and transformative. They can orchestrate an orderly and productive society.

    Nigerians are not blind to their leadership challenges. Oddly enough, they are also not averse to holding on doggedly to “blind hope,” which according to the tragedian Aeschylus translates to “we are living and partly living.”  The manifestation of “blind hope” is now a national curse. To paraphrase a public policy interlocutor, “blind hope is a curse to every human, and every nation.” Most Nigerians are living dead or walking dead; thanks to our political rut and rot. Food and physical insecurity are rife. Healthcare delivery is a disaster. To paraphrase Pope Leo XIV, most Nigerians are “fed up with scandals, misused powers,” so much so “they no longer believe, no longer hope, and no longer pray because they think God has left.”  Indeed, most Nigerians believe God already left Nigeria to her own proclivities and detriment; considering the Pandemonium’s Paradise that Nigeria has become.

    When Obu Udeozo avers in a poem in his seminal 2021 anthology titled, GOD-Selected Poems, that “…Ministers, governors, and senators of earthly pleasure, harvest copious dividends of unforgiving flames..;” he unfurls the insidiousness of statecraft that our present leaders serve, invest or bequeath on their constituents. Nigerian leaders rank high in the realm, where rhetoric, “prejudiced and loud communication” of failed policies and governance modalities drown out free speech and the aspirations of the “gathering of the voices of the weak who that have no voice.”  Nigerian leaders contrive poverty, hunger, insecurity and death as choice dividends of a presumed democracy. We now also attribute evident maladministration in INEC elections results and JAMB results to “glitches,” despite the respective institutional commitment to “free, fair, and credible electoral process,” and “service and integrity.”

    Nigeria ambled into the status of a lawless nation long ago; not because there are no laws, but because there are no consequences for those who break the law regardless of their status.  The alarming adjunct is that our law enforcement institutions -judiciary, police, state security and paramilitary agencies- are all weak. We can now even add the military to that cadre. In its proper context, our unlawful inclinations and becoming a nation of scofflaws can be explained by the epigram in Khalil Gibran’s book, The Prophet, wherein a question was asked: “But what of our laws master? And he answered: You delight in laying down laws. Yet you delight more in breaking them.”

    We have other fault lines. Canvassing for full adherence to the rule of law and due process in a democracy does not consist of rhetoric, sound bites and propaganda. Good governance advocacy must speak to commitment and core values of democracy, complete with the checks and balances and total respect for constitutional dictates. These are anchored by the state’s unfettered service delivery and equal protection for every citizen. Sadly, our leaders gloss over these values. Nepotism has reached a new high. Preferential and discriminatory policies now induce cancel culture.

    As we approach the 2027 general elections, we have entered a season of anomy. Defectors and defections are the norm.  Non-subliminal APC Presidential Campaign billboards now glut the nation. President Bola Tinubu’s second term campaign is visibly on. All these violate the extant Electoral Law.  But what does it matter? Financial profligacy is also on the rise. What galls the most is that the present leadership has appropriated the rights of approbation and reprobation. That is not a benchmark of good governance.  Years back, when Nigerians were perceptibly bedeviled by severe austerity due to poor governance, Nigerians protested under the rubric of “Occupy Nigeria.” Now that the economic and security conditions have worsened, all forms of protestation, which ought to be routine, has been muted.  Courage is on high demand. Yet courage has a deserted Nigerians as repression and reprisals manifest. The disunited political opposition seems cowed. Their complacency abets APC’s impunity.

    Some suggest that it’s no longer worth writing; protesting or speaking up on the ills of Nigeria as those in power neither read nor listen. I disagree. We must continue to harp on key national interest issues and challenges. We must also continue to offer possible, probable and plausible solutions. We must continue underlining that good governance is not rocket science. As such, those who can’t lead should get the hell out of the way in the national interest. Let those who can do the job lead for the common good and in the national interest.

    ——

    Obaze is MD/CEO, Selonnes Consult – a policy, governance and management consulting firm in Awka.

  • Nigeria Mourns

    Nigeria Mourns

    By Abdul Mahmud

    Two incidents drew attention to our country’s deepening security crisis this month. The first happened in Zamfara State. A pregnant woman was abducted by terrorists. She gave birth while in captivity. The leader of the terrorist group took her newborn twins. Then he threw them to his dogs. The dogs ate the babies alive. One after the other. The second occurred in Kogi. Lanlege Samuel Adewale was kidnapped in Kabba. He tried to protect his neck from a machete. His left hand was chopped off instead.

    These are not moonlight tales spun to amuse children or transmit ancestral wisdom. They are not the parables of old, meant to echo the values of bygone eras or light the moral path for the future. Or put another way, they are not the moral scaffoldings of ancestral wisdom. They are not the echoes of a noble past meant to instruct the future. No. These are the brutal chronicles of a country in descent. These are simply the grotesque accounts of a country that bear neither lesson nor legend, only the raw stench of evil and the deafening silence of a state in retreat. Such horrors happen every day. Some are reported. Most are not. The victims vanish into the dark forests of our country. Families pay ransom, bury the dead, or live with permanent scars. The ones live to recount their stories.

    This is not just about crime. It is not just insecurity. It is a state failure. A classical state failure. Across large swathes of our country, the government no longer governs. Bandits and terrorists have taken over. They run parallel governments. They control territories. They rule by fear. They collect taxes. They impose laws. They deliver jungle justice. There is a governance crisis. A catastrophe that is palpable and visible. The basics of statehood are absent. Where our country isn’t struggling to exist within itself, it is ceding many parts of itself. It no longer imposes its authority in many parts. In some places, it is an absent authority. From Zamfara to Katsina. From Borno to Zamfara, Plateau in-between, bandits and terrorists have seized land, people, and local power. From Kwara to Niger, they are building and resuscitating terror cells. Abuja is too close for comfort. Be afraid; be very afraid. Of the truth, these are not ragtag criminals. They are terrorists. Organised. Armed. Funded. And strategic, to the extent that their purpose is to turn our country into an Islamic caliphate.

    They understand our country’s weaknesses. And they exploit them.

    Meanwhile, our country is slow to tackling the menace. Disorganised. Reactive. Often silent. Security meetings have become the favourite occupation of the president and his men. All talks about threats to national security. No action. The threats grow. The danger gets closer home. The military is everywhere. But nowhere. Soldiers are deployed in 34 of 36 states. Still, citizens are kidnapped daily. Villages are attacked. Markets are raided. The police are overwhelmed. Intelligence agencies don’t coordinate. Information is hoarded, not shared. Budgets are announced, but weapons don’t arrive. Fighting troops complain of old rifles, low morale, and unpaid allowances.

    The security architecture is broken.

    But, perhaps, the most tragic failure is the State Security Service (SSS). This is the Service that should be leading the fight against terrorism. The one with the power to detect plots, infiltrate networks, and prevent attacks. But what does it do? It tracks critics. Professor Pat Utomi is its latest victim. The grouse against him is that the opposition’s shadow government he proposes in a democracy is a threat to democracy itself. Ludicrous. Utomi is not the threat. The real threats are the terrorists who operate in the forests of our country, occasionally foraying into towns to cause mayhem and chaos. But the SSS chases citizens rather than hunt down the terrorists. Our country is on fire, and our spooks are chasing rats. This is not intelligence work. This is a distraction. And it is dangerous. Does it not show how far our country and its institutions have drifted from their purposes?

    The duty of any country is to protect lives and property. Everything else comes after. If a government cannot provide security, it loses legitimacy. Here, today, legitimacy bleeds. Citizens no longer trust their country. They no longer rely on it for safety. They turn to local hunters, vigilantes, and militias. In the North-West and North-Central, armed groups like Yan Sakai and local vigilantes fill the gap. In the South-East, the Eastern Security Network claims to defend the Igbos. In the South-West, Amotekun was born out of frustration. These groups often do what the police won’t. But they are not trained. They are not regulated. Sometimes they protect. Other times they kill. They will eventually become the problem. Sooner. Not later.

    The more people turn away from our country, the weaker our country becomes. This is how countries collapse. Not all at once. But in pieces.

    Village by village. Town by town. City by city. State by state.

    The warning signs are clear.

    More than 3 million citizens are displaced. Whole communities have fled their ancestral lands. Children are out of school. Farmers have abandoned farms. Food prices have soared. Bandits burn crops and demand ransom before planting. Insecurity now fuels hunger. Hunger fuels desperation. Desperation fuels violence. The economy suffers. Investors flee. Jobs vanish. Even Abuja, once safe, is under siege. Kidnappings happen in the suburbs. Gunmen raid homes. No place is truly safe. Our country is under siege. But this government acts like it’s business as usual. Its spokespersons hold press briefings. They issue press statements. Occasionally, the president issues marching orders to the Service Chiefs. The Service Chiefs make promises. The other arm of government, the legislature, often straddles the Fanonian fence of indifference, watching crises unfold like a passive spectator. Now, and then, it stirs like the wind in the trees, bringing nothing to life, to paraphrase that late great American writer and humourist, E.B White. It is always half-awake, half-concerned. Its knee-jerk? A committee. Then another. An endless parade of legislative committees clothed in the garb of urgency. The latest act in this tired play is the proposed Senate’s ad-hoc committee, chaired by my old friend, Opeyemi Bamidele, to organise a three-day national security summit. Another grand convocation of platitudes. Another theatre of absurd deliberations. But as always, no plan, no resolve, no action, just photo ops. Just echoes in the hall, and silence on the ground. Then, they move on. The killings continue.

    The government must change course. And it must act fast.

    Security must be redefined. Not just by the number of troops. But by presence, intelligence, speed, and effectiveness. Security agencies must share information. They must work together. Not against each other. The State Security Service must turn its gaze in the direction of terrorists, not on the tongues of citizens. Its mandate is to safeguard the nation, not to muzzle dissent. President Tinubu once declared, “Let the poor breathe.” I say now, with equal urgency: let the citizens speak. Let them question. Let them protest. Let them shout into the winds of power without fear. For the lifeblood of democracy is not silence, but speech. The real enemies of the state do not hide behind hashtags. They bear arms and spread terror. The threat is not in tweets, but in the ticking of bombs. The top brass of our military must shed its old, corrosive habit of turning defence budgets into personal fortunes. The battlefield, not the bank, is where its loyalty must lie. Their true duty is not in procurement scandals, but in the protection of citizens. It must secure our borders with honour, and neutralise the terror that stalks our country. It must dismantle every enclave where terrorists find shelter, where fear nests and multiplies. But more than that, it must wage a parallel war for the hearts and minds of our citizens. For no victory is complete if communities feel invaded, not embraced. The soldier must be seen not as a conqueror, but as a shield. Not as a stranger, but as a guardian-angel. When our police force isn’t engulfed in bribery and corruption, it shows up shaking down citizens at roadblocks and on street corners, not injustice. Its presence breeds fear, not safety. This must change. We need a new vision of policing; one rooted in reform, not repression. A Police Force that serves, not shakes down. Our country cries out for local policing. Officers drawn from our communities. Trained not only in tactics, but in the language and customs of our people. Equipped not just with weapons, but with intelligence, empathy, and the trust of those they serve. Real security begins when the badge is a symbol of safety, not the insignia of exploitation.

    Security, though essential, is not sufficient on its own. No country shoot its way to peace. Citizens must confront the uncomfortable truths. They must ask the tough questions: what drives their compatriots into the arms of bandits and terrorists? What poisons their souls so deeply that terrorism, banditry and kidnapping become their vocations? The answers are etched in the margins of society: anger, poverty, unemployment, despair. These are not just statistics; they are the seeds of rebellion, sown in the fields of the countryside abandoned by justice and forgotten by opportunity. Until our country addresses the silence in empty stomachs and the ache in idle hands, the minds of those left behind, forgotten, will remain the devil’s workshop. No wall will be high enough, no gun will be strong enough to secure the peace our country seeks.

    But, there are specific things our country must do to stem the blood tide. The North, which is at the heart of the current conflagration, has millions of out-of-school children. The highest in the world. These children become easy targets. Our country and its rulers must invest in education. In jobs. In agriculture. In dignity. When angry children have no stake in a country, they are the first to join up in the parade of torches to burn their country. Governors must stop building endless flyovers where there are no persistent gridlocks. And start building security. They must stop funding convoys that stretch from Timbuktu to Samarkand. Serengeti, in-between. And start funding police stations. They must stop stealing. And start governing. Tinubu’s government must lead. But states must act.

    There is no excuse for this terror stalking our country. None. Our country is bleeding. Citizens are already losing faith. Losing hope. Every day, more citizens flee. To Europe. To Canada. To anywhere. Those who stay live in fear. Our country and its rulers must act now. Or it will be too late. Our country needs to be saved. But saving it requires courage. Truth. Discipline. It requires facing reality. Not spinning lies. Time is running out.

    Our country is burning. While history has many examples in Somalia, Libya and Syria, our rulers should stop chasing rats.

    They should put out the fire as citizens mourn their dead. And Nigeria mourns. In this shadow of mourning, grief descends like a heavy fog, thick, suffocating, inescapable. Hearts, fragile and weary, reach out for solace. In the sacred rhythm of the Beatitudes, we hear the solemn promise: “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.” But in our country of unending funerals, who brings comfort to mourners? Who wipes the tears of mothers burying sons, of fathers clutching silence where laughter once lived? Who stands in the breach for citizens battered by loss and forgotten by power?

    Nigeria mourns, but where is the hand that heals? Where is the balm for this collective sorrow?

  • When Public Servants Sit Tight, Nigeria Burns

    When Public Servants Sit Tight, Nigeria Burns

    By Abdul Mahmud

    A few weeks ago, the Joint Admissions and Matriculation Board (JAMB) released the results of its annual Unified Tertiary Matriculation Examination (UTME) which recorded mass failures and sparked national outrage. Entire regions, specifically the South East, and Centres in Lagos State, reported mass failures.

    Parents panicked. Students despaired. Teachers were confused. For many candidates, the poor results didn’t match the effort they had put into preparation. In some homes, quarrels erupted. In others, silence and tears took over. A few contemplated to take their own lives. In Lagos, Miss Faith Timilehin Opesusi committed suicide for scoring the low mark of 190. The entire country was on edge. The Minister of Education rubbed his hands in glee, while “describing the examination process as meeting international standards and being almost foolproof against malpractice”. The Registrar, Prof Oloyede, basking in self-glory, echoed: “JAMB’s robust and secure processes have set a new benchmark for examinations in Nigeria and affirmed the Board’s commitment to sustaining and improving these standards”.

    For weeks, JAMB offered no real explanation for the mass failure. Yet, behind the scenes, the Board knew what had happened. It was not the students who failed. It was JAMB and Oloyede.

    JAMB’s internal computer systems failed. A glitch in its software distorted the entire examination process. The Registrar, Professor Ishaq Oloyede, was aware of the problem. He knew the results did not reflect actual performance. But he said nothing while thousands of children suffered the trauma of failure. He said nothing while parents bore the shame of imagined academic failure. He remained silent while dreams were temporarily destroyed.

    The truth only came to light because of the work of a private citizen. His name is Alex Onyia. He is not a government official. He is not a regulator. He is not on the JAMB board. He is an IT professional and education enthusiast. But he did what the head of the exam body refused to do. Onyia analysed the results. He noticed a pattern. He used technology to uncover the glitch in JAMB’s system. He made his findings public. Then, JAMB was forced to respond. Only after Onyia’s revelations did Professor Oloyede admit to the failure. He went on national television. He apologised. He shed tears. But his tears rang hollow. They came too late. A citizen had killed herself. The damage had already been done.

    What followed next is typical of Nigeria, of Nigeria’s anyhow-ness. Rather than resign, Professor Oloyede continues to stay tight in office. Despite public calls for him to step down. Despite his admission that JAMB’s systems had failed. Despite the emotional and psychological trauma caused to thousands of students. He is simply sitting tight. This refusal to resign, even in the face of obvious failure, is a defining feature of Nigeria’s public service culture.

    In 2020, the UK’s exams regulator, Ofqual, faced a similar situation. Algorithmic adjustments to grades during the COVID-19 pandemic caused widespread outrage. Students were downgraded unfairly. Within days, the head of Ofqual, Sally Collier, resigned. She took responsibility. She showed dignity. She respected the trust placed in her office. That is what happens in countries where accountability matters. In Nigeria, we do the opposite. We cling to office. We treat public service as a lifetime appointment. We see resignation as defeat. We treat failure as a minor inconvenience. In fact, many see resignation as an alien concept. It doesn’t exist in the dictionary of the Nigerian elite. When officials are caught in wrongdoing, they sit tight. When they are exposed for corruption, they sit tight. When their policies fail, they blame others and sit tight. Sometimes, they even get promoted.

    This culture of impunity is dangerous. It kills public trust. It weakens institutions. It emboldens more incompetence. When a public official admits to a massive institutional failure but refuses to resign, what message does that send? It tells future officials that actions have no consequences. It tells the public that accountability is optional. It tells victims of failure that their suffering means nothing.

    Oloyede’s conduct fits into a larger pattern.

    A Minister’s convoy kills a pedestrian. He blames the driver. He sits tight. Another Minister diverts food meant for school pupils. She cries witch-hunt. She sits tight. A director is caught falsifying records. He blames junior staff. He sits tight. No shame. No remorse. No resignations. Our public space is dominated by people who see office as a right, not a privilege. They see it as personal property, not a position of service. And when they fail, they expect applause for merely surviving the storm.

    It was not always like this.

    In the early years of Nigeria’s independence, resignation from office carried weight. In the First Republic, ministers stepped down when their actions cast doubt on government credibility. There was a sense of honour. A belief that public office required a moral compass. That compass is now lost. What has taken its place is arrogance. Entitlement. Impunity.

    In advanced democracies, the idea of public trust is sacred. Resignation is not a sign of weakness. It is a demonstration of responsibility. It preserves the integrity of institutions. It restores confidence in governance. It allows healing to begin. In Nigeria, by contrast, public servants fight to remain. Even when their continued presence causes embarrassment to the government. Even when their failures are too glaring to hide. They mobilise ethnic sentiment. They play the religion card. They frame their refusal to resign as an act of resilience. Meanwhile, the institutions they head crumble.

    Oloyede’s tears cannot wash away the betrayal felt by students. His apology cannot undo the anxiety faced by parents. His tears cannot bring Faith Timilehin Opesusi back to life. His refusal to resign sends a clear message: in Nigeria, no one is ever responsible.

    We must challenge this culture. The Nigerian public must demand more. Citizens must insist on accountability. The media must continue to speak out. Civil society must not go silent. Opposition parties must do more than issue press statements. It is not enough to expose failure. There must be consequences. Public servants must understand that they serve at the pleasure of the people. When they fail the people, they must leave.

    Young people, in particular, must not forget this episode. The students who suffered because of JAMB’s negligence must remember what it felt like. Their pain must fuel a desire for change. For reform. For a system where justice is swift and accountability is real. The time has come to build a new culture of public service. A culture that rewards honesty. That punishes negligence. That promotes competence. That makes resignation a noble act, not a shameful one.

    Let Professor Oloyede be the last of his kind. Let future public officials know that failure has consequences. Let them understand that leadership is not a throne, but a trust. When things go wrong, we must expect them to take the honourable path. We must not wait for foreign examples. We must build our own standards. Our own values. Our own culture of accountability. Nigeria cannot grow with public officials who never leave. We cannot progress if we reward failure with promotion. We cannot heal if our leaders remain unmoved by public pain. It is time to end the era of sitting tight. It is time to raise the bar. This moment must serve as the turning point in which the era of impunity gives way to responsibility. Public office means what it should: service, not survival.

    Until then, Nigeria will continue to burn. And those who lit the fire will still be sitting tight. Professor Oloyede, please, go.

    Please, go.

  • Mahmuda, Lakurawa and the Urgency of Securitisation

    Mahmuda, Lakurawa and the Urgency of Securitisation

    By Abdul Mahmud

    Terrorism is changing in the northern region of our country. The faces are new. Some are old. The methods are familiar. The threat is growing. Two new groups have emerged. One is Mahmuda. The other is Lakurawa. Add the familiar curmudgeons: ISWAP, Boko Haram and Ansaru and you will have a clearer glimpse of the deadly compositions and boundaries of the ill-tempered cauldrons they have established in the north – from Kwara State to the fringes of Zamfara State. Their names are now etched into the long, tragic history of terror in our country.

    One Sunday night last month, suspected members of Mahmuda struck. They attacked Ilesha Baruba and Kemaanji. These are peaceful towns in Kwara State. The attacks stretched across Baruten and Kaiama local governments. Lives were lost. Families were displaced. Silence descended after violence. Mahmuda is a new name. But the pattern is old. Sudden strikes. Coordinated assaults on vulnerable citizens in remote villages. The terrorist group is expanding. It has now entered Niger State. This is dangerous.

    Lakurawa is another new group which operates largely in the northwest. Its ideology is extreme. Its actions are brutal. The terrorists who people the group flog citizens for listening to music. Music. An act of joy. An act of identity.The federal government has declared Lakurawa a terrorist group. This is a step in the right direction. But it came late. Lakurawa has been active for years. It crossed into our country from Niger. Its members settled in border communities. They married local women. They recruited local youths. They became part of the social fabric. Then, they turned it into a web of violence. Lakurawa is not alone. It has ties to jihadist factions in Mali and Niger. The Sahel is burning. The fire is spreading south. Our country’s borders are porous. And terror and terrorists move freely. Our country is now the fertile ground for terrorism. A cradle for a new kind of war. A war without honour. Without fronts. Without rules. It is the war Professor Richard English, one of the world’s foremost scholars on terrorism, calls a distinct form of warfare. One that feeds on fear. Thrives in broken states. Spreads in the cracks of our silence. It is not fought on battlefields, but in markets, mosques, and schools. It creeps into daily life. It redraws the map of safety. This is the war our citizens now face. The war our country allowed to take root.

    The emergence of these new groups poses deep threats to national security. To public order and safety. To our collective peace. These are not isolated criminals. They are ideologically driven. They have military training. They have weapons. They have intent. Their goal is domination. Not just of space, but of minds. They do not only kill. They control. They dictate how people live. What they hear. What they wear. What they believe. This is not just crime. This is terrorism. And terrorism is war. It is a war without fronts. A war without uniforms. A war against the state. Yet, our country is slow. It is uncoordinated. Its responses are reactive, not preventive. It cannot continue like this.

    This is where securitisation becomes relevant.

    Ole Waever and Barry Buzan, two scholars in international relations, introduced this concept. It is simple, yet powerful.

    Securitisation means turning a political issue into a security issue. It means naming it as an existential threat. It means treating it urgently. Like a war. Like a pandemic. I must place a caveat here: not every issue should be securitised. But some must. Terrorism is one of them. Waever argues correctly that securitisation begins with a speech act. A leader says: “This is dangerous.” That speech changes everything. It moves the issue from routine politics to emergency politics. Once securitised, the issue gets priority. Resources flow. Action follows. Our country must securitise Mahmuda and Lakurawa. These are not bandits. These are terrorists. These are ogres. Call them that. Treat them as such- the enemies of the state. But, it goes beyond treating terrorists as enemies, our leaders must act. Not just talk. They must frame the threats in clear, urgent terms. They must explain it to the citizens. They must build support for tough measures. And they must implement those measures.

    Securitisation helps build consensus around emergent threats. It unites security agencies. It gives the military a clear mandate. It galvanises public awareness. But securitisation also comes with responsibility. It must not be abused. It must not target political opponents. It must not trample on rights. It must be precise. It must be justified.

    Mahmuda and Lakurawa justify it.

    There is also the need for intelligence reforms. These terrorist groups did not appear overnight. They grew under the radar. They expanded in plain sight. They took root in the vast forgotten and ungoverned spaces of our country. They fed on religious extremism, raw, rigid, and restless. A pervasive restlessness so often twisted into a cry for blood. The North, long burdened by fragile fault lines, became the staging ground of terrorists. It offered not just land, but history. A history where belief has too often flirted with brutality. Where fervour, when unmoored from reason, spills easily into violence. In this space, ideology became a weapon. And faith, once sacred, was repurposed into fire. If intelligence had worked, Mahmuda would not have expanded. If intelligence had worked, Lakurawa would not have merged into our border towns, establishing its own geography of bloody orgies.

    Our country needs human intelligence. Not just drones. Our country needs locals to trust it. Not fear it. Our country needs early warning systems. Community policing. Local vigilance.

    Securitisation must begin at the community level. Imams. Teachers. Farmers. Traders. They know what happens before Abuja does. They must be part of the solution. Our country must also fix its borders. The Nigeria-Niger border is not a line. It is a zone. A corridor of trade, migration and, now, terror. Lakurawa uses it. So do others. Our country needs joint patrols. Cross-border cooperations. Shared intelligence. A regional counter-terrorism strategy. West Africa must work together. Terror is regional. Our country’s responses must be the same.

    And yet, while we act, let it be remembered: force alone does not end terrorism. Ideas must be fought with better ideas.

    Why do young men join Mahmuda? Why do they flock to Lakurawa? Why is Ansaru establishing terrorists’ cells in Kogi State? It is because they seek power. Because they seek purpose. Because they feel abandoned.

    Our country must not abandon its citizens. Development is prevention. Schools. Jobs. Healthcare. Roads. These are weapons against terror. When citizens have hope, they resist terror. When they feel safe, they report threats. When they trust the state, they defend it.

    Securitisation must go hand in hand with human security. Not just military security. The North is bleeding. But it is not yet lost. Our country can still act. The north can still be saved. Our country must first call things by their names. Mahmuda is a terrorist group. Lakurawa is a terrorist group. Their ideologies are violent. Their actions are evil.

    Our country and its rulers must respond decisively. Today. Not tomorrow. This is not just a northern problem. It is a national one. What starts in Kwara spreads to Abuja. What burns in Niger may soon reach Lagos. The sum of the part is connected to the whole. Not greater.

    National security is not a slogan. It is a duty. Public safety is not a luxury. It is a right. Waever and Buzan teach us to listen to danger. To recognise when politics becomes war. To know when to shift gears. Our country must shift gears. It must treat Mahmuda and Lakurawa as the threats they are. Existential threats. Securitised threats.

    Our country cannot normalise terror. Our citizens cannot live with it. Citizens must end it.

    And to end it, we must first name it.

    That is the beginning.

  • Jim Nwobodo @ 85: The Truth Has Prevailed

    Jim Nwobodo @ 85: The Truth Has Prevailed

    By Dr. Chiedozie Alex Ogbonnia 

    On Friday, May 9, 2025, people from all walks of life gathered at the country home of Chief Jim Nwobodo in Amaechi Awkunanaw, to celebrate a talented visionary, an extraordinary Titan, a sagacious achiever, a charismatic leader, a man with the heart of gold, the former governor of the old Anambra State, a former minister and senator of the federal Republic of Nigeria, His Excellency, Sen. Jim Ifeanyichukwu Nwobodo (Anyanwu N’awaraoha) as he clocked Eighty five years.

    One of the major benefits of celebrating great men is because it serves both as a guide and an inspiration to the younger generation. The youths in particular, are persuaded that, at an age many are still groping and floundering, Jim had developed the requisite perspectives, social skills and the acumen to become an entrepreneurial behemoth of world renown- Chairman, Link Group International Ltd; Link Pharmaceuticals Ltd; Jimson International; Chairman, Jupiter Printing Co Ltd (Publishers of Satellite Newspapers) etc. It was in his thirties that he manifested courage, frontier spirit, and profound fear of God, creative humility, economic wizardry and philanthropy. He was in his thirties when he became the Chairman of Enugu Rangers International Football Club. And it was in his thirties that he won election and was sworn in as the first executive governor of the Old Anambra State. In Jim Nwobodo we find a life well-nurtured and a life well-cultivated in service and humanity.

    Let me use this opportunity to throw some light on Enugu Rangers International Football Club. For the records, the Nigerian-Biafran war (1967-1970) ended with the declaration of “No Victor! No vanquished!! But there is no gainsaying that the psychological trauma of defeat trailed the Igbo psyche shortly after. The Igbo elite needed a platform that would quickly mainstream the traumatized into the social life of the Nigerian state. One Chief Jerry Enyeazu, the Director of Sports in the East Central State (South East) in collaboration with other Igbo patriots assembled the ex-Biafran soldiers, who were still nursing the war injury and stigma, and founded a football team with the name Rangers Football Club.

    The name “Rangers” was significant because it represented the “never-say-die” spirit of the Igbo, a trait they demonstrated with grit, passion and commitment during the war. “Rangers” was the most dogged, formidable, invincible daring paramilitary unit of the Biafran Armed Forces whose exploits during the war were unassailable.

    The first outing of Enugu Rangers Football Club was with a highly kitted Nigerian Army X1 Football Club at Onikan Stadium, Lagos, in 1970. The Journalists tagged the match: A battle between the Biafran Army and the Nigerian Army. With a 2-1 victory, the Enugu Rangers, still bristling from the battle field, with the never-say-die and indomitable Rangers’ spirit, ferocity and skill was able to achieve for the Igbo what guns and “ogbunigwe” could not achieve in the battle field. The Rangers coach was Chief Dan Anyiam. The indomitable Godwin Achebe was the captain while the Alhaji- Domnic Nwobodo displayed sophisticated dexterity in the field. The other part of the story was that while the Nigerian Army Football team was well fed and equipped, spectators cast a martyr look at the Rangers team with a poor outfit.

    The all-conquering Enugu Rangers went on to dominate the football scene in Nigeria for so many years; defeating crack and formidable opponents like WNDC (which later became the IICC Shooting Stars of Ibadan), ACB and Stationery Football Clubs of Lagos, Vasco Dagama F.C of Enugu, Bendel Insurance Football Club of Benin, Alfusyan Rocks FC of Ilorin, Racca Rovers of Kano, DIC (Ranchers) Bees FC of Kaduna, Mighty Jets FC of Jos to mention just a few.

    The Enugu Rangers represented the Igbo resurrection, Igbo consciousness, irrepressibility, Igbo dignity and pride. In fact, Rangers was the social soul of the entire Igbo. That was the Rangers that the young Jim Nwobodo was considered most suitable to lead from 1976-1979. Jim was then on the lips and hearts of every Igbo.

    As a governor in 1979, Jim Nwobodo revolutionalized the education sector in the old Anambra State, comprising the present States of Enugu, Anambra and greater part of Ebonyi. He initiated the policy of one secondary school per community with a school bus and a generating set as compliments; bursary awards to all the students of the old Anambra state in all the higher institutions in Nigeria; Award of scholarship to indigent students, etc. Jim was the first governor to establish a State-owned University- the multi-campus-based Anambra State University of Science and Technology, ASUTECH, which has birthed the Enugu State University of Science and Technology (ESUT) Enugu; Nnamdi Azikiwe University (NAU) Awka and Ebonyi State University (EBSU) Abakaliki.

    Some other achievements by Jim include the establishment of Enugu State Television, Channel 50, Enugu; Ikenga Hotels, Nsukka and Awka, Sunrise Flour Mills, Enugu; Building Materials Factory, Ezzamgbo; Aluminum Products Factory, Ohebedim; Metallurgical Factory, Ozubulu; Specialist Hospital, Abakaliki; Anambra State Vegetable Oil Products(AVOP), Nachi; Nike Lake Resort, Enugu; Enugu and Onitsha Water Schemes; Rural Electrification Project in many communities; access roads; Nnamdi Azikiwe Stadium, Enugu, etc..

    Jim was a household name in the Old Anambra State. His accomplishments were very endearing to the masses and the election for his second tenure was guaranteed in the minds of all. I recall with deep emotional shock and goose flesh the very dramatic soulless robbery with which the defunct National Party of Nigeria (NPN) government led by the late President Shehu Shagari rigged Jim Nwobodo out of office in favour of the late Chief Christian Chukwuma Onoh.

    The impeccable combination of the personality cult in His Excellency, The Rt. Hon. Dr. Nnamdi Azikiwe, GCFR, QC, Owelle of Onitsha, the National Leader of the defunct Nigerian People’s Party (NPP) and the amiable Governor Jim Nwobodo was overwhelming and the NPN had to rely on bare-faced robbery and brigandage to upset Nwobodo, using the Police, the Army and the Federal Electoral Commission-FEDECO. While the NPN and their cohorts regaled in caustic triumphalism, the masses of the Igbo felt injured and dispossessed but Jim Nwobodo was undaunted and unbowed. He remarked philosophically that Eziokwu g’aputa ife, that is: The Truth shall Prevail. Azikiwe, on his part released a treatise captioned “The End Shall Vindicate the Just”. Three months after, the military struck, predicating their intervention on the massive electoral riggings across the country, amongst others.

     

    Eziokwu g’aputa ife, is also captured in the Holy Bible. In verse 2 of the 12th Chapter of Luke’s Gospel, Jesus Christ himself declared thus: “For there is nothing covered that shall not be revealed; neither hid, that shall not be known”. The plastic power of truth is eternal. According to Dr. Nnamdi Azikiwe; Truth is a treasure. It is like the gold, buried 100 feet below the sea level for 100 years; when it is excavated, it appreciates 100 times in both lustre and value.

     

    Nwobodo, like other legends before him, has seen the universal chord of treachery and infidelity; rise and fall, hope and despair, trauma and relief, malignity and veneration, hate and love but in all, he embraced the circumstances with equanimity and fear of God.

    On Friday, May 9, 2025, men and women were struggling for a handshake with a good man; a man who in their hearts won the 1983 governorship elections; a man who within a space of four years accomplished what some others could not contemplate in eight years; a man whose trust in God is legendary, a lover of peace, a Fabian philosopher who would first caution his adversary, second and third time before he strikes, and when he strikes, the earth quakes in his favour. That is Jim.

    On behalf of the people of Enugu State, I commend His Excellency Dr. Peter Ndubisi Mbah, the Governor of Enugu State for revering the governors that preceded him, in spite of his outstanding accomplishments within two years that speak volumes. Not only that Mbah attended the event and spent ample time with Nwobodo, he came with his Deputy, Barr. Ifeanyi Ossai; the former governor, Rt. Hon. Ifeanyi Ugwuanyi, local government Chairmen and other state government officials.

    Mbah extoled the virtues of Nwobodo adding that “nothing endears one to his people than selfless service. That is what you epitomise. The men and women gathered here today to celebrate you is a reflection of that selfless service that you have provided for the people of Enugu State and Nigeria”

    The traditional rulers in Enugu State, such as the Chairman, Traditional Rulers Council, Enugu State, His Majesty, Igwe Samuel Ikechukwu Asadu, (Ogadagidi); the Ubaojene ii of Ogugu and Akajiofor Ntuegbenese, His Majesty, Igwe Chidozie Aloy Ogbonna, Jr; His Majesty, Igwe Greg Ugwu, JP, Ọchịnanwata 1 of Akegbe Ugwu, His Grace, Prof. Emmanuel Olisa Chukwuma, OON, the former Archbishop of Enugu Province, Anglican Communion, Church of Nigeria; Sen. Ben Ndi Obi, (Ojeligbo), Chief Chinedu Anih of the Coal City University, Enugu, etc. Other groups include the leadership of Ohanaeze Ndigbo Worldwide, the ASUTECH Alumni, Women and Church groups, business tycoons, Chancellors and Principal Officers of universities, etc.

    Jim thanked God for his life. He thanked the Governor and all the people that came from far and near. He also thanked Obidiya, Mrs. Patricia Nwobodo, an amazing Amazon, dazzling diamond, a Harvard exponent who’s inner and outward beauty shines forth with pleasure, lustre, harmonium and perfection.

    In summary, Jim Nwobodo is one of the most celebrated Igbo man, alive. The truth has ultimately prevailed that popularity is not secured through brigandage, bare-faced robbery and abracadabra; that a broken leaf, after fluttering in the air must obey the law of gravity; that history shall vindicate the just; and that godliness is the greatest virtue.

    Happy birthday Anyanwu N’Awaraoha.

  • Nigeria’s Canticles of Hopelessness

    Nigeria’s Canticles of Hopelessness

    By Oseloka H. Obaze 

    The line between hope and hopelessness in Nigeria is so badly blurred it is now imperceptible. For most Nigerians, life is now ‘solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short’, making the end of hope an existential reality. Living in contemporary Nigeria, exposes that personal and national fates are unambiguous. Nigeria’s national disposition connotes the end of hope. That disposition is real, blatant, concrete and hard felt.

    A shared value most Nigerians reflexively subscribe to nowadays, are the canticles of hopelessness that pervades the land. As never before, Nigerians have lost hope in their country. This is a very dangerous juncture for any country to be. A haunted nation risks implosion. The nation’s swirling and cascading challenges are robust and overt, yet the inherent clear and present danger pivots from the anesthetizing uncertainty, as to whether the Nigerian citizens should prepare of a seven-point-scale earthquake or an all-consuming tsunami. This Catch-22 situation suggests that in the present circumstance, heads or tails, Nigerians lose.

    Nigeria remains a constitutional democracy. But precepts have since overtaken democratic practices. These days in Nigeria, there are missing praxis between theoretical democratic governance and the practice of democratic governance. What this portends is the stark failure of democratic institutions and to wit; the combined diminution of ordered liberties and State failure, arising from undeniable leadership hubris. More troubling, perhaps, is the unequaled scope of State Capture that is still unfurling.

    Hope remains a shared commonality inherent in human nature; the social strata, nomenclature or civic acculturation of a person notwithstanding. And regardless of a citizen’s exposure, education, affluence or indigence; hope is and ought to be the universal currency that permeates mankind.  Yet, in their daily wake and work, for most Nigerians, while hope in God persists, hope in the nation and for the nation is progressively waning. In this avowed era of “renewed hope” there is, ironically, a glaring dearth of hope. Many situations feel hopeless.

    This is Nigeria’s woke moment. Nigeria is in disarray. Of that there is no longer any debate. But the deniers persist. In our woke democracy, the courts are no longer the last hope of the common man. Our courts incrementally dispense justice with fear and favour. So we have become a nation where justice is routinely procured, if the price is right. In government circles, official malfeasance and grand larceny are rife and hardly attract any reprisals.

    What then is the magic wand that still keeps Nigeria safe from fragmentation? Simply, it is that inextricable connection between hope, and what some call luck or fate. That nexus is further anchored on human expectations in any ordered society or democratic dispensation.  Such expectations are in turn, vested in statutory promises and rights embedded in the Constitution that guides governance and on the flip side, by laws of social order and natural justice.

    Ancillary to these promises and ordered liberties are inalienable rights and privileges that any working society imbues on her citizens. Above all, there is that hope that there exist a few good men with messianic potentials to save a sinking ship, a collapsing building or an imploding nation. But they will act and succeed in the national interest, if only they can seize the moment.

    More often than not, citizenship prerogatives are aligned with patriotism, where the society does well to promote and protect citizen’s rights; and in return, expects citizens to be upright, diligent and patriotic, without undue exhortations or coercion. The sum total is that strict adherence and respect of the rule of law applies to the state and citizens alike. Such shared responsibility underpins the social contract between state leaders and citizens. Absence of these values, as is now the case in Nigeria, has inevitable consequences.

    Hope dies progressively. Absence of trust diminishes hope.  For nations, unmet needs and unfulfilled promises further erode hope. Glaring iniquities, disenfranchisement and discontent emaciate hope. It is this trajectory that leads to restiveness, anarchy and revolution in hobbled nations. Failure is a gradual process. For any government, the first line of defense of citizens’ rights is the responsibility to protect. This is also the first line of defense against malgovernace and the resultant chaos. In this regard, the Nigerian APC-led government has failed woefully. Poverty, hunger, insecurity and hopelessness have since made democratic reforms and saving Nigeria from the APC government the national cause célèbre.

    The broad swath of ungoverned spaces, the internecine violence, unending bloodletting, insecurity, poverty and hunger in Nigeria are no longer emblematic; but sad and real life realities. Corruption, lack of accountability and willful disregard for due process compound existing national challenges. Chaos is no longer imminent. Chaos is already here. The increasing civil disobedience and spontaneous public protestations against some national leaders, their cohorts and spouses, are hot-button indicators. Our present leaders ignore such signals at their own peril. One such unscripted episode could easily become the tipping point, catalyst, or rallying point for Nigerians to collectively vent their long-suppressed anger via mass protests and unrest.

    Unquestionably, hope ends, when government becomes absolutionist and its Orwellian tendencies manifest. Presently, several discernible leadership and governance variables point to Nigeria’s dangerous drift and continual segueing towards Orwellian diktats. These are normative and real concerns. With the political opposition being emasculated, coerced and co-opted, Nigeria is progressively adrift toward one-party state and authoritarianism. A corollary is the emergence of rogue and false leaders in the three arms of government and every segment of the society becoming attuned –predisposed or prepurposed–towards a singular mandate value. These partisans promise hope and change, but only seek power.

    Secondly, there is an egregious complicity arising from the dangers of unfettered silence in the face of equally egregious unfurling national injustice. Methodically, Nigeria’s history is being revised and manipulated, not so much in the national interest but to suit sectional, and ethnic narratives aimed to enhancing political gains and overreaching personal benefits. Suddenly, we have become a nation without ideations and ideologists, where crass precept-driven politics is the preferred norm above everything else.

    Thirdly, it is most fear-provoking that those who once coveted the role of being the nation’s conscience have suddenly become catatonic in deference to primordial considerations. Safe for a few like of Dele Farotimi, Chidi Odinkalu, Usman Yusuf and Femi Falana, the rest are suddenly bereft of the gumption to speak truth to power. Contextually, Chief Emeka Anyaoku recent warning that Nigeria risked disintegration, without federal reform and restructuring ought not to be ignored even as such prognoses have for long been commonplace.

    Finally, power of vile propaganda is in full display. Groupthink, doublethink, doublespeak now drives nepotism and political trolls. Nigeria’s most corrupt are all scampering into the ruling APC government for shelter. Some defect, some are invited and some are coerced. This is a testament that “absolute power corrupts absolutely.” Perhaps there’s honour amongst thieves. That’s the state of our hopelessness. It is this national miasma that elicits the canticles of hopelessness that is drowning out rigorous debates, policy reforms, and the political opposition’s robust dissent, while elevating leadership hubris to an unprecedented level.

    The APC will most probably seek to continue wielding power after 2027, but institutionally, it is far too rotten to the core to provide the redemptive governance Nigeria urgently requires. Regrettably, the APC-led government has, with deft political engineering infested the opposition PDP and LP with malign leadership crises that makes them feeble. Without aligning with other pro-democratic forces, neither PDP nor LP can individually oust the APC from power in 2027. Just the thought is simply scary. If this scenario and our overall national circumstances don’t give us pause; I don’t know what will. Meanwhile, we watch and wait.

    ——-

    Obaze is MD/CEO, Selonnes Consult – a policy, governance and management consulting firm in Awka.

  • Community Servants, Government Victims: The Struggle of Enugu’s PGs

    Community Servants, Government Victims: The Struggle of Enugu’s PGs

    By Sebastine Chukwuebuka Okafor 

    According to Enugu State law, a President General typically refers to an elected or appointed leader of an autonomous community or a traditional council, responsible for overseeing community development, maintaining law and order, and representing the community’s interests.

    The function of President-Generals in grassroots development, governance, and community mobilization cannot be overemphasized. Most times, they are the liaison between communities and government, as they enable the rural dwellers to understand government policies and programmes in order to participate actively.

    In Enugu State, the Traditional Rulers Law, as well as the Revised Laws of Enugu 2004, made small insights into the establishment of this institution, their roles, as well as other critical things. This shows the importance this office holds in governance, especially for the grassroots. One cannot reach out to any community without first going through their President-General or traditional ruler. That is why when there is a need for a new traditional ruler, they are mostly in charge of organizing it in partnership with the Ministry of Local Government, Rural Development and Chieftaincy Matters.

    It is very appalling that this institution is not just neglected but also impoverished in Enugu State by our local government chairmen. According to available reports, in Enugu, the PGs are paid a paltry sum of ₦30,000 monthly to run their affairs by the local government, which is done either directly or through the State Ministry of Local Government, Rural Development and Chieftaincy Matters. This paltry sum is even not paid as and when due, owing to how heartless some of our elected grassroots leaders can be. These are people that are always on the road, running helter-skelter to get things done for their community and government. They are always on the road taking risks for people who don’t care about them.

    A few years ago, when Governor Peter Ndubisi Mbah wanted to embark on smart projects across the 260 political wards, it was still these people that ensured that lands were donated, which enabled the projects to kickstart earnestly. In some communities where their PG is not active, it was shifted to another community or delayed. Some communities whose own started on time—the PGs are also maligned and accused of land grabbing, which would linger between him and the families involved till generations to come. They go through all this stress, and yet, the government cannot pay them their ₦30,000 as and when due. It is inhuman, grotesque, and thus, not acceptable.

    Local government areas such as Igbo Etiti, Oji River, and Uzo Uwani are alleged to be owing their PGs over 12 months of salary arrears. Others such as Igboeze North, Ezeagu, and so on are still owing. It is very rare to see any local government in Enugu State that is not owing the salaries of their PGs. This is not up to the amount of money they spend on traveling because some LGAs have less than 40 President-Generals under their payroll.

    Recently, PGs have become objects of attacks by unknown gunmen and criminals, which are underreported or not even reported. For instance, on the 6th of October 2024, Chief Osita Okoye, the President-General of Amador-Ugbawka, was murdered in broad daylight. The news was hidden for days before it was nonchalantly announced. It took the efforts of the younger brother to the deceased, Chief Amechi Okoye, to get the needed publicity on the death of this PG. On Thursday, the 3rd of April 2025, Chief Osita Mambo, the President-General of Obuoffia community in Awkunanaw, was murdered by gunmen suspected to be assassins. It was not reported until anti-Mbah Sahara Reporters carried the news. There are also assassination attempts on PGs, as well as physical assaults that happen on a daily basis, which are either not reported or neglected.

    While some of these attacks are caused by the PGs who would connive and sell off their community assets without due consultations with the people, or get involved with some illegal activities whose proceeds are not shared, it is also important for all to understand that the majority of these unfortunate incidents stem from the failure of the state government to institutionalize the office of the President-General as a serious administrative pillar. The absence of a structured and enforceable welfare scheme for PGs has left many vulnerable, easily manipulated, and abandoned. Without any form of insurance, legal protection, or formal security, these grassroots leaders are left to face the music alone, even when acting on behalf of the state. Their murders, kidnappings, and daily humiliations are simply treated as community matters and never get the deserved attention from government quarters.

    More so, the state government must take full responsibility for the general lack of orientation, monitoring, and accountability in the operations of PGs across Enugu. The Ministry of Local Government and Chieftaincy Affairs appears to be more interested in settling political scores and installing loyal PGs rather than empowering functional and respected community leaders. The lack of a comprehensive training and retraining program, weak audit of PG activities, and poor synergy with security agencies have all contributed to the rising tensions and breakdown of trust in several communities. If a structured code of conduct, operational funding, and quarterly reporting templates were implemented and enforced, many of the current crises plaguing our town unions would be avoided.

    As a matter of urgency, the Enugu State Government must stop treating PGs as political tools or expendable field officers. A proper legislation or policy directive should be enacted to increase their monthly stipends to a realistic and livable wage, with periodic reviews. Local government chairmen should be held accountable and audited regularly to ensure timely payment and resource allocation to town unions. Beyond financial compensation, the state must deploy community-based security systems, legal support, and welfare protection for all registered PGs. This is the only way to maintain peace, mobilize true grassroots participation in governance, and protect those who are daily exposed to danger for simply loving and serving their people. Anything short of this is not only unfair; it is wicked.

  • In God’s Name, We Have a Country to Save

    In God’s Name, We Have a Country to Save

    In God’s name, our citizens must act fast. Our country is bleeding. The signs are everywhere. There is no other way to put it. Across our country, from the dusty villages of Zamfara and Borno to the streets of Lagos and Abuja, there is no mistaking the fact that our country is on the brink of collapse, while faith in Tinubu’s government has completely disappeared. A government that promised renewed hope is now renewing fear and despair. A country once full of energy and ambition is now shrinking in on itself to hide from terrorists and bandits, threatening fire and brimstone. They are making good the promise of hell. The threat to our country’s existence is no longer hypothetical. It is real, it is present and it is growing more dangerous by the day.

    In the northern parts of our country, over 60 villages have fallen under the control of terrorists. In Borno, Boko Haram has resurged with deadly confidence, reclaiming spaces previously liberated by the military. Chibok, for example, which has been captured one hundred and eleven times, has now been taken over. Yet again. New extremist groups have emerged in the north central, enforcing Sharia in communities through sheer brutality. They now dictate how people dress, speak, and pray. A certain citizen, Lanlege Adewale, who was abducted and later had his left hand amputated, was left with a message on his release: this is a jihad. The jihadists mean business. Local authorities are helpless. In some places, they have simply vanished.

    In Abuja, the federal capital, kidnappers operate without resistance. They raid homes, block intra-city roads, and snatch citizens. Abuja is now afraid of itself, even in daylight. In southern parts of the country, especially in the South-East, South West, and South-South, kidnapping has become a booming enterprise. Criminal syndicates now operate with near impunity. Entire towns live under quiet sieges. What are the governors doing? Some are visiting the homes of their political opponents with bulldozers. They are on missions of political vendettas. Clap for them. These are not isolated incidents. They represent a steady, frightening erosion of the state’s authority on the one hand; and with respect to the governors, it represents executive rascality and overreach on the other hand. Citizens no longer look to the police or military for protection. Across our country, the rule of law has been replaced by the rule of fear. This level of insecurity would challenge even the most capable government. Unfortunately, our country does not currently have one. President Bola Ahmed Tinubu, in office for nearly two years, has yet to present a clear national security strategy. His administration responds to crises with silence or vague reassurances. There is no evidence that his government understands the scale of the challenge. There is even less evidence that it is doing anything meaningful to stop it.

    Meanwhile, citizens are battling not just insecurity, but hunger. The removal of fuel subsidies in mid-2023 was poorly planned and even more poorly implemented. The government gave no warning. There was no phased approach. There were no effective safety nets. Almost overnight, the cost of transportation tripled. The price of food soared. Small businesses shut down. Unemployment rose. Citizens who were already poor became poorer. Those who were already managing to survive fell into poverty. Hunger is now the scarlet letter, with apologies to Nathaniel Hawthorne, citizens wear around their necks. A bag of rice now costs what some civil servants earn in a month. Children are being pulled out of school so they can work and help feed their families. The elderly are begging on the streets. Citizens are surviving, not living.

    The situation is worse in the rural areas. Farmers cannot go to their farms because of fear of attacks. A few days ago, Fulani bandits turned up in Odame, a nearby community to my place of provenance, South Ibie, forcing helpless villagers to release a video with the simple message: Save Our Souls. In many places, bandits and terrorists have taken over farmlands, demanding levies and killing those who refuse to pay. Agricultural production has dropped. The country now imports what it once grew in abundance.

    In the face of all this, our political elites remain detached. Government officials continue to enjoy lavish lifestyles. They travel abroad, receive allowances, and attend endless meetings with little to show. When they are not ferrying foreign paramours and scarlet ladies to satisfy their libidinous cravings, they are turning governance into pornhubs, and into “the libido for the ugly”, to borrow from the late American journalist and essayist, Henry Louis Mencken. There is no sense of urgency. No empathy. No leadership. When citizens protest, they are accused of being unpatriotic. When journalists ask tough questions, they are called disgruntled elements. This government has become increasingly defensive, even as it fails to deliver on its promises. The result is a growing loss of public trust. The people no longer believe in elections. Many feel that their votes do not count. Truly, votes do not count. The judiciary has not helped matters. Controversial court judgments on electoral disputes have left many citizens feeling that to secure justice from the court is akin to fetching water from the stone. “Selectocracy”, as my good friend, Professor Chidi Odinkalu, aptly describes it in his newly released book, ‘The Selectocrate: When Judges Topple the People’, is now the fundamental objective and directive principle of state policy. Citizens have been reduced to spectators in a democracy that functions only in name. Faith in democracy is shrinking.

    The security agencies are overstretched. The police are underpaid and under-equipped. The military is deployed everywhere, from the forests of Zamfara to the streets of the South-East, and exhausted. In some cities, like Benin City, the military now chases Yahoo-Yahoo fraudsters. The State Security Service seems more focused on monitoring critics than dismantling terrorist networks. Citizens have lost confidence in the very institutions meant to protect them. This is not a sustainable state of affairs. A country cannot function when citizens live in constant fear and hunger. A country cannot survive when its citizens are afraid to move freely, when they cannot afford food, when they no longer believe in their government. It cannot survive when its democratic institutions are routinely and deliberately undermined.

    And yet, despite everything, our country is not beyond saving. The resilience of our citizens remains one of its most remarkable traits. But, resilience must not become a curse. Citizens must not suffer endlessly in the name of endurance. True, our country has millions of hardworking, intelligent, and determined citizens; and a large youth population with energy and ideas, with belief in justice, in fairness, and in progress. But belief alone will not fix what is broken. They deserve justice. They deserve security. They deserve a country. A country that works. They deserve a future. The political class must come to terms with the hard truth: business as usual is no longer sustainable, nor acceptable. The patience of citizens, once deep and enduring, is wearing thin. Their options are shrinking by the day. Trust in institutions is evaporating. If leadership continues to flounder, to deflect, or to ignore the clear and present danger, the urgency of now, something else will inevitably rise to fill the growing vacuum. And history teaches this: what emerges in the absence of responsible leadership is rarely democratic, seldom peaceful, and almost never lawful.

    The time to act is now.

    There is, still, the hope of redemption. The possibility of saving our country becomes real, not abstract, when citizens begin to reject the comfort of cynicism and the paralysis of apathy. It begins when they rise from passive spectatorship to active participation in the difficult, and necessary struggle to rescue a country already hurtling toward the abyss. This hope is not anchored in slogans or hashtags, but in deliberate, sustained civic engagement. Citizens must organise, register to vote, show up at the ballot box and defend the ballots; and hold their leaders to account, not just with outrage, but with structure and resolve. They must begin to prepare for leadership. Not on Twitter, but in ward meetings, at local councils, in state assemblies, and, in time, in the national arena. Only then can redemption move from a longing to a lived reality.

    Our country has been pushed to the edge before, but this moment carries a different weight. It feels more dangerous, more fragile, more urgent than anything in recent memory. The warning lights are no longer blinking. They are blazing. The clock is ticking, not metaphorically but in real time, and with every hour lost to denial, our country inches closer to the point of no return. Citizens, living through the crisis of existence that demands sober reckoning, can no longer afford the luxury of indifference. The handwriting is not just on the wall, it is scrawled across the streets, bus stops, markets, schools, and homes. They must act. To quote Marx, “every step of real movement is more important than a dozen programmes”. They must begin the step of real movement of saving their country than waiting endlessly for the dozen Renewed Hope programmes of the see-nothing and do-nothing President Tinubu and his lackeys that will never come.

    In God’s name, we have a country to save. And we must strive to save it with courage, with truth and with the conviction that the country we dream of is still possible. If we fail, the next generation may not inherit a country but a graveyard of broken dreams.

    God forbid, did I hear you say, dear reader?

  • Workers’ Day in Nigeria: A Day for the Unemployed

    Workers’ Day in Nigeria: A Day for the Unemployed

    By Abdul Mahmud

    Exactly a decade, three years, and a day to the eve of a Workers Day, I sat with my comrade and friend, Uche Onyeagocha. We spoke about the fate of Nigerian workers since the return to civil rule. In the middle of our discussion, Uche, lamenting their condition, said: “Mahmud, to talk about workers without talking about joblessness is dishonest. We cannot celebrate labour in a country that has no work. In our peculiar reality, the Workers Day, while highlighting the plight of millions without jobs or hope, should be a day for the unemployed”.

    Our country is once again celebrating another Workers Day, which once had something of meaning, something of pride, of unfurling of banners, raising of fists in the air, now feels like a joke. A cruel joke played on our workers. The screams of “Patria o Muerte, Venceremos”- homeland or death, we will overcome – still rent the air. The sound of brass bands still plays. But, the meaning that the day once lent to itself has since vanished. The stadia and parade grounds are still filled with banners and pious speeches. But the workers’ souls are empty. The parades continue. The workers’ rallies are now little more than symbolic pageantries characterised by dances that do little to alter the conditions of the working class. But the hope is gone.

    Forget the nonsense of Joy is Coming. There is no joy left. Only pain. Only hunger. Only memories of better times. Workers become ghosts. Present, yet invisible. Moving, yet stuck. Breathing, but barely living. What is a worker whose wages buy nothing? What is labour without dignity? In our country, a job does not always mean a living. Employment does not always mean escape from poverty. Work, for many, is simply another name for suffering.

    The officialdom calls May 1st Workers’ Day. The streets know it by another name. Go outside, look around. Who do you see? Those that the officialdom describes as workers. Teachers owed salaries for months. Nurses who buy their own gloves. Streets’ sweepers who live under bridges. Graduates selling Gala and Lacasera in traffic. There are jobs, the officialdom screams. But the jobs are fake. The statistics lie.

    The National Bureau of Statistics claims our unemployment rate is low. It says only 4.3% – a decrease from 5.0% in Q3 of 2023 – are unemployed. But how? On what planet? In what country? By what measure? If a man sells Zobo for one hour a week, he is counted as employed. If a woman fries akara by the roadside every two days, she too is employed. These statistics are based on the warped NBS methodology that considers anyone who works for at least an hour a week as employed. Wow! The numbers hide the truth, and conveniently conceal the mass unemployment that characterises the labour market. Here: the NBS methodology, illogical, defies commonsense. A fixation wrapped in statistical jargon, dressed as logic and facts. It is a trick. A magician’s act.

    Ours is a country of the jobless. Of the hopeless. Of the underpaid and the undervalued. The real unemployment rate? No one knows. But the evidence is everywhere. Young men on every street corner. Women roaming markets without stalls. Graduates writing CVs with no addresses to send them. A country bleeding potentials. Even those with jobs suffer. Salaries delayed. Pensions denied. Promotions frozen. Hospitals without medicine. Schools without teachers. Offices without electricity. Even Aso Rock, the symbol of presidential inaction, is even going solar. The Nigerian worker does not work to live. He works to survive. Sometimes, barely. The government promised to pay federal workers the minimum of ₦70,000. What is the value of ₦70,000 in today’s world? It cannot buy a bag of rice. It cannot pay rent in any city. It cannot fuel a car for a week. Yet that is what Tinubu calls the minimum wage. A shameful number. A national embarrassment. The cost of living rises every day. Prices double. Salaries do not move. Inflation has no respect. It eats without warning.

    Under President Bola Tinubu, things have worsened. The economy is in chaos. The fuel subsidy is gone. The naira floats like Sapele timberlogs on the River Ethiope. Prices of food and transport have exploded. The poor cannot breathe. The middle class is gone. The rich build new fences. Tinubu’s policies follow the gospel of the market. But the market is cruel. The market has no heart. It serves profit, not citizens. It listens to economists in foreign suits. It does not hear the cries in Ojuelegba or Mararaba. It has no time for the woman carrying basket of tomatoes on her head. Or the boy who walks five kilometres to school.

    It is neoliberalism that Tinubu calls it. Deregulate everything. Let the market decide. Cut subsidies. Cut support. Cut life. Build coastal roads that lead only to his pocket and the pocket of his crony, Gilbert Chagoury, not citizens. Build projects, not futures. That is the vision. That is the madness.

    But a country is not a magic show. It is not the magician’s bag. It is people. Human beings with dreams. With bones that ache. With children to feed. With hopes that die quietly in traffic. The workers suffer still. The youths japa. The factories close. The shops shrink. The streets fill themselves with despair. Our country is turning into a marketplace of sorrow.

    Where are the unions? Where is labour? Where is the rage? Where is the roar of yesterday? The Nigerian Labour Congress used to be a lion. Now it is an efulefu. A folded leaflet. A press release at noon. A handshake with politicians. Union leaders now sit with those who crush workers. They smile over tea. They tweet from air-conditioned offices. But the workers sweat. The workers cry. The workers are alone.

    The Workers’ Day has become theatre. A parade of uniforms and speeches. No soul. No fire. No fight. Only routine. Only performance. But the time for silence is over. Workers must speak. Loudly. Clearly. Angrily. They have nothing to lose but their chains. There is nothing to fear. Fear has already stolen everything. Fear has taken food. Taken shelter. Taken the future. What more can it take? How about the youths? Our country’s ticking time bombs. They are everywhere. On bikes. In kiosks. At betting shops. In embassies. Holding passports. Holding dreams. Many flee the country. Japa. That’s the dream now. To leave. To run. They are all running from a country that eats its own. The NYSC which holds the youths to wishful dreams has become a ritual with no reward. One year of service. Then what? Years of waiting. Of joblessness. Of rejections. Of regrets. The certificate means nothing. The future is blank. Our country breaks its youth. Then, it blames them for failing, for falling from non-existent grace to grass.

    A country that cannot provide jobs for its young is doomed. A country that watches its future rot has no future. The time has come to say it plainly: this country has failed its workers. It has failed its youth. It has failed itself.

    On Workers’ Day, there should be mourning. Mourning for the jobs lost. Mourning for the salaries stolen. Mourning for the factories closed. For the dreams buried. For the families torn by poverty. For the parents who cannot pay fees. For the children who go to bed hungry. There must be anger too. Not the kind that burns buses. But the kind that fuels action. That writes petitions. That mobilises. That organises. That doesn’t agonise. That demands. Citizens must ask: what is the value of labour in our country today? What does work mean in a country where working does not bring food? Where efforts do not bring dignity? Where contributions bring no recognition? There is wealth in Nigeria. There is oil. There is gold. There is gas. But the wealth is hoarded. The oil is stolen. The gold is smuggled. The gas is flared. The rich build castles. The poor build shacks. Inequality is the national flag.

    Let the Workers’ Day become a day of protest. Not a day of praise. Let it be a day of truth. A day of reflection. A day when workers stop pretending. When the unemployed stop clapping for suffering. When citizens start shouting. This country is at a crossroads. It cannot continue hurtling down the road of elite greed and mass misery. It must choose a new path. One built on justice. On fairness. On work that pays. On leadership that listens. Workers must be respected again. The unemployed must be seen. The youths must be given a chance. The unions must find their voice. And the government must remember: no country grows when its people are broken.

    Let us not say “Happy Workers’ Day.” There is no happiness here. Only struggle. There is pain. There is no respite. Workers’ Day must speak not only for the employed, but also for the unemployed, the jobless, the forgotten, and for those trapped in silence and idleness. They must be told: You are not invisible. Your struggle is known. Your worth is unquestionable. Until Workers’ Day is truly a celebration of labour, of jobs, of justice, let it remain what it is: a loud cry from the silent mouths of oppressed workers who have nothing but their silence and chains to lose. Today’s not Workers’ Day. It is the Day of the Abandoned. The Day of the Betrayed. The Day of the Unemployed.

  • Do You Believe In Spirits? 

    Do You Believe In Spirits? 

    There is something about today that is yet to settle in with you. Something that felt like someone invisible yet very near was watching you.

    The first time you had this feeling was at your boarding school at Ikot-Ekpene when a JSS 2 boy who stayed a bunk away from yours died. You’ve kept awake all night as rumours continued to spread of his visit to Akubue Paschal, a classmate of yours who had fallen sick shortly afterwards and who was said to have punished him some weeks before his death. But you’ve never punished anyone. Would he attack you for being there without saving him, for being a coward in the face of injustice? You felt the pain that followed the belt on the boy’s body and his eyes meeting yours calling for help, but you had looked away and went another direction just to avoid making enemies with Paschal.

    “You have no enemies, you say. Alas, the boast is poor. He who has mingled in the frail of duty must indeed have made foes. If you have none, little is the work you have done. You hit no traitor on the hip…you poured no cup from perjured lips, You’ve been a COWARD”

    This poem, whose author you have forgotten tormented you. After some days the feeling disappeared.

    The feeling came again in 2020 at Umusiome Hospital, towards the end of the days of COVID-19. You had thought the feeling came with the unfamiliar smell of the hospital…, ‘No, that’s not the word’, it was not an unfamiliar smell as you know this smell comes with some hospitals and that was not the first time you slept over or looked after someone in a hospital that smelled that way. Debunked, you began to think it was the incense burnt by the other patient, a short unpleasant man, with hands so short that it looked like they were pegged to his arms. This incense does not have the familiar scent of the one burnt by the Priest at SS. John & Paul (Iba Pope, Awada, Onitsha) during the Sunday benedictions or Holy Mass. When your brother was moved to another ward weeks later after your complaint, the feeling never went away, but you woke up one day feeling like it was never there, it’s gone.

    But these were years back. You’ve become an adult now, with malnourished strands of beards gathering at your lower jaw. You thought of going to Kachi’s place to spend the night. How much you’ve missed him, you told yourself – a ritual to emasculate your ego, but in actual sense, you were looking for a means to run away from your fears. It was not the weekend yet, it was still Wednesday and you would have Jurisprudence class the next day. The plan was out of the box.

    You live off campus, in a hostel called Woodland without the woods, just a stone’s throw from the school gate. The hostel was so quiet that you could hear the jiggling sounds of the onions being splashed fiercely by Obinna into the sizzling oils from his kitchen at the far end. You could have gone to knock at his place to start up a discussion but you dread talking to the fellow housemates as you are keen on the thing “Privacy”. His name you’ve learnt from other boys when they scream at him to pass the ball in their monkey-post football marches downstairs. He always looked at you in a certain way, the way that suggests that he wants to be your friend, or rather, that says “I know what you are”, so you avoided him more.

    “Let me go to night class”, you said out loud. At least it is the only place that registers little human interaction during the night. In the bathroom, baring your shy nakedness to the midnight blackness, you felt a hand run across the line of your spine. You jolted up almost immediately, the soap falling at a distance, you looked back in shock to see who it was, but saw no one. You ran your hands through your body, cold rashes hit the softness of your palm.

    “A mam na onye nche m no nso (I know that my redeemer liveth)”, your voice rang, a song you have learned to sing over the years to assure yourself of the presence of God. You quickly checked your phone, it reads 8:00 pm. It was time. Time to speak with Okenna, a friend who has been fighting cancer for the past few months. 8:00 pm has become a ritual you both have formed over the months. The past week, he has always been the first to call, and with each day, his voice became weaker, he laughed less and only listened to you talk and talk. Each call leaves you with tears, each call breaks you. You wondered why he had not called this evening and decided to clean up and call him.

    Opening the bathroom, there he sat, on your bed. “Jesus!”, you screamed, cleaning your eyes to clear off your hallucination but he did not vanish. You pinched yourself and you felt the pain. It’s no child’s play.

    “Onye?”, your voice asked, shaking, trembling, and panting audibly. He turned, smiled at you and vanished.

    Hours later, you woke up at the Health Center at Umueze, a pack of injections stuffed into your veins, with Obinna your neighbor seated beside you.

    “I know you saw something, I heard you ask ‘Onye’ before the loud scr..ea..m” He stuttered and stopped as if he realized it was not the best time. “You have got some missed calls from different people, but the name Kachi recurs and I have told…”

    “Help me dial Kachi?”, You said, cutting him short.

    The number at the other end rang for a while and then a familiar voice came up “Nnam ndo, I guess you’ve heard….”

    “Tell me nothing has happened to Okenna”

    “He passed…”

    You went quiet for some minutes before letting out a loud shout and falling from the bed, you opened your eyes, it was your room at Ikoyi, Lagos. It was 2025 and you are late to CDS thumb printing. Just a dream.