Category: Opinion

Finally, our country has arrived at that stage of national maturity where everybody accepts suffering as a public policy and inconvenience as a personal drill. Our country once promised prosperity, dignity, security, and modern development to its citizens. Experience has since changed these aspirations. Citizens now wake up each morning with the practical understanding that survival itself deserves collective applauses. Petrol queues have disappeared because many citizens can no longer afford enough fuel to justify standing in line. Economists may eventually classify this development as an innovative market adjustment introduced by the genius of President Tinubu. Transport fares rise with such determination that taxi drivers now announce prices with the solemnity of judges delivering prison sentences. Passengers protest briefly before entering vehicles because outrage remains cheaper than trekking.

Electricity supply has also embraced philosophical consistency by appearing occasionally and departing without goodbye. Entire neighbourhoods celebrate the arrival of light with the excitement previous generations reserved for weddings or childbirth. “UP NEPA!” The Isokos are not screaming the familiar refrain. They are on the streets and across social media demanding the dignity and satisfaction of having electricity to make their screams meaningful again. Children rush to charge their phones. Barbers attempt three haircuts before they are restored to the tyranny of blackouts. Small business owners rush to buy fuel for generators with the certainty of men funding private wars against darkness while public officials continue commissioning power projects that survive mainly in speeches and photo-opp. The hospitals deserve national appreciation for teaching citizens the importance of local herbs. When citizens are not searching for herbs in bushes, they are arriving hospitals with drugs, syringes, gloves, and sometimes prayers carefully prepared in advance because the public hospitals in our country have become self-help centres. Elected public officials who cannot trust public hospitals with common headaches still deliver inspirational speeches about national progress with admirable confidence.

Education continues to produce graduates equipped with certificates, unemployment, and motivational quotes. University students spend years studying courses repeatedly interrupted by strikes, and labour disputes. Graduation ceremonies finally arrive with elaborate gowns, expensive photographs, and parents calculating the financial consequences of raising educated job-seekers. Public office holders encourage entrepreneurship from podiums guarded by armed security personnel while millions of our young citizens attempt business ventures in an economy determined to punish them with excessive taxation.

The roads across the country deserve historical recognition for preserving archaeological conditions within modern civilisation. Travelling between cities requires patience and prayers. Potholes enjoy prominence and permanence than public policies. Contractors receive billions to rehabilitate highways that return to ruin shortly after commissioning ceremonies conclude. Citizens driving at night approach every dark stretch of road with the combined fears of armed robbers and kidnappers. Journeys that should last two hours gradually turn to testimonies in churches on Sundays.

Praise the Lord. Alleluia.

Security announcements from government officials often arrive with generous promises. Armed groups continue their activities with stubborn independence from official optimism. Farmers abandon farmlands after repeated attacks while food prices rise, enough to convert ordinary meals into luxury dinners. Schoolchildren in rural communities attend classes under the shadow of abduction. Parents pray quietly each morning before waving goodbye to children whose greatest offence involves pursuing education inside a troubled country. Public corruption has matured into a national bazaar conducted with fanfare. Investigative panels appear regularly, produce lengthy reports, and disappear before meaningful consequences emerge. Politicians accused of financial misconduct frequently return to public office with fresh party memberships and renewed enthusiasm for national service. Citizens discuss stolen billions with utter consternation because the figures have exceeded ordinary human imagination. A man stealing bread receives immediate punishment while another accused of looting public funds arrives court premises accompanied by supporters beating talking drums and dancing.

Religious institutions have also adapted creatively to economic hardship by transforming hope into an expanding enterprise. Prosperity sermons flourish magnificently among congregations struggling to afford food. Pastors promise miracles to worshippers whose immediate miracle would involve stable electricity and affordable medicine. Politicians occupy front pews during thanksgiving services after supervising years of public sufferings. Congregations clap respectfully because criticisms have become spiritually dangerous in a country where many people depend on divine intervention to survive the heartlessness of rulers. Our political class deserves admiration for maintaining extraordinary unity whenever personal benefits require protection. Lawmakers who cannot agree on urgent national questions suddenly discover remarkable cooperation regarding allowances, convoys, constituency projects, and official privileges. Citizens enduring inflation listen carefully as elected representatives debate the necessity of luxury vehicles purchased with public funds.

Democracy increasingly resembles an expensive banquet attended by a small circle of privileged guests while millions observe proceedings through television broadcasts powered by borrowed “I-better-pass-my-neighbour” generators.

Public communication itself has undergone useful transformation. Suffering now travels under respectable labels such as reforms, transitions, policy outcomes, and temporary difficulties. Hunger receives intellectual treatment from commentators who discuss economic pain with statistical elegance while ordinary families reduce meal portions quietly inside their homes. Market women no longer ask customers whether prices are expensive because everybody already understands the answer. Conversations in public transport now resemble WhatsApp group meetings conducted without an agenda.

The police maintain its traditional relationship with citizens through checkpoints that combine suspicion and negotiation. Young citizens driving decent vehicles often prepare explanations before officers request documents. Bribes circulate through everyday encounters with a certain familiarity that refusal sometimes produces deadly consequences.

Meanwhile, public celebrations continue faithfully. Political rallies attract songs, dancing, banners, and speeches promising transformation shortly before another cycle of disappointment begins. Independence Day celebrations return annually with colourful decorations and solemn declarations about national greatness. Citizens listen politely because patriotism remains compulsory even when daily experience encourages private doubt. Social media has become the national psychiatric ward where citizens gather to share jokes about collective hardships. Humour now serves as relief from failed governance. Citizens laugh at high fuel prices, electricity failures, bad roads, and political absurdities because sustained anger requires energy already consumed by the struggles for survival.

Finally, our country has perfected the dangerous art of adaptation. Citizens adjust to conditions that should provoke outrage because continuous hardship eventually reshapes public expectations. People celebrate ordinary competence from public officials as though efficiency were an unexpected miracle. Parents praise schools for remaining open. Travellers celebrate reaching destinations alive. Communities applaud politicians for completing projects financed by public money. Our country’s decline survives with the culture of reduced expectations.

History offers many examples of countries that mistook endurance for stability. While our country edges toward that condition with disturbing confidence, the rulers continue to display poor rulership through sloganeering and carefully rehearsed concern, ordinary citizens carry their country daily through labour, prayer, improvisation, and stubborn resilience. Their sacrifices deserve more than the speeches delivered from air conditioned podiums by rulers who escorted by lead and chase cars through sufferings they rarely experience personally. Our country has become a place where citizens survive despite governance rather than because of it.

Finally, they said I had ported to the All Progressives Congress, APC. To borrow from the late iconoclastic American author, Edward Abbey’s The Journey Home, political parties, like the sun and the air, belong to everyone, and I belong to no party.

Mr Peter Obi recently repeated his firm promise that he will serve for only one term if elected Nigeria’s president in 2027. And there have been divided opinions, especially in some parts of Northern Nigeria.

Politics in Nigeria unfortunately has earned a reputation for deception. Campaign promises are often treated as ladders to power, abandoned once authority is secured. Yet, even in politics, there still exist a few men whose integrity was not manufactured during elections but built steadily over years of public conduct.

A society cannot permanently assume that every promise will be broken simply because many have been broken before. Once citizens lose all faith in personal integrity, democracy itself gradually collapses into cynicism. We have had instances of promises kept by politicians. Late President Umaru Musa Yar’Adua made some promises and kept them.

This is why the debate on Obi’s one-term pledge deserves more honesty and less blanket suspicion.

Critics argue that the Constitution allows any president who completes a first term to seek re-election. True. But constitutions establish possibilities, not compulsory ambitions. Leadership is ultimately shaped by character.

The strongest evidence for Obi’s promise may not even lie in today’s speeches but in yesterday’s conduct.

As governor of Anambra State, Obi introduced a zoning arrangement aimed at ensuring fairness among the state’s senatorial districts. He promised power would move from Anambra Central to Anambra North after his tenure, then to Anambra South, before eventually returning to Anambra Central after sixteen years.

The resistance was fierce. “Powerful” politicians mounted enormous pressure against the arrangement. But Obi stood his ground and handed over to Willie Obiano from Anambra North, exactly as promised. Today, Anambra State practises that seamless arrangement originated by Obi.

That history matters.

Over the years, Obi has evolved with a consistency that has earned him national respect and an integrity even many critics quietly acknowledge and admire. To many Nigerians, this is a man who values his word almost as much as, if not more than, the office he seeks.

This is why dismissing his one-term pledge as mere political gimmick may itself amount to selective interpretation. If Nigerians remember broken promises by some leaders, fairness also demands remembering leaders who kept difficult promises despite political pressure.

Many sceptics understandably anchor their fears on events following the death of Umaru Musa Yar’Adua and the later decisions of Goodluck Jonathan. But justice demands avoiding the habit of transferring one politician’s perceived betrayal onto another individual without examining personal records independently.

Besides, Obi’s entire national appeal rests heavily on moral credibility and discipline. Reneging on a solemn one-term covenant after gaining office would destroy the very political identity upon which his movement stands.

Obi’s supporters even believe he would prove that modern African politics can still produce leaders willing to voluntarily relinquish power after fulfilling agreed terms, much like Nelson Mandela did in South Africa.

There is also political reality. Senator Rabiu Musa Kwankwaso, widely expected to emerge as Obi’s running mate, is not a passive political figure one manipulates easily. Unlike the more subdued vice-presidential role played by Namadi Sambo under Jonathan, Kwankwaso possesses a powerful political base and clearly defined ambition. Any attempt to violate a solemn one-term understanding would almost certainly trigger fierce internal resistance.

Ultimately, the real question is whether Nigerians still believe integrity can exist in public life at all. If the answer is yes, then the country must also learn to recognise leaders whose conduct suggests that their words will indeed remain bankable.

Written by POEM

By Abdul Mahmud

These are not the best of times for Nigerians, and no honest observer of our national condition can pretend otherwise. Across the length and breadth of the country, fear has settled into daily life, shaping decisions, shrinking freedoms, and altering the meaning of home. To live in Nigeria today is to negotiate fear in its many forms, whether in the shadow of armed groups who claim lives with impunity, or in the silent anxiety that accompanies every journey on our roads, every night spent in unprotected communities, and every report of yet another abduction carried out with chilling ferocity.

Here at home, the evidence is overwhelming.

Kidnappings for ransom have grown into a grim industry, sustained by desperation, weak law enforcement, and absence of deterrence. Families sell land, empty savings, and borrow beyond their means in the hope of securing the release of loved ones, while others are left to mourn when negotiations fail or when violence precedes any demand. In many parts of the country, armed groups mask their violence with religious language, presenting terror as proselytisation, and turning faith into a weapon against the innocent. Villages have been emptied, farmlands abandoned, and livelihoods destroyed, leaving behind large parts of the country marked by grief and displacement. The state, expected to guarantee safety, often appears distant or overwhelmed, and citizens are left to improvise their own forms of protection.

This condition has consequences that extend beyond the immediate loss of life and property. A country under sustained threat begins to internalise insecurity as normal, and in that process loses something essential about its own character. When trust completely erodes communities retreat into suspicion, and the idea of a shared national space disappears. Citizens who don’t feel safe in their own country are often driven by the impulse to flee from the country. Flight into self-exile becomes more than aspiration, as much as it becomes more than a necessity.

For many Nigerians, the search for safety and opportunity leads beyond our borders, and here another layer of precarity emerges. Abroad, Nigerians often encounter hostility shaped by economic competition, cultural misunderstanding, and the easy politics of scapegoating. In South Africa, waves of xenophobic violence have repeatedly targeted Nigerians, casting them as convenient victims of broader social frustrations. Shops are looted, homes attacked, and lives disrupted, all under the banner of protecting local interests. In Ghana, recent protests against Nigerian traders have revived old tensions, framed in the language of economic protectionism, and reinforced by legal and administrative measures that restrict foreign participation in certain sectors.

These developments are not isolated incidents. They form part of a pattern that reveals how quickly solidarity among African nations can give way to exclusion when domestic pressures rise. The removal and deportation of Nigerians from parts of Ghana in recent years, following court orders and administrative enforcement, echoes a painful history that many would prefer to forget. In 1969, during the turmoil of the Nigerian civil war, Nigerians were expelled from Ghana in large numbers, forced to return home under difficult conditions. Years later, Nigeria responded with its own expulsions of Ghanaians; an episode that long entered popular memory as “Ghana Must Go”, a phrase that now carries the weight of mutual resentment and historical irony.

History repeats itself in new forms.

The cycles of expulsion and retaliation reveal a troubling failure to learn from the past. Each generation inherits the consequences of earlier actions, and without deliberate effort to break the pattern. The lesson from 1969 and its aftermath should have been clear. Economic hardship and political tension must not be allowed to justify the targeting of vulnerable populations. The dignity of individuals should not be subjected to expedient national sentiments. African unity, so often invoked in speeches and declarations, must find expression in the treatment of ordinary people who cross borders in search of better lives.

The present moment calls for a deeper reflection on what has been learned and what remains unlearned. At home, the lesson is that security cannot be treated as an intangible promise. It requires consistent investment, accountable institutions, and a willingness to confront the root causes of violence, including poverty, inequality, and the manipulation of identity for political ends. A country that fails to protect its citizens weakens its own foundation, and no amount of rhetoric can substitute for the lived reality of safety.

Abroad, the lesson is that migration within Africa is both inevitable and necessary. Economic disparities will continue to drive movement, and host countries must find ways to manage this reality without resorting to exclusion or violence. Legal frameworks should be clear and fair, enforcement should respect human rights, and public discourse should resist the temptation to reduce complex problems to simplistic narratives about foreign influence. Nigerians, for their part, must also confront the perceptions that accompany their presence abroad, and work collectively to project values of integrity, respect, and lawful enterprise.

Nigeria’s record in hosting migrants calls for a different reading of the present tensions. For decades, Nigerians have lived alongside fellow Africans and other foreign nationals with a level of openness that reflects both economic necessity and cultural disposition. Markets, neighbourhoods, and workplaces across the country bear witness to this quiet accommodation, where immigrants pursue livelihoods without harassment or state-backed exclusion. The hostility faced by Nigerians abroad therefore cannot be justified as a mirror of their country’s conduct. It arises from domestic pressures within host nations, shaped by economic anxieties and political narratives that cast foreigners as convenient scapegoats. Diplomatic engagement must move beyond reactive statements and toward firm, sustained dialogue that insists on the protection of Nigerian lives and livelihoods, while regional bodies are challenged to uphold principles of free movement, mutual respect, and shared responsibility among member states.

The story of Nigerians today is one of endurance in the face of insecurity. Endangered at home, many carry their hopes across borders, only to encounter new forms of uncertainty. Haunted abroad, they navigate environments where acceptance can be conditional. This precarity should provoke a collective response that goes beyond lamentation. It should inspire a renewal of purpose, grounded in the recognition that the safety and dignity of Nigerians, whether within the country or beyond, are inseparable from the broader project of building a just and stable society. The path forward will not be simple, though it remains necessary. It will require honesty about the scale of the challenges, humility in acknowledging past failures, and courage in pursuing reforms that may be difficult but essential. Nigeria must become a place where its citizens can live without fear, and a country whose citizens are received with respect wherever they go. So long as that vision remains unrealised, the phrase “endangered at home and haunted abroad” will continue to capture the painful truth about the Nigerian condition that demands not only reflection but decisive action.

 

By Sammie Echi-Agbo

His Excellency, Dr Jim Nwobodo, means different things to different people for different reasons. For some, he is remembered for rural development projects encompassing healthcare, water supply, electricity and empowerment. For others, his legacy lies in industrialisation, sports development and philanthropy.

However, a common perception of Jim is that of a charismatic leader who saw tomorrow and responded to it through visionary policies that continue to shape generations.

Jim, Anyanwu na-awara Oha of Nkanu land, emerged at a time Ndigbo needed a shining star. He governed the old Anambra State between 1979 and 1983 with astuteness and administrative dexterity. To this day, his administration remains a reference point in discussions on governance and institutional development in the South-East.

This piece focuses on tertiary education, particularly how Jim’s vision in establishing the Anambra State University of Science and Technology (ASUTECH) became a foundation upon which higher education structures later developed across present-day Anambra, Enugu and Ebonyi States, all carved from the old Anambra State which he governed for one tenure of four years.

According to Jim, ASUTECH was established to address educational disadvantage in parts of the old Anambra State, particularly those affected by the aftermath of the Nigerian Civil War and widespread economic hardship that limited access to university education.

In his words:

“It was the end of the Biafran war. It was the first civilian government after the war, and our people were down and cast. People felt defeated and humiliated, but I didn’t feel that way. I felt that I had the duty to show our people that nothing had been lost really.”

Guided by the belief, often echoed by Nelson Mandela, that education is a powerful tool for societal transformation, ASUTECH was established with multiple campuses in Awka, Abakaliki and Enugu, which served as a major academic centre.

The campuses were strategically distributed to reflect the administrative structure of the old Anambra State. ASUTECH operated a multi-campus system, with Enugu hosting engineering-related disciplines, Abakaliki focusing on agriculture, and Awka handling humanities and law.

ASUTECH is widely regarded as one of the earliest state-owned universities of science and technology in Nigeria. Established in 1980, barely a year after Jim assumed office as governor, the institution initially faced scepticism from observers who doubted the viability of such an ambitious project at the time.

However, over the years, those doubts gradually gave way to recognition as the institution became a major foundation for higher education development in the South-East.

Jim also introduced bursary schemes for students from the state studying in tertiary institutions across Nigeria, aimed at easing financial pressure and supporting academic continuity.

He recalled:

“Our students then were also sad at a time. They said they were sad because of the cost of schooling. I demanded to know how much it cost to pay their school fees, buy dresses and make them happy. They worked it out. It was less than N500. I then gave every Anambra student automatic bursary of that amount. All the students, when I was governor, had an automatic bursary. That returned their spirit.”

The bursary initiative later influenced similar policies in neighbouring states, including Imo State under Governor Sam Mbakwe, who introduced comparable support for students.

Following the creation of Anambra, Enugu and Ebonyi States, ASUTECH was reorganised into different institutions. The Enugu campus later became the Enugu State University of Science and Technology (ESUT). The Abakaliki campus evolved into Ebonyi State University (EBSU). The Awka and Nnewi axis later contributed to the development of Nnamdi Azikiwe University.

It is important to note that ASUTECH provided an important institutional foundation during these transitions, and elements of its structure were absorbed into emerging federal and state universities in the region. The system was later decentralised following state creation and federal education restructuring.

Today, ESUT operates campuses in Enugu and Agbani, while EBSU has expanded across multiple academic faculties and campuses.

Jim’s educational vision also extended beyond universities. He invested in colleges of education and polytechnics, driven by the belief that national development requires balanced investment in science, technology, humanities and vocational training.

During his administration, the College of Education, Eha-Amufu, was upgraded from a teachers’ training institution into a full-fledged college of education. It was later taken over by the Federal Government in 1993 and has since expanded its academic offerings.

Similarly, Nwafor Orizu College of Education, Nsugbe, received institutional strengthening during his tenure, which contributed to its later development into a degree-awarding institution affiliated with the University of Nigeria, Nsukka.

The institution that later became Federal Polytechnic Oko also traces part of its early development to the educational expansion policies of that era. It began as the College of Arts, Science and Technology before evolving into a federal polytechnic with multiple campuses.

This is, therefore, a tertiary education memoir of His Excellency, Dr Jim Ifeanyichukwu Nwobodo, former governor of old Anambra State, former senator of the Federal Republic of Nigeria, and former Minister of Sports.

It is the story of a leader who governed for only one term but left a lasting institutional legacy. It is also the story of a man widely regarded as visionary, who drew inspiration from leaders such as Nnamdi Azikiwe, Michael Okpara and Kenneth Dike in shaping his approach to education and governance.

There are lessons to be drawn from his leadership style. Though he served only one term, his administration is often cited for its clarity of vision and early definition of developmental priorities. He is credited with entering office with a structured policy direction rather than an experimental approach.

His administration has been described by many as development-focused, with particular attention to regional balance in the distribution of educational institutions and infrastructure.

Reflecting on his time in office, Jim once said:

“During our time as governors, we focused on the people. Our interest was that we made promises to them, and we tried to fulfil those promises. We didn’t make them for the fun of it. We meant what we said.”

The call for the naming of the Enugu State University of Science and Technology (ESUT) after Dr Jim Nwobodo is firmly rooted in his foundational role in the establishment of ASUTECH and his wider contributions to the growth of educational development across the region.

This would serve as a fitting acknowledgment of his enduring legacy in the education sector. Renaming ESUT in his honour would amount to a symbolic “thank you” for his pioneering efforts, while also further cementing his place in history and reinforcing the lasting impact of his contributions to educational development in the region.

If Governor Mbah approves this, it would be seen as a significant act of recognition of a key architect of the state’s educational foundation and a gesture that further reinforces a tradition of honouring visionary leadership in Enugu State.

The current Governor of Enugu State, Peter Mbah, has also pursued a governance philosophy centred on long-term planning under the slogan, “Tomorrow is Here,” a phrase often referenced in comparative discussions on visionary leadership in the state.

Dr Jim Ifeanyichukwu Nwobodo remains a significant figure in the history of education and governance in the South-East, particularly in discussions on the origins and evolution of state-owned tertiary institutions.

In that historical context, he is often described as a man who saw tomorrow.

By Abdul Mahmud

The killing of two Nigerians in South Africa is not an isolated outrage that can be explained away with the tired language of criminality or spontaneous mob action; it is part of a disturbing pattern of violence that has taken root in a country whose freedom was once nourished by the sacrifices of others, and it forces us to confront a painful truth about how quickly nations can forget the solidarities that shaped their liberation, and how easily that forgetting can harden into hostility against those who once stood as comrades in struggle.

These recurring attacks are a stain on a shared history that ought to bind Nigeria and South Africa in enduring fraternity, because there was a time when the distance between Lagos and Johannesburg was bridged by a common purpose, when the oppression of black South Africans was felt in the streets of Nigerian cities and campuses as a moral emergency, and when ordinary Nigerians, far removed from apartheid brutality, still understood that their humanity was tied to the fate of those who lived under its crushing weight.

Nigeria did not stand aside in those years of darkness; through the Southern Africa Relief Fund, citizens contributed what they could, not from abundance but from the conviction that they were part of something larger than themselves, and part of the continental struggles that demanded sacrifices from all who believed in justice.

Beyond the contributions of individuals, Nigeria as a nation provided financial, diplomatic, and moral leadership to the African National Congress and other liberation movements when it mattered most, and these were not symbolic gestures but concrete commitments that came with real costs, because supporting the fight against apartheid meant diverting resources, taking global geopolitical risks, and standing firmly on the side of justice at a time when such a stance was neither convenient nor universally embraced. Nigeria bore those costs willingly, driven by the belief that the freedom of South Africa was inseparable from the dignity of the black race, and that history now stands as a testament to a generation that understood solidarity not as a slogan but as a duty.

My own involvement in that struggle was shaped during my years at the University of Jos, where, as General Secretary of the Youth Solidarity for Southern Africa Nigeria, YUSSAN, I helped to organise, mobilise, and educate students about the realities of apartheid and the imperative of resistance. YUSSAN was a front organisation of the Patriotic Youth Movement of Nigeria (PYMN), the left-leaning core of the National Association of Nigerian Students (NANS), that engaged in ideological struggles aimed at advancing the interests of Nigerians and the broader black race, and through it we raised funds, held events, and kept alive the memory of atrocities such as the Sharpeville and Soweto massacres, ensuring that they were not reduced to distant historical footnotes but remained urgent reminders of the brutality we were determined to oppose.

One memory remains vivid, as though it belongs not to the past but to an unbroken present, and that is the vigil we organised on the eve of the release of Nelson Mandela in 1990, when we gathered, filled with anticipation, listening to the live coverage from BBC Africa, counting the hours with a mixture of anxiety and hope, until the moment came when the prison doors were opened and Mandela stepped into freedom, his walk becoming an enduring symbol of resilience and the triumph of a just cause. Later that day, the streets of Jos erupted in celebration, as students poured into them with joy, aware that history had shifted in a way that affirmed the sacrifices made across the continent, including those made by Nigerians who had never set foot in South Africa but had nonetheless invested their hearts and resources in its liberation.

It is against this background that the present reality becomes almost unbearable to contemplate, because what we see today with murderous marches of xenophobists who are behind Operation Dudula is not merely a breakdown of law and order but a betrayal of memory, a repudiation of the very solidarities that made South Africa. The rise of xenophobic movements and campaigns such as Operation Dudula represents a particularly troubling manifestation of this trend, as they actively promote hostility against foreigners, including Nigerians, and create an environment in which violence is not only possible but, in some circles, implicitly justified.

Those who drive and sustain such movements must be confronted with clarity and firmness, because their actions do not merely threaten the lives of individuals but undermine the moral fabric of a race that once stood as a beacon of resistance against injustice, and they distort legitimate grievances into a politics of blame that directs anger toward the vulnerable rather than toward the structural failures that produce inequality and hardship. Economic challenges, unemployment, and social discontent are real issues that deserve serious attention, but they cannot and must not be addressed through the dehumanisation and persecution of fellow Africans who are themselves seeking opportunities for survival and dignity.

The South African state also bears responsibility, because the persistence of these attacks suggests a failure to adequately protect those within its borders and to decisively challenge the narratives that fuel xenophobia, and while official condemnations are necessary, they are not sufficient if they are not matched by consistent action that reassures both citizens and foreigners that the rule of law will be upheld and that violence will not be tolerated under any guise. Silence, or selective enforcement, only emboldens those who believe they can act with impunity, and it sends a dangerous signal that some lives are less worthy of protection than others.

For Nigerians, these killings strike a deep and painful chord, because they force a reckoning with a history that was built on generosity and solidarity, and they raise difficult questions about how that history is remembered and honoured by those who benefited from it. Memory, when it is genuine, carries obligations, it demands recognition, gratitude, and a commitment to uphold the values that it represents, and when it is ignored or distorted, it becomes a source of resentment and disillusionment, as those who once gave freely begin to feel that their sacrifices have been dismissed or forgotten. The deaths of these two Nigerians must therefore be seen not only as individual tragedies but as a call to restore a sense of shared African identity that transcends borders and resists the temptation to retreat into insular and exclusionary attitudes, because the challenges facing our continent cannot be addressed through division but require a renewal of the spirit of cooperation that once defined our collective struggles.

South Africa’s freedom was achieved through a network of support that extended far beyond its borders, and preserving that legacy demands a conscious effort to reject xenophobia in all its forms and to reaffirm the principle that Africans, regardless of nationality, share a common destiny.

When Nigerians stood with South Africa during apartheid, they did so with the belief that they were investing in a future built on justice, dignity, and mutual respect, and the violence we witness today stands in stark contrast to that vision, serving as a painful reminder of how far we have drifted from those ideals, and how urgent the task has become to reclaim them before the bonds that once united us are irreparably broken.

This isn’t how to treat a big brother.

-By Abdul Mahmud

What does one say to citizens who already live each day under the heavy weight of Nigeria’s iniquitous politics, who do not need lectures but only clarity, and who have learned from experience that power rarely yields to persuasion but often bends institutions until they begin to resemble instruments of private will rather than guardians of the public trust. The question is not whether the citizens understand what is happening around them, because they do, but whether those who wield power recognise the limits of force dressed up as governance and control disguised as order.

In recent months, the political atmosphere has grown tense with a certain familiarity, one that echoes through Africa’s history of ruling parties that are confronted with the possibility of genuine opposition, only to retreat into a repertoire of tactics that range from subtle delegitimisation to overt suppression. External forces are hired to scatter opposition parties, Speeches are twisted into mischief, rhetorical irony is deliberately misread as error, and what is clearly a denunciation is conveniently recast as an own goal.

This distortion is not accidental. It is part of a broader strategy to define the narrative before the electorate can do so for itself.

The controversy surrounding calls for unity within the opposition and the ironic invitation to President Bola Ahmed Tinubu to resign and join that opposition is a case in point. The speech, delivered by a young opposition turk, Serah Ibrahim, at the just concluded opposition summit of the ADC, rests on two straightforward premises that are neither obscure nor ambiguous. It is first an appeal for coherence among fragmented opposition forces that have historically lost elections not only because of state power but also because of their own disunity. It is second a rhetorical device, an irony sharpened into political speech, that mocks failure and exposes the contradictions of incumbency. In the grammar of politics, such speech is properly called denunciation. It is neither confusion nor self sabotage. It is a deliberate act of political communication aimed at framing the stakes of a contest.

The response from some quarters, however, reveals a deeper problem that has long haunted Nigeria’s political life. There is an arrogance that sometimes cloaks itself in the language of civilisational mission, a modern echo of the old idea of mission civilisatrice, which presumes that power not only governs but also instructs, corrects, and defines the limits of acceptable dissent. This arrogance is not new. It reveals itself whenever those in power begin to treat opposition not as a legitimate feature of democracy but as a nuisance to be subdued, and in the current moment it finds expression in the disposition of the administration of Bola Ahmed Tinubu, which appears increasingly inclined to weaken, fragment, and delegitimise its challengers rather than engage them within the fair and open arena that democracy demands.

History offers cautionary parallels.

In Ghana under Kwame Nkrumah, the promise of liberation gradually yielded to the consolidation of power, and the space for opposition narrowed until the state and the ruling party became indistinguishable. Laws were crafted in the name of stability, dissent was framed as subversion, and the moral authority of independence was invoked to justify the erosion of pluralism. Nkrumah did not begin as an autocrat. He became one through a series of decisions that each appeared defensible in isolation but together produced a political order that could no longer tolerate meaningful opposition. The comparison is not made lightly, nor is it intended as a crude equivalence, but it is necessary because it illuminates a pattern. When a government begins to see opposition not as a legitimate competitor but as an existential threat, it shifts from persuasion to control. Institutions that are meant to arbitrate fairly are gradually drawn into the orbit of power. Electoral bodies, courts, and regulatory agencies find themselves under subtle or overt pressure to act in ways that favour incumbency while maintaining the appearance of neutrality.

Across the continent, this pattern has taken different forms. In some places, opposition parties have been weakened through legal restrictions and administrative hurdles. In others, their leaders have been disqualified on technical grounds that mask political intent. The effect is often the same, which is to narrow the field of competition until elections become rituals rather than contests. The language of law is preserved, but its spirit is hollowed out.

Nigeria now stands at a delicate moment.

The ruling party has deployed a wide range of political tools to contain and fragment the opposition. Opposition politicians are arrested, alliances are disrupted, narratives are managed, and dissenting voices are subjected to scrutiny that often exceeds the bounds of fairness. These efforts may yield short-term advantages, but they carry long-term risks. Presidential power that exhausts itself in the attempt to eliminate opposition often ends up weakening the very institutions that sustain its legitimacy.

There is a growing sense that the next phase of this contest may not be fought solely in the arena of public persuasion but in the corridors where rules are interpreted and enforced. The emergence of a unified opposition platform, particularly under the banner of the African Democratic Congress, has introduced a new variable into the equation. If such a platform succeeds in producing a credible presidential candidate who can galvanise public support, the temptation to neutralise that candidacy through institutional means may prove strong. It is here that one must speak, not as a partisan, but as an observer of patterns, almost as an oracle peering into a crystal ball clouded by history but illuminated by precedent. The signs suggest a trajectory that is both familiar and troubling. When all other strategies have been deployed and the opposition remains resilient, the focus often shifts to the gatekeepers of the electoral process. Technicalities become decisive. Compliance becomes selective. Legality becomes a weapon rather than a shield.

If this trajectory continues unchecked, one foresees a scenario in which the candidate that emerges from the opposition ranks under the African Democratic Congress faces not only political contestation but also institutional challenge of a magnitude that effectively removes him or her from the ballot. The justification will be couched in the language of law. The effect will be unmistakably political. The outcome will be an election that proceeds with the form of competition but without its substance.

Such a development would not merely be a setback for the opposition. It would be a test of Nigeria’s democratic resilience. It would raise fundamental questions about the independence of the electoral umpire and the integrity of the processes that underpin the transfer of power. It would also remind Nigerians that democracy is not sustained by elections alone but by the conditions that make those elections meaningful. Power has a way of revealing itself most clearly at the moment it believes it has nothing left to prove. When it has exhausted persuasion, it turns to compulsion. When it has exhausted argument, it turns to authority. The challenge for Nigeria is to ensure that this moment, if it comes, does not define its future. The people already understand the stakes. The question is whether those who govern will recognise that the strength of a democracy lies not in the weakness of its opposition but in its ability to withstand it.

 

The political season is upon us again, and with it comes the familiar fever of democracy. Across our wards and local governments, across party offices and private homes, consultations have begun. Aspirants are making calls, elders are receiving visits, supporters are counting delegates, and the marketplace of ambition is alive once more.

This is proof that our democracy still breathes. It is evidence that power in our republic is still something to be negotiated, contested, persuaded, and earned. But every season of politics also comes with its temptations. It comes with the temptation to mistake disagreement for betrayal, competition for enmity, preference for exclusion, and media interpretation for truth.

This is why, at this delicate hour, we must speak to ourselves with candour, but also with restraint. We must remind ourselves that a political party is not a battlefield. It is a family. And even in the most spirited family, the roof must never be pulled down because one room appears warmer than another.

We are members of one political household. We may have different aspirations, different loyalists, different zones of influence, different calculations, and different preferred outcomes. That is normal. Democracy was never designed to abolish ambition. It was designed to civilise it. It was designed to teach us that we can compete without destroying one another, disagree without demonising one another, and lose without setting fire to the very platform that gave us a voice.

We must therefore refuse the temptation to be manipulated by the media, by mischief-makers, by vested interests, or by those who profit from division. There will always be those who whisper that one leader has been slighted, that one bloc has been excluded, or that one interest has been buried. These are familiar tricks in the theatre of politics. They are meant to provoke suspicion, inflame supporters, and turn comrades into adversaries before the real contest even begins.

But leadership demands that we rise above provocation. Leadership demands that we ask: who benefits when brothers fight? Who gains when a party weakens itself before facing the opposition? Who profits when those who should be building bridges begin to dig trenches?

The truth is simple. The real challenge before us does not end with the primaries. In fact, it begins after the primaries. The primaries will produce candidates, but the general election will test the strength of our unity. A fractured party may produce a candidate, but only a united party can produce victory. A ticket may be won in a hall, but an election is won in the streets, in the villages, in the markets, in the polling units, and in the hearts of the people.

This is why every party chieftain, every aspirant, every stakeholder, every delegate, and every supporter matters. Each of us is a raindrop, and each raindrop matters in the making of a flood. No raindrop is too small to be ignored. No stakeholder is too insignificant to be respected. No supporter is too ordinary to be heard. The strength of a party is not only in its most visible leaders; it is in the quiet loyalty of the people who stand by it when the applause has faded.

For this reason, moderation must be our watchword. Moderation is not weakness. It is wisdom in public conduct. It is the discipline to speak without poisoning the well. It is the maturity to pursue an interest without injuring the family. It is the grace to understand that today’s disappointment may become tomorrow’s opportunity, and that the bridge we burn in anger may be the road we need in another season.

We cannot all win at the same time. This is the first hard lesson of politics. For every ticket, only one candidate will emerge. Many will consult. Many will spend. Many will hope. Many will be encouraged by supporters, friends, and elders. But at the end of the process, only one name will be submitted. That outcome, however painful to others, is not always an injustice. It is often the unavoidable arithmetic of democracy.

The true test of a politician is not how loudly he campaigns when the wind is behind him. The true test is how he behaves when the wind turns against him. Anyone can celebrate victory. It takes character to manage disappointment. It takes statesmanship to congratulate a rival. It takes patriotism to remain loyal to the house even when the room assigned to you is not the one you desired.

We must also be honest with ourselves. Endorsements are not strange to politics. Preferences are not crimes. Leaders, elders, and stakeholders will naturally have opinions about those they believe can consolidate achievements, protect party interests, and advance the public good. But preference must never become provocation. Influence must never become intimidation. Persuasion must never become exclusion. The credibility of our process is the foundation of our legitimacy.

Party leaders must therefore act with fairness. Aspirants must be treated with dignity. Delegates must be allowed to act without fear. Processes must be transparent enough to command respect, even from those who lose. Where there are grievances, they must be addressed with patience and justice. Where there are rumours, they must be answered with clarity. Where there are wounds, they must be healed before they become infections.

But aspirants and their supporters also owe the party a duty of restraint. No ambition is worth the destruction of the platform that nurtured it. No grievance is worth the collapse of the house we all helped to build. No ticket is worth turning comrades into enemies. No loss is final enough to justify permanent bitterness.

Politics is a long road. Those who understand this do not burn their vehicles because of one rough turn. They do not abandon the journey because one gate did not open. Our history is filled with men and women who lost today and won tomorrow, who were overlooked in one season and became indispensable in another, who endured the pain of temporary defeat and later found the door of destiny opened wider than they imagined.

That is the beauty of patience. That is the wisdom of loyalty. That is the reward of staying useful.

We must also remember that the people are watching us. Nigerians are not merely listening to our speeches; they are studying our temperament. They are watching how we manage disagreement. They are watching whether we place service above ego. They are watching whether we can subordinate personal ambition to collective survival. A leader who cannot manage disappointment cannot be trusted to manage power. A politician who destroys his party because he lost a ticket may destroy a state because he lost an argument.

Our great party must not become a victim of its own strength. We are a large family, and large families must learn the art of accommodation. We are a party of many tendencies, many histories, many interests, and many sacrifices. That diversity is not a curse. It is our capital. But it must be managed with humility, fairness, and discipline.

We must not allow outsiders to narrate us into conflict. We must not allow headlines to dictate our emotions. We must not allow commentators, who will not stand with us in the rain, to push us into quarrels that will weaken us in the sun. The media has its place, and public scrutiny is part of democracy. But we must have the wisdom to separate honest analysis from engineered mischief.

At this moment, what our party needs is not noise but steadiness. Not suspicion but conversation. Not bitterness but maturity. Not factional triumphalism but collective responsibility. Every leader must lower the temperature. Every aspirant must discipline his camp. Every supporter must remember that today’s opponent in a primary may be tomorrow’s ally in a general election.

We have a larger duty to our nation. Politics is not an end in itself. It is a vehicle for service. It is the means through which we deliver security, education, jobs, infrastructure, prosperity, justice, and dignity to our people. If we reduce politics to personal entitlement, we betray the people whose mandate we seek. If we turn primaries into wars of ego, we abandon the very citizens who expect governance from us.

His Excellency, President Bola Ahmed Tinubu, GCFR, has shown, through a long political journey, that democracy thrives on accommodation, persuasion, resilience, and coalition-building. That example must guide us. The strength of a party is not in the absence of disagreements, but in its capacity to resolve them without losing its soul.

So, I appeal to our leaders: let us be fair. I appeal to our aspirants: let us be patient. I appeal to our supporters: let us be disciplined. I appeal to our party faithful: let us be united. The roof over this house shelters all of us. If we pull it down in anger, nobody will be spared by the storm.

Contest, but do not destroy. Disagree, but do not defame. Aspire, but do not divide. Lose, if it happens, with dignity. Win, if it happens, with humility. And after the primaries, let us close ranks, because the real battle will not be among ourselves. The real task will be to go before Nigerians with one voice, one purpose, and one renewed covenant of service.

Each of us is a raindrop. Alone, we may appear small. Together, we can become the flood that carries our party to victory and our country towards greater hope.

Let us therefore protect the house. Let us preserve the family. Let us choose moderation over mischief, unity over suspicion, and service over ego.

We will all have our season, but only if the house still stands.

By Senator Kashim Shettima, GCON.
Vice President, Federal Republic of Nigeria.

By M.O Ene

The 1983 Nwobodo v. Onoh contest was crude, rude, and brutal. Parents were not spared. It was vile and violent, as in the Ikemba Front v. Jim Vanguard shootout at Nkpor Junction. As a young JJC been-to, I detested calumny in partisan politics. I thought that was the lowest, until Uche Ekwunife and the Soludos took smuttiness to the sewers last year!

In 1988, Labour Party leader Neil Kinnock called PM Margaret Thatcher “a liar” to her face. In parliament. I was gobsmacked.

As I documented in “American Abracadabra,” the USA Decision 2016 was full of brutal banters and trash talks. Senator Graham Lindsey said, “My party has gone batshit crazy,” after Trump shared his cellphone number on television. Trump demeaned Senator Marco Rubio as “Little Marco.” Unlike Lindsey, Marco stayed on Trump as white on rice, with innuendos about the size of his manhood, mocked his spelling and social media habits, and alluded that Trump pee-ed on himself at a commercial break during a televised debate!

It did not start in 2016. In 1800, Thomas Jefferson took it to John Adams: the vice president v. the president. They used surrogates. Jefferson’s hacks insulted Adams as having a “hideous hermaphroditical character, which has neither the force and firmness of a man, nor the gentleness and sensibility of a woman.” Adams’ proxies retaliated and called Jefferson “a mean-spirited, low-lived fellow, the son of a half-breed Indian squaw, sired by a Virginia mulatto father.”

Wait a minute: did America have its first native–American/colored president in Jefferson? Wow! From these expo exchanges emerged the infamous story of Jefferson fathering the children of his wife’s half-black, half-sister Sally Hemings (all of whom were enslaved until after his death).

These gladiators make up. Even Biden who had insulted Obama in 2008 became his VP. Rubio is now Trump’s secretary of state. Obama chats cheerfully with Trump, who has maligned him repeatedly.

The monetized minions melt into the dark dungeons of history, nameless, faceless, and shameless. All is forgotten, but not Michelle Obama. And the Bushes: For Trump taking a swipe at their matriarch, former First Lady Barbara Bush, they did not forgive nor forget. In my time, a mere mention of a man’s mother will force an apology kiss to Mother Earth!

Nigerian politicians give the impression that all is fair in politics. They cultivate a tradition of radical rudeness that has no place in social intercourse. Imagine President Tinubu bantering loose words with former VP Atiku. VP Shettima lowered his steeze by calling Peter Obi “Giringori” in public.

A certain fellow was raving rudely about the supposed ancestors of a 2023 gubernatorial candidate. In 2026, the now-governor will determine the political fate of his younger sibling. He won’t be Rubio-lucky, neither will the rude Renos and budding Bwalas in Enugu.

STOP NOW: Let the family of the fat frog format its feet; let the siblings of the stinking shrew shorten its snout. Debate issues, not individuals.

Edechekwee m!

@OkaaMoe
04.24.2026

By Tai Emeka Obasi

Your Excellency,

I write to you, once more, at a defining moment in your life and in the history of our nation. Moments like this are rare, and how they are handled often determines whether a man is remembered for what he achieved or for what he chose to give up for the greater good.

Recall that I wrote to you on my last birthday, June 10, 2025, marking exactly six years since the legal battle between you and President Muhammadu Buhari commenced at the Abuja Court of Appeal, venue of the 2019 Presidential Election Petition Tribunal.

That letter came exactly three weeks before the coalition adopted the African Democratic Congress, ADC, as its platform for the 2027 general elections. It was promptly responded to by Comrade Usman Gajo Eliman, Head of Office, Surveillance and Intelligence, and Chairman, Anti-Atiku Narrative Counter Committee, The Narrative Force. I responded once more, and all three correspondences went viral.

Over ten months later, much has happened, and it feels as though I glimpsed tomorrow. I have read and listened to over a hundred open letters addressed to you since after the ADC Convention, all echoing the same path I charted in my first passionate appeal.

However, my decision to write again is to make certain things clear.

First, I have great respect for you, which I detailed in my first letter. I believe you love Nigeria very passionately. I know you possess a very exceptional quality of being a detribalised Nigerian. Many may argue this, but I have interviewed many who are not of Fulani blood who worked under you and with you. I guessed you did not marry from the three major Nigerian tribes because you wanted to be president. I am convinced you did so because you believed in one Nigeria.

Based on the nepotism displayed by Buhari and the unprecedented notch President Bola Ahmed Tinubu has taken our dear country in that regard, I personally think that, moving forward, the number one quality of any Nigerian leader should be one who does not discriminate against ethnicity, religion or sex.

I do not believe in most of the media condemnations of your eight years in office as Vice President. Tinubu may point to some privatisation exercises that failed but will shy away from telling Nigerians the role you played in bringing communication to every Nigerian.

Because I have seen the myriad of lies and propaganda levelled against Mr Peter Obi, I dismiss most of the allegations of corruption against you as giving a dog a bad name.

Summarily, you would have made a better president than most of our past leaders since the Fourth Republic. Apart from Umaru Musa Yar’Adua, whom fate denied us the opportunity to enjoy his lofty intentions, I believe you would have been Nigeria’s best if you had been in 2019. I still believe you would be the best of the lot if sworn in in 2027 as Nigeria’s Commander-in-Chief. That belief is very strong.

Even when some say you are too old, I do not believe that either. I am presently in the United States and know how President Donald Trump operates. At the same age you are, he has a razor-sharp mind. Never mind the propaganda being peddled by the Democrats down here, DJT has complete control of his presidency. Besides, leadership is not a boxing or wrestling contest. It is all about the intellectual ability to know the right thing to do and delegate accordingly.

Though Tinubu is suspected to be actually on the upper side of 80, age has nothing to do with his failures in governance. I personally think that the man, who goes by the name Jagaban, is so used to doing the wrong things that he evidently believes the wrong things are the right things. It has nothing to do with age or physical health.

Now, let us begin to face present realities. Today’s Nigeria is no longer that of 2023. Tinubu has turned Nigeria into an ugly habitat. Never before has any Nigerian leader nonchalantly introduced ethnic hatred amongst tribes like Tinubu has done. Never before has any Nigerian leader been more desperate for a second term in office than this incumbent. No Nigerian leader, not even General Sani Abacha, would go to the lengths Tinubu is evidently prepared to go to remain in Aso Rock beyond 2027.

From the much you have seen in efforts to thwart ADC’s Convention, I am sure you will agree with me.

Before I go further, let me express my utmost gratitude to you for the role you played in forming the Coalition. While Tinubu was busy destroying the Peoples Democratic Party, PDP, and Labour Party, LP, you outsmarted him by bringing together what we know today as ADC. They call him a master strategist, but you floored him. By trying to make sure Atiku Abubakar and Peter Obi were denied platforms to challenge him in 2027, he ended up uniting both of you under one umbrella, an umbrella that is also sheltering HE Rabiu Kwankwaso, HE Nasir el-Rufai, HE Rotimi Amaechi, HE Aminu Tambuwal, HE David Mark, HE Rauf Aregbesola, and so many top dogs.

Now, Tinubu is raging like a bull in a china shop to sink ADC, but that ship has long sailed. And there is nothing he can do about it.

Yes, nothing he can do about it…

If the ADC manages its success appropriately. What happens from now to the ADC primary will determine whether Tinubu will go or get his wish. And it is all in your hands.

Yes, in your hands. Completely.

Due to no fault of yours, Nigerian youths, and even beyond youths, want a new Nigeria. And who would blame them? They are tired of government of my tribesmen by my tribesmen for my tribesmen. They want to see a new Nigeria the way somebody has consistently promised them.

Since Kwankwaso joined ADC, the narrative has changed. The North, your zone, no longer think PO’s promise of a single tenure is mere political gimmick. They now believe.

Besides, there are other handicaps your being a presidential candidate in this election will place on the ADC.

Zoning.

I listened to you on Arise Tv dismiss the issue of zoning as non-constitutional. You may be right, but zoning is strongly engraved in something bigger than the constitution: the consciousness of every Nigerian. It is still the turn of the South and will hugely affect this election.

You equally argued in the same interview that the South has enjoyed more years in Aso Rock since the Fourth Republic. Honestly, that was an unfortunate statement to make in today’s Nigeria. Goodluck Jonathan would not have become president of Nigeria if death had not dealt Nigeria a cruel blow. Are we now blaming God for the death of a very promising Yar’Adua?

Besides, Nigeria did not begin in 1999. We know exactly which region of Nigeria has occupied a far greater chunk of leadership years in our history. A new Nigeria requires her leaders to look ahead without looking back for retrogressive recalls.

You are a very organised man. You have a very competent team. Give them the task of checking the pulse of the nation. If they have always been sincere to you, their report will tell you that, right now, you hold the four aces.

Yes, four aces.

You have come. You have seen. It is now time to conquer.

There is a giant crown waiting for you to just show your head. The crown is one you ignored in 2023.

KINGMAKER.

Your Excellency, this is the moment history has prepared you for. Not every great man is destined to wear the crown. Some are destined for something even greater: to decide who wears it, and in doing so shape the destiny of a nation.

Nigeria stands at a fragile crossroads. The people are no longer whispering. They are calling for change. Across all divides, there is a yearning for a new direction. You understand this.

I say this with the deepest respect. Step aside for the candidate who commands broad national appeal. Step aside, not in defeat, but in statesmanship.

Do not take ADC into a primary that may fracture the unity you helped to build. Preserve that unity.

If the goal is to see President Bola Ahmed Tinubu leave office in 2027, then the path is unity, not division. And unity requires sacrifice.

Take this honour, Sir.

History is calling you to rise above ambition.

Because power is temporary, but legacy endures. I am not saying you are not a good choice for president. You may win if given the ADC ticket but that is a huge gamble. Right now, our nation do not need such gamble or it may sink with Tinubu in another four years. The path I am urging to is a straight path to savaging our nation.

The man who insists on the throne may win power, but the man who chooses wisely shapes history.

Nations are transformed not only by ambition, but by sacrifice.

And when this chapter is written, let it be said that the Waziri Adamawa understood that the highest form of leadership is knowing when to step aside so that a nation may move forward.

Please, Sir, do not let this chance slip away. Chose legacy over ambition – Nigerians will remember.

Obasi writes from New York.

By Oseloka H. Obaze

In the summer of 2011, two unconnected op-ed pieces appeared on the same page of the New York Times. They pertained respectively to challenges confronting two different nations; the United States that was then suffering from governance paralysis. The other nation was Libya, which was about to implode from NATO bombings and domestic upheaval, while her leader, Colonel Muammar Gaddafi, was busy playing chess with a guest from Russia. The first article by Peter Baker, was titled, “Standstill Nation.” The second piece by John Burns, was captioned, “Delusion’s Last Stand.”

The two op-eds presented striking parallels with contemporary Nigeria. As such, I have borrowed the two titles as a single illustrative and conjunctive caption for this piece. The twinned caption connotes the double-barreled enormity of the challenges confronting Nigeria. Two sub-captions taken from the NYT pieces mirror in essence the characteristics of Nigeria’s unfolding governance quandary. “Paralysis (alas) is one way things are supposed to work;” and “Gaddafi plays chess with a believer in aliens. In the souk, people yearn aloud for his passing.”

Relatedly, while President Bola Tinubu governance modalities has pushed Nigeria to a tipping-point, and the mortgaging of Nigeria continue to elicit unvarnished umbrage, very few Nigerians will publicly acknowledge that they yearn and pray surreptitiously for an Abacha-like fate to befall Tinubu; yet such thinking secretly enjoys broad flourish nationwide. That’s telling. It flags how bad things are and how distressed Nigeria are.

As far removed as the US and Libyan issues were, certain salient lines contextualizes the thrust of the New York Times pieces, thus making them relative to Nigeria’s circumstances. “Is this any way to run a country? Ideal it is not. Inspiring, hardly at all.” And relative to Nigeria’s ruling APC, as delusion makes a last stand: “a government that set out in the past decade to cloak the old dictatorship with a new and more appealing facade has been hoist with its own petard.” Renewed hope is proving to be a fluke; a red herring.

Apropos Nigeria, always the outlier that it has been, the country has arrived at that critical juncture where the axiomatic question is: To be or not to be a nation? Some would also ask: Which way Nigeria? However, those in power think and believe, quite erroneously, that Nigeria will continue on the sad trajectory they foisted on it and at their whims and caprices. But they are wrong. Nigerians are so fed up, that their kinetic anger is a fodder of sorts for a peoples’ revolution.

As delusion makes a last stand in Nigeria, the population are hell bent on broad leadership change, and as they say in the local parlance, “by fire, by force.” But the first choice is engender such change constitutionally and peaceably. When that option fails, it becomes an open-ended game.

Many years ago, Fela Anikolakpo Kuti presciently released a hit song, Go Slow. He averred to how the incessantly crawling Lagos traffic made nonsense (yeye) of every best laid out plans of Lagosians and indeed, Nigerians. That reality has been vastly extrapolated. In Nigeria, there is Go Slow in national development, employment, education, healthcare delivery, poverty alleviation, budget implementation, security responses, power and water supply, rescue operations, food production and manufacturing. Tardiness in governance is a stark reality. The tardy disposition that earned President Muhammadu Buhari of the APC the sobriquet “Baba Go Slow,” has since worsened.

So Nigeria has become a standstill nation in every regard, expect for bad governance, borrowings and corruption. Power generation is at a standstill and power distribution exceedingly epileptic. With solar now providing power 24/7 at the presidential villa, those reporting on power matters to the president, simply allude to the fact that it’s been many months since there was any power outage at the Villa. This is a way of reassuring the president that he has kept his campaign promise. We recall him once saying to Nigerians: “If I don’t give you constant electricity in the next four years don’t vote for me.” At the Villa there’s light now 24/7, but not in Greater Nigeria. But to think that the Villa is a figurative or literal representation of Nigeria, is simple delusional.

Meanwhile, in 2024, the national power grid collapsed more than 12 times, and there were 5 diametric collapses on 12 February, 7 March, 10 September and 29 December 2025. The national power grid has already collapsed twice in the first quarter of 2026. Indeed, since 2015 when APC assumed leadership in Nigeria, the national grid has collapsed over 100 times notwithstanding the trillions of naira invested in the sector. Lack of power has helped to bring every facet of life in Nigeria to a standstill.

Similarly, since APC assumed Nigeria’s leadership in 2015, democracy in Nigeria has been on auto-reverse. Now, it has reached a standstill. As Fela also defined such situations in another of his hit songs, the nation is at a Stalemate. The only redeeming value is that in life as well as politics, there comes a time when delusion meets reality. For Nigerians, that time is now.

The Bola Tinubu administration has scripted Nigeria’s worst governance nightmare by shoving the nation toward a one-party state and bankruptcy; it has also scripted unprecedented broad anti-government activism. The national population’s resentment, now far outweighs those directed at General Sani Abacha. Ironically, neither soldiers nor politicians who supported Abacha were ever publicly stoned. Tinubu’s APC acolytes are increasingly being publicly stoned in their homesteads. That’s telling!

It seems only a matter of time before the rumbling tension and volcanic pressure erupts openly and fully. The hand writing has long been on the walls. Meanwhile, those who should read such writings are deliriously immersed in singing “on your mandate we stand” songs that only underpin the deep-seated nature of the leadership’s delusion.

Generally, analysts and pundits who write about governance and policy challenges in Nigeria are asked: “Why bother, since Nigerian leaders neither read nor listen anymore? Statements such as these manifest the prevailing level of denial and delusion as well as national miasma.

Writers on governance and policy often flag and dissect problems. Routinely, they proffer solutions for the sake of good governance, history and humanity; but above all, for the sake of enduring peace. They criticize in order to add value to nation building and flag required check and balances. They also challenge our leaders to act aright, because the faith of Nigerians in their leadership, stand tested by fire. Our elasticity and resilience reached its limits long ago. Most are concerned that for an already politically fraught Nigeria, while the exact snap point may be unpredictable, it’s now seemingly inevitable.

But amidst prevailing concerns, resignation and trepidation, there is a silver lining in the global democratic space that may provide a salve for Nigeria. From faraway Hungary, Nigerians have drawn an iota of hope. The election of prime minister-designate, Peter Magyar of the Tisza Party of Hungary on 12 April, 2026, may well portend for Nigeria a glimmer of hope, notwithstanding the distance.

If Hungarians can rally to vote out Prime Minister Viktor Orban and his Fidesz party constitutionally and peacefully, so too, can Nigerians rally to vote out Bola Tinubu and his misruling APC cohorts. Such outcomes will definitely restore a modicum of hope in fledgling democracies in Africa and globally. The possibility of ‘like Hungary, like Nigeria’, and ‘like Orban, like Tinubu’ are suddenly seductive, plausible and incentivizing. These are acute selling points for instant and unfettered leadership change in Nigeria.

The geopolitical similarities between Hungary and Nigeria while markedly different, are striking in some ways. They are abetted by the fluke of happenstances and coincidence. Whether by conjecture or fortuitousness, these striking similarities go beyond the first names; Hungarian opposition leader is Peter Magyar and Nigerian opposition leader, is Peter Obi. Also, 16 years of bad governance in Hungary mirrors closely, the 12 years of extreme prebendalism in Nigeria. The shared commonality also extends to hope and fate; first for the Hungarians, and now for Nigerians. The point here is that history tends to mimic itself.

What is perhaps most delusional, is that an administration that has coerced 31 of Nigeria’s 36 governors into the ranks of the ruling APC party and towards a one-party state, and has control of 86% of the states, is too jittery and scared to hold free and fair elections. Rather, its busy creating basis for a rigged electoral outcome in 2027. It is systematically destroying the major opposition parties – LP, PDP, and now, ADC.

However, the national population, especially Nigerian youths that form the bulwark of the political opposition and voting population, are not having any of that nonsense. They are still smarting from their missed civil disobedience in 2023. As such, they have publicly reacted with vehemence and the pushback mantra, “you rig, and you die.” It would be delusional to take such declaration lightly. After all, as Benjamin Franklin had put it: “Rebellion to tyrants is obedience to Almighty God.”

Nigeria is at a standstill. For most Nigerians, insecurity, the parlous economy and rising poverty are still the big elephant in the room. They are factors that have weighted Nigeria down to a standstill. It’s inconceivable that Nigerians will be inclined to trust the APC cohorts to fix problems they caused and benefited from. That will never happen.

As Nigeria’s present leaders make their delusional knee-jerk last stand, the renewed hope to survive and continue in power, Nigeria’s silent majority are bracing up for their own last stand against the malign minority that has run the nation aground. The die is cast. It’s a tug of war. And as a popular social media jargon declaims, “If you know, you know.”

———-

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

-By Abdul Mahmud

There is a certain comfort in blaming leaders. It absolves us of responsibility. It allows us to stand at a moral distance from the foolishness of our own choices. But every now and then, a harder truth insists on being heard. A nation is often a reflection of the people who choose its leaders. If that is so, then Nigerians must look into the mirror and resist the temptation to look away.

Not too long ago, many Nigerians convinced themselves that the late Muhammadu Buhari would transform this country into something resembling order and discipline. Some spoke of the herald of the new Nigerian Eldorado as though it were merely a matter of transplanting personal charm into power. They said his body language alone would tame corruption, restore dignity, and pummel misgovernance into submission. It was a curious faith. It was not grounded in evidence or history. It was the act of a dubious collective reimagination. This was a man whose past was not hidden. His record as a military ruler was marked by authoritarian impulses and a troubling relationship with civil liberties. But, he was recast before our eyes as a democrat, and as the symbol of integrity. He became, for many, a moral corrective to the chaos of civilian rule.

The past was not interrogated. It was erased or explained away with cavalier disregard.

At the same time, in another corner of our national life, a different kind of belief took hold. Some Nigerians, led by Pastor Chris Oyakhilome, insisted that 5G technology, not the global COVID virus, was responsible for the deaths that swept across continents. It was a claim that stood in defiance of science, evidence, and reason. It found an audience. It found believers. It spread.

It is tempting to draw a line between these two moments, argue that one belongs to politics and the other to religion, and that one is more rational than the other. But that line is thinner than we think. The same habits of mind run through both. The same willingness to suspend critical thought. The same hunger for abecedarian answers to complex problems. We are, in many ways, cut from the same adire, woven with threads of impatience and the deep desire for shortcuts. We want transformation without the slow work of building institutions. We want salvation in the form of a single individual. We want certainty in a world that offers none. And so we create myths. We elevate men into Messiahs. We defend them long after they failed us.

The tragedy is not that leaders failed us. That is almost inevitable. The tragedy is that we repeatedly set ourselves up for failure. We do not ask enough questions. We do not demand enough evidence. We are too easily swayed by rhetoric, by image, and by the promise of change that is never clearly defined.

Now, consider the strange arguments that filled our public space at the time.

Someone declared that he would vote for Buhari even if he presented NEPA bill as a certificate. It was said half in jest, but it revealed something deeper. A willingness to lower standards. A readiness to excuse what should never be excused. In that moment, the office of the president was diminished, not by the candidate, but by the expectations of the electorate. Then, there were the campaign grounds that took on the character of the mystical. Words like Bulaba emerged, not as meaningful political ideas, but as symbols of a certain unseriousness. Politics became more of mediocrity. Substance gave way to the superficial. And we cheered.

What explains this pattern?

Part of it lies in our history. Years of instability have created the longing for strong figures. Economic hardship has made the promise of quick fixes more appealing. But these explanations do not absolve us. They only help us understand the context in which our choices are made. The more important question is what we do with that understanding. Do we continue on this path, moving from one illusion to another? Or do we begin the harder work of cultivating a more critical public culture?

Democracy cannot be stronger than the quality of thought that sustains it. It cannot rise above the poor intellectual habits of citizens. If we reward mediocrity, we will be governed by it. If we celebrate ignorance, it will find its way into power. If we refuse to learn from our mistakes, we will repeat them. This is not an argument for cynicism. It is not a call to despair. It is a call to responsibility. The responsibility to question. The responsibility to demand clarity. The responsibility to resist the easy allure of narratives that flatter our hopes but ignore reality. It is also a call to humility. The temptation is always to see ourselves as different from those we criticise. To believe that we are more discerning, more rational, and more enlightened. But the truth is less comforting. The same country that produces followers of conspiracy theories also produces voters who invest blind faith in lacklustre politicians.

The difference is often one of degree, not of kind.

The uninspiring pastor we mock and the insipid politician we defend are products of the same environment. An environment where critical thinking is not consistently nurtured. Where authority is rarely questioned. Where belief often takes precedence over evidence. To change our politics, we must first change ourselves. We must become citizens who are less impressed by slogans and more interested in substance. Citizens who understand that governance is not magic. It is a complex process that requires competence, integrity, and accountability. We must also hold on to memory. One of our greatest weaknesses is our tendency to forget. We move on too quickly. We allow narratives to be rewritten without challenge. We permit history to be reshaped to suit present interests. In doing so, we lose the ability to learn from our past.

The next time a candidate is presented as a saviour, we must ask harder questions. What is his record? What are his ideas? How does he intend to achieve what he promises? Perhaps, and most importantly, what are we willing to do as citizens to support or challenge his actions?

The mirror stays the same. It does not lie. It reflects not only our leaders, but ourselves. In that reflection are our indulgences and our excuses, our appetite for easy answers, and our impatience with the slow discipline that nation-building demands. We see the myths we have created and the men we have elevated beyond reason. We see how quickly we trade scrutiny for sentiment, how eagerly we surrender judgment at the altar of hope. The image is not flattering, but it is honest. And honesty, however uncomfortable, is the beginning of repair.

If we do not like what we see, the task before us is neither cosmetic nor convenient. It is moral and intellectual. We must relearn the habit of questioning, recover the courage to doubt, and cultivate the public culture that prizes evidence over enthusiasm. We must become citizens who insist on standards, who measure words against records, and who understand that leadership is not a miracle to be received but a responsibility to be examined. This is the harder path. It offers no instant gratification and no intoxicating promises of overnight transformation. But it is the only path that leads away from the cycles of disappointment that have defined our politics. It is only at that point that we may begin to entertain the type of politics that doesn’t lend itself to absurdity, less burdened by tragedy, and more worthy of the politics anchored not in illusion but in clarity, not in the seductions of blind faith but in the discipline of informed choice, not in the fleeting charisma of individuals but in the enduring strength of institutions and the eternal vigilance of citizens.

The mirror we refuse to face doesn’t hide itself away from us; it stares at our gaze, unblinking and unrelenting, compelling us to confront the difficult truth that the future we aspire to will into being remains stubbornly beyond our reach for as long as we refuse to face, with honesty and courage, the reality reflected back at us.

The mirror stands before us. Look into it. What truth dares to look back at you?