The Pacesetter Frontier Magazine

Tag: Abdul Mahmud

  • Elite War Renewed

    Elite War Renewed

    -By Abdul Mahmud

    The war among Nigeria’s political elite has been renewed. It is not a war for ideas, nor one fought over the soul of our country. Rather, it is a petty battle over ego, and personalised struggle for who becomes the capo di tutti capi- the boss of bosses – of the State. It is also about control of access, of appointments, and the primitive accumulation and the appropriation of state resources, as it is about enthroning political narratives. As old alliances crumble and new rivalries emerge, what becomes clear is that our most powerful politicians are less interested in governance and more interested in the politics of dominance.

    This war is not new. It has been fought before. Repeatedly. And among the same political class that switches parties with ease, trades insults with flair, and builds loyalty around personalities rather than principles. What is new, however, is the sheer frequency of the war and the utter contempt they now display for even the pretence of ideological disagreement.

    Take Nyesom Wike and Rotimi Amaechi. Former friends and allies. Both from the same Ikwerre ethnic stock. Their villages, only separated by the brackish ponds that dot the landscape. They have become each other’s fiercest adversaries. Their dispute is now the stuff of public spectacle. What started as a political disagreement has festered into a deeply personal war. They call each other names in the press. They challenge each other’s legacies. They deploy proxies in the media and in government. Yet, behind the noise lies a more sobering reality: this fight is not about the people of Rivers State. It is not about policy. It is about power. It is about who controls the political structure of the state, who gets to anoint successors, and who determines “who gets what, when and how”, to quote the eminent scholar, Harold Lasswell, who framed politics as some primitive accumulation many aeons ago. A few weeks ago, the Wike-Amaechi feud resurfaced in the media. Unlike 2017, when their convoys clashed on the streets of Port Harcourt, this time the battle was fought with words, not fists. No bullets. Just barbs. It began with Amaechi’s declaration: “We’re all hungry. All of us. If you’re not hungry, I am.” Wike fired back. He accused Amaechi of mocking the sufferings of Nigerians. “He never spoke of hunger while he was minister. Two years after leaving the office, he suddenly discovers it. That’s not a concern. That’s hunger for power”. Then came the sting: “You’re insulting Nigerians by trivialising poverty. The only hunger you feel is from being out of power.” Amaechi’s reply was curt: “I don’t want to join issues with children”. In a theatrical twist, Wike took to the streets of Abuja, flanked by schoolchildren who cheered his public works- mocking, perhaps, the maturity of his rival, Amaechi. The Wike-Amaechi war exemplifies how elite disagreements in our country are rarely about governance. They are about the erosion of trust among powerful individuals who once traded favours, shared secrets, and benefitted from a common network. When those relationships sour, they do not simply walk away, they destroy each other in the open, using the levers of government and the media as weapons. Nonetheless, this must be said: there are no victors in this warfare, only theatrical performers draped in borrowed comical robes, stumbling through farce like Clarus and Gringory of yesteryear. Their antics, though staged with the pomp of statesmen, draw laughter laced with pity. For while they clown, the public bears the quiet shame of being forced to watch, knowing the jest is at their own expense.

    A similar war broke out in Edo State a few years ago. Adams Oshiomhole and Godwin Obaseki were once political allies. Oshiomhole handpicked Obaseki as his successor, branding him a technocrat who could consolidate the achievements of his administration. But within one term, their relationship deteriorated. Obaseki began to assert independence. Oshiomhole, accustomed to loyalty, felt betrayed. The fallout culminated in a fierce political battle in 2020 that saw Obaseki defect from the All Progressives Congress (APC) to the Peoples Democratic Party (PDP), securing a second term against his former benefactor’s wishes.  Last year, their hostilities were renewed. The two men backed opposing candidates for the 2024 Edo governorship election. Their political machinery, once united, operated as different war theatres, with a verbal arsenal deployed without caution. As usual, there were little public discourses about what these candidates stood for. The election, like the war between Oshiomhole and Obaseki, became a proxy battle over egos and retribution, not vision or policy.

    Even in Lagos, the epicentre of elite political engineering, cracks have shown up themselves. At the recent commissioning of the Lagos-Calabar coastal highway, President Bola Tinubu, the dominant political godfather of Lagos, snubbed his longtime ally and protégé, Governor Babajide Sanwo-Olu. What might have appeared to the casual observer as a momentary oversight was, to insiders, a clear signal that the relationship between godfather and godson had gone south. Sanwo-Olu extended his hand; Tinubu ignored it. In our country’s politics, these gestures are never accidental. They are loaded with meaning. It was a cold public humiliation disguised as protocol. The reasons for the cold remain the subject of intense speculation. Some say it’s about Tinubu’s future political calculations. Others hint at unresolved tensions over the management and deployment of power. Whatever the reason, it underscores a pattern: political relationships in our country are rarely stable. They are transactional, conditional, and expendable. Only a few days ago, newspapers reported that Tinubu had forgiven Sanwo-olu for his sins. What were his sins in the first place? Nobody knows.

    They are not alone in this theatre of elite war. I invite the reader to turn their gaze to Benue State, where Senator George Akume and Governor Hyacinth Alia are entrenched in a slow-burning war of attrition. Each maneuvering for dominance over the soul of the state. To the south, in Akwa Ibom, the echoes of past battles between Udom Emmanuel and Godswill Akpabio still linger. The current governor, Umo Eno, finds himself delicately poised between these two warring combatants. In a bid to survive the infernal tides, he has publicly aligned with the ruling party at the centre, while seeking sanctuary from political crossfires and shielding himself from the sharp edge of internal vendettas. And in Delta State, a cold war simmers just beneath the surface. There, former Governor Ifeanyi Okowa, incumbent Sheriff Oborevwori, and political godfather James Ibori circle each other in a triangular standoff. The smiles are strained, the handshakes stiff. Hostilities remain veiled for now. But like the harmattan bushfires, all it takes is a single spark.

    These elite wars come at a steep cost. Governance is abandoned or hijacked. Institutions become politicised. Political parties become war camps. State resources are diverted to settle loyalists or fund propaganda. Worse, the people are dragged into disputes they barely understand. They are recruited as foot soldiers in wars that are never about them in the first place. But, at the heart of these elite war is the fundamental problem: the absence of ideological core to the politics of our country’s political elite. Unlike countries where political parties reflect social or economic philosophies, our country’s political parties are mere platforms for personal ambitions. They are vehicles for power, not values. Politicians decamp from one party to another not because of policy disagreements, but because their interests are no longer served where they are. This ideological emptiness is why elite war so often turns violent, personal, and protracted. There is no higher cause to appeal to. No shared philosophy to fall back on. Once trust breaks down, all that remains is the raw, naked struggle for power. The elite war is also sustained by the absence of consequences. In countries with strong institutions, political disagreements are managed through the formal mechanisms of debates and caucuses. In our country where state institutions are weak and compromised, the institutions are thrust into the heart of the war. The elite manipulate them at will, so when they fall out, there are no impartial referees but only loyal judges, partisan security agencies, and pliant lawmakers that play the roles of the palace jesters, group thinkers and echo chambers’ inhabitants.

    The media are not spared. Far from standing above the fray as impartial observers, many have been drawn into the swirl of the elite war. Rather than offering sober analysis and critical scrutiny, they are conscripted as foot soldiers in the war of powerful men. Journalists become partisans, trading objectivity for allegiance. Editorials, once sacred spaces of reasoned reflections, are auctioned to the highest bidder. The press, meant to be the fourth estate in a democracy, becomes the bugle in the battlefield of ambition, echoing the voices of its paymasters. In the process, public trust withers. Journalism, whose noble duty is to shine light on power, becomes not only compromised, co-opted, and complicit; but a shadow of itself.

    The political, governance and public arenas become chaotic and lawless.

    What, then, is the way forward?

    Our country needs a new elite consensus. A shift to issue-based politics. A commitment to governance that outlives personal loyalty. This cannot happen overnight, but it must begin. The country is in crisis on multiple fronts- economic collapse, insecurity, unemployment, mass migration. These problems require political maturity, not endless elite wars. More importantly, our citizens must also resist being drawn into elite wars. They must ask harder questions. Whose interest does the wars serve? What values are at stake? What does this mean for service delivery? They must stop romanticising political gladiators and combatants of needless wars. The tendency to see powerful men as saviours, even after repeated betrayal, emboldens the culture of impunity. Politicians must be judged by what they deliver, not whom they fight.

    Ultimately, elite wars are not harmless rivalries. They deepen polarisation. They stall progress. They distract from urgent reforms. They are the symptoms of a broken political culture that prioritises loyalty over legacy, revenge over reconciliation. The renewed war among our country’s elite is not just a political drama. It is a warning sign. A sign that our democracy remains fragile. That the politics of the strongman still prevails. That until values replace vengeance at the centre of our political life, our country will continue to be governed not by principles, but by grudges.

    Those who still have ears, hear. And let them not only hear, but understand. For in the rising din of political vanity and elite wars, truth speaks in whispers. Wisdom calls from the margins. The times are urgent, the stakes high. Silence is no longer innocence. In a country where power drowns out reason, and noises pass for leadership, discernment becomes a civic duty. Let the discerning rise above the clatter, and let our citizens remember: the future belongs not to those who shout the loudest, but to those who listen, truly listen to the heartbeats of our country in distress.

    Those who have ears, hear! Now.

  • The Deadly War on Women and Children 

    The Deadly War on Women and Children 

    -By Abdul Mahmud

    Childbirth is a death sentence in our country. It shouldn’t be. But it is. Our country loses a woman every seven minutes. That’s not a statistic. That is not just a scream in the dark, it is a cry searing the blinding daylight of a country that has grown numb to both the living and the dying. A country where indifference is policy, and silence is the only answer to suffering. A final breath. A mother dying while giving life. The BBC reports that our country is the world’s worst place to beget life. One woman dies every seven minutes. That’s 75,000 maternal deaths in one year. That’s 29% of all maternal deaths worldwide. Almost one in every three. That’s not a crisis. That’s a collapse. That number should shame our country and us as citizens. It doesn’t.

    This tells a story. A tragic, brutal, relentless story. Of women bleeding to death in clinics. On beds without bedsheets. With midwives who have no gloves. Of babies born into silence. Of widowers cradling newborns. Poor fathers. Of children growing up without mothers. Of families shattered by the simple biological act of childbirth. But childbirth here isn’t straightforward. It’s war. It’s women walking kilometres to underfunded hospitals. It’s labour rooms without light. Clinics without water. It’s rusted scissors. Torn gloves. Nurses working with torchlights. And stillbirths that go uncounted. Here? Emergency care is a complete farce. Blood banks? Dry. Anaesthesia? Non-existent. Bandages to hold cannulas in place? Paper stickers. Ambulances?

    Pregnant women in labour hop on keke ride and on a prayer.

    This is our country – the land of our birth.

    A country rich in oil and gas. Rich in resources. But bankrupt in everything else, including leadership.

    The women who die are poor. They are urban and rural. They are the forgotten ones. They are invisible. Their deaths don’t make much of the daily news. Their stories don’t make policy. They die in silence. Buried without outrage.

    But, it doesn’t end with mothers.

    Our children die too. Quietly. Slowly. Around and about. Development Reporting, a specialist media outfit, said it clearly. Our children are failed by the system. Unvaccinated. Malnourished. Out of school. Sick. Abandoned. They are growing up in hunger. In pain. They live without food. Without teachers. Without nurses. Without any chance. They have been left behind. To die. One in ten of our children never reach their fifth birthday. Most deaths are preventable. Malaria. Pneumonia. Diarrhoea. Hunger. Simple diseases that kill fast because our country’s healthcare system habitually kills.

    One in three children is stunted. That means their brains and bodies won’t grow as they should. That means their futures are already stolen. Malnourished children can’t learn. They can’t compete. They can’t lead. Our country has failed them. Repeatedly. Brutally. Little wonder the late, iconic South African-born reggae legend, Lucky Dube, lamented the moral decay of Africa’s governing class. “They won’t build no schools anymore,” he sang, “all they’ll build will be prison, prison.” His words echo like prophecy across our country’s broken landscape. If he had trained his mind on our country’s governing elite, he might well have added: they don’t build hospitals anymore; all they construct are flyovers to nowhere. Perhaps, to Samarkand where fantasy lives and the sick are not their burden.

    And, yet, our country pretends that all is well and good. While 18 million children are out of school, it pretends. While millions live in slums, drink dirty water, and battle diseases, it pretends. While clinics run out of vaccines, it pretends still. While mothers weep over graves, it turns its eyes in the direction of Afghanistan. The governing elite are the worst culprits. Does the holy book not say, “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted”? But these ones will not mourn. They do not weep for the dead. They do not grieve with the bereaved. Their hearts are sealed. Their eyes are dry. They soar, detached, above the suffering of ordinary citizens like Achebe’s Eneke the bird, who learned to fly without perching because men had learned to shoot without missing. Our rulers now fly too, sky-high, far above the dust and death they leave behind.

    The president. His wife. The vice president. They spent N23 billion on foreign travel last year. That’s not a typo. N23 billion. For comfort. For luxury. For medical treatment. Paris for medical check-ups; but, masked as working holidays. Dubai for toothaches. Germany for routine tests. London for rest. While back home, women are stitched without anaesthesia. Children die from coughs. While hospitals turn from Buhari’s mere consulting clinics to morgues. Here’s the truth: they flee the country they ruined. They simply cop out to countries that others built. Where they don’t cop out, they hide inside the world of opulence they built for themselves from the stolen commonwealth. They don’t feel citizens’ pains. They don’t know what it means to hear a child convulse and die because there’s no oxygen. They don’t know what it feels like to hold a woman’s hand while she dies from a ruptured womb. They don’t bury children. They bury money. In Swiss accounts. Offshore firms. Dollar vaults. The Panama Papers reveal the truth. While our own currency can’t buy Panadol.

    Our corrupt governing elite have eaten everything. Ours is now a country of locusts. Budgets are padded. Health budgets are looted. Drugs are stolen. Equipment is resold. Nurses and doctors, left unpaid and unappreciated, flee our country’s shores in despair, seeking dignity in foreign lands. In a moment that captured the callous indifference of our governing elite, former Minister of Labour, Chris Ngige, shamelessly declared that the exodus of doctors was of little consequence because, according to him, our country “has more than enough medical personnel… if you have surplus, you export”. It was a boast swaddled in ignorance, and beneath it lay the tragic arithmetic of a ruined country. The World Health Organisation’s data pierces through Ngige’s fiction like light through the dark: as far back as 2013, our country had only 3.8 doctors for every 10,000 citizens; a ratio far below the WHO’s recommended ratio of one doctor to 600 patients. Twelve years on, the ratio hasn’t changed. This is not surplus; it is scarcity masquerading as strength. It is the cruel irony of a ruined country bleeding expertise while its governing elite speak in the hollow cadences of denial.

    Our country has signed all manner of treaties.

    The Sustainable Development Goals. The UN conventions. The AU declarations. Our country pledges. Our country makes promises. But nothing is fulfilled. Nothing reaches the dying woman in the cities and villages. Nothing saves the baby in the overcrowded wards of urban hospitals. Data is manipulated. Numbers are cooked. Reports are buried. Truth is hidden. But graves don’t lie.

    Our mothers are dying. And no one is asking why they are dying. Even if someone is asking, no one is answering. Our governing elite are pursuing policies of indifference and neglect by design. Failure by choice. It is deliberate because they aren’t the victims of their own failure. They are protected from it. They are immune. They are medical tourists. Their wives won’t deliver in local clinics. Their babies won’t sleep on bare floors. Their lives are insured. Citizens’ lives are not. And so, our country stays broken. Because it works for them. Because there are no consequences for enthroning failure. So, they go on commissioning 30 kilometres highway and bus stops, and unveiling white elephant projects. Hosting summits. Garlanding foreign visitors. Taking photos. Saying prayers. Meanwhile, more women keep dying. Children keep vanishing into the abyss. Citizens are told to be patient. To renew hope. But hope is not a hospital. Faith is not healthcare. Prayer doesn’t fix a torn placenta. Or stop post-partum bleeding. Or treat jaundice. Only investment. Only real governance. Only the political will of a responsible governing elite who know what to do: train midwives. Equip hospitals. Provide ambulances. Fund primary healthcare. Pay doctors and nurses. Build systems. Enforce accountability. These are not puzzles wrapped in enigma; they are the fundamental functions of a competent state. Rwanda has done it, with clarity of purpose and political will. Ghana has made earnest strides. Even Sierra Leone, scarred by war and poverty, is learning to rise. But here in our republic, our rulers talk. They convene conferences. They inaugurate committees with fanfare. They rename hospitals as though renaming heals the sick. They switch uniforms as if new fabrics could staunch the bleeding. But they do not save lives. They perform the ritual of governance without its substance.

    And the cost?

    It is written in the silence of empty cradles and the wails of orphaned children. Seventy-five thousand women lost in a single year, not to the Boko Haram war; but to preventable complications. Buried without headlines. Yet, our governing elite have not declared it a war. There are no national mourning days. No flags lowered. No outrage. Just the quiet erasure of women, whose only crime was to give life in a country that does not value life. But it is war. On the poor. On the voiceless. On mothers. On children.

    Every maternal death is a failure of leadership. Every child’s grave is a scandal. Every hospital without drugs is a crime scene. Citizens must speak louder. They must make their votes count. A country that abandons its women and children abandons its soul. This is not fate. This is not nature at work. These are premeditated murders. Matricide enabled. Infanticide engineered. Deaths orchestrated and sustained by our governing elite.

    Silent though it is, our country is waging a war against women and children; and the generals of that war, the very men and women entrusted to protect the citizens, are the ones who pry open wounds, mother after mother, and children upon their first cries. Happily, history offers the lamp to courageous citizens who think of the Parisians who stormed the Bastille with unyielding revolutionary will and seek to enact their own history, not with bloodied pikes; but with their ballots, voices, and unyielding civic will.

    That chapter in history will not be written by fate, but by paragraphs that citizens shall compose by choice.

    Beware.

    May our dead find peace.

  • Theft as a National Enterprise

    Theft as a National Enterprise

    By Abdul Mahmud

    A 20-year-old housewife, Fatima Abdullahi, was docked before a Sharia Court. Her offence? Stealing foodstuff and N250,000 from her employer. The Sharia Court sits in Kano. The Sharia law will take its course. She is already shamed. The punishment for her crime is visible in the Qur’an. But, her trial will not conform to the international standards of fairness. Her guilt, unprotected by power because she is powerless as a nobody. Her desperation for freedom will be public.  She will be punished. As punishment for theft, the Court will order that her hands be cut off, consistent with the injunction of political Sharia in the north. She will weep on being sentenced.

    Elsewhere, in the cool corridors of air-conditioned offices, many thieves are stealing too. But they steal big. Call up the names on the register of big time [alleged] thieves. Ahmed Idris, former Accountant-General of the Federation, who allegedly stole N109 billion. His successor, Anamekwe Nwabuoku, is also on trial. He is accused of stealing N1.96 billion. Godwin Emefiele, former Governor of the Central Bank, is facing a catalogue of corruption charges. Contracts were awarded without process. Billions vanished. The national vault became his playground.

    Yet, for all the noise, how many of them wear handcuffs?

    Ahmed Idris is no mere man of numbers. He is a title-holder of the Daura Emirate. But not just any title-holder. Wait for it. His honorific bears a haunting irony. He is the Ajiyan Hausa, the Emirate’s symbolic custodian of its savings. The deposit. The purse. A title meant to evoke trust, restraint, stewardship, and to strengthen bond. Yet, here lies the bitter contradiction of our times: the keeper of the Emirate’s deposit is the [alleged] national vault plunderer. The hand, now entrusted to protect the granary of the Emirate, even if symbolic, is the very hand that [allegedly] emptied our country’s treasury. His title now reads like a cruel jest, a ceremonial mockery of the very values it was meant to honour. In saner societies, symbolism is sacred. In our country, it is a satire.

    There lies the paradox. The rich steal to reign; to show off and to rub their stolen wealth on the faces of honest citizens. The poor steal to eat. Though my late friend and playwright, Professor Tunde Fatunde, captured it in a different way in his biting satire, “Oga Na Tief Man” – suggesting in a way that it is only our bosses that steal. It is now clear that everyone – the rich and the poor – steals. Everybody steals. The gatekeeper steals. The messenger steals. The fuel attendant cheats you at the pump. The tailor adds money. Elders, the protectors of local mores, are land grabbers. Go to Benin City. A monarch who is apparently the king of boys now walks the Bedford Heights to the US jailhouse for wire fraud. The pastor lies. The imam collects bribes. Everyone wants something that is not theirs. This is how Fela described it in his song, Authority Stealing: “somebody don take something wey belong to another person”.

    Theft is now the national enterprise.

    It is the oil that greases every wheel. The high and mighty steal with pens and policies. Ordinary citizens steal with tricks and shortcuts. They call it “hussle”. The civil servant inflates contracts. The market woman hoards tomatoes. The customs officer under-declares imports. The voter sells his vote. The lawmaker buys it. And round our country goes in a merry-go-round of mutual theft. The oga steals the budget. The servant steals the change. The policeman collects bribes. The politician diverts funds. The civil servant “chops small.” No one is innocent. No one is shocked. Everyone expects to steal, or be stolen from. The tragedy is that citizens now call it normal.

    What began as elite corruption has trickled down. Or maybe it was always there. The difference is the scale. The rich steal in billions. The poor steal in hundreds. But both steal all the same. And both feel justified. “If I no move am, another person go move am.” Moving becomes another euphemism for theft. That is the logic. That is the rot. The consequences are clear. First, it kills trust. Who can you trust? Not the police. Not the pastor. Not the elder. Not the local chief. Not the courtiers. Not the teacher. Not the politician. Not even your neighbour. Everyone is out for themselves. Second, it kills hope. Why work hard when you can “hussle”? Why become honest when dishonesty is rewarded? Why play by the rules when the rulebook is torn? Third, it kills progress. The money meant for roads disappears. The funds for hospitals are embezzled. Schools rot. Power fails. Infrastructure decays. Our country borrows to pay salaries. Our country borrows to steal. The national debt grows. But the citizens remain poor.

    The moral collapse is total. There was once a time when shame restrained men. A time when elders frowned at corruption. When integrity mattered. When public office was an honour. Today, the thief is a role model. The looter is a chief. The bigger the loot, the louder the title. In our country, today, titles are no longer honours earned by virtue, but ornaments acquired through vice. My Etsako provenance offers one of the loudest of such titles: Oku Omolo – The sea never dries. It is meant to evoke abundance, resilience, and an endless wellspring of generosity. But in the hands of the corrupt, it has become the euphemism for bottomless theft. A celebration of plunder disguised as prosperity.

    Here, the deeper the theft, the grander the welcome. The thief returns home not in shame, but in splendour. Drums beat. Praise singers chant. Clerics pray. The community gathers, not to ask questions; but to ask for favours. No one remembers how the well was filled. Only that it overflows.

    Thus, a nation drowns in stolen waters while hailing the men who fetched them. How did our country get here? Slowly. Steadily. First, citizens excused the first thief. Then they praised him. Then they emulated him. Now, citizens encourage their children to steal. To cheat. To manipulate. They call it survival. But it is the death of the soul, of the country. Achebe said it best. A paraphrase of the late Irish patron-poet, W.B. Yeats’s “things fall apart” in his poem, The Second Coming: “The things that held us together have given way.” The moral straps of our country have snapped. Our values have collapsed. Citizens no longer know right from wrong. The house has fallen. As Karl Maier puts it: “This house has fallen”.

    But not all is lost. Citizens can still rebuild the country. But first, they must tell themselves the truth. Stealing is stealing. Whether by the gatekeeper or the governor. Whether by the clerk or the commissioner. Whether by the mechanic or the minister. Whether by Fatima or Emefiele.

    Our country and its citizens must stop decorating thieves. They must stop giving them awards. They must stop singing for them. They must stop inviting them to churches and mosques. They must stop calling them “destiny helpers.” They are criminals. Not heroes. The judiciary must act in accordance with its role. No if. The courts must bite. Not just the weak. Not just the powerless. But the high and mighty too. Justice must be blind. The law must not see pockets or positions. Only truth. The police must reform. Too many officers are gatekeepers of corruption. Roadblocks have become toll gates on our country’s highways. Bail is never free. The law is up for sale. That must end.

    Religious institutions must cleanse their altars. Too many thieves denn in the pulpits. Too many pastors preach prosperity without integrity. Too many imams pray for thieves. Religion must return to its core: truth, justice, righteousness. The civil society must rise and be active again. Too many NGOs are now fronts for corruption. Too many activists have become consultants to crooks. The media must shine the light. Not dine with darkness. Too many journalists now feast on brown envelopes. The pen must return to its calling; to expose, not  excuse. And citizens must resist. They must say no. No to vote buying. No to stolen mandates. No to stolen futures. They must reject rice-for-votes, stomach-infrastructure  politics. They must vote conscience, not stomach.

    Yes, all of this is hard;  but, it is necessary. Our country and its citizens must start small. One honest act at a time. One brave whistleblower at a time. One principled and active citizen at a time. That is how countries are rebuilt. Our country must raise a new generation. A generation that sees public office as stewardship. Not an Automated Teller Machine. A generation that understands that wealth without work is theft. That leadership without sacrifice is fraud. That power without purpose is poison. Our country must change the story of itself. From “Oga na tief man” to “Oga na servant.” From “everybody dey thief” to “some of us still dey stand clean.” From “na so Naija be” to “na so we go change Naija for good”. Our country is not cursed. Our country is corrupt. Our country is not poor. Our country is poorly managed. Ours is not the absence of wealth. It is the abundance of thieves.

    I fathom no illusion here. If Fatima Abdullahi must face justice, then so must the Ahmed Idrises and Emefieles. If the petty thief must be jailed, then the economic saboteur must be punished. The arc of the moral universe must bend toward justice for the big and small thieves and for our country. This house has fallen. But it can be rebuilt. Brick by brick. Truth by truth. One honest citizen at a time. That is the only hope. That is the only path forward to redemption.

    “Oga na tief man”.

    But so are the ordinary citizens who turn blind eyes to the thievery around them.

  • Special Op-Ed: The Future of Democracy in West Africa

    Special Op-Ed: The Future of Democracy in West Africa

    By Abdul Mahmud

    The democratic experiment in West Africa, once heralded as a beacon of postcolonial hope and civic renewal, is now teetering on the edge of collapse. A sub-region praised for its cautious embrace of multiparty systems, free press, and constitutional governance is increasingly defined by military coups, rampant kleptocracy, eroding civil liberties, and deepening economic despair. These are not the birth pangs of a fledgling democracy but the death throes of a failed experiment. West Africa stands at a historic crossroads, where the question is no longer whether democracy can thrive, but whether it can survive at all.

    Nearly thirty-five years have passed since the Commonwealth’s Harare Declaration lifted its banner of hope over the African continent, proclaiming a vision of democratic renewal and participatory governance. A year earlier, the Arusha Conference,  which adopted the African Charter on Popular Participation, emphasised the fact that it is the absence of democracy that is at the core  of Africa’s development crisis. Yet, today, that vision lies in ruins, abandoned in some places, and in others, so hollowed out that it survives only as a ritual of empty gestures, while states lie prostrate at the lower rungs of underdevelopment. The democratic struggles it once inspired, borne on the backs of ordinary citizens yearning for dignity and voice, have withered under the weight of betrayal. Where democracy has not vanished entirely, it has been vulgarised, reduced to a decorative fiction, stripped of its emancipatory substance. It now serves, in many quarters, not as a bulwark of freedom but as a tool of domination: a revisionist enterprise, co-opted by political elites and the bourgeois establishment, who wield its symbols to sanctify their power. What citizens are witnessing is the appropriation of democratic legitimacy to uphold values, interests, and practices that bear no resemblance to the democratic ideal. A point that the late Nigerian thinker, Claude Ake, gave profound clarity to in his book, ‘The Feasibility of Democracy in Africa’. To Ake, this emptying out of democracy and the conversion of its contents into means that legitimise deeply anti-democratic ends repudiate the very representative essence of the demos by “appropriating democratic legitimacy for political values, interests and practices that are no way democratic”. The vocabulary of this pre-eminent thinker still speaks to the truth today, now that all of democracy but its soul has been exiled by the ‘New West African democrats’ who continue to trivialise the demos. Hear Ake: “It is no wonder that democracy is in crisis today, even as we celebrate what we perceive as the triumphant march of democracy to every part of the world. What looks like thetriumph of democracy is actually the other side of its trivialization, its domestication to the point in which it can be embraced by power elites all over the world because it is too tame to threaten them”.

    A Subregion in Democratic Regress

    The optimism of the 1990s, when multiparty elections and civilian rule swept across West Africa, has given way to widespread disillusionment. Countries such as Nigeria, Ghana, Senegal, and Côte d’Ivoire once held promise as democratic exemplars. Today, even these nations are plagued by election-related violence, judicial manipulation, or the dangers of judicial selectorate as my friend, Professor Chidi Odinkalu, described it in his new book, ‘The Selectorate: When Judges Topple the People’, and the shrinking civic space. More worrying is the recurrence of military coups in Mali, Guinea, Burkina Faso, and Niger between 2020 and 2023. These coups are not isolated events but symptoms of deeper structural decay.

    In Mali, the military seized power in August 2020, citing the failures of President Ibrahim Boubacar Keita to tackle corruption and insecurity. The coup was initially welcomed by citizens fatigued by poor governance. However, the military soon reneged on its promise of a swift civilian transition. A second coup occurred in May 2021, consolidating Colonel Assimi Goita’s control. Rather than restoring order, Mali slipped into deeper instability, with elections repeatedly postponed and the military accepting the support of foreign mercenaries. Guinea followed in September 2021 with Colonel Mamady Doumbouya overthrowing President Alpha Conde, who had controversially amended the constitution to secure a third term. Doumbouya framed the coup as a corrective, promising to restore democracy. Yet, more than two years on, Guinea remains under military rule. The roadmap to civilian transition is murky, while political repression and arbitrary detentions have intensified. Burkina Faso endured two coups in 2022. The first in January ousted President Roch Marc Christian Kabore, blamed for failing to stem jihadist violence. In September, Captain Ibrahim Traore deposed the interim leader, citing the same security concerns. Under Traore, civil liberties have deteriorated further, political parties have been suspended, and there is no clear pathway to elections. The military has offered stability in name only. Niger’s 2023 coup, led by General Abdourahamane Tchiani, shocked observers who viewed the country as a bulwark of democracy. President Mohammed Bazoum had made strides in strengthening institutions. However, internal divisions, elite infighting, and perceptions of foreign interference created fertile ground for military takeover. The junta dissolved the constitution, suspended democratic institutions, and embarked on a campaign of repression. Côte d’Ivoire offers a revealing glimpse into the duplicitous face of West African politics; a coin with two indistinguishable sides, where the democratic mask conceals the autocratic impulse. On one side lies the semblance of civilian rule, dressed in the regalia of constitutionalism; on the other, the creeping shadows of kleptocracy, vanishing liberties, and economic disarray, evoking the atmosphere of a military regime without the fatigue of fatigues. Democracy here is not lived, it is poorly performed. President Alassane Ouattara’s manipulation of the Ivorien Constitution to secure a controversial third term mirrored the hubris of Guinea’s Alpha Conde, revealing a pattern of civilian rulers who clothe their ambitions in legalism while defiling the spirit of constitutional rule. In recent days, the air in Côte d’Ivoire has grown heavy with uncertainty, as news of an attempted coup spread through the virtual world. What remains is not a republic in motion; but a state, caught in the quicksand of its contradictions, teetering between the theatre of democracy and the spectre of military reckoning.

    These coups reflect a broader pattern: failed governance by civilian elites has bred popular disenchantment, creating opportunities for military adventurism. But the return of the military has not yielded better governance. Instead, it has deepened authoritarianism and prolonged instability.

    The Erosion of Human Rights

    Alongside democratic regression is a stark rollback of human rights across the subregion. Freedoms of expression, assembly, and association, indicators of democratic health, are under sustained attacks. In Nigeria, the 2020 #EndSARS protests against police brutality ended in bloodshed when security forces opened fire on peaceful demonstrators at the Lekki Toll Gate. The government denied responsibility, and no meaningful accountability followed. Journalists are regularly harassed, and repressive laws such as the Cybercrime Act are used to silence dissent. In Guinea, both Conde’s administration and the current military regime have used state violence to crush opposition. Civil society actors, journalists, and political leaders face harassment, arrest, and exile. The promised return to constitutional rule remains elusive. Mali’s junta has restricted press freedom, expelled critical journalists, and banned opposition gatherings. In Burkina Faso, military authorities have suspended political parties, limited media access, and detained civil society leaders. Across the subregion, repression has replaced reform.

    Economic Despair and Social Breakdown

    At the core of West Africa’s democratic decline lies deep economic malaise. The postcolonial promise of development and prosperity remains largely unfulfilled. Instead, inequality, unemployment, and poverty have worsened.

    Nigeria, Africa’s largest economy, remains a paradox of wealth and want. Despite vast oil reserves, over 133 million Nigerians live in multidimensional poverty. Corruption, subsidy mismanagement, and weak institutions have undermined development. Inflation and naira devaluation have eroded purchasing power, deepening hardship. Ghana, once seen as a model of economic progress, experienced its worst crisis in 2022. Public debt ballooned, inflation surged beyond 50%, and the cedi collapsed. The government was forced to seek an IMF bailout, sparking public protests and eroding trust in political leadership. In Mali, Burkina Faso, and Niger, economic despair is even more acute. Chronic underdevelopment, youth unemployment, and poor infrastructure have left large swathes of the population vulnerable. Extremist groups exploit these conditions, offering money and security in exchange for allegiance. Where governments fail, armed groups fill the vacuum.

    A demographic explosion compounds the crisis. West Africa’s population is young, with over 60% under the age of 25. These youths face bleak futures, limited opportunities, and systemic neglect. Many migrate through perilous routes or join insurgencies in search of identity and income. Democracy, in their eyes, is a failed promise. No wonder many celebrate the military interregnum in many of these states.

    The Postcolonial Crisis of the State

    The modern West African state is rooted in colonial legacy. Designed for control rather than inclusion, many states have failed to evolve into functional democracies. Centralised authority, exclusionary politics, and ethnic fragmentation continue to define governance. Despite being a federation, Nigeria’s federal government dominates resource allocation and policy direction. This fuels agitation for regional autonomy and ethnic nationalism. In Mali and Burkina Faso, state failure in peripheral regions has facilitated jihadist insurgencies. Legal and constitutional frameworks are routinely subverted to entrench incumbents. Alpha Conde and Alassane Quattara’s respective manipulation of Guinea and Cote d’Ivoire’s constitutions for third terms are cases in point. In Senegal, fears of similar manipulation by President Macky Sall sparked widespread unrest.

    The state is often treated as a personal estate by ruling elites. Public offices are used to distribute patronage and consolidate power, not to serve the people. This distortion of the social contract erodes legitimacy and fosters conflict.

    Irresponsible Elites and the Collapse of Moral Leadership

    The greatest tragedy of West African democracy is the crass irresponsibility of its elites. Rather than serving as custodians of the public good, they have become predators who pillage state resources, rig elections, and undermine institutions. This elite failure has deep roots. The early post-independence years saw idealistic nationalists replaced by authoritarian rulers. In Nigeria, successive military regimes institutionalised corruption. In Togo, the Eyadema dynasty presided over decades of kleptocracy. Even in supposedly democratic Ghana and Senegal, political elites have been implicated in grand corruption.

    Today, political parties function less as vehicles for ideology and more as platforms for personal gain. Elections are marred by vote-buying, violence, and judicial compromise. Civil service appointments are based on loyalty, not merit. Infrastructure contracts are inflated, mismanaged, or abandoned. Citizens increasingly view their leaders with cynicism. The distinction between civilian politicians and military juntas is blurring. Both are seen as looters: one in uniform, the other in traditional garb. This perception delegitimises democracy and fuels instability.

    Military Coups: A False Messiah

    The resurgence of military coups raises a fundamental question: does the future of West Africa lie in military adventurism? For many citizens, coups appear to offer an escape from corrupt civilian rule. But this is a dangerous illusion. Historically, military regimes in Africa have not delivered good governance. From Samuel Doe in Liberia to Ibrahim Babangida in Nigeria, juntas have often been more repressive, corrupt, and incompetent than the civilians they replaced. In today’s West Africa, the pattern is repeating. Mali’s junta has failed to restore security or hold elections. Burkina Faso is sliding deeper into authoritarianism. Guinea’s military rulers are consolidating power rather than transitioning. Niger’s junta has alienated international partners and curtailed civil liberties.

    Military regimes lack legitimacy, institutional competence, and long-term vision. They thrive on coercion, not consensus. Their rise reflects democratic failure, but they are not a solution.

    Reclaiming the Future: Toward Democratic Renewal

    The future of West Africa must be anchored in a rediscovery of democracy, not as a mere slogan mouthed in conference halls or election campaigns, but as a lived ethic, a tapestry of values, norms, and institutions that give dignity to governance and voice to the governed. In my estimation, true democracy must transcend procedural rituals; it must inhabit the daily experience of justice, equity, and accountability. Some scholars have rightly questioned the transplantation of Western liberal democracy onto African soil, arguing that its values often fail to resonate with indigenous political cultures. Yet, the deeper tragedy lies not in the foreignness of these borrowed ideals, but in the corrosive alternatives offered by the subregion’s governing elites. What they seek to elevate in place of liberal democracy is not a grounded African ethos of communal justice or participatory governance; but a toxic blend of patronage, authoritarianism, and impunity, masquerading as cultural authenticity. In truth, it is not foreign values that imperil democracy in West Africa, but the cynical deployment of culture to sanctify corruption and silence dissent.

    All of this demands not just sober reflections, but an urgent reimagining of the kind of reforms that can anchor democratisation in the subregion on solid ground; a terra firma both firm and fertile. These reforms must reach across multiple frontiers, whether political, economic, cultural, or institutional and lay the foundation for a democratic ethos that is not only resilient, but resonant with the lived realities and aspirations of West African peoples. Admittedly, one might argue that democratisation in the subregion has either yet to begin in any substantive sense or, more starkly, that it never truly began at all. What passed for democratic transition was often a facade, an illusion draped in electoral rituals, beneath which old authoritarian impulses and exclusionary politics continued to thrive. As a starter, electoral integrity must be restored through credible, transparent, and inclusive processes. Independent electoral commissions should be protected from political interference, vote counting must be transparent, and peaceful transitions of power must become the norm. Equally, judicial independence must be defended to act as a counterweight to executive overreach and electoral injustice. The rule of law must also be upheld. Anti-corruption agencies should be strengthened and insulated from the whims of political power. Whistleblowers deserve protection, citizens must have access to public information, and civic education should be prioritised to build democratic literacy from the grassroots. There must be a renewed push for economic justice. Inclusive development that prioritises youth employment, equitable resource distribution, and basic service delivery is essential. States must be seen to work. They must deliver education, healthcare, and infrastructure efficiently and with integrity, if faith in democratic systems is to be rebuilt. Civil society must be free to organise, criticise, and innovate. Journalists, activists, and ordinary citizens must be protected in their efforts to hold power to account. A robust, independent media is essential not only as a check on government excesses but also as a forum for public dialogue.

    Finally, the role of regional and international actors remains crucial. The African Union and ECOWAS must go beyond mere rhetoric and enforce clear, consistent standards for democratic governance. Foreign partners, too, must rethink their engagements while prioritising good governance over security partnerships that often entrench authoritarianism.

    Ballots, Not Bullets

    West Africa stands at a critical juncture. The democratic experiment is faltering under the weight of elite irresponsibility, economic despair, and postcolonial contradictions. The military’s return is not a solution, it is a symptom of failure. But the future is not predetermined. Citizens across the region have shown courage and resilience from the streets of Lagos during #EndSARS to the protests in Dakar and Conakry. The desire for dignity, justice, and accountable governance endures. Democracy must be rebuilt from the ground up. It must be anchored in values, sustained by institutions, and defended by citizens. The ballot box, not the barrel of a gun, must shape West Africa’s destiny.

    Let me return to where I began.

    The so-called democratic experiment in West Africa, once celebrated as a beacon of postcolonial hope and civic renewal, is now precariously balanced on the precipice of collapse. The subregion, once lauded for its tentative but promising embrace of multiparty politics, a free press, and constitutional rule, has become increasingly synonymous with military takeovers, unchecked kleptocracy, the erosion of civil liberties, and an ever-deepening economic gloom.

    The questions endure: will West Africa learn from the burdens of its past and reclaim the promise of democracy that has never taken root in the subregion, nor did it ever present itself as a promise in the first place? Where lies the future of democracy in West Africa?

    But, first, before I proffer some an answer, let me provide some clarity and a summary on the falsehood passed off as democracy in the subregion.

    Democracy endures as a luminous ideal and a contested practice. As an idea, it remains unsullied in the subregion: a timeless aspiration towards liberty, justice, and the collective shaping of destiny. It has not failed. Nor has it become dated in the face of modern challenges. Rather, it is the practice of democracy presented as civil rule that has faltered under the weight of elite manipulation and institutional decay. Across the subregion, the promise of democracy is habitually masked by a ruling class deeply threatened and unsettled by its demands. True democracy thrives on transparency, accountability, and popular participation; principles that unsettle those who govern through patronage, impunity, and inherited power. In their hands, civil rule is often emptied of democratic substance and refashioned into a facade: a hollow performance that mimics the rituals of democratic life while evading its responsibilities. This distortion breeds disillusionment. When citizens, long betrayed by civilian governments masquerading as democracies, look to the military as saviours, it is not out of ideological conviction but out of existential despair. The coups in Mali, Guinea, Niger, Chad, and Burkina Faso are not triumphs of military doctrine, but desperate responses to a system so degraded that even jackboots appear preferable to Gucci men’s horsebit leather loafers. In such circumstances, military rule is not embraced as a solution, but tolerated as a pragmatic reprieve, if not a dangerous reaction to the farce of governance presented in democratic clothing. To conflate civil rule with democracy is to mistake the mask for the face in a manner that makes it impossible to escape from the reality that the false mask imposes. And to blame democracy based on the failures of its counterfeit is to indict the innocent for the crimes of the guilty. What the subregion suffers is not the death of democracy, but its betrayal by those who swear oaths to defend it.

    Now, I return to the answer, even if briefly.

    The answer, which appears implicit already, lie not in the silence of the barracks, but in the awakened hearts of citizens.

  • 2027 and the Opposition’s Test

    2027 and the Opposition’s Test

    By Abdul Mahmud 

    A few days ago, opposition leaders gathered in Abuja. They called it a national political summit. Their mission was clear: to take back political power in 2027. In speeches laced with urgency and ambition, they signaled the start of a political war to win the hearts of the electorates. At the heart of this new resolve is the burning question: can the opposition really defeat Bola Tinubu’s ruling APC? On the surface, the resolve looks like a noble dream, and the mere push of love for power. But, dreams alone don’t win elections; or as my friend, Ayisha Osori, puts it more poignantly in her book, ‘Love Does Not Win Elections’. Power doesn’t fall into laps. It is taken through strategy, sacrifices, and unity. The opposition coalition must face the uncomfortable truths. They must ask themselves: are we truly ready? Or we are merely taking the citizens who are desperate to escape Tinubu’s nightmare for the ride?

    Right now, the opposition space is fragmented. The PDP, the biggest opposition party, is a shadow of its former self. Its governors bicker in public. Others inside it wear the party’s colours on their sleeves, yet their hearts beat the drums of power inside the ruling party where their personal selfish interests whisper louder than party loyalty and allegiance. Its presidential candidate in the 2023 election appears not to have a foothold on the party. The Labour Party, once the surprise of the last election, is struggling with identity and cohesion. Peter Obi remains popular, but his party lacks depth. Enter Sowore who has consistently presented himself as an insurgent at the gates of neoliberal power; and whose party, the African Action Congress, AAC , conflates radical struggles with petit bourgeois liberalism, and with ill-fitting rhetoric. In seeking to marry the fire of radicalism with bourgeois politics, Sowore mistakes the fact that he is operating within a bourgeois neoliberal political order for a radical political environment, with the presence of revolutionary conditions. He has to operate inside the coalition, posing an objective modernity that is rooted in emancipatory politics or what the British sociologist, Anthony Giddens, describes as “engagements concerned with the liberation from inequality”. Though, internal rifts and ego battles often threaten to reduce opposition coalition to a personal cult rather than a national political force organising for power, how the opposition coalition deals with the rifts over personal ambitions matters in aggregating unity within itself.

    There is a fundamental truth that I must lay bare here – one so central that it ought to serve as the rallying cry for all aggrieved citizens: that within the opposition coalition lies the last viable platform upon which their collective aspirations can be realised. It is not merely a political alignment, but a covenant of common purpose, the big tent under which the dispossessed, the disillusioned, and the determined can find both voice and vision. The orchestrated gale of defections, engineered from the commanding heights of power in our country, has done more than disrupt party lines; it has helped drain the political swamp, clarifying the landscape into a vivid binary: on one side, those content to watch the nation stagger deeper into the mire of misery and ruin; on the other, those resolved to staunch the bleeding and set the republic on the path of recovery and rebirth. This is no longer a matter of mere politics; it is a moral referendum. A battle between light and darkness, justice and impunity, hope and despair. The choice is stark, and the hour is upon us. I am in that hour and have chosen to be on the side of the opposition coalition.

    But, there is this familiar story worth retelling here that the opposition coalition can learn from elsewhere. One that mirrors the fate of Cambodia’s now-defunct opposition. In Cambodia, the ruling Cambodian People’s Party, CPP, led by Hun Sen, waged a quiet and effective war of attrition. It didn’t need to defeat the Cambodia National Rescue Party (CNRP) at the polls. It simply dismantled it. First, by using the courts to de-legitimise it. Then by orchestrating defections and stripping the party of its core. In 2017, the CNRP was dissolved by the Supreme Court. By then, its leaders were in exile or in prison. The party was gone. And so was any real challenge to Hun Sen’s rule. The opposition faces a similar threat. A sinister ministerial order to ‘close the shop’ dangles like a noose around the neck of the PDP, whose national secretariat in Abuja now sits under lock and key – sealed off for alleged non-payment of ground rent. Yet, beneath this ministerial veil of legalism lies the darker pretext: a crude attempt to slam-dunk the party out of existence, not through the ballot, but through the backdoor of state power wielded as vendetta. Also, APC is slowly drawing away influential voices. Defections are gathering momentum. Every defection erodes credibility. It tells voters that the opposition cannot protect or reward loyalty. And as it stands, neither PDP nor Labour has a coherent strategy to prevent further haemorrhage.

    But, defections are just one part of the challenge. The larger problem lies in the opposition’s inability to define itself. What does it stand for? Why should our citizens trust it? Removing Tinubu is not a vision. Citizens want to know what comes after. They want to know how the opposition coalition will end hunger, grow jobs, rebuild institutions, secure lives and secure their country. It is this clarity that is still missing. Though it isn’t late yet to pose and give clarity to all of this.

    The contrast with Senegal is instructive. In 2024, the Senegalese opposition did what many believed was impossible. It defeated the ruling elite and produced the country’s youngest president. This wasn’t luck. It was the result of years of tireless grassroots organising, unity, and ideological clarity. Even when their main figure, Ousmane Sonko, was jailed, the movement endured. The opposition didn’t collapse under pressure. Instead, it grew stronger. It didn’t focus on personalities. It focused on change. That discipline, that resilience, is what turned a protest movement into a governing force. The opposition coalition and its supporters and promoters continue to make elections about individuals. The Atiku-Obi rift cost the opposition dearly in 2023. Instead of presenting a united front, they split the base. Kwankwaso’s ambitions added another fracture. The APC didn’t win because it was popular. It won because the division allowed it to work and game the electoral process in a fraudulent way.

    And now, with 2027 on the horizon, that same lack of coordination is creeping back in. The Abuja summit was the first step. I welcome it, warts and all. But, walking the talk becomes cheap, a mirage, when unity of purpose is absent. Walking the talk begins with shared sacrifices. Someone must be willing to step aside. As Ousmane Sonko did in Senegal last year. Someone must lead the charge. As Diomaye Faye did. Others must fall in line. That’s the nature of coalition politics.

    Coalitions aren’t new to Africa. In Ghana, the National Democratic Congress has built enduring strength through consistent messaging and grassroots work. In Kenya, Raila Odinga’s ability to unify various political camps, despite internal contradictions, shows that coalition-building can deliver momentum. Our opposition coalition leaders must stop seeing each other as rivals and start behaving like allies. They need a memoranda of understandings. On consensus. On ambition. Not the ones signed in hotels but those signed in action. The practical roadmaps with timelines, benchmarks, and compromises. The opposition coalition must also overcome another major weakness: its detachment from the masses. Our citizens want change, but they don’t want elite quarrels. They want food, security, dignity, and a country that works for all. The Senegalese opposition understood this. They mobilised students, unions, and rural farmers. They protested. They forced the state to listen. The opposition coalition is still too focused on media sound bites and elite meetings.

    There’s also a lesson from the Philippines. Rodrigo Duterte didn’t come from the traditional elite. He spoke plainly. He sounded like the people. He wasn’t polished, but he was relatable. That authenticity gave him power. Behind him was a campaign machine that knew how to touch nerves. His supporters built online armies. They controlled narratives. They sold hope. He defeated an entrenched political dynasty because he knew how to connect with ordinary people. The opposition coalition should pay close attention. In 2023, the opposition tasted the power of social media. But it wasn’t enough. Opposition coalition doesn’t win elections alone online. It wins them in the cities, towns, villages, and hamlets. It wins them by convincing the citizens and build the coalition of the aggrieved around them. It wins them by building trust, one handshake with the citizens at a time. And it must organise, not just mobilise. Mobilisation is what serious opposition coalition does before elections. Organisation is what it builds between elections. The opposition coalition needs ward structures, data, election monitors, logistics hubs. It needs to recruit and train volunteers. It needs to know every local issue, every polling unit, and every INEC officer to deliver the message: rig and die. It doesn’t win elections by outrage; it wins by converting citizens’ outrage into protective bulwarks against rigging. It wins by planning.

    Time is not on the side of the opposition coalition. The APC has the tools of incumbency. It will play the ethnic card. Tinubu will argue that it’s still the South’s turn. The opposition must be ready to counter that narrative with a national message. It must present a pan-Nigerian ticket that appeals across the north and the south, across religion, across class. It must also confront the demons within. Ego, ethnicity, and ambition are the three poisons destroying the opposition. Too many leaders think they are saviours. They are unwilling to compromise. They want to lead, even if it means losing. That mindset must change. Politics is not about personal fulfilment. It’s about service. Those who cannot accept this should step aside.

    Ambition will also be a test, with eyes are on 2027. Atiku may run again. Obi is interested. Kwankwaso wants relevance. But there is only one ticket. Unless these men can sit together, agree on terms, and stick with them, the ruling party will coast to victory again. More importantly, the opposition coalition must also take defections seriously. Loyalty must be rewarded. Structures must be protected. There should be clear rules. Crossing to the ruling party shouldn’t be treated as a mere political mischief. It should be political treason. Voters must be made to see defectors as traitors, not heroes. That requires narrative control. It requires discipline. It requires a clear sense of identity.

    And that leads to the final point: the battle of stories. Every election is a contest of narratives. The opposition coalition must invest in storytelling. They must define the 2027 election before APC does. They must control the message. Not just in English, but in Hausa, Yoruba, Igbo, and Pidgin. They must craft a story of hope and urgency. A story that says: 2027 is about saving our country. They must tell this story in markets, at bus stops, on radio, on TikTok, Twitter, Instagram and Facebook. They must reach the old and the young. They must inspire, but also instruct. They must be clear about what they will do differently. And they must say it often.

    History shows that opposition coalitions don’t win by accident. They win because they plan, they unite, they learn. Cambodia shows what happens when an opposition coalition doesn’t protect its base. Senegal shows what’s possible when it does. The Philippines shows how one man with a message can change the game. The opposition coalition still has time. But not much. If it starts now, I mean truly starts now, it can build something powerful. If not, the summit in Abuja will be just another jamboree. And 2027 will be a repeat of 2023- with stolen ballots and all that jazz.

    Our citizens are waiting, watchful, weary, but not without hope. The youths, disillusioned by empty rhetoric, now demand substance and not slogans. The old, mindful of the hourglass, yearn to walk hand-in-hand with the young, to pass on a country that works to the next generation before the final summons of death arrives. In this twilight of despair and flickers of hope, the opposition coalition stands at the cusp of possibility. It can give shape to these longings, give breath to a new covenant.

    I believe it, with the quiet urgency of faith.

  • The Next Election, Not the Next Generation

    The Next Election, Not the Next Generation

    -By Abdul Mahmud

    Obasanjo has a singular talent for driving the blade deep into our country’s conscience. No former president wields words like him: pointed, layered, unflinching. To him, no subject is sacred. No figure, too revered. He dissects them all with the precision of a surgeon and the courage of a prophet. His commentary is never casual; it is always an incision that reveals the rot beneath. And yet, therein lies the paradox. For every truth he unveils, a shadow of himself appears silent and self-incriminating. His insights often sting not because they are false, but because they echo with the ghosts of his own complicity. Obasanjo holds up the mirror to our country, but his reflection too stands in the frame.

    Last week, the media echoed Obasanjo’s voice far and wide: “Those in power today are only concerned about the next election, not the next generation.” A simple sentence. Yet, it struck like thunder. It wasn’t just a criticism. It was a verdict. A stinging indictment of the smallness that defines our politics. In those few words, he laid bare the rot at the heart of our leadership. He revealed the depth of a crisis that our country has long normalised. While his words are the stones thrown at glasshouses, or made for applause or headlines, they are a wake-up call. A rough shaking from the dream of indifference. A call to reckon with who rulers of our country are becoming and what our country may soon lose if the rulers continue this way. He forces rulers to look beyond manifestos and microphones. To face the hollow out bottom of our national purpose. His voice, like a prophet’s, disturbs. And rightly so.

    Today, in our country, leadership has drifted far from its noble roots. It is no longer a call to serve, it has become the crab-like scramble for political survival. Tenure has replaced transformation. Power, not purpose, drives the engine of governance. Those who rule do so with eyes fixed on the next election, not the next generation. They govern with fear, not foresight; with calculation, not conviction. The idea of legacy has been replaced by the hunger for control. There is no dream, only strategy. No roadmap, only insidious ambition. Our rulers no longer plant trees whose shades they may never sit under. They build nothing that outlives them. And so, the future stands abandoned like a child waiting at a door that may never open. They govern to stay in power.

    Chinua Achebe captured it perfectly in his book, The Trouble with Nigeria. He said: “The trouble with Nigeria is simply and squarely a failure of leadership.” Achebe’s words still ring true today. He saw through the façade long before the problems became this glaring. And, sadly, it seems like the situation has only gotten worse. The evidence is everywhere. Our schools are failing. Our hospitals, once mocked as mere consulting clinics, have now deteriorated into silent mortuaries – places where hope goes to die and the living fear to enter. The roads are full of potholes. Our youth are lost to hopelessness. And yet, our rulers are blind to these problems. The future of the next generation is compromised, and our rulers seem unfazed. They do not see the consequences of their failures.

    Why?

    Because they do not govern for the future.

    They govern for now. They do not care about legacy. They care only about tenure, elections, and power. They are too busy securing the next election to consider the next generation. This is why our policies are chaotic. They are short-sighted. Projects are started, only to be abandoned halfway. Behold the obsession with flyovers and the concrete madness that has gripped our governors, who mistake slabs and steel for progress, while the people beg for schools, hospitals, and clean water! Economic plans are announced, only to be forgotten. Education is neglected. Health care is ignored. Every promise made seems to fade away in the face of politics as usual.

    Our rulers do not plan for long-term prosperity. They want quick wins. They want to win the next election, not create lasting change. There is no grand vision, no blueprint for the future. All they see is the next vote, not the next generation. Take the education sector. It is broken. Teachers are underpaid. Schools are dilapidated. Classrooms are overcrowded. Students sit on floors. And they respond with empty promises. Meanwhile, the children of our rulers are sent abroad for better education. The system is rigged. The brightest minds are denied access to quality education, while mediocrity thrives. Health care is worse. Public hospitals are gone. They are underfunded, understaffed, and ill-equipped. Citizens die from preventable diseases because the system is broken. Yet, our rulers fly abroad for medical treatment. They neglect the very sector that could save lives. The hypocrisy is staggering.

    Security is another crisis. Bandits run rampant in the north. Terrorists control vast swathes of land. Kidnappers strike at will. The government’s response is slow, ineffective, and often political. The lives of ordinary citizens are sacrificed. The military is overstretched, fighting with outdated equipment. Yet, the government keeps increasing the defense budget. The country is on the brink, but no one seems to care. And what about democracy? It is in name only. Political parties are no more than patronage networks. Primaries are auctions. Candidates are chosen by godfathers, not the people. The electorate is sidelined. Citizens are ignored. Democracy has become a tool for self-interest, not service. Democracy has been emptied of its noble promise. It no longer serves the people; it serves the powerful. What was once a sacred covenant between the rulers and the citizens has become a ladder for personal gains. The Harvard scholars, Ziblatt and Levitsky were right in their book, How Democracies Die, that democracies rarely collapse with a bang; they erode slowly, as norms decay, institutions weaken, and those in power substitute the public good with private ambition. Our country is living that slow death. The guardrails meant to protect our republic have been kicked aside by those meant to uphold them. Citizens’ voices are drowned out by money and power.

    What future do our rulers offer the next generation? A country where mediocrity reigns? A country where merit is irrelevant? A country where the brightest minds leave, and the dullest stay behind? The future is bleak. But it doesn’t have to be this way.

    Obasanjo’s words are not new. They capture a pattern of failure. Our country has repeatedly stumbled over the same obstacles. Short-term thinking. Selfish politics. The same mistakes keep being made, and the people keep suffering. The Second Republic collapsed under the weight of selfish politics. Shagari’s government offered little reform. Babangida promised economic liberalisation but delivered economic disaster. Abacha’s rule was a period of looting and repression. Obasanjo’s second coming was marked by the failed attempt at a third term. Jonathan’s years were marked by wasted opportunities. Buhari’s tenure was marked by stagnation and inefficiency. Tinubu’s government is already failing disastrously.

    Each government has failed to deliver meaningful change. None has left a legacy worth remembering. All promised change, but none provided it. The same story repeats itself over and over. The citizens suffer, but the rulers remain unscathed. The long arc of history shows us the cost of ignoring the future. Countries that fail to plan, fail to survive. Rome fell not just because of the invasion of barbarians, but because of internal decay. The Ottoman Empire disintegrated because its leaders ignored the signs of decline. Mobutu’s Congo is a cautionary tale of mismanagement and corruption.

    But all is not lost. There is hope.

    Countries rise from the ashes of their mistakes. Rwanda, after its genocide, focused on rebuilding with a clear vision. Singapore, once poor and underdeveloped, invested in human capital and infrastructure. Leadership and vision made the difference. These countries did not dwell on the past. They focused on the future. They planned for the long term. Our country can rise too. But not with the current rulers. Our country needs a change. Our country needs leaders who care about more than just elections. Our country needs leaders who care about the future. Leaders who will leave a legacy for the next generation. Our country needs the politics of purpose, not of power.

    Our citizens must rise. They must demand better leadership. They must question the rulers. They must reject those who only care about power and self-interest. They must demand leaders who are willing to serve, not to rule. They must insist on transparency and accountability. They must reject tribalism and nepotism. Our citizens must abandon the politics of sentiment and begin to measure leadership by the weight of service, not the size of slogans. In a country scarred by broken promises, citizens can no longer afford to gamble their future on charisma without character. The ballot must become a moral instrument, wielded in favour of those whose hands bear the calluses of real work – men and women who have served not themselves, but the people; who have shown, in quiet diligence, a commitment to public good over private gains.

    Citizens must look beyond the billboards and the roadside crowds, and ask harder questions: Who has stood with them when the cameras weren’t rolling? Who has delivered when there were no political points to score? Leadership must be rooted in history, in evidence, in a lived ethic of care. It is time citizens voted not for those who promise paradise, but for those who have exalted them, built schools, reformed the system, or shielded the weak from the blows of the harsh state. Only then can democracy serve the living, and not just the powerful.

    A new political culture is needed. One that values service over self-interest. One that prioritises the future over the present. Every leader must be asked: What will you leave behind? It is not enough to simply win elections. Leadership is about building the country and the people, not just securing power. Mandela understood this. Lee Kuan Yew understood this. Kagame’s Rwanda shows that, even after great tragedy, countries can rebuild. Vision is essential. And leadership is key. Our country is a giant. But it is a sleeping giant. It is time to awaken her.

    If our rulers will not think of the next generation, the next generation must think of how to replace them. The citizens must rise. They must take charge of their future. History will remember not only the failure of leaders, but the courage of citizens who refused to surrender their fate to mediocrity. When those entrusted with our country’s future chose ambition over vision, it was the citizens who rose, not with arms, but with resolve; not with bitterness, but with purpose. Surely, history will record this for posterity: when the custodians of power abandoned their posts, active citizens stepped forward to reclaim the dreams of our country. They choose legacy over fleeting victory, substance over spectacle. They gave history something worthy to record.

    Obasanjo is right. Achebe was right. Now, it is the citizens’ turn to act right.

    History and the future wait for no man – including woman.

  • 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.

  • 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.