The Pacesetter Frontier Magazine

Tag: #PacesetterFrontier

  • The Presidential Spokesman Who is Out of Touch

    The Presidential Spokesman Who is Out of Touch

    -By Abdul Mahmud

    Public officials often forget that their words travel further than their offices. A minister, adviser or presidential spokesman may regard an interview as another routine media appearance, but citizens hear something else: an account of how those who govern understand their condition. That is why Bayo Onanuga’s recent remarks during his interview with Charles Aniagolu on Arise Television have provoked such public discomfort. In dismissing claims of widespread hunger and hardship, or suggesting that the suffering Nigerians describe does not correspond with his own observation, the presidential spokesman revealed a troubling distance between official perception and social reality.

    A spokesman is not merely a defender of government policy. He is expected to interpret government to citizens and communicate public sentiment back to government. That role requires attentiveness and restraint. Loyalty to an administration cannot replace acquaintance with everyday life. Once public communication becomes detached from lived experience, official statements begin to sound less like explanations and more like declarations from another country. The difficulty with Onanuga’s comments lies not simply in disagreement over economic policy. Citizens may differ on whether reforms are necessary or whether temporary pain is justified by promised future gains. The difficulty lies in denying the existence or scale of hardship at a time when ordinary Nigerians have reorganised their lives around scarcity.

    One does not require a statistical report to notice what has happened to the country. Markets have become sites of daily adjustments. Families that once bought food in quantity now purchase in fragments. Transport costs determine whether workers go to work every day. School fees compete with food bills. Medical appointments are postponed. Social ceremonies increasingly function as informal fundraising opportunities. Across urban centres and smaller communities alike, survival has become an exercise in difficult calculation.

    Global institutions have not ignored these developments. Reports over the past two years from international development and humanitarian agencies have repeatedly identified Nigeria as facing rising food insecurity, deteriorating household purchasing power and growing poverty levels. Food inflation has remained persistently high while incomes have failed to keep pace with rising costs. Such findings may be debated in terms of causes and remedies, but dismissing the underlying distress places official claims in direct conflict with evidence and with lived experience. Supporters of President Bola Tinubu would argue, with some justification, that inherited economic distortions required difficult choices. They point to fuel subsidy removal, exchange rate liberalisation and broader economic reforms as unavoidable measures postponed by previous administrations. Economic reforms are rarely painless, and no serious observer expects structural adjustments to produce immediate comfort.

    Citizens, however, are entitled to examine outcomes.

    Fuel subsidy removal increased transportation costs almost immediately and produced consequences across every layer of economic life. Exchange rate reforms increased the cost of imports and raised production expenses for local businesses. Prices adjusted upward. Household budgets contracted. Small businesses struggled to absorb higher operating costs. Wages remained largely static while inflation reduced their value in practical terms.

    Economic arguments lose persuasive force when daily experience moves in the opposite direction.

    A worker whose salary has technically increased but whose purchasing power has collapsed does not experience improvement. Families that once maintained modest stability now depend on relatives abroad, informal loans or support networks. Professionals quietly adjust expectations downward. Retirement savings lose value. Young people postpone milestones once considered ordinary. Many Nigerians who previously occupied stable middle class positions now speak openly about survival.

    This explains why remarks denying widespread hardship have generated such resentment. Citizens can endure sacrifice more easily than dismissal. Governments gain public trust when they acknowledge burdens honestly and explain their choices with candour. Public anger grows when officials appear insulated from consequences borne by everyone else. Political office creates its own form of distance. Daily exposure to official briefings, controlled environments and protected routines can produce an incomplete picture of national life. Those who occupy such spaces risk believing that public complaints are exaggerated because deprivation is no longer visible within their immediate surroundings.

    That danger is not unique to Nigeria.

    Political history contains many examples of governing classes that gradually lost contact with social conditions until public frustration became impossible to ignore. The comparison many Nigerians drew after Onanuga’s interview was the famous phrase associated with pre-revolutionary France: “Let them eat cake.” Historians have long disputed whether Marie Antoinette ever uttered those words. Their symbolic significance remains powerful because they represent indifference born of distance. When ordinary people complained of hunger, the phrase imagined rulers so removed from public suffering that they responded with disbelief and absurdity.

    No one suggests that Nigeria is at the same stage as pre-revolutionary France, nor should historical comparisons be stretched beyond their limits. The lesson remains useful. Public officials must resist the temptation to substitute personal observation for collective reality. Bayo Onanuga’s responsibility is not to agree with every criticism of the Tinubu administration. His responsibility is to speak with enough humility to recognise that millions of Nigerians understand their own circumstances better than any official briefing can describe.

    A spokesman who cannot hear public hardship risks speaking only to power while losing the confidence of the public he is meant to address.

  • What Nigeria Owes You – By Abdul Mahmud

    What Nigeria Owes You – By Abdul Mahmud

    There is a familiar refrain that surfaces whenever Nigerians in the diaspora are discussed, or when professionals at home are urged to “give back”. It is often delivered with a tone of moral certainty: Nigeria trained you. Nigeria made you. You owe Nigeria. It sounds persuasive. It even feels patriotic. But it is not entirely true. And, more importantly, it obscures a deeper truth we must confront if we are to have an honest conversation about citizenship, obligation, and justice. Let us begin with the claim itself. That Nigeria “gave” free education, that the government “subsidised” your university education, and therefore you owe the country a debt of gratitude. At first glance, this appears reasonable. But scratch the surface, and the logic begins to unravel.

    Education was never a gift. It was never charity. It was, and remains, a duty the state owes its citizens.

    Chapter II of the 1999 Constitution sets out the Fundamental Objectives and Directive Principles of State Policy. These provisions are not mere aspirations, they articulate the moral and political contract between the Nigerian state and its citizens. They impose obligations on the government: to provide education, to ensure welfare, to secure the dignity of the human person, and to harness the nation’s resources for the common good. When the state builds schools, subsidises tuition fees, or trains doctors, lawyers, accountants, engineers, and teachers, it is not performing an act of benevolence. It is fulfilling a constitutional obligation. That is what governments are for. To suggest otherwise is to invert the relationship between the citizens and the state. It is to recast rights as favours and duties as gifts. It is to ask citizens to be grateful for what is already theirs by law and by moral claim.

    Let us humanise this.

    Picture a young boy in my provenance of Sabo, South Ibie, Edo State, or a girl in a crowded compound in Ikot Obong Edong, Akwa-Ibom State. Their parents struggle, but they insist on education for their children. The child walks kilometres to school, studies under flickering lanterns doing awoko, or burning midnight candles, shares textbooks with classmates, and perseveres against all odds. When the government subsidises their tuition, it does not erase the sacrifices made by that family. It does not replace the hunger endured, or eating without  – that familiar way of having lunch of Eba and then okra soup without meat or fish, the nights without electricity, the overcrowded classrooms, or the strikes that stretched a four-year degree into six.

    That children did not receive gifts. They survived a country badly ruined by an irresponsible political class.

    And when they finally emerge as doctors, lawyers, engineers, or teachers, they carry not just  certificates, but the weight of years of endurance. They are not merely products of state generosity; they are products of personal resilience and collective sacrifice.

     

    So when we say, “Nigeria trained you”, we must ask: Which Nigeria?

    Is it the Nigeria of broken laboratories and outdated equipment? The Nigeria of underpaid lecturers and perpetual strikes? The Nigeria where students sit on floors and write exams in overcrowded halls? The Nigeria where young graduates wander for years in search of work? Or is it the Nigeria imagined in the Constitution: a state that guarantees equal and adequate educational opportunities, promotes science and technology, and ensures that every citizen can develop to their full potential? There is a gap between these two Nigerians. And it is within that gap that the truth resides.

    Yes, the state contributed to your education. But you also paid for it in ways that are rarely acknowledged. You paid in time lost to strikes. You paid in the cost of private tutorials when public teaching failed. You paid in the emotional toll of uncertainty. You paid in the opportunity cost of a country that often delays, diminishes, and sometimes derails potential. Your parents paid, too, through taxes, levies, and the quiet endurance of a country that asks much and gives little.

    So who owes whom?

    This is not an argument against giving back. Far from it. There is a moral beauty in contributing to one’s community, lifting others as you rise, and using your skills to improve the society that shaped you. Many Nigerians, at home and abroad, already do this in remarkable ways. They build schools, fund scholarships, support families, and invest in communities. But, giving back should be an act of choice, not coercion. It should flow from a sense of solidarity, not from a narrative of indebtedness that misrepresents reality.

    Some may argue that Indian diaspora communities are giving back to the homeland, so why can’t Nigerians do same?  The comparison is seductive; but it is built on a false equivalence. The idea that Nigerians aren’t giving back, having been given the ladder by their country to climb to the top of their careers ignores the reality that citizens and their families financed their own survival within a system that often failed them through exorbitant tuition fees, refundable caution fees that were never refunded, taxes, private spendings on handouts, and personal sacrifices in the face of strikes, poor infrastructure, and limited opportunities. What is described as a “ladder” was, for many,  fragile katako scaffolds they climbed at great personal cost. To recast that struggle as a debt owed to the state is to confuse duty with benevolence and to overlook the constitutional obligation of government to provide education and welfare as a matter of right, not charity.

    As for India, its diaspora’s contributions are not driven by guilt but by confidence in institutions, in economic opportunity, and in a country that increasingly creates pathways for meaningful engagement. People give back where systems work, where efforts are not swallowed by inefficiency or corruption, and where impact is visible. If Nigeria seeks a similar commitment, it must first build a country that earns it. Obligation cannot be demanded where trust has not been established; it must be cultivated through governance that respects, supports, and empowers its citizens. By the way, what is the Nigerian Diaspora’s emittance, if not giving back to families?

     

    The danger of this narrative is that it lets the state off the hook.

    If citizens are constantly reminded of what they owe Nigeria, we risk forgetting what Nigeria owes its citizens. We risk normalising a situation where the government’s failure is obscured by appeals to patriotism. We risk creating a culture where the bar is set so low that minimal compliance with constitutional duties is celebrated as generosity. The Constitution is clear about the obligations of the state. It speaks of security and welfare as the primary purpose of government. It envisions a society where citizens have access to education, healthcare, and opportunities for meaningful work. It calls for the eradication of corruption and the abuse of power.

    These are not optional ideals. They are basic commitments.

    When the state fails to meet them, the burden shifts to citizens, who are then told to “give back” to compensate for systemic deficiencies. Doctors are asked to remain in underfunded hospitals out of patriotism. Teachers are urged to accept poor conditions in the name of nation-building. Professionals abroad are told they owe a debt that must be repaid by returning home, regardless of the conditions they left behind. This is not a sustainable model of development. It is an attempt at robbing Peter to pay Paul.

    No country thrives by guilt-tripping its citizens. It thrives by creating conditions in which citizens can flourish and, in turn, choose to contribute. The question, then, is not whether Nigerians should give back. The question is whether Nigeria has created an environment that makes giving back meaningful, effective, and sustainable. Does the system support innovation? Does it reward merit? Does it protect those who invest their skills and resources in the country? Does it ensure that contributions are not lost to corruption or inefficiency?

    Until these questions are answered honestly, the call to “give back” will ring hollow for many.

    We must also recognise that citizenship is not a one-way street. It is a relationship of mutual obligation. Citizens owe duties to the state: to obey the law, to pay taxes, to participate in civic life. But the state owes duties to citizens that are far more profound: to protect, to provide, and to create an enabling environment for human dignity and development. When that balance is disrupted, the language of obligation must be carefully examined. To the Nigerian doctor who trained in a public university and now practices abroad, your success is not a debt to be repaid. It is a testament to your perseverance within a flawed system. If you choose to give back, it is an act of generosity, not repayment. To the young graduate struggling to find footing in an unforgiving economy, you are not ungrateful for expecting more from your country. You are asserting your rights. And to the Nigerian state, the message is simple: fulfill your promises. Honour the Constitution. Build the country that works.

    The most powerful way to inspire citizens to give back is not to remind them of what they owe, but to demonstrate, consistently and convincingly, what their country owes them; and is willing to deliver. The claim that Nigeria gave you everything, and therefore you owe it everything, will remain not just incorrect, but unjust.

  • The Illusion of Control

    The Illusion of Control

    -By Abdul Mahmud

    There is a way Nigerians talk about insecurity. They lower their voices, to the point of whispering. They change the subject, no sooner fear kicks in. They say it will pass. They insist that Abuja is safe because it must be safe. A capital city cannot fall. The federal government cannot lose control of its own seat of power. These are comforting assumptions. They are also dangerous. In recent weeks, I have teased friends about the steady tightening of the noose around the Federal Capital Territory. Not because it is amusing. It is not. But because sometimes humour is the only way to force attention to what we would rather not confront. Terrorist groups now operate across swathes of territory in Niger, Kogi, and Kwara States. These are not distant borderlands. They sit in the country’s north-central corridor. They form the outer ring around Abuja. This is not speculation, but it appears so. Communities have been overrun. Villages have emptied. Highways have become corridors of fear. Kidnapping has turned into an industry. In some places, armed groups collect levies. They decide who farms and who does not. They dictate movement. They impose their will. That is not mere criminality. It is territorial control. When non-state actors exercise sustained authority over territory, it must be called what it is. It is a direct challenge to the state. It is an assertion that the monopoly of violence has shifted. It is an invitation to chaos.

    Abuja is not just another city. It is not an illusion, it is a lived city with life and blood. It is the symbolic and administrative heart of the federation. It houses the presidency, the National Assembly, the Supreme Court, the diplomatic corps, and the command structure of the armed forces. If Abuja is threatened by terrorist groups, the message travels far beyond its borders. It signals weakness at the core. Some of these groups openly speak of the caliphate. They speak of power and destiny. They see the capital as a prize. Whether they have the capacity to seize it is another matter. The danger lies in their intent and in the steady erosion of the state’s aura of control, which is increasingly turning into an illusion. A state survives not only on weapons and manpower but on perception. Once citizens begin to believe that the government cannot protect its capital, fear multiplies. Investors withdraw. Diplomats reassess. Citizens retreat into self-help and private security.

    The problem is not only the gun. It is the slow corrosion of confidence.

    It is troubling that those entrusted with securing the capital appear to treat these developments as routine. There is a tendency to downplay. To reassure without action. To blame political opponents for raising alarm. That instinct is fatal. History teaches that capitals fall not only because of superior firepower but because leaders misread warning signs. Look at other countries that once believed their capitals were insulated. In Afghanistan, Kabul fell with shocking speed in 2021 when the Taliban advanced across provinces and the state’s will collapsed. In Iraq, Mosul fell in 2014 when security forces melted away in the face of insurgents’ march. Even the Sahel states of Mali and Burkina Faso have retreated into the shells of their national capitals while terrorists tighten the noose around them. In all of the cases above, the crisis did not begin in the capital. It began in neglected peripheries. It grew in ignored villages. By the time it reached the centre, the damage had already been done.

    Nigeria is not Afghanistan, Iraq, Mali or Burkina Faso. Nigeria’s circumstances differ. The military is larger. The country is more diverse. But the lesson is simple. A state that allows large territories to slip from effective control invites a dicey test at its core.

    There is another layer to this crisis. While insecurity spreads, the ruling party appears consumed with narrowing the political space. There is a belief that if the opposition is weakened, if dissent is muffled, if electoral competition is reduced, stability will follow. That belief is mistaken. A healthy democracy is not a luxury in times of insecurity. It is a necessity. Open political competition allows grievances to be expressed through ballots rather than bullets. It allows criticism to expose weaknesses before enemies exploit them. It creates channels for accountability and correction. When a ruling party behaves as if total dominance is the same as total security, it confuses control with legitimacy. Legitimacy is earned through popular participation in democratic governance. It is sustained by fairness and inclusion. It is not manufactured by closing space. In fact, narrowing the democratic space can deepen insecurity, make marginalised groups feel unheard and citizens to lose faith in institutions while turning inward. When politics becomes winner takes all, governance becomes reactive rather than strategic. Energy that should be directed at reforming the security architecture is spent on silencing opponents. This convergence of insecurity and political indiscipline is dangerous. It suggests a state distracted from its primary duty. The first duty of any state is protection. Protection of lives. Protection of territory. Protection of institutions. Everything else is secondary. If terrorist groups continue to entrench themselves in communities surrounding the capital, several outcomes are possible.

    The first is the normalisation of fear. Abuja could become a city under siege in all but name, ringed by instability. Movement would be restricted. Military checkpoints would multiply. Civil liberties would shrink in the name of safety.

    The second is economic decline. Investors do not commit long term capital to countries whose capitals appear vulnerable. Insurance costs rise. Infrastructure projects stall. Jobs disappear. A struggling economy then feeds further unrest.

    The third is regional contagion. Nigeria is the largest economy and most populous country in Africa. Instability at its core would reverberate across West Africa. Extremist networks thrive on porous borders and weak states. A destabilised Nigeria would embolden similar actors elsewhere.

    The fourth is the erosion of national unity. As fear grows, citizens retreat into ethnic and religious identities. Trust in the federal project weakens. Calls for self defence groups intensify. Fragmentation becomes thinkable.

    These are not predictions. They are warnings. They are trajectories that can be altered if there is urgency and honesty. What then is required? First, a candid acknowledgement of the scale of the threat. No more comforting half truths. Second, a comprehensive security overhaul that integrates intelligence, community engagement and sustained presence in vulnerable areas. Deploying soldiers to communities that have been attacked is not enough. Developing a lasting and strategic national security is essential. Third, political maturity. The ruling party must understand that a strong opposition does not weaken the state. It strengthens it because it compels the government to justify its choices, defend its policies, and constantly measure its actions against credible alternatives. Where opposition parties are viable, organised, and free to operate, they function as early warning systems. They amplify local grievances before they metastasise into rebellion. They interrogate security lapses before they become national disasters. They provide citizens with lawful channels through which anger, frustration and disappointment can be expressed. In this sense, opposition is not sabotage. It is ventilation. When political space is open, discontent circulates within institutions. When it is closed, pressure builds outside them. A state that suffocates dissent often discovers too late that it has also suffocated its own capacity for self-correction.

    Democracy, therefore, is not an inconvenience to be managed through procedural compliance while power is consolidated elsewhere. It is the live wire of restraint and accountability. Extremism thrives where citizens conclude that ballots change nothing and that public institutions merely ratify predetermined outcomes. In such environments, radical actors present themselves as the only authentic challengers of a closed system. By contrast, a competitive democratic order deprives extremists of oxygen. It demonstrates that change is possible without violence and that authority can be contested without bloodshed. If the ruling party narrows the opposition space in pursuit of dominance, it may win temporary tactical advantage, but it risks strategic decay. The weakening of pluralism erodes legitimacy, and legitimacy is the moral force that sustains the state when coercion alone cannot.

    A nation state that appears incapable of securing itself sends signals to its enemies and to its citizens. To its enemies, it signals opportunity. To its citizens, it signals abandonment. Both signals are dangerous. Nigeria stands at a crossroads. The path of denial leads to deeper crisis. The path of reform demands courage. It demands that those in power look beyond electoral calculations and focus on survival of the republic. Abuja must not become the symbol of state fragility. It must remain what it was meant to be. A centre that reflects unity, stability and hope. That outcome is still possible. But only if we act before the circle tightens further.

  • In Praise of the Ratels

    In Praise of the Ratels

    -By Abdul Mahmud

    The Nigerian virtual space was recently been filled with striking images. Young persons and the old, teenagers in-between. Men and women who turned up with brooms, buckets, hoes, machetes, brushes, paint, and resolve in pursuit of social good. Streets were swept. Drainages cleared. Dilapidated school walls were repainted. Public spaces long abandoned to neglect were touched again by human care. The question many asked was simple. Who are these people?

    They are the Ratels.

    They are followers of the social media activist and celebrity, Martins Vincent Otse, widely known as Very Dark Man. But to describe them merely as followers would be to miss the point. What we are witnessing is not fandom. It is civic action. It is collective labour. It is shared responsibility returning to the public square. The Ratels have offered Nigerians something rare in these times. An example. Not a sermon. Not a press statement. Not a state policy paper. An example in motion. Their work speaks in the language of action. Clean streets. Schools reclaimed from neglect. Reclaimed public spaces. This is the grammar of democratic citizenship made visible.

    Otse and the Ratels deserve to be praised for this intervention. Not because they discovered something new, but because they reminded us of something old and hallowed that we allowed to fade into oblivion. The ethics of communal labour of love. The spirit of mutual aid. The understanding that a country is sustained not only by those who govern it but by the citizens. Long before the modern Nigerian-state came into existence, empires, kingdoms and chiefdoms organised life around collective responsibility. Communities built together. They farmed together. They repaired roads together. They cleaned the shared villages’ squares together. This was not charity. It was belonging. To live in a community was to owe it labour, time, tenderness, love and care.

    These practices were known by many names across the continent. They varied by language and culture, but they shared a single moral core. In the Etsako provenance of this writer, it was called and it is still called Mha’kugbe. Let’s join up together, literally. No one was left alone with a burden that belonged to all. When a roof collapsed, neighbours gathered. When a path was overgrown, the village cleared it. When shrines decayed, hands appeared without invitation. This was democracy before the ballot box arrived. Not democracy as an abstract ideal, but democracy as participation. Citizenship was not a document. It was conduct. It was performance.

    The Ratels have unconsciously returned us to this past. Not as nostalgia, but as practice. They have shown that modern citizenship does not require waiting for government permission. It requires initiatives. It requires a sense of ownership over shared spaces. It requires the courage to act without applause.

    Their actions also echo another powerful historical tradition. Mutual aid societies.

    Across Africa, the Caribbean, and working class communities worldwide, mutual aid societies sustained life long before welfare states emerged. They organised burial funds. They supported widows. They helped the sick. They pooled resources to solve common problems. They did this quietly, efficiently, and with dignity. These societies were not built on ideology. They were built on need and solidarity. They understood something essential. Survival is collective. Dignity is shared. The Ratels stand firmly in this historical lineage. Their work is unpaid. Their labour is voluntary. Their reward is not money, but meaning. In a society where public discourse often celebrates what many now rightly describes as “wealth without work” and influence without service, this matters deeply. What they have done is to reframe activism. Too often activism is reduced to outrage alone. Outrage has its place. Anger can expose injustice. But outrage without repair leaves spaces broken. The Ratels have chosen repair. They have chosen to clean, paint, and rebuild.

    This choice carries democratic significance. Democracy is not sustained by elections alone. It is sustained by habits. Habits of care. Habits of responsibility. Habits of showing up. When citizens clean streets together, they learn cooperation. When they repair schools together, they affirm the value of education. When they reclaim public spaces, they reject abandonment as a destiny. These are civic lessons no classroom can teach as effectively. There is a moral clarity in sweeping the streets. Humility in painting a classroom wall. These acts restore dignity not only to spaces but to those who perform them. The public space matters because people matter. The Ratels have also challenged the culture of spectatorship. Social media often turns citizens into observers of decay. We film potholes. We record collapsing buildings. We circulate evidence of failure. The Ratels have moved from documentation to intervention. They have crossed the Rubicon between seeing and doing, into quarters mobilised by verbs and new shifts. These shifts matter.  No country can be rebuilt by commentary alone. It requires hands. It requires sweat. It requires citizens willing to act without waiting for the perfect conditions. There is also something quietly radical about their inclusiveness. The images show no hierarchy. Old and young work side by side. Men and women share tasks. There is no division of labour based on status. Everyone contributes what they can. This is equality practiced, not proclaimed.

    The Ratels offer hope without slogans in the time of cynicism. In the time of fragmentation, they remind us that democracy is a lived experience. It lives in how we treat shared spaces. It lives in whether we see public schools as ours or as nobody’s. It lives in whether we act when we see decay or merely complain. In the time of noise, they stand at the intersection of communal tradition and modern civic activism. They show that the past is not dead. It waits to be reactivated. They show that citizenship can be joyful. That service can be communal. That democracy can be practiced with brooms and paint, not only with speeches. They have work quietly. They practice unity of purpose publicly. This is why they deserve praise. Not excessive praise. Not romanticisation. But recognition.

    In praising Otse and the Ratels, one must be clear. This is not about personality worship. It is about civic inspiration. Leadership in this sense is not command. It is example. Otse has provided the spark. The Ratels have become the fire. Their work should challenge governments, but it should also challenge other citizens. The state must provide infrastructure and services. That obligation does not disappear. But citizenship does not end where government responsibility begins. Both can coexist. Both must. Salute to the Ratels. Salute to shared action in pursuit of the common social good. Salute to the Very Dark Man whose surname, Otse, carries the meaning of beauty. May that meaning find full expression in his life and labour; and may the grace of his works endure in its purest form, untouched by distortion, undimmed by time, and revealed in its natural brilliance.

    In the hands of the Ratels, the past has returned, not as memory, but as a living practice.

  • Silence Finally Learns to Speak

    Silence Finally Learns to Speak

    -By Abdul Mahmud

    There is a special kind of silence that follows power everywhere it goes. It is not the gentle quiet of the monastery or the eerie quiet of mourning. It is the awkward, accusatory silence of a phone that once overheated from devotion and now lies cool, innocent, and suddenly uninterested. Such is the fate of the phone of Yusuf Buhari, son of the one-time military ruler and former President, who recently lamented that ever since they vacated the Presidential Villa, his phone has fallen into an eloquent silence. “After Goodluck Jonathan made that call to my dad to congratulate him on his victory as Nigeria’s next president, I used to receive up to 2,000 calls a day from different people. The calls would start coming in as early as 4 a.m. – from old classmates, acquaintances, extended family members, former maids, and servants who had once worked for the Buhari family at some point. There were also callers with bogus, untraceable explanations, but my assistant would simply come up with polite excuses to end those conversations quickly! But the moment my dad left power and handed the baton to His Excellency Bola Tinubu, the calls dropped dramatically to about 100 a day. After my dad was buried, they reduced even further to around 20 daily – usually just from siblings and business associates. The phones no longer ring. Nobody truly cares”.

    Yusuf Buhari’s lament is therefore not merely a personal reflection, it is indeed a public service announcement about the aura of power in Nigeria.

    Once upon a presidency, the phone rang like a Pentecostal bell on Sunday morning. Calls came in torrents. Old classmates rediscovered brotherhood. Distant cousins suddenly remembered shared ancestors. Former house helps developed emotional attachments that demanded urgent reconnection. Even strangers arrived armed with stories so creative they deserved the Nigerian Prize for Literature. Everyone wanted to talk. Everyone needed a moment. Everyone was important. The phone became the national shrine. Then came the unthinkable tragedy. Power packed its bags. The baton of power was handed over. Democracy did its modest little dance like Jimmy Bo Horne’s dance across the floor. And something even more devastating occurred. The phone began to rest. From two thousand calls to one hundred. From one hundred to twenty. From the roar of affection to the whisper of obligation. From the expressive euphoria of power to the familiarity of family group chats. This is not just decline. This is the austerity of pretend affection in the absence of power.

    Let us pause and admire the honesty of Yusuf Buhari. The phones no longer ring. Nobody truly cares. It is a brave thing to say out loud what the entire country already knows but pretends not to know. In Nigeria, love is renewable only when it is connected to power. Affection is strongest where one is close to the power. Once power goes, the allure of friendship wanes.

    This discovery is not unique to Nigeria. In the United States of America, it was made with cheese. Lyndon B. Johnson, once the most powerful man on earth, reportedly complained that after leaving the White House, senators who once hovered like loyal furniture suddenly developed hearing problems. The phone that rang relentlessly during legislative battles and war briefings became suspiciously quiet. Johnson, a man who could bend Congress with a stare and a threat, learned the old lesson in a new accent. Arms twist only when there is something left to extract. Power had been the caller, not friendship. Jimmy Carter also encountered the same silence, though he dressed it in Southern politeness. After leaving the White House, he once noted how Washington’s warmth cooled, how invitations thinned, and how the phone lost its urgency. Carter, a man who traded power for principle and later built houses with his own hands, learned that integrity is admirable but not bankable. Washington respects power more than character. When the office disappeared, so did the interest. The calls, it turned out, had been for the presidency, not the person. The meaning that Yusuf Buhari’s lament provides is that relevance only obeys the law of power. If you have power, or close to power, the laws of things will bend over to your wishes. Relevance in public life has very little to do with ideas, values, or service. It has everything to do with power. You call he who has power that can move the mountain for you. Who can whisper your name into the right ears at the right time. When that ability expires, so does the crowd.

    Power in Nigeria is a balm. It heals old grudges. It restores forgotten relationships. It multiplies cousins like loaves of bread. It turns silence into urgency. When you have it, people call at four in the morning to check on your spiritual wellbeing. When you lose it, they discover the importance of respecting your privacy. The pattern is so consistent. The same society that will not answer calls from the powerless will accuse them of being inaccessible. The same people who once dialed endlessly will later say they did not want to disturb you in your grief. Courtesy suddenly appears when usefulness disappears.

    But let us be fair. This is not cruelty. It is efficiency. Why waste airtime on someone who cannot move a file, sign a paper, influence a contract, or secure a favour. Friendship must also eat. Concern must have logistics. Sympathy needs a budget. The phone, after all, is not just a device. It is a moral instrument. It measures value in real time. It rings for the important and sleeps for the irrelevant. It is democratic only in theory. In practice, it obeys hierarchy. What makes this moment cheesy is the shock that accompanies the discovery. As if the silence is a betrayal rather than a curriculum. As if the phones were ringing out of love rather than calculation. As if two thousand daily calls were ever sustainable without the fuel of power. This is the Nigerian lesson that no civics class teaches. Power is the loudest ringtone. Without it, even your obituary struggles for attention. And yet, there is something profoundly instructive in this quiet. For the first time, the silence is honest. The remaining calls are few, but they are real. Siblings call because blood still remembers. Business associates call because interests endure. Everyone else has returned to their natural habitat, which is waiting for the next powerful number to save.

    In this silence, truth clears its throat. It tells us that many of our public relationships are seasonal. They follow office terms, not human bonds. They are loyal to chairs, not people. They are attached to corridors, not conscience. The lie which underlines Yusuf’s lament is that care is proven by ringing phones. But care has always been something else. Care is presence when there is nothing to gain. Care is the call that does not need to be returned. Care is the visit that cannot be monetised. By that standard, the phones were probably not ringing with care even at their loudest. So, maybe this is not a fall from grace. Maybe it is a graduation. The fact which stays stark is that silence strips away the noise and leaves behind a smaller, sturdier circle. It replaces the choruses of opportunists with a handful of humans. It enthrones reality.

    If those who inhabit the high chambers of power would cure themselves of this peculiar affliction, they must first reconcile with the enduring truth: it is when power recedes that solitude reveals its sharpest edge. They must learn to dwell within the natural order of things, where silence, long suppressed, at last finds its voice. They must accept that the kingdom of power admits no rival sovereign; there are never two kings upon its throne. Until that wisdom is embraced, every departure from office will be accompanied by the same bewildered lament, uttered only in differing accents.

    The phones no longer ring.

    They will never ring for the reason that Yusuf knows: “Soja go” with old friends; and Soja arrives with new friends who in turn arrive with new ring tones.

  • Enugu APC Registration Exercise: Acceptance or Political Optics?

    Enugu APC Registration Exercise: Acceptance or Political Optics?

    By Sebastine Chukwuebuka Okafor, Ph.D.

    When Governor Peter Ndubuisi Mbah joined the All Progressives Congress (APC) in 2025, it was received with open arms and admiration by many across the country who were already in APC. The national leadership, through their body language, showed full joy as they had made a significant move into the South-East den of the PDP by capturing one of the best leaders in the region. Many saw this as a political coup, a rare opportunity to win over a critical part of the South-East, long considered a stronghold of the PDP.

    It was not long before the party started its membership registration and revalidation exercise, which many thought would be a smooth process. The national leadership of APC planned for the exercise to start on December 1 and end by January 30, but Enugu began its own exercise on January 9.

    During the flag-off ceremony of the exercise, which was held at Owo, the political ward of the governor, he stated that the party was targeting about 2 million members within the next three weeks. This target represented over 90 percent of the entire registered voters’ population in Enugu State, according to INEC’s 2023 data of 2,112,793. The number seemed ambitious but possible if the exercise was conducted with proper planning and engagement with local communities.

    Immediately after the start of the exercise, which required the National Identity Number as well as the Voter Identification Number of each member, registrants began experiencing difficulties. What was expected to be smooth and simple started giving grassroots party leaders concern. Udi Local Government was initially at the top in registration numbers, but over time, other local governments began catching up. Leaders across Enugu worked hard to engage people, mobilizing resources to assist with the registration exercise. They used funds for radio announcements, public campaigns, and outreach programs to ensure people understood the process.

    Some council chairmen were accused of forcing civil servants to join APC, while others were reported to be using fake empowerment programs to manipulate locals into registering. These accusations created tension in some areas, with members of the public questioning the integrity of the exercise. Despite these challenges, the effort to mobilize support continued.

    What became clear was that Enugu did not initially like or accept APC. Even on radio programs, people accused Governor Mbah of backsliding from being the best-performing governor to one of the worst since joining APC. Those who voiced such opinions often admitted it was just rhetoric, yet the perception influenced many. To some, anything about APC seemed negative, while PDP remained the only party people could trust.

    Questions arose across the state about the low turnout. The exercise did not involve complex requirements, yet many people did not participate. Governor Mbah’s local government, despite being his home area, was among the lowest in registration until just a few days before the initial deadline. The National Working Committee of APC later extended the registration exercise until February 8 to give more people time to join.

    The reasons for low registration in Enugu were not far-fetched. Much of it was connected to those promoting APC. When APC started in 2013, it was demonized and labeled by PDP leaders as a party linked to Boko Haram. Former PDP leaders now advocating for APC had previously presented it as a northern Islamization agenda aimed at dominating the South and subjugating the Igbo people. In Enugu, they mocked Rochas Okorocha by calling him ‘Okoro Awusa’, a name meant to ridicule him. PDP leaders spent more resources demonizing APC than campaigning for their candidates and party.

    This campaign of misinformation influenced many in Enugu to ignore the good works of President Buhari in the state. Even when Buhari commissioned the world-class Postgraduate Centre of Excellence at the University of Nigeria, Enugu Campus, in 2019, many dismissed it as part of an Islamic agenda. Such perceptions created distrust in APC and slowed the pace of membership registration.

    It became almost laughable that some political leaders who spent lots of resources to demarket APC are now accusing innocent council chairmen, who were either in school, learning a trade, or abroad then, of being lazy or not serious about the exercise. Others claimed the low performance of local leaders caused people not to join. These accusations ignored the real problem: the psychological and political barriers created by years of misinformation. This situation calls for a massive reorientation of the people to understand that APC’s policies and activities were not harmful but rather beneficial to the state, unlike as it was propagated.

    Former PDP leaders now supporting APC have a critical role to play. They need to unite and use the extended period to educate the locals. Grassroots support is essential, as without it, political victories will not be easy to achieve as anticipated. It is very important for all to know that more effort is needed in rebuilding trust and convincing people that the party could work for them; until all these are done, even reaching half the target of 2 million members would be a herculean task, because manipulation or coercion alone cannot solve the problem.

    What is happening in Enugu APC, Enugu State, teaches a clear lesson about politics in Nigeria, because people’s opinions are shaped not just by the actions of leaders but also by the narratives they are exposed to over time. In Enugu, years of PDP propaganda against APC created a climate of suspicion, and to overcome that, it requires strategic communication, patience, and consistent engagement.

  • Shettima’s Passive Presence in Discussions About His Own Political Future

    Shettima’s Passive Presence in Discussions About His Own Political Future

    -By Abdul Mahmud

    Fresh political whispers drifting through news salons and media columns suggest that President Bola Ahmed Tinubu is quietly weighing alternative running mates ahead of the 2027 presidential election. The names most frequently mentioned are not obscure. They are prominent northern Christian figures with national visibility and symbolic weight.

    Former Speaker of the House of Representatives, Yakubu Dogara; Defence Minister, General Christopher Musa. Plateau State Governor, Caleb Mutfwang. And the Catholic Bishop of Sokoto, Matthew Hassan Kukah. The whispers share a common thread. They frame the alleged weighing of alternatives as part of a larger political calculation around religious and regional balance after the controversial Muslim-Muslim ticket of 2023. They also point to an inner circle that appears to be thinking ahead, testing options, and perhaps sending signals without formally committing to any course of action.

    The first sign came when campaign posters bearing President Tinubu’s image began appearing across the streets of Abuja, conspicuously without any trace of Shettima. Amid the whispers stands Vice President Kashim Shettima, elected on the same ticket as Tinubu, serving a mandate that runs concurrently with the President’s, and who, by constitutional logic and political convention, ought to be presumed the natural running mate in 2027 unless compelling reasons suggest otherwise.

    VP Kashim Shettima

    What makes the current moment intriguing is not simply that names are being mentioned. Politics thrives on rumours after all. What shocks observers of the polity is the manner in which the Vice President appears reduced to a passive presence in discussions about his own political future. At one moment, he is treated as an afterthought; and at another moment, as a loyal functionary dispatched on errands while others debate whether he remains relevant to the project he helped midwife. The image calls to mind Oblomov in Ivan Goncharov’s novel, Oblomov. A character defined by inertia and resignation. A man whose life unfolds around him while he lies still, allowing others to decide what becomes of his estate, his relationships, and his destiny. When Shettima is not rendered invisible in elite conversations, he is portrayed as a man running presidential errands but without real agency. Flying out to represent the President. Receiving delegations. Offering dutiful loyalty, while the central question of his political fate hangs unresolved, sometimes discussed in rooms he has just exited and sometimes in rooms he may never enter.

    The irony is sharp. Shettima is not a novice. He is a former governor, and a seasoned party man. He was not selected in 2023 as a brooch fastened to presidential clothing or an ornamental addition. He was chosen despite strong objections from many quarters, including religious leaders and civil society voices who warned against the dangers of the same-faith ticket in a deeply plural country. Those warnings did not dissipate after the election. They lingered. They hardened into criticisms that have followed the administration. International partners, including voices from the United States, have made careful but pointed remarks about inclusion and representation. At home, the perception that Christian constituencies, especially in the North, felt alienated continued to shadow the government. The renewed circulation of alternative running mates must be read against this background. It signals an attempt to correct a political imbalance that many believe cost the ruling party moral capital. By floating respected northern Christian figures, Tinubu’s presidency appears eager to reassure sceptical audiences that lessons have been learned and that the future will look different. Still, the so-called attempt at weighing alternatives raises serious questions about political ethics and loyalty. What does it say about the stability of presidential and vice presidential partnerships when a sitting vice president is treated as expendable barely midway into the first term in office? What message does it send to party loyalists who defended the 2023 ticket at great personal cost? And what precedent does it set for the future?

    The Constitution grants the President wide latitude in selecting a running mate. That power is not in dispute. Political wisdom, however, demands more than constitutional permissibility. It requires sensitivity to process, respect for incumbents, and an understanding of how power is perceived as much as how it is exercised. There is also a deeper institutional issue at play. The office of the Vice President in Nigeria has long suffered from ambiguity. Its occupant is either overly powerful, a spare tyre that is painfully useless, or surplus to requirements. Rarely is there a stable middle ground defined by clear responsibilities and mutual respect.

    From Obasanjo’s frosty relationship with Atiku Abubakar to Buhari’s cautious sidelining of Professor Osinbajo, history offers little comfort. Shettima’s predicament fits neatly into this pattern. He is visible but constrained. Present but peripheral. Trusted enough to represent the President abroad, but seemingly not trusted enough to be shielded from speculation about his replacement. The mention of figures like Dogara, Mutfwang, Musa, and Kukah adds further layers to the conversation. Dogara brings legislative gravitas and a record of defying party lines on principle. Mutfwang represents a Christian minority state scarred by violence and neglect. Musa embodies military professionalism at a time of persistent insecurity. Kukah symbolises a strain of moral authority whose polish has worn thin, weakened by his muddled interventions on claims of Christian genocide in Nigeria. Each name appeals to a different constituency. Each underscores what the current ticket lacks in the eyes of critics.

    What remains missing is an honest conversation about governance performance. Electoral arithmetic alone cannot substitute for accountability. If the administration believes that changing the face of the ticket will cure deeper discontent, it risks mistaking symptoms for causes. Nigerians are burdened by inflation, insecurity, and a sense of economic drift. No vice presidential reshuffle can obscure these realities. For Shettima himself, the moment demands clarity and resolve. Silence can be dignified, but prolonged silence in the face of open speculation risks being read as acquiescence. Political survival in Nigeria rarely rewards quiet endurance and favours strategic assertion. More’s the pity for a Vice President who finds his future debated as an abstraction rather than being confronted as a political fact. More’s the pity for a power order that normalises such uncertainty at the heart of presidential power. And more’s the pity for a country whose politics revolves around personalities and permutations rather than the hard work of governance.

    Whether these discussions are trial balloons or serious plans, they reveal an administration already looking beyond its present mandate. That alone should give pause. Power is most effective when it is anchored in purpose, not perpetually distracted by succession. But do Tinubu and his goons care?

  • Northern Comfort, Southern Complacency: A Tale of Two Elites’ Failures

    Northern Comfort, Southern Complacency: A Tale of Two Elites’ Failures

    -By Abdul Mahmud

    Dr. Bashir Kurfi, a former scholar in Public Administration at the Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria and a man who refuses to bow to orthodoxy, recently observed that the southern elites should protest against the northern elites for bearing the cost of their irresponsibility.

    It is a bold assertion, persuasive precisely because it draws strength from curated memory. For decades, sections of the northern elite have honed the politics of displacement, converting structural failure into a narrative of victimhood and external sabotage. Responsibility is endlessly declaimed or sometimes recast as the fault of history, colonial inheritance, regional imbalance, or the imagined hostility of others. This cultivated habit of excuse-making has become a political craft in itself, a means of masking failure while living in denial. Here, accountability is not merely avoided; it is rendered illegitimate, portrayed as an unfair demand imposed by adversaries rather than a civic obligation owed to the governed. Yet, any temptation to contrast this with the so-called “morally superior southern elites” collapses under closer scrutiny. Self-congratulation has long displaced self-scrutiny, as loud claims of progress, modernity, and enlightenment obscure deeply rooted habits of exclusion, corruption, and moral indifference.

    The language of merit and advancement advanced by both geographical sections of the national elite and their supporters often serves as a convenient alibi, allowing elite capture to proceed under the banner of regional exceptionalism. If the northern elite evade responsibility through grievance, the southern elite evade it through triumphalism. Between the two, the citizen is left with no moral refuge, only competing myths that justify failure while insulating power from consequences.

    Northern elites are celebrated for grandiloquent pronouncements on unity, development, and morality. They promise transformation but deliver stagnation. They speak of education while the region remains a desert of literacy, where enrollment figures mask a mass of uneducated youth and schools crumble under neglect. They preach an agricultural renaissance while malnutrition festers, rural communities are abandoned, and irrigation projects lie in rusting silence. They talk of industrialisation while local economies remain dependent on government largesse from Abuja. Corruption becomes not a scandal but a tradition, a rite of passage into power. Public infrastructure in the north tells the story of neglect more eloquently than speeches. Roads disintegrate, electricity remains a luxury, hospitals are monuments to absence, and clean water flows only in theory. Governors appear with fanfare to inaugurate projects that vanish as soon as cameras leave. Security is presented as a moral and cultural issue, yet decades of failed policing and recurring insurgency are shrugged off as misfortunes. Education, health, infrastructure, and security are left to chance while elites accumulate wealth, power, and prestige. Their failures are exported in blame, and in appeals to history, ethnicity, or religion. Yet, let us not pretend that the southern elite is a repository of competence or integrity. Southern elites enjoy their imaginary moral superiority while indulging in the same incompetence. The South accumulates debts with exuberance, borrows with abandon, and applauds itself for infrastructural projects that collapse within a few years. Governors and legislators steal openly, businesses thrive on political patronage, and the social contract is routinely violated. Health care is underfunded, education is increasingly privatised for those who can pay, and urban centers remain unplanned jungles where life is bestial, brutish and short.

    The southern elites’ failures are conspicuous in their feeble responses to crises. Floods destroy communities where emergency plans are paper buffers. Transport collapses under the weight of bad planning. Electricity is scarce, water is scarce, governance is scarce. They lecture, they condemn, they protest, but poor governance continues. Their moral outrage is selective, their complaints episodic. Corruption in Lagos, Port Harcourt, Ibadan, and other southern capitals mirrors the northern patronage networks in structure if not in style. The southern elite believes it is immune, superior, and innovative, but the truth reveals only adaptation of the same vices to local circumstances. One might ask whether Kurfi’s call has merit if the southern elite cannot even claim competence. Protesting northern failures without confronting southern failures is hypocrisy masquerading as moral indignation. Nigeria is littered with examples of southern elites failing spectacularly. Lagos State owes billions in debts. Rivers State is writhing from elites’ fights over its resources. Delta and Edo States oscillate between grandiose declarations of development and the steady reality of urban chaos. The elites’ ability to amass wealth contrasts sharply with their failure to build enduring legacies.

    Northern elites fail by neglect, southern elites fail by indulgence. The north deflects blame to the past and to others, the south revels in self-flagellation while repeating the same patterns. Both elites perpetuate poverty, insecurity, and underdevelopment. Both exploit ethnicity, religion, and regional sentiment to distract citizens from their failures. Citizens are left to navigate collapsed schools, inadequate hospitals, and non-functional roads while elites debate loudly in private clubs, social media platforms, and political conventions. Education provides a stark illustration. Northern elites pride themselves on historical institutions such as Ahmadu Bello University, Bayero University, and others, yet their policies yield mass illiteracy in primary and secondary schools. Southern elites boast universities and polytechnics, yet governance in the region often favours wealth, influence, and connections over merit. Both regions produce graduates who can recite theory but struggle with application, innovation, or problem-solving. Health care, too, reflects the dual failure. Northern hospitals lack staff, equipment, and medication, producing unnecessary deaths. Aishatu Umar died after a pair of scissors was allegedly left inside her abdomen during a surgical procedure at the Urology Centre in Kano state. Southern hospitals are overcrowded, underfunded, and often prohibitively expensive. Immunisation campaigns succeed sporadically, emergency response is haphazard, often resulting in deaths. Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie recently accused a hospital of negligence over the death of her 21-month-old son.

    Kurfi’s call for southern protest is tempting, dramatic, and rhetorically satisfying, but it falters under scrutiny. It assumes a competence and moral authority that southern elites cannot claim. The northern elites’ failures are egregious, systemic, and destructive, yet the southern elites mirrors the same structural indifference in different guise.

    To protest without introspection is to miss the point. To lament northern irresponsibility while ignoring southern complicity is moral posturing. If Kurfi insists, let the protest begin with both northern and southern elites simultaneously. Let both target neglect, incompetence, corruption, and the chronic failure to build their regions rather than personalities. Let both demand accountability, competence, and foresight. Let them challenge excuses, deflection, and the endless parade of promises that never materialise. Only then does Kurfi’s assertion escape the narrow confines of regional moralism and enter the territory of genuine public scholarship.

    Nigeria suffers not because one region fails, but because all elites fail differently, predictably, and consistently. Northern elites fail with grand narratives of history and victimhood, southern elites fail with self-flagellating and congratulatory spectacles of competence and progress. Citizens pay the costs. Kurfi’s assertion excites, provokes, and invites reflection, yet it should also invite humility. Protest, if it is to mean anything, must begin at home, in every elite enclave, and in every hollow institution across this divided country.

    Nigeria deserves elites who deliver rather than lecture, build rather than blame, and govern rather than perform theatrics. Until that happens, the theatre of irresponsibility continues, with citizens as perpetual spectators.

  • 2026 and the Architecture of Power: Understanding The Tinubu Presidency

    2026 and the Architecture of Power: Understanding The Tinubu Presidency

    -By Abdul Mahmud

    This new year scarcely requires a seer to reveal its gravity. It stands as a decisive threshold for both Nigeria’s political class and the country itself. As the final full year before the 2027 general election, it unfolds within an atmosphere markedly defined not by open contestation but by cooptation, not by ideological opposition but by realignment, not by persuasion but by careful calibration of power. The familiar nuances of electoral politics have been subdued, replaced by a quieter, sinister and more strategic choreography in which alliances are absorbed, dissent is neutralised, and political outcomes are increasingly prefigured long before the ballot is cast. Tinubu’s Presidency has thus inaugurated a governing order that resists casual description and demands sustained, rigorous analysis. Authority has grown more personalised, institutions have been subtly but decisively reoriented, and the space of democratic life has narrowed. Power is no longer primarily fought over; it is managed, conserved, and deployed through configurations that feel increasingly distant from Nigeria’s recent political experience. What is taking shape is not simply a new leadership style, but a political condition in which the contest for power has yielded to the meticulous administration of power already secured.

    So, what’s really taking shape?

    Tinubu’s presidency marks a formative phase of governance characterised by the consolidation of authority through elite bargaining, the steady attenuation of democratic institutions, and the managed retreat of competitive politics. It does not announce itself as ideological. No manifesto declares its worldview, and no doctrine articulates its philosophical commitments. Instead, it operates as a governing illogic grounded in transactional politics, and the strategic deployment of state power in the service of endurance. Its coherence lies not in ideas but in method. At the centre of this method is elite cooptation and coordination. Power circulates within a narrow political circle where loyalty is sustained by access, protection, and reciprocal advantage. Alliances cohere less around programmes than around proximity to authority. The ruling party functions primarily as an instrument of aggregation, not as a forum for deliberation or contest. Opposition persists within formal constitutional boundaries, but its capacity to shape outcomes continues to contract. Politics increasingly resembles a closed conversation conducted beyond the reach of popular intervention. Elections still punctuate the political calendar. Ballots are cast, results announced, courts convened, and ceremonies observed. Democratic form remains intact. Democratic substance, however, undergoes a quiet but persistent erosion. Participation thins as belief in the consequences of electoral choice diminishes. Voters engage with the process less in hope than in resignation. Political competition loses its transformative promise, reduced to a symbolic presence within an already determined architecture of power. The vote comes to affirm authority more than to interrogate it.

    This configuration invites comparison with certain early authoritarian systems, not in ideology or historical circumstance, but in structural logic. In those settings, power was consolidated through the fusion of party, state, and patronage, yielding stability through alignment rather than consent. Tinubu’s presidency reflects a comparable pattern. Control advances less through open persuasion than through administrative coordination. Loyalty steadily displaces representation as the central political currency, while stability is secured through managed inclusion and calibrated exclusion. What emerges is not the silencing of politics but its careful containment, a narrowing of the space in which dissent may operate without ever quite disappearing. It is within this logic that the recently constituted high-level party committee must be understood. Comprising governors of the ruling party, members of the Federal Executive Council, and other strategically placed stakeholders, the committee is chaired by the Governor of Yobe State, Mai Mala Buni, with Muiz Banire, former Legal Adviser of the APC, serving as Member-Secretary. Its membership spans the commanding heights of political power: Senator Adamu Aliero; AbdulRahman AbdulRazaq of Kwara State, who chairs the Nigeria Governors’ Forum; Hope Uzodimma of Imo State, Chairman of the Progressive Governors’ Forum; and governors from Benue, Jigawa, Cross River, Ekiti, and Delta. It also includes Governors Uba Sani of Kaduna and Siminalayi Fubara of Rivers, senior ministers of the Tinubu administration, former governors, and key presidential aides. The committee’s composition is revealing. It gathers together not merely party functionaries, but custodians of state power, administrative reach, and regional influence, signalling an effort to synchronise authority across multiple layers of governance.

    This architecture points to a broader project: the consolidation of a pan-Tinubu suzerainty that extends beyond party boundaries while steadily hollowing out the opposition. President Tinubu’s rhetoric of accommodation and tolerance, framed as a defence of democratic resilience, sits uneasily alongside the political realities taking shape. As Oyo State Governor Seyi Makinde has suggested, the role attributed to Nyesom Wike within this order is not incidental but instrumental, working across party lines in ways that weaken and fragment the opposition, particularly the PDP. The aim is not the outright abolition of rival parties, but their domestication. Opposition is permitted to exist, but only in diminished, divided, and ultimately manageable forms. In this sense, inclusion becomes conditional, tolerance selective, and pluralism subordinated to the overriding imperative of control. What is being constructed is a political order in which unity is achieved not through persuasion or shared purpose, but through dominance carefully disguised as consensus.

    Governance within this order privileges coherence and control over pluralism and dissent. Institutions remain visible, but their autonomy steadily contracts. Courts continue to function, though within a narrowing interpretive space. Legislatures exercise oversight through accommodation and bargaining rather than confrontation. Regulatory bodies increasingly align their conduct with executive priorities. Media organisations operate under diffuse but effective pressures that shape tone, emphasis, and silence. The outward continuity of institutional life thus conceals a deeper transformation in which independence yields to accommodation and restraint is replaced by compliance. Law sits at the centre of this transformation. Legal process retains its formal authority, but its connection to justice and accountability grows attenuated. Rules are deployed less as limits on power than as instruments for preserving stability. Procedure displaces principle. Political conflict is absorbed into litigation, translated from public disagreement into technical argument. Judicial outcomes, in turn, tend to affirm the prevailing distribution of power, conferring legal legitimacy on arrangements fashioned elsewhere. In this way, law operates not as an impartial arbiter but as a governing mechanism, ordering conflict rather than resolving it. Economic governance extends this same logic into the material lives of citizens. Policies presented as reform advance largely through executive fiat, with minimal public deliberation. Hardship is framed as necessity rather than consequence, sacrifice as virtue rather than failure. Social pain is moralised as discipline, while the language of inevitability accompanies decisions that reorder livelihoods, deepen inequality, and strain communal bonds. As legal process neutralises political contestation and institutions absorb dissent, economic policy completes the circuit of control. Public consent recedes in importance, displaced by appeals to expertise, urgency, and endurance. What emerges is a political economy in which adjustment replaces accountability, and endurance stands in for consent.

    In this political atmosphere, citizenship is quietly reconfigured. Active participation gives way to managed inclusion, while political agency is reduced from the capacity to shape outcomes to the freedom to comment upon them. Protest increasingly attracts securitised responses, and dissent is recoded as disruption rather than recognised as democratic expression. The public sphere does not collapse through decree; it contracts through mood and expectation. Fear need not be declared to be effective. Caution becomes internalised. Silence acquires the character of prudence rather than resignation. This transformation proceeds without the spectacle of overt repression. No dramatic bans signal a rupture with constitutional order. No formal emergency suspends democratic norms. Instead, change unfolds cumulatively. Each adjustment appears technical, even reasonable, when taken alone. Together, they produce a political climate marked by compliance, calculation, and quiet withdrawal. Democratic life thins through attrition rather than shock. What remains is not an absence of politics, but a diminished version of it, one in which engagement is carefully weighed against consequence, and participation is increasingly symbolic.

    Opposition is also redefined under these conditions. Critics are rarely confronted head-on; they are more often absorbed into negotiation, fragmented through inducement, or marginalised by selective exclusion. Disagreement persists, but it is stripped of leverage. Public intellectuals, activists, and commentators operate within a narrowing field where critique circulates without effect. Alternative visions struggle to gain traction because power presents itself not as a contingent arrangement open to challenge, but as a settled fact to be navigated. Politics shifts from contest over direction to adjustment within constraint. Patronage functions as the stabilising mechanism of this order. Access to state resources becomes the primary currency of loyalty. Appointments reward alignment, contracts reinforce networks, and economic opportunity increasingly follows political obedience. Dependency and compliance intersect, recasting the state from guarantor of collective welfare into distributor of selective benefit. As perceptions of fairness decline, public trust erodes. The language of corruption loses its moral urgency, reframed as an unavoidable feature of governance rather than an ethical failure demanding redress. Against this backdrop, the idea of reform assumes strategic importance. Reform rhetoric provides the moral cover through which consolidation is presented as progress. Structural adjustment is dressed in the language of modernisation; disruption is recast as courage. Resistance to reform is portrayed as nostalgia, sentimentality, or irresponsibility. In this way, critique is neutralised not by rebuttal but by delegitimation. Power is framed as necessity rather than choice, endurance as virtue rather than submission. The effect is not merely to govern policy outcomes, but to shape the terms on which political judgment itself is made.

    This condition shapes the national mood as Nigeria approaches 2026. Political expectation declines, cynicism spreads, and withdrawal often replaces engagement. Survival displaces aspiration. Younger generations encounter politics as a closed system rather than an open field, and hope shifts from public institutions to private strategies. Migration, informal economies, and personal networks emerge as alternative pathways to security. The danger lies not only in democratic erosion, but in habituation: as citizens adjust to limited agency, the possibility of recovery diminishes. Democratic capacity weakens through disuse, and memory of contest fades. Power consolidates not merely through control, but through the quiet acceptance of constraint. Naming this phase of governance as a distinct moment in Nigeria’s democratic trajectory performs both analytic and political work. It resists the personalisation of critique, framing Tinubu’s presidency as a system of governance rather than a reflection of temperament. It signals temporality, marking a phase rather than an immutable fate. Such naming preserves space for reflection, intervention, and alternative futures.

    The New Year is here. The architecture of power established during this formative period will shape what is possible. Whether this governing illogic hardens into permanence or encounters disruption will depend upon forces both within and beyond the state. That inquiry belongs to the next part of this essay, which turns to the prospects for politics and democracy under conditions shaped by consolidation, fatigue, and quiet resistance. For now, Tinubu’s presidency stands as a defining moment in Nigeria’s democratic journey: a moment of form without substance, of power without persuasion, and of consequences whose reverberations will extend far into 2027.

    Happy New Year. 

  • The Release of Sunday Jackson

    The Release of Sunday Jackson

    -By Abdul Mahmud

    The decision of the Adamawa State Governor, Rt. Hon Ahmadu Umaru Fintiri CON, to grant pardon to Sunday Jackson marks a moment of relief in a country weighed down by grief and exhaustion. The announcement, framed as part of the Christmas and New Year commemorations, carries moral weight far beyond seasonal goodwill. For Sunday Jackson, condemned to death and confined at the Kuje Medium Security Custodial Centre, freedom now opens after years of fear and abandonment. For his supporters, scattered across Nigeria and the wider world, the pardon vindicates a long campaign anchored in conscience and faith. For many Christians of Northern Nigeria, the gesture brings a fragile sense of hope within a legal order that often appears hostile to their survival. The celebration surrounding Jackson’s release springs from more than personal sympathy. His case symbolised the collision between vulnerable rural communities and a justice system unable or unwilling to recognise the reality of constant threat. Jackson was sentenced to death for killing one of his attackers during a violent confrontation with Fulani herders. The facts, as widely reported and understood, pointed to self defence. A man faced with imminent danger acted to preserve his life. The law, designed to protect the innocent, turned instead into an instrument of terror against the very person it should have shielded.

    The Supreme Court’s affirmation of the death sentence remains a dark chapter in Nigerian jurisprudence. Courts serve as the final refuge for the powerless, the arena where facts meet reason and where moral judgement tempers rigid and formalist doctrinaire. In Jackson’s case, that refuge completely collapsed. The apex court chose formalism over justice, procedure over humanity. A ruling that ignored the context of persistent attacks on farming communities sent a chilling message. Self defence, when claimed by a Christian farmer in Northern Nigeria, carries little weight before the scales of justice. Such judicial blindness cannot be separated from the broader climate of insecurity. Across large swathes of the Middle Belt and the North, Christian villages endure repeated assaults. Farmers abandon their land, churches mourn their dead, families live under the shadow of displacement. These attacks rarely lead to convictions. Perpetrators melt into the landscape, shielded by silence or official indifference. When a victim resists and survives, the full force of the state often descends upon him. That inversion of justice explains the outrage that followed Jackson’s sentencing. The pardon therefore reads as an implicit admission that the legal process failed. Executive clemency steps in when the machinery of law grinds out an unjust outcome. While the governor’s action deserves commendation, reliance on mercy rather than justice exposes a dangerous weakness. A society governed by pardons instead of fair trials risks normalising injustice while celebrating occasional relief as generosity.

    The international community played a visible role in altering Jackson’s fate. The United States government, alongside faith based organisations and human rights advocates, demanded his release. That external scrutiny embarrassed Nigerian authorities into action. Such intervention raises uncomfortable questions about sovereignty and accountability. Why must foreign governments amplify the cry of a Nigerian citizen before his own institutions respond. Why did the moral authority of local churches and civil groups fail to move the system without global attention. The answer lies partly in the structural bias embedded within state institutions. Christians of the North frequently encounter a legal environment shaped by majoritarian assumptions. Policing, prosecution and adjudication often reflect the prejudices of dominant groups. Complaints from minority communities disappear into bureaucratic voids. Investigations stall. Trials drag on until hope evaporates. When verdicts finally arrive, they often deepen wounds rather than heal them. The Supreme Court bears particular responsibility. As the guardian of constitutional values, its pronouncements shape the moral compass of the nation. By endorsing Jackson’s death sentence, the court reinforced the perception that Christian lives count for less in zones of ethno religious tension. The ruling suggested that survival in the face of attack attracts punishment while aggression enjoys tacit tolerance. Such reasoning corrodes public trust in the judiciary.

    Christmas, a season that celebrates deliverance and peace, provides a poignant backdrop to Jackson’s release. For him and his family, the holiday arrives with tears of gratitude. For campaigners who refused to accept his fate, the moment affirms the power of collective witness. Their persistence challenged a narrative of inevitability. They reminded our country that silence equals complicity. Still, celebration must coexist with sober reflection. Jackson’s freedom does not erase the sufferings of countless others trapped within the same hostile system. Many languish in detention without trial. Others carry wrongful convictions without the benefit of international spotlight. The structural conditions that produced Jackson’s ordeal remain intact. A serious reckoning demands reform at multiple levels. Law enforcement agencies require retraining to recognise patterns of communal violence and to protect threatened populations impartially. Prosecutors must abandon selective zeal that targets victims while ignoring aggressors. Judges must interpret self defence within the lived reality of insecurity, not as an abstract doctrine divorced from blood-stained farm lands and burned homes.

    The death penalty itself warrants renewed scrutiny. Capital punishment magnifies judicial error into irreversible tragedy. In a system plagued by investigative failure and bias, execution becomes a tool of injustice rather than deterrence. Jackson stood within hours of such finality. His escape through pardon exposes the fragility of life under the law. Faith communities have played a crucial role in sustaining the campaign for justice. Churches mobilised prayer, advocacy and documentation. Their efforts countered narratives that framed violence as spontaneous clashes rather than organised aggression. This engagement must continue beyond individual cases. Advocacy rooted in moral clarity offers one of the few counterweights to institutional inertia.

    The state must also confront the political dimensions of insecurity. Armed herder attacks reflect deeper failures of governance, land management and conflict resolution. Treating each incident as isolated obscures systemic breakdown. Until authorities address these root causes, the cycle of violence and selective justice will persist. Governor Fintiri’s pardon extended to other inmates alongside Jackson. That gesture hints at a broader recognition of flawed convictions. Such recognition should evolve into comprehensive review mechanisms. Independent panels could reassess cases involving communal violence, ensuring that self defence claims receive fair evaluation. The release of Sunday Jackson stands as a rare moment when mercy interrupts injustice. Gratitude remains appropriate. Applause remains deserved. Still, a nation cannot survive on exceptions. Justice must become the rule rather than a seasonal gift. For Christians of Northern Nigeria, the episode underscores both vulnerability and resilience. The law often appears hemmed against them, aligned with forces that threaten their existence. Even so, faith and solidarity continue to generate resistance. Jackson walks free today because many refused to forget him.

    As the celebrations fade, the challenge endures. The Supreme Court must confront the moral consequences of its rulings. Legislators must reform laws that punish survival. Executives must act before foreign governments intervene. Only then can future Christmas seasons arrive without the bitter aftertaste of preventable suffering.

    Sunday Jackson’s freedom restores one life. The task ahead seeks to restore justice itself.

  • Pineapple Fried Rice

    Pineapple Fried Rice

    -By Chef Enna

    I’m sure there’s a lot running through your mind — pineapple fried rice? Calm down, okayyy; it’s not as weird as you think. Pineapple fried rice originates from Thailand. It is a popular variation of traditional Thai fried rice that gained prominence with the rise of tourism in the 1970s. It is often served dramatically in a hollowed-out pineapple, blending savory rice with sweet pineapple.

    It’s a distinctive Thai dish that uses key Thai seasonings such as fish sauce, soy sauce, and curry powder. The addition of pineapple provides a sweet-tangy contrast to the savory stir-fried rice. While Thai in origin, several versions now exist globally, with some recipes simplifying the classic Thai flavor profile and others tweaking it to suit individual taste buds.

    I got to try pineapple fried rice for the first time last year while taking Hilda Baci’s online classes. I had always been curious about this dish that is served in pineapple skin. Other variations of fried rice have their distinct tastes, so this was an opportunity to learn and prepare something different. Let’s get right into it, as it is quite a simple meal to prepare.

    Ingredients (Nigerian-style preparation):

    To cook this meal the Nigerian way, you’ll need:

    Rice (the star of the show); Sweet pineapples (the co-star of the show); Carrots; Green pepper; Green peas; Onions; Fresh pepper; Fresh ginger and garlic; Seasoning cubes; Curry powder; Dark soy sauce; Fresh chicken; Groundnut oil.

    The first thing I like to do before cooking any meal is prep all the ingredients; it makes cooking easier and faster.

    Preparation:

    -Boil and fry the chicken, then set aside.
    -Wash the raw rice and set aside to cook with the chicken stock.
    -Wash and finely dice all the vegetables — carrots, green pepper, and onions.
    -Blend the fresh pepper, ginger, and garlic.
    -Wash the pineapple, cut it into two equal halves, carefully scoop out the flesh without damaging the skin, and dice the pineapple into small cubes. Once everything is prepped, we can proceed to cook the meal.
    -First, cook the washed rice with the chicken stock, adding seasoning and pepper for enhanced flavor. Once the rice is cooked, set it aside.
    -Next, in a dry pot, add some of the oil used to fry the chicken. Once hot, add the curry powder and stir for a few seconds. Then add the diced carrots, green pepper, onions, and green peas, and stir-fry. Keep stirring for several minutes to allow the vegetables to cook properly. It’s best to cook the veggies on medium heat.
    -While cooking, add the blended ginger, garlic, and fresh pepper (according to your taste) and continue stirring. Allow it to cook for a while, stirring occasionally to prevent burning.
    -After 5–7 minutes, the vegetables should be cooked. If you prefer softer veggies, you can allow them to cook for up to 10 minutes.
    -Once the veggies are ready, transfer everything to a bigger pot to finish the cooking and avoid spills while stirring. On low heat, add the cooked rice, cooked veggies, diced pineapple, and soy sauce (use a small quantity to enhance the taste and color of the dish). Stir-fry until all ingredients are well combined. Taste and adjust seasoning as needed.

    Your meal is now ready and can be served in the pineapple skin. It can be enjoyed with coleslaw or fried plantain, but you can also go ahead and enjoy your pineapple fried rice with fried chicken. The major difference between this rice and other types of fried rice is the pineapple, which gives the dish an entirely different and unforgettable taste.

    I hope you try this recipe, and I’d love to hear from you when you do. Kindly send your reviews and chats to enaamobi98@gmail.com or on Instagram at @thecravefactory.ng.

    Regards,
    Chef Enna

  • Do the Children Know It Is Christmas?

    Do the Children Know It Is Christmas?

    -By Abdul Mahmud

    Editor’s Note: Shortly after PACESETTER received this week’s column for publication yesterday, Sunday, December 21, 2025, the abducted students were released. We have gone ahead to publish this piece for historical and academic purposes.

    Four weeks ago, students of a Catholic school in Papiri in Niger State were seized along with their teachers. The country absorbed the news with a familiar mix of dread and fatigue. Abduction has become a steady feature of our public life. Then came silence. Families waited. Communities prayed. A nation listened for any sign that the state still possessed the will to protect its children. When words finally arrived, it came not from the parents or the school or a rescue operation, but from the National Security Adviser. He assured our bewildered country that the children were fine. Fine. The word landed with the weight of indifference. It assumed knowledge without evidence and authority without accountability. It poses fear in a country where comfort has given way, heralding a “new civilisation”. This is how I described it in my op-ed, ‘The Country Where Hostages Are Fine’, a few weeks ago: “In a country that has arrived ahead of other countries at the new civilisation. A civilisation where captivity becomes wellness. A civilisation where fear gives way to fear that becomes comfort. A civilisation where parents receive news of their abducted children with gratitude because the NSA has spoken”.

    I described that assurance as “a piece of miracle” which abolished the need for rescue because it treated terror as mere inconvenience and pain as an abstract concern. Days later, more than one hundred children were released. Relief followed, though it was tinged with suspicion.

    Many Nigerians believe the release followed a transaction. Money exchanged for abductees. If that belief is correct, then the state has chosen the path of accommodation. It has signaled that violence pays and that innocence carries a price tag. That message travels faster than any patrol or policy.

    As you read this, Christmas is three days away. Some of the children remain in captivity. No statement has explained why they were left behind. No timeline has been offered. No public accounting has been made. Parents wait with phones pressed to their chests. The rest of the country watches with the heavy knowledge that our shared moral calendar has slipped out of joint.

    Do the children know it is Christmas?

    That question is not sentimental. It is moral. Christmas speaks to care, love, shelter, and the dignity of the vulnerable. It asks adults to protect the young and the weak. In Papiri, the season arrives without its promise. The children are held by men who thrive on fear and profit from despair. Days stretch without schooling, without safety, without the reassurance of familiar voices. Hunger gnaws. Night brings cold and whispers. A child measures time by fear and hope by the sound of footsteps. The pain of the children is compounded by uncertainty. Captivity strips away the small anchors that steady the young mind. Routine disappears. Authority becomes menace. The body tenses at every command. Sleep fractures. Faith strains. Even those released will carry the memory forward, etched into how they trust and how they dream.

    Parents endure separate torments. They replay the morning their children left home. They scan roads and phones and rumours. They negotiate between hope and dread because surrender to either feels dangerous. Mothers and fathers sit with an emptiness that refuses consolation. No prayer is too small. No official word feels sufficient. Trauma settles into the body and does not wait for permission. The country shares the bewilderment. We have watched this pattern repeat across regions and years. Schools targeted. Villages raided. Assurances offered. Payments rumored. Consequences deferred. Each episode chips away at confidence in the state. Each denial or half truth teaches citizens to expect less and fear more.

    No country can be governed on reassurance alone. It requires truth, action, and accountability. Government has a duty that precedes politics. Protect life. Protect children. Speak honestly. When officials announce that captives are fine without evidence, they gamble with credibility. When releases appear transactional, they legitimise crime. When silence follows partial success, they abandon those still held and deepen the wounds of those left waiting. There is also the matter of equality. Which children are retrieved first and why. Who decides whose life carries urgency. The absence of answers invites a corrosive suspicion that power and proximity shape outcomes. Such suspicion undermines social trust and fuels resentment. Insecurity thrives where trust collapses.

    The school itself stands as a symbol. Education should be a sanctuary. When classrooms become hunting grounds, the social contract frays. Parents withdraw children. Teachers flee. Communities shrink their aspirations. The future dims because learning retreats under threat. The cost extends beyond Papiri. It reaches every family that wonders whether school gates offer safety or risk. Christmas sharpens the questions. It draws attention to absence. Chairs left empty. Songs unsung. Gifts unwrapped. The season exposes what governance has failed to secure. Celebration becomes a test of conscience. Our country must ask itself whether it can truly celebrate while children remain in captivity. Scores of them, including those abducted from the First ECWA Church in Ayetoro Kiri, Kabba, Kogi State just days ago, are still unseen and unheard. Over the weekend, a video emerged as grim proof of life, a haunting reminder that these children are not statistics but lives suspended in fear, held by evil men in a country struggling to find its conscience.

    What should be done?

    First, the government must speak plainly. Say who remains captive. Say what is being done. Say what will not be done. Ambiguity feeds rumor and fear.

    Second, the state must commit to ending the market for abduction. Paying ransoms, directly or indirectly, entrenches criminal economies. It invites repetition. A strategy that rewards terror cannot deliver safety.

    Third, there must be accountability within security institutions. Who assessed the risk to the school. Who failed to prevent the attack. Who authorised public statements that lacked grounding. Accountability is not vengeance. It is the discipline that prevents recurrence.

    Fourth, support for the families must be visible and sustained. Counseling, medical care, and financial assistance should not depend on headlines. Trauma lingers after cameras move on. The state must remain present when attention fades.

    Finally, there must be a national reckoning with the conditions that allow terror to recruit and operate. Policing, intelligence, community trust, and justice must align. Words alone will by not rescue children. Policies that center human life might. Do the children know it is Christmas? They may know the sound of distant bells carried by memory. They may count days by the return of light. They may hold on to a prayer learned at home or school. What they deserve is more than hope. They deserve a country that acts as if their lives matter. When Christmas morning arrives, it will not be enough to wish peace. Peace is built through protection and truth. Until every child is home, the season remains unfinished. The government must choose whether it stands with the children or hides behind assurances. Our country watches. The parents wait. The children endure; but the question which remains unanswered is: do they know it is Christmas?

    Editor’s Note: Shortly after PACESETTER received this week’s column for publication yesterday, Sunday, December 21, 2025, the abducted students were released. We have gone ahead to publish this piece for historical and academic purposes.