The Pacesetter Frontier Magazine

Tag: #PacesetterFrontier

  • How Enugu PDP is Gaining Strength Through Edeoga’s Return

    How Enugu PDP is Gaining Strength Through Edeoga’s Return

    By Sebastine Chukwuebuka Okafor

    When the former Gubernatorial candidate of the Labour Party, Barr. Jonathan Chijioke Edeoga left the Labour party to rejoin the Peoples Democratic Party, PDP, a lot were said about such move both from his supporters, close allies, political foes, opposition party leaders and their members amongst others.

    In all these postulations, analysis and questions, one crucial aspect was whether it was a right or wrong move and also whether he actually defected with anybody. There were lots of write-ups saying that he was alone and thus, does not have any political will to effect changes in the PDP. The people making these comments are neither PDP members nor leaders of the party but people who are political bats with no place to lay hands on.

    Immediately Edeoga defected from the Labour Party, he collapsed the party and exposed their weaknesses. He delivered Enugu State House of Assembly to PDP and ensured that their majority numbers increased. First, his State House of Assembly member, Hon. Eberechi Ezeh joined him together with the State House of Assembly candidates of the party in Nkanu West Local Government Area, Awgu North and South, Aninri, as well as Hon. Engr. George Ugwu from Ugwogo Nike who was the former spokesman of the LP’s gubernatorial campaign. He then went to Enugu North Senatorial Zone being his stronghold and annihilated the party with the defection of Hon. Dennis Agbo, the federal lawmaker representing Igboeze North and Udenu Federal Constituency who entered with his teaming grassroots supporters, same with his colleague, Hon. Mark Chidi Obetta, who represents Nsukka – Igboeze South Federal Constituency. He also followed that up with the defection of Hon. Emeka Mamah, Hon. Malachy Okey Onyechi, Nsukka West State Assembly member, Hon  Titus Odoh amongst others.

    Recall that prior to Edeoga’s defection, the APC was very confident of receiving the entrants of these people to an extent that the chairman of their Governors Forum, Chief Hope Uzodimma, announced that they were joining the party in a few weeks time. So, as soon as all these defections from LP to PDP started to happen, it became clearer to other objective members of the party to look for a better platform and they began to join APC, because of some reasons best known to them. This leaves Labour Party with only 3 State House of Assembly members and 2 Senators who are, arguably, not also recognized by the party in both the state and national level, which has left them to be in motion waiting for a coalition that may never take place. It is very clear they will either join PDP or APC because the LP has made them persona non grata to the party.

    Whether you are reading this objectively or with sentiments, Edeoga’s defection has eliminated the Labour Party in Enugu State, creating a political vacuum that the PDP quickly filled with strategic placements and strengthened structures. His tactical maneuver not only destabilized the LP but also sent a strong message to both his supporters and critics that politics is not driven by empty propaganda but by calculated moves and influence. Those who doubted his capacity have been left speechless, while those who stayed close are already reaping the dividends of alignment with a reinvigorated PDP.

    One thing that cannot be denied is that Barr. Edeoga understands the political terrain of Enugu State more than many of his peers. His movement was not one born out of desperation, but a well-thought-out plan to reposition his people and allies in the centre of decision-making. The LP, once seen as a third force, is now left fragmented, disoriented, and directionless. While some of its vocal social media handlers still try to give the illusion of relevance, the ground reality paints a picture of a party that is gasping for breath. It has no viable structure, no rallying point, and certainly no leadership cohesion.

    Moreover, the ripples of Edeoga’s defection did not only resonate in Enugu North but across the entire political spectrum of the state. Even in places like Enugu East and Enugu West Senatorial Zones, Labour Party’s influence has fizzled out with most of their local leaders either defecting silently or sitting idle without clear directives. The PDP, on the other hand, has seized this opportunity to consolidate its grassroots strength, making sure that the gap left behind by the LP is sealed with responsive and strategic mobilization. If elections were held today, it is not hard to predict that Labour Party would not only perform poorly but might struggle to field serious candidates in many localities.

    However, the party is still a better option in the state than APC if it can reorganize itself and settle its internal crisis because those defecting to APC are largely driven by personal interests, opportunism, and the illusion of federal alignment rather than genuine ideological commitment. Many of these defectors have no grassroots followership and are merely seeking political survival. If the Labour Party can rise from its current disarray, rebuild its structures, reconnect with the masses that once gave it overwhelming support, and present credible candidates, it stands a chance of reclaiming its lost ground.

    What the party needs now is a sincere, selfless, and strategic leadership, a leadership that will move beyond social media noise and engage the real voters on the streets, in the markets, in the churches, and in the villages. The energy of the Obidient movement that once shook the foundations of the old order in Enugu State is not dead; it is simply dormant and disillusioned. With proper reorientation, reconciliation, and grassroots engagement, the Labour Party can revive its vision and reassert itself as the true alternative voice in the state’s political discourse. The journey may be tough, but it is far from impossible.

  • The PDP should be embarrassed that Wike is still its member – Prof. Okey Ikechukwu

    The PDP should be embarrassed that Wike is still its member – Prof. Okey Ikechukwu

    The Executive Director of Development Specs Academy, Okey Ikechukwu, has said that the PDP should be embarrassed that the former governor of Rivers State and Minister of FCT, Nyesom Wike is still a member, given his alleged anti-party activities.

    Ikechukwu, who spoke on Channels Television’s The Morning Brief, however added that the former Rivers State governor remains a political asset.

    Ikechukwu said, “Wike, whether you like him a not, you must ask yourself: is this man a fool? The answer is no. Does he know what he is doing? Maybe. Can you disregard him? The answer is no. It is the PDP that should be embarrassed that Wike is still a member, given all that he has done and all that he’s doing.

    “It’s the PDP that should be embarrassed that it has not been able to manage such a man because Wike will be a political asset to anybody he works for. For those he is working for now, he is a political asset. But to allow him to bestride both lanes and be doing 160 kilometers per hour shows there is nobody controlling the traffic.

    “The PDP, with all due respect to the distinguished people in that party, is making itself look more ridiculous, not every day but every hour as the next hour comes. They should stop kidding themselves.”

    He slammed the opposition Peoples Democratic Party(PDP) for failing to manage its internal crises.

    The policy analyst said, “The PDP, a very robust party, a party which, during the days of (former President) Obasanjo, Audu Ogbe, and even Atiku (Abubakar) ran impressive campaigns. You had, I think, in 2003, three campaign teams. Today, it has shrunk into a whimpering collection of confounded men and women who are pretending to have a political party.

    “What else does the PDP do today other than talk about its quarrels? Well, occasionally, it makes press releases attacking the APC, thinking that that is political opposition.”

    According to him, the opposition to President Bola Tinubu’s administration is activists, civil society groups, concerned commentators, and elder statesmen who speak on national issues.

    “The whole point of opposition is that you present a profile that will make you attractive to the next person, that will make somebody say to themselves, ‘No, no, no, I need this man to replace this other guy; they don’t know what they are doing.’

    “Please, tell me what makes the PDP attractive today. Internally, it is in total disarray,” he added.

    The professor said that the party’s current preparations for the 2027 general elections, amid the internal crises, do not show that it will perform better at the polls, except it manages the problems.

    “So, in the next election, it will participate but it will not contest; it sounds contradictory.

    “You are taking part in an event but your preparation is such that we know that you are going to get there and get beaten thoroughly and carried out on a stretcher, except a dramatic reconfiguration occurs within that party, with clear attention to the need to modify the optics of people you see in the party,” he said.

  • The Hidden Cost of Feminine Beauty – By Samson Abanni

    The Hidden Cost of Feminine Beauty – By Samson Abanni

    We have come a long way as a specie but the most sellable product is still the feminine look.

    What are looks to a woman? It is how her religion is judged. It is how her beauty is rated. It is how her morality is measured. It is how her opportunities are metered. It is how her achievements are gauged. Perhaps it’s because, even though some societies have removed the rules imposed on women, they have not changed the reward system. Society rewards men for what they achieve and rewards women for how they look. Many times the things women admire are bestowed using looks as criteria. A woman can be anything she wants to be—but she should be beautiful, and that definition of beauty can be punishing and un-elastic. We are not so much products of our decisions as we are of societal expectations—not what society says its expectations are, but what they are in reality. Sure we can choose to be different, but we can’t go too far without feeling like outcasts or psychopaths.

    There’s has always been a battle over women’s bodies—whether it’s about how it should look, how much should be seen or covered or who should be the judge. The attention paid to a woman’s body reflects its power. And it is indeed powerful. In many places now, things have changed. But that does not mean things are better. In the past, society had a written code women must live by; now women make it themselves. Whether the rules are external or internal, a woman’s body still has guidelines to live by. Women broke society’s hold—and re-imposed it on themselves as they now go to extreme length to get and keep the acceptable feminine look. This is not freedom; it is throwing away your slave master—and taking his place.

    Many people found time, in the very serious allegations made against Senator Natasha Akpoti, to rhapsodize about her beauty. I guess, for many, that was their main motivation for entering the fight. Once a woman meets society’s standards of beauty, society feels responsible to protect its prized object—as long as she survives those trying to pluck her plumage. But to ask any woman to keep her plumage forever is impossible, and they really try—which is why those in the beauty business will always have a job. I suppose the demand arose because men now have to share power; and once power is shared, responsibility is also shared.

    The problem with chasing an unrealistic body shape is that you will never arrive. There are social theories that point toward the fact that pointing women to an impossible ideal is a conscious political action. Socializing women to be invested in achieving an unrealistically slender and highly groomed appearance diverts energies and resources away from other (political and social) activities and keep their ingenuity off that space.  In addition, these theories highlight how the objectification of women—particularly through media images—leads women to internalize the need to self-monitor their bodies, in effect becoming their own body police, counting calories, layering on make-up and offering themselves to the surgeon’s knife. Another theory by Bourdieu says the acceleration of highly visual culture, facilitated by digital technologies in recent years, has exacerbated the extent to which appearance is a central source of capital worldwide. Body capital sees a beautiful body as wealth or a source of wealth thus justifying any investment that goes into attaining the perfect look.

    Beauty is indeed beautiful. There are few humans who have not been enlivened by looking at beautiful woman, but this social good should never become a life’s mission. The society has to cut women lose from the tyranny of our punishing beauty expectations. You cannot judge a forty year old by the same skin glow standard of that an 18 year old radiates, and to convince the forty year old women they are free, we have to continue the worship of her beauty through her changing seasons, there she will feel no loss and try to move heaven and earth to keep a glow that time has robbed her off. And women have to rebel, not just against societal expectations but from their need to continue self-administering those rules when the society grudgingly take them off.

    Abanni is a Medical Doctor and Member of the Board of Editors of Pacesetter Frontier Magazine.

  • June 12: Democratic Covenant and the  Resolute Statesmanship of Rep. Nnolim Nnaji

    June 12: Democratic Covenant and the  Resolute Statesmanship of Rep. Nnolim Nnaji

    By Ezefi Mike Udoh

    In the august liturgy of our national memory, there exists a day so solemn, so charged with the undying fervor of the people’s will, that it transcends the realm of calendar and history—it becomes, indeed, a living testament to the irrepressible spirit of liberty. That day is June the Twelfth: Nigeria’s Democracy Day.

    This date, sanctified not by mere proclamation but by the blood and ballots of a defrauded electorate, stands as a moral lodestar in our republican odyssey. It was on that fateful day in 1993 that the Nigerian people, across every creed and clime, rose as one to affirm their inalienable right to self-governance. And yet, the euphoria of that electoral symphony was silenced by the iron hand of tyranny. But from that audacious betrayal sprang forth a deeper, more resolute yearning—a covenant etched not on parchment, but upon the indelible conscience of a nation awakened.

    June 12 is not merely a date; it is a reckoning. A day when the silenced found speech, when courage eclipsed fear, and when the idea of Nigeria—as a democratic commonwealth governed by the rule of law—was reborn in defiance and in dignity.

    It is within this noble continuum of democratic resilience that we behold the distinguished personage of Right Honourable Nnolim Nnaji, Member of the House of Representatives, a true paragon of statesmanly grace and legislative probity. Heir to the enduring virtues of service and sacrifice, Rt. Hon. Nnaji has, through unwavering fidelity to the democratic creed, become a venerable guardian of the people’s trust.

    Representing the renown constituency of Nkanu East and West, the Honourable Member has borne the mantle of public duty not as a privilege, but as a sacred charge. Within the hallowed chambers of Nigeria’s National Assembly, his voice resounds—not with self-serving ambition—but with the measured cadence of wisdom, compassion, and nation-first conviction. His legislative endeavours speak to the soul of June 12: the enthronement of justice, the fortification of institutions, and the elevation of the common man above the machinery of impunity.

    Indeed, Rt. Hon. Nnaji has not merely inhabited the office of a lawmaker; he has redeemed its purpose. His interventions are not perfunctory recitations of political ritual but are imbued with the gravity of one who understands that democracy, in its truest form, is the enthronement of the people’s will, sanctified by relentless service.

    Thus, as the Republic marks another anniversary of this hallowed day, let every heart pause in reverence, and every mind ponder its significance. Let the names of the valiant—known and unknown—be whispered in gratitude. And let us, in unison, lift our voices in celebration not only of the democratic promise that June 12 heralds, but also of the gallant stewards like Rt. Hon. Nnolim Nnaji, who by diligence, integrity, and quiet strength, keep the flame of that promise ever burning.

    For as long as leaders such as he walk the hallways of governance with humility and honour, Nigeria’s democratic experiment shall neither waver nor wither—but shall blossom into the full measure of its sovereign destiny.

    Happy Democracy Day!

    Ezefi Mike Udoh writes from Ihunekwagu, Akpugo.

  • Curbing Examination Malpractice in Nigerian Tertiary Institutions: A National Call to Action

    Curbing Examination Malpractice in Nigerian Tertiary Institutions: A National Call to Action

    By Sebastine Chukwuebuka Okafor

    Examination malpractice is a serious threat to the growth of university education across Nigeria.

    It can be defined in many ways. It means any dishonest act that affects the fairness and honesty of the examination process. It includes any illegal or wrong action taken before, during, or after an exam to get higher marks. It also means breaking exam rules to gain an unfair advantage or any kind of cheating or dishonest behaviour by a student during an exam.

    This dishonest act weakens the academic standards that schools are expected to protect. It damages the very foundation of our education system.

    As a lecturer and former Faculty Examination Marshal in one of the best universities in Nigeria, I have seen how examination malpractice affects students and the reputation of the school they come from. This issue must be dealt with quickly before it becomes normal and spreads a habit of dishonesty that will destroy the value of education across the country.

    It is sad that both students and staff in many of our higher institutions do not see how serious this issue is. This is clear from the way people ignore it or delay actions that could stop it. Based on close observation, the causes of examination malpractice in Nigeria’s higher institutions can be grouped into three major areas: student-related reasons, problems within the institutions, and issues from society.

    Student-related reasons include pressure to succeed, fear of failure, poor study habits, and pressure from friends — all these can lead students into cheating.

    Institutional problems include poor teaching, weak monitoring, bad exam seating plans, too much importance placed on exams, and easy access to materials used for cheating. These show that better teaching and exam support are needed.

    Societal issues include corrupt lecturers and staff, the way cheating is accepted in society, and soft punishments for those who cheat. These make students feel they can cheat and get away with it.

    These problems exist in many schools and call for a wide and united effort to stop examination malpractice.

    To fix this problem, university leaders and managers of other higher institutions in Nigeria need to take strong and serious steps. They must put in place a number of plans that deal with the real causes of malpractice — like what is done in some private universities such as Godfrey Okoye University, Enugu.

    Some people think the problem has become normal and cannot be solved. But should we accept that? The answer is no. There are clear solutions, and they can be divided into four groups: prevention, education, punishment, and changes to the system.

    Prevention includes proper monitoring by lecturers from other departments, mixing students from different courses during exams to make cheating harder, and using technology such as internet blockers, AI tools to catch cheating, and fingerprint systems to confirm student identity and stop impersonation.

    Education will focus on teaching students why cheating is bad, training older lecturers on how to detect new cheating methods, and keeping a photo record of students in each exam, like what is used in the Mass Communication Department at Enugu State University of Science and Technology (ESUT). Also, the 75% attendance rule should be fully enforced, and lecturers who follow this rule should be given support. This will help students stay more prepared and disciplined before any exam.

    Punishment should include quick action and fair penalties for those who cheat, with parents also getting involved to encourage better conduct. Students should be punished not just for cheating, but also for helping others to cheat. This will reduce the number of people trying to cheat during exams. When students know that even sitting close to someone who is cheating can lead to trouble, they will be more careful.

    System changes should focus on regular assessments during the semester, not just final exams. Exams should test practical knowledge, not only memory. Lecturers should also be in charge of student attendance and exam quality. Schools should work with security agencies or create strong teams to watch over exams and catch those who break the rules, and make sure their cases are reported to the right authorities.

    These actions will do more than stop cheating. They will help build good values, raise the quality of learning, and make students more responsible in our schools.

    Examination malpractice is a big problem that needs urgent attention from school authorities, lecturers, students, and all who care about education.

    The steps listed here provide a strong way to deal with this challenge. They will help bring honesty back to academics and protect the name of Nigerian universities.

    We must act now to stop examination malpractice and improve the standard of education — for the good of our students, our schools, and our country.

  • The Deadly War on Women and Children 

    The Deadly War on Women and Children 

    -By Abdul Mahmud

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

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

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

    This is our country – the land of our birth.

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

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

    But, it doesn’t end with mothers.

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

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

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

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

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

    Our country has signed all manner of treaties.

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

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

    And the cost?

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

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

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

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

    Beware.

    May our dead find peace.

  • Theft as a National Enterprise

    Theft as a National Enterprise

    By Abdul Mahmud

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

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

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

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

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

    Theft is now the national enterprise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “Oga na tief man”.

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

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

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

    By Abdul Mahmud

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

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

    A Subregion in Democratic Regress

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

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

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

    The Erosion of Human Rights

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

    Economic Despair and Social Breakdown

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

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

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

    The Postcolonial Crisis of the State

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

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

    Irresponsible Elites and the Collapse of Moral Leadership

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

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

    Military Coups: A False Messiah

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

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

    Reclaiming the Future: Toward Democratic Renewal

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

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

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

    Ballots, Not Bullets

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

    Let me return to where I began.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • 2027 and the Opposition’s Test

    2027 and the Opposition’s Test

    By Abdul Mahmud 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    I believe it, with the quiet urgency of faith.

  • Peter’s Intangibles – By Onochie Jon-Igwesi

    Peter’s Intangibles – By Onochie Jon-Igwesi

    On Thursday, October 13, 2022, the governorship candidate of the Peoples Democratic Party, PDP, for the 2023 general elections, as he then was, Dr. Peter Ndubuisi Mbah, at the Law Auditorium of the Godfrey Okoye University, Enugu, unveiled his manifesto before thousands of supporters.

    I recall that of the 4 major contenders in the governorship race under different political parties, Mbah was the first to present his manifesto. He would later go on to have so many firsts to his credit. I also recall that the crowd was so thronged on the day that it was difficult for bigwigs to gain entrance into the auditorium at the time.

    Back to the story – at the end of the manifesto unveiling, while he gave us metrics to gauge his tangibles, we did not know at the time that we would get more than we bargained for.

    You see, Governor Peter Mbah, like all transcendental leaders, is a premium package that comes with more as you untie it. When Mary Slessor, the Scottish missionary who arrived in Calabar, Nigeria, in 1876, came with the message of Christ’s gospel, she did not know that she was going to achieve more than soul winning – becoming the person most widely credited with significantly stopping the killing of twins.

    When Peter set out to honour his charter with the citizens of Enugu State, little did he know that beyond paved rural and urban roads; Smart schools & Type 2 Healthcare centres in all the 260 political wards of the state; several modern bus interchange; revamped transport system, inclusive of Enugu air, with 2 planes already and more likely underway; the planned intra-rail system; deployed CNG Buses and electric taxis; he would go on to achieve what he did not promise us – his intangibles.

    None, not even Peter himself, could have envisioned that after recently completing the abandoned International Conference Center, where both the Nigerian Institute of Surveyors and the Nigerian Bar Association will be hosting their conferences; after the concessioning of the Nike Lake Hotel to Landmark Africa Group; and rehabilitating most of the infrastructure by the former Premier, Dr. M.I Ọkpara, like the Hotel Presidential, Nigergas company, etc; we would gaze into the clouds to behold the beautiful rainbows of his intangibles.

    For me, I reckon that the heaviest of Peter’s intangibles is that to hail from or reside in Enugu has become a thing to be coveted, a bragging right of some sort. To come from Enugu means to be gazed upon with an admixture of envy and jealousy. To come from Enugu means to relive the nostalgia of the Enugu Rangers Football club of the 70s and yet bask in today’s euphoria of this team rebranded by Peter that tells the story of who we are. To come from Enugu means to walk the streets and see people adorn Rangers’ jerseys as though they were jerseys of English clubs. To come from Enugu means to go to the Nnamdi Azikiwe stadium on a day that Rangers will play to behold a stadium filled to the brim. To come from Enugu means to normalize the sight of international athletes participating in the city’s marathon. To come from Enugu means that while you can now go out on Mondays, walking or driving in a rebirthed capital city, fitted with day and night vision cameras, you have an Enugu State Security Trust Fund worth more than 3 billion naira, donated by private individuals and corporate bodies, giving your senses an aroma of heightened security. To come from Enugu means that you are awed by the numerous projects of today – all going on at the same time – yet knowing deep down that more brilliant projects are in the governor’s pipeline. To come from Enugu means that your state is Guinness Nigeria Plc’s first port of call in unveiling the English Premier League Trophy to the entire nation, among others.

    Consider these. Peter is relocating slum dwellers in Agu-Owa and Ugbo-Lawrence slums, two out of the 25 slums in Enugu metropolis, with the development of relocation sites at Akpuoga Nike Estate to resettle the occupants of the slums, with each of the families getting a two-bedroom flat and a Certificate-of-Occupancy to the property, all at no cost to them. Peter, together with the seventeen local government chairmen, has initiated the construction of a farm estate per ward, measuring 200 hectares. The idea is this – the council chairmen will fence the estates per ward in their respective local governments, provide equipment for mechanized farming, ensure water, electricity, settlements, etc, are available in these farms, then give farmers in each of the farm estates high yield seeds to plant. At the end of the planting season, Peter’s Enugu State government will handsomely purchase the produce from each of the farmers who are residents and indigenes of their wards, export the same and go on to share the profit from the export between the farmers in those farm estates and their local government. This is no brainchild of a simple mind.

    Peter’s mind works in a way that is esoteric. His programs defy logical reasoning so much that it makes sense to doubt them. Yet, for every ounce of doubt you share today, he makes mincemeat of it tomorrow. Reflecting, it only made sense that we did not see these coming – yet with Peter on the saddle, these seem like just a mere glimpse of the whole picture.

    On the occasion of his second anniversary, take it or leave it – Peter stands twice as tall, and months from now, when we will head to the polls to re-elect Peter in 2027, the nay-sayers will, on Enugu’s scenic hills, hear the choruses and chants of “victory at last” while the yea-sayers will sing Nathaniel Bassey’s “See what the Lord has done”.

    And so, even if in years to come, we cannot remember anything else, we will remember the gusto with which, from 2023 to 2031, we said “I am from Enugu State”. We will remember that Peter reminded us of what Democracy ought to be – a treasure trove for the people.

    Onochie Jon-Igwesi, an indigene of Enugu, writes from Omuoha-Obuoffia, Awkunanaw.

  • The Next Election, Not the Next Generation

    The Next Election, Not the Next Generation

    -By Abdul Mahmud

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

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

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

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

    Why?

    Because they do not govern for the future.

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

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

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

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

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

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

    But all is not lost. There is hope.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • No Two Siblings Have The Same Parents

    No Two Siblings Have The Same Parents

    By C.V.C Ozoaniamalu

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Amalu is family and will forever be.

    To the loved ones who went before us, cheers.