Every civilisation has its myths of rescue. In ours, the rescuer arrives in the attire of the West, hawking human rights in one hand and carnage in the other. Empires never travel light. They arrive with doctrines and appetites, and an accounting logic that mortgages human lives against barrels of oil, shipping lanes, voting blocs, and dubious evangelism.
Nigeria as other nations of Africa, is once again ripe for the picking in the so-called New World Order, not because we are weak in prospects or numbers, but because we are fragmented in will and allegiance. This renders us dangerously exposed in an era where might is always deemed right, international law is reduced to a ceremonial proviso, and the United Nations, a forum of toothless bulldogs.
In such a clime, even the presumed Giant of Africa must tread with the exaggerated politeness of the vulnerable. Thus, Nigeria’s resort to frantic diplomacy while its citizenry – out of spite or despair – openly fantasise about foreign invasion as if it were a Netflix series with a happy ending.
No doubt, terror stalks our forests as bandits and insurgents turn entire regions into cauldrons of grief. The carnage is real and fear isn’t imagined. What must be resisted is the childish leap from justified anger to suicidal longing. The idea that a global hegemon like the United States, would arrive in Nigeria as a neutral surgeon to excise evil and depart politely, intones naïveté.
There has been much heated talk, some of it reckless, about foreign military capabilities, “coordinated efforts,” and what powerful allies could do if unleashed. Statements by American officials are quoted and misquoted, even as rumours inflate to certainties. Yet the language of “partnership and counterterrorism” must be heeded with caution, not with hysteria or worship. Coordination shouldn’t translate to colonisation by default as it is rarely charity. It is interest meeting interest, and the dominant party always writes the footnotes.
Alongside US “cooperation” to crush terrorists operating within Nigeria, the Nigerian military’s recent operations deserve support and scrutiny in equal measure. And sponsors of terror, whether they wear agbada, humanitarian badge or military camouflage, must be hunted with the same intensity as the foot soldiers they bankroll. Apologists must be exposed and prosecuted. This is the bare minimum of sovereignty.
Yet, sovereignty is diminished, not strengthened, when citizens behave as though only outsiders can save them. The most dangerous sound Nigeria can experience is not the crack of a gunshot or the roar of a fighter jet, it is the applause and shrieks of approval by a people, who, weary of their own contradictions and tedious labour of self-repair, summon a siege upon themselves.
When a nation embraces an external force as the decisive answer to its internal failures, it announces something fatal about itself: that it no longer trusts its own capacity for reform. For a former colony, this is the worst form of self-betrayal.
The global context makes this even more perilous. We are living through a period of resurgent imperial siege. Great powers no longer bother to hide their appetites behind diplomatic or moral sermons. They pursue brazenly their “enlightened self-interest,” spheres of influence, and strategic resources. After the Americas, Africa remains one of the last great theatres where rival empires test their might.
The United States’ historical posturing toward Latin America, shaped by doctrines that claimed to protect the hemisphere while subordinating it, is instructive. In early January 2026, U.S. forces invaded Venezuela and abducted President Nicolás Maduro and his wife to the United States to face criminal charges, after which President Donald Trump said the U.S. would “run” the country and take control of up to 50 million barrels of its oil for sale, for the benefit of Venezuelans and American interests.
Trump has also revived his bid to seize Greenland, a strategic Danish territory in the Arctic, calling it vital to U.S. security and suggesting all options are on the table despite Danish and NATO objections to any annexation. From Chile to Guatemala, Brazil to the Caribbean, the logic was consistent: the sovereignty of smaller nations is negotiable when it conflicts with American priorities. To pretend that Nigeria is immune to similar calculations is to be delusional.
The rise of alternative powers, particularly China, has complicated this old order. Both trade patterns and alliances have shifted. The BRICS bloc, comprising Brazil, Russia, India, China, and South Africa, represents one such counterweight. Nigeria must take this multi-polar reality seriously, not as a romantic rebellion against the West, but as a sober exercise in self-preservation. Alignment, whether with Western powers or emerging blocs, should never be devotional. It must be transactional, disciplined, and rooted in Nigeria’s long-term interests.
What is unforgivable is the growing habit among some politically embittered Nigerians of openly calling for US invasion as a form of domestic revenge. This is especially reckless in an era when American politics, under a resurgent Donald Trump, has shown little patience for diplomatic niceties while glorifying dominance and reduction of nations to strategic assets.
Nigeria’s resource wealth makes it an even more tempting target in a world hungry for energy and strategic advantage. Oil, gas, critical minerals, a massive consumer market, and a pivotal geographic position all make the country too important to ignore. That importance should serve as leverage, but only if Nigerians quit trading their sovereignty for spite and emboldening imperial actors who see Africa as unfinished business.
Every offer of intelligence sharing or security cooperation, whether from Western or Middle Eastern allies, must be handled with extreme care. If poorly managed, it becomes a Trojan horse, entangling domestic security with foreign agendas that may cause instability.
No country survives by hating itself loudly enough to attract a conqueror. Those who cheer hypothetical invasions should remember the ghosts of Libya, Iraq, and Afghanistan. Libya, once a rich and functioning state, became an impoverished slave market and weapons depot. Iraq’s invasion unleashed sectarian demons that still stalk the region while Afghanistan cycled through decades of occupation and collapse.
Empires do not rebuild what they break. They move on. Nigeria must learn from the Afghan experience. In the wake of United States-led NATO’s sudden withdrawal from Afghanistan, Gaisu Yari, an Afghan refugee, now a grantee of the Open Society Foundation (OSF), recalled his flight from his homeland as his darkest hour. As the occupying forces commenced their hasty withdrawal, he had just four hours to pack up the life he had created in Afghanistan into one suitcase. In a pain-filled memoir, Yari revealed how he cried all through his perilous trip to the Kabul airport, reliving the agony of saying goodbye to his tearful mother on the roof of an old house.
He eventually evacuated to Poland, landing with his family in a refugee camp with scarce food and resources. Every new dawn he spends abroad lacerates and leaves a thick welt on his psyche.
Would Nigerians learn from the sad fate of the Yaris of the world? Despite initial patronage by dubious and bleeding-heart foreign press, Afghanistan has faded from global news headlines.
Let us be guided by the Afghans’ experience. Nigerians must shun the lure of anarchy. We must avoid poisonous interventions from foreigners, whose major interest is to abolish our sovereignty, plunder our resources, and strip us bare to devious elements.
Bandits strike Niger school, abducting 315, two days after armed teens murder Vice Principal, abduct 25 girls in Kebbi hostel
Attacks escalate after President Trump’s threat to invade ‘guns-a-blazing’
Parents keep vigil as classrooms turn hunting grounds for terrorists
How citizens pay for safety in blood, money, alcohol, powerbanks, food items
A hush falls over every memory of Hanifa Abubakar, beyond December 2, 2021. The five-year-old stays frozen in time, inside the heart of her loved ones.
Born April 5, 2016, her story begins and ends where her small feet once pattered on the corridors of Noble Kids Academy (NKA), Kwanar Dakata, in Nassarawa Local Government Area (LGA) of Kano State.
Her parents, Abdulsalam and Murjanatu Abubakar, believed that by enrolling her at NKA, they had entrusted her to safety: a classroom she loved, in a school that sheltered her from the world’s ugliness. But ugliness had a key to her classroom, they would find.
On December 2, 2021, Hanifa was abducted outside the Islamic School she attended at Kwanar Dakata, by someone she trusted implicitly: Abdulmalik Tanko, her school proprietor.
Tanko took her to his house at Tudun Murtala and told his wife that she was the daughter of one of his teachers who had traveled. Two days later, he contacted Hanifa’s family, demanding a N6 million ransom. The Abubakars barely scraped N100,000 together. Then, they prayed, hoping that their child’s abductor returned her.
To guarantee her safe return, they reported to the police and the latter deployed Operation Puff Adder, while the Department of State Services (DSS) opened a parallel trail.
For two weeks, Tanko confined Hanifa in his family house, while ransom calls passed between him and her grieving parents.
On December 18, 2021, having realised that Hanifa recognised him, Tanko resolved to kill her.
After he finished drinking tea around 11 pm, he put the remainder in an empty container of Bobo Yoghurt (a yoghurt-based milk drink for children), and poured rat poison inside the tea.
Afterward, he picked her up and told her that he was taking her back to her family house. On their way, he gave Hanifa the drink and she drank it. Then, Tanko told her that he had to pick up something from his school’s branch at Kwanar ‘Yan Gana, also in Nassarawa, Kano.
By the time, they entered the school, Hanifa had died. Tanko deposited her corpse in a sack, and called one Hashim Isyaku, with whom he buried her in a shallow grave within the school premises.
Days later, he returned to her parents to offer sympathy, wearing the mask of a grieving volunteer and the deceased’s favourite school “uncle.”
The Abubakars reported to the police and the latter deployed Operation Puff Adder, while the Department of State Services (DSS) opened a parallel trail. The chase circled Kano’s Nassarawa district until it led to Tanko. As the mask fell, Tanko confessed.
He killed her because she recognised him; he used N71,000 from the ransom to pay teachers in the other branch of his school and so doing avert a “financial crisis.”
The law surprisingly moved swiftly. Within six months, the High Court pronounced judgment: Tanko and his accomplice, Isyaku, were sentenced to death on July 28, 2022. The third conspirator, Fatima Musa, was jailed for two years.
The deceased’s father, Abubakar, commended the court for the judgment, saying that, he was happy his daughter, Hanifa, “gotten justice.”
At least the Abubakars had closure. Unlike Umar Suleiman.
Nine years ago, his little girl vanished without a trace in Kuje, Abuja. Her name is Khadija Suleiman. She was two years old.
It happened on November 19, 2016, while Khadija followed seven-year-old Usman to buy milk cake. As they wandered through the neighbourhood, a woman approached them, flashing biscuits and drinks to earn their trust. As the little ones focused on the treats, the woman nudged Usman aside and disappeared with Khadija into the underbelly of the city.
To date, there is no trace of Khadija. Her abductor hasn’t been arrested. Yet, the longing for her persists in her father’s heart.
Hanifa and Khadija embody two different tragedies yet share the same national story. One crime unfolded in the trusted precincts of her school, the other on a street where no one anticipated a predator. While Hanifa’s abduction and subsequent murder reflect the ghastly manifestation of Nigeria’s kidnapping time bomb, Khadija’s case remains one among many unresolved child kidnapping across Nigeria.
Both reflect Nigeria’s swelling pandemic of abductions: a national emergency reflective in the number of victims. Parents bury their children in real time and families vanish into forests to cautiously negotiate with kidnappers. Advocacy networks track statistics and trends as closure rates decline, leaving families to rely on memory, prayer, WhatsApp group appeals, and the hope that someone, somewhere, sees a photograph and calls the right number.
Victims recount episodes often unrelated to banditry or terrorism but deeply rooted in urban predation and systemic failure, leaving parents like Abubakar and Suleiman at their wits end.
Just recently, bandits struck the St Mary’s Catholic Primary and Secondary School, between 1:00 a.m. and 3:00 am, in Papiri, Agwara council area, Niger state, abducting about 303 students and 12 teachers, according to the Bishop of the Catholic Kontagora Diocese, Bulus Yohanna.
The recent incident occurred, on November 19, two days after Fulani-speaking bandits abducted 25 students of the Government Girls Comprehensive Secondary School, in Maga, Kebbi State.
The raid that shook Kebbi
Nobody, perhaps, will forget in a hurry, the ill-fated morning of November 17. Just about a few minutes past 4 am, gunfire shattered the dawn as armed men stormed Government Girls Comprehensive Secondary School (GGCSS) in Maga town. The assailants, who arrived on motorcyles, scaled the school wall with practiced precision and seized 25 girls in a coordinated sweep.
First stop was the apartment of the Vice Principal (VP) of the school, Hassan Makuku. Speaking to journalists, his widow, Amina, recalled the invasion of her home with the stunned realisation of a woman darting between anguish and healing.
“To Allah we belong, and to Him we shall return,” she said, her invocation worn thin by grief. According to her, she startled awake around 4.00 am, at the creak of the window frame close to their headrest. She nudged her husband awake, alerting him that animals had gained entrance into their apartment.
But as he stirred awake, Hassan and his wife realised that it wasn’t animals but bandits with guns who had forced the door open.
The invaders, speaking Fulani and wearing army camouflage, confronted Hassan, asking if he was the school’s chief security officer. When he confirmed his role, they told him it was his last day.
“They raised their guns to shoot him immediately they got in, but he said, ‘Don’t shoot me, let me get up.’ As he got up, he said, ‘Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar! La’ilaha’illallah Muhammad Rasulullah.’ He instructed me not to cry, that we should continue praying,” said the widow.
While they prayed, the invaders “drew their guns and shot him at close range,” killing him. Subsequently, they dragged her daughter out, forcing her to lead them to the girls’ hostel. Although Amina’s girl escaped under the pretext of easing herself, the bandits made away with 25 girls from the hostel.
Casualties from the encounter include VP Hassan and a security guard, Aliyu Shehu, who later died from gun shot wounds at the hospital.
There is no gainsaying the fate of the Kebbi and Niger abductions -25 and 315 respectively – fold seamlessly into a nationwide tragedy. In the wake of the incidents, the Niger State Governor Mohammed Bago, has directed all schools in the state to shut down until after the New Year, while schools in affected area will be shut until further notice.
Kebbi State Governor Nasir Idris has visited GGCSS, promising swift action, even as security teams comb the area. As rescue efforts persist, at least, two of the girls have reportedly escaped as their captors led them through bush paths. The rest remain wherever the forests conceal them: makeshift camps, tree thickets, and the northern wild.
No ransom demand had been made to affected families in both states at press time. However, in the wake of the girls’ abduction, the Chief of Army Staff, Lieutenant-General Waidi Shaibu, has directed the troops to rescue the girls immediately.
Describing the incidents as unfortunate, he said he would go to any length through the security agencies to secure their quick release. Kebbi witnessed a similar abduction in 2021, when over 100 students were whisked away. Parents paid ransoms for two years before students were returned in batches, some returned with babies after forced marriages, some with trauma too heavy for their young frames.
Across Nigeria, over 1,500 schoolchildren have been kidnapped since the Chibok tragedy, where 276 girls were abducted by terrorist sect, Boko Haram, in April 2014, to Kaduna where 130 schoolchildren resurfaced after weeks of captivity. This is not to forget the myriad cases, often uncounted, where families negotiated ransoms, borrowed from neighbours, sold farmlands and landed property, or surrendered heirlooms and their last shred of dignity to buy back their children.
The grim picture…
A new report by SBM Intelligence paints a devastating picture of Nigeria’s kidnap-for-ransom epidemic, revealing how widespread, indiscriminate and increasingly lethal the crime has become. Between July 2023 and June 2024 alone, the country recorded 1,130 kidnapping incidents involving no fewer than 7,568 victims. During that period, abductors demanded at least N10.99 billion in ransom but received only N1.048 billion, a mere 9.5 percent of what they asked for. Analysts say this sharp gap reflects how kidnappers now cast a wider net rather than selectively targeting wealthy individuals. In previous years, high-profile victims such as business magnates, politicians, and other elites were the preferred targets because they guaranteed high payouts. But with worsening economic hardship, a shrinking pool of affluent Nigerians, and growing desperation among armed groups, the crime has become a mass enterprise. Today, students, villagers, market women, commuters, children and the elderly are just as vulnerable as the political class.
Zamfara State recorded the highest number of incidents with 132 cases and 1,639 victims, followed by Kaduna and Katsina with 113 and 119 incidents, and 1,113 and 887 victims, respectively. The northwest remains the epicentre of the crisis, driven by large-scale assaults on rural communities where bandit groups exploit weak security presence to kidnap entire villages or convoys at once, sometimes forcing captives into labour while waiting for negotiations. The northcentral and southeast also witness mass abductions, though often on a smaller scale.
Tragically, kidnapping has also grown deadlier: 1,056 people were killed in the 1,130 incidents recorded, meaning almost one life is lost for every attempted abduction.
Inside a ransom economy…
Findings revealed that kidnapping gangs operating across the country have escalated ransom demands, with the Federal Capital Territory (FCT) leading with requests totalling N3.13 billion. The highest single demand emerged from Piko community in Bwari, where abductors sought N900 million for 13 residents in May 2024. Another major case was the January abduction of 10 members of the Al-Kadriyar family, during which kidnappers killed two victims to pressure negotiators and raised their demand from N60 million per person to N100 million, totalling N700 million. Although five Abuja cases involved ransom demands of N100 million or more, four occurred in Bwari. The lone exception was a September 2023 abduction in the Abuja Municipal Council, where a kidnapper who initially demanded N100 million settled for N110,000 before his arrest.
Despite the staggering sums demanded in the FCT, kidnappers collected only about five percent—N117.5 million—of the total. The highest confirmed payment was the N55 million crowdfunded by the Al-Kadriyar family after the killing of Nabeeha, contradicting police claims that the victims were rescued. Lagos State followed closely with ransom demands totalling N2.24 billion, though almost all of it stemmed from a single case: the June 2024 abduction of the Fouani family, for whom kidnappers demanded $1.5 million. The only other confirmed ransom request in Lagos was the N20 million demanded after the November 2023 abduction of a government official in Ikorodu.
Kaduna recorded N1.52 billion in ransom demands but confirmed payments of only N32.07 million, though on-the-ground accounts suggest that some payouts were far higher. The mass abduction of 130 pupils in Kuriga contributed N1 billion to the total demand, and eyewitnesses described a large-scale ransom delivery involving SUVs, Hilux trucks, and motorcycles ferrying cash into the forest, evidence that a significant payment was made despite official denials. The highest confirmed payment in the state was N16 million, made in June 2024 to free nine residents of Unguwar Iya Jere in Kagarko LGA.
In the Southeast, kidnappers collected the highest proportion of demanded ransom—N419.2 million of the N645 million requested, representing a 65 percent payment rate. Anambra and Imo accounted for the bulk of these figures, including the high-profile kidnapping of spiritualist Chukwudozie Nwangwu (Akwa Okuko Tiwaraki), whose abductors demanded N300 million but ultimately received N350 million. In Imo, ransom payments often exceeded initial demands, such as the $50,000 paid for the body of retired Major General RC Duru. Across regions, kidnappers continued to request in-kind ransom items—from cigarettes and energy drinks in the South to motorcycles in the North—reflecting differing operational terrains. The review period also recorded rising dangers for ransom intermediaries, at least four of whom were killed and three abducted, including 27-year-old Abba, murdered in Kaduna after delivering N16 million and motorcycles to kidnappers who accused him of being disrespectful.
There is no gainsaying kidnapping in Nigeria occasionally takes a strange turn, with abductors now demanding not only cash but everyday household items as part of ransom settlements. In one widely reported case in the South-West, a family was forced to provide N3.5 million alongside a carton of Schnapps, 30 litres of palm oil, 10 tubers of yam, and a keg of vegetable oil before three victims were released.
Similar incidents have seen kidnappers ask for power banks, phone chargers, bags of garri, cooking oil, dried fish, groundnuts, alcohol and other provision-store staples. Security observers say this shift reflects the deepening economic hardship facing criminal groups who operate for survival as much as profit.
The development also highlights how unpredictable and unregulated hostage negotiations have become. Victims’ families describe kidnappers barging into negotiations with long shopping lists, sometimes requesting foodstuffs because they spend weeks hiding in the forest without reliable supplies.
Some analysts note that these unusual ransom demands demonstrate the collapsing financial value of criminal targets, as fewer victims can afford large cash payments. Whatever the motivation, the result is the same: Nigeria now faces a kidnapping industry in which abductors bargain in naira, food items and household essentials, further illustrating how deeply insecurity and economic decline have reshaped crime in the country.
Victim recounts 11-day ordeal in bandits’ den
A survivor of a deadly ambush and kidnapping incident in northern Nigeria has emotionally recounted how he spent 11 agonising days in captivity after gunmen opened fire on his convoy, killing four members of his team.
Speaking with The Nation, the man, who had travelled to attend to family obligations following the death of his mother, said the attack occurred on Friday, July 17, while returning from a visit.
“We were close to our destination when they laid ambush,” he said. “They came out of the bush and started shooting. My vehicle was hit massively. About three or four of our men died from bullet wounds. But God saved my life.”
He described how the attackers forced the survivors into the forest, where they were held from October 17 to October 27, surrounded by armed men day and night. “We spent 11 days and 11 nights in the bush. They beat and tortured us. Those guys were merciless. But God Almighty gave me strength,” he said.
The ordeal intensified when negotiations for ransom began. Captors forced hostages to call their pastors, families and employers to raise money for their release.
“At one point, I wondered why they insisted I must call my pastor,” he said. “But I obeyed. And surprisingly, the pastor picked up, and God moved. They reduced the ransom themselves.”
Church officials later revealed the ransom demands fluctuated, starting around N10 million before being negotiated down. Eventually, N2.5 million was raised to secure the man’s release,far lower than sums other victims were forced to pay.
The Kogi conundrum
Against the backdrop of studies revealing that women are more frequently kidnapped than men, the macabre reality manifested in the recent abduction of six female senior directors of the Federal Ministry of Defense, on November 10, 2025, along the Kabba–Yagba highway. The victims, Mrs Ngozi Ibeziakor, Mrs. C.A. Emeribe, Mrs. Helen Ezeakor, Mrs. C.A. Ladoye, Mrs. J.A. Onwuzurike and Mrs. Catherine O. Essien, all female staff, were travelling from Lagos to Abuja for a directorate-level promotion examination when their convoy was intercepted on the forested Kabba–Lokoja route.
Militants suspected to be Fulani ethnic armed groups operating along the Kabba–Yagba corridor have demanded a N150 million ransom for the release of their captives. The abduction comes barely weeks after the United States designated Nigeria a Country of Particular Concern (CPC) over worsening attacks on Christian communities, a move analysts believe may have emboldened armed groups seeking to pressure or embarrass the federal government.
Indeed, communities along the Kabba–Lokoja axis say kidnapping and banditry have surged in recent months, turning one of Kogi State’s most important highways into a corridor of fear. The route, which connects Kabba through Yagba East and down toward Lokoja, winds through forest belts, broken road sections and sparsely manned checkpoints. Much of the stretch lacks surveillance systems or rapid emergency response, leaving motorists vulnerable to ambush.
Survivors say attackers typically shoot at vehicles to force them to stop before herding abductees into the surrounding bush, where negotiations begin under armed guard. The latest incident underscores the growing brazenness of violent militias, the precarious state of interstate travel even for senior officials, and the shrinking influence of government authority across Nigeria’s central heartland.
A nationwide emergency
Contrary to the widespread belief that kidnap-for-ransom is a criminal enterprise rooted in Niger Delta militancy or Fulani militia in northern Nigeria, recent patterns show it has evolved into a nationwide emergency cutting across geography and ethnicity. Rising incidents in the South, particularly the Southeast, underscore the uncomfortable truth: kidnapping has become a domestic industry run largely by locals.
In July 2025, Anambra State Governor Chukwuma Charles Soludo made a startling disclosure at a town hall meeting with Anambra indigenes in the United States. “Ninety-nine point nine nine per cent of kidnappers and other criminals arrested in Anambra since I assumed office have been Igbos,” he said, stressing that locals now abduct and kill their own people, not so-called invading Fulani herdsmen. Soludo noted that security forces had dismantled numerous camps operated by homegrown criminals, some of whom travel from neighbouring states specifically “to join the business.”
These individuals, he said, purchase motorcycles, relocate to Anambra, receive training in the bush, and embed themselves in a well-organised kidnap-for-profit network. He accused separatist groups in the region of hijacking agitation for self-determination and turning it into a lucrative personal enterprise built on extortion and abduction.
In February 2025, the Anambra State Police Command announced a major breakthrough in the investigation of the murder of Hon. Justice Azuka, Labour Party chieftain and lawmaker representing Onitsha North Constituency 1. Azuka had been abducted on December 24, 2024, and his decomposing body was recovered on February 6, 2025, near the 2nd Niger Bridge by a joint team of police and vigilante operatives. The police, led by Commissioner Nnaghe Obono Itam, arrested nine suspects and recovered two pump-action rifles. One suspect sustained a gunshot wound during a gun duel with operatives. The suspects, aged between 19 and 30, included several locals and one identified as the “most notorious,” bearing a tattoo reading “No Peace 4 the Government.”
Anambra’s notoriety recalls the saga of Chukwudumeme “Evans” Onwuamadike, the billionaire kidnap kingpin from Nnewi, arrested in Lagos, in 2017. Known for multimillion-dollar ransoms, Evans was convicted in 2022 and sentenced to life imprisonment. Though he now claims reformation, his story further highlights Nigeria’s entrenched kidnapping economy.
Taming the siege
Although the country has recorded some achievements against insecurity including the killings of over 15,000 insurgents in the North-east, the arrests of Ansaru leaders and the killings of bandits kingpins, the continued waves of violence put these feats to test.
Security experts have advised the government to address the growing threat of kidnapping and restore a sense of security to its citizens.
In the wake of the crisis, President Bola Tinubu has dispatched Vice President Kashim Shettima to Kebbi State to meet with grieving families of the abducted schoolgirls, likewise the Minister of Defence, Bello Matawalle. He also promised that the government is working to ensure their safe and swift return.
Tinubu lamented that the abduction occurred “despite intelligence warnings of a possible strike by the bandits,” even as he commended the Kebbi State Governor Mohammed Nasir Idris “for the efforts made to avert the kidnapping.”
Describing the attack as a painful setback, the President urged communities—particularly those in security-vulnerable areas—to work more closely with security operatives in order to avert or successfully quell similar attacks.
Between June and July 2025, the Nigeria Police Force arrested 5,488 suspects and rescued 170 kidnapped victims, according to the Inspector-General of Police Kayode Egbetokun. The IGP detailed nationwide breakthroughs including foiling a kidnap attempt in Kogi, seizing arms from traffickers in Benue, dismantling a kidnap ring in Edo, rescuing ambushed passengers in Taraba, breaking a trafficking ring involving 46 Ghanaians through Interpol collaboration, and taking down a cybercrime syndicate in Jigawa, alongside the recovery of 316 firearms, 2,884 rounds of ammunition, and 216 stolen vehicles.
Experts suggest a multi-faceted approach to combat kidnapping for ransom in Nigeria, combining security enhancements, economic interventions, judicial reforms, and community engagement. A key consensus is that good governance is essential to resolving the underlying issues.
Doyin Olowoyo, a security analyst and private security proprietor, said Nigeria must overhaul its security system with modern surveillance and intelligence-led tactics to stay ahead of kidnappers. He noted that demand for private bodyguards is rising because “citizens no longer trust that the state can protect them,” arguing for nationwide deployment of drones, CCTV networks, and AI monitoring, alongside specialized anti-kidnapping units trained like those in Mexico and Colombia. He argued that Nigeria must strengthen institutional discipline and eliminate corruption to ensure that security funding results in real operational capacity. He said, porous borders, unregulated motorcycle use, and lack of fuel controls enable kidnappers’ mobility and must be addressed, while intelligence sharing across agencies must improve. Beyond security measures, he called for economic initiatives that reduce youth recruitment into gangs, a shift toward cashless transactions to disrupt ransom payments, stronger financial transparency, and judicial reforms imposing stiffer penalties, stressing that government, communities, businesses, and civil society must work together to restore deterrence.
On his part, Kunle Gbadebo, a retired police inspector now in private security in Seychelles, noted that security forces have manpower but lack coordination, insisting that “money must stop disappearing at the top.” He recommended better funded tactical units, professional hostage negotiators, better federal-state synergy, and deeper integration of community intelligence networks, which are the most powerful tool in preventing attacks. Gbadebo also suggested stiffer penalties for offenders, structured trauma support for victims, and greater investment in rural economic opportunities to weaken criminal recruitment. While supporting reduced reliance on ransom payments, he acknowledged the ethical dilemma, adding that lasting progress requires Nigerian-led solutions reinforced by international training, and united action across government, the private sector, religious groups, civil society, and local communities.
Chorus of the lost
The names stack upon one another: Hanifa, Khadija, the 25 girls of Maga, Chibok’s 276 girls, Dapchi’s 110 girls, Jangebe’s 279 girls, Bethel Baptist’s 110 pupils, the recently abducted students of
St Mary’s Catholic School in Papiri, and thousands yet unreported and forgotten.
Kidnap for ransom has carved Nigeria open, exposing its soft underbelly: its weak institutions, exhausted security apparatus, abandoned families, underfunded investigations, and bruised faith.
Trust has become a dangerous currency in Nigeria. Hanifa trusted the man who opened her classroom door. Khadija trusted the woman who bought her biscuits. The Kebbi girls trusted the walls of their hostel. Parents send their children into the world with prayers clutched like shields. They watch them walk away and hold their breath until they return. Some never return.
Hanifa’s story rattled the country, her photos trended, even as more than 15,000 tweets and #hashtags bore her name. The Court delivered justice; yet the digital storm could not reverse the ravage of the rat poison or restore the heartbeat silenced by Tanko.
No magnitude of outrage or thundering procession of tweets could bring little Hanifa back to life. These days, it is hard to stare at her pictures. Photographs of her in her final years are so incredibly hard to look at. Yet, her father, Abubakar, relives her final words to him in successive but bittersweet recalls.
As she prepared to go to school on that particular Saturday, December 2, 2021, she pranced over to him, saying she was prepared to go for her Islamic lessons. He, in turn, told her to pray and she did in his presence. Afterwards, she turned to her mother and said, “Please, buy me Alewar madara (milk candy) on your way back from the market.”
Today, Hanifa’s parents must relive such delightful moments spent with her as a necessary rite of remembering. Beyond nostalgia, the memories trigger tears. Perhaps because all they can do is remember her; they can no longer experience her.
Still, her name will live in their prayers, like a plea that never gets answered.
It is sheer folly to watch a house burn while bickering over who should hold the bucket of water for quenching the fire. Such is the madness that has gripped Nigeria for decades; generations chanting placebo therapies prescribed by scheming colonists for the country’s behavioural cancer. The land is rich, but the minds are colonised. The soil is fertile but poisoned by imported seeds of thought.
Nigeria’s corruption, for instance, is not just a matter of flawed governance, but a crisis of ethics exacerbated by an inordinate lust for expedience. The 2023 National Bureau Statistics (NBS) corruption data reveal a worrisome trend: over 87 million bribes paid, amounting to over $1.26 billion, mostly money stolen by fathers, mothers, uncles, aunts, grannies, clergy, principals, and officials. How did we get here?
We got here because Nigeria’s postcolonial elite, groomed in the mould of their colonisers, learned to loot with logic and a grin. They speak of “efficiency” and “modernisation” while defunding schools and pawning national resources to foreign interests. They are dangerous for their dexterity at dismemberment. It is not the devil that plagues Nigeria; it is a culture of systemic dysfunction rooted in the disintegration of social conscience.
Nations do not emerge fully formed from constitutions or borderlines. They are shaped by the character of their citizenry. And the latter, in turn, are shaped by their most intimate institution: the family. The family is the receptacle in which the values of a nation are first kindled or corrupted. It is where character and social conscience are either nurtured or strangled in the cradle. The integrity of our public life, therefore, depends on the morality of our private lives.
Family is key. From this sacred unit, a people’s sense of self, place, and purpose begins. If the family is compromised, then society itself becomes a ghost town of ethics: full of laws but lacking justice and compassion; rich in rhetoric, but bankrupt of vision. Societal growth, therefore, cannot be engineered solely by policies or economic indices. It must be cultivated through the slow, careful evolution of the human spirit. Through education, yes, but not the kind that alienates the learner from their origins.
Francis Nyamnjoh, in his excavation of Africa’s epistemological crisis, recalls Okot p’Bitek’s Song of Lawino with painful clarity. Ocol, the educated African elite, emerges as a walking corpse; a clearing agent for foreign ideologies and an enemy to his kin. His education does not liberate; it enslaves. It turns him against his wife, his people, and ultimately, himself.
This is the face of the Nigerian elite: fluent in multiple languages and philosophies but unable to communicate with their grandparents; draped in academic garlands but disconnected from indigenous wisdom; eloquent before foreign audiences but dismissive of local realities. They are, as p’Bitek lamented, hens that eat their own eggs.
The fetishisation of colonial values of beauty and notions of African reality has entrenched a psychological war on the African self. It is no surprise, then, that many Nigerians continue to bleach their skin, speak with borrowed accents, and look to the West for validation. Modernity, as defined by the West, becomes the Nigerian holy grail. Young Nigerians are taught to despise our histories, distrust our systems of knowledge, and to measure success by how far they can flee from our roots. In so doing, they become, like Ocol, a walking corpse, alive to foreign endorsement, but dead to native truth.
This crisis manifests across every sphere: from university syllabuses that erase indigenous knowledge systems to national policies crafted in donor-pleasing jargon. Even religious institutions, once cultural sanctuaries, have turned into imported franchises of guilt and prosperity.
Apollos Nwauwa rightly posits that Western education produced a contradictory elite in West Africa; one that served as both an agent of colonisation and nationalism. But nationalism, in our case, did not mature into sovereignty of thought. Instead, it hardened into mimicry. We changed flags, not philosophies. We rewrote our constitutions but kept the same epistemic shackles. What we call modernisation has often been little more than domesticated colonisation—metacolonialism, as Hussein Bulhan rightly names it.
This metacolonialism is no longer imposed with rifles and chains, but through curriculum, cinema, policy consultancy, and international development models. It creates a class of elites who worship at the altar of foreign approval; those who speak of development only in the metrics handed down by British colonialists. They are the Ocols of our generation, trained to quote statistics, but unable to feel the pulse of their people.
Thus, while the skyscrapers rise and the GDP is celebrated, the Nigerian mind continues to rot. We build flyovers over potholes of the mind. We chase digital revolutions while ignoring the intellectual genocide that is the continued erasure of indigenous knowledge.
It’s about time we reclaimed Nigerianness. We must start prioritising what we think of ourselves over what the West thinks of us. This recovery requires a radical revaluation of knowledge, a turning away from borrowed epistemologies toward what Nyamnjoh calls a reality larger than logic. We must reprioritise native philosophies over Western syllogisms.
We must dismantle the myth that science, stripped of ethics, context, and community, is the only path to progress; we must pay attention to knowledge systems that value Nigerian reality over Western logic. This means listening to market women who manage micro-economies more efficiently than government programs. It means engaging hunters, herbalists, griots, and artisans—custodians of ecological wisdom, history, and sustainable living. It means revisiting the shrines of thought that colonialism labelled “backwards” and asking: what did we lose when we stopped kneeling there?
We must re-educate our educators, decolonise our curricula, and refuse the seduction of validation by foreign wile. A child who learns to love their name will not be ashamed of their accent. A nation that learns to love its essence will not need to bleach its soul.
We must stop treating ordinary Nigerians as disposable extras in the theatre of governance. The people who truly challenge the status quo: those who resist the prescriptive gaze of foreign-funded NGOs and speak truth in idioms absent in Western textbooks, must be centred in the national discourse. It is from these everyday realists that a true renaissance will manifest.
The media must also unshackle itself from the imperial narrative machine. Too long has it amplified the metacoloniser’s myth of a Messianic Europe, while muting narratives of African resistance, resilience, and rebirth. The press must recover its role as griot and conscience, not just a content factory.
There is a future worth dreaming of: one where our development models are rooted in communal values; where schools teach both code and calculus alongside cosmology and craft; where governance is not about appeasing international donors, but serving the child hawking bananas on a dusty road in Madagali, Agbado-Ijaiye and Sankwala. Such a future demand that we stop waiting to be invited to someone else’s table and start building our own.
It’s about time we dislodged the clearing officers and coronated Ocols using Nigerian institutions as pit latrines of foreign ideologies. Shall we instead cultivate a new generation of thinkers? Those who can walk between worlds without losing their way, who can marry tradition with transformation, while acknowledging that progress is not a synonym for alienation.
Civilisations are rarely built with concrete and currency alone, but with narratives, rituals, and native wisdom. Nigeria’s rebirth will come from memory, not mimicry.
They smelled blood and gathered like hyenas. Not in the savannahs of Sambisa or the dry grasslands of Konduga, but in the digital amphitheatre of Nigeria’s public opinion: Facebook, Twitter, YouTube, the press, and WhatsApp.
At the centre of this frenzy was Professor Ishaq Oloyede, the Registrar of the Joint Admissions and Matriculation Board (JAMB). A technical glitch during the 2025 Unified Tertiary Matriculation Examination led to irregularities in the scores of thousands of candidates. It was later discovered that over 20 suspects, including some school proprietors, had hacked into JAMB’s server to fraudulently boost the scores of “special” candidates, charging fees ranging from N700,000 to N2 million.
The culprits reportedly infiltrated the national exam board, corrupted the computer-based testing system, and sullied the hopes of thousands of candidates. Yet, the national outrage did not pivot when this truth emerged. It simply fizzled.
Oloyede cried, perhaps out of genuine remorse or frustration, but Nigerians were merciless. They called for his dismissal, demanding his head on a pike of shame, despite his peerless exploits as JAMB registrar. A teenager, reportedly distraught by his UTME results, took his own life, further aggravating the rage of a populace milking the tragedy for all its worth. May Almighty God comfort the family of the deceased. No doubt, the teenager’s death was avoidable and heartbreaking.
But the glitch, however lamentable, was not unprecedented. In 2017, the Educational Testing Service (ETS) in the United States had to cancel thousands of Graduate Record Examination (GRE) results due to server breaches. Similar mishaps have occurred in the UK’s A-Level exams. Technology fails. Systems collapse. But only in Nigeria do we drag a man to the digital square and skin him in public view, while conveniently ignoring the syndicates who orchestrated the sabotage. The Department of State Security (DSS) must eventually make public the identities of the culprits, at least, to silence the drone of scepticism trailing the news of their arrest.
This is Nigeria, where the appetite for bad news has morphed into a national delicacy. It is no longer mere pessimism; it is schadenfreude in full bloom. An emotional disfigurement where citizens derive pleasure from the collapse of their own public institutions.
When news broke that Nigeria had quietly repaid its loan to the International Monetary Fund (IMF), one would expect relief. Instead, the public discourse quickly mutated into denial and deflection. Fact was contorted into fiction as influential voices, including supposed intellectuals, journalists, and opposition politicians, spread the falsehood that Nigeria still owed the IMF. Official documents from the Ministry of Finance and the Debt Management Office confirmed the debt repayment, yet the people preferred the lie because it was juicier.
Why? Because many Nigerians, particularly the vocal digital elite, suffer from a curious affliction: a longing to see Nigeria fail if it means the politicians they hate are discredited in the process. This dubious disillusionment and selective outrage are weaponised along party lines. We reserve our pitchforks for the ruling class only when our political enemies are in power. The revolutionaries of 2023, it turns out, are now the cheerleaders of chaos in 2025. Patriots by day, partisans by night.
Consider, too, the more recent uproar about a supposed $21 billion loan by President Bola Tinubu. Social media buzzed with fury as influencers, commentators, and news media bemoaned a purported bid by the president to plunge Nigeria into a $21 billion debt. And yet, once again, the truth was sacrificed on the altar of sensation.
The $21 billion figure is not an actual loan, but the aggregate borrowing ceiling outlined in Nigeria’s Medium-Term Expenditure Framework (MTEF) for both federal and state governments over the next three years. In reality, only $1.23 billion can be borrowed in 2025, and that figure includes borrowing by all 36 states and the Federal Government, across every geopolitical zone. But Nigerians did not care to check. They shared the headlines, forwarded the falsehoods, and relished the chaos.
Nigerians do not read. Most would rather not read the MTEF, the Appropriation Act, or even official communiqués. Instead, they rely on emotionally charged interpretations from partisan sources. We embrace anti-Nigerian narratives because they fit the tragic scripts we have already written in our minds. We do not wait to verify; we prefer to vilify. Shall we care to get informed, at least?
The true crisis is not technological, fiscal, or political. It is emotional. Nigerians are caught in a destructive sentimental loop, forever swinging between hope and despair. But rather than seek healing, we find solace in cynicism. We make bonfires of bad news, and subconsciously pray for collapse, that we might be vindicated in our pessimism.
This culture of cynicism is born of suffering and suspicion. Decades of misrule, corruption and failed promises have conditioned us to believe that nothing good can come from Nigeria. And when something good does come, like debt repayment or a public official taking responsibility, we dismiss it as propaganda or performance. We are allergic to good news because it disrupts our grievance narratives.
Why did Nigerians go silent after the arrest of 20 hackers who compromised JAMB’s systems? Why are we not celebrating the efficiency of the DSS and Police in apprehending the criminals who tried to discredit a national institution? Why are we louder in condemnation than we are in commendation?
The answer is disquieting. We do not want redemption. We want revenge; revenge on a state that failed us and a leadership that dashed our dreams. But revenge, when misdirected, becomes self-immolation. We are burning the house because we were denied a room.
And so, the same voices that mocked Oloyede’s tears now rustle silence as JAMB’s attackers are exposed. The same timelines that trended #JAMBFailedUs are now eerily quiet in the face of vindication. The hyenas have fed, and now they slink away into the shadows, waiting for the next wound to lick.
To stem the tide of cynicism, Nigeria’s leadership must govern more humanely and communicate better. Perception is power. The government must establish a National Information Literacy Campaign comprising a coalition of ministries, media houses, and civil society tasked to teach citizens how to verify information, read official documents, and engage responsibly on social media.
There is a need to create a Unified Government Fact-check Portal, a centralised platform where Nigerians can verify breaking news, track ongoing investigations, and access documents like the MTEF, Appropriation Acts, and debt records in simple, digestible formats.
We must incentivise reading and data literacy via relatable channels like entertainment, gamification, and social media, to encourage understanding of public documents and policy summaries.
When a public servant acts with honesty or when institutions self-correct, as JAMB did with its resit examination, the government and media must celebrate these actions with the same intensity we condemn failure. We must teach Nigeria to hear the quiet footsteps of integrity alongside the crash of corruption.
The state must close the emotional distance between itself and the citizenry. Only then will Nigerians begin to see it as a trustee, not a tormentor. Every democracy is fragile, but its greatest strength lies in the people. If Nigerians lose faith in the country, no textbook reform will suffice.
It’s about time we confronted our biases and cynicism, and ask: Do we want a better country, or do we just want our preferred side to win?
A labyrinth of broken promises, bureaucratic neglect leaves pensioners in despair
The Silent Thieves of Twilight: Arithmetic of Nigeria’s Pension Fraud
Sunday Oboite hit the floor with a hard thud, his clatter reverberating through the large hall—a threnody for those who still clung to life, while dying to receive their pension.
At 1:20 pm, Oboite fell, not the thump of flesh on cold concrete, but the crash of hope shattering on the granite of a broken vow.
The 75-year-old had been waiting, silently, with hundreds of fellow retirees who had gathered in the dimly-lit hall of the Oredo Local Council Secretariat in Benin City, Edo State, to receive their meagre pensions after a ten-month delay.
But as the sun arched high over the Secretariat, Oboite slumped forward, his body no longer able to bear the burden of waiting.
His fellow retirees scrambled—some to help, others fleeing, as if falling was contagious.
At precisely 1:38 pm, doctors would confirm what every pensioner in that hall already knew: Oboite was dead, not from a stroke, nor from an unforeseen illness, but from starvation—starved of sustenance, of both food and dignity.
His death arrived as a brutal punctuation to the long, agonising sentence that was his final years, triggering a question that pierced the heart of Nigeria’s moral fibre: “Must the government starve its elderly to death?”
Oboite had served the government for decades, working in the Works Department of the Oredo Local Council. Like many of his colleagues, he had believed in the promise that at the end of his service, his twilight years would be spent in peace, supported by the pension he had earned. Instead, he found himself trapped in a cruel purgatory, waiting in vain for months, as hunger gnawed at his insides. The pension arrears, which had become his lifeline, dangled just out of reach, a cruel tease that would eventually cost him his life.
The morning of his death, Oboite had arrived at the secretariat at 8 am, hoping to be screened and finally paid his dues. But bureaucracy, as always, was the slowest-moving beast. After hours of waiting, pensioners were directed to a hall a hundred meters away. Oboite, too weak to walk any further, had chosen to wait behind, his body betraying him in its exhaustion. By 1:20 pm, he had collapsed. By 1:38 pm, the doctor’s cold pronouncement: Dead.
“It was hunger that killed him,” John Eweka, a fellow retiree, whispered bitterly, his voice cracking like old leather in the heat. “Many of us can no longer afford to eat. We begged for what is ours, and they denied us even that.”
Four hundred and fifty four days later, Oboite’s body still laid cold in the morgue, abandoned like the promises of the government that failed him. His family could not afford the burial costs, and his colleagues, equally impoverished, could do nothing to help. Even the eventual promise of financial support from the Edo State Governor Godwin Obaseki felt hollow, a posthumous mockery for a man who had died of neglect.
Before Oboite, there was Olusa Ayodele, an 80-year-old man who collapsed under the weight of government indifference. Ayodele had retired from the Federal Ministry of Agriculture, only to face a fate worse than the toils of his youth. On October 10, 2011, Ayodele traveled a painful journey of hours from his village of Akunnu-Akoko to Akure, where he was due to undergo yet another “verification” for pension arrears that had long been owed. Fevered and weak, Ayodele arrived at the verification centre only to vomit twice—a grim harbinger of the end. His son, Deji, cried for help, but none came.
Like Oboite, Ayodele died waiting, his body abandoned on the bare floor for hours as his fellow retirees quietly maintained their spots on the queue, heartbroken yet hard-pressed to complete their screening.
Ayodele’s death, like Oboite’s, was a slow, bureaucratic “murder” executed in the guise of “verification” and administrative delays.
Nigeria’s retired workforce, now shadows of their former selves, suffer these in the twilight of their existence. The reality is, however, darker than any statistic could capture, with over one million retirees left stranded, awaiting pensions that may never come.
The Curse of African Alliance
Many retirees are forced to endure a life of misery and starvation as imposed by systemic and administrative failures. One of the most egregious examples of the system’s failures can be found in the recent collapse of the African Alliance Insurance Plc. Pensioners, who trusted the company with their life savings, now find themselves destitute as the company falters under the weight of insolvency.
For months, retirees flocked to African Alliance offices, hoping for a glimmer of hope. Instead, they found the doors locked, the offices deserted, and their pensions vanished into the ether. “We have been abandoned,” lamented Monsurat Idris, a retired teacher from Dopemu, Lagos. Like so many others, she had switched to an annuity plan, promised “salary for life,” only to watch helplessly as her entitlements dwindled into nothingness.
Idris recalled how African Alliance’s representatives persuaded her and fellow retirees to dump the programmed withdrawal plan recommended by the state government for the firm’s annuity plan. They even encouraged several retirees to borrow money while waiting for their entitlements. When those entitlements finally arrived, most of it vanished into debt repayment, leaving retirees even poorer than before. The once-thriving insurance firm now stands as a monument to failure, with its top executives deserting their posts while pensioners weep over unpaid claims.
Musiliu Ganiu, a retired teacher from Lagos, while reliving his nightmare with the insurer, disclosed that since March, many retirees haven’t received a dime from the firm. He lamented that African Alliance promised him and his colleagues lifelong payments. But the insurer is now in distress, having shut down its headquarters, its promises dissolving into thin air.
In August 2023, pensioners in Lagos State, under the Contributory Pension Scheme (CPS), made a desperate appeal to Governor Babajide Sanwo-Olu, to come to their aid. In a letter dated August 20, 2023, the Nigerian Union of Pensioners (NUP), Lagos State Chapter, lamented their unpaid pensions dating back to 2007, leaving retirees impoverished.
Stripped of gratuities and forced to subsist on meagre payments, many like a former Director on grade level 17, now receive only N70,000 monthly, while lower-level workers earn as little as N12,000—or none at all in the case of those on grade levels 1 to 4.
“We receive an average of ten notifications of death of our members on a monthly basis,” the union wrote, underscoring the severity of the situation. They attribute these deaths to the economic hardship faced by retirees, who are unable to keep up with rising living costs, especially in light of the recent fuel subsidy removal.
The letter, signed by the NUP’s Chairman, Omisande Michael and General Secretary, Olagbaye Johnson, included a plea for immediate action, including the urgent payment of outstanding pensions dating back to 2020, a review of the pension payment system, and the reinstatement of gratuity for all categories of workers under the CPS.
Subsequently, the Lagos State Governor, Babajide Sanwo-Olu, in a tweet on February 11, 2024, announced that Lagos would begin payment of N3.1 billion to over 1,000 pensioners under the Contributory Pension Scheme (CPS).
Abebi Adebola, a retired school administrator and Headteacher in Lagos said that, so far, Lagos State has performed most commendably among the 36 states of the federation, in the way it treats its pensioners. Save for some occasional hiccups, retirees receive their money at due time.
According to her, some of her colleagues who retired in 2012 were luckier as they received 50 per cent initial lump payment of their entitlement in 2013, one year after their retirement. However, retirees like Adebola, who retired in 2015, had to wait for a gruelling 46 months before they received their gratuity. When they did, they were paid a paltry 25 percent of their entitlement.
The scale of the tragedy stretches far beyond individual stories. In Kwara State, over a million pensioners, precisely 1,126,000 retirees died between January 2015 and February 2017, according to the state chapter of the National Union of Pensioners (NUP) – a staggering toll that reflects the sheer depth of the crisis.
The life of a Nigerian pensioner is indeed, one bitter struggle, where survival hinges on a meager stipend of N500, N10,560, N25,000, or at best, N70,000 per month. Even this paltry amount arrives unpredictably. “The pension offers little succor,” laments Florence Alogba, 62. “It is never enough, especially with the rising cost of food.” The delay in payment compounds the hardship. “By the time the stipend comes,” said Foluso Okin, a retired principal, “it goes toward debts—medical bills, school fees, loans. We never enjoy it. They said a teacher’s reward is in heaven. But I want my reward on this earth.”
For some, the burden of an unemployed family adds to the weight. Idowu Ojo, a retired teacher, recounted the anguish of his unemployed sons: “My daughter’s husband works, but the whole family depends on her. We try not to be a burden, but the government’s failure forces our hand.”
Beyond the unpaid pensions, retirees face another torment: corruption. In southwestern Nigeria, retired teachers must bribe pension staff to process their files. “We pay N50,000 just to have our files treated,” revealed a retired primary school teacher, pleading anonymity.
Worse still is the Ebonyi State scandal, where extortionists in the audit department reportedly demanded money to process the files of retirees. One of the retirees who was not pleased with the new arrangement, Benedict Anyigor, said that he had already paid N50,000 but his file was withheld by the accused officials of the State’s Audit Department.
“I was supposed to be paid N4,787,081. Out of this amount, government has paid me N800,000 but one of the officials in the state audit and his colleague who have been processing my file for payment, said I should settle them with 200,000 out of this amount for immediate payment or my file will not be sent to the Head of Service for the payment.
“I have already given them N50,000 out of the N200,000. I told them that I will pay the remaining N150, 000 after receiving full payment of the gratuity from the government which they have started paying. But he increased the amount of settlement to N500,000 and insisted that I must pay him the amount before he releases my file to the Head of Service for the payment and I don’t have the amount. I retired as a Level 8, Step 15 officer at the General Hospital, Onueke in Ezza South Local Government Area of the state,” he said.
Reacting to the allegations, the state’s Auditor General at the period, Innocent Nweda, vowed to dismiss the culprits. He promised to investigate the alleged scandal stressing that in 2012, about four principal members of staff of the Audit were dismissed for a similar crime.
A larger gale of corruption sweeps through the pensions office of the Federal Civil Service. Nigerians won’t forget in a hurry, the scandalous case of Abdulrasheed Maina, the former Director of the Customs, Immigration, and Prisons Pensions Office (CIPPO) and Chairman of the Pension Reform Task Team (PRTT). In 2013, Maina fled the country after being implicated in a N2.1 billion pension fraud by the EFCC. Despite public outrage, he was secretly reinstated and promoted under former President Muhammadu Buhari’s administration, only to flee again to avoid prosecution.
Maina was eventually sentenced to eight years in prison after a two-year trial. Justice Okon Abang criticised the United Bank of Africa (UBA) and Fidelity Bank, accusing them of being “conduits” for the fraud and suggesting they should have been charged. The court found that Maina used fake accounts, with the help of relatives in the banking sector, to siphon funds from pensioners, many of whom died in poverty.
Justice Abang condemned Maina’s lavish lifestyle, noting he lived in luxury abroad, while pensioners suffered. He emphasised that Maina’s salary of just over N300,000 could never have amounted to the N2 billion he stole, calling the case a reflection of the moral decay in society. The judge urged for national reform and stronger action against dishonesty.
And still, the system remains unchanged. The National Pension Commission (NPC), created to oversee the Contributory Pension Scheme (CPS), has failed to enforce its own regulations. Many states have not even adopted the CPS, instead continuing under the archaic Defined Benefits Scheme (DBS), where pensions are either delayed or denied outright.
The promises of reform—like those made by African Alliance—ring hollow in the ears of retirees. NAICOM, the industry regulator, has issued ultimatums, demanding that pension fund administrators clear their debts and settle arrears, but the threats go unenforced. Instead, retirees are left to live—or die—without the money they were guaranteed.
It is a nationwide plague, a systemic failure that leaves millions of retirees in the grip of hunger, illness, and despair. The Contributory Pension Scheme (CPS), introduced in 2004 and amended in 2014, was supposed to bring transparency and security to the retirement process. Yet, 20 years later, the reality has fallen far short of that promise.
The Arithmetic of Pension Fraud in Nigeria
The arithmetic of pension fraud in Nigeria unfolds like a tragic tale of exploitation, where Pension Fund Administrators (PFAs) weave intricate schemes to rob pensioners of their hard-earned savings. These institutions, entrusted with securing the future of retirees, instead cloak their actions in secrecy, siphoning wealth from the vulnerable. To unravel the mechanisms by which they prey upon the unsuspecting – hidden behind veils of fees, mismanagement, and outright theft – is to embark on a jarring journey into the bowels of an arithmetical con.
Beneath the surface of every pensioner’s account lies an unseen hand, quietly taking its due, argued Khadijah Ilemobaye, an Actuarian scientist cum insurance auditor. Explaining further, she said, a pensioner, with ₦10 million in savings, unknowingly surrenders 1.5% of that sum each year—₦150,000 in annual fees that slip through the cracks of undisclosed charges. Over a decade, this amounts to ₦1.5 million, silently drained without the pensioner’s knowledge, a slow bleed of their future security.
The PFAs, like the proverbial masters of illusion, invest pensioners’ funds in low-yield government securities. While these investments generate meager returns, the PFAs impose high management fees, further eroding the value of these already modest gains. Imagine a pension fund of ₦5 million, invested in a bond yielding a mere 6%. The pensioner earns ₦300,000 per year, yet the PFA takes 2%—₦100,000—as its fee. The pensioner is left with only ₦200,000, believing the returns are better than they are, while the true cost is hidden beneath layers of financial jargon and opaque reports.
In the dark recesses of the system, corrupt officials conjure “ghost pensioners” into existence. These phantom figures, fictitious names on payrolls, are used to divert vast sums of money. A PFA managing 100,000 real pensioners might fabricate 10,000 ghost pensioners, each assigned ₦500,000 in fraudulent pensions. In this spectral arithmetic, ₦5 billion vanishes, spirited away into the coffers of those who feed on the trust of the system, leaving the pension fund diminished by this insidious scam.
Time, in the hands of the PFAs, often becomes a weapon of control as payments due to pensioners are deliberately delayed, extending the period during which the PFA controls the funds. A pensioner awaiting ₦5 million may face a delay of six months, during which the PFA earns an 8% annual interest. In this short span, the PFA collects ₦200,000 in interest, profiting from the pensioner’s enforced patience. This delay not only disrupts lives but compounds the injustice by allowing the PFA to gain from withholding what rightfully belongs to another.
With monthly contributions flowing steadily, some PFAs quietly divert portions into their own pockets. A pensioner contributing ₦50,000 each month may find that ₦10,000 is secretly rerouted to fraudulent accounts. Over 10 years—120 months—this diversion amounts to ₦1.2 million stolen from a single pensioner. With 10,000 pensioners in their grasp, the PFAs can embezzle a staggering ₦12 billion, a grand theft concealed in the monotony of monthly deductions.
For some pensioners, the final blow comes at the moment of retirement. The gratuity, the lump sum meant to provide for their twilight years, is intercepted. A group of retirees expecting ₦1 billion in gratuities may find only half paid out, as corrupt officials siphon away ₦500 million. The pensioners, left with half their entitlement, face a future diminished by the greed of those entrusted with their care.
For one pensioner, the toll of these fraudulent practices is devastating. Over a decade, they lose: ₦1.5 million in hidden administrative fees, ₦1 million in excessive investment charges, ₦1.2 million siphoned from their contributions, ₦200,000 lost to delayed payments. In total, ₦3.9 million is stolen from a single pensioner over 10 years. Multiply this across thousands, and the scale of the fraud balloons into billions of naira—an unfathomable betrayal of trust.
Nigeria’s Pensions Animal Farm: Four legs good, two legs bad
Like the tidal waves that slowly erode the shore, Nigeria’s pension crisis has been silently consuming its elderly for decades. The promises that once gleamed like golden dreams have become rusted, hollowed out by legal loopholes, hidden charges, and predatory practices. Nowhere is this betrayal more stark than in the government’s imposition of a shocking 25% cap on initial withdrawals, a cruel twist that leaves retirees with only a quarter of the savings they’ve painstakingly accumulated over decades.
The full promises of a dignified retirement dissolve like fog at dawn, leaving only a fraction of the anticipated savings for the elderly to live on. Imagine spending decades working, contributing to a pension fund, believing in the promise of security, only to discover that when the moment comes to access your savings, you are handed a mere quarter of what you are owed. The remaining 75%? Locked away, dripped out in agonisingly small sums over the years.
Introduced under the guise of ensuring long-term financial stability, the 25% cap has instead become a death sentence for retirees. While pensioners who spent about 35 years in the service of their country wallow in abject poverty occasioned by their inability to access their benefits, former governors and deputies—who served for a mere four or eight years—are ushered into retirement with lavish gifts, the likes of which would make kings envious.
Until recently, Lagos State stood as a stark example of this paradox. Enshrined in the Public Office Holder (Payment of Pension) Law No 11, within the official Gazette of 2007, lies a provision that guarantees a governor, upon leaving office, a lifetime pension equal to the full salary of the sitting governor—that is, N7.7 million annually. The former governor is also granted free healthcare for himself and his family, six brand-new cars every three years, and an array of allowances fit for royalty: 300% of the annual salary for furniture (N23.3m), 10% for house maintenance (N778,296), 20% for utilities (N1.5m), and 30% for car upkeep (N2.3m).
But the largesse doesn’t end there. A former governor enjoys the luxury of an entertainment allowance (N778,296) and a personal assistant earning a quarter of the governor’s own salary (N1.9m). Domestic workers—a cook, a steward, a gardener, and more—are placed at their service, with their positions even made pensionable. For security, eight policemen and two state security officers stand sentinel for life.
In the wake of protracted outrage over the bumper package, however, the Lagos State House of Assembly, in 2022, amended the state Pension Law for former governors and other political office holders, reducing their benefits and emoluments by 50 per cent. The House expunged the provision of houses in Abuja and Lagos for former governors, Sequel to the presentation of a report by the House Committee on Establishment, Training and Pension.
It further recommended a reduction in the number of vehicles to be made available to former governors and their deputies as the House Speaker, Mudashiru Obasa, suggested that the former governors should get two vehicles (a car and a van) instead of the three recommended by the committee, and advised that the cars be changed every four years instead of the three years previously recommended by the report.
Elsewhere, Delta State offers its ex-governors a fully furnished duplex in any state of their choosing, and also full medical care for their families, two vehicles (including a utility car) every two years, and a protective entourage of armed officers. Fifteen days of annual vacation in any part of the world are but another pearl on this string of luxurious benefits. Meanwhile, in Kano, the former leaders are gifted with a six-bedroom mansion and healthcare for life, while Ekiti provides its retired governors with a plush five-bedroom duplex, two cars, a pilot vehicle to be replaced every three years, and 300% of the annual salary for furniture.
In Rivers State, Celestine Omehia, whose governorship was nullified by the Supreme Court, still walked away with a princely sum of N695 million in entitlements.
Across at least 22 states, from Oyo to Zamfara, Kwara to Rivers, similar stories echo: ex-governors and their deputies luxuriate in the fruits of their brief tenures, their coffers brimming with the spoils of jumbo pensions, while civil servants who toiled for decades in the nation’s service languish, unpaid and forgotten.
At the federal level, the story turns no less extravagant. In the 2023 budget, a staggering N13 billion was earmarked for the pensions of former Presidents, Vice-Presidents, Heads of State, retired chiefs of service, permanent secretaries, and heads of agencies. There is no record, none at all, of any of the recipients lamenting unpaid pensions, no whisper of delay in their vast entitlements.
Meanwhile, the retired civil servants, who dedicated 35 years of their lives to the nation, wait in vain for their dues. Against the backdrop of the malady, the scales of justice occasionally tilted on the side of truth. In 2019, the Federal High Court in Lagos, under the gavel of Justice Oluremi Oguntoyinbo, declared these life pensions for ex-governors and deputies illegal, immoral even. The Attorney General was ordered to take swift legal action to abolish these laws and recover the ill-gotten funds.
Previously, in the Socio-Economic Rights and Accountability Project (SERAP) v Attorney-General of the Federation, (Suit No. FHC/L/CS/1497/2017 and Alhaji Garba Umar v Taraba State Government (Suit No: NICN/JOS/26/2016, the Federal High Court and the National Industrial Court declared as null and void the payment of pension and gratuity to former governors and deputy governors.
Senators Gbenga Daniel and Ibrahim Dankwambo, both former governors, have also directed the governments of their respective states, Ogun and Gombe respectively, to stop paying them a governor’s pension since they are currently receiving salaries and allowances in the National Assembly just as the governments of Kwara, Imo and Zamfara States have abolished the payment of the controversial pensions to their former governors and their deputies.
“We call on other state governments to abolish the pension as soon as possible. Nigeria can no longer afford to pay scandalous pension to ex-governors while workers are owed arrears of meagre pensions,” said Senior Advocate of Nigeria, Femi Falana (SAN).
However the payment of the lavish pensions for ex-governors and deputies continue unabated.
Navigating the Trap
On September 17, 2024, the National Pension Commission (PenCom) announced that total pension assets have reached N20.79 trillion. However, only seven states—Lagos, Kaduna, Delta, Ekiti, Osun, Edo, and Jigawa—and the Federal Capital Territory (FCT) have fully implemented the Contributory Pension Scheme (CPS).
PenCom’s Acting Director General, Omolola Oloworararan, highlighted the steady growth of pension funds, noting that states had remitted over N236.7 billion between January 2020 and mid-2024. She emphasized the benefits of adopting the CPS, such as access to pension funds for infrastructure projects through state bonds. Lagos, Niger, Osun, Ekiti, and Delta have successfully issued state bonds backed by pension funds, with projects like the Lekki-Ikoyi Bridge in Lagos benefiting from this funding.
PenCom, she said, is focused on engaging 26 states with CPS or CDBS laws that have yet to begin implementation, aiming to ensure that all retirees receive timely benefits. The commission is also working to resolve accrued rights payments and ensure pension increments in line with the Nigerian Constitution, stated Oloworararan.
Regardless of her sunny assurances, Oloworararan may find it difficult convincing millions of pensioners caught in a maelstrom of unpaid benefits and neglect.
A higher proportion (70%) of the retired, aged, and ageing population in Nigeria earns N50,000 per month or less or nothing, according to a study sample by Dataphyte and JAIRAA. At this income level, the retired, aged, and ageing (RAAs) live below the global poverty line. According to the World Bank, the poverty line is estimated at $2.15 or N3,190 per day (at N1,484 per dollar).
For those nearing retirement, the lesson is clear: vigilance is the only armour. Nigerians must demand transparency from pension fund administrators, refusing to be lured by the false promises of higher returns, advised Usman Shoyode, an insurance auditor and financial risk analyst. To PFAs, he suggested that retirement savings must be diversified and spread more transparently across multiple funds to mitigate the risk of loss.
Above all, the 25% cap must be challenged, both in the law courts and in the hearts of the people, who must demand that their government provide the full measure of what they are owed.
It is also very essential to research and choose pension fund administrators (PFAs) carefully. Avoid companies with a history of delayed payments or unresolved claims, and opt for those with a proven track record of stability. Furthermore, retirees may consider diversifying their retirement investments. Relying solely on the pension system can be a recipe for disaster, as the stories above illustrate. Personal savings, real estate investments, or even small-scale business ventures can provide additional security in a country where government promises are often as fragile as the lives they are meant to protect.
As the sun sets on the lives of those who once carried Nigeria on their shoulders, it becomes ever more urgent for the nation to confront the grim reality of its pension system. Because for every Ayodele who falls, and for every Oboite whose heart gives out, the very soul of the nation weakens. It was on a sunless day that they both fell, into the abyss of a failed promise. Their last breaths churning against the silence of those who watched their struggle and did nothing. The aged civil servants, who once who tilled the earth and built roads for the living, got railroaded, destitute and disenchanted, into an early grave.
How does one love or hate a country? To this, every answer may likely spiral into a fog or eclipse in a vapour of hanging participles. The ripostes may spatter and splay like a treacherous sandstorm but it’s about time we braved its tumult. It’s about time we addressed our innate demons. Call it our therapy of healing or stratagem of entitlement to national trauma.
Too many people drift through each day with a siege mentality – each individual treating the nation as a savage space, where ferocity is fostered and condoned.
Inspired by the recent protests in Kenya, Nigerian youths are planning a similar demonstration in the coming weeks. This looming unrest has sent ripples of anxiety through the incumbent administration, spurring a fervent campaign to discredit and deter the youth from this course of action.
What the government must embrace is a vision of governance steeped in pro-citizenry policies. President Bola Tinubu and his team must avoid pandering to the fancies of the political and business elite. The citizenry has become more vigilant and cynical, and any hint that his policies cater to the inordinate appetites of corporate magnates and oligarchs will not be forgiven.
There is no gainsaying he achieved a milestone by facilitating the empowerment, through legal provisions, of Nigeria’s local councils with their statutory funding directly from the federation account. This has drawn applause from Nigerians irrespective of political and ethnic affiliations.
Thus, Tinubu must understand how his deeds or misdeeds resonate among the populace. It is insufficient to brush off dissent and harsh critiques as mere machinations of a disgruntled opposition. Instead, he must strive to earn the trust and goodwill of the people through a commitment to transparency, decisive, and exemplary performance. This is the best way to earn the respect of his critics and the goodwill of Nigerians.
Indulging in superfluous luxuries for public officials, especially at a time when Nigerians grapple with widespread hunger, soaring inflation, and insecurity, would be a grave misstep. Recent statistics reveal a staggering food inflation rate of 40% and general inflation at 34.19%. These alarming figures underscore the grievances fueling the planned protests, a poignant reminder of the urgency for genuine, people-centred governance.
Yet, while Nigerians flay Tinubu for the hardship triggered by his radical albeit progressive policies, we must acknowledge that he isn’t the architect of the prevalent economic distress. Together, we embarked on this Nigerian journey into savage nature, trading vistas of hope for caskets of greed. Together, we railroaded Nigeria to self-destruct. And collectively, we must salvage what’s left of it.
But we mistake the path we must take as shown by our resort to rant and rave. We cannot speak angst to misgovernance while we nurse barbarism within us. The solution isn’t speaking rage to pain either but healing through its sting and living it out.
President Tinubu’s economic policies have been heavily criticised by Nigerians in fits of anger and frustration. In response, he has assured that there is hope for the nation’s financial and economic prospects, citing efforts being made by the administration in all sectors. He has assured that though things appear harsh currently, there is light at the end of the tunnel.
Speaking at a recent State House event, he said, “We might be going through difficult periods now, but when you look at the Infrastructure Concession Regulatory Commission, the Federal Ministry of Finance, Budget and National Planning and people manning the ship of this country, including Central Bank of Nigeria, they have collaborated and in the spirit of development and progress, we are glad that good effort is being made to retool, re-engineer the finances of the country and make growth our hallmark.”
As we await the promised dividends of his administration’s policies, shall we desist from inflaming the polity? Already, the social space thrives as a repository of venom and virulent dissent, triggered by the soaring prices of food, goods and services. Against the backdrop of the crisis, the possibility of the citizenry’s resort to anarchy remains the most frightful imagery. Too many social actors intensely replicate our primitive experience. But they have done nothing but reenact the vast facets of evil that we groomed them to personify.
It hardly matters whether we publicly denounce them, Nigeria would never be rid of them until we set our grief’s needlepoint astride the prick of pain.
The youths must avoid being used as cannon fodder for violence by disgruntled losers at the 2023 polls, and those embittered by the latter’s loss. The election is over, and it is time to rebuild Nigeria, not ruin it.
Nigerian youths must shun the manipulations of devious demagogues and channel their ingenuity, passion and resilience into more constructive actions, like building a new Nigeria.
It is wiser to engage in dialogue and advocate for transparent governance, and accountability from Nigeria’s leadership.
The youth must avoid being used to sabotage the appreciable measures of regrowth initiated by the incumbent administration. They must avoid being misled by selfish elements seeking to hijack the masses’ dissent and quicken its degeneration into more sinister forms.
Nigerians couldn’t have forgotten so easily the #EndSARS 2020 protest, and how youths marched onto the streets purportedly to protest bad policing and leadership failure.
We must remember #EndSARS for what it’s worth: its elegiac stanzas, propitious rage, and inauspicious demise. The tragedy caused by the protest is instructive; it bristles even as you read, with consequences of leadership insensibility and imprudence of youths cut to size—no thanks to hubris.
The instigators of the planned protest do not give a hoot if it results in widespread anarchy and destruction; if they succeed at burning the country to rubble, they will retire to their investments and opulent sanctuaries abroad.
The celebrities and pawns inciting protests over harsh living conditions do not truly care about the common man. It will be recalled that they all fled Lekki Tollgate, the venue of the #EndSARS protest in 2020, just before the shit hit the fan. They were all warned off the streets by their powerful parents and other privileged sources. Again, some of them have been contracted to spread inflammatory messages and destabilise the country.
It is interesting that, like during #EndSARS, Lagos has been chosen as the venue for the planned protest. Citizens should instead direct their grievances to their respective state governors and protest in their home states. Many governors have received unprecedented billions of naira from the withdrawal of fuel subsidies. It’s about time they accounted for how they are using the funds.
Lagos demonstrates progressive governance, better than any other state, thus its blooming as a melting pot of commerce. The state government must take urgent steps to protect the state from any form of internal and external aggression. Another ill-fated protest in Lagos could destabilise the country and deepen ethnic divisions across the country.
The most effective protest the youth and citizens can engage in is a strategic and peaceful one via the ballot box. It is reckless to assume that power can be seized through anarchy as seen in the protests in Kenya and the ill-fated Arab Spring, which did little to address the protesters’ grievances.
For all its symbolism and contrived grandeur, Nigerians must look beneath the blankets of rage to see the true nature of dissent, its toxic traceries of thought, action, and reaction.
Notwithstanding, President Tinubu must respond humanely, with utmost caution and resolve, lest the pallid yarns of patriotism corrupt citizenship and endanger the country.
Despair persists nine years after The Nation exposed Lafarge’s devastation of Ewekoro
Cement company commissions school, other CSR projects following investigative reports
Host communities’ health, safety form core values of our operations – Lafarge Africa
Strolling through Ewekoro is like sifting through the crust of a previous existence. Even in the cheerless lull of a dreary afternoon, the village repulses like dead foetus. The bushes look green from afar. Closer, the greenery bleeds into thick grey blotches of cement dust. The cocoa yam leaves, cassava plants and vanishing palm trees bear insolent marks of industrial tenant, Lafarge Africa’s cement waste.
Amid the bleakness, however, stands a block of three classrooms meant to host a secondary school. Painted in two shades of green, and sited in Egbado-Ajegunle, a village 30 minutes walk from Ewekoro, the building is Lafarge Africa’s urgent response to The Nation’s investigative reportage on the devastation it has wrought on Ewekoro, the immediate host community to its cement production plant. In a previous series, The Nation revealed that despite the devastation wrought on Ewekoro by the multinational cement company, the community has no school or health facility.
In response to The Nation’s expose, the multinational cement company commissioned, on Thursday, December 14, “a block comprising three classrooms, office and toilets.” The foundation stone of the project bears the inscription: “Built by Lafarge, A member of Holcim, in conjunction with the Ewekoro community.”
The following day, Friday, December 15, the cement company held its Community Day celebration. At the celebration marking its 2023 Community Day, Lafarge Africa launched a series of Corporate Social Responsibility (CSR) projects in Ewekoro.
At the event held in Egbado-Ajegunle, which highlighted the company’s CSR projects in Ewekoro and its 11 satellite communities, the Chairman of the Ewekoro Community Relations Committee, Dotun Oderinde, who was represented by Gbemisola Sunday, commended Lafarge Africa for its contributions to its host communities and pleaded for more employment opportunities for their youths.
“The company has been doing well for these communities. Various projects have been launched, and many women and youths have benefited from their CSR programme. Over 200 students are benefiting from their bursary award every year. They give uniforms and notebooks to indigent pupils in various schools. But, we want Lafarge to increase its budget for CSR because of inflation in the country. We need more cooperation in the area of employment of sons and daughters of the community too,” he said.
Also speaking at the event, Prince Bola Awesu, an indigene and community leader in Ewekoro commended Lafarge Africa for initiating “transformative projects,” stressing that the cement company “has consistently supported its host communities and met their needs over the past few years.
He said, “In healthcare, they provide facilities and initiatives that have benefited our people, and despite challenging climates, they continue to assist local farmers with essential farm implements. Additionally, the company contributes to education through bursaries and scholarships, which has enabled less privileged students to complete their studies. In Ewekoro, Lafarge has built a modern town hall and just yesterday commissioned the first secondary school in our vicinity.”
Lafarge Africa’s Group Managing Director, Lolu Alade-Akinyemi, on his part, stated “At Lafarge Africa, community engagement isn’t just an obligation; it’s deeply ingrained as one of our values in sustainability. Our annual Community Day Celebration is a testament to our dedication to giving back and nurturing sustainable development in the places we call home.”
Alade-Akinyemi commended the state government, traditional rulers, and the Community Relations Committee for creating an enabling environment for the company’s business.
Beyond the pageant…
Beyond the buzz of the CSR initiatives, outside the perimeters of Egbado-Ajegunle, Ewekoro subsists as a dispiriting picture of desolateness and neglect. Seasons bring nothing to this gulch save a harsh intimate anecdote painfully scrawled here and there, along barren footpaths, and on paint and stone of several houses tottering and yawning, like vastly crushed faces with holes big enough for ants, rodents and bats to dart in and out of their gaping chasms.
“Nothing thrives in Ewekoro. That is why Lafarge finds it difficult to construct any project of note in the community. It would be unacceptable to education and health authorities for the company to build a school here (in Ewekoro). They know they would be endangering pupils and minors, in particular, as they would be exposed to cement dust pollution from their factory,” said Abiodun Otun, a plumber and former resident of Ewekoro.
The greatest damage, however, is done to the farmlands. “We can’t farm here anymore. I used to cultivate ofada, cocoa, cassava and palm kernel seeds. I used to produce palm oil from palm kernel seeds and sell it to wholesalers. I had a lot of people working with me. Families sent their children to learn palm oil making under me but when Lafarge arrived in Ewekoro, I lost everything. My late husband’s farmland died from pollution. My farm too. We suffered huge losses. My children and grandchildren visited recently but they couldn’t sleep over. They had to go and sleep in a guest house in Itori. They have decided to relocate me to live with them in Ibadan,” said Ajiun Okelola, widow.
Ghosts beneath the waters
A trip around the village leads to greying tracts that coalesce where several bush paths meet and veer to the forgotten footpath to the Osun River.
The river, also widely known as the Ewekoro River, sated the thirst of the natives and irrigated Ewekoro and neighbouring communities’ expansive farmlands.
En route to the forest, the reporter was hit by an eerie sense of Deja Vu; just as it was during my first visit to the river, nine years ago, a pall of darkness floated above the swampy expanse into the groove of the river.
In the groove, all kinds of things drifted with filth and stagnant waste to litter the waterway: weeds, jetsam, tadpoles, frogs, animal cadavers, and a lot yet unidentifiable in the deep of the river.
It took time to hear what the river seemed to be saying and with the wind nudging them, the foliage too. It becomes difficult to understand why the forest should have a voice; the crickets chirped like old ghosts from the undergrowth and a light wind peeled back the greenery to reveal a sand grave and what is still left of an expanse that once heaved with cash crops.
Far beneath the swamp of thicket and debris littering the river lays a deadly deposit of quicksand. Along the marsh leading to the deathtrap, a giant rat is seen gnawing at something, perhaps, a bat cadaver thus littering the swamp with the bones of yet another ghost.
There seemed to be too many ghosts beneath and about the Osun River: the ghosts of sumptuous fishes that gradually turned toxic, according to the natives; the ghosts of men: farmers and fishermen and their endeavours in time of youth and the haunting lilt of folk song sung by the village women while they harvested palm kernel to make palm oil.
Under the prod of hurrying feet, the sand shifted with water as if to wipe, once more, footprints of the forgotten farmers that tilled the vanishing farmlands and the crickets’ chirp added weight to the wind thus parting the shrubbery atop the river to show even more clearly, the toxic wreck that the river has become.
All the details merged to accentuate the tragedy that has befallen the river and the vanishing farmlands.
Before Lafarge arrived in the area, the Ewekoro LGA had five rivers which were used for irrigation, fishing and drinking purposes. The rivers were Ewekoro (also known as Osun River), Amititi, Sofuntere, Abalaye and Olorekore rivers. But the cement company reportedly channeled away the five rivers into its quarry causing the rivers to dry up. In Ewekoro, the Osun River – also known as the Ewekoro River – has equally been destroyed. It is currently overrun by cement slurry, stagnant filth, and a swamp of weeds.
According to multiple scientific studies, the persistent discharge of industrial waste and cement slurry into Ewekoro’s waterbodies, which used to be the community’s sole source of natural water, made water from the river unsafe for cooking and human consumption.
The natives can’t fish in it. They had to stop fishing in the river when the fish tasted funny. The fish tasted contaminated and dry in the mouth, like bad wood, according to a community chieftain. Ever since the river’s flow got impeded and the water got contaminated by Lafarge Africa’s operations, life has worsened for the residents of Ewekoro.
The loss of the Ewekoro River to pollution knelled the death of the community’s once thriving agricultural economy. It is sadder to watch the Osun River grow fetid and stagnant with filth even as the community suffers the extinction of its agricultural touchstone.
Aside from Ewekoro’s loss of its waterbodies, food and cash crops get destroyed as farm produce is affected by cement dust released into the atmosphere. The Nation’s findings revealed the extent of environmental degradation of Ewekoro’s farmlands; for instance, plantains harvested from a farm bore marks of stunted growth.
In a recent study published in 2023, and titled, “Assessment of Radium Equivalent Activity and Total Annual Effective Dose in Cassava” cultivated around Ewekoro Cement Factory, a team of researchers led by Olusegun Adewoyin of the Departments of Physics and Biological Sciences, Covenant University, Ota, Ogun State, discovered that the health of residents, children and infants in particular, are imperiled by their consumption of the food crop.
In the study which was conducted to assess the radionuclide content of the food crop, 27 samples of both arable soil and cassava tubers were studied at different sites to the epicenter of the mining activity.
The results revealed the highest activity concentrations of radionuclide content respectively, in the soil to be at Site 1, which was 50 m away from the cement mining site. All the results, according to the study, were higher than the recommended safe limits by a factor of two. “Moreover, the Total Annual Effective Dose of exposure by oral ingestion of cassava tubers for different age groups revealed children to have the highest level of exposure with the highest mean value of 7.98 mSv. Therefore, the results of the total averages of annual effective doses due to consumption of the three natural radionuclides in cassava tubers and other products by adults, children, and infants were found to be above the average annual ingestion radiation dose due to natural sources,” according to the study.
According to health experts, cancer is the major consequence of ingesting radionuclides. Radium, via oral exposure, is known to cause bone, head, and nasal passage tumours in humans, and radon, via inhalation exposure, causes lung cancer in humans. Uranium may cause lung cancer and tumours of the lymphatic and hematopoietic tissues.
In another study carried out to determine the extent to which Lafarge Africa’s operations affect agricultural output in the area, it was discovered that the company’s activities affect agricultural output negatively through environmental degradation.
The study which was anchored by Kola Subair, PhD, of the School of Business, Media and Information Technology, American Heritage University, San Bernadino, United States of America (USA) used farmers in Ewekoro as the target population and Owode (Owode is not within the same LGA as Ewekoro) farmers as a control population.
The management staff and employees of Lafarge and farmers in the studied locations were respondents. In all, 111 respondents made up of 11 staff of Lafarge and 100 farmers from the studied locations were carefully selected. One management staff and 10 other staff of the cement company were selected through a systematic sampling procedure using the staff list as the sampling frame.
Fifty farmers were also randomly selected from the list of farmers made available by the Village Extension Agents (VEAS) of the Ogun State Agricultural Development Programme (OGADEP) for each study area.
In its gross margin and profit analyses the study shows that the gross margin for average farmers in Owode shows a considerable reduction in cost as the farm size increases while that of Ewekoro increases along with its farm size. This is corroborated by the lower total variable cost (TVC) of N10,538.44 naira incurred by Owode farmers compared to that of N13,686.15 incurred by Ewekoro farmers.
Worse still, the Ewekoro farmers earn less revenue compared to Owode farmers. The revenue earned by an average farmer in Ewekoro was N47, 744.79 while that of an Owode farmer was N61, 745.60 per harvest period.
A history of futile protests
In a letter addressed to former President Olusegun Obasanjo in 2001, the community sought the assistance of the former president in taming the scourge of Lafarge’s operations in their neighbourhood. In the letter, titled: “SOS to President Olusegun Obasanjo,” the community claimed that the cement company had not “shown sympathy” to their plight and urged the President to be magnanimous in coming to their aid.
In another eight-paragraph letter written by the community’s attorney to the cement company’s management, the community demanded reparations from the company to the tune of N2.5 billion.
In 1985, through a publication in the now defunct National Concord newspaper of December 4, the community called the attention of the then military governor of Ogun State, Captain Mohammed Lawal to the company’s activities. The community also contracted a law firm to write the cement company on February 10, 1993, to demand reparation for loss and damages suffered by the company’s limestone blasting and cement production activities but the cement company customarily rebuffed their effort.
On February 20, 1995, the community embarked on a protest at the company’s factory gates at Ewekoro with placards bearing the inscriptions: “No more blasting without building houses for us; “Enough is enough, 30 years (1960-1990) lease expired without any payment;” “Fresh negotiation required for second term (1991-2020) 30 years lease.”
Politics of a lease agreement
The natives claim that Ewekoro communities are being defrauded of their dues conferred upon them by a lease agreement signed on January 13, 1964, on behalf of WAPCO now Lafarge-WAPCO by the Western regional government of the period. They claim the lease was extended over 500 years contrary to provisions of the signed Memorandum of Understanding (MOU), which compelled the then Ministry of Land to sign a 30-year basic lease agreement with WAPCO commencing on October 27, 1963. The agreement reportedly compelled the cement company to pay annual rents to the land owners through the Western regional government, making the rents revisable after 20 years and every 10 years thereafter.
To this, Lafarge responded: “To the best of our knowledge, there is an existing lease from the appropriate authorities which Lafarge is operating in Ewekoro. Anyone with copies of other agreements should produce such for all to see.”
We have executed several CSR projects in Ewekoro – Lafarge Africa
Above the din of native dissent, Lafarge Africa demonstrates commendable performance as a responsible corporate citizen, according to the company’s Head of Corporate Communications, Ginikanwa Frank-Durugbor. Shedding light on Lafarge Africa’s social interventions in Ewekoro, she said, “We acknowledge our host communities as valued partners, working collaboratively towards a shared future. Through job creation, annual CSR interventions, and various positive contributions to the ecosystem, we continually enhance the livelihoods of the community residents. Our commitment lies in leaving enduring positive impacts that benefit society at large.”
According to her, several CSR projects have been successfully executed in Ewekoro, encompassing a variety of initiatives including the construction of a Community Townhall, a block comprising three classrooms, office and toilets, the installation of boreholes and overhead tanks for water supply, construction of public toilet facilities, lockup shops and the implementation of drainage systems.
“We also provide non-infrastructural interventions including farmers support scheme, bursary awards to tertiary students as well as elders support to the elderly. In addition to these are youth empowerment initiatives to the residents of the Ewekoro community where we distribute things like tricycles (Keke NAPEPS), sewing machines, motorbikes, and freezers to enable the youth to run their business and improve their livelihood,” she said.
Relief at last?
In the wake of The Nation’s reportage, Lafarge Africa launched a host of CSR projects including a block of three classrooms meant for a secondary school. Even so, several residents accord the company’s CSR projects a quizzical glance. Some argue it is a knee-jerk reaction to what it deems uncomplimentary media mention.
“Everything will stop immediately the media attention stops. All the meetings they have with our traditional rulers only benefit the traditional rulers and their cliques,” laments a member of the community.
Corroborating her, a member of the community’s chieftaincy council revealed that traditional rulers are unable to speak the truth about their condition because they fear losing the contract opportunities and patronage they enjoy from Lafarge Africa. Consequently, they seek to quash dissent from any quarter within the company’s host communities.
It would be recalled that Baale Gabriel Akinremi suffered a persistent backlash from fellow traditional rulers in the community, nine years ago, in the wake of The Nation’s exposure to the environmental degradation and health hazards posed by Lafarge’s operations. He was singled out for granting The Nation an interview, even though he wasn’t the only news medium interviewed. Other chiefs pleaded anonymity. Eventually, Akinremi caved into bullying from his colleagues and state government officials, and by the second instalment of a five-part investigative series, he was begging The Nation to stop publishing the reports. The Nation would go on to complete the series against all odds.
Nine years after the initial exposure much still needs to be done to alleviate the living conditions of the people of Ewekoro.
From the point of view of an environment management practitioner, Professor Michael Ajide Oyinloye of the Department of Urban and Regional Planning, School of Environmental Technology, Federal University of Technology, Akure, Ondo State, there is need to significantly and painlessly reduce the volume of carbon dioxide emissions resulting from Ewekoro cement factory considering the importance of carbon dioxide in the greenhouse gas effects in global warming.
He said, “Considering the quantity of carbon dioxide produced per ton of cement, the use of mineral admixtures, which would otherwise, be landfilled is a must for the environment and the cement industries.
“Effort geared toward reclaiming the quarry site should be extended further by actually transforming quarry site into parks and gardens for recreational purpose via such projects like afforestation, scarification and final conversion into animal zoos and gardens where people can visit and pay a token that will be used in maintaining such projects.”
Professor Oyinloye stated that the location of cement industries should be far from residential areas to avoid the menace of noise, vibration, dust and heavy vehicular movement, and the government should look into the pollution control policy, putting into consideration that on no occasion should any residential building be allowed for approval within 1km to any cement factory to reduce the rate of inhalation harmful substances by the people.”
That’s in the long run, in the short run, neither the Federal Ministries of Health, Environment or Solid Minerals nor their counterparts in the host state to Lafarge Africa, Ogun, have shown any interest in the plight of the natives of Ewekoro.
However, The Nation’s findings revealed that aside from Lafarge Africa’s rush of CSR projects in Ewekoro, it has brokered a meeting with aggrieved residents of the community. The meeting which was supposed to be held on Friday, December 22, has been rescheduled for Thursday, December 28.
To futility and beyond
As Lafarge prepares to meet its hosts on the drawing board, there are hopes that the meeting would signal new vistas of constructive engagement cum mutually beneficent co-existence between the industrial tenant and its host community.
Against the backdrop of the planned meeting, dystopia persists in Ewekoro. Despair shines like final fate in the pealing grey of its dying glen as the natives bemoan their sacrificed lives, sighing through fruitless streets.
Their sighs rattle the air with an eerie resonance as the township recoils, like a dirt palace abandoned on a tract indecent miles from the Government House in Oke Mosan, Abeokuta.
“After your reports, what next? You were here nine years ago. Government feigned interest. Lafarge hastened a series of CSR programmes. And that was it. Your stories can’t provoke the kind of miracle that we want. Even if it would happen, it won’t be in my lifetime,” said a traditional chief in Ewekoro.
Left to him, the devastation of his birth land may continue unchecked as the government and regulatory authorities are oblivious to their miseries.
He said, “In some way, I believe they are simply waiting for my generation to die off. Afterwards, they will buy what’s left of Ewekoro off our children, for a token.”
Only then would the cancelling out be complete, perhaps. Until then, the embattled natives will continue to distil survival from heartbreak, sleeping and waking in homes completely buried in sludge and cement dust.
Parents will recall wistfully when Ewekoro pulsed and prospered by its agricultural economy even as their children depart in search of greener pastures.
Those who pack up and leave often take a look around before their departure, knowing they will never return. Those who choose to stay are too stubborn, too stoic, and too poor to have much choice.
‘We have successfully executed several CSR projects in Ewekoro’ – Lafarge
Head, Corporate Communications, Ginikanwa Frank-Durugbor, sheds light on multinational’s social interventions in Ewekoro.
What measures have been taken by Lafarge Africa to mitigate the health impact of the environmental pollution of Ewekoro on the natives of its host community?
At Lafarge Africa, Health and Safety is a core value and is embedded throughout our operations. At our Ewekoro plant, we continue to implement the following measures to address environmental impacts associated with cement manufacturing activities: I. We continuously ensure our operations are carried out according to the standard environmental regulations of the nation. ii. We have installed the most recent dust abatement equipment which is the bag house system to filter dust from our operations before exiting the stack chimneys and we have a robust maintenance system in place to ensure its functionality. iii. As part of our responsibility to the Holcim group and to ensure good environmental compliance, we have installed online monitoring equipment in our plants; to measure our dust emissions continuously. This equipment is also calibrated at regular schedules, to ensure there is no deviation from regulatory standards. iv. We periodically engage community residents through focus group discussions (a combination of the community chiefs, Men, women and Youth) using a government-accredited consultant to evaluate the impact of Lafarge operations on the neighbouring communities. The subject of discussion usually entails common diseases, livelihood, sources of income and advantages/disadvantages of Lafarge operation around the communities.
Feedback from these discussions is usually submitted alongside our statutory environmental report to the regulatory authority. After submission, officials of the Ministry of Environment come for a verification visit to the communities to validate the feedback received. So far, we have not been notified of any breaches relating to the health of villagers.
How does Lafarge Africa evaluate the effectiveness of those measures? What are the yardsticks used to determine their success or otherwise?
Regularly, we monitor our impacts to ensure that they are within the regulatory limits. For example. A) Noise and vibration during every of our blasting operations and all data from the last 2 years were below the Federal Ministry of Environment for noise and below W.H.O. standards of 5 mm/s for vibration.
B) Quarterly, a government-accredited environmental consultant visits the plant to carry out measurements of our stack emissions and run-off water discharges. All measurement data are within the regulatory standards.
C) Monthly dust and Noise measurement of the LAP fence line is done by 3rd party consultant to evaluate our impact.
D) A periodic comprehensive environmental audit of our facility is a statutory requirement according to regulation. From the last environmental audit, analytical data from the soil, water, particulate matter, and vegetation were all below the Nigerian regulatory limit.
We conduct a periodic audit of our system by the Holcim group, Federal Ministry of Environment, Federal Ministry of Mines and Steel Development, Standard Organization of Nigeria and State Ministry of Environment.
We also measure effectiveness through Compliance Monitoring by the regulatory agencies.
Would you say the company has accorded Ewekoro access to the best CSR initiatives (in medical and social projects for instance) vis-a-vis the damage wreaked on the community by its operations?
Lafarge demonstrates commendable performance as a responsible corporate citizen. We acknowledge our host communities as valued partners, working collaboratively towards a shared future. Through job creation, annual CSR interventions, and various positive contributions to the ecosystem, we continually enhance the livelihoods of the community residents. Our commitment lies in leaving enduring positive impacts that benefit society at large.
Several CSR projects have been successfully executed in Ewekoro, encompassing a variety of initiatives. For example, Construction of a Community Townhall. Construction of a block comprising three classrooms, office and toilets. Installation of boreholes and overhead tanks for water supply.
Construction of public toilet facilities. Construction of lockup shops. Implementation of drainage systems, among other endeavours.
We also provide non-infrastructural interventions including a farmers’ support scheme, bursary awards to tertiary students as well as elder support to the elderly.
In addition to these are youth empowerment initiatives for the residents of the Ewekoro community where we distribute things like Keke Napeps, sewing machines, motorbikes, and freezers to enable the youth to run their businesses and improve their Livelihood.
Would you say Lafarge has executed CSR programmes in Ewekoro on the same scale as in other communities in the Local Government Area (LGA)?
All our 12 host communities are assigned an equal budget yearly from the current allocated annual Corporate Social Responsibility (CSR) budget for equity and fairness. Lafarge executes CSR programmes in the Ewekoro community on the same scale as all other host communities in the Local Government.
How does Lafarge Africa evaluate the effectiveness and success of its CSR initiatives in Ewekoro? What are the yardsticks used to determine the success or otherwise of social projects, for instance?
All our host communities are equally important to us and we highly value good relations with them.
Our evaluation framework places significant emphasis on ensuring the sustainability and lasting benefits of our projects in Ewekoro. We assess projects based on criteria such as the long-term impact, encompassing both the duration and breadth of influence within the community. Additionally, we evaluate initiatives concerning their capacity-building aspects, the empowerment of community members, and their potential to cultivate self-reliance. To gauge the success of our CSR interventions in Ewekoro, we employ various tools and methodologies. These include active stakeholder engagement to understand community needs, feedback mechanisms to gather beneficiary input, impact assessment studies, and continuous monitoring and evaluation processes. These measures collectively aid us in determining the effectiveness and overall impact of our initiatives on the community’s sustainable development.
What in your estimation may constitute the most realistic and long-term solution to Lafarge Africa’s pollution of Ewekoro?
Our commitment is to keep running our operations in line with the principles of sustainable development and comply with applicable legal, regulatory, industry and corporate requirements.
What is the annual budget each host community gets for CSR projects.
At Lafarge Africa Plc (LAP), our people and communities are at the heart of our social interventions.
Therefore, on an annual basis, we ensure that our host communities receive a CSR allocation. For the Ewekoro community specifically, N216million is allocated and this is shared equally among the 12 host communities. (This information is also available in our annual reports).
Is there a way Lafarge monitors the disbursement and implementation in order to ascertain that they are used for the intended social projects?
The CSR allocation is not disbursed directly to the host communities in cash, but is used for projects identified by each host community.
We have developed four CSR pillars based on the areas of the most need for the host communities, which are Education, Empowerment, Health and Safety and Shelter and Infrastructure. The host communities then identify projects based on these CSR pillars and submit their project request through the Community Relations Committee (which is made up of representatives from each of the 12 host communities, as well as LAP ). We ensure that the projects are implemented by vendors from the communities, who are accredited through a procurement process, to boost the local economy. In line with the agreed project milestones, payment is made to the vendors.
To ensure the projects are properly delivered, there is a sub committee of the Community Relations Committee, known as the Project Monitoring Committee, responsible for monitoring each project to ensure it is properly delivered. In addition, we conduct regular monitoring and evaluation exercises to ascertain the impact and beneficiaries of each CSR project.”
