The Nation Newspaper

Category: ARINZE IGBOELI

  • Fathers, Brothers, Sons and Daughters Nigeria Limited

    Fathers, Brothers, Sons and Daughters Nigeria Limited

    Looking at the vast tapestry of what is our nation Nigeria’s political landscape, a pattern has since independence emerged with increasing clarity over the decades—the deliberate cultivation of political dynasties, where the children and relatives of established politicians are strategically positioned to inherit power, influence, and authority. This phenomenon, neither unique to Nigeria nor entirely novel in its manifestation, has become a defining feature of the country’s democratic experiment, raising fundamental questions about representation, meritocracy, and the very essence of political succession in Africa’s most populous democracy.

    The deep taproots of dynastic politics in Nigeria stretch back to the immediate post-independence era. Chief Obafemi Awolowo, the sage of Nigerian politics and leader of the Action Group, openly encouraged his children to pursue political careers, viewing it as a natural extension of public service that ran in the family’s blood. His daughter, Tokunbo Awolowo-Dosunmu, served in various political capacities, as did other members of the Awolowo clan. This was not an isolated case. Across the country’s diverse regions, political families have long  begun to emerge, each seeking to preserve their influence across generations.

    The trend has proven remarkably resilient and geographically indiscriminate. In the North, the children of military generals and civilian administrators have transitioned seamlessly into governorship positions and legislative seats. The South-South region has witnessed similar patterns, with political godfathers ensuring their progeny occupy strategic positions in state and federal government. In the Southeast, families that dominated politics in the First Republic continue to wield considerable influence through their descendants, creating what some observers have termed a “political aristocracy” that mirrors the traditional chieftaincy system.

    Understanding this phenomenon requires appreciating Nigeria’s unique socio-cultural context. In many Nigerian societies, leadership is viewed through a communal lens rather than an individualistic one. The Yoruba concept of omoluabi—a person of good character and noble lineage—implicitly connects virtue with heritage. Similarly, in Igbo society, the ogaranya (wealthy person) is expected to groom successors who will maintain the family’s status. Northern Nigeria’s emirate system, with its centuries-old tradition of hereditary leadership, provides perhaps the clearest cultural precedent for political succession along family lines. These cultural frameworks create an environment where political dynasties feel not only natural but almost expected.

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    Moreover, there exists a legitimate defense of this practice. Nigeria’s constitution guarantees every citizen the fundamental right to participate in the political process, to vote and be voted for, regardless of parentage. The children of politicians are definitely Nigerians too, with inalienable rights to seek public office. To discriminate against them solely because of their lineage would constitute an infringement of these constitutional rights and would establish a dangerous precedent of political disenfranchisement based on family background.

    Likewise,history is replete with numerous examples from those who we deem as more mature democracies where political families have flourished without fundamentally undermining democratic principles. Britain produced two William Pitts who served as Prime Minister—father from 1766 to 1768, and son from 1783 to 1801 and again from 1804 to 1806. More recently, the Miliband brothers, David and Ed, both competed for Labour Party leadership, demonstrating that political ambition can indeed run in families. The Gandhi dynasty has dominated Indian politics for generations, with Jawaharlal Nehru, Indira Gandhi, Rajiv Gandhi, and more recently, Rahul and Priyanka Gandhi, all playing central roles in the Congress Party and national governance.

    The United States, often held up as the standard-bearer of modern democracy, has witnessed its share of political dynasties. The Kennedy family became American royalty, with John F. Kennedy serving as President, his brother Robert as Attorney General and Senator,  their brother Edward as a long-serving Senator and Robert’s two sons Joseph P. Kennedy II served as a United States Representative from Massachusetts, while Robert Francis Kennedy Jr, is the current United States Secretary of Health and Human Services.

    The Adams family gave America its second and sixth presidents—father John Adams and son John Quincy Adams. The Clintons transformed from Arkansas politicians into national figures, with Bill serving as President and Hillary as Senator, Secretary of State, and presidential candidate. Even Abraham Lincoln’s son, Robert Todd Lincoln, served as Secretary of War under Presidents Garfield and Arthur. The Bush family produced two presidents, a governor, and numerous influential political operatives.

    These international examples suggest that political dynasties, in themselves, do not necessarily signal democratic decay. Talent, passion for public service, and political acumen can indeed be nurtured within families, and there is nothing inherently wrong with following in one’s parents’ footsteps, whether in medicine, business, or politics.

    However, the Nigerian context introduces troubling complications that distinguish these local dynasties from their international counterparts. The critical question is not whether politicians’ children have the right to seek office, but whether they are ascending on merit or merely riding on their parents’ coattails and manipulating systems that should reward competence, vision, and integrity rather than surname and connections.

    When political parties become family enterprises, when primary elections are rigged to favour the children of these tingods, when young politicians with minimal experience or demonstrable capability are catapulted into positions of enormous responsibility simply because of whose son or daughter they are, our democracy suffers a profound injury and goes against the Napoleonic maxim, “ Without the distinction of birth or fortune”  The problem intensifies when these scions of political families display neither the intellectual capacity nor the moral character required for leadership, yet still secure positions through networks of patronage their parents have carefully constructed over decades.

    Again, a number of these Nigerian political dynasties often emerge not from genuine popular support but from the systematic abuse of institutional processes. Delegates are bought, opposition is intimidated, party structures are manipulated, and electoral processes are compromised to ensure that power remains within particular families. This creates a vicious cycle where political office becomes my “papa property” hereditary rather than a trust temporarily bestowed by the electorate, where governance becomes a family business rather than public service, and where the interests of the dynasty supersede the interests of the nation.

    The consequences are devastating. When leadership positions are reserved for political heirs regardless of merit, Nigeria loses the opportunity to benefit from fresh perspectives, innovative thinking, and the diverse talents of its vast population. Young Nigerians who possess brilliant ideas, impeccable integrity, and genuine passion for national development find themselves locked out of a system that values lineage over excellence. The implicit message becomes clear: in Nigeria, what matters is not what you know or what you can offer, but who your father or grandfather was.

    This undermines the very foundation of democratic meritocracy and perpetuates the cycles of mediocrity, corruption, and underdevelopment that have plagued the nation for decades. When incompetent leaders emerge simply because they bear the right surname, policies fail, resources are mismanaged, and the people suffer.

    Nigeria stands at a crossroads. The nation can continue down the path of political dynasties built on patronage and privilege, or it can insist that those who seek to lead—whether scions of political families or children of peasant farmers—must prove themselves worthy through demonstrated competence, integrity, and vision. The choice will determine whether Nigeria’s democracy matures into a system that truly serves its people or degenerates into an oligarchy where power is merely inherited, never earned.

  • Soludo’s market closure: Democracy, security and limits of executive power

    Soludo’s market closure: Democracy, security and limits of executive power

    The recent decision by Lt Col., sorry, Governor Chukwuma Soludo to shut down the Onitsha Main Market for one week has ignited a fierce debate about governance, security, and the existence of democratic rudiments in Anambra State. While the Colonel’s, sorry governor’s frustration with the Monday sit-at-home compliance is understandable, his stentorian response raises fundamental questions about whether ‘ajuwaya’ strong-arm tactics can substitute for the protection and security that these traders desperately need.

    Governor Soludo’s reasons for this drastic action are not without merit on the surface. The Onitsha Main Market, previously like many commercial centers across the Southeast, had been observing the Monday sit-at-home order, an action that appears to validate the authority of non-state actors, over the legitimate government. This compliance represents a troubling erosion of state authority, suggesting that faceless individuals wielding threats hold more sway over citizens than elected officials. The economic implications are equally staggering. Each Monday that Onitsha Main Market remains closed, Anambra State hemorrhages revenue that could fund infrastructure, healthcare, and education. The cumulative effect of these weekly closures amounts to trillions of naira in lost economic activity annually, affecting not just the state’s coffers but the livelihoods of countless families dependent on the market’s vibrancy.

    Furthermore, Soludo’s argument that other major markets across Anambra are  functioning normally on Mondays carries some weight. Markets in Awka, Nnewi, Nkpor, Abagana and Obosi, and even other parts of the Southeast continue their operations without interruption. The question then becomes: why should Onitsha be an exception? From this perspective, the governor’s insistence that Onitsha traders must break free from the grip of fear and resume normal trading appears logical. The state cannot afford to have its commercial nerve center paralyzed by the dictates of criminal elements who have no electoral mandate or moral authority.

    However, this is precisely where Soludo’s approach reveals a fundamental misunderstanding of democratic governance and the social contract between leaders and the led. The governor appears to have forgotten that Nigeria is a democracy, not a military dictatorship. In a democracy, governments exist to serve and protect their citizens, not to coerce them into dangerous situations. The traders are not closing their shops on Mondays because they are lazy ,unpatriotic or closet symphatisers of IPOB. They are doing so because they are terrified for their lives and property. This is not willing submission to non-state actors; it is survival instinct in the face of credible threats and demonstrable violence.

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    Shutting down the market as punishment for this fear-driven compliance is not just counterproductive; it is morally indefensible. If the market were being closed for legitimate regulatory reasons such as poor sanitation, fire safety violations, or environmental hazards, the government would be within its rights. But closing a market because traders are afraid of being killed or having their goods destroyed represents a spectacular failure of leadership. It shifts blame from the government’s inability to provide security onto the victims of insecurity themselves. These traders are not the enemy; the hoodlums terrorizing them are.

    The comparison to other markets functioning normally, while superficially compelling, crumbles under scrutiny. Onitsha Main Market is not just any market. It is the largest market in West and East Africa combined, a sprawling commercial ecosystem with hundreds of thousands of daily visitors and transactions running into billions of naira. The security requirements for such a massive complex are exponentially greater than those for smaller markets. Protecting Onitsha Main Market would require tripling or even quadrupling the security presence that might suffice elsewhere. Has the Anambra State government deployed such resources? Have there been visible, sustained security operations that would give traders confidence in their safety? The evidence suggests otherwise.

    Ali Chukwuma, one of Anambra’s finest bards once crooned “ Eje ana bu isi Ije” (A safe return is the centrepiece of every journey or travel). Now, if the government could guarantee absolute security within the market premises, what about the journey to and from the market? Traders cannot materialize in and out of the market gates by magic and with Soludo arresting and detaining a number of dibias, such magic may not be readily available to these traders as they travel from various parts of Anambra and neighboring states, often in the pre-dawn hours to set up their wares. The roads leading to Onitsha, the motor parks, the surrounding neighborhoods—these are all potential ambush points for those enforcing the sit-at-home. A trader who survives the market day unscathed might still face violence on the way home. Is their life worth the revenue they would generate for the state? The traders themselves have answered this question with their feet, and it is revealing that many of them are willing and eager to trade even on Sundays, demonstrating their entrepreneurial spirit and economic ambition. Yet this same ambition cannot override the instinct for self-preservation.

    Contrast such authoritarian directives with the fact that a number of state institutions such as the Anambra State House of Assembly, as well as local government council secretariats  observe these sit at home days (Anambra State House of Assembly conducts plenary sessions on Tuesdays, whilst most secretariats experience skeletal presence of staff) these are places that possess immense security coverage, yet, Soludo wants to compel hapless citizens to risk their lives, a case of do as I say not as I do!

    Governor Soludo would serve his people better by engaging in meaningful dialogue with market leadership rather than wielding the sledgehammer of closure. What specific security measures do the traders need to feel safe? What intelligence-sharing mechanisms can be established between market unions and security agencies? What emergency response protocols can be implemented?

    These are the questions a democratic leader should be asking. Copying from the playbook of military regimes—issuing ultimatums, making threats, forcing compliance through coercion—is a dangerous path that may indeed come back to haunt him politically and morally.

    Democracy thrives on consultation, consensus-building, and collaborative problem-solving. It withers under autocratic edicts and punitive measures against citizens who are already victims. The Onitsha Main Market crisis is fundamentally a security crisis, not a compliance crisis. Until Governor Soludo addresses the root cause—the inability of the state to protect its citizens from violent non-state actors—any attempt to force the market open will be both futile and unjust.

    The governor must remember that leadership in a democracy means walking with the people, understanding their fears, and creating conditions that make courage possible, not demanding bravery while providing no shield. Onitsha’s traders need protection, not punishment. They need a governor who fights the criminals terrorizing them, not one who fights them for being terrorized. Only when security is genuinely assured will the market return to its full glory, not through coercion, but through the restoration of confidence and peace.

  • The Nnewi Cathedral blues

    The Nnewi Cathedral blues

    The consecration of the newly built Our Lady of Assumption Cathedral in Nnewi should have been a moment of profound joy and spiritual celebration for the Catholic Diocese of Nnewi. Instead, the event has become mired in controversy, exposing what many see as a troubling departure from basic Christian principles of gratitude and courtesy. At the heart of the “Nnewi Cathedral Blues” lies a simple yet profound question: How could the Catholic Diocese of Nnewi in its moment of triumph, so thoroughly erase the memory of one who contributed so substantially to making that triumph possible?

    The late Senator Ifeanyi Ubah, who passed away in July 2024, reportedly funded approximately 90 percent of the construction costs of the magnificent cathedral that now stands as a beacon of faith in Nnewi. Yet, during the cathedral’s commissioning, neither his family received an invitation to the ceremony, nor was his contribution publicly acknowledged by the presiding Bishop Benson Okoye. This glaring omission did spark widespread outrage among the faithful and observers alike, raising uncomfortable questions about the values guiding the leadership of the diocese.

    To be clear, the controversy does not center on demands for the Church to build monuments to Senator Ubah or to immortalize his name in stone and brass within the sacred edifice. Such requests would indeed run contrary to the humility and focus on divine glory that ought to characterize Christian worship spaces. The faithful understand that churches are houses of God, not museums to human achievement, thus no reasonable person expected the cathedral walls to be adorned with plaques bearing the senator’s name or statues erected in his honor.

    However, there exists a vast chasm between avoiding personality cults and the practice of basic Christian courtesy. The family of Senator Ifeanyi Ubah deserved, at minimum, an invitation to witness the fruit of their late patriarch’s generosity. They deserved acknowledgment, however brief, of his substantial contribution. This is not about vanity or worldly recognition—it is about simple human decency and Christian gratitude, virtues that should be second nature to those who claim to shepherd Christ’s flock.

    The circumstances surrounding Senator Ubah’s withdrawal from the project add another layer of complexity to this unfortunate saga. Having shouldered 90 percent of the construction burden, the senator was, for reasons known only to Bishop Okoye, asked to step back from the project. The details of this decision remain shrouded in mystery, but the subsequent treatment of his memory suggests that whatever transpired left a lasting chill in the relationship between the diocese and its most generous benefactor.

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    What is even more funny is how the Catholic Diocese of Nnewi has gone on an overdrive to respond to the matter, such issued explanations attempting to justify or contextualize the snub. But as the saying goes, this amounts to little more than “medicine after death”—too late to heal the wound, too inadequate to address the fundamental breach of courtesy. Belated explanations cannot undo the hurt inflicted upon a grieving family or restore the dignity that should have been accorded to Senator Ubah’s memory during the cathedral’s finest hour.

    Perhaps most revealing is what was captured in video footage of the commissioning event. Bishop Benson Okoye can be seen in full overdrive, lavishing praise upon dignitaries in attendance—most notably Governor Charles Soludo and former Governor Peter Obi. The bishop’s words flowed freely in adulation of these political figures, his enthusiasm unmistakable as he honored their presence, his relationship with these persons  and their contributions. The contrast with the treatment of the late Senator Ubah’s memory could not be more stark or more troubling.

    While living politicians received effusive acknowledgment for merely attending, a deceased man who had poured his resources into building the very cathedral being commissioned was consigned to an Orwellian memory hole. One must ask: What does this selective recognition reveal about the Church’s priorities? What message does it send when political expediency appears to trump Christian gratitude? The optics alone are damaging enough, but the underlying implications cut far deeper.

    The bishop’s behavior in this instance, troubling as it may be, does not exist in isolation. Those familiar with Bishop Okoye’s actions will recall previous instances where his actions have raised eyebrows and prompted questions about what befits a servant in God’s vineyard. During the Anambra Central Senatorial Election of 2011 between Senator Chris Ngige and Professor Dora Akunyili, in the heat of the speculated rerun following the fact that the elections were inconclusive, the bishop stunned his congregation in Amawbia with a sermon that ventured far beyond spiritual guidance into the realm of political mysticism. He announced that Ngige was “bewitching Ndi Anambra with the broom”( The symbol of the Action Congress of Nigeria)—a statement so bizarre, so divorced from both Christian teaching and rational discourse, that one must ask: How low could he get?

    One did wonder, how voting for a candidate whose party had the symbol of the broom could have transformed such a person into a witch or wizard, well Ngige went on to win the rerun and it is my guess that all who voted for him became full time witches and wizards!

    Such episodes establish a pattern that makes the Nnewi Cathedral snub appear less like an isolated oversight and more like part of a broader approach to church leadership—one where political calculations and personal preferences seem to eclipse the timeless Christian virtues of gratitude, humility, and courtesy.

    Perhaps the snub was indeed political. Perhaps in the complex web of Anambra politics, acknowledging Senator Ubah’s contributions was deemed inconvenient or potentially controversial. Perhaps there were personal disagreements or ideological differences that made the bishop reluctant to honor the senator’s memory. If so, this makes the situation not better, but infinitely worse. It suggests that the Church allowed worldly politics to dictate its moral posture, that it permitted temporal considerations to override its duty to practice basic Christian charity.

    The Church is called to be a light in the darkness, a moral compass when society loses its way, a voice for timeless values in a world obsessed with fleeting concerns. When it descends into the murky waters of political gamesmanship, when it allows grudges to override gratitude, when it treats the dead with less courtesy than it accords to living politicians, it betrays this sacred calling.

    Isn’t it profoundly sad that the Church should stoop to such levels? That an institution entrusted with shepherding souls and modeling Christ’s love should become entangled in the very pettiness and ingratitude it is meant to transcend?

    The Nnewi Cathedral stands as a magnificent architectural achievement, but the circumstances of its commissioning have left a stain that no amount of marble or stained glass can obscure. One can only hope that this episode serves as a wake-up call, prompting reflection and reform before the Church’s moral authority erodes further in the eyes of those it claims to serve.

  • January 15, 1966 Coup: A reassessment

    January 15, 1966 Coup: A reassessment

    It is not in doubt that Nigeria’s first military coup d’état, executed in the early hours of January 15, 1966, remains one of the most controversial and misunderstood events in the nation’s history. Led by Major Emmanuel Ifeajuna and spearheaded by the charismatic Major Chukwuma Kaduna Nzeogwu, this intervention came at a time when our nation teetered precariously on the brink of collapse. To understand the motivations behind this dramatic action, one must examine the profound crisis of governance that had reduced Africa’s most promising nation to a laughingstock of democratic pretensions.

    By late 1965, Nigeria had descended into what could only be described as organized anarchy. The federal elections of 1964 and the Western Region elections of 1965 were not merely flawed—they represented the complete desecration of democratic principles. These elections were rigged with such brazen impunity that they shocked even the most cynical observers of African politics. In the Northern and Western Regions, opposition parties faced systematic harassment, their members intimidated, their rallies disrupted, and their candidates prevented from campaigning freely. The electoral process had become a grotesque charade where ballots were stuffed, results were written and announced before voting had been completed, and the will of the people was treated with contemptuous disdain.

    The Western Region crisis epitomized the hypocrisy and double standards that characterized the First Republic. When chaos erupted in the Western House of Assembly—complete with a theatrical dance that led to a broken mace and the infamous “roforofo” fighting—Prime Minister Tafawa Balewa moved with lightning speed to declare a state of emergency. This swift action led to trumped-up charges of coup plotting against Chief Obafemi Awolowo, one time Premier and the region’s most popular politician with many of his acolytes in the then Action Group, who were subsequently sentenced and imprisoned. The speed and decisiveness with which Balewa acted against perceived threats in the West would later stand in stark contrast to his paralysis when confronted with actual violence.

    Chief Samuel Akintola’s boast to voters remains one of the most infamous declarations in Nigerian political history. With characteristic arrogance, he declared that even if the people did not vote for him, he would still return as Premier of the Western Region. When this prophecy fulfilled itself through electoral manipulation, the Western Region exploded. Operation Wetie unleashed unprecedented violence as enraged citizens burned properties, attacked political opponents, and plunged the region into chaos. Lives were lost, properties destroyed, and civil order completely broke down.

    Yet here was the supreme irony: the same Balewa who had been so quick to declare emergency rule over a broken mace now claimed, to the utter astonishment of the world, that he lacked the constitutional powers to declare a state of emergency in the face of widespread violence, arson, and murder. This selective application of federal authority exposed the rot at the heart of the First Republic—a government that protected its political allies while allowing the nation to burn.

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    The Tiv crisis in the Middle Belt added another dimension to Nigeria’s descent into chaos. The massacre that ensued, with federal troops deployed against citizens in what amounted to a campaign of suppression, further demonstrated the government’s willingness to use violence to maintain political control. If soldiers could justifiably topple Shehu Shagari’s government in 1983 for corruption and economic mismanagement, what exactly was wrong with the January boys’ intervention when confronted with electoral fraud, regional violence, ethnic persecution, corruption and the complete collapse of constitutional governance?

    Let me submit that the loss of lives during the January 15 coup was indeed tragic. The deaths of Sir Ahmadu Bello, the Sardauna of Sokoto, Prime Minister Tafawa Balewa, and particularly the killing of senior military officers like Brigadier ZakariaMaimalari, Brigadier Samuel Ademulegun, Colonel Kur Mohammed, and Lieutenant Colonel Pam remain painful chapters in our history. One wishes the young officers had found a bloodless path to reform. However, to characterize this intervention as an “Igbo coup” represents a fundamental distortion of historical truth that has poisoned Nigerian discourse for generations.

    Violence is an inherent risk in forceful changes of power—this is an unfortunate reality throughout history. What the January 15 boys sought was not ethnic domination but a halt to Nigeria’s drift toward complete disintegration. If certain elements insist on labeling these young patriots as murderers, then consistency demands we apply the same designation to the architects of the July 29 counter-coup: Yakubu Gowon, Murtala Muhammed, Ibrahim Bako, TY Danjuma, Sani Abacha, and others who orchestrated a revenge mission that saw the targeted killing of Igbo officers and civilians which then  laid the foundation for the Nigerian Civil War.

    The infallible claim that the coupists intended to install Obafemi Awolowo as Prime Minister stands as the primary evidence cited by those who insist this was not an Igbo coup. Indeed, authorities no less than General Ibrahim Babangida have publicly rebuffed the long-held notion that seeks to pass a collective verdict of guilt on Ndi Igbo for an action planned and executed by young  Nigerian officers who had grown disgusted with the corruption and misrule they witnessed. There is also the gnawing evidence of General Aguiyi Ironsi and fellow Igbos like Alexander Madiebo and Conrad Nwawo playing opposing roles to the January 15 protagonists, if I am mistaken the trip mentioned are either Hausa Fulani or Shuwa? Sarcasm intended, It will also appear that Colonel Arthur Unegbe, who was the Quarter Master General, an Igbo from the ancestral town of Ozubulu, gunned down for refusing to hand over the keys of the Ikeja armoury to the January 15 protagonists was also a part of the plot to install a hegemony of the Igbos!

    Now, with all these evidence, it is particularly galling that individuals like Femi Fani-Kayode—whose father, Remi Fani-Kayode, was a direct beneficiary of the electoral manipulations of 1965—continue to peddle this divisive narrative. Alongside an equivocal character like Reno Omokri and the  comedian Bovi, they persist in casting aspersions and stoking hatred against a people who had nothing to do with planning the January 1966 coup, suffered enormously in its aftermath, and continue to bear psychological scars from the counter coup,  pogrom and civil war that followed. Their selective memory and deliberate distortion of history serve only to perpetuate the ethnic divisions that continue to undermine Nigerian unity.

    The January 15, 1966 coup was not an Igbo conspiracy but a desperate intervention by young Nigerian officers who watched their beloved country crumble under corrupt, incompetent leadership. While we may debate their methods, questioning their patriotic motivations while ignoring the catastrophic failures of the First Republic represents intellectual dishonesty of the highest order. Nigeria must finally confront this history honestly if we are ever to move beyond the poisonous ethnic narratives that continue to define our national discourse.

  • In memoriam: Chief Charles Amilo (1945-2021)

    In memoriam: Chief Charles Amilo (1945-2021)

    December the 31st last year would make it 4 years since the demise of Chief Charles Amilo,  a one time Commissioner for Information in Anambra and also a member of the Old Anambra State House of Assembly during the Second Republic.

    I have thus come to celebrate this man, — to extol the virtues of a man who was no mere mortal, but a titan among men, one of the last of a dying breed. Even in death, even in the cold embrace of the earth, Udobodo remains a towering model for generations yet unborn.

    In Amilo’s death four years ago, Anambra and the SouthEast region did lose more than a politician; we lost a scholar, an encyclopedia of knowledge,a voice for NdiIgbo, a champion of the Igbo culture and one of the finest image makers our state has ever produced. In an age increasingly characterized by mediocrity and opportunism, Amilo stood as a colossus of principle, intellect, and unwavering loyalty—qualities that have become almost extinct in our contemporary political landscape.

    Born in 1945, Chief Amilo’s journey began like that of many young lads in Eastern Nigeria, navigating his primary and secondary education during a transformative period in our nation’s history. But it quickly became apparent that this was no ordinary child. His brilliance shone through early, a harbinger of the intellectual giant he would become. From 1967 to 1974, during some of the most turbulent years in Nigerian history—years that saw the devastating Civil War tear our nation apart—Amilo pursued his undergraduate studies at the prestigious University of Nigeria, Nsukka, where he obtained a degree in Microbiology. That he completed this academic journey during such chaos speaks volumes about his determination and focus.

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    But the golden fleece of knowledge beckoned further. Like the ancient Greek hero Jason, Amilo ventured abroad in search of greater enlightenment, obtaining his Master’s Degree from Rutgers University between 1976 and 1978. This international exposure would later inform his cosmopolitan outlook and deepen his understanding of governance and development, tools he would deploy effectively in service to his beloved Anambra State.

    What set Chief Amilo apart, however, was not merely his formal education but his insatiable appetite for knowledge and his remarkable gift for retention and recall. He was, in the truest sense, an encyclopedia of knowledge—a living library of Nigerian history and politics. To sit with Udobodo was to embark on a journey through time, to relive the intrigues and triumphs of Nigeria’s political evolution. He could summon history at his beck and call, weaving narratives with such vivid detail that the past became present.

    I remember vividly the numerous occasions when he would regale us with stories of the First Republic’s politics—tales of the alliance between the NCNC and the Action Group that formed the United Progressives Grand Alliance (UPGA), accounts of political maneuvering that shaped the destiny of regions and peoples, and poignant recollections of the Civil War that redefined our nation. These were not dry academic recitations; they were living testimonies delivered with passion, nuance, and the authority of someone who had lived through those times and understood their profound implications.

     What made Udobodo stand out in his numerous interactions and exchanges remarkable was not just the passion with which Udobodo defended his positions, but the depth of knowledge, the command of facts, and the intellectual honesty he always brought to the debate. This earned him the respect of all, even those who disagreed with him could not help but admire his intellectual finesse.

    Perhaps the most defining characteristic of Chief Charles Amilo was his unwavering loyalty to causes he believed in and to people he called friends. In our current political dispensation, where loyalty is a commodity bought and sold in the marketplace of political convenience, where today’s ally becomes tomorrow’s enemy based solely on calculations of personal advantage, Udobodo’s steadfastness shines like a beacon in the darkness.

    Amilo’s loyalty was not the transactional kind we see so prevalently today—loyalty only to those who occupy offices, who control resources, who can offer immediate patronage. No, Udobodo’s loyalty ran deeper, rooted in principle and genuine human connection. He stuck with his convictions and with his friends, both young and old, through seasons of plenty and seasons of drought, through times of political favor and times of political wilderness.

    A clear and powerful example of this rare virtue was his relationship with former Governor Chris Ngige. After Ngige left office, as is typical in our clime, a huge majority of his lieutenants scattered like leaves in the wind, seeking new camps, new patrons, new sources of political sustenance. The exodus was both swift and comprehensive. But Udobodo, true to character, stuck with Ngige. He remained loyal despite the invitations  he received from many politicians and sweet offers, Udobodo stuck to his guns despite the potential costs to his own political fortunes.

    This principled stand makes Chief Amilo a shining example to our youth and a rebuke to our generation. In an era where politicians switch parties at speeds faster than light, where allegiances shift with the political winds, where yesterday’s solemn oath becomes today’s forgotten promise, Udobodo stood like Hercules, unmoved by the temptations of expediency. His loyalty was not naive; it was informed by a moral compass that many of us have misplaced or deliberately abandoned.

    As Commissioner for Information in Anambra State, Chief Amilo brought to bear his vast knowledge, his communication skills, and his deep understanding of our state’s identity and aspirations. He was not merely a government spokesperson; he was an image maker in the truest sense, someone who understood that the story of a people is as important as their material development, that how we are perceived shapes how we perceive ourselves.

    Today, as we remember the passing of this great son of Anambra, we must also celebrate the legacy he has left us. Chief Charles Amilo has shown us that it is possible to navigate the treacherous waters of Nigerian politics without losing one’s soul, that loyalty and principle need not be casualties of political ambition, that knowledge and intellectual depth remain invaluable currencies even in an age that often seems to value neither.

    Udobodo may lie in the cold ground, but his example remains warm and vital. He was indeed one of the last titans, and we are diminished by his passing. Yet, if we honor his memory by emulating even a fraction of his loyalty, his intellectual curiosity, and his principled engagement with our world, then Chief Charles Amilo will never truly die. He will live on in every young person who chooses principle over expediency, knowledge over ignorance, loyalty over opportunism.

    Keep resting Udobodo, Anambra salutes you. History will remember you. We will not forget.

  • Benjamin Kalu, Alex Otti and Abia 2027

    Benjamin Kalu, Alex Otti and Abia 2027

    The political landscape of Abia State has been charged with tension following recent exchanges between Deputy Speaker of the House of Representatives, Rt. Hon. Benjamin Kalu, and Governor Alex Otti. What ought to have been a straightforward political conversation has devolved into an unnecessary conflagration, revealing the temperament and character of those involved.

     Kalu, keen to bridge the SouthEast to the Centre, had repeatedly invited Governor Otti to join the All Progressives Congress, an act that is nothing short of a brotherly gesture—an olive branch extended from one son of Abia to another. It is a call rooted in pragmatism and the desire to see Abia State fully aligned with the progressive agenda of President Bola Ahmed Tinubu’s administration. Yet, rather than receiving this overture with the dignity and grace expected of a state executive, Governor Otti has chosen to respond harshly and through proxies, commissioning what can only be described as a platoon of attack dogs to savage the reputation of the Deputy Speaker.

    Such a “tigbue zogbue’’ response is as telling as it is disappointing. For a governor who publicly claims to be unperturbed by Kalu’s looming stature and challenge, Otti’s actions betray a man deeply threatened by the person of the Deputy Speaker, readers would do well to recall that in the early days of Kalu’s ambition to run for the Office of Speaker and then Deputy Speaker, he preferred supporting a candidate from another state, deeming Kalu’s ambition as a threat to his tenure as governor and such histrionics have continued to dictate his relationship with Kalu.

     Now, if Kalu’s invitation was indeed inconsequential, why the orchestrated campaign of vilification? Why deploy state resources and youth groups to attack a federal legislator whose only crime was extending a political invitation?

    The Deputy Speaker has every right to make such overtures. Politics, after all, is about building coalitions and expanding one’s political tent. Kalu’s invitation was consistent with the APC’s national agenda of bringing progressive-minded leaders into its fold. Governor Otti, exercising his constitutional right, could have simply and politely declined. He could have issued a statement affirming his commitment to the Labour Party while thanking the Deputy Speaker for his consideration. Instead, he has chosen the path of petty politics—mobilizing attack machinery funded, suspiciously, by Abia taxpayers’ money to diminish a man who has brought unprecedented glamour and prestige not only to Abia to the Southeast region.

    Since his emergence as Deputy Speaker of the House of Representatives, Benjamin Kalu has been a beacon of hope for the Igbo nation. He has restored dignity to Southeast representation at the federal level, ensuring that the voice of Ndigbo is heard in the corridors of power. His legislative achievements, his advocacy for Southeast development, and his strategic positioning within the national political framework have elevated not just his profile but that of the entire region. Perhaps, it is this success, this elevation, that seems to unsettle Governor Otti.

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    One must also examine Governor Otti’s political trajectory to understand the irony of his current posturing. This is a man who has sought the governorship of Abia State on three different occasions, under three different political platforms—APGA, APC( When this failed he returned back to APGA in 2019), and finally, the Labour Party. Seemingly, his political journey is a testament to opportunism rather than ideological consistency. When APGA did not serve his purpose, he moved to APC. When APC proved difficult,he pole vaulted  back to APGA and then to the Labour Party. Now, as governor, he wishes to lecture others about party loyalty and principle.

    Otti’s political chicanery is transparent to discerning observers. He is currently engaged in a delicate balancing act—attempting a sort of Ribbentrop/ Molotov rapprochement with President Tinubu and the federal government while remaining safely ensconced within the Labour Party. This is politics at its most cynical. If Governor Otti were truly committed to the Labour Party and its ideals, why is he not in active collaboration with Peter Obi, whose presidential campaign created the political tsunami that swept him into office in 2023? Where is the solidarity with the man whose popularity gave him the gubernatorial seat he now occupies?

    The answer is simple: Otti is hedging his bets. He knows that the LP may appear as a lesser evil to the rampaging APC machinery than the ADC. He knows that antagonizing the Tinubu administration would be detrimental to his governance agenda. So he plays both sides—courting federal favor while maintaining his Labour Party membership as insurance. This duplicity is precisely what Deputy Speaker Kalu is resisting.

    For Benjamin Kalu, politics is not a game of deception. It is about clear positions and principled stands. His philosophy is straightforward: you are either with President Tinubu and the progressive agenda of the APC, or you are against it. There is no middle ground, no room for political gymnastics. This clarity of purpose is what Nigeria needs—leaders who state their positions clearly and stand by them.

    The question Abia citizens must ask themselves is this: Who truly has their interests at heart? Is it a governor who burns through taxpayers’ money to fund political attacks against a federal legislator who is working to bring development to the state? Or is it a Deputy Speaker who, despite the attacks, continues to advocate for Abia and the Southeast at the highest levels of government?

    Governor Otti’s charade is wearing thin. His pretense at being above the fray while simultaneously orchestrating attacks through youth groups fools no one. His attempt to maintain plausible deniability while his surrogates do the dirty work is a strategy as old as politics itself, but it is unbecoming of a state governor.

    As Abia looks toward 2027, citizens must evaluate leadership not by rhetoric but by character. They must assess who has consistently delivered, who has brought honor to the state, and who has the vision and federal connections to drive sustainable development. On these metrics, Benjamin Kalu stands head and shoulders above the political fray.

    The Deputy Speaker’s invitation to Governor Otti was an opportunity for unity, for Abia to speak with one voice at the federal level. Otti’s response—through attack dogs rather than dialogue—reveals a leader more concerned with protecting his political turf than advancing the collective interest of Abia people.

    History will judge both men by their actions during this period. One has chosen the path of statesmanship, elevation, and regional advocacy. The other has chosen attack politics, duplicity, and opportunism. The people of Abia are watching, and they will remember.

  • Much ado about a bombing

    Much ado about a bombing

    The recent military strikes carried out by the United States against Islamic State West Africa Province (ISWAP) terrorists in Tangaza, Sokoto State have generated considerable debate, with some quarters viewing the intervention through a distorted lens of suspicion rather than recognizing it for what it truly represents: a significant victory in Nigeria’s ongoing battle against terrorism. The operation, which decimated multiple terrorist camps, should be celebrated as a landmark moment in international cooperation against violent extremism that has plagued Nigeria for far too long.

    For years, ISWAP and its affiliated terrorist groups including bandits have unleashed unprecedented sorrow, tears, and blood upon innocent Nigerians. Communities across the Northeast and Northwest have been terrorized by these merchants of death who have shown no mercy to their victims—whether Christian or Muslim. They have burned villages, kidnapped people , even schoolchildren, displaced millions, and created a humanitarian crisis of staggering proportions.

    The unrestrained and unprovoked violence has disrupted agriculture, education, and commerce, leaving entire regions in perpetual fear. Against this backdrop of sustained brutality, the US airstrikes represent not an infringement on Nigerian sovereignty but rather a much-needed reinforcement in a battle that demands every available resource and capability.

    President Donald Trump and the United States deserve commendation for such decisive action and, perhaps more importantly, for the manner in which this operation was conducted.

    Rather than acting unilaterally—which would have been problematic—the Trump administration demonstrated respect for Nigerian sovereignty by fully coordinating with Nigerian authorities at the highest levels. Foreign Minister Yusuf Tuggar’s account of the coordination process reveals a textbook example of how such operations should be conducted: Nigerian intelligence formed the foundation of the strike, consultations occurred between the foreign ministers of both nations, and President Bola Tinubu personally authorized Nigerian participation before the operation proceeded.

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    This is not colonialism or imperialism, as some critics would have us believe. This is a partnership. This is the international community exercising its responsibility to protect populations from mass atrocities while simultaneously respecting the sovereignty of nations. Nigeria maintained full agency throughout the process—providing intelligence, granting permission, and participating actively in an operation on its own soil. The terrorists were eliminated, no innocent lives were reported lost, and Nigeria’s territorial integrity remained intact. This is precisely what win-win cooperation looks like in the 21st century.

    The United States, in carrying out this operation, fulfilled its obligations under the Responsibility to Protect (R2P) doctrine—a principle that recognizes that sovereignty is not a license for governments to abandon their populations to mass atrocities, nor is it a barrier to the international community assisting when such threats emerge. Nigeria, for its part, demonstrated the maturity and pragmatism of a nation that recognizes its own limitations and is willing to accept assistance from capable partners. There is no shame in this; there is only wisdom.

    Moving forward, this operation should serve as a template for expanded cooperation between Nigeria and the United States. The fight against ISWAP, Boko Haram, and affiliated terrorist networks is far from over. These groups remain entrenched in multiple states, and their capacity for violence remains substantial. Nigeria needs more than occasional airstrikes—it needs sustained intelligence sharing, advanced surveillance equipment, tactical training, and yes, arms and ammunition that can match the firepower that these terrorists somehow continue to acquire.

    The United States should be urged to deepen its commitment to Nigeria’s security. Intelligence sharing should become routine rather than episodic. Nigerian security forces need access to advanced technology—drones, night-vision equipment, armored vehicles, and precision weaponry—that can tilt the balance decisively against the terrorists. The Nigerian military has shown courage and dedication, but courage alone cannot compensate for technological and logistical deficits. America has these resources, and providing them to a strategic partner in Africa’s most populous nation serves American interests as much as Nigerian ones.

    Yet, predictably, there are those who have chosen to criticize rather than celebrate this development. Among the most prominent of critics is the voluble purveyor of nonsense, Sheikh Ahmad Gumi, whose posturing about American “unclean hands” makes one genuinely wonder whether the Islamic cleric is becoming senile or simply willfully blind to reality. Gumi’s suggestion that only nations with “clean hands” should conduct such operations is not only impractical but reveals a staggering ignorance of history that one would not expect from someone of his supposed learning.

    The sheikh’s implication that certain nations possess moral purity that qualifies them to combat terrorism while others do not is laughable when subjected to even cursory historical scrutiny. He mentions China, Turkey, and other nations as somehow preferable alternatives, apparently oblivious to their own extensive records of violence and oppression. China’s brutal occupation of Tibet, its intervention in Korea, and its ongoing persecution of Uighur Muslims are well-documented. Turkey, as the Ottoman Empire, perpetrated the Armenian genocide—one of the twentieth century’s most horrific mass atrocities—and its military operations in Cyprus resulted in substantial civilian casualties and displacement. Every major power has blood on its hands somewhere in history. Now, this is not to excuse American foreign policy mistakes nor misdeeds, but rather to point out that Gumi’s standard—if applied consistently—would disqualify literally every nation on earth from conducting counterterrorism operations. It is a standard designed not for practical application but for rhetorical grandstanding. One must ask: does Sheikh Gumi prefer that ISWAP terrorists continue their reign of terror unimpeded? Does he believe Nigeria should refuse all international assistance until it finds a nation that has never committed any historical wrong? Such a position is not principled; it is absurd.

    Equally risible is the African Democratic Congress (ADC) and its attempt to politicize this security intervention. The ADC should know that not everything is about partisan advantage. Not every development should be viewed through the narrow lens of domestic political competition. Nigeria and Nigerians—regardless of party affiliation, ethnic identity, or religious background—benefit when terrorists are eliminated. The question should not be whether the ruling party gets credit, but whether Nigerian lives are saved and national security is enhanced. The answer to that question is unambiguously yes.

    The ADC would do well to remember that terrorism recognizes no party lines. ISWAP nor bandits do not request party affiliation or voter registration cards before attacking communities. When terrorists are destroyed, all Nigerians are safer—whether they support APC, PDP, ADC, or Chop and Quench Party. To oppose effective counterterrorism operations because they might reflect well on the current administration is to place political calculation above national interest, and it is a position that deserves nothing but contempt.

    The US airstrikes in Sokoto State represent a significant achievement in Nigeria’s fight against terrorism. They demonstrate that international cooperation, when conducted with mutual respect and proper coordination, can deliver results that serve both partners’ interests. Rather than engaging in misplaced criticism or cynical politicization, Nigerians should recognize this operation for what it is: a down payment on the security and stability that our nation desperately needs. The path forward is clear—deeper cooperation, enhanced intelligence sharing, and sustained commitment to eliminating the terrorist threat. Much has been made of this bombing, but the real story is simple: terrorists were destroyed, Nigerian sovereignty was respected, and both nations are safer for it. That is worth celebrating, not criticizing.

    Happy New Year my dear readers, we go again in 2026, in our prime desire for a better, prosperous and progressive Nigeria.

  • The Omole Exposé: Nigeria’s reckoning with institutional failure

    The Omole Exposé: Nigeria’s reckoning with institutional failure

    Charles Omole’s newly launched book on the Muhammadu Buhari presidency titled  “Soldier to Statesman: The Legacy of Muhammadu Buhari,”has detonated like a carefully placed charge beneath Nigeria’s political establishment. Though my ordered copy remains in transit, the reverberations from its revelations—and more tellingly, the reactions it has provoked—tell us everything we need to know about the fragility of our governance structures and the dangerous personalization of power that continues to plague this nation.

    The allegations and disclosures reportedly contained in Omole’s work have sent shockwaves through political circles, not merely because they are sensational, but because they apparently lay bare the fundamental dysfunction at the heart of recent Nigerian governance. The book’s reception, characterized by defensive outrage from some quarters and knowing nods from others, reveals a nation that has become dangerously accustomed to leadership opacity. What the reviews and public discourse since it’s launch demonstrate is that Nigeria remains trapped in a vicious cycle: we elevate individuals, even those not elected to positions of immense power, grant them near-imperial latitude, then express theatrical shock when we discover that unchecked authority has been exercised in ways contrary to the national interest.

    This pattern must end. The Omole book, whatever its ultimate historical verdict, serves as yet another clarion call for the structural transformation of Nigerian governance. We must transition from a system that allows individuals to set themselves up against the nation’s interest—whether through incompetence, malice, or the simple reality that power without institutional constraints inevitably corrupts—to one where robust institutions provide the guardrails in preventing such a concentration of power on individuals.

    The case for institutional deepening in Nigeria is not abstract theory; it is existential necessity. Consider what apparently transpired during the Buhari years: decisions made or deferred, appointments that privileged loyalty over competence, policy paralysis masked as integrity, and the concentration of power in informal networks rather than constitutional structures. These are not failings unique to one man or one administration—they are the predictable consequences of a system designed around personalities rather than processes.

    Strong institutions would have prevented many of the alleged missteps documented by Omole. An empowered civil service, insulated from political interference, does not wait for presidential whim to implement policy. An independent judiciary, properly resourced and respected, does not allow executive overreach to go unchallenged. A legislature conscious of its co-equal status does not rubber-stamp executive proposals or remain silent in the face of governance failures. A free press, protected by law and practice, does not wait for post-tenure exposés to reveal what should have been reported in real-time.

    Yet Nigeria’s institutions remain weak by design. We have created a hyper-presidency where success or failure hinges almost entirely on the character, capacity, and circle of whoever occupies Aso Rock. This is not governance; it is a lottery, in local parlance it is kalokalo and governance has become similar to a set of odds. And the Nigerian people, regardless of ethnicity, region, or religion, deserve better than to have their futures determined by chance.

    Which brings me to Nasir El-Rufai’s response to the Omole book—a response that, despite coming from a man I admire greatly for his intellect and administrative competence, fundamentally misunderstands the nature of democratic accountability.

    El-Rufai’s criticism of the book appears to rest on several premises, all of which deserve interrogation. The first seems to be that there is something inherently unseemly or disloyal about former insiders publishing accounts of their time in government. This is untenable. When Muhammadu Buhari—or any Nigerian—chooses to seek and accept the presidency, they voluntarily enter the public sphere in its most intense form. The office belongs to the people, not its temporary occupant. Everything done in that capacity, every decision made, every word spoken in official capacity, becomes part of the public record and subject to public scrutiny. This is not cruelty; it is democracy.

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    To suggest otherwise is to argue for a cult of silence that protects power from accountability. It is to claim that those who serve in government owe greater loyalty to their principal than to the Nigerian people who are the ultimate employers of every public servant. This is precisely the mentality that has enabled decades of unaccountable governance.

    El-Rufai’s second apparent premise—that such accounts are not balanced and that the book was meant to serve the interests of one faction against the other faction—is equally flawed. Nigeria cannot afford to wait for a village/ umunna / kindred  meeting of sorts between these factions before one can give his verdict, particularly when the consequences of governance failures are being lived in real-time by millions struggling with insecurity, economic hardship, and diminished opportunities. The urgent work of learning from our mistakes, of understanding what went wrong and why, cannot be postponed for the sake of seeking balance which may not occur on its own, it takes the efforts of persons like Professor Omole to do such and perhaps provoke the other side to air its own story.

    El-Rufai ought to have suggested that those with alternative accounts should write their own books.  The marketplace of ideas works best when multiple perspectives compete, when different participants in the same events offer their interpretations, and when the public can weigh competing narratives against available evidence. Omole has contributed to this marketplace; others, including El-Rufai, should do likewise rather than attempting to delegitimize the very act of bearing witness.

    But come to think of it, can Nigerians ask El Rufai if he sought this balanced point of view when he published his book the “ Accidental Public Servant” that is with barbs and the exposures the book exhibited? Haba Sir!!!

    Moreover, the Omole book, from all accounts, is not a simplistic character assassination of Buhari as a person or leader. It is, rather, an attempt to document what occurred during a consequential period in Nigerian history. That the buck stopped at Buhari’s desk is not Omole’s invention—it is the constitutional reality of presidential systems. If uncomfortable truths emerge from that documentation, the appropriate response is not to shoot the messenger but to grapple with the message.

    The fundamental issue revealed by this entire episode transcends Buhari, Omole, or El-Rufai. It is this: Nigeria will not progress significantly until we stop organizing our political life around the mythology of the strong man who will save us, and instead build institutions strong enough to constrain bad leaders and enable good ones. We need systems where competence is rewarded over connection, where merit trumps loyalty, where processes matter more than personalities.

    This means constitutional reforms that genuinely distribute power. It means judicial independence backed by budgetary autonomy. It means a professional civil service with security of tenure. It means a legislature that understands itself as a check on executive power, not an adjunct to it. It means transparent processes for appointments, procurement, and policy-making. It means protecting whistleblowers rather than persecuting them.

    Until we undertake this institutional reconstruction, we will remain trapped in an endless cycle: messianic expectations, inevitable disappointment, recriminatory revelations, then the search for the next savior. The Omole book is merely the latest chapter in this tragedy. Let it be a catalyst for the fundamental change we desperately need—the building of a republic that works regardless of who temporarily leads it.

    Merry Christmas my dear readers, may the joys and hopes cradled in the Christmas Story be ours as a nation and a people.

  • TY Danjuma at 88: Legacy of service and unanswered questions

    TY Danjuma at 88: Legacy of service and unanswered questions

    As General Theophilus Yakubu Danjuma marks his 88th birthday, Nigeria pauses to acknowledge a figure whose life has been inextricably woven into the fabric of the nation’s military and political history. He is, by any measure, a tested soldier and statesman in every right, having served this country on the battlefield, as Chief of Army Staff and later as Minister of Defence under the Obasanjo administration. His trajectory from the barracks to the corridors of power represents a significant chapter in Nigeria’s post-independence story.

    Danjuma’s military career was distinguished by his rise through the ranks during some of Nigeria’s most turbulent periods. As Chief of Army Staff, he commanded respect and wielded considerable influence over the nation’s security architecture. His later appointment as Minister of Defence under President Olusegun Obasanjo’s civilian administration demonstrated a continuity of confidence in his strategic acumen and leadership capabilities. These positions placed him at the epicenter of a number of critical decisions that have helped shape Nigeria’s military doctrine and defense policy.

    It must be acknowledged that General Danjuma has not done badly as a civilian either. He belongs to that class of military officers who benefited immensely from the benevolence the Nigerian nation availed them—opportunities in business, oil blocks, and unhindered  access to the commanding heights of the economy. His post-military success in the private sector, particularly in the oil and gas industry, has made him one of Nigeria’s wealthiest citizens. The transition from military general to business mogul is a path well-trodden by his generation of officers, and Danjuma navigated it with remarkable success.

    Yet, as we celebrate longevity and acknowledge service, posterity will always ask questions. History as a master of the times demands accountability, and time’s passage does not erase the weight of certain events that continue to cast long shadows over personalities and their distinguished careers.

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    One cannot discuss General Danjuma’s military career without confronting his roles in a number of events beginning from the tragic happenings of July 1966. As a young officer and coup plotter, he was deeply involved in the counter-coup that led to the deaths of his Supreme Commander, General Johnson Aguiyi-Ironsi, and the Western Region’s Military Governor, Colonel Adekunle Fajuyi as well as brother officers and civilians who were slaughtered for the January 15th coup. The circumstances of their deaths in Ibadan remain one of the darkest moments in Nigerian military history despite Danjuma ‘s “akuko na egwu” story of losing control over the troops he commanded.

     While the complexities of that period—ethnic tensions, political instability, and institutional fragmentation—provide context, they do not erase the fundamental questions about loyalty, command structure, and the sanctity of military hierarchy. What conversations can occur in the quiet moments when one reflects on the death of a commander under one’s watch? The coup (July,1966) may have been justified, Ironsi’s delay in punishing the January boys as well as his push towards a unitary system of government did raise fears, but the senseless killings pushed the country into a series of pogroms and a civil war which still stokes tensions even to this very day. What is more alarming is that the government which Danjuma did help entrench became more unitary than Ironsi would ever imagine, conferring an unfair advantage on a section of the country over others.

    The allegations surrounding the February 1977 invasion of Fela Anikulapo-Kuti’s Kalakuta Republic also demand examination. The brutal assault on the commune, which resulted in the burning of the property and the fatal injuries that led to the death of Fela’s mother, Funmilayo Ransome-Kuti, represented state violence against a citizen whose primary offense was speaking truth to power through music. While various military figures have been implicated in this atrocity, Danjuma’s position in the military hierarchy at the time has led to persistent questions about his knowledge of or involvement in the operation.  The Nigerian state’s failure to properly investigate and prosecute those responsible remains a stain on our collective conscience.

    More recently, during his tenure as Minister of Defence, the military operations in Odi, Bayelsa State, in 1999, and Zaki Biam, Benue State, in 2001, raised profound questions about proportionality and the rules of engagement. The Odi operation, in particular, resulted in widespread destruction and civilian casualties that human rights organizations documented extensively. The Zaki Biam invasion similarly left communities devastated. While both operations were officially responses to security challenges—the killing of security personnel—the scale of the military response and the civilian toll have been subjects of intense criticism. As the Minister overseeing these operations, General Danjuma bears a measure of responsibility for the decisions made and their devastating consequences.

    These are not mere historical footnotes. They represent moments when the instruments of state power were deployed in ways that many Nigerians believe crossed the line from necessary force to excessive violence, from maintaining order to inflicting collective punishment.

    As General Danjuma enters his 88th year, one must wonder: Is he happy with the state of Nigeria today? Does he look at the country—with its persistent insecurity, its fractured unity, its struggling institutions—and feel satisfaction with the foundations he helped entrench? The Nigeria of today bears the imprint of decisions made by his generation of military and political leaders. The normalization of military intervention in politics, the weakening of democratic institutions, the entrenchment of corruption, the erosion of meritocracy—these are legacies that those who wielded power must reckon with.

    In his later years, General Danjuma has at times spoken candidly about Nigeria’s challenges, even controversially urging Nigerians to defend themselves against security threats. These interventions suggest a man perhaps grappling with the distance between the Nigeria that might have been and the Nigeria that is and his roles in helping create such. Yet, candor in twilight does not erase responsibility for decisions made at noon.

    As we mark this milestone birthday, we honor General Danjuma’s service to the nation while acknowledging that true statesmanship requires accounting. The questions posed by history are not indictments alone but invitations to reflection, to truth-telling, and perhaps to reconciliation. For a man who has lived through so much of Nigeria’s story, who has shaped it in profound ways, the ultimate measure of his legacy will be determined not by the positions he held or the wealth he accumulated, but by how honestly he engages with the full weight of his actions and their consequences for millions of Nigerians.

    Happy 88th birthday, General. May the years ahead bring wisdom, peace, and the courage to speak fully to history.

  • Where’s the list?

    Where’s the list?

    Five days after the promised publication date, Nigeria finds itself in a familiar yet troubling position. Thousands of candidates who sat for the Computer-Based Test (CBT) for positions within the Civil Defense, Correctional and Immigration Services Board remain in anxious limbo, their futures suspended in haughty bureaucratic silence. The board’s deafening muteness on the matter has sparked legitimate questions about what transpires behind closed doors when employment opportunities meet political influence in Africa’s most populous nation.

    What could possibly justify this delay? Is it mere administrative incompetence, the familiar Nigerian affliction of “go-slow” that has become our unofficial national anthem? Or are we witnessing something more sinister—a carefully orchestrated mop-up exercise where the children of the high and mighty are being slotted into positions supposedly earned through merit by ordinary Nigerians who lack the brass, connections, or godfather necessary to secure their rightful places?

    These questions naturally demand answers and in saner climes, heads would roll as apologies would flow but this is Nigeria! This pattern is distressingly familiar. Nigerian recruitment exercises have historically been fertile grounds for corruption, nepotism, and the subversion of meritocracy. The 2015 Central Bank of Nigeria recruitment stands as a monument to opacity in public service employment. That exercise was shrouded in such impenetrable secrecy that even Lavrenty Beria, Stalin’s ruthless spy chief who perfected the art of clandestine operations, would have nodded in grim appreciation. To this day, Nigerians cannot access comprehensive information about how candidates were selected, what criteria were employed, or whether merit genuinely triumphed over connection.

    Then we have the documented case of a serving minister who brazenly cornered employment slots for members of his community, with his own family members prominently featuring among the beneficiaries. This wasn’t whispered rumor or unfounded allegation—it was a scandal that played out in public view, yet consequences remained conspicuously absent. Such impunity sends a clear message: the rules exist for the powerless, while the powerful operate in a consequence-free zone.

    Even within the current recruitment exercise, troubling inconsistencies have emerged. Candidates who wrote the CBT examination on the first day reported seeing their scores immediately after completing the test—a transparent practice that should be standard procedure. However, by the second day, this feature had mysteriously disappeared. Candidates completing identical tests under identical conditions were suddenly denied immediate access to their results. The reason for this abrupt change? Your guess is as good as mine. But in a country where trust in public institutions hangs by a thread, such unexplained alterations inevitably feed suspicions of manipulation.

    Let us be clear: the elite have every right to see their children and wards employed in the nation’s public service. They are citizens too, and their offspring should not be automatically excluded from opportunities. However, as Napoleon Bonaparte wisely observed, such employment must be done “without the distinction of birth or fortune.” Merit must be the sovereign criterion. Competence, not connection, should determine who serves the public.

    When we consistently second only the candidates of the rich and powerful, we construct a nation where merit becomes a quaint abstraction, sacrificed on the altar of “who knows who.” We entrench a toxic value system where hard work is jettisoned for political alignment, where brilliance loses to belonging, where diligence is defeated by dynasty. This is not merely unfair—it is fundamentally destructive to national development.

    Consider the bitter irony: most of the powerful men now allegedly foisting their wards into these positions were not born with silver spoons. They clawed their way to prominence through determination, intelligence, and yes, often through systems that rewarded merit alongside connection. Had the system been as comprehensively skewed in their youth as it appears today, would these men have reached the zenith of their careers? Would they occupy the positions of influence they now leverage on behalf of their children, wards and even mistresses? The answer is almost certainly no. They are beneficiaries of whatever meritocratic elements existed in their time, yet they now actively undermine those same pathways for others.

    This represents not just hypocrisy but a fundamental betrayal of the social contract. It perpetuates inequality across generations, transforming temporary advantage into permanent privilege. It tells brilliant but connected Nigerian youth that their excellence matters less than their surnames, that their preparation pales beside their parents’ positions.

    The solution requires both immediate action and long-term reform. First, the authorities must release the recruitment list immediately, as originally promised. Transparency cannot be optional in public service employment. Second, the current administration must seriously consider introducing artificial intelligence technologies into the recruitment process for public servants. AI-driven systems, properly designed and monitored, can dramatically reduce human manipulation, eliminate bias, and ensure that merit genuinely determines outcomes.

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    A nation’s public service remains the pride of any nation—or should be. We cannot continue wondering why Nigeria remains mired in underdevelopment despite our abundant human and natural resources when we employ “tiwa tiwa” (my own), “nkeanyi” (our own), and “na we we” (it’s us) as primary criteria for public service employment. These ethnic and familial loyalties, elevated above competence can only guarantee mediocrity in governance and perpetuate the very dysfunctions we claim to deplore.

    The candidates waiting for this list represent Nigeria’s potential. Many have prepared for months, sacrificed limited resources for examination fees, traveled distances for the tests, and placed their hopes in a system that promises fairness. They deserve better than silence. They deserve better than suspicion. They deserve a transparent process where their efforts matter more than their lack of powerful connections.

    The ball sits firmly in the board’s court. Publish the list. Restore faith. Prove that merit can still triumph in Nigeria. The alternative—continued silence and eventual publication of a suspiciously amended list—will only confirm our worst fears about who truly governs this nation: not the elected, but the connected; not the qualified, but the well-placed.

    Nigeria deserves better. Our youth deserve better. Merit deserves its day.