The Nation Newspaper

Category: Olatunji Ololade

Bankers or bandits?

Money is a promise. It binds dreams both to the tangible and intangible, yet in finance, this covenant is often betrayed. The banking halls, once the sanctuaries of trust, thus become arenas of exploitation where poor, unsuspecting depositors are fleeced by systems as ravenous as they are opaque.

Beneath the glitter of marble countertops and varnished boardrooms, subsists a rot so pervasive it calls into question the very foundations of Nigeria’s financial edifice.

It is against this backdrop that the Nigerian House of Representatives sought to enact a glimmer of accountability. In October 2024, lawmakers deliberated on a bill to amend the Banking and Other Financial Institutions Act, targeting the pervasive plague of fraudulent deductions from customers’ accounts. But within banking boardrooms, this attempt at reform was welcomed with sneers.

A prominent banker quipped that the bill was “dead on arrival,” while others in polished suits laughed knowingly. History lends weight to their cynicism—similar legislative huffs have resulted in no meaningful curb on the excesses of these financial institutions. Lawmakers have lamented the predatory practices of commercial banks in 2020, 2022, and now in 2024, in the tenor of armchair Trotskys with a hankering to mount the soapbox just to spout off and be seen. The bankers, in their private theatre, deride them knowing that the Nigerian state, so fond of its regulatory theatre, will eventually bow to moneyed interests.

This cynical certainty is not misplaced. The Nigerian state has often barked at corruption, only to succumb to the seductive whistle of compromise. Due to its impotence,

bankers engage in exploitative practices more brazenly – further burnishing a system designed to siphon wealth from the vulnerable to fete the powerful.

The poor and the working class bear the brunt, trapped in a web of illegal deductions, exorbitant loan interest rates, and a lack of transparency. For them, survival is a daily negotiation, and the banks have mastered the art of weaponizing this desperation.

The litany of abuses begins with illegal charges. For years, Nigerian banks have perfected the art of surreptitiously deducting funds from customers’ accounts under the guise of service fees. These deductions often go unnoticed, their cumulative effect devastating to the small depositors who rely on every naira to survive. When questioned, the banks offer convoluted justifications, or worse, silence. This malpractice feeds a cycle of distrust, yet most Nigerians, shackled by economic dependency, find themselves unable to sever ties with these institutions.

Compounding this is the suffocating weight of high-interest loans. In 2024, as the Central Bank of Nigeria raised benchmark rates to combat soaring inflation, banks gleefully passed on the burden to borrowers. Interest rates on loans now climb as high as 35%, with hidden fees inflating the effective rates even further. Small business owners, farmers, and middle-class Nigerians seeking to sustain their enterprises or cover emergencies are caught in a financial stranglehold. These loans, far from being a lifeline, often become chains, dragging borrowers deeper into poverty while enriching executives with bonuses tied to bank profits.

Beyond the predatory interest rates lies a darker underbelly: outright theft and embezzlement. The recent revelation of a former bank manager orchestrating a digital N40 billion fraud underscores the systemic vulnerabilities. For years, this individual exploited his position to siphon funds into personal accounts, his audacity matched only by the institution’s negligence. It was only the persistence of an aggrieved customer that unraveled the scheme.

Across the banking sector, insider borrowing has equally become an endemic problem. Executives grant themselves and their associates loans under favourable terms, often with no intention of repayment. These loans, euphemistically classified as “non-performing,” are eventually written off, the losses absorbed by depositors or the public purse. The Nigerian Deposit Insurance Corporation (NDIC), designed to protect depositors, frequently steps in to bail out these institutions, effectively socializing the losses while privatizing the profits.

Nowhere is the rot more glaring than in the intersection of banking and politics. A certain former governor of the Central Bank of Nigeria (CBN) serves as a cautionary tale of unchecked power. Allegations of “monumental fraud” and his alleged linkage to the acquisition of a sprawling estate of about 753 properties in Abuja exemplify the nexus between financial malfeasance and political impunity. These assets, reportedly funded through illicit forex transactions, reveal the ease with which public trust can be converted into private gain. While the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission touts the recovery of these properties as a landmark victory, it does little to alleviate the systemic corruption that allowed such accumulation in the first place.

The consequences of these malpractices are not abstract. They are borne by everyday Nigerians whose lives are entwined with a banking system that views them as prey. For the single mother trying to keep her children in school, the illegal deductions might mean a day without food. For the farmer seeking a loan to expand operations, the exorbitant interest rates could spell the end of a generational livelihood. For the entrepreneur, the opaque charges could be the difference between growth and bankruptcy.

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The ripple effects extend beyond individuals. Small and medium-sized enterprises, which form the backbone of the Nigerian economy, are stifled by a lack of affordable credit. Agricultural projects languish as funds intended for their support are siphoned off by corrupt officials and bank insiders. The resulting stagnation perpetuates a cycle of poverty, unemployment, and underdevelopment.

The persistence of these issues is a testament to the failure of Nigeria’s regulatory and judicial systems. The CBN, ostensibly the guardian of financial probity, has often been complicit, either through inaction or deliberate neglect. Regulatory bodies lack the teeth to enforce compliance, while a culture of political patronage ensures that influential offenders face no consequences.

Moreover, the structure of the Nigerian economy creates a near-total dependency on banks. For most citizens, alternatives are nonexistent. Digital transactions, foreign transfers, and access to credit bind customers to these institutions, making the prospect of a boycott or systemic reform seem almost unattainable. In a nation where digital transactions and loans have become lifelines, the suggestion of a banking boycott is akin to asking a starving man to forsake food.

To restore faith in the banking sector, Nigeria must embark on a comprehensive overhaul – a measure the incumbent CBN governor, Yemi Cardoso, isn’t too timid to adopt perhaps. This begins with enforcing transparency in bank charges and interest rates. Regulatory bodies must adopt zero tolerance for illegal deductions and establish mechanisms for swift redress. Loan terms should be standardized to protect borrowers from exploitative practices, and interest rate spreads must be capped to reflect economic realities.

Equally important is addressing insider corruption. Bank executives and board members found guilty of embezzlement should face the full weight of the law, with personal assets seized to compensate victims. Political influences must be curtailed through legislative reforms that insulate financial institutions from external pressures. Public awareness campaigns can also empower citizens to hold banks accountable, fostering a culture of vigilance and advocacy.

The Nigerian banking sector stands at a crossroads. It can continue down its current path, perpetuating cycles of exploitation and distrust, or it can choose reform, rebuilding itself as a bastion of transparency and equity. The choice, however, is not solely the banks’ to make. It requires collective action from regulators, lawmakers, and the public to demand a system that serves the people rather than preys upon them.

Until then, the promise of money as a covenant of trust will remain, in Nigeria, a bitterly broken dream.

December 5, 2024
Port Harcourt Refinery: Progress or deceptive triumph?

The Port Harcourt Refinery, once a somnolent giant, has roared back to life. Long dormant and consigned to the annals of Nigeria’s unfulfilled industrial ambitions, its engines now hum with life, its pipes pulse with purpose, and its furnaces burn with a promise long awaited by a nation burdened by dependency on imported fuel.

The Nigerian National Petroleum Company Limited (NNPCL) has declared this revival a monumental milestone, celebrating the refinery’s activation as the dawn of energy independence. Yet, amid the applause and optimism, a sobering question lingers: Will this awakening trickle into the lives of Nigerians battered by economic despair, or is it another empty triumph in the theatre of state-run projects?

For decades, the refinery stood as a mute testament to Nigeria’s paradox—a nation rich in crude oil yet impoverished by its inability to refine it. The cost of this paradox has been staggering. Importing refined petroleum drained billions of dollars from the national coffers annually, depleting foreign reserves and exposing the populace to the volatility of global markets. The resurrection of the Port Harcourt Refinery was heralded as a masterstroke in addressing these woes, a monumental achievement akin to reviving a phoenix from its ashes. But as the trucks now rumble out with processed products, questions linger over its potential to transform the lives of ordinary Nigerians.

The nation’s four state-owned refineries—symbols of squandered potential—have faltered, leaving Nigeria to import over 80% of its refined petroleum products at staggering costs exceeding $2 billion annually. This dependency has strained foreign reserves, exacerbated inflation, and amplified the agony of citizens grappling with exorbitant pump prices.

Even with the activation of the Dangote Refinery, a private player with the capacity to process 650,000 barrels of crude daily, fuel costs have remained abominable. Across the federation, pump prices hover at N1,100–N1,300 per litre, with some states reporting higher prices due to transportation costs. This surge, exacerbated by inflationary pressures, has crippled the nation’s economy.

Fuel costs have a cascading effect. Transportation costs have soared, spiralling into higher prices of food, basic provisions and essential commodities. Bread, rice, and garri—staples of the Nigerian diet—have become luxuries for many. Likewise, tomatoes, pepper, and hitherto affordable fruits. Commuters endure skyrocketing fares, market women watch their profit margins erode under-inflated transport costs, and as the prices spiral beyond reach, families struggle to afford a decent meal. For the average citizen, the oil beneath their feet has become a curse, not a blessing.

Inflation, driven by these skyrocketing costs, has eroded purchasing power, leaving citizens clinging to the frayed edges of survival. The once-vibrant middle class, the engine of any thriving economy, is dwindling into insignificance, replaced by an ever-expanding chasm between the wealthy few and the impoverished majority.

For a nation where over 63% of the population lives below the poverty line, such inflation is more than an economic issue—it is a humanitarian crisis. Households ration meals, children drop out of school to save costs, and the dream of a better life recedes further into the horizon. The activation of the Port Harcourt Refinery, while commendable, must not become another mirage in the desert of Nigeria’s industrial efforts. It must deliver tangible benefits to the people it purports to serve.

The revival of the Port Harcourt Refinery has sparked hope that this tide might finally turn. Producing 1.4 million litres of Premium Motor Spirit (PMS), 900,000 litres of kerosene, and 1.5 million litres of diesel daily, the refinery promises a glimmer of relief. President Bola Ahmed Tinubu, whose administration oversaw the activation – since former President Muhammadu Buhari awarded the contract for its rehabilitation – hailed it as a cornerstone of his vision for energy security and economic prosperity.

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Yet, even at 70% of its installed capacity, the refinery’s outputs are insufficient to meet the huge domestic demand. Moreover, its products must traverse the labyrinth of Nigeria’s distribution network—a system fraught with inefficiencies, middlemen profiteering, and logistical hurdles—before reaching the average citizen. The fear persists that the benefits of this revival may dissipate in the fog of bureaucracy, industry jargon, and operational pitfalls, leaving Nigerians to endure the same hardships cloaked in a veneer of progress.

As the Port Harcourt Refinery chugs to full operations, it is imperative that the Warri and Kaduna refineries, as well as the second Port Harcourt Refinery, be expedited to full operational capacity. Together, these facilities have the potential to significantly reduce Nigeria’s reliance on imports, stabilize domestic fuel supply, and lower pump prices. Their activation would also create jobs, stimulate local economies, and position Nigeria as a net exporter of refined products, rather than an importer enslaved by the volatility of global markets.

The symbiosis between private and public efforts in Nigeria’s refining landscape is both promising and fraught. While the Dangote Refinery exemplifies private-sector innovation and ambition, the Port Harcourt Refinery symbolizes public-sector resilience. Yet, this duality must be harmonized to serve the common good. Modular refineries, with their quicker return on investment and reduced vulnerability to sabotage, offer a path forward. But their economic viability hinges on operational efficiency, competitive pricing, and sustainable policies.

Nigeria must embrace modular refinery technology as a complementary strategy. These smaller, cost-efficient facilities can be established in months, require less feedstock, and are less vulnerable to pipeline sabotage—a menace that has long plagued the oil industry. Modular refineries offer a pathway to regional energy self-sufficiency, enabling states to address local fuel needs independently while contributing to the national grid.

Nigeria’s ability to strike the delicate balance between the cost of crude inputs and the price of refined outputs will determine the success of its refining renaissance. As global oil markets fluctuate, the government and private players must ensure that domestic gains are not eclipsed by external shocks.

The journey towards refining self-sufficiency cannot succeed, however, without addressing systemic inefficiencies. Operational excellence must become the cornerstone of Nigeria’s refinery management. Maintenance, modernization, and innovation are essential to reducing costs and maximizing output. The government must also ensure that the pricing of refined products aligns with the realities of Nigerian households. Subsidy removal, while economically sound, must be balanced with social interventions for vulnerable populations.

In addition, transparency and accountability are non-negotiable. The Port Harcourt Refinery’s activation, though celebrated, must not become a tool for political grandstanding. Citizens deserve regular updates on production levels, distribution, and pricing policies. The refinery must operate as a public asset serving national interests, not as a fiefdom for private gain or political patronage.

As the engines roar back to life, they intone the clamour of a nation’s heartfelt dream—a dream of affordable fuel, a vibrant economy, and a brighter future. Yet, dreams without deliberate action suffer a stillbirth. The refinery’s activation must mark the beginning of a new era, not merely a symbolic gesture of progress.

The Port Harcourt Refinery, reborn from the ashes of neglect, represents a glimmer of hope that must not be extinguished by complacency or mismanagement. For its activation to resonate beyond industrial corridors, it must relieve Nigerians of economic hardships.

This is not merely a story of machines roaring to life but of lives transformed—where a father can answer as a provider, a mother can afford transportation to the market, a child can go to school with a full stomach, and a nation can stand tall, unbowed by the weight of its potential.

November 28, 2024
The illusion of imported leadership

It is a cruel jest that a nation in dire need of repair often turns to those who abandoned her at her most fragile hour, entrusting them with the mandate to rebuild.

It is hardly wise to appoint Nigerians who had Japa to man public offices in the country. This is akin to luring the proverbial skunk from the wilderness into our royal chamber, if it doesn’t defile the quilted sheet with its faeces, it will ruin the palace with its stench.

Those who had ‘Japa’ to escape the ‘hell’ Nigeria became should never be allowed to superintend our healing – ultimately because they lack the character and competence, native intelligence and maturity, selflessness and integrity, patience and sense of responsibility required to manage our healing process.

It was disheartening to see a Governor’s recent appointee scoff at his fortune, stressing that he never needed the appointment – even though he barely survived as a canned fruit hawker cum cab driver who squatted with friends in the United Kingdom.

He dismissed his new role as unneeded charity, flaunting his “lucrative businesses” overseas. Such disdain undermines the very dignity of public service. Governance is no playground for fair-weather patriots, who, when the tides turn, abandon ship, leaving chaos in their wake.

Diasporan appointments often ignore a fundamental rule: the right person for a position must have prior experience or demonstrated expertise in that role. If we must invite a Diasporian Nigerian to serve as the country’s Petroleum Minister, one primary requirement should be his previous employment in a similar capacity. The same logic requires that only a seasoned General can become Nigeria’s Chief of Army Staff (COAS).

That said, it is often ill-advised to appoint an overseas cab driver, who is contemptuous of Nigeria, as a federal minister or director of a public agency. When Nigeria needs cab drivers with international experience, we may recruit such individuals. Our public offices are best reserved for patriots who keep faith in the Nigerian enterprise. It’s about time we stopped appointing leeches into public office. When the going gets tough, they simply pack up and leave. Nigeria’s public office is not a rehabilitation camp for fair-weather patriots.

Yet, the allure of foreign-trained technocrats often blinds decision-makers. We have seen governors appoint internet fraudsters and human traffickers as cabinet commissioners. We have also seen supposedly first-rate technocrats flaunting Ivy-League certificates, sully our public offices with corruption, arrogance and greed. Our public offices demand more than empty credentials; they require stewards who embody resilience, moral integrity, and an unyielding belief in the Nigerian dream.

We have Nigerians doing well back home, despite the odds. They are the type that stay the course when the going gets tough. They do not bend and sway to every favourable draft nor pack up and leave at the onset of a storm. They stay back and withstand its flurry, surviving with tact, perseverance, faith, goodwill and native intelligence. They understand that only by salvaging what we have and who we are, can we achieve our Nigerian dream. These are the ones deserving of public office.

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Still, it’s everyone’s prerogative to either stay or flee from perceived hostility in our homeland. But hostile politics and economies aren’t caused by phantoms or poltergeists. They are the result of our lack of humaneness and frantic avarice. The looters prowling our streets and corridors of power did not fall from outer space. They are the fruits of our mother’s wombs, sired with seeds from our fathers’ loins. They are the monsters we raised in our families.

Modern Nigeria is a product of the joint efforts and inactions of our families, schools, worship houses, the streets and the media.

Japa nomads taking the education or scholarship route, eventually find that their admission into elite schools overseas was purely a business decision by the schools and their host countries. The benefits are ploughed back into their host society.

By the time they graduate, they are superbly conditioned for the drudgery of second or third-rate employment overseas. Some occasionally secure first-rate employment. But the very smart ones among them relocate back home to seek employment with Nigerian or multinational firms who prefer their foreign certificates.

Many return to Nigeria as agents of metacolonialism. Hence the preponderance of journalists, writers, teachers, economists, social workers, engineers, and health workers, to mention a few, who function as glorified stooges of the so-called developed nations of the world.

At the heart of the Japa phenomenon lies a moral corruption not unlike that which fueled the transatlantic slave trade. It is a degeneracy rooted in faithlessness—faithlessness in one’s country, one’s people, and the possibility of collective growth. To combat this, we must dismantle the social mechanisms that enable such disloyalty. And this can only be achieved through education. The Nigerian school must begin to impart more than money-making soundbites and status-conferring skills.

Our schools must equally teach values and history with a didactic bent. If they do not, another transatlantic slave trade is possible; we have seen it happen in Libya, where Europe-bound Nigerian youths were bound and gagged, raped and murdered by African slave drivers cum human traffickers; it happens every day to thousands of Nigerians crossing to Europe through irregular migration routes from Agadez through Tripoli to the Mediterranean bight.

President Bola Tinubu must understand that it is not enough to seek foreign investment and cooperation from abroad; such initiative, while appreciable, could be doomed by a lack of quality personnel and citizenship required to nourish whatever benefits accrue from his nation-building enterprise.

If Nigeria truly seeks sustainable socio-economic growth in the long run, we must groom generations of men and women capable of nourishing and preserving the Greater Nigeria enterprise.

The true purpose of education is to make minds, not careers, and as Deresiewicz writes, only a small minority have seen their education as part of a larger intellectual journey or have approached the work of the mind with a pilgrim soul.

Nigeria must furnish an educational system driven by the sweat and exploits of such pilgrim souls. The country’s education curricula must be overhauled to impart a Nigeria-centred educational experience that could resonate with the progressive social re-engineering of the country.

It doesn’t matter what quality of degrees are acquired if the recipients are furnished to operate like mindless robots, praise junkies, fortune hunters and crowd pleasers. William Hazlitt notes how European society violently wrenches and amputates her citizenry thus making them unfit for intercourse with the world, something in the manner that beggars maim and mutilate their children, to prepare them for their future pigeonholes.

This imagery of beggars maiming and mutilating children is discernible in the fate of the Nigerian kids birthed abroad; some are shipped overseas as regular or illegitimate migrants purportedly to grant them access to a better life.

The lure of Japa validates Bulhan’s theory of metacolonism. The syndrome has taken so much from us, including our loyalty, language, history, and the cultural values that bound our community together. All that is left is our sense of attachment and moral responsibility borne of nostalgia. Yet Japa has corrupted even that.

The time has come to redefine patriotism, prioritising those who believe in the Nigerian dream and are ready to make the sacrifices required to achieve it. Anything less is a disservice to the nation and its people.

November 21, 2024
Bleeding heart theatre (2)

Shall we call him Ishmael? Each of the 32 boys recently released among the 76 detained in the August #EndBadGovernance protests—emerge as symbolic Ishmaels, castaways in a society indifferent to their plight.

Betrayed by the northern political elite, they wander estranged from the care and ideals that should palm their fate, laying siege to Nigeria’s rural heartlands and suburban sprawl.

There is an apocalyptic drift in the scourge of these minors, mainly underage boys and teenagers. The northern intelligentsia and political class, in particular, perceive them as fractions of the region’s disposable human trash. They believe that there are more pressing political and economic problems to address. This is a mistake. A grievous one.

It is the sort of apathy that seethes, awaiting the right spark to rupture – often at the nudge of shady political elite and criminal masterminds.

These boys are products of Nigeria’s dysfunctional system. Inured to mayhem, they are forbiddingly dangerous. Their personalities, shaved of compassion are sculpted to project strife by their maleficent benefactors.

Brainwashed, they become puppet personae, stunted in growth, and unquestioning of their puppeteers’ malicious intent.

Amid their benefactors’ toxic patronage, they manifest like soulless dummies, casual workers in a Nigerian carnage factory.

As victim and villains, they are both exposed and enclosed, behind their coarse faces and masks.

Each boy is naked yet armoured, premature yet ritually experient. They are impervious to morals because they have become soulless; their defiled innocence screams for urgent help and yet remains closed to redemption.

Their naivete is deceptive – not to be toyed with. Military officers in Nigeria and neighbouring countries claim the minors they face on the battlefielf are fearless. In Cameroon, a local commando unit dispatched helicopters and artillery against waves of Boko Haram’s child insurgents, who appeared to be drugged, some armed with no more than machetes, said Col. Didier Badjeck , a former Cameroonian army spokesman.

During a recent battle between Boko Haram and Cameroonian gendarmes, in northern Cameroon, more than one hundred screaming boys ran towards a fortified position, many of them barefoot and unarmed, said Badjeck to WSJ, and most were swiftly gunned down. Soldiers found in many of their pockets packaging from the opiate, tramadol.

“It’s better to kill a boy than have 1,000 victims,” said Badjeck. “It’s causing us problems with international organizations, but they’re not on the front lines. We are.” This is both sad and scary. No adult should ever have cause to think or say such of a minor.

No government should ever have cause to detain or charge minors as adult felons. Yet, in the aftermath of the August detentions, the swift release of these boys appeared less an act of justice and more an effort to quell public outrage.

The fervent shrieks of a chastising public seemed to browbeat the federal government into a retreat, thus releasing the boys, who returned to their communities as heroic symbols. Some state governors met them with a bizarre pageantry, a peculiar celebration for youth seen just days before as outlaws. The government’s hasty capitulation—a backhanded “victory” for those who condemned the arrests—signals a dangerous precedent, affirming that lawlessness may, at times, be overlooked for the sake of appeasement.

The political elite, especially, raised their voices to align with public sentiment in a bid for relevance. But it is the boys who suffer the most from this theatre of misdirected sympathy, this tacit validation of violence and defiance masquerading as reform.

Ultimately, they reflect a peril that grows with every unaddressed grievance. For they are not a separate people or class but the product of a fractured society that disdains to acknowledge them even as it manipulates their resentment for political purposes.

In the north, the legacy of this abandonment manifests in boy-terrorists, and bandits too young to understand the true scope of their actions yet resolute in their defiance. In the southern cities, Lagos especially, young gangs with names like the One Million Boys and Awawa Boys haunt neighborhoods, their adolescent faces hardened by a violence that stems from necessity. Teenagers wielding machetes and knives, robbing and raping without remorse, are the mirror to our society’s indifference, a warning cloaked in youthful terror.

These young gang members—southern and northern alike—reveal a raw truth about Nigeria’s descent. They are the sons of a failed republic, a generation cast adrift, molded in the rough hands of neglect and raised in the shadows of power.

But to disregard these boys as mere “distractions” is to miss the ominous truth that they are the harbingers of a much greater devastation—one that will not be contained by neglect.

President Bola Tinubu’s leadership stands at a precipice, compelled to confront the specter of youth disillusionment not as an incidental problem but as a national crisis. It is the duty of the ruling class to recognize that the cries of hardship from Nigeria’s marginalized are not tantrums but a plea for survival – to be treated with dignity.

To dismiss the grievances of a suffering populace – the youths in particular – as the complaints of ungrateful citizens is not only unacceptable but tragic. No leadership can expect loyalty or appreciation from those it deems irrelevant, those it ignores with contempt. I hope President Tinubu would commit no such error.

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Our youth—these forgotten Ishmaels—need more than our pity; they need a path to purpose. Their anguish should not be pacified with symbolic gestures or cynical grandstanding. They require a structure that fosters legitimate ambition, a system that offers alternatives to the grim realities that now bind them to violence. Education, mentorship, vocational training—these are not luxuries but necessities, the only means to disarm the fury that threatens to consume our nation.

The establishment of robust, grassroots programs that address not only academic but also emotional and ethical development can begin to mend the broken bridges. The infusion of opportunities for legitimate enterprise, for creative and productive outlets, could allow these youths to redirect their energies towards a brighter future.

Rather than institutionalizing punishment, we could foster community programmes that can rehabilitate former gang members, bandits, and soldiers, providing them with meaningful engagement through work, skill-building, and mentorship.

It’s aout time we held the political elite accountable for their part in the mayhem. They must be held accountable for the violent use of young people as agents of political manipulation. Policies that insulate minors from being co-opted for political gain should be enforced strictly, with transparency in electoral and political processes.

Our society must reckon with its own contradictions. We cannot decry the corruption of our youth while perpetuating the very conditions that breed it. We cannot chastise them for the choices they make while denying them any real options. We must look beyond the symptoms and address the root causes — the grinding poverty, the lack of access to quality education, the systemic corruption that has made a mockery of justice and governance.

For each child we condemn, another will rise, hardened by the same struggles, driven by the same sense of abandonment. It is a cycle that feeds upon itself, a vortex that will one day consume us all if left unchecked.

The path forward must be laid with compassion and reform, not with the fiery words of performative rage. Without it, the condemnation of these boys remains as empty as the promises they once believed in, leaving them stranded in the wastelands they were forced to call home.

November 14, 2024
Bleeding heart theatre

Behind the pageantry of public scorn, the curtains of outrage and virtue-signalling, every bleeding heart activist is a grifter perhaps. Strike that! Most people condemning the federal government’s initial attempt to prosecute 32 minors—among the 76 individuals detained for participating in the August #EndBadGovernance protests are emotional scam artists.

This is not to undermine, however, the truly conscientious child rights activists driven by humane intent to condemn the maltreatment of the boys.

The government’s initial move to prosecute the 32 minors predictably, incited not just anger but a palpable moral theatre. Intellectuals, political elites, and activists lambasted the government for alleged cruelty toward these young detainees, who had been locked away for three harsh months across Abuja, Kaduna, Gombe, Jos, Katsina, and Kano.

Politicians, rights advocates and civil society groups likened the government’s action to a betrayal of human dignity. Indeed, these boys appeared pitiful: unkempt, hollow-cheeked, desperate for scraps of water and biscuits in viral footage that flooded social media. Yet the orchestrated outpour of rage, condemning their “cruel and unusual” detention, reveals a selective blindness within Nigeria’s moral compass. Where was this storm of indignation when minors elsewhere in this country became fodder for far graver brutalities?

Inside the courtroom, the sight was sombre, with these boys barely able to stand, their bodies bent and wracked in pain. Four boys collapsed as proceedings began, and they were borne out like broken statues of misjudged rebellion. As they writhed and groaned on the courtroom floor, high-ranking figures—from lawyers to the National President of the NBA, Afam Osigwe—decried their treatment as a ghastly violation of human rights. “This does not make us look good at all,” Osigwe proclaimed, mourning the international stain on Nigeria’s repute and questioning the humanity within the nation’s correctional facilities.

Yes, such condemnation may indeed be warranted. The treatment of these young detainees may be indefensible, yet the deafening din from today’s impassioned critics drowns out the crimes inflicted by these same boys upon their communities, in the name of revolution.

The August protest, beginning as a peaceful demand for an end to economic hardship and governmental waste, spiralled rapidly into plunder and ruin. Riots flared in Kaduna, and within days, a firestorm of chaos swept the North, from Kano to Katsina, to Jos, to Gombe, to Niger. Public spaces were shattered, private properties sacked, and chain stores emptied in the gluttonous frenzy of looters.

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Along the highways and the narrow streets of packed suburbs, scenes of carnage left an indelible scar on countless lives and livelihoods. The looters advanced, a swarm of adolescent boys with outstretched hands and pockets laden with ill-gotten goods—clothes, electronics, cartons of yoghurt—all hastily stuffed into sacks and trash bags. In Kano alone, more than 600 arrests were made; the majority of these pillagers were underage, ensnared in a theatre of destruction fueled by a cause that had long lost its innocence.

What started as a march for justice and economic security was swiftly commandeered by the very agents of chaos it opposed, using minors as willing instruments in an insidious campaign of ruin. In Katsina, young boys brazenly marched past the residence of former President Muhammadu Buhari, raising foreign flags and chanting for a military takeover. The bitter irony could not be clearer: these minor participants had not only become instruments of a perverted revolution but were now living testimonies to the erosion of authority and societal decay.

And now, the same clique of Nigeria’s moral defenders—the intelligentsia, the elites, the “bleeding heart” activists—proclaim themselves champions of child welfare and justice. Yet they have carefully sidestepped the young children in the North, who are conscripted into terrorist factions, brainwashed into becoming martyrs of anarchy.

They remain silent about the minors in Buni Yadi, a haunting memory when adolescent terrorists breached the Federal Government College, murdering 59 innocent students in their sleep. These blood-curdling atrocities elicited not the faintest hint of outrage, nor did any organized protests or op-eds emerge from our self-styled champions of child rights. Silence swallowed the terror in Yobe; oblivion, the outrage.

When child soldiers in the Northeast are armed and sent forth into combat, or when young girls are used as suicide bombers, we are met with nothing but a vacuum of empathy. The voice of outrage is nowhere to be heard. Indeed, the same activists demanding dignity for the minors detained in Abuja have often called for the death or lifelong incarceration of the very young survivors of Boko Haram’s horrific manipulations.

Where is the consistency in this selective advocacy? Why does our moral outrage ebb and flow only when it suits a particular narrative while ignoring the systemic neglect that perpetuates the cycle of violence and exploitation?

This is not to say that the indignation over the government’s treatment of these detained minors lacks validity. On the contrary, to ignore their suffering would be to harden our hearts. But it is time to balance the narrative, to accept the wider view that these boys are products of our national failures—failings in family, in education, in social systems, and, perhaps most grievously, in leadership. If we are truly concerned for their welfare, then let us also address the broader socio-economic conditions that leave them so vulnerable to exploitation and weaponization.

Nigeria’s heart must awaken, and so must its vision of justice—a righteousness that does not merely wax indignant over injustices borne of convenience but seeks to rectify the root causes that sow the seeds of rebellion. Without an honest reckoning, Nigeria’s young will remain on the front lines, not of meaningful change but of manipulated destruction.

If we truly wish to prevent further tragedies, then our advocacy must shun selective theatrics for a genuine, practical commitment to the welfare of the northern boy child and the impoverished youth across Nigeria. Programmes to combat illiteracy, end generational poverty, and dismantle the appeal of extremist ideologies must take precedence.

Community and religious leaders must unite to restore value and vision to a generation now floundering in the dark. Only then can we hope to salvage the dreams of these minors, redirecting their youthful vigour from the flames of revolt to the light of purpose.

In the end, the choice is ours to make: will our empathy extend only as far as a public spectacle, or will it dare to pierce the heart of Nigeria’s social crises?

To truly care is not merely to cry foul for the abused but to devote our energies to understanding and repairing a cycle of harm and abandonment. It is far harder to build structures that prevent these injustices from arising, to forge policies that guard each boy’s potential, to demand a society where our youth are more than tools in a theatre of chaos. If we must protest, let it be a protest against the apathy that makes these tragedies possible—a call not for outrage, but for true, unwavering reform.

The northern boy child deserves more than the brief spotlight of trial or detention; he deserves a place in a nation that values his mind over his might, his growth over his exploitation. The region cries out for reformation that reaches beyond rhetoric and takes shape in tangible protections: schools that shelter, leaders who safeguard, and a society that sees each child as a future to be nurtured, not a force to be wielded.

November 7, 2024
This is your daughter’s body count (2)

A female celebrity recently celebrated her love for being a “slut” on a broadcast programme. Thus the male interviewer, intoning a slur, called her a slut at every turn until she became uncomfortable and voiced her discomfiture. Having bragged earlier that her family supports her decision to self-identify as a slut and live as such, she suddenly developed a moral sense of things and asked the interviewer why he is unforgiving of a woman with a high body count vis-a-vis a man. Their dialogue ensues thus:

“Why do you only condemn a female with a high body count?”

“Because that makes her a slut.”

“And what does it make you if you are a man with a high body count?”

“A slut maker,” he said.

As we condemn the slur intoned by the male interviewer, shall we invalidate the toxic femininity of the “slutty” interviewee? More is the pity that they both enjoy a cult following among modern, “emancipated” youngsters.

While being male permits no one bragging rights to a reckless sex life, the consequences for a female are often more devastating. Dissenters may argue with their keypads.

There is a lot to teach our daughters. That chastity is nonnegotiable; it simply makes perfect sense. That promiscuity renders the female toxic, like a garden filled with poisoned fruit.

Sleeping around projects a lack of morals. And the lack of morals makes no one “emancipated.” It’s neither ennobling nor liberating for a female to stack up multiple body counts, let alone, a girl. It simply makes her a slave in a factory of fluid sharers. Intercourse with her, even in matrimony, is akin to coupling with an emotional cripple.

This refers to the millions of ‘daughters’ with a choice, the unmarried horde who embrace promiscuity as a sport. Not the percentage left broken by sexual abuse, rape, commercial sex work, to mention a few. Thus the flaming misandrist may stifle her gall.

A female with no morals may consider herself free today; she may argue that she doesn’t need any man, quoting the married fraudulent feminist, who teaches women never to see marriage as an achievement, in time, she will find herself a broken debauchee.

If your daughter tells you abstinence and marriage are restrictive, teach her to navigate their humane shoals; help her to appreciate why they have been grounded on human experience through centuries.

Teach her that the “modern” female with a high body count, will forever subsist as a gymnasium of bodies soullessly masturbating her psyche, until they rupture the membrane of passion she shares with any new partner.

Teach her that promiscuity isn’t liberating. It isn’t freedom. Teach her never to see men as tools by which she could achieve all her acceptable and inordinate yearnings. A woman who approaches men as tools gets used up, like a tool, till she becomes broken.

And if she’s smitten with feminism, teach her to project instead African femininity, immune to sullied and biased academia – one that seeks the inclusion of both men and women in nurturing the family against social, economic, and political constraints.

Teach her to embrace that brand of femininity that complements and humanises the patriarchy. Not the one that antagonises it. Help her understand that beneath the feminist-misandrist’s bedazzling, theorised nirvana, life is a purgatory.

This minute, misandry cloaked as feminism, eats deep into the contemporary female psyche, like a virus. It infects 13 and 14-year-olds. ‘Modern’ teens at 15 through 20, swim in its slurry. By age 21 through 30, they hasten through various stages of awareness, embracing furry anti-male slogans, weaponising felt and ‘unfelt’ grief into savage animosity towards men.

Yet they need men to fulfil random impulses thus social media becomes their performance theatre, where they share everything mostly of a sexual nature.

Once upon a time, a Facebook celebrity articulated the adventures of her soul as she “masturbated” every day. She bragged about her capacity to attain mind-blowing orgasms and denounced the existence of God in the same breadth. She recounted with relish, how she screamed to taunt her very religious siblings and extended family, in the heat of a squirt.

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She condemned adultery but boasted about flirting with married men. Eventually, she got pregnant by a supposedly perfect hunk, who identified with her misandrist ideology. The latter, she bragged, begged to be with her knowing she could only offer him an “open marriage.”

Unknown to her, her perfect beau belted out the notes she loved to hear. He was the “liberal, feminist male,” who joined her in scoffing at “chauvinistic men,” online and offline, while raiding her secret places.

Her gravest mistake was getting pregnant for him. He deserted her in a heartbeat. Now a single mother, she “coaches young girls to achieve their dreams.”

Like this curious character, many misguided females shop for non-committal sex with random males on social media. This minute, one such character brags about how many ‘oafs’ and ‘scums’ she has bedded in random, passionless sex in the backseat of her ‘personal car,’ on her ‘personal sofa’ and ‘six-foot bed’ inside her ‘personal apartment.’

If she gets pregnant, she either terminates it or keeps the baby. Either way, she becomes the ‘sapiosexual’ man-hating feminist, who lives by her “terms” and “does not give a hoot what anyone thinks.”

Innately she craves for someone to love and trust. Outwardly, she seeks solace in bitter, misandrist literature. Someday, she might write a daring, ‘feminist’ novel that gets her celebrated among the herd.

Beneath the glitter of acclaim, however, she is a weak, needy female craving a man’s love and attention. Occasionally, she might “experiment” in the arms of a fellow woman or girl, a bored housewife or married woman who flirts with her on social media en route to a tryst or two.

Eventually, the latter find her boring, her touches, gross, and her rant too repetitive. Then they run back to their husbands whom they never deserted for her in the first place.

Now hovering in her late 30s, she realises that it is only on the pages of feminist literature and misandrist fairy tales that married women ditch their husbands to marry or move in with feminist lovers, no matter how earth-shattering their joint climaxes are.

Forty creeps on her while she is busy posting anti-male messages on Facebook and Twitter; and penning yet another feminist-lit blockbuster. But where she attains no literary or artistic renown, she simply fades frustrated, into her life’s eternal midnight.

Eventually, she finds religion and rediscovers sudden wisdom in the scriptures she hitherto pilloried as patriarchal nonsense. She has no more use for tired slogans and banal anger. Most of her peers are now quietly married away and severing connection with her kind. She begins to covet the marital securities and stability she scorned in her youth.

She tries to live again but it’s too late. She discovers that she had been enjoying for years, her 15 minutes of fame. The truth dawns on her in a moment of eternal damnation. Her orchestra is done playing and it’s time to exit the stage.

It’s about time we raised our daughters to be so strong they can be gentle, so educated they can be humble, so fierce they can be compassionate, so passionate they can be rational, and so disciplined they can be free. Apology to Kavita Ramdas.

October 31, 2024
This is your daughter’s body count (1)

There’s a TikTok trend that has haunted us lately. It steals from your mobile phone browser into your subconscious via catchy thumbnails and skits. In the short videos, scores of fresh-faced girls blurt out their “personal truths.”

Blurring the lines between confession and performance, they casually speak of their “body count”—a term that once would have invoked shame, now brazenly embraced as a badge of honour. The numbers tumble out with eerie nonchalance from the lips of uninhibited, daring Gen Z, in particular: five, seven, ten, sixteen—each count another testament to the erosion of virtue.

One girl said her body count was “22” and “still counting.” About two or three others listed their boyfriends’ siblings and fathers as some of their random sex partners. In response to their disclosure, the interviewer, equally a bumbling teen or young adult bellows an overexcited “Mad o!”

In these sordid spectacles, young women calculate their sexual exploits like victories. There is no internal struggle, no hesitation. Just a cold recital of their indulgences, underscored by the approving cheers of their peers.

The skits get more interesting as the so-called “content creators” become more daring with the “Hit or Miss” videos showing young adult males interviewing females of their age group or younger teenage girls, about the possibility of having random sex with another male respondent. The female checks out the former and instantly decides if he is a “Hit” or “Miss.” Hit means she would hop in bed with him. If she calls him a “Miss,” it means he isn’t her type. If the latter is the case, the interviewer asks if she would settle for him instead. Often, she makes a show of checking him out and says, “Yes.” In about five such sessions, the male interviewer asks if he could pat or grab her buttocks and she responds in the affirmative – and he frantically gropes her.

The spectacle is a chilling reflection of a society adrift, where the boundaries of shame have been all but erased, and where parental oversight, once the cornerstone of moral upbringing, has disintegrated.

But times are hard. So, it’s okay to treat morality as a dispensable relic. Ask the apologetic Nigerian. The voice of counsel is stifled by the ceaseless hum of the social media. The prevailing mantra is: “No one has the right to judge,” “Leave them alone; they are only trying to survive. They are not the cause of inflation in Nigeria.” Thus, the rationalisation begins, shielding misdeeds from scrutiny.

Yet, this descent into moral ambiguity isn’t just confined to a few viral videos. The larger issue lies in how such permissiveness has been woven into the fabric of our daily lives. The rise of the internet has birthed a generation of content creators addicted to shock value. Too many exploit scandal and vulgarity. From the “Hit or Miss” videos to scenes of unbridled debauchery, it’s clear that we have become a society that rewards the profane.

The situation elicits crucial questions about the homes from which the girls emerged: Where are their parents? Are they privy to their daughters’ activities online? How did they become so permissive of such degeneracy?

The uninhibited Tiktok vixen and her male enablers are in no way different from the brothel prostitute and her foul-mouthed roughneck pimp. Just as the TikTok vixen flaunts her flesh for virtual applause, so too do our leaders flaunt their corruption without fear of reprisal. Both are driven by the same toxic impulse: the desire for immediate gratification at any cost.

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Like the rapist, political assassin, ballot robber, kidnapper, and treasury looter, they are the results, not of society’s savagery or sexism, but of society’s absence. They are products of a culture imperiled by the family’s moral collapse.

Studies by the United States Department of Census and Health, among others, have long found that children that from single-mother households are five times more likely to commit suicide, nine times more likely to drop out of high school, 10 times more likely to abuse chemical substances, 14 times more likely to commit rape, 20 times more likely to end up in prison and 32 times more likely to run away from home – than children from unbroken households and single-father households. Single-mother households also account for 70% of all teen pregnancies and 70 per cent of all child murders and filicides.

The debate has seen both sides of the divide advance aggressive empirical studies and research findings to substantiate their arguments and validate entrenched truths or prejudices. Against the maelstrom of sociological “truths and interests,” Nigeria must urgently commit to a moral recourse – particularly amid a clime in which several Nigerian fathers have been found to sexually abuse their underage daughters.

Yet Nigeria grapples with a moral turpitude that has quickened its ruin and complete subjugation to a new wave of what Bulhan aptly describes as metacolonialism – championed by supposedly developed but corrupted civilisations of Europe and America.

The moral degradation we witness daily is not an isolated phenomenon but rather the predictable result of a society where the family has been supplanted by the allure of instant fame and fortune.

The morally ambivalent youth is today’s amoral nomad, superbly conditioned by Western education and the media to scorn the native intelligence and wisdom of his immediate society.

Many morph in real-time into unthinking herds cum agents of colonialism. Hence the preponderance of “liberal” skitmakers, journalists, writers, teachers, economists, social workers, engineers, and health workers, to mention a few, who function as glorified stooges of degenerate global imperialists.

The faithlessness and moral corruption that they personify are similar to the ones that drove African enablers of the transatlantic slave trade. This degeneracy remains largely unchallenged.

To prevent its recurrence, we must hinder the social mechanisms that render our youths capable of such. And this can only be achieved through education. The Nigerian school must begin to impart more than money-making soundbites and status-conferring skills. They must nurture the virtues of honesty, discipline, and empathy. Parents, too, must reassert their role as the primary moral guides for their children.

President Bola Tinubu, while presenting the 2024 Appropriation Bill to a joint session of the National Assembly, outlined human capital development among his administration’s priorities for the upcoming fiscal year. So, the budget placed significant focus on children, recognising them as the most critical resource for national development.

If Nigeria truly seeks sustainable socio-economic growth in the long run, we must groom generations of men and women capable of nourishing and preserving the Greater Nigeria enterprise.

Nigeria needs patriots amply groomed to understand that the most important achievements aren’t measurable by the number of likes or emojis attracted by a viral video of sexual misdemeanour on TikTok.

The true purpose of socialisation dims in the camera lights and the applause of debauched Tiktokers. It’s about time parents began to monitor their children’s activities on social media – the girls in particular.

And the reasons are hardly far-fetched. The lust for applause and cheap renown finds more fertile tracts in the psyches of females flaunting their “fleshly assets” in social media’s carnal theatre.

But while sex and nudity are deemed profitable by millions of girls setting up shop in cyberspace, time and over again, teenage girls and young adult females have become victims of cyber-bullying and scandalous videos of revenge porn.

October 24, 2024
Faultfinders’ symphony

The faultfinder is a curious breed. At the first whiff of roses, he starts looking for a coffin. He is the silent epidemic that gnaws at the soul of the country – more insidious than the crisis of governance and the spectre of economic hardship. He is the proverbial future, now walking with a slouched spirit. Burdened by disillusionment and creeping cynicism, he can ill afford the luxury of dreaming. And therein lies the death of a nation—when its young ceases to believe.

Cynicism, now pervasive, is cultivated by an unrelenting stream of discontent. Every day, social media becomes a battlefield, rife with the narratives of doomsayers—politicians, activists, and frustrated elites who have been denied the fruits of power. Once silenced by ambition, these voices now rage with venom, spewing defeatism and prophesying Nigeria’s inevitable collapse. Yet, behind their calls for change is a lurking self-interest, the bitter taste of being left out of the corridors of influence. They are neither patriots nor prophets; they are casualties of their own desires. The youth, in their vulnerability, have become their prey.

Young Nigerians must exercise caution in choosing their role models. It is easy to be swayed by voices that loudly condemn the state of the nation, but not all who decry Nigeria’s failures seek her restoration. Many are simply opportunists in waiting, men and women who will seize power not to heal, but to gorge themselves on the spoils of a broken system.

Yet, cynicism does not come from the outside alone. It grows within the heart of Nigeria herself. I confess, my love for Nigeria has always been complex. It is not the loud, flag-waving patriotism that ignores our flaws, nor the blind loyalty that sees Nigeria as infallible. Patriotism, notes, Patrick O’Brian, can often descend into the folly of “my country, right or wrong,” or the delusion of “my country is always right.” Neither stance serves Nigeria well. Our love for this country must be rooted in truth—Nigeria is not always right, but she is still ours. To abandon her because life is hard, or governance is poor, is a betrayal of the deepest kind.

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For too long, we have laid the blame for Nigeria’s struggles solely at the feet of the ruling class. But this is too easy. The political elite did not fall from outer space; they emerged from the Nigerian family – products of our social and moral fabric. To demand that they be better without first addressing the rot in our homes is to expect fruit from a poisoned tree. The Nigerian family, once a bastion of discipline and values, has faltered. The same household that once produced statesmen now nurtures conmen, and the quiet complicity of parents encourages it. We must understand why Nigeria’s redemption must begin at the home-front.

Yet even amid this national unravelling, I feel a swelling of love for my homeland. It is a love that defies logic, a contrarian affection that grows stronger in adversity. Every new policy that further tightens the economic noose around our necks, every misstep of governance that seems designed to sink us deeper into despair, only fans the flames of my devotion. It is a love born of resilience that clings to hope even when hope seems foolish.

But not all share this stubborn love. Many have succumbed to cynicism, like the Nigerian father of five who sold all he owned to chase a better life in the United Kingdom. His dream, like so many others, dissolved in the cold reality of a foreign land. He lost his family, his wealth, his dignity. In the end, he died alone, a victim of the cynicism that alienated him from his homeland.

Cynicism has also driven the exodus of the Nigerian elite, many of whom have relocated their families abroad only to find that the grass was no greener on the other side. Even the very leaders entrusted with the future of our nation have abandoned it. Their actions speak louder than their words: they do not believe in the Nigeria they govern. That is why they relocated their families abroad. And so, the rot spreads. Cynicism pervades every social circuit, from the political arena to the marketplace, until it becomes the air we breathe.

This culture of despair has even strained personal relationships. I recall the story of Olumide Adio, a 64-year-old man who once lived like a king in his suburban Lagos domain. He had built an empire from the ground up, with a thriving school and a fish farm that sprawled over several plots. His life was one of fulfillment, until the lure of the West tugged at his family. He sold everything—his school, his properties, his legacy—on the promise of a better life in Canada. But in Canada, his fortune evaporated, and with it, his family’s happiness. His wife, once a partner in his success, became his superior in the new world, out-earning and outmanoeuvring him in their new life. The balance of power shifted, and Adio found himself reduced to a bitter shadow of the man he once was. His story is a cautionary tale—one of many—about the dangers of placing faith in anything other than the land that birthed us.

But why do we, as Nigerians, believe that our salvation lies anywhere but here? Cynicism has taught us to distrust not only our leaders but ourselves. It tells us that no matter how hard we work, how much we sacrifice, Nigeria will always fail us. But this is not true. The grass is greener where you water it, and if we are ever to see Nigeria flourish, we must begin by nurturing it ourselves.

Cynicism is a disease of the spirit, a coward’s refuge from the pain of disappointment. It allows us to stand on the sidelines, jeering at the efforts of others, while we do nothing. It convinces us that the game is rigged, that our efforts are futile, and that change is impossible. But this is a lie. Change is hard, yes, and progress slow, but it is not impossible. Cynicism will not topple corrupt leaders or fix our broken systems; only action can do that.

What Nigeria needs now is not more cynicism but progressive patriotism. We must hold our leaders accountable, yes, but we must also believe that they can be better, and that we, as citizens, can help them rise to the challenge. We must push back against the narrative of hopelessness, and instead, become part of the solution.

To those who would rather flee than fight for the soul of Nigeria, I say this: cynicism may shield you from disappointment, but it will never bring you the fulfillment that comes from building something greater than yourself. Nigeria is worth fighting for, not because she is perfect, but because she is ours. And in the end, it is only through our collective belief, our unyielding faith, that we can turn the tide.

We must trust that this is not the end. We must believe in Nigeria’s potential, not as a hollow dream, but as a future we can shape. Cynicism is easy, but faith requires discipline. Shall we now choose faith over despair? Shall we believe that, despite everything, Nigeria can rise again? And with that belief, lace passion to enduring purpose?

Nigeria is our home after all. And she is worth saving.

October 17, 2024
Borno: After the deluge

In Borno, where the desert once nourished from the banks of hope, the Alau Dam stood like an aquatic sentinel. For nearly four decades, its concrete walls held back the turbulent surge of water, offering both life and sustenance to the people of Maiduguri and its environs.

But time, much like neglect, erodes even the strongest of foundations. And on September 10, 2024, the dam, once a symbol of resilience, collapsed. The waters burst forth in a deluge of destruction, sweeping away homes, livelihoods, and dreams. The tragedy that followed was not merely an act of nature, but the catastrophic consequence of human failure.

The floodwaters did not rise overnight, nor did the crisis. For years, the people of Jere Local Government Area, who lived in the shadow of the dam, had voiced their concerns—complaints that fell on deaf ears. They had seen the cracks in the dam’s weathered face, the warnings etched into its weakening structure. They pleaded with the authorities, like desperate travellers seeking refuge from a storm, but the government, cloaked in indifference, remained unmoved. The dam, they said, would hold. It always had. But even the most steadfast walls will crumble under the weight of negligence.

And so, the flood that ravaged Borno was no mere happenstance. It was a disaster born of abandonment, a bitter fruit of years of neglect, and a sobering reminder that governments, too often, wait until the very last moment—until the floodgates are breached—before they stir into action. This is a tragic cycle of reactive governance, where problems are ignored while they fester, only to be met with hurried gestures and frantic cash offerings when they erupt into full-blown crises. Billions of naira are thrown in the aftermath, a palliative balm for wounds that could have been prevented.

The Alau Dam’s collapse was not a surprise to those who knew its history. Built between 1984 and 1986, it was intended to serve as a lifeline for irrigation and potable water. Yet, like so many relics of a forgotten past, it was allowed to languish, its needs ignored by those entrusted with its care. In September of 1994, exactly thirty years before the most recent flood, the dam had already shown its vulnerability, spilling over into Maiduguri with less destructive consequences. But the warning signs were clear even then: this was not a structure built to withstand the ages. And still, the government turned a blind eye.

Experts, those who understand the intricate dance between man and nature, have long blamed this disaster on negligence and misappropriation of funds—accusations that are difficult to ignore when one considers the budgetary allocations made for the dam’s rehabilitation over the years. In 2020, N285 million was earmarked for repairs. In 2021, an additional N80 million. Another N37 million in 2022. And yet, the dam remained in disrepair, its strength whittled away by the passage of time and the indifference of those responsible for its upkeep.

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It is imperative to uncover where these funds disappeared; how much was released, and how much was stolen and diverted into bureaucratic limbo? Both the federal and state governments must interrogate the disbursement and alleged misappropriation of the funding. And while the government scurries to rebuild the dam, and compensate the people with palliatives, it must be understood that money alone will not solve this problem.

A billion-naira band-aid cannot mend a society wounded by years of neglect. The people of Borno are not asking for handouts. They seek justice. They demand that their voices be heard and that their concerns be met with action, not hollow reassurances. Alhaji Bukar Tijani, the Secretary to the Borno State Government, stood before the people in early September, just days before the floodwaters tore through their lives, and assured them that the dam was sound. “There is no need to panic,” he said. And yet, panic is all that remains in the wake of his words—panic, and the debris of shattered homes and broken lives.

The Alau community has rejected the government’s claim that climate change alone is to blame. They know better. They know that the dam’s gates had been faulty for years, that the “temporary hill” constructed in place of proper repairs was nothing more than a stopgap, diverting waters that should have been contained. The community tried, in vain, to shore up the dam’s failing walls, but their efforts were like trying to hold back a hurricane with bare hands. The flood was inevitable, and the damage, incalculable.

As the floodwaters recede, the task of rebuilding begins. But this must not be a mere exercise in patching up the cracks. The government must go beyond the immediate relief efforts, beyond the distribution of palliatives, and focus on restoring the dignity and livelihoods of the people. Roads and bridges must be rebuilt, schools reopened, clean water and sanitation services restored. The agricultural economy that once sustained these communities must be revived, and those who lost everything—homes, businesses, loved ones—must be given the support they need to rebuild their lives.

But most importantly, there must be accountability. The people of Borno have suffered for too long at the hands of a government that prioritises reaction over prevention. This cannot be allowed to continue. The federal and state governments must work hand in hand, not just in moments of crisis but in the long-term governance of the region. The Borno State Governor, Babagana Zulum, has shown a commitment to his people, but his efforts alone are not enough. The federal government must step up, ensuring that every naira allocated to the rehabilitation of critical infrastructure is spent as intended. And those who failed to heed the warnings of the people, those who allowed the dam to deteriorate while pocketing the funds meant to repair it, must be held accountable.

The Alau Dam, in its collapse, has become a symbol of all that is broken in Nigeria’s governance—a dam built to nourish, allowed to wither, and finally to drown the very people it was meant to protect. But in its ruins lies the potential for a new beginning, if only the government can learn from its mistakes and take the necessary steps to rebuild, not just the dam, but the trust and faith of the people.

In Borno, the waters have receded, but the scars remain. The time for knee-jerk reactions is over. What is needed now is a comprehensive, sustained effort to restore hope and rebuild lives. As we wade through the ruins of what has been lost, we must also look forward. The recovery phase has begun, and with it, the opportunity to rebuild—not just the homes, schools, and hospitals swept away by the floodwaters, but the very fabric of governance that allowed this disaster to occur. Schools may reopen, health services can be restored, and clean water may flow once more through the pipes of Maiduguri and Jere. But neither cash nor homilies could bring back the lives that have been lost.

In the rising and falling of the tides, there is always a moment of stillness, a brief pause where the waters neither rise nor retreat. It is in such moments that we find the opportunity to act, to rebuild, to protect. Let this be that moment for Borno. Let the government stand as a dam against the flood of neglect. Let them act before the waters rise again.

October 10, 2024
Restoring the Nigerian dream at 64

At sixty-four, Nigeria stands like an ageless Baobab, gnarled by the elements, but rooted in resilience. Beneath its broad canopy, government, the people, and social institutions tangle in a snarl of afflictions.

The country hums with a paradoxical mix of pride and despair, buckling under hardship and the crushing weight of untapped promise. Amid the melee of pain and survival, the Nigerian family, once a bulwark of hope and resilience, currently reels from the storms of disintegration, inflation, and the bittersweet draft of ‘Renewed Hope.’

Inflation’s feral wind, untamed by the removal of the fuel subsidy and the floatation of the naira, has eroded the stability that once defined the middle class. What was once the hallmark of the Nigerian Dream—education, hard work, homeownership—has become a fading ideal in a nation where even the middle class is vanishing like mist before the sun.

As austerity become the new normal, and ingenuity, the currency of survival, fathers double their hustle, taking on blue collar and menial jobs from dusk through dawn, transforming themselves into jugglers of uncertainty. Mothers—silent matriarchs—become alchemists, conjuring meals out of thin air, making a feast from famine. And the children, bright-eyed and once hopeful, now watch with muted anxiety as the Nigerian Dream slowly erodes into a feverish scramble to “Japa”—flee—abroad, to lands where they believe fortunes wait like ripe fruit ready to be plucked.

The Nigerian Dream, once a collective vision of prosperity, unity, and achievement, has splintered. What remains is a contest of survival, a zero-sum game where victory means finding a way out, and failure means staying behind to suffer.

Amid the chaos, millions of disgruntled youths find themselves pitted against a political class grossly insensitive to their plight. It hardly matters if a great number among them personify the same ills depicted by the ruling class they despise – all that matters is their entitlement to grief and rage.

As President Bola Tinubu embarks on a radical re-engineering of the economy and social institutions via his gospel of renewed hope, it becomes increasingly difficult to counsel patriotism or faith in his vision. How can he preach patience and love for a country that has thus far reduced millions of youths to mere statistics of deprivation?

To these youths, the admonition to “be patient” resonates as a cruel joke. Patriotism, once a shared language of citizenship, has fractured into two vastly different dialects: one spoken by the privileged few who navigate the corridors of power with ease, and another by the masses who endure the daily indignities of poverty, joblessness, and insecurity.

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Patriotism is indeed a hard sell to those confined to the fringes of a society, where the ruling class and their children flaunt their wealth and privileges on social media. It’s no surprise that the masses, feeling abandoned, would prefer to see Nigeria break and burn, rather than watch it evolve into a paradise that excludes them.

To the latter, Tinubu’s gospel of “Renewed Hope” feels hollow when their daily reality is characterised by soaring food prices and hardships that outstrip their means. The government’s plea for patience and understanding falls on ears tuned to the dirge of unfulfilled promises.

And yet, in the corridors of power, there is a dissonance, a belief that the suffering masses can be appeased with empty words. How can they be? The man who cannot afford to eat today will not be consoled by promises of a feast tomorrow.

The perception that Nigeria is only for the elite—those with connections to cabals, and powerful friends—has become entrenched. So, when President Tinubu’s apologists proclaim that he is doing so much that goes unappreciated, the millions who bear the brunt of economic hardships have no patience for such an excuse. They will not listen to appeals for understanding and stoic acceptance of hardships while the ruling class enjoys obscene privileges and spoils from the commonwealth.

The removal of the fuel subsidy was expected to stabilise the economy, to provide the funds needed to rebuild a crumbling nation. Since the subsidy was lifted, the states have seen a significant increase in their monthly revenue from the Federation Account Allocations Committee (FAAC). Bauchi’s, for instance, rose by 51.5%, and Nasarawa’s by 185.3%, yet nothing has changed. In Enugu, Anambra, Bauchi, Delta, among others, the masses have yet to enjoy any corresponding benefits even as they see efforts to ameliorate their pains get sabotaged by state governors, civil servants, and their cronies.

Many governors have refused to pay salaries, backlogs of arrears and pensions to retirees. Where are the new roads, the improved hospitals, the schools that could lift a generation out of ignorance? Instead, the governors divert their increased allocations to purchase mansions abroad and secure their children’s future in foreign lands far from the misery they preside over.

This widening chasm between the FAAC’s soaring allocations and the stagnation of progress at the state level is a bitter pill to swallow. If the ruling class persists down this path, the seeds of discontent they sow will eventually bear bitter fruit. If the masses resort to anarchy, there will be no country left to loot.

But while the ruling class has much to answer for, the citizenry, especially the more literate and insightful among us, must display greater tact and caution. Journalists and activists, in particular, must desist from inciting the populace and inflaming the polity with partisan views and fabrications. They must understand that the dubious demagogues pulling their strings—those who lost at the 2023 elections—have second and third addresses abroad. If Nigeria implodes, they will flee, leaving us to bear the brunt of the chaos they helped incite.

Nigeria must avoid the fate of nations afflicted by the Arab Spring, where the promise of revolution gave way to brutal dictatorships. The ruling class must take more proactive steps to humanely engage with the people. He must counsel his political class to make grand gestures of sacrifice in identification with the people’s plight while enforcing accountability at all levels of governance.

Nigeria will be salvaged only if we recognise the truth of our collective complicity. We must unmask and shun the pseudo-events that clutter our consciousness and replace them with genuine narratives of progress and renewal. We must redefine success, not as the accumulation of wealth or status but as the collective advancement of the Nigerian people.

It’s about time we espoused a new vision—a centrally articulated and nationally acceptable model of the Nigerian Dream that transcends the narrow bounds of self-interest. This dream must be anchored in patriotism, resilience, and the pursuit of the common good. We must reclaim our educational system, rebuild our institutions, and ensure that the opportunities for success are not the exclusive preserve of the few but the rightful inheritance of all.

President Tinubu’s Gospel of Renewed Hope, while imperfect, is a necessary awakening. It forces us to confront the harsh realities we have long denied. Tinubu’s policies—though painful in the short term—are designed to lay the groundwork for a more sustainable future. The removal of the fuel subsidy and the floatation of the naira may have worsened inflation in the immediate term, but they are essential steps toward stabilising the economy and creating a more equitable distribution of resources. But the government cannot do it alone. The Nigerian family must rise to the challenge. We must restore the values that once defined us—hard work, integrity, and community—and reject the toxic individualism that has come to dominate our culture.

October 3, 2024