The Nation Newspaper

Category: Letters

  • Sowore: Activist with penchant for self-glorification

    Sowore: Activist with penchant for self-glorification

    Sir: The Inspector General of Police (IGP) has shown strong leadership by promoting over 20,000 Inspectors to the rank of Assistant Superintendents of Police (ASP). This major promotion has earned him praise from many quarters, as it reflects genuine concern for the welfare and morale of police officers across the country.

    But, as usual, Omoyele Sowore is trying to take the credit for himself. He claims that the promotions were a result of his #IGPMustGo protest and other demonstrations he has led against the IGP.

    This is simply not true. Police promotions are guided by clear procedures based on merit, years of service, and institutional needs, not protests or social media noise. Giving credit to Sowore for these well-earned promotions is not only misleading but also an insult to the thousands of officers who have worked hard for this elevation, and to the police leadership that made it happen.

    Sowore has a habit of trying to make everything about himself. While protests can be useful in drawing attention to issues, twisting facts to stay in the spotlight is not activism, it’s deception. It misleads the public and stirs unnecessary controversy.

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    The recent promotions were not a reaction to any protest. They were the result of deliberate planning by the IGP and his management team to reward diligence, boost morale, and enhance operational efficiency in the Force. At a time when the country is facing serious security challenges, these kinds of proactive steps deserve commendation, not baseless attacks.

    Unfortunately, Sowore has made it his mission to unfairly target the IGP with constant abuse, even resorting to calling him unprintable names, all because the IGP remains in office lawfully. And I keep asking myself: where was Sowore when former president, Muhammadu Buhari allowed the then Chief of Army Staff, General Tukur Buratai, to remain in office long after reaching the statutory retirement age, without any constitutional backing?

    That’s why I take Sowore’s campaign of calumny against the current IGP with a pinch of salt—and I urge well-meaning Nigerians to do the same. We must not confuse senseless, irrational attacks on public officials with genuine activism.

    Criticism is welcome in a democracy. But it must be based on facts, not personal grudges or the hunger for relevance. It’s time we learned to separate attention-seeking from advocacy, and truth from noise.

    •Hassan Yahaya, Hassanyahaya@gmail.com

  • Kemi Badenoch: When home becomes a punchline

    Kemi Badenoch: When home becomes a punchline

    Sir: Kemi Badenoch has made a habit (indeed, a politics) of narrating Nigeria as a failed origin story. In doing so, she weaponises personal discomfort as public evidence, turning her own biography into a cautionary tale about Blackness, Africanity, and the miracle of British deliverance. This is not merely a memory shared in passing, but a deliberate message crafted for political capital.

    Her statement about Federal Government Girls College, Sagamu is neither a private lament nor a measured critique, it is a rhetorical performance that serves to reinforce her image as a self-made product of British civilisation, someone who overcame the weight of a troubled continent and emerged as a refined voice in Westminster.

    The metaphor of Sagamu as a prison is a loaded one. Sagamu is no utopia, and Nigeria is not without its faults. The failures of public education, underfunding, overcrowding, infrastructure decay, are real and deserve honest confrontation. But Badenoch’s narrative leaves no room for complexity, for shared national struggle, for the soul of a country that has, despite adversity, produced minds of brilliance and character. She makes no distinction between personal hardship and national identity. Her school wasn’t simply inadequate; it was incarcerating. Her girlhood, not just difficult, but a sentence. Her escape, not a pursuit of opportunity, but an act of liberation. In reducing an entire educational and cultural experience to a metaphor of bondage, she does not offer reflection; she offers erasure.

    There is no room in her narrative for shared resilience. No acknowledgement of the many girls who passed through those same school gates and emerged with pride, dignity, and a sense of rootedness. No recognition of the teachers who, against all odds, continued to teach; of the girls who studied under flickering bulbs and still passed their WAEC exams; of the laughter that echoed through the halls despite infrastructural decay. Her version of Nigeria has no nuance. It exists only as a backdrop for her deliverance.

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    This is not to invalidate her experience. Pain is subjective, and she is entitled to hers. But once that experience is used not for introspection, but for political gain, once it is broadcast as representative of a nation, it must be held to account. To elevate oneself by diminishing one’s country of origin is not ambition; it is performance. And performance, particularly in politics, is rarely innocent.

    Badenoch has every right to critique her past. But to turn that critique into a weapon against her heritage, to narrate her girlhood as pathology, to erase the dignity of others who endured similar conditions, this is not truth. It is branding. And branding, unlike truth, does not ask for accountability. It asks only for visibility, and applause.

    In trying to escape Sagamu, Badenoch may find she has not entered freedom, but merely another kind of captivity – one where she must keep telling the same story, in the same bleak tones, to remain acceptable. The problem with disavowing your roots for the comfort of empire is that the empire will demand fresh proof, again and again, that you have not grown them back.

    This is the textbook case of Stockholm syndrome. You fall in love with your captors because you mistake survival for affection. You bow at the empire’s gate because it taught you to see home as shameful. You sip tea at a table that once whipped your ancestors and still say thank you. You romanticise the whip as a wand.

    Kemi Badenoch, like Eniola Aluko, the former Chelsea player ingloriously dropped from England’s squad, has turned her success into a dagger aimed at her own heritage. Both parade the privileges of immigration while spitting on the soil that once nurtured them. In contrast, Rishi Sunak and Humza Yousaf wear the crown of Britishness with pride, not as an erasure of origin but as an embrace of it, uplifting their communities rather than distancing themselves from them.

    Badenoch and Aluko’s glitter may dazzle abroad, but at home, they stand as stark reminders of a diaspora torn between loyalty and survival. Their words do not merely echo across continents—they fracture the very identity that made their ascent possible.

    •Folorunso Fatai Adisa, United Kingdom

  • The untold political economy of hunger

    The untold political economy of hunger

    Sir: Hunger in Nigeria is not merely a statistical or economic issue; it is a territorial indictment. It spreads along fault lines carved by violence, policy failure, and now, foreign exploitation.

    In the Northeast, insurgency has collapsed local farming systems; food convoys are ambushed or blocked; markets are militarized or ghosted. In the North-central, communities like Benue and Plateau—once the nation’s food baskets—are gutted by conflict and displacement, leaving granaries empty and farms fallow.

    In the South-south, oil-rich but food-poor communities survive on overpriced, imported staples, while creeks once feeding fishing economies rot in spills.

    Even in the Southwest, farmers in Ogun and Oyo bypass local buyers entirely. One Lagos-based gari trader saw his supply chain collapse after the same farmers began selling to Chinese off-takers offering hard currency for cassava to hedge off inflation. “They don’t want naira anymore,” he said. “I can’t blame them, but now I can’t sell.”

    Hunger here is not random. It is mapped by political neglect, violent disruption, and a global food economy that prizes foreign earnings over domestic nourishment.

    What’s unfolding in Nigeria is more than domestic policy failure; it is part of a broader, more insidious trend: global land capture and agricultural extraction.

    In Jigawa State, over 12,000 hectares of fertile land were ceded to a Chinese-backed sugar firm under a multi-decade lease. Local farmers, unable to compete, now labour on what was once ancestral land, producing sugar not for Nigeria, but for export.

    In Taraba, Dominion Farms (a U.S.-backed project under the G8’s New Alliance) displaced rice growers from 30,000 hectares of wetlands, redirecting harvests toward international supply chains.

    In Cross River, Wilmar International cleared vast food-producing lands for palm oil plantations, leaving surrounding villages without cassava or maize.

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    Across Kano, Yobe, Katsina, and Borno, farmers increasingly export sorghum, maize, and millet to Ghana, Chad, and Cameroon, where CFA-franc payments outmatch domestic offers. Nigeria, in effect, exports nutrition and imports hunger.

    This is not merely market logic. It is lack of food justice, an unjust political economy that rewards foreign off-takers, punishes local wholesalers, and starves the republic in the name of trade balances.

    Much of this crisis is rooted in policy misalignment where agricultural zones prioritise cash crops over staples, incentives reward foreign leaseholders, not local cooperatives, FX policy makes hard-currency exporters more attractive than local buyers, and trade reforms benefit global capital while ignoring hunger-prone neighbourhoods.

    Policy without empathy is malnutrition by design. This is development by mass exclusion.

    Food security asks: Do people have access to food? Food sovereignty asks: Who controls the land, the seed, and the story? Distinguishing between the Northeast’s insurgency-driven hunger and the South’s export-driven scarcity is also critical.

    Nigeria must graduate from simply trying to fill bellies to reclaiming food governance. Without sovereignty over agricultural decisions—land use, pricing, supply chains—the republic remains exposed to global whims and elite capture.

    To that end, we need to reform land tenure laws to prevent 99-year leases without community co-ownership; prioritize local food quotas before fulfilling foreign export contracts; guarantee naira-pegged local markets so that farmers have viable domestic alternatives to foreign off-takers; and protect farmers’ rights to their seed, their land, and their price, so that food remains a national commons, not a global commodity.

    A nation cannot be sovereign when its people go hungry while its land feeds others. Reclaiming the republic means reclaiming local food production and distribution.

    What does recovery look like? Community-based agriculture, not corporate leases; civic-driven distribution, not donor dependency and agrarian justice, not export worship.

    We must treat food as more than a basic need. It is a civic right, a democratic foundation, and a national security asset.

    To solve hunger, we must stop treating it as background noise. It is not merely a humanitarian crisis. It is a political fracture. A republic that cannot nourish its people is not in distress—it is in denial.

    We are not just witnessing food scarcity. We are witnessing the vanishing of a republic, field by field, plate by plate.

    Feeding Nigeria is not charity. It is justice. It is sovereignty. It is the republic itself.

    •Lekan Olayiwola, lekanolayiwola@gmail.com>

  • Hidden burden of mental health among teens

    Hidden burden of mental health among teens

    Sir: Within the Nigerian state, a huge number of teens and young adults are burdened with anxiety, depression, fear, and a profound sense of loneliness. This situation mirrors global trends, as one in seven adolescents experiences a mental health disorder, often with severe consequences including psychosis, social withdrawal, poor academic performance, self-harm, suicide, and an uncertain future (WHO, 2025).

    Worse still, both individuals and the government fail to take this condition of mental ill-health seriously particularly in Nigeria. More troubling are the cultural narratives surrounding mental health disorders, which describe victims as possessed by evil spirits, sorcery, witchcraft, or suffering divine punishment.

    But the truth remains: mental health conditions are real, and the rhetoric of cultural belief does not alter the realities or impacts. This situation therefore necessitates appropriate medical attention and psycho-social healing to foster emotional and physical well-being, socio-economic development, and a promising future, especially for the young people.

    The legislative and human resource framework to address mental health challenges remains alarmingly inadequate. Nigeria, for example, has fewer than 200 psychiatrists to serve its growing population of mental health patients, resulting in escalating confusion and lack of direction (Obindo, 2024). In essence, the potential contribution of Nigeria’s vibrant, energetic, and resourceful youth to nation-building remains precariously at risk. This reality calls for immediate intervention from government and stakeholders, as well as a complete overhaul of the healthcare system.

    As a nation, we must devise formidable strategies and innovative approaches to mitigate this deeply entrenched and feared phenomenon before it corrodes our societal norms, denies our youth their rightful place in nation-building, and turns the dreams of our forbearers into a mirage.

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    This imperative underscores the need for robust awareness campaigns led by the government and relevant stakeholders to educate on the nature, symptoms, and implications of mental health conditions. It further demands proactive government investment in mental healthcare infrastructure and the initiation of policies, legislation, and programs that confront stigmatization, harmful cultural practices, and bullying especially within our learning institutions and communities. Such interventions will undoubtedly help cultivate a generation of emotionally and mentally resilient young men and women, prepared to contribute meaningfully to nation-building in all its dimensions.

    Additionally, efforts must be made to recruit trained counsellors and social workers across both public and private schools, to ensure that guidance and counselling are prioritized from the foundational stages of education. In doing so, mental health issues among children, teens, and adolescents can be addressed early, before escalating into adulthood.

    Lastly, parents and guardians must be vigilant in observing signs and symptoms of mental distress in their children and wards, and respond with urgency. Such mental health conditions should not be dismissed with casual phrases like “pray about it,” nor seen merely as spiritual afflictions imposed by perceived enemies.

    •Pheelangwah Micheal Pheeliyan, Veritas University, Abuja

  • Nigeria overdue for unified civic registration

    Nigeria overdue for unified civic registration

    • By Shuaib S. Agaka

    Sir: Despite years of digitisation efforts, Nigeria’s public data systems remain largely fragmented. Agencies such as NIMC, NPC, NBS, the Federal Inland Revenue Service (FIRS), and the Independent National Electoral Commission (INEC) collect and store data in silos. They rarely share information, and when they do, interoperability is hindered by incompatible systems, bureaucratic resistance, and the absence of enforceable data standards. This lack of cohesion leads to duplicated efforts and contradictory figures that weaken the integrity of governance.

    Population data, for example, often varies wildly between agencies, undermining national planning and resulting in misallocated resources. The consequences are far-reaching. Government welfare programmes often fail to reach their intended beneficiaries, with some citizens registering multiple times across platforms while others remain completely excluded from public records.

    Security, too, suffers under this fragmented regime. Law enforcement agencies lack access to a single, verifiable database of citizens and residents, making it difficult to track suspects or authenticate identities. A striking example occurred in May, when an inmate was smuggled out of Kirikiri Prison and taken to a Nigerian Immigration Service (NIS) office to obtain a passport. The passport office’s system failed to detect his incarceration, and the application would have been approved if not for a slip of the tongue from the accompanying officer. This alarming breach exposed the failure of cross-agency biometric and criminal data integration, a failure that could have had serious security implications.

    Further compounding these issues is the costly duplication of infrastructure. Government agencies routinely spend millions of naira on parallel data systems and surveys, simply because they cannot or will not access existing datasets. These inefficiencies delay critical services and waste public funds, affecting governance from federal ministries to local government councils.

    In this context, the renewed focus on Civic Registration and Vital Statistics (CRVS) reform represents a pivotal shift. At its core, CRVS refers to the systematic recording of vital life events: births, deaths, marriages, and divorces, and the statistics generated from this data. In countries with mature governance structures, CRVS systems are the bedrock of population tracking, public planning, and identity management. In Nigeria, however, these systems have been underdeveloped, paper-based, and fragmented for decades. The current reform seeks to digitise and link these records into a central, interoperable digital identity ecosystem.

    A harmonised data system is not just a technical upgrade, it’s a structural necessity for effective governance. Real-time, accurate demographic data would allow for smarter planning and budgeting, ending the reliance on outdated censuses or conflicting projections. Instead of allocating schools, hospitals, or roads based on guesstimates, Nigeria could rely on solid, up-to-date data that reflects actual population dynamics.

    More importantly, harmonised data would revolutionise public service delivery. With a single digital identity, citizens could access healthcare, education, and welfare programmes without redundancy or delay. Programmes could verify beneficiaries across platforms, reducing fraud and ensuring inclusion.

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    In times of national emergency, the need for harmonised data becomes even more critical. Disasters, conflicts, and humanitarian crises demand swift, coordinated action, but fragmented records and disjointed identity systems often delay response efforts. A unified Civic Registration and Vital Statistics (CRVS) system would equip authorities with real-time data, enabling more efficient resource allocation, targeted communication, and transparent impact tracking. By ensuring that every individual is accounted for through a verifiable digital identity, Nigeria can strengthen its resilience and responsiveness in moments of national urgency.

    A harmonised identity system reduces the administrative burden on individuals, who currently face endless re-registration processes across multiple agencies. It also enhances democratic participation, tax compliance, and overall civic engagement.

    Crucially, harmonised data systems provide the infrastructure to tackle complex social challenges. From youth unemployment to internal displacement and voter disenfranchisement, these issues require coordinated, data-driven responses that no single agency can deliver alone. Integrating databases across government enables the kind of holistic policy-making that modern states need.

    However, while the potential benefits are substantial, the risks are equally real. Chief among them is the question of data privacy and security. Centralising personal data makes it a prime target for misuse, breaches, or authoritarian overreach. In a country where trust in institutions is already low, public resistance could derail reform if citizens believe digital identity systems will be used for control rather than empowerment. That’s why it is critical to establish and enforce robust, transparent data protection laws.

    Citizens must be reassured that their data will be used responsibly, and mechanisms must be in place to hold agencies accountable for any abuse.

    •Shuaib S. Agaka,

    Kano State

  • Badenoch: When wisdom is required

    Badenoch: When wisdom is required

    • By Samuel Jekeli

    Sir: Nigeria is a country of remarkable complexity, rich in diversity and bursting with potential. It faces significant challenges, no one denies that but it also has immense strengths in its people’s creativity, resilience, and ambition. When voices of influence choose to focus solely on flaws and setbacks, they risk walking a path that wisdom warns against: the path of harsh judgment and short-sightedness which ultimately blinds one to hope and transformation.

    Words spoken today can echo far into the future. The narratives that dismiss Nigeria’s possibilities not only wound the nation’s present spirit but may also haunt the descendants of those who utter them. Imagine a future where Nigeria has overcome its challenges and flourished beyond many expectations; where innovation thrives, institutions grow stronger, and millions live with dignity and opportunity. In such a future, the harsh judgments of today will be remembered not just as mistakes, but as deep wounds inflicted on the collective memory of a people.

    For those who speak about Nigeria from a distance, it’s important to remember that choosing to distance oneself physically from a country does not absolve one from the responsibility to speak with humility and hope. History shows that those who condemn from afar often fail to see the seeds of renewal taking root at home. There is a quiet dignity in believing in the possibility of change, even when the current moment seems bleak.

    This is not a call to ignore real challenges as accountability and honest critique are vital to progress. Yet, wisdom teaches that how we deliver critique matters just as much as what we say. Speaking with compassion and fairness invites dialogue and transformation; speaking with condemnation often hardens hearts and closes doors.

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    There is great value in nurturing patience, recognizing that true change takes time and effort from all stakeholders. It requires a willingness to walk alongside those striving for reform, not simply to point out their failings. It demands humility to accept that no nation is perfect, and none can be judged by a single moment or speech.

    For those in positions of influence, the call is to choose words that build, not break; to seek understanding rather than judgment; to offer hope rather than despair. For in doing so, they invest not only in the present but in the future a future where their own descendants can look back with pride, not regret, at the legacy left behind.

    In the end, history will remember those who spoke wisely and kindly, as well as those who spoke harshly and without foresight. Nigeria’s story is still being written. Let those who comment on it today do so with the humility, wisdom, and compassion that all great leaders and thinkers before us have taught.

    •Samuel Jekeli,

    Centre for Social Justice, Abuja

  • Fighting disinformation in fractured media landscape

    Fighting disinformation in fractured media landscape

    • By Lekan Olayiwola

    Sir: In Nigeria, disinformation does more than bend the truth—it breaks our memory. And when a people’s memory collapses, their republic drifts. What we are facing is not simply a battle over facts, but a coordinated assault on the stories we tell about ourselves: who we are, what we have overcome, and what we dare to hope.

    From renamed streets to rewritten riots, the narrative field is under siege. AI-generated propaganda, click-farmed influencers, and digitally whispered rumours are not just online pranks.

    They are sophisticated, targeted campaigns designed to distort reality and dissolve trust. They recast history, invert resistance, and scramble communal memory in a way that fragments the civic imagination.

    This is not just a communication crisis, but a constitutional one. In a fragile democracy like Nigeria’s, with thin official archives and public trust, memory becomes the foundation of legitimacy. And disinformation, unchecked, is a slow-moving coup against that legitimacy.

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    The geography of Nigeria’s disinformation epidemic is not flat. It is jagged, layered, and shaped by historical wounds and political fault lines.

    In the Northwest, disinformation often feeds into security crises. False alerts about ethnic cleansing or fake images of “foreign mercenaries” inflame tensions between Hausa communities and marginalized ethnic groups. Bandit leaders, sometimes portrayed as local Robin Hoods or “negotiators,” have been mythologized online to undermine both state presence and community resistance.

    In the Northeast, AI-generated or recycled images of insurgent generosity—militants distributing food or resolving disputes—aim to normalize extremist governance in the absence of the state. Here, rumour acts as a substitute for infrastructure, turning propaganda into public service.

    In the North-Central and Middle Belt, especially in places like Southern Kaduna and Jos, disinformation is highly ethnicised. WhatsApp rumours of impending attacks or doctored videos of inter-communal violence are circulated to pre-empt peace, disrupt reconciliation, or justify vigilante retaliation. These zones remain haunted by overlapping fault lines of faith, land, and memory.

    In the Southeast, disinformation is both secessionist and state-sponsored. Propaganda wars between IPOB sympathizers and federal agencies reframe protests, military raids, and civic uprisings in conflicting lights. Videos are clipped, slogans are forged, and every story has a counter-story aimed at discrediting the other’s truth.

    In the Southwest, particularly in Lagos, disinformation is more urban, more elite-coded. Here, influencer armies, digital satire, and TikTok revisionism soften the violence of the past by flooding the zone with noise, parody, and distraction. The goal is not to tell a new story, but to dissolve the old one.

    In the South-South, especially in the Niger Delta, disinformation emerges around resource justice. Faked environmental reports, edited footage of protests, or misattributed community statements serve to pit oil-host communities against one another or to erase the legitimacy of longstanding grievances.

    Across all these regions, the result is the same: a weakened capacity for collective memory, an atomized sense of truth, and a democracy that no longer recognizes itself in the mirror.

    When memory fractures, the republic falters. The most dangerous thing disinformation erodes is not truth, but trust in the media, in institutions, and ultimately, in each other. The civic commons begins to unravel when people can no longer tell what happened, who to believe, or whether their own memories are valid.

    Urban trust infrastructure—our bus stops, town halls, churches, and community radio stations—have become sites of confusion rather than clarity. Ethnic caricatures replace complexity. Civic rituals are emptied of symbolic force. And the republic becomes, slowly but steadily, a rumour.

    What Nigeria needs is not just fact-checking but memory-checking; a way to defend the civic commons by rebuilding ethical relationships with truth, history, and the stories we share; a framework of civic repair rooted in dignity, empathy, and plural memory. Memory must be recognised as infrastructure.

    We need to maps how disinformation rewrites collective memory about protests, elections, civic tragedies, and public joy. This helps us to understand how rumours attack individuals and institutions: turning town halls into echo chambers, and transport hubs into rumour mills.

    It also insists on restoring cultural integrity by tracking how regional and ethnic identities are distorted, erased, or turned into historical scapegoats. And it calls for narrative stewardship: cultivating communities and coalitions who take memory seriously, who defend civic history as if it were sacred soil.

    If we do not defend our memory commons, we will lose the ability to see each other clearly. And when a nation loses its memory, it becomes governable only through fear or myth.

    •Lekan Olayiwola,

    <lekanolayiwola@gmail.com

  • Social media and the shape of politics in 2027

    Social media and the shape of politics in 2027

    Sir: Social media in Nigeria is no longer a novelty. It is the new town square, a battleground for narratives, and a platform where public opinion is shaped and reshaped daily. Between the 2011 and 2023 general elections, we witnessed an explosion in digital political engagement, but 2027 promises to be even more intense. This is due to several factors: an increasingly youthful and internet savvy population, growing digital infrastructure, and a political class that now fully understands the power and peril of social media.

    What makes social media especially potent in Nigeria is the combination of real time information and widespread smartphone use. According to Statista, Nigeria had over 40 million active social media users in 2024, and this number is expected to climb significantly by 2027. This means political messages, whether true or false, can travel faster than any press conference or rally ever could.

    A clear signal of how central social media will be to the 2027 elections was the recent Progressives Digital Media Summit organized by the Office of the Special Assistant to the President on Social Media. The summit, held in Abuja, brought together influencers, digital strategists, and political communicators under the theme “Unveiling the Critical Role of New Media in National Development.” With President Bola Tinubu urging young Nigerians to use their digital platforms to promote unity and national cohesion, the event revealed the current administration’s strategic intent to harness social media as both a tool for public persuasion and political consolidation.

    This summit marks a formal recognition by the presidency that social media is no longer just an accessory to politics, it is the space where minds are shaped, youth are mobilized, and influence is contested.

    There is a growing concern about the misuse of social media by political actors. In 2023, there were allegations of state sponsored trolls, automated accounts, and cyberbullying targeted at opponents and dissenting voices. In 2027, the line between political engagement and online harassment may become even more blurred. The National Assembly and the Nigerian Communications Commission must begin planning for digital regulations that protect democratic integrity without undermining freedom or innovation.

    It is also critical that our political parties evolve. Nigerian parties are often criticized for being ideologically weak and structurally fragile. Social media offers them a chance to rebuild from the ground up. They can use these platforms to gather feedback, engage directly with citizens, and even conduct transparent internal primaries. But the question remains: will they seize the opportunity or stick to the old playbook?

    The Independent National Electoral Commission must not be left behind. In a time where public trust in institutions is low and conspiracy theories spread quickly, the electoral commission must use social media more effectively to share accurate information, correct falsehoods, and maintain public confidence. The 2023 elections were marked by complaints about poor communication and unclear processes. A more active and responsive digital presence could help INEC rebuild some of that trust, particularly among first time voters and the youth.

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    Another important issue is access. While social media has opened the political space to many Nigerians, a large part of the population—especially in rural communities—remains excluded due to poor internet infrastructure or affordability issues. If we want social media to be a fair playing field in 2027, then expanding access must become a national priority. Everyone deserves the chance to participate in political conversations, whether online or offline.

    Let us not forget the diversity of Nigeria’s social media space. Political communication in 2027 must reflect the country’s wide range of languages, cultures, and media habits. A trending post in Lagos may have no relevance in Sokoto or Owerri. Political teams must be more thoughtful in tailoring their messages to specific audiences across regions. Local relevance and cultural sensitivity will be just as important as digital reach.

    Social media will not just influence the 2027 elections, it will define them. From candidate emergence to campaign strategy, from mobilizing supporters to monitoring results, digital platforms will be central to the political process. This presents a major opportunity and an equally serious challenge. If handled wisely, social media can strengthen democracy, give voice to the youth, and promote transparency. But if left unchecked, it can become a breeding ground for division, manipulation, and conflict.

    As we move toward 2027, one thing is clear: the future of Nigerian politics will be written not only on ballot papers, but also through tweets, videos, and viral content. Those who understand this new reality will have the advantage. Those who ignore it do so at their own peril.

    •Wale Bakare, wale@webfalainitiative.org

  • Nigeria’s unacceptable malnutrition deaths

    Nigeria’s unacceptable malnutrition deaths

    Sir: At the end of July, the world was shocked to learn that 169 people, including 93 children, had died of malnutrition in Palestine since the outbreak of the devastating war with Israel. Tragic and painful as this figure is, it is utterly dwarfed by a chilling statistic from Nigeria: over 652 children have died from malnutrition in Katsina State alone, and that’s just in the first half of 2025.

    This jarring incongruity provokes a bleak and sobering question: How can a nation not technically in war end up outpacing a war zone in deaths due to hunger and malnutrition?

    The answer lies at the intersection of poor governance, chronic insecurity, and systemic neglect.

    Nigeria, Africa’s most populous country and one of its largest economies, is officially at peace. It enjoys a democratic government, a huge bureaucracy, and vast natural and human resources. Yet it continues to record child mortality from malnutrition that rivals or surpasses that in active war zones.

    The latest report from Doctors Without Borders (MSF) on Katsina is most alarming. Katsina is a state besieged  by banditry, kidnappings, and deepening insecurity. In Katsina, whole villages have been turned into ghost towns and farmlands into killing fields. As a result, food production has dwindled, healthcare systems have broken down, and families have been forced into displacement, poverty, and starvation.

    The root of the crisis points to both structural and systemic failures. Malnutrition, especially in children, is both a symptom and a signal. It indicates a broader failure of the health system, food distribution channels, social protection programs, and ultimately, government accountability.

    The key issues driving the malnutrition crisis in Nigeria are numerous. First, armed violence, especially in northern Nigeria, has led to mass displacements. Families fleeing for their lives leave behind farms and other means of livelihood. Internally displaced persons (IDPs) camps are often overcrowded, underfunded, and inadequately supplied with food and clean water. Children under five, the most vulnerable, suffer the most.

    Secondly, in many parts of northern Nigeria, healthcare delivery is either non-existent or dangerously underfunded. Malnutrition requires urgent and specialised treatment, something scarce even in urban centres, let alone rural communities ravaged by conflict.

    Then there is the issue of cuts in international funding. MSF attributed part of the problem in Katsina to funding cuts by international donors. As global attention shifts to other emergencies, including Ukraine, Sudan, and Palestine, humanitarian support to Nigeria has dwindled. But this raises a painful point: Why is the Nigerian government not stepping in to fill the void?

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    Another challenge is the failure of preventive nutrition programs. Nigeria has repeatedly failed to sustain preventive nutrition programs that address child hunger and undernutrition before they become life-threatening. School feeding programs are poorly implemented or discontinued in many states, and outreach on infant nutrition and breastfeeding is inconsistent at best.

    Plus, malnutrition doesn’t make headlines like terrorism or economic policy. As a result, the issue often slips under the radar of national priorities. There’s a lack of real-time data, poor coordination among ministries, and a bureaucratic unwillingness to act until disaster strikes.

    Malnourishment must be officially declared a national emergency. The state and federal governments need to increase nutrition-sensitive interventions and allocate ring-fenced funds to food relief, health centres, and child care.

    In addition, primary health centres need to be able to detect, treat, and manage malnourishment cases. Trained workers, therapeutic diets availability, and a functional cold chain need to be the standard, not a luxury.

    Besides, the government must secure farming villages, especially in the North, and invest in agriculture. Farmers need to be protected, provided with equipment, and incentivised to plant crops. Food insecurity is the first domino that must fall in the malnutrition chain.

    The time for silence has passed. Nigeria must act now to stop the silent war of hunger that is killing its future. History will not be kind to us otherwise.

    •Elvis Eromosele, elviseroms@gmail.com

  • Marker Day madness in Bauchi’s public schools

    Marker Day madness in Bauchi’s public schools

    Sir: In a deeply disturbing trend now gaining momentum across schools in Bauchi State, a so-called “Marker Day” is turning into a day of moral collapse — and worse, institutional silence.

    This alarming behaviour, widely circulated through videos reviewed by respected education expert and former Commissioner of Education, Aliyu U. Tilde, reveals a tragic picture. Out of 23 videos analysed, 20 were from government schools. Only three came from private schools — and two of those weren’t even filmed within school premises, but on the streets. The majority of these shameful acts were committed by students in government schools — schools meant to protect and nurture the dreams of the children of the poor.

    Originally meant as a harmless celebration of school graduations or year-end milestones, Marker Day has become a breeding ground for indecency. Students, especially girls, are seen with their uniforms defaced, their bodies scribbled on with markers, and some even stripped half-naked while their peers cheer on. One particularly disturbing video featured all-Muslim female students in hijabs, yet they were involved in acts that are clearly against Islamic teachings and Hausa cultural values. In some cases, names were written on thighs — in the open — while others laughed and filmed.

    Where is the outrage? Where is the action?

    It is disheartening that this shameful display is happening in a state like Bauchi — widely regarded as a religious and culturally conservative society. And yet, we have seen little or no serious action taken by the relevant authorities. Our students are descending into moral chaos, and the institutions meant to shape them are either overwhelmed or turning a blind eye.

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    This is not just a moral issue — it is a societal emergency. When public schools, meant to uplift the children of the poor, become platforms for moral decay, then we are planting the seeds of future societal collapse.

    We urgently call on Governor Bala Abdulkadir Muhammad, to lead the charge in addressing this issue. The time for silence is over. As the leader of the state, his decisive action is needed now more than ever.

    Schools where such acts occur must face sanctions. Heads must roll if we are to protect the integrity of our educational institutions.

    Our religious leaders, traditional rulers, and community elders must not watch from the side-lines. Islam clearly teaches modesty, discipline, and respect. What is happening now flies in the face of everything our religion and culture hold dear.

    If we fail to act today, we will harvest shame and regret tomorrow. A morally bankrupt youth population is a ticking time bomb. As parents, educators, and leaders, we must stand up — not just in speeches, but in action.

    •Yasir Shehu Adam (Dan Liman), Bauchi