It is expected that the Nigeria Police Force (NPF) will finally learn an important lesson following the order of the Federal High Court in Lagos that the Inspector-General of Police (IGP) and the Lagos State Commissioner of Police jointly pay N10 million in damages for the violation of the fundamental rights of several participants in a peaceful procession at Lekki, Lagos.
Justice Musa Kakaki, on July 24, ruled that although the police have constitutional powers to enforce laws, such powers must be exercised in accordance with democratic principles and the rule of law. The judge held that the plaintiffs, who participated in a peaceful procession on October 20, 2024, to mark the fourth anniversary of #EndSARS, were unjustly harassed and their rights violated. This was against their right to freedom of peaceful assembly and association, as guaranteed under Section 40 of the Nigerian constitution, the judge declared.
The #EndSARS protest in October 2020 was against the Special Anti-Robbery Squad (SARS), a police unit notorious for brutality, extortion, torture, and extrajudicial killings. At the time, there were controversial allegations of killings of protesters by state actors.
The protest is commemorated annually in October. The plaintiffs, including individuals and three organisations, had claimed that during the procession, police officers fired shots, used tear gas, beat and arrested participants, and detained them for about four hours.
In affidavits presented to the court, one of the claimants said officers kicked him in the groin and stepped on his genitals; another alleged she was sexually assaulted and groped. Another one was said to have been “hit by a canister, and she fell and was bleeding. In that state, the police fired teargas directly at her… three policemen beat her up. One of them kicked her on her buttocks and dragged her on the floor.”
A report said police officers had disrupted the commemoration of the #EndSARS protest in 2021, fired teargas at participants and arrested several people, including some popular entertainment celebrities. Also, in 2022, security operatives were reported to have arrested activists and journalists during an event to mark the anniversary. By 2023, according to a report, “the government had shifted tactics to more covert repression: protesters in Lagos and Abuja were subjected to surveillance, intimidation, and profiling by security agents, with some individuals briefly detained.”
Given this context, the recent court ruling against the police for the 2024 event was a necessary and important lesson against lawlessness by law enforcement personnel.
US President Donald Trump recently announced that Israel had agreed for a 60-day ceasefire in Gaza, though on “necessary conditions”. He has also vowed to secure the release of the remaining Israeli hostages still held in Gaza, describing their freedom as a cornerstone of any agreement.
This two-month ceasefire may perhaps be the first sigh of relief in months for the two million civilians trapped in the narrow, battered Gaza Strip. They have been under relentless siege since October 2023, when Hamas operatives stormed across the Israeli border and killed more than 1,200 people.
A Collective Sigh of Relief
The ceasefire will be a reprieve for medics like Dr Taher Almadhoun, a young physician I first interviewed on Zoom back in 2021 during another punishing round of bombardment. Even then, he had just lost his two brothers but kept working, tending to the wounded with a composure that almost seemed borrowed from someone else – someone not living in a city under fire.
I tried reaching him months ago, partly out of concern, partly to reassure myself that he hadn’t been added to Gaza’s long list of casualties. For a long time, there was no answer. But silence in Gaza is never just silence. It is the hush of collapsed buildings, the severed phone lines, the dreadful uncertainty of whether someone is alive or gone.
When his reply finally came, it was a message steeped in both exhaustion and stubborn resolve. He told me he was now married to a dentist, that they had a baby barely a year old — a child who has never known anything but displacement. The house they built together over years of borrowed money and hope had been crushed into a mound of concrete, indistinguishable from all the other ruins.
Since the war began, they have drifted from one temporary shelter to another: crowded classrooms, tents on bare earth, the broken shells of relatives’ homes. By day, he and his wife return to the wards to care for the endless influx of the wounded. By night, they try to sleep under tarpaulins, listening to the growl of drones that never really leaves the sky.
Almadhoun had ambitions to study advanced medicine abroad, to build something stable out of the wreckage. Now, those dreams have been replaced by simpler wishes: to see the dawn, to keep his child alive one more day. In Gaza, waking up to your child’s face has become a rare joy not that many have been robbed of.
Yet, Almadhoun’s story is not unique. It reflects the quiet ordeal of thousands of medics and nurses whose working lives have become a theatre of impossible choices. Each hour demands decisions that would unmake most people: whom to comfort with the last vial of morphine, which child to prioritise when there are no supplies left.
Life And Death
For them, a ceasefire would mean more than a pause in fighting. It would mean a chance, however fleeting, to remember what it feels like simply to live without fear. To call what’s happening in Gaza a humanitarian crisis is an understatement. To call it a catastrophe feels somehow woefully inadequate. What is happening is a long, withering disintegration of a people’s collective spirit – the slow unravelling of human dignity.
This is a place where the living and the dead are neighbours. The poet TS Eliot wrote in The Waste Land, “I will show you fear in a handful of dust.” But in Gaza, fear comes in a bag of flour, in the flicker of a drone overhead, in the empty shelves of a pharmacy
Since October 2023, some 65,000 souls have been lost – an arithmetic of horror that defies comprehension. But numbers alone cannot capture the personal hell of every mother, every child, every old man whose life has been reduced to a daily ritual of hunger, grief and dread.
Food Aid or Killing Fields?
Across Gaza, aid convoys arrive bearing food that is barely sufficient to keep people from starvation. Even this aid has become a source of terror: distribution sites have turned into killing fields. Witnesses recount how tanks, drones and machine guns have targeted civilians lining up for flour or lentils. According to local reports and the Hamas-run health authorities, at least 600 Palestinians have been killed and over 4,000 injured simply while waiting for rations.
Yet, no matter which side of politics one occupies, there is a truth that transcends the noise of blame: these people are exhausted, starving and broken. A journalist on the ground described Gaza as “a dead city, a dying city”. This is no hyperbole. Two million inhabitants, half of them children, live without running water, without electricity, without medicine. The few remaining hospitals are overwhelmed beyond any reasonable capacity. Doctors and nurses work shifts so long they barely remain conscious, tending to patients whose bodies have been ravaged by wounds, infection, or chronic illness left untreated for months.
It is here, amid the overcrowded corridors and the makeshift morgues, that the words of WB Yeats in The Second Coming feel like a prophecy:
“Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned.”
There is a sense in Gaza that the ceremony of innocence was drowned long ago. When a widow named Umm Raed al-Nuaizi asked, “Why are our children’s lives seen as so cheap?”, she voiced a question that has no satisfactory answer – only the echo of silence from a world that has become accustomed to atrocity. Her son was shot and left in intensive care while trying to collect flour. In any other place, the deliberate targeting of civilians would be an unthinkable scandal. Here, it has become an almost unremarkable event
The Gaza Humanitarian Foundation, an entity supported by American and Israeli authorities, has been described by some UN officials as a “death trap”. The UN has condemned the system as grotesquely inadequate, yet it remains the only conduit for food to a population at risk of famine. The paradox is chilling: the desperate act of collecting a sack of flour can end in a funeral.
Dead Men Walking
Beyond the headlines, there is a quieter agony. Patients with diabetes or heart disease now slip away in dimly lit rooms, unable to access the simplest treatments. For them, life has become what Eliot called “the hollow men”: a grey half-existence where the body remains, but the spirit has fled.
“We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!”
If Gaza is a wasteland, it is one constructed by human hands. It’s a place where hope has withered in the sun, and where each dawn brings no promise of relief.
And yet the horror does not only belong to those who are dying. Those who survive must reckon with what survival even means. A child who grows up amid such relentless trauma carries invisible wounds that no treaty can heal. Even if the guns fall silent, what future can there be for a generation that has known nothing but siege, bombardment and bereavement?
A Cemetary Of The Living
When you walk through the debris of Gaza, the landscape resembles something out of Dante – rings of hell composed of collapsed buildings, scorched cars and shattered lives. Some aid workers describe the place as “a cemetery of the living.”
There are also dozens of Israeli hostages held by Hamas, their condition unknown, their families living in paralysing uncertainty. In this tragedy, there are no simple villains or saints – only layers upon layers of pain and desperation. A mother in Rafah wonders each night if a drone’s crosshairs are pointed at her roof. A father in Khan Younis calculates whether to risk fetching food or stay hidden in the ruins. A boy with pneumonia gasps for breath in a hospital with no oxygen tanks. Each day begins and ends with the same question: Will we survive until tomorrow?
When we were children learning about the Holocaust, we often asked ourselves how modern, democratic Europe — so proud of its civilisation — could stand by while millions of Jews were starved, humiliated and systematically erased. That chapter became not only a wound in history but a profound, unshakable shame that Europe still carries like a hidden scar.
And now, in our own lifetime, we are witnessing another terrible spectacle: a whole population being pushed beyond the brink – killed, maimed, starved and humiliated in plain view of the world. Gaza’s people were already half broken from years of siege, air strikes and the slow suffocation of their daily lives. What is unfolding today feels less like a sudden catastrophe and more like the cruel final act of a long, deliberate process of subjugation.
The Death Of The Human Soul
History will judge these months not by the language of press releases or sound bytes but by the testimony of the dispossessed. Their suffering, like the ‘blood-dimmed tide’, has swept away any illusions that this is simply a conflict over territory or ideology. This is a catastrophe of the human soul.
It is impossible to read the accounts from Gaza without feeling that something essential is being lost. Not merely infrastructure or lives, but the moral compass that makes civilisation possible. When food becomes a pretext for slaughter, when medicine becomes a bargaining chip, when children become targets, we cross a line that should never have been crossed.
“Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow.”
That shadow now lies across Gaza, suffocating every possibility of normal life. Even if the siege were lifted tomorrow, the wounds of the spirit would remain. What jobs would there be in this dead city? What homes are left to return to? What peace can there be when so many ghosts will forever haunt the survivors?
A Flicker of Hope?
Yet amid this devastation, there is still a flicker of resilience, as fragile as a candle in the wind – the wasteland is breeding lilacs out of the dead land in an otherwise lifeless world. The people of Gaza have not relinquished their humanity, even as the world’s attention drifts elsewhere. In the ruins, volunteers share water, strangers shelter the newly displaced, and doctors save lives despite knowing that each day may be their last.
This resilience is not victory, nor does it erase the horror. But it is a reminder that even in the most desolate wasteland, something sacred endures – the simple, unyielding conviction that life matters.
In the end, no matter what justification is offered, Gaza remains a place that should haunt the conscience of anyone who dares to look honestly. For all the rhetoric of policy and security, there is a deeper question that will linger long after the last shot is fired: what have we become, that we can watch such suffering and call it ‘collateral’?
· This article was first published under the headline ‘Gaza’s Final Act: A Handful Of Dust, A Skyful Of Death’ in www.ndtv.com
Outgoing Vice Chairman of Agege Local Government, Gbenga Abiola, fondly known as Agbelebu, has given a detailed and heartfelt account of his nearly ten years in public service, marking the end of his tenure with a passionate statement titled “Short Story of My Service.”
In the statement issued on Friday, Abiola, who also serves as the national coordinator of the Tinubu Media Force, chronicled his political journey from a legislative aide in 2015 to becoming the youngest local government boss in Lagos State’s history in 2016—a feat made possible through the mentorship and support of the Speaker of the Lagos State House of Assembly, Rt. Hon. Mudashiru Obasa.
Abiola’s service as council chairman in 2016 earned him the Local Government Chairman of the Year award by City People Magazine, along with other accolades that recognized his dedication, youthful drive, and impact.
Following his term as chairman, he returned to serve as Secretary to the Local Government, and later as Vice Chairman, under the leadership of Alh. Ganiyu Egunjobi.
These roles, according to him, were not mere political appointments but renewed mandates to serve his community with “heart and humility.”
He said: “In 2016, I criss-crossed from being a legislative aide to the current Speaker of the Lagos State House of Assembly in 2015 to becoming the youngest Local Government Boss in the history of Lagos State, Nigeria. Till this moment, I remain the youngest man that has ever sat on that seat as a Mayor in the great state of Lagos—on the recommendation and discovery of our great leader, Rt. Hon. Mudashiru Obasa. That single act of belief in my capacity transformed my life forever.
“My contributions as a young man manning the affairs of Agege Local Government in 2016 earned me the prestigious Local Government Chairman of the Year award by City People Magazine, amongst other awards of merit. Those moments weren’t just acknowledgments—they were affirmations that dedication, vision, and youthful energy have a place in governance.
“The journey didn’t end there. The recommendation and belief continued as I handed over to Alh. Ganiyu Egunjobi as Chairman, and humbly returned to serve as Secretary to the Local Government, and later as the Vice Chairman of our great Local Government. These weren’t just political appointments—they were renewed calls to serve, to give, and to lead with heart and humility.
“My service to the community and to local governance spans from 2015 till date—nearly a decade of consistent, intentional, and passionate contribution to humanity and public service. It’s not just a career; it’s a calling.
“From 2016 as Local Government Chairman of the Year, to becoming Lagos’ youngest Council Boss, the youngest Secretary to a Local Government, and Social Secretary of the Conference of Secretaries (Scribe 57), to now one of Lagos’ youngest Vice Chairmen—I have served with every fiber of my being. I have done so with silent sacrifices, unseen battles, and countless late nights—all in service of the greater good.”
Abiola highlighted key infrastructural and developmental projects executed during his tenure, including:
The conversion of black spots into modern markets, simultaneous road constructions across communities, establishment of health centres in all wards of Agege, and the first Local Government CBT centre in Nigeria— a historic feat in grassroots education and technology.
Beyond his official duties, Abiola said his commitment to youth development is evident through the Obasa Youth Alliance, a political structure he founded, now active in 28 local governments across Lagos West.
According to him, he also initiated the Obasa Youth Crusade, an annual event attracting over 10,000 youths to celebrate leadership, creativity, and community.
He said the activities include talent hunts, free raffle draws, and studio recording sessions, turning the crusade into a cultural movement of hope and unity.
He added that his Agbelebu Foundation continues to touch lives through: Empowerment for physically challenged individuals, support for widows and the elderly, provision of GCE and JAMB forms for brilliant but indigent students, and mentorship and business hubs for emerging entrepreneurs.
Abiola stated: “My heart beats for young people. I believe in their strength, their potential, and their future. That belief led me to create the largest youth political structure in Agege—Obasa Youth Alliance—which now spans 28 Local Governments across Lagos West. This wasn’t just an idea—it was a movement. A bold statement that young people have a voice, a place, and a future in politics and leadership.
“From that, we birthed the Obasa Youth Crusade—a yearly celebration of leadership, unity, and youthful excellence. Gathering over 10,000 young people each year, the Crusade has become a beacon of peace, creativity, and community spirit. Talent hunts, free raffle draws, studio recording sessions—it is more than a program, it is a legacy of hope.”
He credited his inspiration to President Bola Ahmed Tinubu, praising his unwavering commitment to youth empowerment, and also saluted Governor Babajide Sanwo-Olu for making Lagos “the best economy in Africa.”
In an emotional close to his statement, Abiola expressed profound gratitude to his benefactors, colleagues, family, and the people of Agege.
“I pray to continue finding strength, courage, and wisdom—whenever and wherever I am called upon to serve. Service is not a title. It is a lifestyle. It is who I am.”
Reaffirming his dedication to the Agbelebu Ideologies, he declared his unwavering commitment to serving humanity—whether inside or outside public office.
“I remain Oluwagbenga Michael Abiola (Agbelebu), National Coordinator, Tinubu Media Force,” he concluded.
Sir: I recently had the privilege of attending the Africa Primary Healthcare Forum Conference 2025, a prestigious gathering of minds, stakeholders, policymakers, technocrats, and visionaries convened to dissect and diagnose the many ailments plaguing primary healthcare (PHC) across Africa, especially Nigeria. From the panels to breakout sessions, the discussions were fiery, engaging, and thoroughly necessary.
Topics ranged from the tired over-reliance on curative health systems to a renewed focus on prevention. People talked big on digital health innovation, sustainable financing, away from donor-reliance health financing, better public-private partnership frameworks, and the urgent need for government prioritization. It was a medley of necessary ideas floating in urgency, as it should be.
Yet, something was off. Something critical was missing from the table, from the speeches, from the slides. No one mentioned it. Not even once. Where, in all the conversations about saving PHC, was traditional and complementary medicine?
Complete erasure. And that is dangerous.
Whether policymakers like to admit it or not, traditional medicine is not just a sidebar in African healthcare, it is, for many, the first and only form of healthcare they know. For decades, and still to this day, traditional and complementary medicine (TCM) has been the anchor often the only accessible, trusted, and affordable system of care for millions, especially at the grassroots. In fact, WHO data boldly states that nearly 80% of people in Africa rely on traditional medicine in one form or another. That’s not a statistic. That’s a screaming reality.
And yet, at a high-level summit on PHC in Africa, it was treated as invisible.
Why? Is it the elite delusion that healthcare must be boxed strictly within biomedical confines to be legitimate?
Whatever the reason, that silence reveals something tragic: we are trying to fix the house by ignoring the foundation.
To be blunt: any attempt to “fix” PHC in Africa without giving a front-row seat to traditional medicine is a performance. It is incomplete. It is misaligned with reality. It is tone-deaf to culture.
Primary healthcare is not a hospital-centric concept. It is not a digital app. It is not a modern building with drugs and machines. It is first and foremost a philosophy, healthcare that begins with the people. It is decentralised, embedded in the community, rooted in culture, and closer to the home than to the clinic. And there is nothing closer to the home physically, socially, and culturally than traditional medicine.
So why are we treating it like it’s a relic?
What we need is not another dusty “Traditional Medicine Department” sitting idle in the ministry office. Not another limp paragraph in a policy document no one reads. What we need is real, strategic integration, bold, systemic inclusion of traditional and complementary medicine into the national PHC framework.
This is common sense.
Traditional healers are already doing the work without the recognition, without the training, without the regulatory framework. They are already where formal systems cannot reach. In remote villages, urban slums, even suburban corners. They are treating, advising, consoling, and sometimes even preventing illnesses all with cultural fluency and deep trust.
Imagine if they were trained. Imagine if there was a framework to equip them, link them with formal PHC centres, include them in health education initiatives, and embed them in the referral ecosystem. Imagine if our systems stopped seeing them as a threat and started seeing them as the assets they already are.
Because here’s the truth: You can’t reach the people without going through the gatekeepers they already trust. And trust is not something digital tools or biomedical superiority can automatically buy. Trust is cultural. It is emotional. It is generational. Traditional medicine carries that trust. And no matter how sophisticated our health architecture is, if people don’t trust it, they will not use it.
We can digitise all we want. We can build more PHC centres, fund PPPs, and launch one policy after another. But if we don’t build a bridge between formal healthcare and the informal systems people already use, we are widening the gap we claim to want to close.
We must stop treating traditional medicine like an embarrassing uncle at a wedding. It’s not a side act. It’s a central actor, one that can help us rewrite the PHC narrative from the inside out.
Because until traditional medicine is recognised, regulated, and reintegrated with full legitimacy, our vision for strong, community-driven primary healthcare in Africa will remain a castle in the air.
Sir: On the night of September 10, 2024, the people of Maiduguri experienced a calamity that was both preventable and predictable. The Alau Dam collapsed, releasing a force of water that surged through communities, homes, and markets. Over 400,000 residents were displaced, and more than 150 lives lost in a matter of hours.
Almost a year later, thousands of those affected are still struggling to rebuild their lives. Many families remain without shelter, forced to live in makeshift tents or overcrowded compounds. Traders who once ran thriving businesses in Monday Market, Gwange, Moduganari, and Customs areas are still unable to return to their stalls.
Some have relocated entirely, while others now rely on daily handouts to survive. The truth is, for many of them, recovery has barely begun. What is even more painful is knowing that much of this suffering could have been avoided if the right steps had been taken early enough.
Yet, after all the pains, the structural root of the problem—Alau Dam—remains unrepaired, unexpanded, and not reconstructed. The dam was not just overwhelmed by water, it had been weakened over the years due to a lack of maintenance, and nothing meaningful has been done to strengthen or expand it since.
If we are serious about preventing future disasters, Alau Dam must be reconstructed with modern engineering standards that can withstand extreme events. A city like Maiduguri cannot be left at the mercy of a dam that is both outdated and unreliable.
The rivers and drainage systems that cut through Maiduguri—especially those in Monday Market, Gwange, Moduganari, and the Custom area—have become bottlenecks. They are either blocked by debris or too narrow to carry runoff during the rainy season. When the water rises, these waterways overflow into neighbourhoods, turning entire communities into flood zones. Dredging and expanding these channels is not a luxury—it is a necessity. Every rainy season without action only increases the cost of the next disaster.
Recent warnings by the National Flood Early Warning Centre of the Federal Ministry of Environment indicate that Maiduguri and Ngala are likely to face flooding again this year. With Cameroon releasing water from the Lagdo Dam and rainfall levels projected to be high, the signs are clear. If we do nothing, we are walking into another tragedy with our eyes wide open. We must stop acting like this is a surprise. It is not. We know what will happen. The question is whether we care enough to act.
I believe this is the moment for not just boldness, but proactive leadership. The federal and state governments must go beyond relief donations. They must invest heavily in preventive infrastructure. Rebuilding Alau Dam is step one. Dredging and expanding the river systems within Maiduguri is step two. And step three should be the construction of new multipurpose dams on the outskirts of the city. These new dams will not only help with water management, but they can also be used for irrigation farming, thereby creating jobs for our teeming youth population.
Let us not pretend that this problem is unique to Borno. Other states across Nigeria are also at risk. But Borno remains among the most vulnerable due to its topography and its already fragile infrastructure. If we get it right here, we can create a model for flood resilience across the country.
How many more homes must be destroyed before we acknowledge that climate change, poor planning, and neglect are a deadly combination? This is a moral question, not just a technical one.
As someone who has worked in the mud, cried with victims, and seen hope disappear under dirty water, I say this with a full heart: enough is enough. Let this year be different. Let this be the year we prepared, not the year we mourned again. Let us not wait until the next rainy season swallows another community before calling a press conference.
The cost of inaction is too high. The reward for preparation is immeasurable. Borno deserves more than sympathy—it deserves protection, planning, and progress. The time to act is not tomorrow. It is today. It is now.
Sir: The relocation of the Ikoyi Marriage Registry to the headquarters of the Lagos State Command of the Nigerian Correctional Service at Alagbon Close, Ikoyi without first and proper relocation of the command to a suitable place is an affront to national security. Although, the registry generates revenue, it is more like prioritising revenue generation over national security. Yet, the implications of exposing and degrading the command centre of five major prisons and other security outfits in Nigeria cannot be anything but dire.
A visit both the command and the registry at its new site since they moved there will confirm this. The place is in a mess.
Of equal concern are the activities of the managements of Zone A and Lagos State Command of the Correctional Service. It is as if they do not understand the job they are doing. They are routinely giving out sensitive places as car parks, shops, drinking joints and visitors’ stands to the registry for tokens and this at the expense of national security and prestige. Could this be a case of greed and low self-esteem overriding national interest?
Today, the area looks like something between a marketplace, car park and an entertainment hub. Everywhere has been turned into shops for different kinds of businesses. This is an area that is supposed to be the command centre of important national security facility.
I was informed that one unbefitting block is being renovated where the command will be moved to, adjacent to the desecrated area (registry) while the registry will now occupy the whole area that previously housed the Zone A and Lagos State Command of the service.
Again I ask, is revenue generation more important than national security? Will the money generated from these ventures be enough to manage the consequences of this security breach and negligence?
As a visitor and friend of the service and citizen, I am compelled to highlight my worry over this institutional neglect and relegation of an important security agency in the country. The fact remains that the relocation of the marriage registry to that area without properly relocating the command first to a befitting place is a slap on the service and threat to national security. The command needs a proper place to be built that suits it roles in national security management. Not a one block cubicle to cramp its activities.
When history pens the renaissance of Kaduna State, it will not overlook the significance of July 21, 2025 — a date now etched in gold across the annals of restitution, leadership, and recovery. It was on this day that Governor Uba Sani, with solemn resolve and visible compassion, led the commissioning of Phase One of the Qatar Sanabil Project, distributing dignified homes to families who had endured the searing wrath of banditry. This event was not simply ceremonial. It was redemptive. It was, in its truest form, an act of healing — a moment when the distance between governance and humanity collapsed, and the powerful hand of leadership became a tender balm for wounded souls.
Governor Uba Sani did not just unveil infrastructure; he unveiled justice with concrete, handed over compassion in the form of keys, and offered the gift of belonging to those whose lives had been defined by loss. Where once there was silence, sorrow, and displacement, now stand homes, symbols of resilience and monuments to the State’s refusal to forget its people. Under his administration, peace is no longer an elusive prayer whispered through tears; it is a living reality crafted through vision, strategy, and sacrifice.
For more than a decade, Kaduna bore the brunt of violence that threatened to eviscerate its soul. Banditry, kidnappings, arson, and wanton killings stripped entire communities of their identity. Farms lay fallow. Markets were shuttered. Schools fell silent, and dreams lay scattered among ashes. The Kaduna–Abuja expressway, once a vital artery of commerce and connectivity, became synonymous with dread and death. Investors took flight, families scattered, and governance itself trembled under the weight of chaos.
It was into this crucible of despair that Senator Uba Sani stepped on May 29, 2023. The task before him was Herculean. But he approached it not with fear or fanfare, but with the quiet, firm resolve of a man intimately acquainted with the pains and promise of his people. He understood that to restore Kaduna, he would need to be more than Governor. He would need to be a listener, a builder, a reconciler, and above all, a servant of justice.
Governor Sani adopted a dual philosophy: a kinetic response to dismantle the architecture of violence, and a non-kinetic, people-centered model to rebuild the social fabric. His blueprint, shaped by consultations with traditional rulers, community leaders, security operatives, and victims, culminated in what is now known as the Kaduna Peace Model — an inclusive framework that understands that peace is not imposed from above, but nurtured from within.
He took his security masterplan directly to the top: the National Security Adviser, the Chiefs of Defence, and the Service Chiefs. He argued not just with facts, but with heart — for more Forward Operating Bases, better troop coordination, and a grassroots-informed approach. And they listened. Under his stewardship, the Kaduna–Abuja highway was reopened. The infamous rail corridor resumed operations. Farmers returned to their land. Markets, long closed, came back to life. And fear began to loosen its decades-old grip.
But Governor Uba Sani knew that physical security was only half the battle. Restoration required not just the absence of violence, but the presence of dignity. Thus emerged his signature collaboration with Qatar Charity, resulting in the Qatar Sanabil Project. With two transformational arms — mass housing for the underserved and the creation of an economic city — the initiative is set to directly impact more than half a million vulnerable citizens. The symbolism could not be clearer: where bandits once sowed destruction, a new city of hope is being born.
The partnership between Qatar Charity Foundation and the Kaduna State Government under Governor Uba Sani on the Qatar Sanabil Project reflects a shared vision for sustainable development, rooted in transparency, accountability, and impact. Governor Uba Sani’s leadership has been marked by integrity, inclusiveness, and a firm commitment to improving the lives of the most vulnerable. His administration’s focus on infrastructure, social investment, and economic empowerment has earned wide recognition, making Kaduna a reliable destination for international development partnerships.
Qatar Charity, known for its global humanitarian footprint and dedication to transformative community projects, finds in Kaduna a partner equally committed to responsible governance and measurable outcomes. The Qatar Sanabil initiative, which aims to deliver 500,000 housing units and develop a model economic city, is a bold step towards alleviating poverty and restoring dignity through integrated housing, healthcare, education, and livelihoods.
This collaboration is underpinned by mutual trust and a shared commitment to excellence. The Kaduna State Government offers a stable, transparent, and enabling environment — hallmarks of Governor Sani’s administration — while Qatar Charity brings expertise, resources, and a proven track record in large-scale humanitarian interventions. Together, they are setting a new benchmark for development partnerships in Africa.
In essence, the Qatar Sanabil Project is more than a housing scheme — it is a symbol of visionary leadership and global solidarity. It embodies what can be achieved when integrity meets innovation, and when a government’s commitment to its people aligns with an international organisation’s mission to serve humanity.
The commissioning of Phase One of the project was particularly poignant. The beneficiaries were families who had lost husbands, fathers, mothers, and children to the cruel arithmetic of banditry. But they were no longer just statistics. That day, they were seen, honoured, and uplifted. Governor Sani’s words rang with gravity: “Shelter is not merely physical. It is emotional, psychological, and spiritual. It is the bedrock of human dignity.”
This vision extends beyond housing. Alongside the homes, his administration distributed empowerment tools — cargo bikes, tricycles, grinding machines, salon kits, and welding equipment — so that widows, youth, and the unemployed could stand with renewed self-worth. A school, a health clinic, and a skills acquisition center were inaugurated — all pillars of a future that refuses to be haunted by its past.
This wasn’t a showcase; it was a statement. A declaration that under Uba Sani, Kaduna would never again be a theatre of forgotten tragedies. It would be a place of restored faith, reclaimed purpose, and relentless progress.
President Bola Ahmed Tinubu, GCFR, represented by the National Security Adviser, Mallam Nuhu Ribadu, echoed this sentiment. “Under your stewardship,” he said to the Governor, “Kaduna is transforming from an epicenter of violent attacks to a model of stability and peace. You are wiping the tears of victims, reconciling communities, and giving everyone a sense of belonging.” These were not platitudes. They were earned affirmations: testimonies to a leadership that has not only confronted pain, but transformed it.
The success of Kaduna’s peace strategy lies in its nuance. It recognises that justice must be served, but also that healing must be offered. Through a carefully crafted Disarmament, Demobilisation, Rehabilitation and Reintegration (DDRR) programme, bandits who laid down their arms were given a chance to choose peace. In the difficult terrain of Giwa, Chikun, Kajuru, Birnin Gwari and Kagarko, some of the most notorious insurgents surrendered and embraced reintegration. Their surrender was not a capitulation to government power, but a recognition that peace, when honestly brokered, is more powerful than violence.
This initiative was never about appeasement, nor about turning a blind eye to past crimes. It was, in its finest form, about giving peace a face, a home, and a future. Dr. James Kanyip, Kaduna’s Commissioner for Internal Security, rightly defended this strategy: “The peace process itself is within the confines of the rule of law. The entire constitution is about guaranteeing peace and welfare. If that peace is attained through a constitutionally sound peace process, why not?”
Governor Uba Sani understood that peace must be durable. To that end, he signed the Kaduna State Security Trust Fund Bill, repealing the older 2018 version, and allowing private sector involvement in financing security. This wasn’t just legal housekeeping; it was a strategic stroke to anchor progress in sustainable funding and multi-sectoral collaboration.
Beyond very close collaborations with the nation’s Armed Forces, the Police and other security agencies, Governor Uba Sani revitalised the Kaduna Vigilante Service, recruiting and training thousands of new personnel and arming them with equipment and purpose. And perhaps most importantly, he restored confidence among citizens, allowing security to become a shared civic responsibility. His regular security briefings with community leaders helped decentralise the security conversation, making every citizen a stakeholder in peace.
Governor Sani’s leadership is not merely institutional; it is deeply human. His voice trembled with emotion as he addressed victims and survivors, not as a politician speaking to constituents, but as a brother speaking to his own. “You are not forgotten. You are our heroes,” he told them. “We do not merely give you homes; we return dreams to the dreamers.”
Such sentiments are not common in politics. But neither is Governor Uba Sani. He has chosen a path not of convenience, but of conscience — one that trades applause for action, popularity for purpose, and power for service.
His approach to governance carries the weight of empathy and the urgency of justice. It reminds us that governance, at its noblest, is not about control or ccontroversies. It is about love — love made visible in policies, buildings, laws, and lives transformed. His is a government with a soul. A leadership that listens, learns, and lifts.
This is why Kaduna under Uba Sani is not merely recovering; it is rising. Rising from the ashes of war. From the trauma of displacement. From the silence of mourning. It is rising with dignity, innovation, and unshakable faith in the possibility of peace.
Governor Uba Sani has declared that the Phase One of the Qatar Sanabil Project is only the beginning. More homes will be built. More lives will be uplifted. More peace will be brokered, not through the barrel of a gun, but through the patient, firm, and principled hand of leadership. The Qatar Sanabil Project will continue, as will multiple other social housing and investment initiatives aimed at economic inclusion and human development.
And in all of it, his guiding star remains constant: the welfare, safety, and dignity of the people of Kaduna State.
So when the future looks back upon this time, let it not speak only of the violence that once reigned. Let it tell of a people who refused to surrender their humanity to hatred. Let it tell of leaders who chose integrity over indifference. Let it tell of Uba Sani — a Governor who met crisis not with cold calculations, but with warm resolve. Let it say of him: “He did not govern from above. He stood with his people, heart to heart, hand-in-hand.”
Let it be remembered that in Kaduna’s hour of need, love found form in policy, healing found shape in homes, and peace was built not merely with mortar, but with moral clarity. Through powerful acts of restitution, Governor Uba Sani is not just rebuilding Kaduna — he is redeeming its soul.
•Ahmed Ibrahim Yusuf, a Freelance Journalist, Writes From Barnawa, Kaduna
James Hadley Chase’s fictive creature, Poke Toholo, in “Want to Stay Alive?”, declared he had discovered the magic to prise open locked pockets — the bullet!
For 2027 election hustlers, perhaps there’s a joint magic “bullet” to harvest the vote: China stats from Peter Obi and crocodile tears from Natasha Akpoti-Uduaghan!
How good and nice and marvellous would it be, were the originators of both magic to graft under one sole indivisible ticket?
“Sure banker!” — or was that not how traditional pools betters called it, before the arch-democratization of betting, lottery and sundry affairs?
“Sure banker”! Indeed, if the two pooled their humongous talents (in stats and tears), the presidential election would be a no contest — a sure banker! And their billions of social media zombies would joy!
How? Since Obi burst on the national consciousness on Pastor Poju Oyemade’s Covenant Nation yearly symposium, he perhaps has grown the most profitable(?) chatterbox career in Nigerian history — forget his peculiar voice!
The more he talks, the more his excitable rabble hail him, the more he’s condemned to talking more to stay relevant! Since 2023 when he over-performed at the 2023 presidential election, it’s one day, one jive for Obi.
The famous author and finisher of “go and verify!” has broadened the range of his China stats (euphemism for outright lies with numbers), away from China, to Egypt, to Argentina, to Indonesia — go and verify!
Trouble is: among the sober and introspective, Obi sounds progressively shallower. Also, he has blown the mystique over his Anambra governorship — mediocre, at best — with its strange “savings”. Poor Obi is snared in own trap!
Natasha! The Senate spokesperson, Yemi Adaramodu, dismissed her post-appeal antics as “skits” and “content creation”. That might sound harshly dismissive but it’s clinically correct — not only of her post-court posturing alone, but of the social media theatrics she’d hugged, since her suspension from the Senate.
Pray, how could any trained lawyer reject a verdict — with her legitimate appeal — and yet want to part-enjoy what she already rejected? No be juju be dat? — as they’ll say in the ever-colourful pidgin high street.
Natasha’s attempt to “resume” at the Senate, after her self-proclaimed “expiry” of her suspension, was laughable but unfortunate. No less pathetic was her attempt to frame her drawing of blanks as Natasha vs Akpabio, male vs female, over dog vs underdog nonsense. That’s deliberate manipulation only the truly naive would fall into.
But maybe the Senate was right. Maybe she was just creating skits and social media content to milk sympathy. But maybe too, that’s not entirely useless: millions of zombies abound on the social media.
Which is why an Obi-Natasha ticket would a sure-banker — gender balance inclusive!
Sir: In recent days, the controversy surrounding the burial rites of the late Awujale of Ijebu-Ode has once again stirred the complex waters where culture and religion collide. That a revered traditional ruler chose to depart under Islamic rites—eschewing certain customary rituals—has sparked reactions ranging from mild confusion to near-outrage.
But beneath the noise lies a deeper conversation, one that compels us to re-examine the evolving nature of identity, culture, and the politics of belonging.
Religion typically offers a metaphysical framework of beliefs and rituals, while culture encompasses the totality of how people live, express, and organize their lives. But in reality, religion is embedded within culture, and culture is often saturated with religious values. There are cultures with multiple religions and religions that wear different cultural “clothes” depending on geography.
Christianity in Brazil looks nothing like Christianity in Finland; Islam in Morocco sounds different from Islam in Malaysia. Culture provides the context for religious expression. In this light, religion can be seen as a subset of culture—and not its superior. While culture roots a people to history, meaning, and collective memory, it must never become a prison. Culture, like language and law, must be dynamic, not static. It should evolve in response to knowledge, ethics, science, and human dignity. Practices once normalized—like the killing of twins in Efik culture—are today unthinkable, thanks to the enlightened resistance led by individuals like Mary Slessor. We cannot, in the name of “tradition,” continue to worship shadows while crucifying progress. To insist on certain outdated cultural forms without questioning their utility, justice, or morality is to risk becoming irrelevant—or worse, harmful.
Cultural identity is not a relic of the past—it is a pillar of national development. It fosters social cohesion, creates a sense of ownership, and builds resilience. When people know who they are and where they come from, they are better equipped to engage the world confidently and creatively. It also protects against the homogenizing tendencies of globalization that often erase indigenous knowledge and values.
To modernize culture is not to destroy it—it is to redeem it. A “universal scientific culture”—grounded in human dignity, scientific reasoning, and moral clarity—must inform our journey forward. We must learn to hold the past with reverence, not bondage; to inherit without being imprisoned; and to question without losing our roots.
If we insist on using hoes for large-scale farming simply because our ancestors did, we are not honouring tradition—we are sabotaging progress. Culture must grow, or it will become a museum piece: admired, but no longer lived. In the end, the fight for culture is the fight for identity, and the fight for identity is the fight for freedom and human dignity. And that, surely, is a cause worth standing for.
Sir: The persistent proposal to abolish Nigeria’s ‘State of Origin’ policy, which would grant indigeneship based solely on residency, resurfaces with promises of a unified nation where birthplace no longer restricts opportunity. On its surface, this idea champions equality, envisioning a Nigeria where all citizens share equal rights regardless of ethnic or regional roots. Yet, beneath its appealing facade lies a complex issue that demands careful scrutiny. The implications of dismantling this policy touch the core of Nigeria’s cultural diversity, historical sensitivities, and human instincts.
As a Nigerian scholar observing from abroad, I urge our leaders to approach this matter with caution, guided by history and a deep understanding of our shared humanity.
History offers a stark warning. In 1966, General Aguiyi Ironsi’s Unification Decree sought to promote national integration by opening civil service roles to all Nigerians, regardless of origin. The intent was to foster meritocracy and dissolve regional divides. However, the policy was perceived, particularly in the North, as an overreach that threatened local autonomy. Ironsi’s Igbo heritage intensified suspicions of ethnic favoritism, fueling fears of a covert power grab. The result was devastating: the July counter-coup unleashed violence that scarred Nigeria’s collective memory. This tragic episode reminds us that policies, even those with noble aims, can ignite unrest if they disrupt established cultural boundaries. To ignore such lessons is to risk repeating them.
Humans, by nature, are protective of their spaces. Like creatures in the wild, we define our territories not with physical markers but through traditions, laws, and shared narratives. Nigeria is not a single tribe but a rich tapestry of peoples—Hausa, Yoruba, Igbo, Efik, Fulani, Kanuri, Ijaw, and countless others—each with unique languages, customs, and histories. Before colonial powers drew the borders of “Nigeria,” these groups thrived as independent nations, their identities shaped by centuries of distinct heritage. Unity is a noble goal, but it must not erase these vibrant identities. A Nigeria where all are forced into a singular mold risks losing the diversity that defines its strength.
Each region should be encouraged to nurture its cultural landscape while contributing to the nation’s broader identity. In my native Southwest, newcomers can purchase land, start businesses, marry freely, and pursue careers without barriers. This inclusivity reflects their values. However, when it comes to shaping the region’s political future, they prioritize leaders whose roots are deeply embedded in the land—those who understand its history, challenges, and aspirations. This practice is not unique to the Southwest; it is a common thread across Nigeria, where communities hold their heritage dear.
Eliminating the ‘State of Origin’ policy risks transforming hospitality into perceived overreach. When a community’s generosity is pushed beyond its limits, it can awaken deep-seated feelings tied to identity. Such feelings, once stirred, can spark conflicts that are difficult to quell. The 1966 unrest serves as a grim reminder of how quickly mistrust can escalate. Policies must promote progress without destabilizing the delicate balance of unity. Instead of erasing regional identities, we should focus on systems that ensure fairness—transparent recruitment, equitable education, and economic opportunities that uplift all regions.
The push to abolish ‘State of Origin’ often arises from legitimate concerns: unequal access to jobs, education, and political representation. These are symptoms of deeper issues—governance failures, corruption, and inadequate systems. The solution lies not in dismantling cultural frameworks but in building robust institutions. Transparent policies, merit-based opportunities, and investments in infrastructure can address disparities while respecting regional pride. For instance, strengthening federal character principles with integrity can balance national unity with regional representation. Economic incentives for inter-regional collaboration can foster partnerships without blurring cultural lines.
Nigeria’s diversity is its greatest asset and its greatest challenge. A one-size-fits-all approach ignores the unique needs and strengths of each region, risking alienation and resentment. Policies should celebrate both individual ambition and collective heritage. Education systems that teach respect for diversity alongside national pride can bridge divides without demanding uniformity. Economic initiatives that empower regions to thrive independently while contributing to the nation can create a harmonious balance.
Wisdom must guide this process. Leaders should avoid policies that reopen historical wounds or trigger ethnic sensitivities. The path forward lies in dialogue that embraces Nigeria’s diversity as a strength. We must invest in initiatives that nurture both personal aspirations and regional identities—cross-cultural programs, equitable resource allocation, and governance that prioritizes accountability over division.
Nations are not forged by proclamations but by the collective will and wisdom of their people. Let us build a Nigeria where every citizen can pursue their dreams without losing their cultural roots, where unity amplifies diversity, and where hospitality strengthens rather than divides. The future of our nation hinges on this balance.
