Category: Comments

  • Ozekhome: The heart of the matter 

    Ozekhome: The heart of the matter 

    • By ‘Dele Kabir Hassan

    Nigeria has once again found itself under an unflattering international spotlight, not because of diplomatic missteps or economic turbulence, but because of a deeply troubling legal saga that began in a foreign court and has now returned home demanding institutional reckoning. The case involving Mike Ozekhome, Senior Advocate of Nigeria, (SAN) arising from a disputed London property and a scathing judgment by a United Kingdom tribunal, is not merely about one man or one asset. It is about how Nigeria responds when a foreign court lays bare conduct it describes as dishonest and rooted in fabrication, and whether the country’s institutions are prepared to follow the evidence to a logical, lawful and credible conclusion.

    At the heart of the controversy is a residential property at 79 Randall Avenue, London. What might ordinarily have been a routine dispute over ownership instead evolved into a judicial exposé after the UK First-Tier Tribunal (Property Chamber) examined competing claims to the property. Ozekhome’s claim was that the house had been gifted to him in 2021 by an individual identified as Shani Tali. To support this assertion, documents and identity records were placed before the tribunal, including materials meant to establish the donor’s existence, ownership rights and capacity to transfer the property.

    The tribunal, after hearing witnesses and reviewing the documentary trail, rejected the claim in its entirety. In language that attracted immediate attention within international legal circles, the court concluded that the supposed donor did not exist, that the identity relied upon was fictitious, and that the documents presented in support of the ownership claim were fabricated. The tribunal stated unequivocally that it did not accept that the named individual had ever been a real person, nor that such a person could have purchased the property or passed title to anyone else. It went further to describe the entire ownership narrative as one built on deception.

    More damaging still was the tribunal’s reconstruction of the property’s true history. The court found that the house had been acquired in the early 1990s by the late General Jeremiah Useni using a false identity. On that basis, it held that no lawful title ever vested in the fictional donor and that no valid gift could therefore have been made to Ozekhome. His application to be registered as proprietor was cancelled, and the tribunal’s findings were placed firmly on the public record.

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    These were not casual remarks or speculative observations. They were detailed judicial findings reached after contested proceedings in which evidence was tested and credibility assessed. Unsurprisingly, the judgment travelled quickly beyond the confines of the property tribunal, circulating within international asset-recovery, anti-money laundering and legal accountability communities. The prominence of the parties involved, particularly the fact that one was a Senior Advocate of Nigeria, only amplified the attention.

    It was against this background that Nigeria’s Independent Corrupt Practices and Other Related Offences Commission, ICPC< stepped in. Following petitions and a review of the UK proceedings, the ICPC filed criminal charges alleging that Ozekhome knowingly received the London property, created or procured forged Nigerian identity documents in the name of Shani Tali, and used those documents in pursuit of the disputed ownership claim.

    The commission has indicated that its case will rely on documentary exhibits, investigative findings and testimony from officials of the Nigerian Immigration Service.

    Ozekhome, like every defendant, is entitled to the presumption of innocence, and the Nigerian courts will determine his culpability, if any. But what cannot be ignored is that this case did not originate in rumour or political vendetta. It emerged from a foreign judicial process that examined evidence and delivered findings of fact that are now impossible to pretend do not exist.

    This is what has raised the stakes. Nigeria is no longer dealing with a purely domestic allegation that can be quietly buried or allowed to wither through delay. It is dealing with a case in which a foreign court has already concluded that it was presented with forged identities and a false ownership narrative. How Nigeria responds will inevitably be read as a statement about its seriousness as a legal and institutional actor.

    The reputational dimension cannot be overstated. Nigeria has been through similar moments before. The conviction of former Deputy Senate President Ike Ekweremadu in the United Kingdom over organ trafficking was a profound embarrassment, not simply because of the crime, but because it reinforced a damaging global narrative: that powerful Nigerians believe foreign systems can be manipulated without consequence, and that accountability only truly arrives when imposed from outside.

    Each such episode leaves residue. It shapes how Nigerian professionals are perceived, how Nigerian passports and documents are scrutinised, and how Nigerian institutions are trusted or doubted abroad. The Ozekhome case threatens to deepen that damage if it is mishandled.

    The UK tribunal’s findings already suggest a troubling level of audacity: the alleged invention of an identity, the deployment of forged documents, and the pursuit of property rights through misrepresentation. When conduct of that nature is associated with a senior member of the Bar, the implications go well beyond one courtroom.

    For President Bola Tinubu’s administration, this case is an uninvited but unavoidable test. The government has pledged to strengthen institutions, combat corruption and restore confidence in the rule of law. Those commitments are now being measured not by rhetoric but by response. International partners, foreign courts and asset-recovery bodies are watching closely, not out of hostility, but because Nigeria’s reaction will inform future cooperation and trust.

    The ICPC has taken an important first step by filing charges. That step must be allowed to run its full course. Anything less — whether through undue delay, procedural manipulation or quiet abandonment — would speak louder than any official statement. It would suggest that even when dishonesty is judicially exposed abroad, accountability at home remains negotiable.

    This case is not about public humiliation or predetermined outcomes. It is about evidence, due process and institutional credibility. The Nigerian judiciary does not need to echo the UK tribunal; it needs to do its own work thoroughly and transparently. But it must do that work without fear or favour, and without succumbing to the familiar temptation to let difficult cases simply fade from view.

    Nigeria’s reputation is not shaped by slogans or press releases. It is shaped by what the world sees when the country is tested. Right now, Nigerians are watching. The international community is watching. The ICPC and the courts must act with the clear understanding that this case has already crossed Nigeria’s borders, and that how it ends will say much about who we are as a country and how seriously we take the rule of law.

    •Hassan is a public affairs analyst.

  • Nigeria: Why Türkiye

    Nigeria: Why Türkiye

    • By Sunday Dare

    On Monday this week President Bola Ahmed Tinubu departs for a two-day official visit to the Republic of Türkiye. The stated agenda – military cooperation and trade partnership – is precise. But the subtext is broader: Nigeria is recalibrating its partnerships toward countries that combine strategic geography, industrial depth, security capability, and an instinct for pragmatic diplomacy.

    Few nations fit that description as naturally as Türkiye, making this visit not just a sentimental jaunt but a strategic engagement, strengthening our official ties, since Turkey established a diplomatic presence in Nigeria in 1962.

    Türkiye: Where civilisations converge

    Long before modern states, the lands that form present-day Türkiye were the arteries of human civilisation – bordering Mesopotamia, linking ancient empires, and serving as the world’s crossroads between Europe and Asia.

    Today, Türkiye remains the only major power that physically straddles two continents, controlling maritime gateways that connect the Black Sea, the Mediterranean, and the global trade lanes.

    Geography has always been destiny. For Africa – and for Nigeria in particular – Türkiye’s location is not symbolic; it is operational. It is a bridge to Europe, a corridor to the Middle East, and a springboard to Central and Far-East Asia.

    So, Istanbul is not just a city; it is a gateway.  For Nigerian exporters, investors, students, and logistics operators, Istanbul is increasingly the shortest route from Africa to global markets.

    Why Nigeria Is turning to Türkiye

    The President is visiting with the mindset that Nigeria’s reform trajectory – industrialisation, security stabilisation, trade diversification, and technology transfer – requires partners who do not merely sell products, but build systems.

    Türkiye brings four strategic advantages:

    a. Industrial Capability: From construction to defence manufacturing, textiles, energy equipment, and rail systems, Türkiye is one of the most industrialised economies, bridging emerging and developed markets.

    b. Defense and Security Depth: Türkiye has become a global supplier of cost-effective, battle-tested military platforms – from drones and armoured vehicles to surveillance systems. For Nigeria, confronting insurgency, banditry, and transnational crime, this partnership is about capacity, not dependency.

    c. Trade Dynamism: Türkiye is among the world’s leading exporters to Africa. Its model emphasises local production, infrastructure delivery, and joint ventures –  the kind of growth Nigeria now prioritises.

    d. Geopolitical Balance: As a NATO member with strong relations across Asia, the Middle East, and Africa, Türkiye offers Nigeria strategic flexibility – not alignment by ideology, but cooperation by interest.

    A partnership already in motion

    The first Turkish Head of State to visit Nigeria was President Abdullah Gül in 2010. This milestone was followed by the official visits of President Recep Tayyip Erdoğan to Nigeria in March 2016 and October 2021, reflecting Türkiye’s sustained diplomatic outreach and commitment to deepening bilateral relations with us.

    These engagements were complemented by President Muhammadu Buhari’s official visit to Ankara on 19 October 2017, during the D-8 Summit.

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    Together, these high-level exchanges set the tone for the strategic and forward-looking conversations taking place this weekend as President Tinubu visits.

    So, the Nigeria–Türkiye relationship has already taken tangible shape, far beyond diplomatic pronouncements, across healthcare, education, manufacturing, agriculture, defence, and trade.

    Trade at Scale- Bilateral trade now exceeds USD 1 billion annually, with historical peaks near USD 2.7 billion.  Both governments have set a formal target to expand trade to USD 5 billion.

    In 2024, alone, Turkish exports to Nigeria: ~$721 million,  Nigerian exports to Türkiye: ~$505 million, Nigeria recorded a non-oil trade surplus of N6.1 trillion, signalling diversification aligned with Turkish industrial inputs.

    According to IMF 2026 projections, Nigeria’s 4.4% growth rate compares favourably with the US (2.4%), Germany (1.1%), UK (1.3%).  Nigeria is now in the upper tier of emerging-market growth, achieved through structural correction – not commodity windfalls.

    Strategic Turkish Presence in Nigeria is seen in various Turksih led investments within our homeland.

    •Nizamiye Hospital, Abuja – world-class healthcare facility.

    •Nigerian Tulip International Colleges (NTIC) – multi-state education network.

    •Turkish Eye & Specialist Hospitals – expanding clinical partnership.

    •Hayat Kimya – $200m hygiene manufacturing (Ogun State).

    •Ülker – $50m food processing.

    •Direkçi – $22m agro-livestock investments.

    •ASELSAN – defence electronics office in Nigeria.

    •Türkiye Exporters Assembly missions – 150+ bilateral business engagements.

    •Nigeria–Türkiye Business Council – trade matchmaking and joint investment.

    Atatürk’s legacy, Tinubu’s reform path

    Modern Türkiye was shaped by Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, a military strategist who rebuilt a nation through institutional discipline, industrial revival, and modernisation.

    Nigeria, under President Tinubu, is now pursuing a similar arc – reform before relief, structure before sentiment. Exchange-rate realism, fiscal discipline, security sector reform, and trade diversification are not temporary. They are foundational corrections.  Türkiye understands this path because it has walked it.

    The bigger picture

    This visit is not about symbolism. It is about strategic alignment.  Nigeria is positioning itself as a regional manufacturing and logistics hub, and Türkiye is one of the few partners capable of transferring technology, scaling infrastructure, and co-producing security solutions.

    If we are serious about becoming Africa’s gateway to global markets, then partnering with a nation that has spent centuries being the world’s gateway between continents is not a coincidence – it is logic. By President Tinubu departing on this State Visit, the Nigerian leader is not just choosing a country to visit. Nigeria is choosing a corridor to traverse.

    And that corridor runs through Türkiye.

    •Dare is Special Adviser to the President.

  • Oyetola, Oyebamiji and the Osun guber equation

    Oyetola, Oyebamiji and the Osun guber equation

    Make no mistake: the Osun State governorship election, slated for August 8, this year, is far from a done deal. We are looking at a scrappy, bruising, super three-horse race. The current clout of the All Progressives Congress (APC) in Osun simply does not mirror its dominance in Ekiti, where the ruling party appears more entrenched ahead of its own June 20, 2026 contest.

    With no real ideological daylight between the major contenders – the Accord Party (A), the Action Democratic Congress (ADC), and the APC – personality will be thrust to the fore. In the end, the individual, not the platform, will likely be the deciding factor.

    Asiwaju Munirudeen Bola Oyebamiji – known to everyone simply as AMBO – will have former Governor Gboyega Oyetola in his corner, to borrow from boxing parlance. Across the ring, the chief motivator of the ADC’s campaign will be his predecessor, Ogbeni Rauf Aregbesola. Effectively, we are looking at a titanic clash of personalities, a shadow-war that might just swallow the actual names on the ballot.

    What Oyebamiji must lean on is the growing, restless clamour across the state for real managerial competence. Right now, there is an eerie feeling that Osun’s stewardship has become haphazard – a ship drifting without a clear map for sustainable development. AMBO can seize an early lead if he sells himself as the steady hand – a seasoned manager capable of rising above petty bickering to lock the state’s sights back on actual development. He has no choice!

    Like him or not, Rauf Aregbesola remains a formidable grassroots engine and a ferocious campaigner. On his own, the ADC candidate lacks a particular persona that truly sticks with the streets, meaning he’ll be forced to lean hard on the charismatic Ogbeni to do the heavy lifting of the campaign.

    Oyebamiji and his mentor – the current Minister of Marine and Blue Economy – will inevitably beat the drum of ‘the benefits of aligning with the centre.’ This plays the potent ace card of ‘Cultural Hegemony’, which, in our local parlance, translates to the persuasive ‘Omo wa ni, e jé ó sé’ (He is our son, let him lead). This is a massive advantage for the Oyetola/Oyebamiji camp and one that must be kept in constant rotation; after all, politics is built on the law of constant reminders, as that master of the dark arts, Niccolò Machiavelli, was wont to say. It is a card that will be flogged to death, and one the Ademola Adeleke camp will find incredibly difficult to neutralize.

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    On his part, Adeleke is wrestling with both image and political demons. It feels as though Osun, under the governor, is drifting in a state of anomie. People aren’t exactly enthralled by his stewardship, yet they don’t quite loathe him either. Of course, there’s a limit to how much ‘Skelewu’ rigmarole one can feed the electorate. Ultimately, one must wonder: beyond just jumping in the ring, what exactly will Adeleke’s campaign message lean on?

    The deeper truth? Adeleke is no orator, let alone a naturally commanding figure. But he’s got one wild card: his nephew. Bringing in Davido to stir the youth is a massive play, no doubt. But the real question is whether the governor has a team capable of actually decoding the lyrics of Osun politics – turning that stadium hype into cold, hard votes. Walahi, it’s a desperate gamble. After all, noise at a rally and numbers at the poll have never been known to share the same frequency.

    With nearly 200,000 newly registered voters added to the state’s tally of 1.95 million, the real question is: what slice of that number falls into the ‘Davido bracket’ – the young, the restless, those for whom a superstar’s nod acts as a command? It will be telling to see if Osun APC keeps that same fire in the current registration drive. That momentum alone could shift the earth under the candidates’ feet.

    The outcome of previous and current registration cycles – if leveraged with a sharp, strategic thrust – will be decisive. So, we must interrogate the demographic makeup of these new additions, specifically the geographic spread across the three senatorial districts. Particular attention must be paid to traditional, high-turnout hubs like Osogbo, Ede, Ilesa, Ile-Ife and Ijebu-Jesa. This distribution is a heavyweight factor that must sit at the centre of any serious analytical projection.

    The gravity of current economic realities must be factored into every permutation. We are told that all politics is local, but the national economic crisis inevitably seeps down to the local government level. And, while the prize is still anyone’s to claim, the reality is that Oyebamiji sits on a heap of untapped advantages. If he shuffles his deck right and plays his cards with enough skill, he has a clear path to victory.

    ​The past should serve as a guide, but it must not become an obsession. Life does not stop at a fact; it deals with it. Anything else is mere PR! Having lost the last two elections in a row, it is clear the structure of the Osun APC is currently fragile and must be revitalized with earnestness. In other words, the party can no longer take victory for granted.

    To breathe new life into the fold, Oyebamiji should secure a first-class, shrewd campaign manager capable of weaving disparate strands into an unbreakable cord – and Oyetola must be central to this effort. He must leverage his vast networks and the substantial public goodwill he still commands. As I have noted elsewhere, how IleriOluwa rebuilds the party into a fighting force will largely define his legacy. Again, I stand by it!

    While Osun APC is fortunate to have avoided major defections after the primary – likely because “federal might” makes decamping unattractive – this is no time to bleach reality with the toning cream of complacency. Take it or leave it, the war is far from won. Therefore, the party must conduct a thorough post-mortem of its setbacks and move swiftly to pacify those sitting on the fence, as well as those waiting for the election proper to “extract their revenge.”

    History, it is often said, writes its summary not based on who shouted the loudest or danced the longest, but on whose policies outlived their tenure. Beyond the “Bitter Spectators” label, politics is more than a game of “who leads the house”; it is a contest of ideas. Above all, modern politics has transcended raw emotion; it is now about sifting through cold realities. Far from dwelling in the valley of “bitter spectators,” Oyetola and his lieutenants, like Oyebamiji, are the architects of the fiscal foundation upon which the current administration now builds.

    To thrive, Osun does not need the erasure of Oyetola’s legacy to justify Adeleke’s presence. It needs a recognition that his “unfinished business” is, in fact, the ongoing pursuit of a state that works – not through the “heart of love” alone, but through the cold, hard discipline of governance.

    As previously noted, ‘Cultural Hegemony’ – the instinctual pull to identify with one’s own, specifically a Yoruba man at the centre – remains a positive factor for the APC candidate, Bola Oyebamiji. His consistency and loyalty to both his principal, President Bola Tinubu, and his mentor, Gboyega Oyetola, are clean and clear. For now, discerning calculations put the APC candidate slightly ahead. But a caveat is necessary: these are early days, and the road to Bola Ige House remains long.

    May the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world, grant us peace in Nigeria!

    • Email: ijebujesa@yahoo.co.uk. Mobile: 08033614419 SMS only
  • Taiwan: From autocracy to democracy

    Taiwan: From autocracy to democracy

    • By Olayinka Oyegbile

    In the first part of this travelogue, I gave an insight into how Taiwan passed through its teething period in nationhood. In this continuation, I intend to deal more with its democratic structures and how it handles democratic challenges and continues to work at perfecting it.

    The road to democracy for the country was not smooth. In 1947, the ROC Constitution was promulgated. However, in March, troops were dispatched from mainland China to put down the uprising by residents of Taiwan as a result of what came to be known as the February 28 Incident.

    By 1948, through a mixture of various events and with the full-scale war in China between the Kuomintang-led ROC government and the Chinese Communist Party (CCP), a National Mobilisation for Suppression of Communist Rebellion was enacted. This overrode the ROC Constitution and expanded presidential powers to do lots of things the government thought was necessary to curb or suppress rebellion on the island.

    As a result of the defeat of the ROC government by the Communists, Chiang Kai-shek’s Kuomintang-led government moved the seat of its government to Taiwan. He was followed by about 1.2 million loyalists. This was the beginning of the promulgation of the martial law in 1947, which lasted till 1987.

    I have taken the interest in narrating this story because my four-month post-doctoral research fellowship facilitated by the Taiwan Foundation for Democracy (TFD) was for me to spend those months to research into the effects of the martial law and compare it with the military decrees that we had in Nigeria.

    Taiwan and Nigeria have since become democratic. Taiwan spent 38 years under the martial law with the death of many pro-democracy activists. In 1996, it returned to an elective democracy with Kuomintang’s (KMT) Lee Teng-hui winning the election with 54 per cent of the votes.

    Four years later (2000), the Democratic Progressive Party (DPP) under the leadership of Chen Shui-Ban was elected as president, thus breaking the over half a century hold on power by the KMT. It was the first-ever direct transfer of power by the ROC government.

    Eight years later (2008) the KMT came back to power with Ma Ying-jeou taking over from the DPP.  In 2012, he won his re-election. He was succeeded by Tsai Ing-wen of the DPP, who served for two terms from 2016 to 2024 before her party’s candidate Lai Ching-te, the incumbent president, won the general election in 2024.

    The tenure of President Lai has been dogged with tension and increasing palpable fear that China, which has always claimed “Taiwan is a province of China” might launch an attack on the country anytime. This has informed some of the actions that the Taiwanese government has been taking and how it reacts to world events.

    Internally, most of the citizens are aware of this, but they are determined to maintain the democracy the country enjoys and the periodic elections that allow them to vote and express their will.

    Many agree that as much as there might be some similarities in their language and culture with mainland China, they are different, not only because they are a democracy but also because they don’t want to be subsumed under the hegemony of China. One of the sure tests of the country’s democracy was the recall vote of some legislators which was held between July and August, which I witnessed.

    Warming up to the election dates, one could notice at street corners, at entrances to train stations and major public buildings and streets, campaigners trying to convince voters to vote for the recall of the legislators who are mainly members of the KMT, the party that is often suspected of having a sympathy for the Communist Party in China.

    In the 2024 election, the ruling DPP won the presidency but failed to get the control of the parliament (the Yuan), which is dominated by the opposition Kuomintang (KMT) and Taiwan People’s Party (TPP). The recall vote was meant to whittle down their power and influence, but it failed.

    While some saw the defeat of the recall process as a failure on the part of the ruling DPP, others saw it as a test of the strength and endurance of the country’s democracy.

    Taiwan is today the world’s biggest player in the semi-conductor industry. Through the Taiwan Semi-conductor Manufacturing Company (TSMC), it has dominated over 60% of global chip output and 90% of the most advanced chips.

    A British travel agency which rates cities around the world for their safety and livability, rates Taipei, the capital of Taiwan, as the second safest city to explore at night.

    Talking about safety, Taiwan is perhaps the only country I have visited where surfing of phones in the dead of the night on a lonely street is not a risk. Apart from the well-lit streets, there are no robbers or thieves ready to kill or snatch your phone!

    According to the British travel agency, Taipei is “Known for its clean streets, good lighting, and low crime. The city’s lively night markets and urban areas are safe for locals and tourists alike.”

    It added that travellers particularly enjoy Taipei 101 after dark, “when the iconic tower is beautifully lit and offers stunning nighttime views.”

    However, the recent invasion of Venezuela and the capture of former President Nicholas Maduro and his wife has brought some concern to the international community with the fear that this may embolden China which has been eyeing Taiwan for long to do same under the so called “One China policy”.

    Sabella Abidde, a professor of Political Science at Alabama State University, USA said what President Donald Trump has done “opens the door, for instance, for Xi Jinping to kidnap and try Lai Ching-te; for Vladimir Putin to snatch Volodymyr Zelenskyy; and for Benjamin Netanyahu to abduct Masoud Pezeshkian and Ayatollah Ali Khamenei of Iran.”

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    Abidde, who is the leading scholar on Africa-China-Taiwan Relations, is of the opinion that “There was and continues to be a misreading of the 1971 UN General Assembly Resolution 2758, which recognised the People’s Republic of China (PRC) as the singular representative of the Chinese World, which, for the most part, has resulted in the ‘One China Policy.’”

    Despite the odds however, Taiwanese are solidly behind the democratic system in their island and feel proud of it.

    (to be concluded)

    • Dr Oyegbile, journalist and media scholar just concluded a post-doctoral fellowship at Taiwan Foundation for Democracy (TFD).
  • Civic responsibility and the building of greater Lagos

    Civic responsibility and the building of greater Lagos

    By Idowu Adewara

    Lagos is often described as chaotic, but chaos is rarely accidental. It is shaped by human choices, by what citizens tolerate, excuse, or quietly normalise over time. While government bears enormous responsibility for planning, infrastructure, and service delivery, the quality of life in the city is also shaped daily by the behaviour of its residents. This is where civic responsibility becomes unavoidable.

    Civic responsibility is not merely about compliance; it is about commitment. It is the recognition that society is not an abstract entity run solely by government officials, but a shared project sustained by the everyday actions of ordinary people. At its core, civic responsibility asks citizens to hold themselves accountable beyond personal convenience or immediate gain.

    We often speak of wanting a “good society,” one with reliable electricity, clean streets, efficient transportation, responsive institutions, and justice for all. Yet this vision remains elusive, not always because resources are absent, but because the culture that sustains such a society is weak. A good society reveals itself in how people treat public spaces, how they respond to rules, how they engage authority, and how they extend care to one another even when no one is watching.

    Too often, civic responsibility is misunderstood as something abstract or bureaucratic. It is not limited to voting during elections or paying taxes, though these are important. It is about recognising that one’s actions, however private they seem, have public consequences. It is the understanding that society is not an external entity imposed on us, but a shared project sustained by our choices.

    Civic responsibility is reflected in how residents dispose of waste instead of blocking drainage systems that later cause flooding. It appears in how drivers obey traffic laws, not only when enforcement officers are present, but because order protects everyone. It shows in how citizens treat public property —not as nobody’s business, but as everybody’s concern. It asks citizens to choose long-term collective benefit over short-term individual gain.

    These actions may appear insignificant, but they accumulate. Societies are not weakened only by corrupt leaders or failed policies; they are eroded daily by ordinary acts of neglect, indifference, and rule-breaking. When people normalise cutting corners, bribing their way out of accountability, or damaging shared spaces, they unknowingly reproduce the very dysfunction they criticise.

    In a city as interconnected as Lagos, no action is entirely private. Blocking a drainage channel, spreading misinformation, evading civic duties, or disregarding public order may feel inconsequential in isolation. Collectively, however, these actions determine whether the city functions or frays.

    Consider the butterfly effect of everyday civic behaviour. A single act, like queuing patiently at a BRT station, quietly challenges the “big man” syndrome that clogs public systems. Volunteering at polling units helps ensure credible elections and curbs the godfatherism that often silences youth voices. In education-starved communities, parents who deliberately teach children respect for rules and public spaces are planting seeds for future leadership. These are not heroic gestures, they are habits that compound over time.

    A good society is not built only in moments of crisis or celebration. It is constructed quietly, through repetitive actions that rarely make headlines. Paying taxes promptly funds roads, schools, and public services. Reporting crimes or environmental hazards early prevents small problems from escalating into crises. Imagine if illegal dumping along roadsides simply stopped. Drainage channels would flow better, floods would be less destructive, and public health risks would reduce significantly. None of this requires extraordinary sacrifice, only consistency. These acts form the invisible architecture of any functioning society.

    In Lagos today, the question of civic responsibility is more urgent than ever. It shows up in traffic management, waste disposal, public discourse, elections, and emergency response. Whether Lagos becomes merely a city that survives or a society that thrives depends largely on how seriously citizens understand and practise their civic duties.

    Take waste management as an example. The sight of refuse dumped on roadsides or into drainage channels has become common enough to feel normal. Yet each act of improper disposal contributes directly to flooding, environmental degradation, and public health risks. When floods occur, we often blame government agencies for poor drainage systems, and rightly so. But the truth is that no drainage system, however well designed, can function if citizens consistently undermine it. The work of building a good society begins with the uncelebrated discipline of proper waste disposal, practised daily by individuals who may never be praised for it.

    The same logic applies to transportation. Lagos roads are a daily theatre of impatience and negotiation. Drivers cut corners, ignore traffic lights, and flout lane rules to save a few minutes. Each individual decision feels rational, even necessary, in a congested city. Collectively, however, these actions produce chaos, accidents, and longer travel times for everyone. Civic responsibility, in this context, is the quiet decision to wait one’s turn and follow rules even when breaking them seems easier. It is restraint in service of collective order.

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    Civic responsibility also operates within institutions. Many Lagosians encounter government not through policy documents or press briefings, but through frontline workers: teachers, nurses, clerks, police officers, and local government officials. The quality of these everyday interactions shapes public trust more than official speeches. When a civil servant chooses diligence over negligence, fairness over favouritism, and service over exploitation, they perform the invisible work of rebuilding confidence in public institutions. This labour rarely attracts applause, yet it determines whether citizens feel alienated from or invested in the state.

    Equally important is the idea of shared ownership. Many citizens relate to government as something distant and adversarial, an entity to be endured rather than engaged. Given Nigeria’s history, this mind-set is understandable. However, it weakens civic life. A good society requires a shift from “government versus people” to “institutions as extensions of our collective will.” This does not mean blind loyalty or silence in the face of failure. It means recognising that neglecting public spaces, abusing public resources, or disengaging entirely does not punish the government alone; it impoverishes the community.

    Modern conversations about citizenship tend to emphasise rights, and rightly so. Citizens must demand accountability, transparency, and justice from those in power. However, rights without responsibility create a fragile civic culture. A society where everyone demands fairness but few practise fairness quickly collapses into cynicism. Responsibility must accompany rights if civic life is to endure.

    This responsibility is reciprocal. Citizens must demand better governance while delivering their own part faithfully. As John F. Kennedy once urged, citizens should not only ask what their country can do for them, but what they can do for their country. This idea remains uncomfortable but necessary.

    Building a greater Lagos demands that civic responsibility be reclaimed as a collective strength. It is not about waiting for utopia, but constructing it gradually, street by street, neighbour by neighbour. In Lagos State, the future will be shaped not only by mega projects, economic reforms, or political leadership, but by millions of small decisions made daily by ordinary people —the decision to queue instead of push, to report wrongdoing rather than participate in it, to show up consistently rather than occasionally. These actions may never trend, but they matter. The greater Lagos we deserve awaits those willing to take on the mantle of civic responsibility. Will you?

    •Adewara is a fellow of the Lateef Jakande Leadership Academy.

  • General Musa: From the trenches to the table

    General Musa: From the trenches to the table

    By Kennedy Elaigwu Awodi

    The security of a nation is not a laboratory for experimentation. It is the bedrock upon which every other pillar of development, economic growth, social cohesion, and infrastructure, either stands firm or collapses. When President Bola Ahmed Tinubu, GCFR, took the oath of office, his “Renewed Hope” agenda promised a departure from the tentative steps of the past. Nowhere is this promise more evident to me today than in his strategic decision to appoint General Christopher Gwabin Musa (Rtd) as the Minister of Defence.

    This is not merely a political appointment; it is a masterstroke of continuity and competence. In my view, General Musa is the quintessence of this administration’s vision. By elevating the immediate past Chief of Defence Staff (CDS) to the helm of Ship House, the president has bypassed the traditional “learning curve” that often hampers new administrations. He has chosen a man who doesn’t need a map to find the battlefield because he has spent his entire life drawing it.

    When I watched the transition ceremonies, I was struck by the recurring sentiment shared by the Permanent Secretary and the current Chief of Defence Staff: they called it a “homecoming.” To me, this is the most significant advantage of General Musa’s leadership. He is not an outsider trying to understand the Byzantine corridors of the Ministry of Defense; he is a seasoned practitioner who knows exactly where the bureaucratic bottlenecks are hidden and how to dismantle them.

    In a time of national urgency, we cannot afford a minister who is “getting to know” his generals. We need a leader who already has their respect, understands their operational constraints, and speaks their language. Musa’s transition from CDS to minister ensures that the strategic reforms he initiated in uniform can now be sustained and funded through his seat at the Federal Executive Council. This is the institutional strengthening that “Renewed Hope” looks like in practice.

    My belief in General Musa’s capacity is not based on blind optimism but on the cold, hard data of his recent tenure as Chief of Defense Staff (2023–2025). During those critical years, I saw a shift in our military’s posture that was both refreshing and effective.

     The power of synergy: For years, the Nigerian military struggled with inter-service rivalry. General Musa made “jointness” his mantra. He didn’t just talk about collaboration; he enforced it. Under his watch, the Army, Navy, and Air Force began to operate as a singular, lethal fist. This unity of command is, in my opinion, the only way to win an asymmetrical war against insurgents who do not respect borders or jurisdictions.

     Intelligence-led warfare: I have always advocated for a move away from reactive “boots-on-the-ground” approaches toward a more sophisticated, technology-driven strategy. General Musa championed the modernization of our military capabilities, prioritizing surveillance, reconnaissance, and data-driven strikes. He understood early on that in modern terror warfare, the side with the better information, not just the bigger guns, wins.

    He was credited for revitalizing the armed forces by restructuring the operational theatres which led to the creation of Operation FASAN YANMA in the North-West, Operation ENDURING PEACE in Plateau and parts of Kaduna States. This tactical reorganization effectively shrank the operational space for insurgent groups, putting them on the defensive for the first time in years.

     Perhaps the most resonant aspect of General Musa’s agenda for me is his unwavering focus on personnel welfare. He has often described welfare not just as a “nice-to-have,” but as a “strategic” priority. I couldn’t agree more.

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    A soldier who is worried about his family’s health, his children’s school fees, or the quality of his kit cannot give 100% to the mission. By prioritizing the human element of the Armed Forces, General Musa is investing in the very soul of our national defense. When he pledges to ensure that those making the ultimate sacrifice are cared for, he is sending a message to every man and woman in uniform: Your country has your back. This is how you build morale, and this is how you win wars.

    Then you look at how he handles accountability and the path to peace. What I find most refreshing about the General’s approach is his commitment to evidence over conjecture. In an era of misinformation, his pledge to be guided by hard data is a signal of modern, accountable governance. Furthermore, his willingness to probe past lapses, such as the troop withdrawals in Kebbi shows a man of integrity who is not afraid to look at the cracks in the system to fix them.

    The mandate from President Tinubu is clear: go after the kidnappers, the bandits, and the criminals. In General Musa, I see a leader who has the tactical depth and the political will to translate that mandate into a lived reality for every Nigerian.

    Final Thoughts: The challenge ahead is undoubtedly immense. The shadows of insecurity have loomed over our nation for too long. However, as I reflect on this appointment, I feel a renewed sense of confidence. General Musa is not just a minister; he is the president’s strategic anchor.

    My hope, and the hope of millions of Nigerians, is that this leadership will finally allow our farmers to return to their fields without fear, our children to sit in their classrooms without shadows, and our citizens to sleep with both eyes closed. The president has provided the vision; General Musa has the hands to build it. It is now time for us to support this unified front as we reclaim the peace and prosperity that is our birth right.

    • Awodi writes from North Carolina, USA.

  • Comparing Fela with Wizkid

    Comparing Fela with Wizkid

    By Ogungbile Emmanuel Oludotun

    I never met Fela Anikulapo-Kuti. I was born the same month he died. There was no moment where I watched him command a stage, no memory of Kalakuta Republic in real time, no lived experience of his daily defiance against military power.

    In fact, my generation arguing on X(Twitter) did not meet Fela in flesh and blood; we encountered him in fragments, through stories, documentaries, old interviews, cracked vinyl, protest chants, and the stubborn way his name refuses to fade.

    Yet somehow, despite not being there, his greatness still reached me. That, perhaps, is the first lesson in what true greatness means. It does not require presence to convince; it survives absence. Long after the man was gone, his work continued to speak so loudly that even those of us born after his death could not ignore it.

    This is important to clarify; I am not a fan of Fela in the shallow, romantic sense. I do not admire his excesses. I do not like the way he smoked, the recklessness of his lifestyle, or the parts of his personal choices that are often conveniently brushed aside in the name of genius. I am not even a “fan fan” of his music in the everyday sense of enjoyment. However, I am deeply drawn to his stubbornness. I am a student of his message. I respect his refusal to bend. I admire his relentless insistence on African dignity, on freedom, on calling power by its real name. What fascinates me about Fela is not how he lived comfortably, but how he lived uncomfortably by choice.

    I did not inherit Fela’s reputation through nostalgia or inherited worship. I arrived at it through evidence. By listening closely and realising that his music was not designed to soothe or entertain first. By reading history and discovering that his art was inseparable from bruises, arrests, exile, raids, and loss. By understanding that his legacy was not sustained by awards, streaming milestones, or global applause, but by consequence. Fela paid for his voice in ways charts cannot calculate. That is why, even without witnessing him live, I was convinced of his greatness. Not because he was popular, but because he was costly, to himself and to power.

    This context matters, especially now, because the current argument around Wizkid and Fela did not grow out of a serious interrogation of history or cultural meaning. It erupted the way many Nigerian pop culture controversies do, on social media, powered by fandom bravado and careless exaggeration. What began as praise for Wizkid’s global achievements slowly slid into provocative claims by some of his supporters, boldly positioning the Afrobeats star as a modern replacement for Fela Anikulapo-Kuti. In the rush to celebrate charts, awards, stadiums, and international validation, Fela’s name was dragged into arguments designed more to win online battles than to honour legacy. Screenshots, tweets, and viral hot takes quickly pushed the comparison into Nigeria’s trending conversations.

    Seun Kuti, Fela’s youngest son and one of the fiercest custodians of his father’s ideological memory, refused to stay silent. Through emotionally charged videos and blunt online rants, he described the comparison as ignorant and deeply disrespectful. To him, placing Wizkid beside Fela revealed a generation fluent in streams and stardom but unfamiliar with sacrifice, resistance, and consequence. His response, raw, confrontational, and unapologetic dragged the debate out of fan spaces and into mainstream national discourse.

    The tension escalated further when Wizkid himself appeared to respond, not with a carefully argued position but with dismissive social media posts and reposted videos mocking Seun’s outbursts. At that point, what had been a fan-driven argument turned into a symbolic clash between two eras of Nigerian cultural expression. The debate stopped being just about music and became a mirror reflecting how Nigeria remembers its heroes, celebrates its stars, and repeatedly confuses popularity with historical significance.

    This confusion is not accidental. In today’s Nigeria, fame has become shorthand for greatness. Streams are mistaken for substance. Sold-out shows are treated as moral authority. Social media dominance is confused with cultural weight. We now measure impact almost entirely by numbers, followers, awards, reach, without asking harder questions. What was said? Who was challenged? What system was confronted? What did it cost?

    The word “legend” is now used so loosely that it risks becoming meaningless. Anyone with longevity, visibility, or viral relevance can be crowned one, even if their work never disrupted anything beyond playlists.

    Meanwhile, there is no denying Wizkid’s greatness within his own context. From Ojuelegba to global stages, he has achieved what once seemed impossible for Nigerian pop artists. He helped carry Afrobeats into the global mainstream, shaping sound, ambition, and confidence for an entire generation. His influence on youth culture, fashion, and modern African identity is undeniable. Measured by commercial success and cultural relevance, Wizkid is one of Africa’s most successful musicians.

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    However, Fela was never defined by commercial success, and that is where the comparison collapses. Fela Anikulapo-Kuti was not merely an entertainer; he was a political force, a cultural disruptor, and a constant threat to authoritarian power. His Afrobeat was not crafted for approval or validation; it was a weapon. He named names, mocked dictators, endured arrests, beatings, exile, the burning of his home, and the death of his mother. His music cannot be separated from resistance, ideology, and consequence. To measure Fela by today’s metrics of success is to misunderstand his mission entirely.

    This is why the question of “who is greater” often feels intellectually dishonest. Wizkid operates within a global entertainment industry that rewards diplomacy, branding, and strategic silence. Fela existed in a time when silence was submission and speaking out invited violence. Wizkid navigates power; Fela confronted it. Both approaches exist. Both have their place. But they are not interchangeable.

    Perhaps the real issue is not Wizkid versus Fela, but Nigeria’s discomfort with complexity. We struggle to hold two truths at once: that Wizkid is a global icon of modern African music, and that Fela remains an unmatched symbol of cultural resistance and political courage. One is a superstar of his era; the other is a historical force whose relevance outlived his life.

    In the end, asking whether Wizkid is greater than Fela says more about our obsession with rankings than about either man’s legacy. Wizkid does not need borrowed mythology to validate his success. Fela does not need modern approval to remain great. Greatness is not always loud, popular, or profitable. Sometimes, it is simply the ability to still convince generations that never met you. Anything else is not cultural debate, it is just another rubbish talk: viral, noisy, and empty.

    •Oludotun writes via thedreamchaser65@gmail.com

  • How Nigeria’s humanitarian reset can succeed

    How Nigeria’s humanitarian reset can succeed

    • By Bernard M. Doro & Mohamed M. Malick Fall

    Nigeria is entering a pivotal moment in its humanitarian response journey.

    As one of eight transition countries in the global Humanitarian Reset, Nigeria faces a stark reality: humanitarian needs remain persistently high, while international funding continues to drastically shrink. This tension is forcing a necessary reckoning on how humanitarian assistance is delivered — and, more importantly, who leads it.

    Nowhere is the challenge more visible than in north-east Nigeria. In Borno, Adamawa and Yobe states alone, an estimated 5.9 million people will require humanitarian assistance in 2026. Yet available resources fall far short of meeting this demand. The 2026 Humanitarian Needs and Response Plan seeks US$516 million, prioritising 2.5 million people in the most acute need of life-saving support — less than half of those who require humanitarian assistance.

    These figures point to a simple truth: business as usual is no longer viable. The future of humanitarian action in Nigeria must be owned, led and sustained by Nigerian institutions and organisations, with international partners playing a supportive and enabling role.

    This shift lies at the heart of the Humanitarian Reset — a collective commitment by global humanitarian actors to deliver faster, and more accountable assistance at a time when the system is overstretched and under-resourced. The reset calls for a sharper focus on lifesaving priorities, more agile and context-specific delivery, stronger in-country leadership, deeper engagement with affected communities, and a renewed defence of humanitarian principles. At its core, it is both a reform agenda and a mind-set shift: from control to collaboration, from competition to complementarity, and from caution to courage.

    For Nigeria, this transition must begin with government leadership.

    Federal and state authorities are closest to affected populations. They carry the constitutional responsibility to protect citizens and are best positioned to align humanitarian action with national priorities. A nationally led humanitarian model requires more than coordination; it demands increased domestic financing, and sustained investment in systems that help communities withstand future shocks. No humanitarian response can be durable if the government is not firmly in the driver’s seat.

    Equally central to this transition are national organisations. Nigerian civil society and community-based organisations bring deep contextual knowledge, social legitimacy and long-term presence that international actors cannot replicate. In many hard-to-reach areas, they are the only responders with consistent access. Experience shows that when local organisations are trusted, adequately resourced and meaningfully included in decision-making, humanitarian responses become more efficient, more accountable and more relevant to community needs.

    Localisation, therefore, is not a slogan or a concession. It is a practical and necessary pathway to sustaining impact in an era of declining external funding.

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    Encouragingly, this shift is already underway. The Nigeria Humanitarian Fund, managed by the UN Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs (OCHA), has steadily increased the proportion of funding channelled through national non-governmental organisations. In 2025, national NGOs received a record 70 per cent of direct allocations. Once considered peripheral actors, these organisations have strengthened financial controls, improved compliance systems, expanded technical expertise and demonstrated strong risk management. Women-led organisations, in particular, are emerging as critical humanitarian actors, shaping priorities and amplifying community voices that are too often marginalised. These gains illustrate what is possible when investment in local capacity is deliberate.

    Yet localisation is about far more than funding flows.

    It requires a fundamental shift in how partnerships are conceived and managed. Risk management must evolve from exclusion to shared responsibility. Technical support must move beyond project supervision towards genuine knowledge transfer and institutional strengthening. Over time, international humanitarian actors should step back from direct implementation and focus more on advisory roles, advocacy and resource mobilisation in support of national partners.

    Local organisations, for their part, must be recognised as equal partners — not extensions of international agencies. They need predictable financing,  better access to pooled funds and structured opportunities to influence humanitarian strategy.

    Importantly, local civil society must also be empowered as agents of change. Sustainable progress depends on advocacy — changing political priorities, challenging harmful narratives and defending the rights of people affected by conflict and disaster. Affected communities should never be viewed as passive victims. They are people with dignity, agency and rights, and local organisations are best placed to champion those rights.

    The transition of the humanitarian operation in Nigeria also demands stronger alignment between humanitarian and development efforts.

    The Humanitarian Reset creates space for a more coherent approach in which emergency action focuses on saving lives, while development frameworks — including national plans and the UN Sustainable Development Cooperation Framework — address the structural drivers of vulnerability.

    Insecurity, underdevelopment and climate risks require long term solutions.

    Investments in food systems, basic services, disaster risk reduction and anticipatory action are essential to reducing humanitarian caseloads over time. Without these investments, emergency needs will continue to outpace available resources, perpetuating the cycle of crisis response.

    As the 2026 Humanitarian Needs and Response Plan is launched, the message is unmistakable.

    The era of internationally financed, internationally delivered humanitarian operations in Nigeria is drawing to a close. The next phase belongs to Nigeria itself. To the institutions that set policy, the state authorities that coordinate response, national organisations that know their communities best, and the citizens who have borne the greatest burden for far too long.

    For the United Nations and its partners, the role is clear: support this transition. Strengthen capacity where needed. Reinforce partnerships at all levels. Mobilise resources alongside government. And ensure that people affected by crises remain firmly at the centre of every decision.

    Ultimately, localisation is about dignity.

    It is about recognising that communities must lead the solutions to the challenges they face.

    Nigeria’s humanitarian future depends on embracing this shift fully and without hesitation. The opportunity is present. The responsibility is shared. And the time to act is now.

    •Dr. Doro is Minister of Humanitarian Affairs and Poverty Reduction.  Fall is the United Nations Resident and Humanitarian Coordinator in Nigeria.

  • What high-profile losses reveal about Nigeria’s healthcare crisis

    What high-profile losses reveal about Nigeria’s healthcare crisis

    • By Umezurike Emeka Taye

    Tragedy has a way of cutting through denial and helping us all to see clearly what we might want to or choose to ignore. When loss and tragedy strikes in ordinary homes, or the homes of the downtrodden, it is often absorbed into Nigeria’s long history of grief with sermons, homilies and consolation coming thick and fast while the country continues in its forward match. Yet, when the same or similar tragedy strikes at public figures, it forces a pause and national reckoning.

    The recent death of the young son of celebrated writer Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie has done just that, reigniting debate about the state of healthcare in Nigeria.

    In moments like this, public debate often rushes toward assigning blame: which hospital, which clinician, which decision. While accountability matter and the law must take its course with prosecution and punishment meted out accordingly to guilty parties for any form of medical negligence, by focusing narrowly on individuals and particular facilities, we risk missing the deeper truth. Nigeria’s healthcare crisis is overwhelmingly systemic.

    Healthcare in Nigeria suffers from persistent underfunding and weak implementation of budget allocations. In the 2025 national budget, only about 5.18% of total government expenditure was earmarked for health, far below the 15% target agreed under the 2001 Abuja Declaration and the 13% recommendation of the World Health Organization (WHO). This underfunding is the core problem of this sector as most of the problems encountered in this sector can be solved with adequate funding in various areas. In the areas of staffing, training, equipment, medical supplies, health financing and insurance, medication, power supply, infrastructure and a lot more, adequate funding will solve almost all the problems which have been identified in these areas.

    For example, state governments, all together budgeted roughly N1.32 trillion for health in 2024, but released and spent only 61.9% of the budgeted figure leaving many essential services under-resourced. On average, states spent about N3,483 per person on health, with no state exceeding N10,000 per person, underscoring systemic underinvestment. The truth is that until government, academia, NGOs and partner organizations sit together and seriously look into solving this funding challenge, the sector will continue to stagger and struggle along and produce unpalatable statistics showing the suffering and pains of Nigerians.

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    For many citizens, healthcare is navigated with fear in Nigeria. This fear include; the fear of misdiagnosis, fear of unaffordable health care bills, and fear that help may come too late. In rural areas and underserved urban communities, these fears are magnified by distance, poverty, and lack of basic infrastructure. In fact due to the fear of health care bills, many Nigerians do not conduct regular health checks for fear of what might be discovered about their health as they do not have the means to cater for any health challenge. Some Nigerians even bear pain and carry it around until it becomes unbearable before they seek out medical care.  Healthcare should be society’s greatest equalizer. In Nigeria, it has too often become another marker of inequality, classicism and segregation, in a society where the poor seem to live at the mercy of the rich and affluent elites.

    Despite some progress in risk protection, household spending still dominates Nigeria’s health financing. In 2024, out-of-pocket (OOP) health spending accounted for about 58.3% of total health expenditure, even though it has marginally declined from earlier years. Government spending accounted for just 12.4%, with social health insurance contributing about 5% of total financing and these are clear signs of limited pooled risk protection. When families are forced to cover the bulk of their medical expenses themselves, the result is not just financial strain but delayed care, incomplete treatments, and preventable complications, all of which degrade trust in the system.

    The silent crisis of standards and safety

    Patient safety remains under-emphasized in Nigeria’s health discourse. Globally, robust health systems prioritize standardized protocols, clinical audits, error-reporting mechanisms, and continuous quality improvement. In Nigeria, these structures are weak, inconsistently applied, or absent altogether. Due to the absence of such systems, preventable harm often goes undocumented and therefore uncorrected. Strong quality frameworks, tied to accountability measures and professional standards, are essential and are in place in some institutions in Nigeria, but currently they are inadequate and spread thin.

    Public outrage, while understandable, must not be allowed to dissipate into fleeting social media debates. Moments of national grief should serve as catalysts for deliberate, evidence-based reform. Nigeria’s healthcare challenges are well known; what has been missing is sustained commitment to fixing them. At the heart of meaningful reform lies adequate, practical and predictable financing. Federal and state governments must begin to align health spending with internationally accepted benchmarks by progressively increasing allocations toward at least 13–15 percent of total budgets, in line with World Health Organization recommendations and the Abuja Declaration. Without sufficient funding, improvements in infrastructure, workforce capacity, and quality of care will remain aspirational rather than achievable.

    However, increased funding alone is not enough. How health budgets are executed matters just as much as their size. Weak implementation, delayed releases, and poor oversight continue to undermine service delivery. Governments must ensure that allocated health funds are fully released and efficiently utilized, supported by independent fiscal oversight, performance monitoring, and transparent public reporting. Citizens deserve to know not only what is budgeted, but what is delivered.

    Nigeria must also confront the heavy financial burden placed on households. The continued dominance of out-of-pocket spending forces families to delay care, abandon treatment, or fall into poverty due to medical bills. Expanding social health insurance coverage and strengthening pre-payment mechanisms are essential steps toward protecting vulnerable populations and ensuring that access to care is based on need rather than ability to pay.

    Equally critical is the establishment of strong clinical governance and patient safety systems. Standardized treatment protocols, functional error-reporting mechanisms, and continuous quality improvement frameworks should be mandatory across both public and private health facilities. A health system that does not systematically learn from its failures is one that quietly reproduces them.

    Reform agenda cannot succeed without addressing the health workforce crisis. Persistent emigration of skilled professionals reflects deep structural problems which include poor remuneration, unsafe working environments, limited career progression, and chronic burnout. Retaining healthcare workers will require deliberate investment in training, fair compensation, supportive working conditions, and incentives that make professional fulfilment within Nigeria’s health system a realistic choice.

    Strengthening primary and preventive healthcare must also remain a central priority. Well-functioning primary healthcare facilities reduce pressure on tertiary hospitals, improve early detection of illness, and lower preventable deaths. Investments in immunization, maternal and child health services, and community-based interventions offer some of the highest returns in population health outcomes.

    In addition, Nigeria must urgently address its weak emergency response and medical evacuation systems. Many lives have been lost not because care is unavailable, but because it arrives too late. Functional emergency medical services, well-equipped ambulances, trained first responders, and reliable referral networks are not luxuries; they are essential components of a safe health system. Timely emergency transport and stabilization can mean the difference between life and death, particularly for children, trauma victims, and critically ill patients.

    •Dr. Umezurike writes in from Lead City University, Ibadan.

  • Arewa, this has to stop

    Arewa, this has to stop

    By Hannatu Bilyaminu

    Arewa is tired. Not the kind of tiredness that sleep can fix, but the kind that settles into the bones and shows itself in lowered voices and in how mothers count their children before dawn and again before dusk.

    We are tired of bad news arriving before morning prayers. Tired of names turning into numbers. Tired of asking where it happened before asking who, because the where already tells us how likely justice is to follow. Tired of knowing which roads to avoid, which hours are dangerous, and which villages have learned to sleep lightly.

    Recently, news broke that a woman and her six children were killed in Charanci, Kano. Not long before that, we heard of a boy who killed a mu’azzin, ending a life in a place meant for prayer. Across Sokoto, Kebbi, Zamfara, Niger, and Katsina, banditry has become a constant drumbeat of fear. Schoolgirls are taken at will, as though schools have become human donor centres where armed men arrive, choose as many children as they wish, and leave without consequence.

    Phone snatchers have killed, maimed, and injured people over devices not worth the weapons used to take lives. Gang fights erupt without warning. Ethno-religious violence feels perpetually imminent. We have normalized living on edge. We now grieve consistently and collectively.

    Fear has become ordinary here. It rides with us on highways, sits beside us in markets, and follows us into spaces that once felt sacred. Schools, farms, mosques, and homes are no longer guaranteed places of safety. We no longer announce fear. We simply adjust our lives around it.

    A mother waits by a school gate in Niger State, her hands trembling as she whispers prayers until her children return. In Katsina, a farmer digs a grave for his brother, only to receive news that another village has been attacked. In temporary shelters across Zamfara, children grow up believing that fear and flight are the natural rhythm of life. These are not isolated stories. They are the shared language of grief in northern Nigeria, where banditry and terror have turned mourning into a collective experience.

    Grief is usually private. It is the tears shed behind closed doors and the silence around a dinner table with one chair missing. But here, grief spills into the open. It is carried in the hush of emptied classrooms, the silence of deserted markets, and the weariness of camps where families wait for a return that may never come. Loss arrives too fast and too often for individual mourning to suffice, so communities grieve together.

    For some time now, two stories have haunted me, robbing me of ease during the day and sleep at night. The first is of a young girl who was violated and then groomed to revere her assaulter. The second is of a toddler among the 53 people kidnapped from a village close to home. Frightened in captivity, he cried often, as toddlers do, perhaps from hunger, fear, loneliness, or all three. Unable to endure it, the kidnappers ended his life in the presence of his mother. I was told she lost her sanity after witnessing the horror.

    How did we arrive at a society that snuffs out the lives of its weakest so quietly, so mercilessly? How safe are we really, when we believe these horrors only happen to other people?

    Behind every statistic is a wound. More than two million people have been displaced in the northeast. Tens of thousands have been killed by insurgency and banditry. Over 11,000 schools have closed because it is no longer safe for children to learn. On paper, these numbers appear cold. In reality, they are empty chairs, abandoned farms, and the haunting quiet of children robbed of laughter.

    What makes this grief especially heavy is its relentlessness. One man told me, “We dig graves in advance now. We do not even have time to mourn properly. Before we bury one person, news comes that another village has been attacked.” This is what collective grief feels like: an unending wave that allows no pause to breathe and no space to heal.

    Yet this grief is not only emotional. It is the seed of a looming humanitarian crisis. Families displaced from their land cannot plant or harvest, deepening hunger. Schools that remain shut deny a generation the chance to grow beyond this cycle of violence. In overcrowded camps, children learn trauma before they learn to read. Left unaddressed, this grief will shape not only memories, but entire futures.

    What frightens me most is the numbness settling in. When killings become headlines we scroll past and funerals grow so frequent they no longer shock us, we risk normalizing the unacceptable. A society that stops mourning begins to lose its humanity.

    Northern Nigeria does not need sympathy. It needs responsibility. This is not a regional problem; it is a national failure. Government must move beyond statements to visible and sustained action. Justice must prevail in cases of murder, abduction, and serious injury. When crimes go unpunished, violence learns that it can wait out outrage. Hanifa was murdered over four years ago, and justice has yet to be served. That delay sends a dangerous message to both victims and perpetrators.

    The government must also confront, honestly and decisively, the crisis of drug trafficking and substance abuse. Many of these crimes are committed by people who have lost, or at least suspended, their humanity under the weight of addiction and desperation. Policing without rehabilitation will fail. Rehabilitation without accountability will fail. We need both. This includes stronger border control, community-based intelligence, functional rehabilitation centres, and the serious prosecution of traffickers, not just users.

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    Protection of schools, farms, and roads must be proactive rather than reactive. Early warning systems must be strengthened. Security presence must be consistent, not episodic. Communities must be engaged as partners, not treated as afterthoughts. As we have learned to grieve collectively, we must also learn to guard our communities collectively, supporting local vigilance structures while ensuring they operate within the law and with respect for human life.

    Humanitarian response must also recognize that this is not only a security crisis, but a mental health emergency. Trauma care and psychosocial support are not optional add-ons; they are necessities. They are needed for the young girl who survived sexual violence and now lives with pain that follows her into every waking moment. For the woman who watched her child die in her presence and must now live with a memory no mother should carry. For the man who left home in the morning after saying goodbye to his wife and six children, only to be called back by midday to learn that all seven lives were lost in a single moment.

    These are not isolated tragedies. They are accumulating wounds. Without accessible mental health support, trauma festers into silence, rage, illness, and further violence. We need trauma-informed care embedded in temporary shelters, primary healthcare centres, schools, and communities. We need trained counsellors, culturally sensitive support systems, and long-term follow-up, not one-off interventions that disappear when headlines fade.

    If we continue to ignore the psychological toll of this violence, we risk raising a generation shaped more by untreated trauma than by hope. This cannot be the inheritance we pass on. Our children deserve safety that does not require courage and peace that is not temporary.

    Arewa is tired, but it is still breathing. Still hoping, even if quietly. I write this not as an observer, but as a mother, a daughter, and one of the tired ones, wondering what kind of tomorrow we are being asked to accept, and whether exhaustion will ever be allowed to rest in this land.

    •Bilyaminu is a writer and storyteller focused on activism, mental health, and social issues affecting her community. She writes from Dutse, Jigawa State.