The disappearance of the traditional institutions that once anchored society has left behind a hollowed-out political and cultural landscape. Rebuilding Nigeria must involve more than modern development strategies; it must also include the respectful revival and integration of traditional systems that once provided stability, dignity, and hope for millions
MILITARY intervention in governance has long cast a formidable shadow over the political evolution of Nigeria and the African continent at large, often undermining democratic institutions and entrenching cycles of instability. While some proponents argue that such interventions are necessitated by systemic corruption or governmental inertia, history reveals a troubling pattern of authoritarianism, human rights violations, and economic regression in their wake. This article embarks on a five-part series that delves into the intricate dynamics of military involvement in African politics, with Nigeria as a focal point.
When Nigeria gained independence from British colonial rule on October 1, 1960, it was widely hailed not just within its borders but across the continent and beyond as the natural leader of Africa. This perception was not merely aspirational; it was grounded in compelling geopolitical, demographic, and economic realities. Nigeria’s sheer size, vast population, and immense natural resources positioned it as a beacon of potential for the post-colonial African order. Sixty-five years later, however, that early promise remains a complex and contentious subject, mired in contradictions and elusive achievements.
At the time of independence, Nigeria was the most populous country in Africa, with nearly 40 million people, roughly one-fifth of the continent’s entire population at the time. This demographic heft alone lent the country a central role in the African project of post-colonial self-definition and unity. It was assumed that Nigeria, by virtue of its numbers, would have the political capital and cultural depth to exert leadership across the continent.
Furthermore, Nigeria’s geographic vastness, covering over 923,000 square kilometres, offered a microcosm of Africa’s diversity. From the savannah of the north to the rainforest of the south, and from the Niger Delta to the western grasslands, Nigeria was a melting pot of ethnicities, languages, and religions. This diversity, though potentially volatile, was also seen as a strength: a proving ground for pluralistic governance that could inspire similar experiments elsewhere in Africa.
Equally significant was Nigeria’s economic promise. With immense reserves of oil, gas, tin, and other minerals, coupled with fertile agricultural lands, the country had all the ingredients for rapid industrialisation and sustainable development. Lagos, the economic capital, was already a bustling hub of commerce, while cities like Kano, Ibadan, and Port Harcourt were emerging as regional centres of trade, culture, and learning.
International observers, especially in the West, were keenly attuned to Nigeria’s prospects. Publications like Time, The Economist, and The New York Times in the 1960s frequently featured Nigeria as Africa’s great hope; a potential counterweight to the Soviet-aligned states on the continent and a model for democratic development in the Global South. Nigeria’s own leaders, notably Prime Minister Sir Abubakar Tafawa Balewa and President Nnamdi Azikiwe, embraced a Pan-African vision. They actively participated in the formation of the Organisation of African Unity (OAU) in 1963 and made concerted efforts to support liberation movements in Southern Africa. Nigeria’s foreign policy, articulated through its famous “concentric circles” model, placed Africa at the centre of its diplomatic engagements, further reinforcing its status as a regional powerhouse.
However, beneath this veneer of promise lay deep structural fault lines. The very diversity that was hailed as Nigeria’s strength soon became a source of intense political rivalry. Regionalism, ethnic competition, and the absence of a unifying national ideology undermined the early post-independence state. The First Republic collapsed under the weight of military coups and counter-coups, culminating in the tragic Nigerian Civil War (1967–1970), which laid bare the fragility of the Nigeria State.
The war marked a turning point: Nigeria’s claim to moral and political leadership in Africa was severely compromised. Though the country managed to preserve its territorial integrity, the cost was immense: millions dead, institutions weakened, and a generation traumatised. The post-war oil boom of the 1970s, rather than catalysing national development, ushered in an era of endemic corruption, rentier politics, and uneven development.
By the 1980s and 1990s, Nigeria had shifted from being perceived as Africa’s hope to being emblematic of its challenges. Repeated cycles of military dictatorship, economic mismanagement, and human rights abuses alienated the country from the international community. Despite having Africa’s largest reserves of crude oil, Nigeria’s infrastructure crumbled, poverty soared, and social cohesion eroded. In contrast, other African nations with fewer resources, like Botswana, Mauritius, and later Rwanda, began to outperform Nigeria on development indices. South Africa, following the end of apartheid, increasingly emerged as an alternative centre of continental gravity, especially in economic and institutional leadership.
Moreover, the rise of Boko Haram in the 2010s, persistent energy crises, and widespread youth unemployment further complicated Nigeria’s leadership claims. While the country remains Africa’s largest economy and most populous nation, its influence is often viewed as episodic rather than systemic. To reclaim its rightful place as a continental leader, Nigeria must overcome its internal contradictions and invest in building resilient, inclusive institutions. Only then can it fulfil the promise that captivated the continent and the world at the dawn of its independence.
In the aftermath of African independence during the late 1950s and 1960s, many newly formed states struggled with the challenges of political consolidation, economic development, and nation-building. The first significant military intervention occurred in Ghana in 1966, when President Kwame Nkrumah was overthrown by the military while on a diplomatic trip abroad. This coup became a turning point in African political history, not only because it disrupted one of the most prominent post-colonial administrations but also because it set a precedent that other militaries would soon follow.
The Ghanaian military justified its actions by accusing Nkrumah’s government of authoritarianism, economic mismanagement, corruption, and the suppression of civil liberties. These justifications resonated with many citizens who had grown disillusioned with the ruling elite. Shortly afterwards, Nigeria experienced its own series of coups starting in 1966, citing similar reasons: rampant corruption among political leaders, deepening ethnic divisions, electoral fraud, and a general breakdown in political order. What followed was a wave of military takeovers that spread across West Africa into Central and East Africa, and eventually touched parts of North Africa.
In nearly every case, the military regimes used a strikingly similar narrative to legitimise their actions. Coup leaders often presented themselves as national saviours who were stepping in to rescue their countries from corrupt civilian politicians, crumbling economies, and widespread instability. Bad governance was one of the most frequently cited reasons. Civilian leaders were accused of mismanaging public resources, failing to deliver development, and enriching themselves at the expense of the people. This was often accompanied by a broader critique of political corruption, including nepotism, bribery, embezzlement, and the misuse of foreign aid and national wealth.
Another commonly stated justification was political instability. In many countries, democratic institutions were either weak or non-existent, and political parties were often fractured along ethnic, regional, or personal lines. Elections were frequently marred by irregularities, and in some cases, leaders refused to step down even when their legitimacy was in question. The military, claiming to represent the “will of the people” or the “interest of the nation,” would argue that the civilian government had lost control and that decisive intervention was necessary to restore order.
Coup plotters also invoked what can be termed political rascality, a term used to describe the lawlessness, impunity, and reckless behaviour of many political elites. In numerous African states, leaders created one-party systems or concentrated power in the hands of a few, sidelining opposition voices, controlling the press, and using state institutions for personal or party gain. This bred resentment and created a political vacuum that the military could exploit by presenting itself as a more disciplined, neutral, and patriotic institution.
However, while the reasons given for intervention were often rooted in real grievances, the outcomes rarely aligned with the promises made. In many cases, military rulers became as corrupt and authoritarian as the regimes they replaced, they performed no better than the politicians they had removed. In fact, they often made things worse, promised reforms never came, human rights abuses increased, the suppression of opposition, censorship of the press, and the dismantling of political institutions became common features of their rule. Over time, the same leaders who had claimed to be saving the nation from corruption and abuse began to enrich themselves. Lavish lifestyles, stolen public funds, foreign bank accounts, and patronage networks became the norm. Ironically, many left office far wealthier than when they entered, having looted state resources even more blatantly than their civilian predecessors.
They often left their countries in greater turmoil, economically weaker, socially divided, and politically fragile. Under military rule, economies shrank or stagnated due to poor management and isolation from international partners. Coups led to prolonged periods of dictatorship, human rights abuses, and in some cases, civil wars. The wave of military interventions that spread across Africa in the post-independence period was driven by a mix of legitimate frustrations and opportunistic ambitions. The most commonly cited reasons by military interventionists were bad governance, widespread corruption, political instability, and the irresponsible behaviour of civilian leaders. Yet while these interventions were often welcomed initially, they frequently led to deeper crises, highlighting that military rule was not a sustainable substitute for building strong democratic institutions.
Nigeria today finds itself at a deeply troubling crossroads, a sharp and widening divide has emerged between the wealthy elite and the vast majority of the population who live in poverty. The idea of a stable, thriving middle class as backbone for economic growth and social stability in any society remains largely absent. What we now see is a country where a few individuals accumulate unimaginable wealth, often tied to political power or foreign interests, while most people struggle daily for basic survival. This imbalance is not just an economic issue; it reflects a deeper breakdown of the traditional social fabric that once sustained our communities.
Historically, Nigeria had its own systems of governance, wealth distribution, security, and cultural preservation embedded within its traditional institutions. These institutions were not perfect, but they were deeply respected and rooted in the everyday lives of the people; Chiefs, emirs, obas, and other local rulers served as custodians of religion, culture, land, and justice. They were the moral and cultural compass of their communities, maintaining order, settling disputes, safeguarding spiritual life, promoting communal values, and ensuring that wealth in the form of land, livestock, and labour was managed for the benefit of the larger community.
More importantly, these traditional systems provided a social buffer, a kind of informal middle ground between the rich and the poor. They created a form of balance, where wealth and influence were not concentrated solely in the hands of a few, and where everyone, regardless of their economic status, had access to a local authority who represented their interests. Traditional rulers were accessible, often living among the people, and accountable in ways modern governments have never truly been. However, over time, and particularly during the post-colonial period, these institutions began to erode; in some cases, they were deliberately undermined by colonial powers that feared their influence. But it was during the rise of centralised post-independence states and military regimes that the most damage was done. Many African governments, especially under military rule, saw traditional authorities not as partners but as threats, parallel sources of power and legitimacy that could challenge the authority of the central government. Because traditional leaders held the loyalty of their people and could mobilise communities without needing state permission, they were often viewed by the military as a kind of “alternative government.”
In response, traditional institutions were stripped of their autonomy and increasingly made dependent on the state. Chiefs who once commanded respect began to rely on government stipends. Their roles were reduced to symbolic functions, and many lost the authority to settle disputes, enforce moral codes, or protect their communities. As their influence declined, so did the values they upheld: respect, community cohesion, cultural pride, and grassroots governance. With no strong, respected local leadership left in many areas, communities became more vulnerable to insecurity, cultural erosion, and political manipulation.
This weakening of traditional systems also left a vacuum in the social structure. The middle space they helped maintain socially, economically, and morally began to collapse. Today, we see the consequences: a country with extreme economic inequality, broken cultural identity, fragile security, and political systems that are often disconnected from the people they are meant to serve.
In many ways, the destruction of these institutions has also contributed to the rise of authoritarianism. With traditional leaders neutralised, governments, especially military regimes, faced fewer checks on their power. They centralised control, sidelined dissent, and governed without accountability, deepening poverty and weakening the social bonds that once held communities together.
Nigeria’s crisis is not just one of wealth or development; it is also a crisis of identity, leadership, and structure. The disappearance of the traditional institutions that once anchored society has left behind a hollowed-out political and cultural landscape. Rebuilding Nigeria must involve more than modern development strategies; it must also include the respectful revival and integration of traditional systems that once provided stability, dignity, and hope for millions.
As Nigeria’s political environment became increasingly unstable, marked by military coups, authoritarian rule, and widespread corruption, the police force became one of the biggest victims of the nation’s internal decay. The very institution that was supposed to safeguard civil order and justice became deliberately weakened, underfunded, and manipulated. It is often easy to criticise the Nigerian Police Force, and in many ways, public frustration is understandable. Yet, beneath the surface of the dysfunction, abuse, and inefficiency lies a deeper truth: Nigeria once had and still has the potential to maintain one of the finest police forces in the world.
In the years following independence, the Nigerian Police Force (NPF) was highly respected across Africa and beyond. Its training institutions, such as the Nigeria Police Academy and other specialised facilities, attracted officers from neighbouring countries. Nations across West Africa and even beyond routinely sent their police personnel to Nigeria for professional training and development, a clear testament to the level of trust and regard Nigeria once commanded in the field of law enforcement. The Nigerian police officer was known to be tough, smart, resourceful, and deeply familiar with complex, dynamic environments from bustling urban centres to volatile rural zones. With proper training and clear directives, they could operate with discipline, tact, and efficiency. Nigerian police contingents deployed for United Nations peacekeeping missions earned accolades for their competence, courage, and professionalism. In controlled environments with proper structure, they performed brilliantly.
One critical moment in this decline was during the long years of military rule. The military, seeing itself as the ultimate authority in governance, often regarded the police force as a potential threat, a parallel institution with the power to challenge its control over internal affairs. The police, unlike the military, were close to the people, embedded in communities, and rooted in local knowledge. They were responsible for civil law and internal security, which in any functioning democracy would give them considerable influence over the balance of power.
This proximity to the civilian population and their constitutional responsibility for internal order made the police a perceived rival in the eyes of the military. As a result, successive military regimes systematically undermined the police, cutting their funding, limiting their autonomy, and stripping them of their confidence and capability. The goal was to ensure that the military remained the dominant force in both defence and internal control.
Over time, this institutional weakening turned a once-proud police force into a shell of what it could be. Officers were no longer properly trained or equipped. Promotions were based not on merit but on favouritism and bribery. Morale sank, and corruption became a survival mechanism. Many police officers, poorly paid and neglected, began to extort the very citizens they were meant to protect, not because they were inherently bad, but because the system gave them no other means to survive or rise.
Today, the Nigerian Police Force is widely mistrusted, and the bond between police and citizens is severely fractured. Yet we often fail to ask: how did we allow this to happen to an institution once respected across borders?
We must understand that the rot in the Nigerian Police Force is not simply a matter of individual misconduct. It is the result of decades of structural neglect, political manipulation, and systemic abuse. The same force that trains foreign officers cannot even equip its personnel with working radios, functional vehicles, or safe barracks. This is not a reflection of incompetence but of a nation that has failed its protectors.
The story of the Nigerian Police Force is symbolic of Nigeria itself; a nation full of capable people, betrayed by a system designed to suppress potential. If we are ever to rebuild Nigeria, we must start by restoring the dignity, professionalism, and autonomy of our law enforcement institutions. The police should be partners in peace, not pawns in power struggles. They should be guardians of justice, not tools of oppression. And they should be trained, equipped, and empowered to serve the people not feared by them. The greatness of the Nigerian Police Force is not lost, it is buried beneath decades of interference, neglect, and political sabotage. It can rise again, but for that to happen, Nigeria must make a choice: to invest in justice, in order, and in truth and to stop being afraid of strong institutions that serve the people rather than the powerful.
Let us revisit my earlier article titled ‘The Pitiful Nigerian Police,’ which reads as follows: Over the years, writing this weekly column has brought with it the privilege of building a wide and diverse readership, both within Nigeria and beyond. Many of my readers have responded with thoughtful and constructive criticism, often encouraging me to speak more directly to those in power especially as Nigeria continues to recycle the same costly mistakes that have diminished its global standing and turned it, in the eyes of many, into a fragile state and even a source of mockery, particularly across the African continent.
In my travels across Africa, I have been confronted sometimes painfully by the fact that Nigeria no longer enjoys the admiration and leadership status it once commanded among its peers. A major contributor to this decline is the persistent and worsening state of insecurity in Nigeria, It has become so pronounced that major insurance firms abroad now hesitate or outright refuse to underwrite business operations linked to Nigeria. Foreign investors think twice or walk away entirely simply because the Nigerian Police Force, once a pillar of national pride, can no longer guarantee the safety of lives and property.
This decline was made even more personal during a recent visit to Yaoundé, Cameroon, where I ran into an old friend a Cameroonian who had his university education in Nigeria in the 70s and he faced me with a very simple question that touched me, he said “Old boy, what is happening to Nigeria? My answer was sincere but heartbreaking: We are all working on it hoping that it will get better someday. He particularly touched on the situation of the Nigerian Police force and he told me about an encounter he had with the Police between arriving at the airport and his hotel in Victoria Island, the story I cannot print but he reminded me of the Nigerian Police force that was the envy of many countries when he lived in Nigeria, the Police force that was adjudged to be one of the best in the world, that performed to a world class standard during the many United Nations peacekeeping around the world. The pity of the whole matter is that those under 60 that are in power today may not even be aware of that proud legacy.
Over five years ago, I wrote a piece in this column titled, “Policing (or Lack of) And Nigeria”. I’ll repeat some of the chapters from the article and to disagree with some of the critics that the sharing of my journey did not go far enough because of the issue of the Nigerian Police, one of the most important part any Nation’s development is a matter that concerns every citizen.
One evening, during a recent festive period in my hometown, I decided to visit a friend in the neighboring town, and as is customary for me in my hometown, I drove myself. All over my state, I happen to be known as the Desert Warrior. So, as I drove to my destination, I came across a Police Checkpoint, where about four policemen were stationed. As soon as they noticed me, they began chanting, “Desert Warrior, your boys are here.” It was the festive period, so I chose to pull over, and as I did, one of them ran over, and I gave him N2000 for all of them. Immediately I did, he put one of the notes in his pocket and held up the other shouting to his colleagues that the Desert Warrior has given them N1000. I almost reversed to challenge him, but he was carrying a gun, and I didn’t want to be the victim of an accidental discharge. This only goes to show just how corrupt the average policeman is, even to his fellow mates. So how far down can we go before something is done to check the level of policing in our country, Nigeria? If they are not sufficiently trained and equipped to carry out their functions, how then do we expect them to solve complicated cases? How many cases of corruption have the police, EFCC, or ICPC successfully prosecuted? How many people have our courts and judges put away for corruption? We live as if we make our own laws as we journey through life. We still see laws as those produced by colonial masters to punish us, hence, we must beg and bribe our ways through the law courts when we cannot bully our way through.
How did the police get to this stage? In the second half of the 80s, DSP Alozie Ogugbuaja, in an extraordinary treatise decrying the poor funding of the police institutions informed a coup-weary nation that it was in the over-arching interest of the Nigerian Army to keep the police down as an ineffective force. Ordinarily, a well-trained and well-funded police force should be able to detect a coup in the making, prevent a coup, or investigate a coup. Whether by commission or omission, this poor funding of the police force has continued to this day. Worse is the practice of embezzlement and fraud within the highest echelon of the institution, exacerbating an already precarious and dangerous position the police are in. The consequence is that the police is now ill-equipped to execute its primary mandate in any mandate or form. Our police cannot even mount the simplest of sting operation or infiltrate a gang in pursuit of law enforcement, or for the purpose of breaking them up. Presently, it has been reported that over half of the police force is now engaged in personal and private security details for politicians, public servants, and the rich. Under such circumstances, it is little wonder that gangs and militias can form, fester, and grow into major terrorist organizations like Boko Haram, separatist movements like MASSOB, tribal militias like OPC, Arewa Youths, MEND, etc.
Today, with all due respect, our police force is a pitiable sight. A good number of them are left on the various highways where they beg for money with their guns in tow, harassing and intimidating hapless motorists. Their police stations and barracks are places you do not want to be seen going into or exiting. Some of them claim that the upkeep of their stations are sometimes funded in part by the illegal tolls they collect on the highways, and the bail monies they collect from victims of their frequent and sometimes frivolous arrests in the communities they were meant to protect in the first place. Some also claim that they are supposed to replace their uniforms from their meagre resources, which explains why some of them who are not corruptly resourceful appear in tattered uniforms.
Furthermore, the security challenges facing this nation are made worse by the porous borders and inadequate security that exist with our neighbors. Migrants from such countries like Cameroun, Niger, Chad and the Republic of Benin, pour into Nigeria in their millions and do not return to their countries. This phenomenon bloats our population so much so that we cannot keep up with the census, but rather give estimates that are frequently being revised. This is bad for socio-economic planning, it is bad politics, and it breeds courtship with danger. A case in point is the migration of hostile Fulani herdsmen, some of who are unauthorized alien in the country. The action of these marauders can pitch this nations into another civil war. These are civilians with arms carried in the open, and our police look the other way. Incredible! This cannot happen in other ECOWAS countries. Any Nigerian caught in these countries without any valid immigration papers will be dumped in jail before he can say his name.
The Nigerian labour movement particularly through organizations like the Nigeria Labour Congress (NLC) and the Trade Union Congress (TUC) was once a powerful voice that could shut down the country when injustice reigned. It played a pivotal role during the fight against military rule, mobilizing millions against dictatorship, fuel hikes, and policy failures. But today, the same unions are often silent or subdued, issuing lukewarm statements while Nigerians suffer under the weight of inflation, fuel price hikes, unemployment, and wage stagnation.
The state has learned to weaken labour movements by offering top union leaders political appointments, contracts, or benefits effectively buying their silence. Many union leaders are seen as part of the same corrupt elite they are meant to fight. In an environment where protests are brutally suppressed and the police are used to intimidate, even peaceful industrial actions now come at great personal risk.
As a result, the labour movement once a symbol of resistance now struggles to mobilize meaningfully, leaving Nigerian workers increasingly vulnerable and voiceless.
Professional associations like the Nigerian Bar Association (NBA) and the Nigerian Medical Association (NMA) were once seen as moral pillars; safeguarding professional standards and holding the government to account. But their voices too have grown faint. The NBA, which once challenged authoritarian decrees and judicial misconduct, is now often divided along political and ethnic lines. In many cases, it issues strong-worded communiqués but takes little or no concrete action. The rule of law is frequently trampled upon in the country, and yet there is rarely sustained legal resistance from the body entrusted with defending it.
The NMA, whose members operate on the frontlines of Nigeria’s healthcare crisis, faces a moral dilemma. While they speak up about poor conditions, many have also lost faith in the system. Some accept under-the-table payments, while others leave the country altogether, contributing to the ongoing brain drain. Like the police, many doctors are underpaid, overworked, and underprotected. But unlike in the past, there is little organized outrage.
Perhaps the most tragic decline is seen in Nigeria’s student unions. In the 1970s and 1980s, student bodies like the National Association of Nigerian Students (NANS) were fiery and fearless. They challenged military rule, protested poor governance, and served as the voice of the youth often paying the price with arrests, suspension, or worse. Student leaders now seek political endorsements, not social justice. Some have become tools for political campaigns, rewarded with cash or connections, the fear of rustication, expulsion, or state security clampdowns has silenced many.
The education system itself is in disrepair. With constant strikes, lack of facilities, and crumbling infrastructure, many students are too disillusioned to believe in change or even know the history of student activism in Nigeria. What once was the most dynamic youth platform in the country has now been hollowed out replaced with leaders who often parrot political slogans or remain neutral while campuses and communities suffer.
When police officers beg for money at checkpoints, judges take bribes, union leaders are bought, and student activists are silenced, what you are witnessing is not just corruption it is the slow death of civic resistance and institutional integrity. These bodies; the labour unions, professional associations, student movements were supposed to serve as counterweights to state failure. But today, many have become victims of the same system they were created to challenge. Reviving them requires more than internal reforms; it requires a national awakening. The fight to restore Nigeria cannot be left to the government alone. It must come from civil society, from professionals, from the students, from the unions from all of us. Until then, the silence of these once-powerful institutions will remain one of the greatest tragedies
Over the past several decades, Nigeria has been caught in a tragic cycle of political unrest, military interventions, and civil conflict; a long, painful journey marked by violence, betrayal, and unfulfilled promises. At various points in our national history, the military has intervened, claiming the moral authority to “rescue” the country from political chaos, corruption, and insecurity. But decades later, even after countless lives lost, civil wars, and transitions from one uniform to another, the core issues the military claimed it came to correct are still with us perhaps even worse.
From the first military coup in 1966, Nigeria has experienced repeated interventions by soldiers-turned-statesmen. In each case, the stated motive was to “cleanse the system”: end political rascality, stamp out corruption, restore order, and ensure national unity. But instead of bringing healing, each phase only deepened the wounds. Nigeria descended into a bloody civil war (1967–1970) that claimed over a million lives and left scars that are yet to heal.
In the years that followed, military replaced military, each promising change, but often delivering repression, human rights abuses, and deeper levels of corruption. The boot that was supposed to stamp out disorder became the boot that kicked down institutions and trampled public trust. While regimes changed, the blood never stopped flowing, and the streets of Nigeria became stained with the lives of citizens lost in riots, protests, ethnic clashes, and political suppression. Political rascality now wears agbada and speaks grammar, but it is still as destructive as ever. Corruption has evolved into a sophisticated art form, embedded not just in politics but in institutions, contracts, and even the judiciary. Insecurity has become a national epidemic: kidnappings, banditry, terrorism, herder-farmer conflicts, and street violence have made Nigerians feel less safe than ever before.
If the military came in with the promise of sanitizing the system, then what did it leave behind? A weakened police force, politicized civil service, disillusioned youth, and a country where power still rotates among the elite not based on competence, but on connections, ethnicity, or military-era legacy. It is important to remember that Nigeria was not always silent in the face of tyranny. Over the years, strong opposition figures emerged from every region, raising their voices even in the face of oppression.
J.S. Tarka, from the Middle Belt, gave voice to the aspirations of minority ethnic groups and challenged northern political dominance. Aminu Kano, a socialist and progressive thinker, fought against feudalism and elite exploitation in the North, advocating for the talakawa, the common people. Obafemi Awolowo, the sage of the South-West, championed education, regional autonomy, and economic development, offering Nigeria one of its most visionary blueprints for governance.
These men represented an era where opposition politics meant principled struggle, not just political ambition. But even then, Nigeria was marred by politics of bitterness, intense rivalry, ethnic suspicion, and regionalism. Elections were often accompanied by violence; accusations flew like arrows. The 1964 general elections and the 1965 Western Region crisis showed just how deep the divisions ran and how unready we were to manage political diversity with maturity.
That “politics with bitterness” set the stage for the military to walk in, declaring itself the “neutral referee.” But the military, too, was not immune to the same divisions. Over time, it became a mirror of the same tribalism, favoritism, and self-interest it claimed to reject.
Now, decades later, we are still grappling with the very same demons: power struggles, stolen mandates, regional tensions, and a ruling class disconnected from the people. Opposition politics, once defined by visionaries, has become transactional — about access to power, not about service or ideology. The military, though now largely in the background, still casts a long shadow. Many of our so-called “civilian” politicians are military-era protégés or beneficiaries of the system they helped entrench.
Nigeria’s journey has been long and painful. We have sacrificed generations to conflict, poverty, misrule, and fear. The military has come and gone and returned again. Civil wars have burned through communities. Great voices have risen and fallen. But the core truth remains: until we address the root causes corruption, political dishonesty, inequality, and impunity: the cycle will continue.
The Nigeria we need is not one ruled by men in uniform or by selfish civilian elites. We need a nation led by vision, values, and a commitment to justice where opposition is not an enemy, but a necessary balance; where security is not a privilege, but a right; and where the bitter past can finally give way to a hopeful future of our time.
