In Honour of Our Fallen Heroes, by Alabidun Shuaib AbdulRahman

Every nation is sustained by the quiet courage of those who stand between order and chaos. In Nigeria, that burden has rested heavily on the shoulders of the Armed Forces and other security personnel for decades, but especially in the past fifteen years of relentless insecurity. From the creeks of the Niger Delta to the forests of North West and North East to the highways of the North Central, Nigerian soldiers, airmen, sailors and policemen have borne the brunt of a war that is often unseen by those who sleep peacefully at night. To speak in honour of our fallen heroes is not merely to rehearse grief; it is to confront, honestly and courageously, the meaning of sacrifice, the demands of honour and the moral obligation of welfare owed to those who gave everything and to the families they left behind.

Nigeria’s contemporary security challenges did not begin yesterday. The Boko Haram insurgency, which escalated violently after 2009, has remained one of the deadliest conflicts on the African continent. According to data from the Armed Conflict Location and Event Data Project (ACLED), tens of thousands of lives have been lost to the insurgency, with security personnel accounting for a significant proportion of the casualties. Names like Giwa Barracks, Baga, Monguno and Marte are etched into the collective memory of the military not just as locations, but as reminders of intense battles where many soldiers paid the supreme price. One such name that still resonates is Lieutenant Colonel Muhammad Abu Ali, a gallant armoured corps officer who was killed in action on 4 November 2016 near Malam Fatori in Borno State while leading troops against Boko Haram fighters. His death symbolised the kind of front-line leadership that defines true military honour: commanding from the front, sharing risks with subordinates, and refusing the safety of distance.

Beyond the North East, the expanding frontiers of insecurity have claimed more lives. On 29 June 2022, Nigeria was shaken by the deadly ambush in Shiroro Local Government Area of Niger State, where at least 34 soldiers were killed by bandits while on a stabilisation mission. The scale of that single loss was a sobering reminder that the battlefield had shifted, and that sacrifice was no longer confined to one theatre of operation. Similar tragedies have followed. In March 2024, 17 soldiers lost their lives in Okuama community, Delta State, during a peace mission gone wrong, prompting national outrage and renewed debates about rules of engagement, intelligence failures and community-military relations. Each of these incidents added fresh names to a growing roll of honour, while also raising uncomfortable questions about preparedness, equipment and support for those sent into harm’s way.

Yet, sacrifice is not only measured in deaths. Thousands of Nigerian service personnel have returned from operations with life-altering injuries, trauma and scars that are invisible but enduring. The Defence Headquarters has repeatedly acknowledged the psychological toll of prolonged deployments, particularly in counter-insurgency operations where lines between combatants and civilians are blurred. The fallen heroes, therefore, represent not only those who died, but also those whose lives were irreversibly changed in service to the nation. To honour them meaningfully is to recognise that sacrifice is cumulative, personal and often lifelong.

Honour, however, must not be reduced to rhetoric. Every 15th of January, Nigeria observes Armed Forces Remembrance Day (now Armed Forces Celebration and Remembrance Day), a tradition rooted in the commemoration of soldiers who died in the First and Second World Wars and later expanded to include those lost in peacekeeping missions and internal security operations.

On 15 January 2026, President Bola Ahmed Tinubu through Vice President Kashim Shettima laid a wreath at the National Arcade in Abuja and reaffirmed the nation’s gratitude to its fallen heroes, describing them as “the pillars upon which our peace rests.” Similar ceremonies took place across states, from Lagos to Enugu, Kaduna to Kwara, accompanied by solemn words and military parades. These rituals matter. They reaffirm national memory and signal state recognition. But honour loses meaning if it ends at symbolism.

True honour is institutional and continuous. It is reflected in how promptly families of the fallen are informed, how respectfully remains are handled, how transparently benefits are processed and how consistently promises are kept. Over the years, allegations of delayed entitlements and neglected widows have surfaced, sometimes fuelling public anger and mistrust. The Nigerian Army and the Ministry of Defence have responded by clarifying welfare frameworks and insisting that official policies are robust. According to the Ministry of Finance and the Ministry of Defence, families of deceased service members are entitled to death benefits, gratuity, pensions, burial expenses and payments under the Group Life Insurance Scheme, a statutory policy that mandates life insurance coverage for all public servants, including military personnel.

In October 2023, President Tinubu approved an assurance policy valued at about ₦18 billion to cover life insurance benefits for fallen heroes, reinforcing the administration’s stated commitment to military welfare. In March 2024, the federal government also bestowed posthumous national honours on the 17 soldiers killed in Delta State, alongside promises of housing support and educational scholarships for their children. Several state governments have complemented federal efforts. Lagos State has sustained its scholarship scheme for children of fallen officers, while Ogun, Edo and other states have publicly pledged financial and social support to bereaved families during recent remembrance events.

These measures are commendable, and fairness demands that government be acknowledged where it has taken concrete steps. Welfare frameworks today are more clearly articulated than they were a decade ago, and there is greater public scrutiny of how military benefits are administered. Nonetheless, the test of honour lies not in policy documents but in lived experience. A widow who waits years for entitlements, or a child of a fallen soldier who drops out of school due to lack of support, represents a moral failure that no wreath-laying ceremony can erase. Honour must therefore be defended daily through efficient institutions, accountable processes and humane engagement with those who bear the cost of loss.

The argument for improved welfare is not sentimental; it is strategic. Nations that neglect the families of their fallen undermine morale among serving personnel. Soldiers who see that the state stands firmly by its promises fight with greater confidence and commitment. Conversely, perceived neglect breeds cynicism and erodes trust. Nigeria’s security challenges demand motivated, professional and resilient forces, and welfare is a critical pillar of that resilience. This is why calls by veterans’ groups, civil society organisations and commentators for continuous review of military welfare policies should not be dismissed as noise. They are part of a necessary civic conversation about national priorities.

There is also an ethical dimension that transcends strategy. The social contract between the state and its defenders is unique. When a citizen in uniform dies in service, the state inherits a moral responsibility to the dependants left behind. This responsibility does not expire with news cycles or budgetary constraints. It endures across administrations and economic fluctuations. In many ways, how a nation treats its fallen heroes’ families is a mirror of its values.

To be clear, honouring fallen heroes does not mean glorifying war or romanticising death. It means acknowledging the harsh realities of service and committing to reduce avoidable losses through better intelligence, equipment, training and leadership. It also means ensuring that when loss does occur, it is met with compassion, justice and sustained support. Sacrifice should never be cheapened by neglect, nor should honour be diluted by inconsistency.

As Nigeria continues to confront insecurity in multiple forms, the roll call of fallen heroes reminds us that peace is neither abstract nor free. It is paid for in blood, courage and broken families. To write in their honour is to insist that remembrance must translate into responsibility. The fallen cannot speak for themselves, but the living can speak through policies that work, institutions that care and a national conscience that refuses to forget. In doing so, Nigeria does not only honour its fallen heroes; it affirms the worth of every life pledged in defence of the nation.

Alabidun is a media practitioner and can be reached via alabidungoldenson@gmail.com

Why Always Rivers State? By Alabidun Shuaib AbdulRahman

Why is it always Rivers State? The question no longer sounds rhetorical. It has become a recurring reflection whenever Nigeria’s democracy appears strained, its institutions weakened, or its constitutional boundaries tested. Since the return to civil rule in 1999, Rivers State has repeatedly found itself at the centre of political crises that transcend ordinary electoral competition. What distinguishes Rivers is not merely the frequency of conflict, but the intensity, longevity and national implications of those crises. From succession battles to legislative breakdowns and federal intervention, the state has functioned as a pressure point where the contradictions of Nigerian democracy are most vividly exposed.

Rivers State’s peculiar trajectory cannot be understood without acknowledging its strategic importance within Nigeria’s political economy. As one of the core oil-producing states in the Niger Delta, Rivers hosts major petroleum assets that are critical to national revenue generation. Control of the state government therefore carries implications that extend far beyond its borders. Political office in Rivers confers access to enormous fiscal allocations, discretionary power over contracts and appointments, and leverage within national party structures. In a political system where state power is often personalised and monetised, such advantages raise the stakes of political competition to extraordinary levels.

From the onset of the Fourth Republic, these dynamics shaped the character of politics in Rivers. Peter Odili’s administration, which ran from 1999 to 2007, coincided with Nigeria’s democratic reawakening after prolonged military rule. His government helped stabilise civilian authority in the state and strengthened the Peoples Democratic Party’s dominance. Yet it also entrenched a culture of elite patronage that blurred the line between party loyalty and state ownership. Power became concentrated around the executive, while institutions that should have acted as counterweights remained weak. By the time Odili left office, Rivers politics had developed a reputation for fierce internal rivalry masked by outward party unity.

The crisis surrounding the 2007 governorship election revealed the fragility beneath that surface. Celestine Omehia’s short-lived tenure, terminated by a Supreme Court judgment that installed Chibuike Rotimi Amaechi on 25 October 2007, underscored how political outcomes in Rivers were increasingly determined by judicial intervention and party machinations rather than popular participation. While the court’s ruling was constitutionally grounded, it reinforced public perceptions that voters were peripheral actors in a system dominated by elite bargaining.

Amaechi’s eight years in office were among the most turbulent in the state’s history. Initially a key figure within the PDP, he later became a leading opposition voice against the party’s national leadership, particularly during the administration of President Goodluck Jonathan. His defection to the All Progressives Congress ahead of the 2015 elections transformed Rivers into a frontline state in Nigeria’s emerging two-party contest. Elections during this period were marked by violence, legal disputes and allegations of widespread irregularities. Rather than strengthening democratic norms, political competition in Rivers became increasingly militarised and litigious.

The ascension of Nyesom Wike to the governorship in 2015 represented both continuity and escalation. A former ally of Amaechi who became his fiercest rival, Wike governed with an assertive style that left little room for dissent. His administration pursued ambitious infrastructure projects and positioned Rivers as a visible development hub in the South-South. However, these achievements existed alongside an aggressive consolidation of political control. Party structures, legislative independence and local government autonomy were subordinated to the governor’s authority. Politics in Rivers became highly personalised, with loyalty to the executive serving as the principal currency of survival.

By the end of his second term in 2023, Wike had transcended state politics. His influence within the PDP and later his alignment with President Bola Tinubu elevated him into the national power equation. This context made the question of succession in Rivers unusually consequential. The emergence of Siminalayi Fubara as governor following the March 2023 election was widely interpreted as an extension of Wike’s political will. Fubara’s victory, secured with over 300,000 votes, appeared to confirm the durability of that arrangement.

Yet, Rivers’ history suggested that such successions are rarely seamless. Within months of assuming office, Fubara’s relationship with his predecessor deteriorated sharply. Disagreements over appointments, control of party structures and the autonomy of the executive quickly escalated. By October 2023, the conflict had spilled into the open, culminating in the burning of the Rivers State House of Assembly complex on 29 October. The symbolism of that event was unmistakable: the physical destruction of the legislature mirrored the collapse of constitutional order in the state.

What followed was an unprecedented institutional crisis. The Rivers State House of Assembly split into rival factions, each claiming legitimacy and producing contradictory resolutions. Impeachment proceedings were initiated and countered. Court orders multiplied, often conflicting, while governance ground to a halt. For months, Rivers effectively operated without a coherent legislative authority. This paralysis was not rooted in ideological disagreement or policy failure but in a struggle over political supremacy between a sitting governor and a former one determined to retain influence.

The depth of the crisis prompted federal intervention. On 18 March 2025, President Bola Tinubu declared a state of emergency in Rivers State, suspending the governor, his deputy and the entire House of Assembly for six months and appointing a sole administrator. The federal government cited political paralysis and threats to oil infrastructure, including incidents of pipeline vandalism, as justification. The National Assembly endorsed the proclamation, giving it legal force despite intense public debate.

This intervention marked a watershed moment in Nigeria’s post-1999 constitutional practice. Unlike previous emergency declarations, particularly the 2013 emergency in the northeast, the Rivers action involved the suspension of elected officials. Legal scholars and civil society organisations questioned its constitutional basis, noting that the 1999 Constitution outlines specific procedures for removing governors and legislators. The episode exposed unresolved ambiguities within Nigeria’s federal system and demonstrated how state-level political breakdowns can invite sweeping federal responses.

When the emergency rule was lifted in September 2025 and the suspended officials reinstated, Rivers returned to civilian governance, but the episode left enduring scars. Institutional credibility had been damaged, public confidence weakened and constitutional norms tested. The crisis projected the extent to which Rivers’ political instability had moved beyond internal party disputes to become a national concern.

The persistence of crisis in Rivers is not coincidental. It reflects structural weaknesses embedded within Nigeria’s democratic framework. The concentration of economic resources elevates political competition into a zero-sum contest. Godfatherism distorts succession, turning governance into a continuation of private power struggles. Political parties function less as democratic platforms and more as instruments of elite control. Legislatures and courts, rather than serving as independent arbiters, are drawn into factional battles. In such an environment, stability becomes fragile and crisis recurrent.

The consequences for governance are profound. Political paralysis disrupts budgetary processes, delays development projects and diverts attention from pressing social challenges. Despite its wealth, Rivers continues to struggle with unemployment, environmental degradation and infrastructural gaps. Citizens bear the cost of elite conflict through weakened service delivery and diminished trust in democratic institutions.

Why, then, does it always seem to be Rivers State? Because Rivers has become a concentrated expression of Nigeria’s unresolved democratic contradictions. It is a state where economic abundance coexists with institutional fragility, where political power is personalised, and where succession is treated as conquest rather than continuity. Until these underlying conditions change, Rivers will continue to oscillate between governance and crisis.

The lesson Rivers offers Nigeria is sobering. Democracy cannot be sustained by elections alone. Without strong institutions, internal party democracy and a political culture that respects constitutional boundaries, electoral victories become triggers for conflict rather than mandates for governance. Rivers State stands as a reminder that when politics is reduced to personal dominance, instability becomes inevitable. Until the structures that reward godfatherism and weaken institutions are dismantled, the question will persist, echoing across election cycles and administrations: why is it always Rivers State?

Buhari, Power and the Burden of Integrity, by Alabidun Shuaib AbdulRahman 

Buhari’s life and leadership have always been defined by paradox. A man who began as a disciplined soldier, steeped in the rigors of military order, he later assumed the mantle of democratic president in a nation that demanded compromise, negotiation, and a delicate balance of interests. The launch of Muhammadu Buhari: From Soldier to Statesman, a biography by Dr. Charles Omole, provides a rare window into the inner workings of his leadership, tracing the contours of political power, family controversies, moral conviction, and the costs of integrity in office. What emerges is not a hagiography nor a critique, but a portrait of a man and a presidency struggling to reconcile principle with consequence, personal discipline with institutional responsibility.

Buhari’s political trajectory is remarkable for both its longevity and its historic impact. In 2015, he defeated the incumbent, President Goodluck Jonathan, winning 15.4 million votes to Jonathan’s 12.9 million. This was the first time an opposition candidate defeated a sitting president in Nigeria’s democratic history. He was re-elected in 2019 with 15.1 million votes, defeating Atiku Abubakar. These numbers reflect the scale of public confidence he inspired, a confidence rooted in a reputation for integrity and moral rectitude that transcended party lines. Yet the biography reveals that such trust came with enormous burdens, for voters expected not just policies, but a moral compass that could steer Nigeria through turbulent waters.

The book recounts Buhari’s tenure as military ruler from 1983 to 1985, underscoring the formative influence of that period on his understanding of leadership. As Head of State, he launched the “War Against Indiscipline” (WAI), a campaign to instill order in public life. Clean streets, punctuality, respect for authority were not cosmetic policies but reflections of his belief that moral and civic discipline were prerequisites for national progress. Yet, this strictness came at a cost: political opponents were detained without trial, the press faced censorship, and economic policies often exacerbated hardship. That era established a pattern that would recur in civilian rule: moral conviction in crisis with the human and institutional consequences of policy.

Fast forward to the Buhari presidency, and the book illustrates the complex interplay between his principles and governance. One illustrative episode is the controversial 2022 naira redesign. Ostensibly an economic measure to reduce inflation, curb cash hoarding, and encourage digital transactions, the policy had deep political and social ramifications. According to the biography, it was partially conceived to disrupt vote-buying ahead of the 2023 elections. While intended to advance the nation’s integrity, it triggered acute cash shortages, disrupted small businesses, and left rural communities struggling to access basic necessities. Millions of Nigerians were affected in an economy already reeling from two recessions: one in 2016, when GDP contracted by 1.6 percent following an oil price collapse, and another in 2020 due to the COVID-19 pandemic. Public debt ballooned from ₦12 trillion in 2015 to over ₦77 trillion by 2023, while inflation and unemployment rates soared, revealing the burden between moral intent and social impact.

Buhari’s handling of party politics also illuminates the burden of integrity. The biography recounts an incident during the All Progressives Congress (APC) 2022 primaries, when aides allegedly sought to influence outcomes by instructing security chiefs to favor a preferred candidate. Those instructions were not acted upon, and Buhari, upon learning of the attempt, refused to intervene, insisting he would not impose his choice. This decision, while morally consistent with democratic ideals, allowed internal factionalism to flourish and exposed the limitations of leadership built on principle rather than coercive control. It demonstrates a recurring theme in Buhari’s rule: the discipline of a soldier tested in the unpredictable theatre of democratic politics.

Family, too, emerges as a domain where power and integrity intersected with the controversy. The biography includes revelations from his wife, Aisha Buhari, describing a period during Buhari’s prolonged medical leave in 2017 in which rumours circulated suggesting she intended harm against him. However, the president’s response of locking his room and avoiding meals she prepared speaks to the psychological weight of leadership, where suspicion and trust coexist uneasily. Their daughter, Fatima Buhari, recounts discovering official documents bearing forged signatures of her father, raising questions about authenticity and control in the corridors of power. These episodes are not sensationalism for its own sake; they illustrate how integrity, both personal and institutional, can be compromised or distorted, even within the president’s immediate household.

Mamman Daura, Buhari’s influential nephew, occupies a particularly revealing space in the book. His proximity to the president has often been cited in discussions of the so-called “Villa cabal.” Omole presents this relationship not as a conspiratorial plot but as an instance of moral and personal trust shaping governance. Buhari, who valued loyalty and shared history, often delegated authority to individuals he believed would uphold his principles. Yet, as the biography notes, reliance on personal loyalty rather than institutional mechanisms introduced vulnerabilities, making the administration susceptible to both internal intrigue and public criticism.

On national security, the book offers both praise and critique. Under Buhari, Boko Haram, which had seized numerous local government areas in the Northeast, was territorially weakened. Multinational cooperation improved, and thousands of insurgents were neutralized. Yet the book notes that other security challenges intensified. Banditry in the Northwest claimed thousands of lives, and farmer-herder conflicts escalated in multiple regions. Buhari’s military instinct led him to approach these issues as security problems rather than socio-economic ones, projecting the limits of a morality-focused approach in a structurally complex nation.

Economic policy further illustrates the paradox of integrity under duress. Infrastructure projects, including rail lines, roads, and power facilities, were completed or accelerated. Social intervention programs were expanded. Yet inflation, unemployment, and poverty rates remained stubbornly high. For example, inflation reached double-digit levels in 2022, and the National Bureau of Statistics reported unemployment exceeding 33 percent in 2021. The book posits that Buhari’s commitment to ethical governance eschewing patronage and corruption sometimes conflicted with pragmatic economic interventions that could have alleviated immediate suffering, highlighting the burdens of integrity in office.

The biography also situates Buhari’s moral philosophy within the broader framework of public expectation. He was widely regarded as a man who rejected ostentation, faithfully declared his assets, and maintained a personal life detached from the trappings of power. Yet the book underscores a central question: Can personal virtue compensate for systemic dysfunction? Policies executed with moral clarity did not always produce equitable outcomes, reminding readers that integrity, however steadfast, does not insulate a society from consequence.

Public reception of the biography has mirrored the divided legacy it chronicles. Supporters emphasize Buhari’s unwavering commitment to principle, his efforts to curb corruption, and his steadfast leadership during challenging times. Critics focus on policy missteps, humanitarian fallout, and perceived aloofness. The biography itself has ignited debate over historical interpretation and the role of personal narrative in shaping public memory. Former Kaduna Governor Nasir el-Rufai described the book as potentially transforming Buhari’s legacy into a tool for narrow political interests, while analysts caution that literary accounts cannot fully capture the lived experiences of citizens affected by policy.

The book’s thematic core—power coupled with integrity—offers lessons not just about Buhari, but about governance itself. Leadership demands balancing moral conviction with the pragmatic complexities of a diverse nation. Buhari’s experience illustrates that personal integrity, while admirable, cannot operate in a vacuum. The mechanisms of state, the pressures of politics, and the unpredictability of human behavior inevitably shape outcomes in ways that moral intent alone cannot control. The biography does not shy away from these contradictions; it embraces them as part of the story.

Ultimately, From Soldier to Statesman positions Buhari as a figure whose public life cannot be divorced from private conviction. His military discipline, moral clarity, and personal austerity defined his approach to governance, even when structural realities and human behavior complicated the translation of those principles into policy. The narrative challenges readers to consider the burdens of integrity: the personal cost, the public expectation, and the unintended consequences that arise when principle meets the messy reality of nationhood. Nigeria, as much as Buhari himself, is the subject of this reflection.

In framing his legacy, the book refrains from offering final judgments. Instead, it presents evidence, testimony, and analysis, leaving readers to grapple with the complex interplay of power, family, and moral responsibility. It reminds us that leadership is seldom a matter of unalloyed success or failure. It is a negotiation between ideals and realities, between what a leader believes should happen and what the nation can sustain. Buhari’s story, as told in this biography, is emblematic of that tension, offering a prism through which to examine Nigeria’s own ongoing struggle with governance, morality, and the rule of law.

By revisiting Buhari through the lens of personal integrity and public consequence, the biography forces a recognition that moral leadership is not costless. Policies rooted in principle may impose hardship, familial loyalty may complicate governance, and the very discipline that preserves character may restrict flexibility. The book situates Buhari as a man aware of these burdens, striving to navigate them even when the outcomes were imperfect, sometimes harsh, but always reflective of a personal code of ethics that remained central to his identity.

In the final assessment, Muhammadu Buhari: From Soldier to Statesman is more than a recounting of elections, decrees, and family dynamics. It is an exploration of the paradoxes of leadership in Nigeria. Buhari’s life and presidency illuminate the dilemmas inherent in governing a nation of over 220 million people, the costs of maintaining integrity in office, and the consequences of holding principle above expediency. For students of politics, historians, and citizens alike, the book offers both a cautionary tale and a meditation on what it means to carry the weight of power with conscience as a guide. Buhari’s story, and Nigeria’s, are inseparable: a testament to the enduring tension between moral leadership and political reality, and a reflection on the burdens that accompany integrity at the highest level of governance.

Alabidun is a media practitioner and can be reached via alabidungoldenson@gmail.com