Justice for Ochanya Ogbanje, by Boniface Ihiasota

In a country where injustice too often becomes routine, the story of Ochanya Ogbanje still stands out — haunting, unforgettable, and deeply symbolic of our collective moral failure. Hers is not just the story of a 13-year-old girl from Benue State; it is a painful reminder of what happens when society normalises silence in the face of cruelty.

Ochanya was a bright and hopeful student of the Federal Government Girls College, Gboko, until her life was brutally cut short on October 17, 2018. She died from complications arising from vesicovaginal fistula (VVF), a condition caused by repeated sexual assault. The perpetrators were not strangers lurking in dark alleys but they were family: her guardian, Andrew Ogbuja, a lecturer at the Benue State Polytechnic, and his son, Victor.

Reports later revealed that Ochanya had endured years of sexual violence under their roof in Ugbokolo, Okpokwu Local Government Area. When she finally broke her silence, her body had already borne more trauma than most could imagine. She was admitted to the Federal Medical Centre, Makurdi, where she died a few days later.

Her death sparked outrage. Nigerians, united by collective grief, demanded accountability under the banner of #JusticeForOchanya. Civil society organisations, women’s rights groups, and lawyers mobilised nationwide. For once, it seemed the system would act.

But seven years later, justice remains a mirage.

In April 2022, the Benue State High Court acquitted Andrew Ogbuja, the main suspect, of rape and culpable homicide, citing insufficient evidence. His son, Victor, remains at large. Their matriarch, Felicia Ogbuja, was convicted for negligence and handed a few months jail term, a slap on the wrist that mocked the gravity of the crime.

How does a case so clear, so public, and so painful collapse under the weight of “technicalities”?

The answer lies in a justice system ill-equipped to protect the weak. In Nigeria, sexual and gender-based violence is often treated as private misfortune rather than public crime. According to UNICEF, one in four Nigerian girls experiences sexual violence before the age of 18, but only 4.8 per cent of reported cases ever result in conviction. This statistic is not just a number, it is a damning verdict on our collective failure to protect children like Ochanya.

The legal process that followed her death exposed deep cracks in Nigeria’s justice architecture. Investigations were slow, evidence poorly handled, and witnesses inadequately protected. There were reports of institutional interference, procedural loopholes, and social pressures that diluted the pursuit of truth.

In a functioning system, child sexual assault cases receive priority attention. Evidence is collected within hours, witnesses are shielded from intimidation, and survivors (or their families) are supported with counselling. In Nigeria, the reverse is often the case. Victims are shamed, families are ostracised, and offenders are shielded by status or influence.

But beyond the courtroom, Ochanya’s story raises uncomfortable questions about our society. How many teachers, neighbours, or family friends suspected abuse but said nothing? How many community elders preferred to “settle it quietly”? Silence, in such cases, becomes complicity.

This culture of silence is what sustains impunity. The Child Rights Act of 2003 should have been our strongest weapon against such abuse. Yet, more than two decades later, 11 states, mostly in northern Nigeria have still not domesticated it. Even in states where it exists, enforcement remains weak. Without strong institutions and consistent public pressure, laws become mere words on paper.

From the Diaspora, where systems treat every child’s safety as sacred, it is painful to watch Nigeria stumble repeatedly over the same failures. In countries like Canada or the United Kingdom, a single case like Ochanya’s would trigger sweeping investigations, public apologies, and institutional reform. In Nigeria, it barely sustains public attention for a month. That indifference is deadly.

Justice for Ochanya must go beyond hashtags and memorials. It requires deliberate institutional reform from how police handle sexual crimes to how courts prioritise them. Benue State must reopen the case, locate Victor Ogbuja, and review the 2022 acquittal in light of fresh evidence or procedural lapses. The Federal Ministry of Women Affairs and NAPTIP must coordinate efforts to ensure that child protection is not just a policy goal but a daily practice.

Civil society must also remain vigilant. Organisations like WACOL, FIDA Nigeria, and The Coalition Against Rape and Sexual Violence (CARSV) have done commendable work, but they need sustained funding, collaboration, and public support to continue their advocacy.

Ultimately, justice for Ochanya is not about vengeance, it is about restoring faith in our humanity. Her death should provoke national soul-searching: how many more Ochanyas are suffering in silence across Nigeria today?

Every child deserves protection, dignity, and justice. The measure of any nation’s greatness lies not in its economic strength or political power, but in how it treats its most vulnerable.

Tinubu’s Policy Somersaults and the Search for Economic Direction

By Alabidun Shuaib AbdulRahman

When President Bola Ahmed Tinubu declared “subsidy is gone” on May 29, 2023, he triggered not just applause but also anxiety. The bold announcement, made even before he settled into office, set off a chain reaction that would define his presidency. Nearly 17 months later, what stands out is not just the courage of his decisions but the inconsistency of their execution, a troubling pattern of policy somersaults that have left Nigeria’s economy oscillating between reform and relapse.

The Tinubu administration came into power on the promise of bold economic transformation. It pledged to end wasteful subsidies, unify the exchange rate, overhaul the tax system, and attract investment. Yet, the implementation of these policies has often been marked by haste, reversals, and contradictions, leaving citizens to bear the brunt of experimentation without a clear safety net.

Few policies have shaped the Tinubu era like the removal of fuel subsidy. The logic was sound: the Nigerian government spent over ₦4.7 trillion on subsidies in 2022 alone, according to the Nigeria Extractive Industries Transparency Initiative (NEITI), making it more than the federal budgets for health and education combined. Eliminating it, Tinubu argued, would free up funds for infrastructure and development.

However, the rollout was chaotic. Within weeks, the average petrol price jumped from below ₦200 per litre to ₦617 at major Nigerian National Petroleum Company Limited (NNPCL) stations by July 2023. The National Bureau of Statistics (NBS) later confirmed that the average national retail price surged from ₦238.11 per litre in May 2023 to ₦626.21 by September 2023 — a 226 percent increase in just four months.

By May 2024, NBS data showed another spike, with petrol averaging ₦769.62 per litre nationwide, and even higher in states like Taraba and Rivers. In some private stations in Lagos and Ibadan, prices exceeded ₦850 per litre by late 2024.

The economic consequences were immediate. Transport costs tripled, food inflation soared, and small businesses struggled to survive. What made matters worse was the creeping suspicion that the government had quietly reintroduced a “hidden subsidy.” Independent data from industry analysts revealed that as of mid-2024, the landing cost of petrol was about ₦1,200 per litre, yet it sold for roughly ₦700, suggesting that the federal government was once again absorbing part of the cost.

This backdoor return of subsidy, after its public burial, unapologetically exposed a policy contradiction. The administration that prided itself on fiscal discipline was once again subsidizing consumption, this time without transparency.

Again, Tinubu’s decision to unify the exchange rate and allow the naira to float was meant to end years of distortion in Nigeria’s foreign exchange market. In June 2023, the Central Bank of Nigeria (CBN) merged multiple exchange windows, and the naira initially traded at around ₦750 per dollar.

But the reform quickly turned into a free fall. By September 2024, the naira had tumbled to over ₦1,600 per dollar in the parallel market. In October 2025, Reuters reported it hovering between ₦1,455 and ₦1,475 at the official Investors and Exporters window, a sign that despite the “float,” the CBN had resumed active interventions.

The result was predictable: imported goods became unaffordable, inflation climbed above 30 percent, and investor confidence weakened. Nigeria’s inflation officially stood at 24.23 percent in March 2025, according to the NBS, but food inflation was far higher, eroding household purchasing power.

The policy’s intent to attract foreign inflows was lost amid uncertainty. Businesses couldn’t plan; manufacturers couldn’t price goods; and citizens, already hit by petrol costs, faced a depreciating currency that made survival harder by the month.

Also, in a bid to expand revenue, the Tinubu government launched an ambitious tax reform agenda, establishing the Presidential Committee on Fiscal Policy and Tax Reforms led by Taiwo Oyedele. The committee’s work was well-received, projecting an effort to simplify Nigeria’s complex tax regime and improve collection efficiency.

But at the same time, the government and its agencies imposed new taxes and levies that contradicted the reform spirit. Excise duties on beverages increased, Customs raised import tariffs, and several states introduced new consumption taxes. Manufacturers, already reeling from exchange-rate pressures and high energy costs, began to shut down or relocate.

The Manufacturers Association of Nigeria (MAN) warned in mid-2024 that over 30 percent of its members were operating below capacity, citing rising input costs and multiple taxation. The government’s short-term revenue drive, critics argue, is strangling the very industries that could generate sustainable growth.

Furthermore, in April 2024, the government approved an electricity tariff hike for “Band A” customers, from ₦68 to ₦225 per kilowatt hour, claiming it affected only those receiving at least 20 hours of power daily. But within weeks, public outcry forced a partial reversal. The Minister of Power, Adebayo Adelabu, and the regulatory commission issued conflicting statements, leaving investors uncertain and consumers angry.

The pattern was similar in labour relations. After months of delay, negotiations for a new minimum wage ended in confusion. A proposed ₦70,000 wage was announced, withdrawn, and then reintroduced and yet to be fully implemented across. Each cycle of promise and reversal erodes credibility and deepens public frustration.

To cushion the subsidy shock, the federal government announced a ₦500 billion palliative package, including cash transfers and food distribution. But implementation was chaotic. Governors disagreed on sharing formulas, distribution was politicized, and many citizens reported being left out.

Similarly, the much-publicized student loan scheme, initially announced for September 2023 was delayed for nearly a year, suspended, then relaunched in mid-2024. The repeated stop-start pattern has become emblematic of Tinubu’s governance style: bold announcements followed by administrative bottlenecks.

Tinubu’s reform instinct is not the problem; his reform management is. The administration must move from ad hoc responses to structured execution. Nigeria cannot afford further policy confusion; stability and clarity must now define governance.

First, the President should rebuild coordination within his economic team. The CBN, Ministry of Finance, and Budget Office must speak with one voice. Economic policy cannot thrive when officials contradict one another.

Second, transparency must replace opacity. Nigerians deserve to know how much is spent on fuel subsidy, how forex is allocated, and how palliatives are distributed. Publishing monthly reports on fiscal and monetary interventions would restore trust.

Third, government must prioritize production over taxation. Incentivize manufacturing, reduce energy bottlenecks, and support SMEs through credit facilities. Expanding the economy’s productive base will yield more revenue than squeezing existing taxpayers.

Fourth, social protection needs reengineering. Palliatives should be digital, data-driven, and corruption-proof. The student loan scheme must be managed transparently, not politicized. The poor cannot remain collateral damage in every policy transition.

Finally, President Tinubu must embrace patience. Sustainable reform is not achieved through shock therapy but through gradual, sequenced policies backed by strong institutions. The temptation to reverse decisions under pressure should give way to evidence-based adjustments.

Alabidun is the Editor of Diaspora Watch Newspapers and can be reached via alabidungoldenson@gmail.com

Passport Politics and the Cost of Reputation 

By Alabidun Shuaib AbdulRahman

The Nigerian Senate’s proposal to impose a 10-year passport ban on citizens convicted and deported from foreign countries has opened a serious national debate on justice, image, and identity. The bill, sponsored by Senator Bello Sani Abubakar (APC, Niger North), seeks to amend the Passport (Miscellaneous Provisions) Act, Cap P343, Laws of the Federation of Nigeria, 2004. It aims to deter criminal acts abroad and restore confidence in the Nigerian passport — a symbol of national identity that has, over the years, been battered by global perception.

At first glance, the intent appears patriotic. It was argued that too many Nigerians engage in criminal or unethical activities abroad, damaging the reputation of the country and, by extension, every law-abiding citizen who carries the green passport. Indeed, data from various international agencies suggest that the concern is not unfounded. Between 2019 and 2024, the United States deported about 902 Nigerians, while India deported 1,470 in its 2023–24 fiscal year, citing immigration violations and minor crimes. Similar deportations have been recorded in the UAE, Malaysia, and parts of Europe. Lawmakers contend that these repeated incidents have eroded global trust in Nigerian travellers, resulting in tighter visa scrutiny, denial rates, and the humiliation many experience at airports worldwide.

The proposal, therefore, is designed as a deterrent. A signal that the Nigerian state will not tolerate misconduct abroad and is ready to take decisive measures to protect its image. The logic seems straightforward: if citizens know that crime abroad could cost them their passport for a decade, they might think twice before engaging in it. The move could also assure the global community that Nigeria is policing its own, taking responsibility for the behaviour of its nationals beyond its borders. In a world where perception often shapes policy, such assertiveness could, in theory, help rebrand Nigeria as a nation of accountability.

However, beneath this logic lies a complex moral and legal dilemma. While the desire to defend Nigeria’s image is legitimate, the method proposed risks becoming excessive, even counterproductive. Deportation is not always the outcome of criminality. In many cases, it stems from administrative or civil issues such as expired visas, job loss, or immigration policy changes. To punish deportees with a sweeping 10-year travel ban would mean treating minor infractions and serious crimes as equals, an approach that undermines justice rather than upholds it.

More troubling is the difficulty of verifying the circumstances of conviction abroad. Legal systems differ widely, and not all convictions reflect fair trials. Nigerians living abroad often face racial bias, poor legal representation, and systemic discrimination. To automatically penalise them at home based on foreign judgments could amount to endorsing injustice committed elsewhere. A Nigerian unjustly convicted in an unfair jurisdiction should not return to face additional punishment in his own country. That would be double jeopardy — a violation of Nigeria’s constitutional guarantees of fair hearing and human dignity.

The Senate must also weigh the potential economic and diplomatic fallout. Nigeria’s diaspora community is one of its greatest national assets. According to the World Bank, diaspora remittances totalled $21.9 billion in 2023, a figure that in some quarters surpassed oil earnings. These funds support families, fuel local economies, and stabilise the naira. A policy that stigmatizes deported Nigerians could alienate this vast network of contributors and discourage their engagement with the country. It could also project Nigeria as a state quick to disown its citizens rather than rehabilitate them.

Furthermore, the proposed law raises questions of practicality. How will enforcement work? Will the Nigeria Immigration Service maintain a central database of affected individuals? What oversight will exist to ensure that wrongful inclusion is avoided? In the absence of clear administrative safeguards, the policy could be vulnerable to abuse, selective enforcement, or political manipulation. Nigeria’s bureaucracy has a long history of inconsistent record-keeping and arbitrary decision-making; giving it such sweeping power over citizens’ mobility could easily lead to miscarriages of justice.

On the international stage, the proposed ban sends mixed messages. While some foreign governments may view it as Nigeria taking responsibility for its citizens’ actions, human rights observers might see it as excessive and punitive. Image rehabilitation cannot be achieved merely through punishment. A nation’s reputation improves when it demonstrates fairness, transparency, and a commitment to justice and not when it adopts harsh measures to appear firm. A ten-year passport ban may create the illusion of strength but, in practice, could deepen Nigeria’s reputation for bureaucratic overreach and human rights insensitivity.

The real solution lies not in exclusion but in reform. To reclaim the dignity of its passport, Nigeria must address the root causes driving misconduct and illegal migration. Many Nigerians who fall into legal trouble abroad do so out of desperation. Many are victims of poverty, unemployment, and systemic failure at home. The unemployment rate, which stood at 5% in 2024 (by redefined metrics), still hides a massive informal sector and underemployment crisis. Every year, tens of thousands of young Nigerians risk dangerous migration routes, not because they seek crime, but because they seek opportunity. Criminalising them after deportation without addressing the structural pressures that pushed them out would be a misdiagnosis of the problem.

Examples abound of better approaches. The Philippines once faced similar embarrassment when many of its nationals were jailed or deported from Gulf countries. Rather than punish them, the government introduced reintegration programmes offering skills training, counselling, and financial support. Within a decade, deportation numbers declined, and the country’s global image improved. Nigeria could learn from such models — building systems that reform and reintegrate, rather than alienate, citizens who stumble abroad.

That said, the bill’s underlying message that Nigeria must take its global image seriously is valid. The Nigerian passport ranks 88th globally in the July 2025 Henley Passport Index, with visa-free access to a few countries. This is not just a function of global politics. It reflects how other nations perceive our systems, integrity, and international conduct. Rebuilding trust will require a multi-pronged strategy that includes modernising passport security to meet global standards, curbing domestic corruption, strengthening the justice system, and intensifying diplomatic engagement. These measures, not blanket bans, will persuade the world that Nigeria respects global norms and values.

If properly refined, the bill could still play a constructive role. Rather than imposing a flat ten-year ban, a graded system could be introduced, linking the length of travel restrictions to the severity of the offence. Individuals convicted of serious crimes such as drug trafficking, human trafficking, or cybercrime could face longer restrictions, while those deported for minor infractions might undergo rehabilitation programmes before reinstatement. The law could also include a right of appeal, ensuring that justice remains corrective rather than vindictive.

Ultimately, Nigeria’s challenge is not about passports alone but also about identity and credibility in a rapidly changing world. The green passport has long symbolised both the promise and the paradox of the Nigerian state, proud in potential, yet burdened by perception. Restoring its dignity requires more than punitive laws. It demands moral leadership, institutional reform, and an unwavering commitment to fairness. The Senate’s concern is valid, but the method must be smarter, fairer, and rooted in human rights.

The danger of reactionary legislation is that it mistakes appearances for substance. The true strength of a nation lies not in how harshly it disciplines its citizens but in how justly it governs them. Nigeria will command global respect not when it bans more passports, but when it builds a society where fewer citizens feel compelled to tarnish the nation’s name abroad.