Nigeria’s Democracy and the Aluta Continua, by Alabidun Shuaib AbdulRahman

On June 12 every year, Nigerians are invited to celebrate democracy, reflect on the nation’s political journey and renew faith in the ideals upon which the country was founded. Yet beyond the ceremonies and speeches lies a deeper question: what exactly does democracy mean in the Nigerian context?

More than six decades after independence and twenty-seven years after the restoration of civil rule, democracy remains both an achievement and an aspiration. It is an achievement because generations of Nigerians fought, sacrificed and, in some cases, paid the ultimate price to secure the right of self-government. It remains an aspiration because the promise of democracy is yet to be fully realised in the lives of millions of citizens.

This contradiction explains why the phrase “Aluta Continua” continues to resonate. The struggle did not end with independence in 1960. It did not end with the departure of military rulers in 1999. It continues wherever Nigerians seek justice, accountability, opportunity and dignity.

The story of Nigerian democracy cannot be understood without revisiting the long road to independence. British colonial rule, formally consolidated through the amalgamation of the Northern and Southern Protectorates by Lord Frederick Lugard in 1914, created a political entity that brought together hundreds of ethnic nationalities under a single administrative framework. While colonial authorities justified their presence as a civilising mission, the primary objective was economic and strategic.

Nigerians were largely excluded from meaningful participation in governance, while political and economic decisions were taken in the interest of the colonial power. Resistance emerged gradually but steadily. Early nationalists recognised that political freedom was essential if Nigerians were to determine their own destiny.

Among the pioneers of this struggle was Herbert Macaulay, whose political activism laid the foundation for organised nationalism. He challenged colonial policies and inspired a generation of political thinkers who believed that Nigerians deserved self-rule. His efforts were later advanced by figures such as Nnamdi Azikiwe, Obafemi Awolowo and Ahmadu Bello, whose influence shaped the political landscape of the emerging nation. Azikiwe used journalism and political mobilisation to awaken nationalist consciousness. Awolowo articulated a vision of federalism, social welfare and regional development that remains influential today. Ahmadu Bello championed political modernisation in Northern Nigeria while seeking to preserve cultural identity within a rapidly changing environment.

The struggle for independence was not the work of politicians alone. Women, labour leaders, students and intellectuals played indispensable roles. Funmilayo Ransome-Kuti became a formidable voice against colonial oppression and social injustice. Margaret Ekpo mobilised women in the Eastern Region and expanded political participation beyond elite circles. Labour leader Michael Imoudu demonstrated the power of collective action through workers’ movements that challenged exploitative conditions. Anthony Enahoro’s historic motion for self-government in 1953 accelerated constitutional negotiations that eventually culminated in independence. These individuals represented different regions, ideologies and social classes, yet they were united by the conviction that Nigerians should govern themselves.

When independence finally arrived on October 1, 1960, it generated enormous optimism. The lowering of the British flag and the raising of Nigeria’s green-white-green banner symbolised the triumph of self-determination. However, political independence did not automatically translate into democratic consolidation. The years that followed revealed the difficulties of nation-building in a diverse society struggling to reconcile competing interests. Ethnic crises, electoral controversies and regional rivalries undermined the stability of the First Republic. The military coup of January 15, 1966 abruptly ended Nigeria’s first democratic experiment and ushered in a prolonged era of military intervention.

The consequences were profound. The Nigerian Civil War, fought between 1967 and 1970, tested the very survival of the federation. Although the war ended with the preservation of national unity, it exposed deep fractures that continue to influence political discourse. Military governments that followed promised order, discipline and development, yet their rule often concentrated power in ways that weakened democratic institutions. Successive regimes governed through decrees rather than popular consent. Civil liberties were restricted, political opposition was suppressed and public accountability diminished. While some military administrations pursued ambitious development projects, they could not substitute authoritarian command for democratic legitimacy.

Ironically, military rule also produced some of the most determined defenders of democracy. Throughout the 1980s and 1990s, journalists, lawyers, academics, labour activists and students confronted authoritarian governments. Newspapers challenged censorship despite the risk of closure. Human rights advocates defended constitutional freedoms despite harassment and imprisonment. University campuses became centres of political resistance. The slogan “Aluta Continua” became a rallying cry for citizens who believed that freedom required constant vigilance. It reflected a collective understanding that democracy was not merely a constitutional arrangement but a moral and political struggle.

No event illustrates this struggle more vividly than the annulment of the June 12, 1993 presidential election. Widely regarded as Nigeria’s freest and fairest election, the poll was won by Moshood Kashimawo Olawale Abiola, a businessman and philanthropist whose victory transcended ethnic and religious divisions. The decision by the military government to cancel the election triggered widespread outrage. Demonstrations erupted across the country. Civil society organisations intensified their campaigns. Pro-democracy activists faced detention, exile and intimidation. Abiola himself was imprisoned after declaring his mandate and eventually died in custody in 1998. His sacrifice transformed him into an enduring symbol of democratic resistance.

The restoration of civilian rule in 1999 marked a turning point. For the first time since independence, Nigeria began to experience a prolonged period of constitutional governance. Elections were held regularly. Political parties competed for power. Civil society expanded its influence. Courts increasingly became arenas for resolving electoral disputes. The peaceful transfer of power from one political party to another in 2015 was particularly significant, demonstrating that democratic transitions could occur without violence or military intervention. Compared with many periods in its history, Nigeria today enjoys greater political openness and civic participation.

Yet democracy cannot be judged solely by institutional survival. For the average Nigerian, democracy is meaningful only when it improves daily life. A citizen struggling with unemployment, insecurity, daily survival et al is unlikely to be impressed.

According to democratic theory, democracy is government of the people, by the people and for the people. In practice, however, many Nigerians perceive democracy as government of politicians, by politicians and for politicians.

Democracy, in its truest sense, must extend beyond elections. It must create conditions under which citizens can pursue their aspirations with confidence. It must guarantee equal protection under the law. It must ensure that public resources are used for public benefit rather than private enrichment. It must translate political rights into social and economic opportunities.

This is where contemporary Nigeria confronts its greatest challenge. Many citizens feel disconnected from the democratic process because they perceive governance as serving elite interests. Corruption continues to undermine public trust. Infrastructure deficits constrain economic growth. Insecurity threatens lives and livelihoods across various regions. Youth unemployment remains a source of frustration despite the country’s immense human potential. These realities fuel scepticism about whether democracy has delivered on its promises. They also reveal the difference between democratic procedures and democratic outcomes.

Nevertheless, abandoning democracy is not the answer. The failures associated with democratic governance are often failures of leadership and institutions rather than failures of democracy itself. History demonstrates that authoritarian alternatives rarely produce sustainable solutions. The challenge is therefore to deepen democracy rather than retreat from it. This requires stronger institutions, greater transparency, an independent judiciary, credible elections and active citizenship. It requires leaders who understand that public office is a trust rather than an entitlement. It also requires citizens who remain engaged beyond election day and insist that government remains accountable.

The freedom fighters who challenged colonial rule understood that independence was not an end in itself. They envisioned a society in which liberty would create opportunities for development, justice and national progress. The pro-democracy activists who confronted military dictatorship shared a similar belief. They understood that democracy was valuable not because it guaranteed perfection but because it provided the framework through which citizens could peacefully pursue collective aspirations. Their struggles remain relevant because the central questions they confronted have not disappeared.

Nigeria’s democratic journey is therefore best understood as an unfinished project. The country has travelled a remarkable distance from colonial subjugation and military authoritarianism. Yet the destination envisioned by generations of patriots remains ahead. The true meaning of democracy for the ordinary Nigerian is not merely the right to vote every four years. It is the assurance that government exists to serve the people, protect their freedoms and expand their opportunities. Until that promise is fully realised, the spirit of resistance, engagement and hope embodied in “Aluta Continua” will remain essential. The struggle continues not because democracy has failed, but because its highest ideals have yet to be fully achieved.

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

An Open Letter to VDM and the Generation That Could Change Nigeria

By Boniface Ihiasota, Washington DC

Nigeria is standing at a crossroads, and perhaps no generation has carried a heavier burden of expectation than the young people of today. They are the most educated, the most connected, and the most vocal generation in the country’s history. They dominate social media conversations, drive cultural trends across Africa, and power the economy through innovation, entrepreneurship, and sheer resilience. Yet despite their numbers and influence, many still feel trapped in a nation that appears unwilling to reward hard work, honesty, or ambition.

For years, frustration has been building. It is visible in the rising cost of living, the struggle to find jobs, the insecurity that has spread across communities, and the growing exodus of talented Nigerians seeking opportunities abroad. It is heard in the conversations taking place in universities, churches, mosques, marketplaces, and online platforms. Increasingly, young Nigerians are asking a question that previous generations have asked before them: How do we save our country?

The answer is neither glamorous nor revolutionary. It is not found in violence. It is not hidden in anger. It is not waiting in the bush or at the end of a confrontation with the state. The answer lies in something far less dramatic but infinitely more powerful: democratic participation.

This message is directed to every Nigerian youth, but it is also directed to Martins Vincent Otse, popularly known as VeryDarkMan, whose influence among young Nigerians has become impossible to ignore. Through his activism and fearless criticism of authority, he has become a symbol of resistance against injustice. Millions listen when he speaks. Millions share his words. Millions see him as one of the few public voices willing to challenge the powerful without fear. That influence carries responsibility.

History has shown that the most important leaders are not merely those who expose problems but those who help people discover solutions. Awakening public consciousness is important, but awakening alone is not enough. A generation that is fully aware of its problems yet absent from the political process will remain trapped in the same cycle of disappointment.

Across Nigeria today, there is a dangerous temptation to believe that elections no longer matter. Years of disputed outcomes, broken promises, and political betrayals have convinced many citizens that the system is beyond repair. Cynicism has become a national language. For countless young people, hope feels naive..Yet history tells a different story.

The greatest victories in democratic societies have rarely come from perfect systems. They have come from citizens who refused to surrender their voice, even when the odds appeared impossible. Every democratic breakthrough begins with ordinary people deciding that participation is more powerful than despair.

Those who insist that elections cannot change Nigeria often overlook a fundamental truth: voter apathy is one of the strongest allies of bad leadership.

Low voter turnout creates opportunities for manipulation. Empty polling units make electoral malpractice easier. When citizens stay home, powerful interests gain greater control over outcomes. Democracy weakens not only because of corruption but also because of disengagement.

Politicians understand this reality better than many voters do. That is why they spend enormous resources shaping public perception. They know that convincing citizens not to participate can be just as effective as winning their support. Every discouraged voter becomes a silent advantage. Every citizen who concludes that their vote does not matter strengthens the influence of those who benefit from the status quo.

The truth is that political power does not originate in government offices. It originates in the consent of the governed.

The challenge facing Nigeria is often described as an economic crisis, a security crisis, or a governance crisis. In reality, it is all three. Yet beneath each of those challenges lies a common denominator: leadership.

Poor leadership weakens institutions. Poor leadership creates economic instability. Poor leadership undermines public trust and fuels insecurity. The condition of a nation is often a reflection of the quality of leadership entrusted with its future.

This is why the struggle for better governance cannot be separated from the struggle for better political participation. Around the world, examples abound of what determined citizens can accomplish when they choose ballots over bullets.

Dear VDM and other young Nigerians, in Senegal, young voters played a crucial role in reshaping the country’s political future through democratic participation. In Kenya, sustained civic engagement helped end decades of political dominance by a single establishment. In Chile, public dissatisfaction evolved into constitutional reform through organized democratic action rather than armed conflict. In the United States, record youth turnout in recent elections demonstrated the influence younger generations can wield when they choose to engage rather than withdraw.

These nations are different from Nigeria in countless ways. Their histories, institutions, and political cultures are not identical. Yet they share one lesson that transcends borders: meaningful change becomes possible when citizens embrace their power as voters.

Nigeria possesses one of the largest youth populations in the world. Demographically, no force in the country is more powerful. Tens of millions of young Nigerians are eligible to shape elections, influence policy, and determine the direction of national leadership. The question is not whether they have the numbers. The question is whether they possess the collective will.

The coming years may represent one of the most important political moments in Nigeria’s modern history. The decisions made by today’s youth will influence whether the country realizes its extraordinary potential or continues to struggle under the weight of unrealized promises.

The responsibility extends beyond simply obtaining a Permanent Voter Card. Political participation must become a culture rather than an event. Citizens must understand that democracy requires vigilance. Voting is important, but protecting the integrity of the process is equally important. Transparency, accountability, civic education, and peaceful engagement must become permanent features of national life.

Technology has created opportunities previous generations never possessed. Every smartphone can document wrongdoing. Every social media platform can amplify evidence. Every citizen can contribute to a culture of accountability. The digital revolution has transformed ordinary people into powerful witnesses. But technology alone cannot save a nation. Only citizens can.

VDM and Young Nigerians must resist every attempt to divide them along ethnic, religious, or regional lines. The challenges confronting the country do not discriminate between tribe or faith. Poverty has no ethnicity. Insecurity recognizes no religion. Unemployment does not ask where a citizen comes from before destroying opportunity.

The future of Nigeria depends on a generation capable of seeing beyond these divisions and embracing a broader vision of national progress. This is the defining challenge of our time.

For too long, many Nigerians have mistaken outrage for action. They have confused criticism with participation. They have treated social media engagement as a substitute for civic responsibility. Yet nations are not transformed by hashtags alone. They are transformed when citizens convert passion into participation and frustration into organization. The political class does not fear angry posts. It does not fear trending topics. It does not fear online arguments.

What it fears is a generation that registers to vote, shows up in overwhelming numbers, remains engaged throughout the electoral process, demands accountability after elections, and refuses to be manipulated by money, fear, or division. That is the force capable of reshaping Nigeria.

The future of the country will not be determined solely in Aso Rock. It will not be decided by politicians alone. It will be determined by millions of ordinary citizens making extraordinary choices.

The power that many Nigerians seek is not hidden. It is already in their hands. The most powerful weapon in a democracy is not a gun. It is not a protest sign. It is not a social media account. It is a vote. And the day Nigerian youths fully recognize the strength of that power may be the day the country finally begins to change.

Once again, dear VDM, the choice before this generation is simple. It can continue mourning the nation it inherited, or it can participate in building the nation it deserves. History is watching. The future is waiting. And the ballot remains the most powerful instrument of change ever placed in the hands of ordinary people.

Boniface Ihiasota

Correspondent, Washington DC

Excel Magazine International and Diaspora Watch

Owo Verdict and the Death Warrant Question, by Alabidun Shuaib AbdulRahman 

On June 3, 2026, Justice Emeka Nwite of the Federal High Court, Abuja, delivered what may become one of the most consequential terrorism judgments in Nigeria’s recent history. Four men — Idris Abdulmalik Omeiza, Al Qasim Idris, Jamiu Abdulmalik and Abdulhaleem Idris — were sentenced to death by hanging for their roles in the June 5, 2022 massacre at St. Francis Catholic Church, Owo, Ondo State. A fifth defendant was discharged and acquitted for lack of evidence.

The attack remains one of the most horrific acts of terrorism ever recorded in Southern Nigeria. Worshippers were concluding Pentecost Sunday Mass when gunmen opened fire and detonated explosives. More than 40 people were killed, while over 100 sustained injuries. Children, women and entire families were among the victims.

The judgment was widely celebrated as a victory for justice, a triumph for diligent investigation and a demonstration that terrorism can be successfully prosecuted in Nigeria. Yet beneath the applause lies a difficult question that successive governments have carefully avoided: will these death sentences ever be carried out? That question extends far beyond Owo.

It goes to the very heart of Nigeria’s counterterrorism strategy and exposes one of the biggest contradictions in the country’s criminal justice system. Nigeria has become increasingly successful at convicting terrorists. What it has not demonstrated with equal consistency is the willingness to enforce the ultimate punishment prescribed by law.

The consequence is a justice system that often stops at conviction. For victims and their families, that distinction matters. For terrorists and would-be terrorists, it matters even more.

The Boko Haram insurgency, which began in 2009, has become one of Africa’s deadliest conflicts. Thousands have been killed and millions displaced across Borno, Yobe and Adamawa States. Entire communities have been erased from the map. Schools, churches, mosques and markets have been attacked. The humanitarian consequences have stretched across the Lake Chad Basin and beyond.

For years, however, Nigeria struggled to convert arrests into convictions. The turning point came with the establishment of specialised terrorism trials, particularly at the Kainji Detention Facility in Niger State. Since 2017, successive phases of mass terrorism prosecutions have sought to address the backlog of Boko Haram and ISWAP suspects held in custody.

The figures are revealing. Between 2017 and 2018, Nigerian courts convicted 163 terrorism suspects while 887 others were discharged or acquitted after evidence failed to support the allegations against them. Those acquittals were significant because they demonstrated that the courts were not functioning as mere conveyor belts for convictions but were insisting on evidentiary standards.

The process accelerated in July 2024 when another 125 Boko Haram fighters and terrorism financiers were convicted during Phase Five of the Kainji trials. Eighty-five of those convicted were found guilty of terrorism financing offences, while others were convicted for terrorism-related crimes and offences linked to international criminal law.

Subsequent phases have produced additional convictions, making Nigeria’s terrorism prosecution programme one of the largest judicial counterterrorism efforts on the African continent. Yet convictions alone do not tell the whole story. The real dilemma begins after sentencing.

Under Nigerian law, a death sentence does not automatically translate into execution. The convicted person is entitled to exhaust all appeal processes up to the Supreme Court where applicable. Even after the judicial process is concluded, the sentence still requires executive authorisation through a death warrant.

This is where politics enters the courtroom. Governors and presidents frequently find themselves caught between legal obligations and political realities. Human-rights organisations oppose executions on moral grounds. International partners often discourage the use of capital punishment. Religious leaders remain divided. Civil society groups raise concerns about miscarriages of justice. Consequently, death warrants are rarely signed.

The result is a peculiar legal contradiction. Courts pronounce death sentences. Governments preserve the sentences. But executions seldom occur. The condemned remain on death row indefinitely.

The most notable exception in contemporary Nigeria occurred in June 2013 when authorities in Edo State executed four condemned prisoners at Benin Prison after then Governor Adams Oshiomhole signed execution warrants. Human-rights organisations described the hangings as the first known executions in Nigeria since 2006. The action generated immediate national and international controversy. What followed is instructive.

Rather than encouraging wider enforcement of death sentences, the Edo executions appeared to deepen official caution across the federation. Governors became increasingly reluctant to sign warrants, fearing political backlash and international condemnation. Since then, Nigeria has largely operated a de facto execution moratorium despite retaining capital punishment in its statute books.

This ambiguity raises serious questions. Can a state maintain the death penalty as a lawful punishment while simultaneously refusing to implement it? Can a sentence remain credible if everyone understands that it is unlikely to be carried out? Can deterrence exist where punishment lacks certainty?

The Owo massacre was not a spontaneous crime. According to court findings, the convicted men belonged to a terrorist network, participated in planning meetings and executed a coordinated attack involving firearms and explosives against unarmed worshippers. The court also convicted them on counts relating to terrorism financing, hostage-taking, kidnapping and membership of a terrorist organisation.

These are not ordinary criminal offences. Terrorism is designed to intimidate populations, undermine state authority and destabilise society itself. That reality explains why many countries impose exceptional penalties for terrorism-related offences. The issue, therefore, is not whether Nigeria should execute the Owo convicts tomorrow.

The issue is whether Nigeria should continue operating a system in which courts impose punishments that governments appear unwilling to enforce. A mature democracy cannot indefinitely inhabit such a contradiction.

There are only two intellectually coherent options. The first is retention with enforcement. If Nigeria believes terrorism warrants capital punishment, then the state must develop the political courage to implement lawful sentences after all appeals have been exhausted.

The second is abolition through legislation. If policymakers conclude that executions are inconsistent with contemporary human-rights standards, then death sentences should be replaced with life imprisonment without parole for the gravest terrorism offences.

What undermines confidence is the current middle ground. The uncertainty affects victims as much as it affects convicts.

Families who lost loved ones in Owo, Chibok, Baga, Dapchi, Madagali and countless other communities deserve clarity about what justice means under Nigerian law. The rule of law depends not merely on convictions but on consistency.

The Owo judgment has therefore done more than punish four terrorists. It has reopened a national conversation that Nigeria has postponed for too long. The country has invested billions of naira in intelligence gathering, military operations, counter-radicalisation programmes, detention facilities, prosecutions and rehabilitation initiatives. It has improved investigative capacity. It has strengthened terrorism legislation. It has demonstrated increasing competence in securing convictions.

What remains unresolved is the final stage of it. The Owo case now stands as a test. Not simply of the guilt of the convicted men, which the court has already determined, but of the Nigerian state’s willingness to reconcile law with policy.

Whether the answer ultimately favours execution or abolition, one fact is beyond dispute. Justice cannot permanently exist in suspension.

A nation fighting terrorism cannot afford ambiguity where certainty is required. The families who buried their loved ones after that dark Pentecost Sunday in Owo deserve justice. And Nigeria deserves a criminal justice system courageous enough to decide what it truly believes about the death penalty.

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