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

Commercialisation of Banditry and Its Consequences for Nigeria, by Boniface Ihiasota

By all indications, banditry in Nigeria has evolved from a security challenge into a lucrative criminal enterprise. What began as sporadic attacks by armed groups in parts of the North-West has transformed into a sophisticated economy of violence, sustained by ransom payments, extortion, illegal taxation, cattle rustling, and human trafficking. The latest abduction of schoolchildren and teachers in Oriire Local Government Area of Oyo State has once again exposed the dangerous commercialisation of insecurity and the grave implications for Nigeria’s future.

On May 15, 2026, armed terrorists attacked schools in Esiele, Yawota and Alawusa communities in Oyo State, abducting dozens of pupils and teachers. Reports indicate that a teacher was killed during the attack, while another was reportedly murdered in captivity. The kidnappers subsequently made a series of demands, including a reported ₦1 billion ransom, release of detained associates and other conditions. While some claims regarding ideological demands remain unverified, the ransom component underscores a familiar pattern that has become central to Nigeria’s kidnapping economy.

The Oyo incident is not an isolated case. Over the past decade, schoolchildren have increasingly become targets because they represent high-value bargaining assets. From the abduction of the Chibok girls in Borno State in April 2014 to the Kankara schoolboys in Katsina State in December 2020, criminal groups have discovered that mass kidnappings attract publicity, pressure governments and often generate substantial financial rewards. According to reports, nearly 1,900 students have been abducted from schools across Nigeria since the Chibok tragedy.

What is particularly alarming is that banditry is no longer driven solely by ideology or communal grievances. It has become a business model. Armed groups now maintain supply chains, informant networks, negotiators, financiers and logistical operatives. Some communities pay protection levies to avoid attacks, while families are compelled to sell land, livestock and lifelong savings to secure the release of loved ones. The result is a parallel criminal economy that thrives on fear and weak state presence.

The financial incentives are enormous. Security analysts have repeatedly warned that ransom payments, whether made publicly or secretly, encourage further kidnappings. Criminal gangs quickly learn that abducting vulnerable targets such as schoolchildren, teachers, farmers and travellers guarantees attention and potential profit. In many cases, successful ransom collections finance the purchase of motorcycles, communication equipment and recruitment of additional fighters, thereby sustaining the cycle of violence.

The consequences for Nigeria are devastating. First is the erosion of public confidence in the state’s ability to protect lives and property. When parents fear sending their children to school, education suffers. Communities affected by repeated attacks experience population displacement, declining agricultural productivity and economic stagnation. Reports from several conflict-affected areas show that many children have abandoned schooling due to fear of abduction.

Second, the spread of kidnapping from traditional hotspots in the North-West to states in the South-West demonstrates that no region is immune. The Oyo abduction signals a troubling geographical expansion of criminal networks and raises concerns about the security of educational institutions nationwide.

Third, commercialised banditry threatens national cohesion and investment. Investors are reluctant to commit resources where insecurity is pervasive, while citizens become increasingly distrustful of public institutions. The economic cost is measured not only in ransom payments but also in lost productivity, reduced foreign investment and rising security expenditures.

Nigeria must therefore move beyond reactive responses. Security operations should be complemented by financial intelligence, prosecution of ransom facilitators, disruption of criminal funding channels and stronger community-based intelligence gathering.

Equally important is ensuring that schools, particularly in vulnerable rural areas, are adequately protected.

The tragedy unfolding in Oyo is a reminder that banditry flourishes when crime becomes profitable. Unless the economic incentives driving kidnapping are dismantled, Nigeria risks allowing a criminal marketplace to become permanently embedded within its national security landscape.