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.

Now That Tinubu Has Listened … by Alabidun Shuaib AbdulRahman

When President Bola Ahmed Tinubu announced, earlier in October 2025, that 175 individuals had been granted state pardon, clemency, or commutation of sentences, the news was framed as an act of justice, compassion, and correction. It was meant to mark a milestone in the President’s promise of a “renewed hope” administration, one that tempers justice with mercy, and offers a second chance to the reformed.

But in the days that followed, that noble gesture swiftly morphed into a national debate. The backlash was intense, the criticisms unrelenting, and the public mood unmistakably angry. What began as a constitutional exercise soon appeared, to many Nigerians, as a moral misjudgment. And by the end of October, the President was forced to reverse parts of the decision, trimming the list, clarifying the scope, and pledging a review of the process.

Now that Tinubu has listened, the question that must be asked is: What has he really done? And more importantly, what has the entire episode revealed about power, public trust, and governance in Nigeria?

Interestingly, the presidential clemency, announced on October 12, came through the Ministry of Justice and covered 175 individuals across various categories, including pardons, commutations, and reprieves. The list, compiled by the Presidential Advisory Committee on the Prerogative of Mercy (PACPM), included a mix of convicts serving jail terms for drug trafficking, illegal mining, fraud, and violent crimes, alongside some posthumous pardons for historical figures such as nationalist Sir Herbert Macaulay and military officer Major-General Mamman Jiya Vatsa.

The official statement from the Presidency said the exercise aimed to “decongest correctional facilities and promote restorative justice,” in line with Section 175 of the 1999 Constitution. It added that the beneficiaries were selected after “due consideration of factors such as age, ill health, good conduct, and evidence of reformation.”

But almost immediately, Nigerians began to ask: Who decides what qualifies as reformation? Were victims consulted? And how do you justify extending clemency to persons convicted of drug-related and violent crimes in a country still reeling under the weight of insecurity, substance abuse, and moral decline?

Social media erupted in outrage. Civil society groups issued statements condemning the exercise as tone-deaf and insensitive. Legal experts questioned the criteria used. Families of victims expressed disbelief that individuals convicted of offences like armed robbery and homicide could be released or have their sentences reduced without public consultation. The backlash was swift and brutal.

In a nation, moral-wise, already struggling with eroded trust in institutions, Tinubu’s clemency decision struck a nerve. Critics argued that mercy, though constitutional, must not be exercised in a way that undermines justice or public confidence.

For many Nigerians, the pardon list symbolised the very thing they feared about governance, a system that protects the powerful while ignoring victims.

Several high-profile inclusions stirred the controversy. Among those initially listed were convicts serving long sentences for drug trafficking, one for cocaine importation, and another for illegal mining, crimes that continue to destabilise communities and the economy. The perception was that Tinubu’s clemency ignored the gravity of the offences and the broader social harm they caused.

Public intellectuals and editorial boards joined the fray. The Punch editorial of October 24th described the move as “reckless leniency,” arguing that it “trivialises justice and weakens deterrence.” Others accused the government of seeking cheap populism through arbitrary mercy.

Facing a public rage, President Tinubu’s team scrambled to regain control of the narrative. On October 29, just over two weeks after the initial announcement, the Presidency issued a revised statement.

The revised list, according to The Cable and Channels TV, was trimmed from 175 names to about 120. Persons convicted of serious crimes, including kidnapping, armed robbery, human trafficking, large-scale drug trafficking, and unlawful possession of firearms were either removed entirely or had their full pardons converted into partial sentence reductions.

The Presidency clarified that the revision followed “a fresh security and legal review” by the Attorney-General of the Federation and that the decision was taken “to be sensitive to the feelings of victims and society at large.”

It was also announced that the Secretariat of the Presidential Advisory Committee on the Prerogative of Mercy would henceforth operate under the Federal Ministry of Justice, rather than the Office of the Secretary to the Government of the Federation, to ensure “greater legal oversight and due process.”

While the reversal calmed the outrage, it raised deeper questions about the integrity of governance processes. How did such a controversial list pass through layers of bureaucratic scrutiny before reaching the President’s desk? And why did it take public uproar for corrections to be made? Tinubu’s reversal, though commendable, underscored a reactive style of governance that bends to outrage rather than pre-empting it through consultation and moral foresight.

In fairness, listening to public sentiment is not weakness, it is a democratic strength. Tinubu deserves credit for acknowledging the outcry and acting promptly. But the larger issue is systemic. The episode exposed the opaque nature of Nigeria’s clemency system. The Presidential Advisory Committee on the Prerogative of Mercy operates largely behind closed doors, with minimal public oversight. There is no clear national framework defining who qualifies for mercy, how victims’ perspectives are integrated, or what accountability measures follow a pardon.

In contrast, countries like South Africa, Ghana, and Kenya have more transparent systems. In South Africa, for instance, clemency applications are published publicly, judicial advice is sought, and reasons for each decision are documented. These procedures protect both the President and the public from perceptions of bias or impunity. Nigeria lacks such guardrails, leaving presidential mercy vulnerable to political manipulation or poor judgment.

If Tinubu truly wishes to turn this episode into a learning moment, the next step must be institutional reform. A National Clemency Policy should be developed under the Ministry of Justice, detailing eligibility criteria, consultation procedures, and exclusions. Certain crimes such as terrorism, kidnapping, rape, large-scale corruption, murder, drug-trafficking and violent offences should be explicitly barred from pardon. Victims’ rights should also be central to the process, ensuring that their pain is neither ignored nor overridden by political convenience.

Moreover, post-pardon monitoring should be introduced to ensure that beneficiaries truly reintegrate into society as reformed citizens. Without such mechanisms, clemency risks becoming a revolving door for repeat offenders, weakening public trust and emboldening criminality. Mercy, when detached from accountability, is indistinguishable from impunity.

The deeper implication of Tinubu’s reversal lies in what it says about public trust. Nigerians are weary of governance that appears tone-deaf to moral and social realities. Every decision that seems to favour the powerful or the undeserving erodes faith in the system. For years, citizens have watched politicians, officials, and well-connected individuals escape justice through legal technicalities or political cover. The clemency controversy reopened old wounds, reminding many of a recurring theme: that justice in Nigeria is too often a privilege, not a right.

Tinubu’s decision to review the list, therefore, must mark more than damage control; it must signal a renewed commitment to principled governance. Listening is good, but leading is better. A president should not have to wait for outrage to do what is right. Leadership demands foresight, the moral clarity to anticipate public reaction and align decisions with the nation’s conscience.

The lesson from this controversy is clear. Mercy, when rightly exercised, strengthens justice; but when misused, it trivialises it. The prerogative of mercy was never meant to serve as a political tool or public relations gesture. It exists to balance the scales of justice when the law, in its rigidity, risks losing its humanity. For it to achieve that noble purpose, it must be guided by transparency, fairness, and integrity.

Now that Tinubu has listened, he stands at a crossroads. He can either let this controversy fade as another episode in Nigeria’s long history of public uproar and government retreat, or he can seize it as a turning point, one that ushers in a more accountable, morally grounded system of justice. The path he chooses will define not just his presidency but also the moral tone of governance in the years to come.

The clemency debate, at its core, was never about law alone. It was about values, about what kind of country Nigeria wants to be: one that prioritises compassion with conscience or one that mistakes pardon for weakness. The President’s reversal was necessary, but the journey toward reform has only just begun. Nigerians have spoken; Tinubu has listened. The next challenge is to act not for applause, but for posterity.

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

The Coup That Wasn’t — And the Cry Behind the Rumour

By Boniface Ihiasota

Every time Nigeria sneezes, its diaspora community catches a chill. That was the feeling last week when whispers of a coup plot in Nigeria began to swirl through social media timelines and WhatsApp groups. From London to Toronto, Houston to Johannesburg, the rumour spread faster than fact. Suddenly, Nigeria, the Africa’s most populous democracy was trending for the wrong reasons again.

The Defence Headquarters (DHQ) has since dismissed the reports as false, describing them as a “malicious fabrication” intended to create fear and undermine confidence in the military and government. According to its statement, there was no coup attempt, no arrests of officers, and no link between the cancellation of activities marking Nigeria’s 65th Independence anniversary and any alleged plot. The military, it insisted, remains “loyal to the Constitution and committed to democratic governance.”

End of story? Not quite.

Because even from the diaspora, one could sense the unease behind the denial. It may not necessarily about tanks on the streets, but about the growing tension that makes such rumours believable in the first place.

Let’s face it: coup rumours don’t thrive in healthy societies. They feed on public frustration — on anger about fuel prices, inflation, insecurity, and a sense that government has stopped listening. The fact that Nigerians even found the rumour plausible says more about the fragile state of trust than about any actual mutiny.

Those of us watching from afar couldn’t help but wince at the déjà vu. We’ve been here before. In the late 1980s and 1990s, when military rule cast a long shadow over Nigeria, the diaspora carried two emotions at once: fear for those at home, and shame before the world. The word “Nigeria” became synonymous with instability. Many of us had to explain over and over again that our homeland was not defined by coups, corruption, or chaos.

So when another coup story surfaces, even if false, it scrapes old wounds. It reminds Nigerians abroad of the fragile threads that still bind our democracy.

Yet, the most striking part of this latest rumour was not that it happened, but that people believed it could. That tells you everything you need to know about the crisis of confidence in governance today.

In conversations among Nigerians abroad, one sentiment keeps recurring: people are not afraid of soldiers with guns; they are afraid of politicians without conscience. When citizens feel unprotected, unheard, and uncertain of tomorrow, democracy begins to lose its moral weight. And when democracy no longer delivers hope, people start looking, even unconsciously, toward the men in uniform again.

That is the real danger.

The Defence Headquarters deserves commendation for responding swiftly and firmly to dispel the misinformation. But beyond rebuttals, government must confront the deeper issue: the erosion of public trust. For a population struggling under economic hardship and rising insecurity, words alone cannot restore faith. Action must.

Diaspora Nigerians understand that democracy, though messy and imperfect, is still better than the clean efficiency of dictatorship. We remember what coups bring — silence, fear, and stagnation. We know that nations rise not by the barrel of a gun but by the ballot of a people. But for that truth to hold, governance must be seen to serve the governed.

What many Nigerians abroad long for is not perfection but progress, that is, a system that listens, that works, that corrects itself when wrong. The rumour of a coup may have been false, but it emerged from a place of real despair, where hunger meets hopelessness, and where patriotism is tested daily by power outages, inflation, and broken promises.

If Nigeria’s leaders truly want to make coup rumours impossible, they must make democracy meaningful again. They must give citizens a reason to defend the system, not merely endure it.

As the Defence Headquarters reaffirmed its loyalty to democracy, it also indirectly reminded us that the burden of defending the nation’s stability rests not only on soldiers but also on statesmen. Stability grows when justice is fair, when opportunity is shared, and when leadership carries empathy, not arrogance.

From where we stand abroad, Nigeria’s resilience remains its saving grace. Our people have survived everything. Be it coups, civil wars, corruption, and the failures of leadership and yet they remain unbroken. But resilience is not infinite. It must be rewarded with responsive governance and renewed hope.

So, while this coup rumour may fade into the archive of false alarms, the message it carried should not be ignored.

Nigeria doesn’t need soldiers in power. It needs leaders who remember that power is service.

And as we in the diaspora watch, pray, and sometimes weep for our homeland, we hold on to one truth that democracy, though bruised, must never be buried. Because once the sound of marching boots replaces the noise of debate, the dream of a better Nigeria will have been postponed again.