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.

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

When Mercy Betrays Justice, by Boniface Ihiasota

Presidential pardon is meant to be a sacred act — an instrument of compassion used sparingly to correct excesses of the law or ease human suffering. But in Nigeria, it often mutates into a political favour that undermines justice rather than serving it.

President Bola Ahmed Tinubu’s recent exercise of clemency — which reportedly included drug barons and Maryam Sanda, convicted of killing her husband — has provoked deep national outrage. It raises a fundamental question: is the Nigerian presidency using mercy to uphold justice, or to reward privilege?

Under Section 175 of the 1999 Constitution, the President has the power to pardon or commute sentences upon the advice of the Council of State. But constitutional power does not translate to moral righteousness. Mercy must be anchored on fairness, transparency, and moral justification — none of which have been evident in this latest gesture.

The case of Maryam Sanda stands out like a bruise on the conscience of the nation. Convicted in 2020 for the gruesome murder of her husband, Bilyamin Bello, Sanda’s trial was thorough, her conviction upheld through due process. Her sudden pardon, reportedly influenced by family intervention, reeks of class privilege and political influence. It sends a dangerous message — that the wealthy and well-connected can always negotiate their way out of justice.

Even more troubling is the inclusion of convicted drug traffickers. At a time when the National Drug Law Enforcement Agency (NDLEA) is battling to dismantle narcotics syndicates, the Presidency’s pardon of drug offenders undermines years of painstaking enforcement. It emboldens traffickers and discourages officers who risk their lives to keep the country safe.

This is not the first time Nigeria’s leaders have abused the prerogative of mercy. In 2013, President Goodluck Jonathan’s pardon of Diepreye Alamieyeseigha, the ex-Bayelsa governor convicted of corruption, drew global condemnation. It tainted Nigeria’s anti-graft image and emboldened those who see public office as a licence to loot.

The consequences of such indiscriminate pardons are dire. They erode public trust in the judiciary, demoralise judges who labour for years to deliver justice, and delegitimise the rule of law. When presidential pens can nullify judicial rulings overnight, justice becomes negotiable — a commodity for the powerful.

Across the world, the abuse of clemency has produced similar consequences. In South Korea, repeated presidential pardons for convicted ex-presidents Park Geun-hye and Lee Myung-bak sparked nationwide protests, forcing lawmakers to debate curbing the practice. In Brazil, President Jair Bolsonaro’s politically motivated pardon of a far-right ally convicted for attacking the Supreme Court was condemned as an attack on democracy.

In Peru, the 2017 pardon of former dictator Alberto Fujimori, who was serving time for human rights abuses, triggered mass protests and international backlash, forcing courts to overturn the pardon two years later. In South Africa, early releases of politically connected individuals in the name of “national healing” have often deepened public cynicism and distrust in government institutions.

Even in the United States, where presidential pardons are common, the process attracts intense scrutiny. Barack Obama’s clemency programme focused on non-violent drug offenders serving disproportionate sentences. Each pardon was documented publicly to ensure fairness. By contrast, Donald Trump’s pardons of political allies and campaign donors drew sharp criticism, raising concerns of corruption and cronyism.

Nigeria, however, lags behind global accountability standards. The Presidential Advisory Committee on Prerogative of Mercy operates in secrecy. The public is rarely informed of the criteria or rationale for pardons. Were the convicts reformed? Were they victims of judicial error? Or were they simply politically connected? Without transparency, clemency becomes a mockery of justice.

Yet, clemency itself is not the problem. When properly used, it can heal wounds, decongest overcrowded prisons, and give reformed offenders a second chance. In Canada, for instance, pardons (called record suspensions) are carefully reviewed, excluding violent crimes and ensuring public safety. In Germany, presidential pardons are extremely rare and only considered under compelling humanitarian grounds.

Nigeria can learn from these systems. Clemency should prioritise prisoners of conscience, the terminally ill, and those unjustly convicted — not murderers and drug traffickers. The National Assembly should urgently review the constitutional process to introduce transparency, public disclosure, and limits on eligible offences.

Crimes like murder, terrorism, drug trafficking, and grand corruption should not qualify for presidential mercy except under extraordinary humanitarian grounds. A pardon should not erase accountability; it should reflect reform and remorse. Anything less erodes the moral fibre of justice.

Beyond legality, the ethical question looms large: what happens when mercy becomes selective? Thousands of ordinary Nigerians languish in prisons for petty offences, many without trial for years. They are the forgotten souls who deserve presidential mercy — not those whose connections can bend the system.

The late Justice Chukwudifu Oputa once said, “Justice must not only be done but must be seen to be done.” Today, justice in Nigeria is neither seen nor done when presidential mercy is dispensed like patronage.

History shows that unchecked clemency corrodes institutions. If Nigeria continues down this path, we risk normalising injustice and undermining the credibility of our judiciary. The rule of law must remain the ultimate arbiter, not the whims of political benevolence.

Presidential mercy should be a balm for the broken — not a shield for the powerful. To forgive without fairness is to betray the very soul of justice. And when justice becomes negotiable, a nation’s conscience is no longer intact.