There are moments when a chair becomes much more than a chair. The controversy at the 60th birthday celebration of the Olota of Ota, Oba Adeyemi Obalanlege, is one of those moments. Former President Olusegun Obasanjo attended the ceremony alongside the Ooni of Ife, Oba Adeyeye Ogunwusi, and other dignitaries. When he was reportedly informed that a particular chair had been reserved for the Ooni, he insisted on sitting in it. He subsequently explained his position in terms of the superiority of presidential office over kingship, saying, in substance, that when a President is present, he should receive greater honour than any king.

That explanation is where the real problem begins. Nobody should quarrel with the constitutional importance of the presidency. Nobody should also dispute the enormous stature of Olusegun Obasanjo. He is a former Head of State, former President, retired military officer and one of the most consequential Nigerians of the last half century. Nigerian law itself recognises special protocol for former Heads of State, placing them in third position at public functions after the serving President and serving Vice President.

But there is a difference between being accorded protocol as a former President and behaving as though the presidency is a permanent personal possession. A former President is not the President.

That distinction should be obvious to Obasanjo more than to most people. The office belongs to the Republic. The occupant changes. The authority of the office continues, but it does not follow the individual home after his tenure and remain permanently available for personal deployment.

This is precisely why the Ota episode deserves something more serious than the usual social media quarrel over who should sit where. The issue is not whether Obasanjo deserves honour.

He does.

The issue is whether the honour attached to an office once occupied can be converted into a continuing personal authority to determine the protocol of every gathering the former occupant attends.

There is an uncomfortable irony here.

Obasanjo has previously been emphatic about protocol, hierarchy and the distinction between constitutional authority and traditional authority. In Iseyin in September 2023, he ordered traditional rulers to stand and honour Governor Seyi Makinde. He told them that in Yoruba culture, age and position are respected, and argued that while a governor remains in office, his position is superior to that of any monarch. He went further, insisting that “there is constitution and there is culture. One must not disturb the other.”

That statement should now be returned to its author. There is constitution and there is culture. There is also protocol.

And protocol cannot be invoked only when it confirms one’s preferred position.

If a serving governor’s constitutional office must be respected even by traditional rulers, then the former occupant of a constitutional office must equally understand the limits of his present position. If a monarch must recognise the authority of a sitting governor, the former governor does not acquire the authority of the present governor merely because he once occupied the office.

The same principle applies to the presidency. Obasanjo was President. He is no longer President.

The difference is not semantic.

It is the foundation of orderly public life.

There is another point that deserves attention. If the account of the Ota incident is accurate, the issue did not arise from some anonymous seating error discovered after everyone had sat down. The reports say Obasanjo was informed that the chair was intended for the Ooni and nevertheless insisted on taking it.

That changes the character of the incident. Had the protocol officers mistakenly placed him in the wrong chair, responsibility would principally belong to the organisers. A competent protocol team should have anticipated the presence of a former President and an eminent traditional ruler and arranged the seating accordingly.

But once the former President was made aware of the arrangement, the responsibility became personal. He could have smiled and moved to another chair.

He could have asked the organisers to clarify the protocol. He could even have quietly allowed the matter to pass.

Instead, according to the reports, he asserted a principle. And that principle deserves examination. The danger in Obasanjo’s argument is not that he places constitutional office above traditional office in the appropriate constitutional context. There is considerable truth in the distinction. A traditional ruler does not exercise the constitutional powers of a serving President.

The difficulty is extending that distinction into a personal claim of permanent precedence after leaving office.

Nigeria’s law itself does not do that.

The law gives former Heads of State recognised protocol. It does not turn them into sitting Presidents. Indeed, the statutory order of precedence makes the distinction unmistakable: the serving President comes first, the serving Vice President second, and former Heads of State follow in third position.

That is the language of a constitutional democracy. The former President is honoured. The former President is respected.The former President retains dignity.

But the former President has left the office.

Perhaps this is the deeper difficulty with Obasanjo’s public life in retirement. He has left government several times, but he has never entirely left the psychology of government.

He remains extraordinarily present. He intervenes in elections. He writes letters to Presidents. He summons political leaders into his conversations. He lectures governors. He advises political parties. He rebukes traditional rulers. He offers prescriptions for democracy. He pronounces on national morality. He speaks about Africa with the authority of a man who has spent a lifetime at the centre of its political history.

Much of that is legitimate. A former leader does not lose his citizenship or his right to speak merely because his tenure ends. But speaking is different from commanding.

Advice is different from authority. Moral influence is different from constitutional power. And respect is different from submission.

This distinction appears increasingly important in the Obasanjo story.

At the 65th birthday celebration of former Ekiti Governor Ayo Fayose in November 2025, Obasanjo’s remarks again became a subject of controversy. His words about Fayose combined praise with a pointed reminder that the celebrant was not, in his assessment, the best of his political children. Fayose subsequently complained about the manner in which the occasion unfolded and said Obasanjo’s intervention had provoked him intensely. Those later claims are Fayose’s account and should be treated as such.

But the episode belongs to a larger pattern: Obasanjo rarely enters a public gathering merely as another guest.

He enters with a history. He enters with authority. He enters with opinions.

And often, he enters with a verdict.

That is the extraordinary thing about Obasanjo and also, increasingly, the thing that requires interrogation.

Experience can produce wisdom.

It can also produce certainty.

Certainty can produce authority.

And authority, when insufficiently restrained, can produce the assumption that one’s judgement must prevail. That is where even great men require caution.

Obasanjo has spent decades teaching Nigerians about leadership, discipline, responsibility and respect for institutions. He should therefore be held to a higher standard, not a lower one. His defenders will say that he has earned the right to speak his mind.

Of course he has.

But earning the right to speak does not confer the right to be obeyed.

He has earned respect. He has not earned perpetual incumbency. He has earned a place in Nigerian history.

He has not earned ownership of the Nigerian present. This is why the Ota chair matters. It is a small stage on which a much larger question has appeared.

Can a former President distinguish between the dignity that belongs to the office he once occupied and the authority that belongs to the person occupying it today? Can an elder statesman respect protocol when protocol does not favour him? Can a man who has spent a lifetime insisting that others recognise hierarchy recognise when the hierarchy has changed.

And perhaps the most uncomfortable question of all: can Obasanjo accept that there are occasions when his judgement is simply not the final judgement?

Nobody should pretend that Olusegun Obasanjo is an ordinary former office holder. His life is too large for that. His contributions to Nigeria and Africa cannot be erased by one controversy, nor should they be. But greatness carries obligations.

The greater the history, the greater the responsibility to understand the limits of personal authority.

The soldier who once gave orders must eventually learn the difference between an order and an opinion. The President who once occupied the highest elective office must eventually accept the humility of being a former President.

The elder statesman who lectures others about institutions must submit himself to the institutions and protocols that outlive him.

Otherwise, retirement becomes only a change of title.

Obasanjo has left Aso Rock. He has left the Presidency. He has left government. But watching him across the years, one is sometimes left with the uncomfortable impression that the Presidency never quite left him.

That is the real meaning of the chair at Ota.

It was never really about a chair. It was about whether an office can end in law while remaining alive in the psychology of the man who once occupied it.

For Obasanjo, that question has now become impossible to avoid. Former President is a title of honour. It is not another name for President.

And no matter how distinguished the former occupant may be, the Republic must always remain larger than the man who once ruled it.

*Ogundipe, Public Affairs Analyst, former President of Nigeria and Africa Union of Journalists writes from Abuja.

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The post Obasanjo: The ex-president who refused to leave office appeared first on Frontpageng.

Election cycles are when politicians and spin doctors go down memory lane to exhume ghosts of the past. Anything to get at the opponent. Anything to gain the advantage. Suddenly, we are being told again how the leader of the Yoruba, Chief Obafemi Awolowo, “betrayed” his Igbo counterpart, Dr. Nnamdi Azikiwe, and how the so-called 1951 carpet-crossing in the Western Regional House of Assembly resulted into the loss of trust and confidence between the Yoruba and Igbo that have refused to go away. The much talked-about “handshake across the Niger” is said to have become elusive since that time. Will the political gulf between two of the country’s biggest ethnic groups ever be bridged?

The starting point, according to some analysts, is to first unearth the truth. Was there really anything remotely resembling carpet-crossing in the Western Regional House of Assembly in 1951? And was Zik coasting home to victory – to become premier of the Western Region on the ticket of the National Council of Nigeria and the Cameroons (NCNC) – but for the carpet-crossing? Did Chief Awolowo orchestrate the carpet-crossing to upstage Zik and become premier of the Western Region instead? Did Zik and, by extension, the Igbo, in retaliation, prefer afterwards to ally with the North instead of Awo and the Yoruba?

The 2023 presidential election rested on the tripod of North (Fulani), East (Igbo), and West (Yoruba). The Yoruba man, Asiwaju Bola Ahmed Tinubu, carried the day. Atiku Abubakar (Fulani) and Peter Obi (Igbo) lost the election. The election proved that in the absence of a handshake across the Niger, either of the East (Igbo) or the West (Yoruba) can still achieve the goal of cornering the presidency if they succeed in building an alliance with the North. Tinubu’s success hinged on that realization; conversely, Atiku and Obi’s failure was explained by their inability to work together.

True, then, is the saying that the failure of the children of the serpent to move in groups is what makes them easy prey for adversaries. Once bitten, twice shy, but have Atiku and Obi learnt any lessons? Has morbid ambition not blindfolded them to the stark reality of another failure if they choose, again, to hunt separately?

Failure is not only an orphan, it comes as well with lorry-loads of excuses, many of which are manufactured ahead of time. One such excuse – if Obi fails again in 2027 – is 1951! But what actually happened in 1951?

Below is an account for readers to peruse. Titled “NCNC DID NOT WIN THE 1951 WESTERN REGION ELECTIONS”, it runs thus: “UNLIKE the Fulanis and the Ibos whose everlasting desire is to dominate Nigeria from Sokoto to Lagos, Port Harcourt to Maiduguri, the Yorùbá have never been comfortable with the Nigerian Union. Their noble desire is for a peaceful separation. This was the reason for Awolowo’s proposal for a SECESSION CLAUSE in the constitution. While it was supported by Ahmadu Bello, it was strongly opposed by Azikiwe because it didn’t conform to the domineering ambition of the Ibos. The colonial masters supported Azikiwe’s position because it fitted into their own agenda to keep us perpetually chained to them.

“In pursuit of his conquest, Azikiwe made immense effort through the NCNC to be the Premier of the Western Region when it was time for the elections and in 1951. However, when the NCNC lost out, instead of Azikiwe to nobly accept defeat, he went to town through the propaganda machinery of his newspaper, The West African Pilot, to claim that NCNC won but the results were manipulated to favour the Action Group (AG).

“Anyway, the following are the accurate records, as against beer parlour and Ochanja market concoction. The stubborn fact of history that propagandists will not talk about is that the continuous false claim of NCNC’s victory in the 1951 Western Region election was challenged in court in 1959 by Awólọ́wọ̀, Akintola and Rotimi Williams in suits No. 1/58/59, 1/50/59, 1/60/59. Judgement was passed against Azikiwe and The West African Pilot for their false claims that NCNC won the elections but were denied victory by the illegal activities of the litigants. The court ruled that the claim was false and libelous. Each of the litigants was awarded £3,500 as damages with £250 as cost in 1961. This made a total of £11,250 against the accused.

“Yet, 10 years later in 1971, Azikiwe still wrote in his book “MY ODYSSEY”: ‘The NCNC was under the impression that it had won 43 seats out of 80’ but 20 of the legislators whom they ‘regarded as members, supporters or sympathisers’ aligned themselves with the Action Group!’ (Witness the way the allegations were cleverly, deceptively, and maliciously couched!).

“For goodness sake, what has your illusory impression got to do with the reality on ground? Unfortunately, this lie from the pit of hell was also echoed by the likes of M. T. Mbu and Ozumba Mbadiwe and it has become the sing-song of the Ibos (till) today.

THE FOLLOWING ARE THE FACTS OF HISTORY

“The first political party in Nigeria was the Nigerian National Democratic Party (NNDP) formed by Herbert Olayinka Macaulay (a Yoruba man) on June 24, 1923. It was formed to demand for self-government from the colonialists. It existed till it transformed to the National Council of Nigeria and the Cameroons (NCNC) in 1944 after Ahmadu Bello formed the Northern Peoples Congress (NPC) in August 1943.

“All southern politicians and political leaders of all tribes (including Awolowo) were in NCNC until 1946 when Macaulay died and Zik took over. Within three years of Zik’s takeover, all key political positions in the NCNC had been thoroughly Ibolised (to the extent that, today, NCNC is only remembered as an Ibo party).

“When Awo realised that his progressive vision for Nigeria could not be realised under an Ibo-controlled NCNC and the parochial leadership of Azikiwe, he decided to transform his Ẹgbẹ̀ Ọmọ Odùduwà to the Action Group (AG) registered on 21st March, 1951. Very many Yorùbá and some Mid-Westerners joined the AG while many Yorùbá still remained in the NCNC.

“However, many Ìbàdàn indigenes who also left the NCNC with Awo grouped together as Mábọlájẹ́ Grand Alliance and decided to register on June 21, 1951 as Ibadan Peoples Party (IPP) with Augustus Meredith Adisa Akinloye as their leader. It was under this banner that they contested the September 1951 elections. They never contested as NCNC candidates.

THE ELECTIONS

“Mr. Harold Cooper was the colonial government’s  Public Relations Officer. In early August 1951, he requested all the political parties wishing to field candidates for the September elections to submit the names of (their) candidates… In the West Regional Assembly, 80 seats were to be contested for, but elections in 5 seats for Lagos and 3 seats for Mid-West were postponed due to security reasons. Therefore, 72 seats were contested on 24th September, 1951.

“AG won 38 of the seats. The 5 Lagos seats which were contested for on November 20, 1951 were all won by NCNC candidates. The 3 seats of Mid-West that were conducted on December 6, 1951 were all won by Otu Edo candidates. This completed the 80 seats. The rule was that the party with at least 41 seats shall form the government… Three AG Secretaries and another candidate under AG who contested as independent candidates won. Total = 4. Thus, the total number of AG candidates for the assembly was already 42…

“Therefore, without a coalition, AG had crossed the winning line and were already qualified to form the government of the Western Region. Candidates of other parties that joined AG did so with common sense and the desire to partake in the government of the ruling party rather than aligning with the opposition. Even if they all joined with NCNC, their maximum number of 38 wouldn’t nullify AG’s position as the winner.

“Note that the (non-AG) candidates were not NCNC members as at the time of the elections and did not contest under NCNC. They won their elections as candidates of their own independent parties. Their joining (forces) with the AG was not an overnight decision. The elections were concluded on December 6, 1951 and the assembly was inaugurated on January 7, 1952. Negotiation took place long before the inauguration…

“Yet, Zik went public, without any proof whatsoever, to claim that many of the candidates that were declared winners under the AG were NCNC candidates! He said all 6 IPP members were really NCNC candidates. He also claimed that the other party candidates that declared for AG were NCNC members who “cross carpet”. When? How? No explanations! No evidence!

“This made Mr. Cooper call a post-election news conference in Lagos where he said: ‘Of the winning candidates, the names of 38 were on the list sent to me by the Action Group. The six successful candidates at Ibadan were all among those who had been identified to me as representing the Ibadan People’s Party. No claim of any kind had reached us about the party affiliation of the remaining successful candidates.’”

“These are not invented tales. The records of all elections conducted by the colonial administration are available at the National Archives in Nigeria and in the archives of the Colonial Administration office in London. They are accessible to any diligent enquirer.”

Now, shouldn’t an information as detailed as the one provided above be enough to lay to rest, once and for all, the tales by the moonlight of how so-called carpet-crossing allegedly engineered by Awo robbed Zik of the coveted prize of the premiership of the Western Region in 1951? And should such wild but unsubstantiated claims still continue to influence Yoruba/Igbo relations?

St. Charles Osogbo Old Students give back to alma mater

The 76 set of Charleans, also known as Stanza 726, has celebrated their 50th graduation anniversary with the theme “Together, Taking St. Charles To The Top”,  with the commissioning of a number of projects for the upliftment of their alma mater.

The projects include the reactivation of the water tank base of the School’s main borehole, repair of the 1kva solar energy machine, supply of two extra-large storex tanks and increase of the distribution points from five to 10, with a six-month maintenance guarantee.

Moreover, to aid security measures already put in place, the old students also provided a security post for the use of the School security personnel. The total cost of the projects was put at about N4 million.

Speaking at the event, which took place at the SCOBA Alumni Hall within the school premises, Solomon Jemilehin, coordinator of the 726 Stanza, thanked God Almighty for the grace given to all of them to witness their 50th anniversary celebration. He disclosed that although they were 100 at graduation, 20 of their members have since passed on.

Delivering the keynote address on behalf of the SCOBA Global President, Atilola Odudare, the Global Vice President 1 of SCOBA, Dr. Tunde Owojori, described members of Stanza 726 as “one of the forces behind the successes recorded by SCOBA over the years” and prayed for more fruitful years ahead for them.

Also speaking at the event, Professor Babatunde Adélékè preached for peace as he appealed to Stanza 789 to return to the fold and join hands with the rest of the family to continue the good work at St Charles.

Jimilehin, aka Rajah, and I met and became friends at Osogbo, the capital of present-day Osun state,  in 1976/77. I was an auxiliary teacher at Osogbo Grammar School while Rajah worked at Mandilas across the road. Behind Mandilas was the grotto of world-acclaimed artiste, Twin Seven Seven. Those were days when boys were boys!

*Bolawole (turnpot@gmail.com 0807 552 5533), former Editor of PUNCH newspapers, Chairman of its Editorial Board and Deputy Editor-in-chief, was also the Managing Director/ Editor-in-chief of the Westerner newsmagazine. He writes the “ON THE LORD’S DAY” column in the Sunday Tribune and “TREASURES” column in the New Telegraph newspapers. He is also a public affairs analyst on radio and television.

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The post Revisiting 1951 Western Regional House of Assembly cross-carpeting saga… appeared first on Frontpageng.

At just 56, Dotun Oladipo has left us far too soon.

John Donne, the 17th-century English poet and cleric, wrote words more than four centuries ago that seem almost written for a moment such as this: “No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; and if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friends or of thine own were; any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.”

Those words have stayed with me since I first encountered them. I have returned to them at moments of profound loss, including the tragedy of the Bellview Airlines crash in October 2005. But I never imagined that I would one day find myself returning to them to make sense of the death of Dotun Oladipo.

For whom, indeed, does the bell toll?

It tolls for Dotun. But it also tolls for all of us.

It tolls for the journalists who worked with him, for the publishers he mentored, for the members of the Guild of Corporate Online Publishers (GOCOP) whom he served and strengthened, for the readers who encountered his journalism, and for the many people whose lives he touched in ways that perhaps became fully apparent only after his death.

It tolls for me too.

The first time I invoked the title of Donne’s famous meditation, ‘Death Be Not Proud’, was in October 2005, in a reflective article on the October 22, 2005, Bellview Airlines Boeing 737-200 crash.

On Sunday, October 23, my family was about driving out to go to church when a call came from Eniola Bello, then Editor of ThisDay. Bellview Airlines had crashed the previous day, Saturday, and I was needed immediately in the office to lead the reportorial team to the crash site in a remote village in Ogun State.

I was Features Editor at the time and, as is typical of journalism, like military service, one must obey the editor’s order.

I got to the ThisDay office in Apapa, Lagos that morning and the Chairman, Nduka Obaigbena, had made his personal car available for the trip. We drove to the forest in Lisa Village in Ifo Local Government Area of Ogun State, where the crashed aircraft had been buried deep in the earth.

There was hardly any visible trace of the aircraft. No recognisable piece of it could be seen, except for the little smoke rising from the earth and the tree branches that had been cut or shattered by the impact.

All 111 passengers and six crew members perished.

There were many responders — the Red Cross and the Ogun State Government team led by the then Commissioner for Health, Dr Iyabo Obasanjo-Bello, among them. The atmosphere was sombre. Everyone could feel the enormity of the calamity, the scale of the human tragedy.

Journalists are trained to be emotionally detached from the stories they cover.

I managed to apply that principle, but I also had to write a reflective piece on a tragedy whose scale was almost unimaginable.

In writing that article, I reached for John Donne’s ‘Meditation XVII’, from his 1624 Devotions upon Emergent Occasions, the meditation that inspired the title of Ernest Hemingway’s 1940 novel, For Whom the Bell Tolls. I had first written about Donne’s famous meditation some five years earlier, following the Kenya Airways Flight 431 crash of January 30, 2000, which I was assigned to cover at the Murtala Muhammed Airport, Lagos, where relations of the crash victims had besieged the airline, desperately seeking information about their loved ones.

The plane, carrying almost exclusively Nigerian passengers, had crashed into the Atlantic Ocean shortly after take-off from the Félix Houphouët-Boigny International Airport, Abidjan, Côte d’Ivoire.

Dr Francis Enemuo, a highly respected political scientist and senior lecturer at the University of Lagos, and Rev. Fr. (Prof.) Edmund Ikenga-Metuh, an eminent Catholic priest and renowned professor of African Traditional Religion, were among the casualties of the Kenya Airways crash.

And now, more than two decades later, I am confronting that same bell again.

Penultimate Tuesday, I found myself in a reverie, ruminating about the immortal words of that 17th-century writer.

It was evening, and I had casually picked up my phone, which was being charged, to check if there were fresh messages. Suddenly, I saw a pop-up on the GOCOP WhatsApp platform. It was from Danlami Nmodu, mni, our president.

I saw the name Dotun Oladipo on the pop-up and decided to open the message.

What I saw did not make sense to me.

I had actually just woken up from sleep, so I cleared my eyes to be sure that I had read the message correctly.

Our own Dotun Oladipo had died?

I checked my WhatsApp messages.

Dotun had sent his news bulletin to me at 2:50 p.m. that same day.

Is this a joke?

It was incomprehensible.

I called Danlami. When I could not reach him immediately, I called Olumide Iyanda, our vice president. He confirmed it.

Then Danlami returned my call and confirmed it.

By then, Gabriel Akinadewo was already at Dotun’s house that night. I called him. He said he was spending the night there.

Very understandable.

Tragedy had just befallen GOCOP.

The Weight of His Example

I began to play in my mind my personal journey with Dotun.

But everyone who had the privilege of encountering Dotun had a personal journey with him. He left something of himself in the lives of the people he met.

As I read the testimonies of our members on the GOCOP platform, I started crying.

Journalists are trained to manage emotion. For an editor, the more tragic, bizarre or extraordinary a story is, the more compelling it becomes as news. We learn to stand at a certain distance from the events we cover, however devastating they may be.

But this was different.

Reading the comments, tributes and testimonies on our platform melted that professional distance. I became misty-eyed and could not help myself.

How can anyone who knew Dotun closely not testify to the rarity of his candour, the strength of his character and the depth of his selflessness?

There was something unusual about him. His frankness was not the convenient sort that says only what is safe to say.

His selflessness was not performed for applause. It was simply the way he lived.

And perhaps that is why the grief has been so profound.

We mourn people when they die. But sometimes, the death of a person forces us to confront the value of a life we had perhaps taken for granted while that person was still with us.

Dotun was one of those people.

I recall that around 2019, when Dotun was President of GOCOP, I had decided to help raise funds for one of our members, the late Ben Bright-Mkpuma, who was suffering from kidney failure.

Dotun saw how intentional I was about the effort. He could have simply commended it, as many people would. Instead, he decided that whatever I raised, GOCOP would match it, so that we could make it ₦1 million donation to the Bright-Mkpuma family.

At the time, there was no constitutional provision that obliged GOCOP to do this. Dotun was under no obligation to deploy the weight of the organisation behind my personal initiative. Yet he did.

From my own effort, I raised about ₦600,000. True to his word, GOCOP matched it. ₦1 million was eventually sent to the Bright-Mkpuma family.

And when Bright-Mkpuma eventually passed on, Dotun ensured that GOCOP was officially represented at his burial.

That was Dotun.

He did not merely speak about solidarity; he practised it. He understood that an organisation is not just a structure of offices, titles and meetings. It is, above all, a community of people who must stand by one another when life becomes difficult.

I experienced that same generosity personally in 2025, when my parents died and were to be buried.

Dotun rose to the occasion.

He did not wait for me to ask. He galvanised our friends to contribute and kick-started the process himself by making a personal donation.

That gesture has remained with me.

There are people who offer sympathy when tragedy comes. There are others who show up.

Dotun showed up.

And sometimes, that is the most profound definition of friendship.

The Eagle Online

Dotun was among the professional journalists who saw the potential of online publishing after a glorious career in the traditional media.

The Eagle Online, which he set up, became one of the most successful online news platforms in Nigeria, making Dotun a role model and mentor to not a few online publishers.

But what distinguished him was that he did not see his success as something to be guarded jealously. He was always willing to share what he knew.

As President of GOCOP, he mobilised members and worked to ensure that they benefitted from programmes and opportunities that could make their businesses more sustainable. At GOCOP conferences, he regularly shared ideas about what The Eagle Online had done to make a difference in Nigeria’s online media space. More importantly, he encouraged other publishers to come forward and share their own ideas for the collective benefit of members.

I remember that as we were preparing for the annual conference in Lokoja, Kogi State, in 2024, I had casually spoken about exploring opportunities for the low-hanging fruits in sustaining online news businesses. Dotun immediately suggested that I prepare a paper on the subject for presentation and discussion at the conference.

That was another side of Dotun: he recognised possibilities in other people and gave them room to develop those possibilities.

When ‘The Sunday Stew’ column was launched and I announced that it would be syndicated, Dotun was among the first to indicate his interest in joining the syndication loop.

Up until the time of his death, The Eagle Online never missed an edition of the column.

I think about that now.

Every Sunday, my words travelled to the readers of The Eagle Online. And behind that simple act of syndication was a man who had, once again, opened a door for another journalist.

That was Dotun.

He built his own platform, but he also helped others build theirs. He understood that the success of one publisher did not diminish the prospects of another. If anything, he believed that the online media ecosystem became stronger when publishers shared knowledge, opportunities and audiences.

In an industry where competition can sometimes make people protective of information and opportunities, Dotun chose generosity.

And that, too, was his legacy.

A Different Kind of The Sunday Stew

This is the most difficult edition of ‘The Sunday Stew’ I have had to write since the column debuted in March.

I have struggled with the inconceivability of writing about Dotun Oladipo in the past tense. Even now, the words do not sit comfortably with me. My mind keeps returning to the Dotun who was still here — sending his bulletin, sharing ideas, encouraging colleagues and going about the business of journalism.

Even the story of his passing and the reactions from individuals and organisations was difficult for the Sundiata Post to publish. There are stories journalists report because they must, even when every instinct in them wishes the story were not true.

This has been one of those stories.

So this is a different kind of ‘The Sunday Stew’.

There is no cleverness here, no attempt to manufacture a profound ending. There is only the painful duty of remembering a man who mattered.

I began this piece with John Donne because his words have accompanied me through other moments of loss: “Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.”

The bell has tolled for Dotun.

And yet, as I write this, I still cannot quite bring myself to say goodbye.

Perhaps because Dotun’s final bulletin arrived on my phone at 2:50 p.m. that day, Tuesday, 25 August 2026 before the news came that he was gone.

Perhaps because, in journalism, we are accustomed to deadlines, editions and bulletins — but there is no edition that prepares you for the final bulletin.

And perhaps because some people do not leave us entirely when they die. They remain in the things they built, the people they helped, the doors they opened, the ideas they shared and the memories they left behind.

Dotun left much behind.

His burial begins with a service of songs on Thursday, 10 September 2026 at Daystar Christian Centre Headquarters, Oregun, Ikeja, Lagos. And he will be laid to rest on Friday, 11 September  2026, from 10:00 am to 11:00 am at the same venue.

But I will not say goodbye.

I will simply say: thank you, Dotun for giving us the shelter of your example to dwell in.

You thought of no other name for your news platform but The Eagle Online. Perhaps that was because you appreciated the strength of the eagle and the power of its wings. With those wings, you have left us an imperishable legacy and flown to a higher, more glorious realm.

May the angels of heaven grant you Godspeed in that realm, as you rest in His bosom.

Fare thee well, Dotun Samson Oladipo.

Trust is sacred. Stay seasoned.

*Max Nwabueze Amuchie, a member of GOCOP, is CEO & Theorist-In-Chief, Sundiata Post and Lead Researcher, Sundiata Post Intelligence Unit (SPIU), Abuja.

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The acute lack of sympathy for the youthman who died procuring penile augumentation would never have materialised had the cause of death been announced as nkita bite, a fall from a mat or flower stalk.

In any of the cases above, there would have been a full-throated national demand that the dog, mat and flower stalk be arraigned, preparatory to the full weight of the law being brought down on them. You also cannot rule out an impassioned demand that two sections of the penal code be invented specifically for the occasion.

I know this because I have watched how this country treats victims of a botched BBL or anyone permanently re-arranged by a cosmetic ambition gone rogue. There is never any national outpouring for these people. There is, instead, a queue of commentators ready, willing and able to shout that the victim brought upon himself or herself something he or she did not, biologically speaking, need.

Public sympathy for such people sits somewhere below sympathy for policemen (a.k.a. Askari) shot on duty or wicked Lagos landlords demanding two years’ rent upfront and a testimony of your salary history. This is why the cause of death should never, under any circumstances, have been announced to the public as complications from a penile enhancement procedure. Mba. That is not a cause of death, but a confession and for which you will be convicted posthumously.

If na woman push you to do this, your head will judge. If na man, he no go find forgiveness.

It is not enough to simply die. You must die from something respectable, something the family can announce at the wake without the priest lowering his voice in second-hand embarrassment. Die from dog bite, hypertension, winch or even fenu ja. But whatever you do, do not die from body enhancement surgery. If you do, the kindest you will get are merry dirges.

If you are a woman who dies from a botched BBL, your gender may recommend being buried in a guitar-case-shaped coffin to accommodate the wider lower part. But wetin person dey do with penile enlargement? To acquire buran doki or amu danda? To do what with exactly? Wetin cause the matter? Why you do me so? Isan na de lo pa Bruce Lee. If na woman push you to do this, your head will judge. If na man, he no go find forgiveness. Rest in peace, bro. Journey mercies.  A yi tafiya lafiya. Suru ohu ni.

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The political temperature in Ogun State appears to be rising barely months ahead of the January 2027 elections, with allegations of systematic removal and defacement of campaign posters, banners and billboards belonging to Senator Iyabo Obasanjo, generating fresh concerns over the character of the emerging electoral contest.

Supporters of the former senator and governorship aspirant have alleged that individuals believed to be acting on behalf of the ruling All Progressives Congress, APC, have embarked on what they described as a coordinated campaign to erase her visibility from strategic locations across the state.

The allegation portends a disturbing dimension to what is already shaping up to be one of the most closely watched political contests in Ogun State.

Obasanjo’s campaign materials, according to sources close to the political movement, have repeatedly been removed or defaced in locations where they were legally and prominently displayed. Most affected are posters erected around Ibara and Oke-Ilewo in Abeokuta.

In some instances, posters and banners are said to have disappeared shortly after they were mounted, fuelling suspicions among her supporters that the development is neither accidental nor isolated.

The alleged pattern has prompted questions about the extent to which political competition in Ogun State is prepared to tolerate the visibility of an increasingly assertive opposition voice.

Campaign posters and billboards are ordinarily among the most basic instruments through which political candidates introduce themselves to voters. Their removal, therefore, goes beyond the destruction of pieces of paper, vinyl or advertising materials.

It potentially interferes with a candidate’s ability to communicate with the electorate.

For Obasanjo’s supporters, this is precisely what makes the alleged development troubling. They contend that removing her campaign materials amounts to an attempt to restrict the space available for her political message at a time when the electorate should be exposed to competing candidates, competing ideas and competing visions for the future of Ogun State.

The allegation has also revived memories of an earlier era in Ogun politics when struggles over political dominance frequently spilled into battles over campaign visibility, public spaces and the control of the political narrative.

That history has made the current development particularly sensitive.

The comparison being drawn by some political observers is with the era of former Ogun State Governor, Chief Olusegun Osoba, when political rivalry was often fierce and political opponents engaged in intense struggles for territorial and political dominance.

Whether the current situation amounts to a deliberate strategy by the APC or the actions of unauthorised individuals remains a matter requiring investigation. But the frequency of the alleged incidents has already become a political talking point.

The controversy is coming at a time when Iyabo Obasanjo has been steadily building political visibility across Ogun State.

The former Senator, daughter of former President Olusegun Obasanjo, has in recent months intensified her grassroots engagement, presenting herself as a formidable contender in the emerging 2027 political equation.

Her political activities have increasingly moved beyond conventional elite-level consultations. Through direct engagement with grassroots structures and various interest groups, she has sought to establish a political connection with voters across communities.

That strategy appears to have given her campaign a visibility that supporters believe is increasingly difficult to ignore. Her political opponents may therefore regard the spread of her campaign materials as more than ordinary publicity.

For her supporters, however, the attempts to remove them have had the opposite effect. Rather than diminishing the movement, they argue, the alleged attacks have strengthened the resolve of her supporters.

In a press statement, the Director-General, Iyabo Obasanjo Campaign Organization, Donaldson Biodun Ajayi, expressed outrage over the disturbing development and cautioned that security agents should rise to the challenge.

Said Ajayi: “All I can say to the perpetrators and sponsors of this dastardly act is that I am surprised that they are yet to learn lesson from history. They should remember that those who defaced rival contestants’ posters in time past always lose election at the end of the day”.

Sources close to the Obasanjo campaign say the development has not caused the aspirant to retreat.

Instead, she is reportedly determined to continue with her campaign and grassroots mobilisation, insisting that political victory cannot be secured by tearing down posters or intimidating political opponents.

The message from her camp is said to be one of defiance: the campaign will continue, the people will continue to be reached, and the January 2027 election will ultimately provide the people with the opportunity to decide.

The position is significant because the alleged destruction of campaign materials could easily have been used as a reason to escalate political rhetoric or provoke confrontation.

Instead, the emerging response from the Obasanjo camp appears to be to intensify political engagement while allowing the electorate to remain the ultimate arbiter.

Beyond the immediate political interests of Senator Obasanjo and her supporters, the controversy raises a larger question about the quality of democratic competition in Ogun State.

Elections are not merely about voting on election day. They are preceded by months of persuasion, debate, mobilisation, advertising and communication between candidates and citizens.

A healthy democratic environment should therefore allow political parties and aspirants to present their messages without fear that their campaign materials will be deliberately destroyed.

Where a candidate’s posters are removed because they violate advertising regulations or because they have been illegally placed, the appropriate authorities should enforce the law transparently.

But where campaign materials are destroyed simply because they belong to a political opponent, such conduct represents an entirely different problem.

It transforms legitimate political competition into political suppression. This is why the allegations deserve to be investigated rather than dismissed as ordinary campaign-season rivalry.

For the APC, the allegation presents an opportunity to demonstrate confidence in the democratic process.

If the party has nothing to do with the alleged removal of Obasanjo’s campaign materials, it can distance itself publicly from such activities and make clear that its supporters should compete through ideas, mobilisation and persuasion rather than intimidation or destruction.

Indeed, a politically confident ruling party should have little reason to fear the visibility of an opposition candidate.

Posters do not vote.

Billboards do not vote. It is the people who vote. And if the APC believes its record, candidates and political machinery command the confidence of Ogun voters, then the presence of Iyabo Obasanjo’s posters should constitute no existential threat.

The proper response to an opponent’s poster is another poster.

The proper response to another candidate’s message is a stronger message.

The proper response to another candidate’s mobilisation is greater mobilisation. That is the essence of democratic competition.

With the January 2027 elections drawing closer, the political stakes in Ogun State are becoming increasingly intense.

The emerging contest is likely to test not only the popularity of individual candidates but also the resilience of the state’s democratic institutions and political culture.

For Iyabo Obasanjo, the alleged campaign-material attacks may now have become another chapter in a political journey that she appears determined to pursue to its logical conclusion.

Her supporters insist that the campaign will not be intimidated. The message is straightforward: pull down the posters and they will put up more; obstruct the message and they will find another way to reach the people; challenge the movement and they will return to the grassroots.

The underlying belief is that an electoral campaign is ultimately bigger than its posters, banners and billboards.

It is about people.

And if the people have already begun to listen, no amount of campaign-material removal can permanently silence the conversation.

For Obasanjo, the road to January 2027 therefore continues. Undaunted. Unbowed. And apparently determined to press ahead until the votes are counted and the people have spoken.

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The Presidency has noted recent speculative reports concerning an ongoing Freedom of Information Act case before the United States District Court for the District of Columbia.

For clarity, the matter is a civil records-disclosure dispute under the United States Freedom of Information Act. It is not a criminal case against President Bola Ahmed Tinubu, nor has the court found him guilty of any criminal wrongdoing.

Here is the background to the case, which comes 23 years after the American Consulate in Lagos, in a letter dated February 4, 2003,  informed the then Inspector General of Police, Mr Tafa Balogun, that an FBI records check found no criminal arrest records, wants, or warrants for then Governor Bola Ahmed Tinubu.

In 2022, Mr Aaron Greenspan, who is known to work with Nigerian opposition figures including David Hundeyin and Atiku Abubakar,  submitted FOIA requests to several United States government agencies seeking records relating to President Tinubu. After the agencies withheld certain records or declined to confirm or deny their existence, Mr Greenspan commenced Civil Action No. 23-1816 before the United States District Court for the District of Columbia in 2023.

The court subsequently permitted President Tinubu to participate in the proceedings as an intervenor.

During the proceedings, the Defendants asserted the “Glomar defence, a standard defence that US law enforcement agencies invoke from time to time. It simply means the government agency is not “in a position to deny or admit” the existence of an investigation. It protects government personnel and the techniques and sources law enforcement agencies use to investigate and prosecute crimes.

Based on the invocation of this defence, the United States District Court granted summary judgment in favour of the CIA, EOUSA, Department of State, Department of the Treasury and the Internal Revenue Service (IRS). It ruled that they be removed from the proceedings, leaving aspects of the claims involving the Federal Bureau of Investigation and the Drug Enforcement Administration for further consideration.

In compliance with the court’s orders, the FBI and DEA produced 399 pages of records, with portions redacted under exemptions provided by United States law. The Plaintiff challenged the FBI and DEA’s decisions to redact portions of the documents produced.

The FBI and DEA, through the United States Department of Justice (USDoJ), pushed back against the Plaintiff’s requests. The FBI and DEA rejected the application to produce the documents without redactions for the following reasons:

1. Some of the documents are protected from being revealed to the public by law, for example, Grand Jury proceedings. The law exempts transcripts of Grand Jury proceedings from public disclosure. The Pen Register Act also protects from disclosure information about certain court order(s) authorising or approving the installation and use of a pen register or trap and trace device. (FOIA Exemption 3)
2. Some of the documents fall squarely within the attorney-work product and attorney-client privileges. Some documents contain instances where FBI and DEA agents sought and/or received legal advice from USDoJ attorneys. (FOIA Exemption 5)
3. Some of the documents were prepared for law enforcement purposes. (FOIA Exemption 5)
4. Some of the documents contain information which, if revealed, could lead to an unwarranted invasion of personal privacy. (FOIA Exemptions 6 and 7(C)).
5. Some of the documents, if disclosed, will reveal the identities of confidential sources or compromise the techniques that law enforcement agencies use in investigating crimes. (FOIA Exemptions 7(D) and 7(E))

President Bola Tinubu, on advice of his lawyers, has also asserted his rights as guaranteed by FOIA Exemption 7(C).

The Plaintiff has until September 11, 2026, to file any opposition and reply to the Defendants’ and Intervener’s processes, while the FBI, DEA and the Intervenor have until September 18, 2026, to respond to the processes that the Plaintiff might have filed.

The release or withholding of records under FOIA does not, by itself, establish criminal liability. The case concerns access to government records and the proper application of statutory exemptions.

The Nigerian media should note that this case is exclusively within the control of Judge Beryl A. Howell of the United States District Court. She will determine its outcome, based on the evidence, applicable law, and the parties’ arguments, not the wishful preference of Alhaji Atiku Abubakar or his agent, Mr Von Batten.

Recent public commentary by Mr Karl von Batten has inaccurately portrayed him and his client as central to the proceedings. Neither is a party to the case.

The litigation is a civil records-disclosure dispute under FOIA. It does not constitute a criminal charge, trial, or judicial finding against President Tinubu. The FBI and DEA have produced records with redactions, and the remaining question is whether those redactions are lawful.

The United States District Court will decide that issue based on the filings and applicable US law, not political commentary.

The Presidency therefore urges the media and the public to distinguish verified court proceedings from partisan speculation.

*Onanuga is the Special Adviser to the President (Information and Strategy).

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There is a disturbing story emerging from Nigeria which deserves something more serious than the usual social media laughter, speculation and sensational headlines. If the allegations now circulating about young Nigerians selling kidneys for millions of naira are true, then we are looking at something much bigger than individual foolishness.

We are looking at poverty becoming a marketplace for human organs. Imagine a young Nigerian in his twenties. No stable employment. No meaningful savings. Bills are piling up. Someone approaches him with an offer: “You can make ₦7 million. All you have to do is give one kidney. You have two, you only need one.”

It sounds like a solution.  It may even sound like an opportunity to somebody desperate enough.  But here is the question that should trouble us: what happens to that young man five, ten or twenty years later?  The kidney he sold today cannot be bought back tomorrow.  Money finishes.  A kidney does not grow again.

And this is precisely why Nigerians need to stop treating organ trafficking as some strange story happening to other people. It is a legal, medical, ethical and socioeconomic problem. It concerns the dignity of the human person and the future of a generation.

There is an important legal correction to make at the outset. Much has been said online that section 53 of the National Health Act simply says “you cannot sell your kidney.” The legal position is more nuanced, although the commercialisation of human tissue and organs is clearly prohibited by the statutory framework.

Under section 64 of the National Health Act 2014, the definition of “tissue” includes an organ. Section 48 prohibits the removal of tissue from a living person except in circumstances recognised by the Act, including informed consent and prescribed protocols, while section 48(2)(b) expressly prohibits removal of tissue from a living person for merchandise, sale or commercial purposes. A contravention concerning tissue attracts a fine of ₦1 million or imprisonment of not less than two years, or both.

Section 53 goes further. It makes it an offence for a donor to receive financial or other reward for donating tissue, blood or blood products, except reimbursement of reasonable costs incurred in making the donation. It also prohibits selling or trading in tissue and provides a penalty of a fine of ₦100,000 or imprisonment for a term not exceeding one year, or both.

There is therefore a crucial distinction between lawful donation and commercial sale.  The law does not say that a person can never donate an organ. Nigeria has a legal framework for transplantation. But donation is not supposed to become a commercial transaction in which a financially desperate Nigerian sells part of his body to a wealthier person.  That is the danger.  The law is attempting to prevent a situation in which the rich become buyers and the poor become biological suppliers.

And there is another statute which makes the matter considerably more serious.  Section 20 of the Trafficking in Persons (Prohibition), Enforcement and Administration Act 2015 criminalises specified conduct connected with procurement or recruitment of persons for organ harvesting. It covers circumstances involving force, deception, threats, coercion, abuse of vulnerable situations and payments or benefits used to induce or obtain consent for the purpose of removing a person’s organs. The punishment is imprisonment for not less than seven years and a fine of not less than ₦5 million. The provision also criminalises persons who procure, offer, assist or are otherwise involved in the removal, buying or selling of human organs.

This is important because the law is not concerned only with the surgeon who eventually performs the operation.  It can reach the people behind the transaction.  The recruiter.  The middleman.  The person arranging the victim’s movement.  The person involved in buying or selling the organ.  The network that sees a desperate human being not as a citizen but as a commodity.

Nigeria’s Federal Ministry of Health itself condemned reported kidney trafficking in 2023 and specifically warned that sellers, buyers, medical practitioners and facilities involved in illegal practices could face the law.

So, when somebody says, “It is my kidney. I can sell it if I want,” the legal answer is not quite so simple.  Yes, your body is intimately connected with your autonomy and dignity. Consent matters enormously in medical law. But individual autonomy does not mean that every transaction involving the human body becomes lawful merely because somebody signed a paper or accepted money.

There are things the law permits you to consent to.  There are things the law regulates.  And there are things the law prohibits altogether.  You cannot contract yourself into legality where the statute has declared the transaction unlawful.  That is the point many people miss.

And then there is the medical question.  A young man who sells his kidney because he needs ₦7 million may imagine that he has merely exchanged one asset for another. He has not.  He has exchanged an irreplaceable part of his biological reserve for money.  What happens if he later develops kidney disease?  What happens if he suffers complications?  What happens if the money disappears into a car, rent, betting, business losses or family problems?  What happens when the person who promised to look after him no longer answers his telephone?  The money may be gone.  The organ is still gone.

And Nigeria’s economic crisis makes this conversation even more urgent. When young people cannot find decent employment, when education does not reliably translate into work, when healthcare is expensive and when social protection is weak, desperation creates markets for people who know how to exploit desperation.

This is how trafficking works.  The trafficker does not necessarily arrive looking like a villain.  He may arrive as a businessman.  A “connection”.  A “doctor”.  A “helper”.  A friend of a friend.  Someone who says, “Don’t worry, you will be fine. You have two kidneys.”  That sentence should frighten every Nigerian.  Because the human body is not a spare parts shop.

There is another lesson here for parents, churches, mosques, schools, universities and community leaders. We must stop teaching young Nigerians only how to make money and begin teaching them when money is not worth the price being demanded.

A young man should know that ₦7 million is not necessarily wealth.  A young woman should understand that desperation can make a person accept a transaction that destroys tomorrow in order to survive today.  And government must understand something equally important: criminal law alone cannot solve a problem created partly by economic desperation.

You can prosecute traffickers. You should.  You can regulate hospitals. You must.  You can strengthen NAPTIP and medical regulators. Certainly.  But if young Nigerians remain desperately poor, vulnerable and unemployed, there will always be another recruiter waiting somewhere.  The answer must therefore combine law enforcement with economic opportunity, public education, effective healthcare regulation and protection for vulnerable persons.

This is not merely about kidneys.  It is about what kind of country Nigeria is becoming.  A country where a young graduate can sell a kidney because he cannot find work is not merely facing a crime problem. It is confronting a profound development problem.

And Nigerians should also be careful with social media allegations. The claims surrounding particular individuals or alleged organ sales should not be treated as established facts merely because somebody has published them online. Criminal liability requires evidence and due process. An allegation is not a conviction.

But the larger legal principle is already clear.  Human organs are not ordinary commodities.  Lawful organ donation and transplantation exist within a regulated medical and legal framework. Commercial trafficking is another matter entirely.

So, before the next desperate young Nigerian listens to somebody whisper, “Sell one kidney and change your life,” let him ask a more important question:  “What happens to my life after the money is finished?”  Because ₦7 million may solve today’s problem.  It may buy a car. It may pay rent.  It may start a business.  But it cannot buy back the kidney.  And perhaps that is the most frightening lesson of all.

A society should never become so economically desperate that its young people begin to regard their own bodies as the last asset left for sale.  That is not empowerment.  That is desperation wearing the costume of opportunity.  And if Nigeria does not confront the conditions producing that desperation, one day we may discover that the most valuable commodity in the country is no longer crude oil, land or foreign exchange.  It is the body of the poor.

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The post When poverty meets the black market for human organs appeared first on Frontpageng.

There is something deeply unsettling about a country that knows where the line is but appears unwilling to draw it.

Nigeria has laws against incitement. It has laws against threats to public order. It has institutions charged with protecting citizens from hate speech, religious intolerance and violence. Yet, when some of the most influential voices in the religious space appear to cross those boundaries, the national response often becomes strangely hesitant.

That hesitation is now the issue.

The recent controversy surrounding Sheikh Sani Yahaya Jingir is instructive. The National Human Rights Commission did not merely express disapproval of his remarks. It reviewed the viral video, described the utterances as capable of promoting religious hatred and violence, and called for his arrest and prosecution. The intervention was subsequently reinforced by the Nigeria Inter Religious Council, jointly led by the Sultan of Sokoto and the President of the Christian Association of Nigeria.

That should have settled the principle.

It has not.

The principle is simple. Religious authority cannot become political immunity. A turban does not place a man above the law. Neither does a collar. A mosque is not a sanctuary from accountability. Neither is a church. Influence may command respect, but it cannot confer exemption.

This is why the larger conversation cannot be reduced to Jingir.

Sheikh Ahmad Gumi provides another uncomfortable part of the Nigerian story. He went into forests where armed bandits operated and established direct contact with them. He argued repeatedly for dialogue and negotiation. On television, he described the conflict in ethnic terms and characterised some of the Fulani actors involved as militants fighting for ethnic survival.

There may have been a legitimate argument for dialogue. Indeed, governments themselves have employed negotiation and local mediation in dealing with armed groups. The mistake would therefore be to suggest that every attempt to talk to violent actors is itself criminal.

But there is a difference between authorised state policy and the emergence of a parallel influence structure around armed men.

There is also a difference between pleading for peace and repeatedly framing criminal violence through an ethnic grievance that risks turning victims and perpetrators into opposing communities.

That distinction matters.

Gumi has since rejected statements attributed to him that he says were doctored or manipulated. His explanations deserve to be heard. So do his arguments for dialogue. But explanations do not remove the responsibility of the state to examine conduct, statements and consequences.

The same principle must apply elsewhere.

Consider the increasingly assertive interventions of the Muslim Rights Concern, MURIC, under Professor Ishaq Akintola. There is nothing inherently illegitimate about demanding political representation for Muslims. There is nothing inherently illegitimate about challenging a government over perceived discrimination.

But when political argument is expressed in terms that divide citizens into religious constituencies and suggest that political allegiance should be determined by faith, Nigerians are entitled to ask where representation ends and religious mobilisation begins.

MURIC has demanded Muslim political candidates in parts of the South West and has gone further in its criticism of the Oyo State government, accusing Governor Seyi Makinde of pursuing what it called the Christianisation of Oyo.

That language deserves scrutiny, not because its authors are Muslims, but because religious entitlement is dangerous whichever direction it travels.

And that is precisely why Christian voices must not be given a free pass either.

If a Christian cleric tells Christians that political power belongs naturally to them, he should be confronted. If a pastor weaponises religious identity against Muslims, he should be called out. If a bishop turns political disagreement into religious warfare, the same law should apply. No Muslim should have to apologise for the misconduct of a Muslim cleric. No Christian should have to defend the misconduct of a Christian cleric.

The standard must be conduct, not creed.

That is the part of this debate Nigeria keeps getting wrong.

We have become accustomed to selective outrage. A poor man says something reckless and the machinery of the state can descend upon him with impressive efficiency. A powerful religious personality says something equally dangerous and suddenly everybody begins looking for context, nuance, reconciliation and further explanation.

Context is important. Nuance is necessary. But justice cannot be built on the social status of the person being examined.

The Nigerian state must learn to distinguish between religious freedom and religious impunity.

Freedom allows a cleric to preach his faith. It allows a religious organisation to defend its interests. It allows citizens to criticise government. It allows people to argue passionately for political representation.

It does not allow anybody to designate fellow citizens as lesser Nigerians because of their faith.

It does not allow anyone to encourage religious hostility.

It does not permit the language of political competition to become a summons to communal confrontation.

And it certainly cannot permit private influence over armed groups to evolve into an alternative security architecture.

This is not an argument for censorship. It is an argument for consistency.

The state should not silence inconvenient religious voices merely because their views embarrass government. Neither should it tolerate dangerous rhetoric merely because the speaker commands a large following or enjoys access to political power.

There is another danger here. Every time government hesitates to confront inflammatory religious speech, it transfers authority from the Constitution to the loudest voice in the room.

That is how a republic gradually loses the monopoly of legitimate authority.

The answer is not to place religion under government control. The answer is to ensure that religious influence operates within the same constitutional space as every other influence.

There are responsible religious leaders who understand this. The interfaith peace accord signed in Abuja recently by Muslim and Christian leaders is evidence that religious authority can also be used to lower the temperature rather than raise it.

Nigeria does not need fewer religious voices.

It needs responsible ones.

It does not need a state that fears religion.

It needs a state confident enough to protect religion from being turned into an instrument of political exclusion, ethnic mobilisation or violence.

And it needs citizens willing to ask the uncomfortable question whenever the boundary is crossed:

Who is bigger than Nigeria?

Not the imam.

Not the pastor.

Not the bishop.

Not the activist.

Not the politician.

Not the traditional ruler.

Not even the government.

Nobody.

The republic must remain bigger than all of them.

That is not hostility to religion. It is respect for the country in which all our religions must coexist.

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The post Religion, power and the state: Who is bigger than Nigeria? appeared first on Frontpageng.

“Inú olósèlú kì í dùn d’ále´” (a politician’s joy does not endure till evening). An observer of our politics told me this yesterday. I heard it, and something skipped in my heart. It got me quiet throughout the day. The result is this long thought on politics and the profiles of Nigerian politicians.

Politics has the sneaky betrayal of the adder plus its lethal poison. And because a snake’s offspring must be long, this long thing you are reading is about the impermanence of political happiness, the insecurity of power, the endless pursuit of tomorrow and, ultimately, the loneliness of becoming ‘former.’

First, as you read this, take your time to pick whom it fits in your country, your state, your local government, your ward, your town and even your compound.

A politician’s happiness is fleeting. His joy has a short lifespan. Let’s imagine he wins his election.

Wonderful.

But has he really won?

There is the Election Petition Tribunal.

Then the Court of Appeal and the Supreme Court, depending on the office in contention. The music may stop before the dancer has properly warmed up.

He wins the election and begins another election against uncertainty.

He appoints commissioners and begins wondering who among them is plotting against him.

He sleeps in Government House but sometimes wakes up fighting enemies who exist only in his imagination.

Everybody is suspicious.

The security report says somebody is meeting somebody.

The party chairman has not called.

The deputy governor smiled strangely.

A commissioner spent too long on the telephone.

A former ally posted a cryptic message on Facebook.

Trouble!

Political power comes with a strange mattress.

It looks soft.

But there are nails underneath.

Fear, suspicion, treachery, pressure and the constant knowledge that somebody wants what you have.

That is a four-volume book.

If you want to understand the Nigerian politician, do not begin with his manifesto. Please. You may finish reading it and still not know the man.

Study his ways instead.

Watch what he does three years before an election. Watch who he visits at midnight. Watch the sudden affection for traditional rulers, market women, pastors, imams, youth leaders and everybody who controls ten human beings and a WhatsApp group. Watch the man who has not yet won an election already distributing ministries, committees and political appointments in his head.

The Nigerian politician is a special breed.

He is an incurable optimist, a professional dreamer and a man who can see 2033 with the clarity with which the rest of us struggle to see tomorrow morning.

He has permutations.

Oh, he has permutations!

He knows who will win the presidential election seven years from now, which governor will defect, which senator will become minister, which minister will become governor and which godfather will become too old to be useful. He can predict the political future of a state while eating pounded yam. And if you tell him his mathematics is impossible, he will smile.

“You don’t understand politics.”

Only he and his ilk know what they think they know.

A Nigerian politician is a man who believes he knows and owns tomorrow.

While the ordinary Nigerian says, ‘By God’s grace, tomorrow will be better’, the politician says, ‘2030 is a done deal. Senate is sure banker.’ And before his party even decides how much it will sell senatorial form, Oga is already parading himself as ‘Distinguished’. Yes, all his correspondences, all event comperes will bear me witness.

He does not merely hope for tomorrow. He has occupied it.

Ask a politician what he wants after becoming councillor and he will tell you the House of Representatives is his next stop. Ask him about the House and he is already discussing the Senate. Ask him about the Senate and he is eyeing the governor’s chair. Once he becomes governor, the presidency begins to look strangely familiar

Oh no, he does not want to go back to what his parents sent him to school to study, he just wants to be known and addressed as ‘Honourable Kinnikan” forever.

His ambition has no retirement age.

Even when a Nigerian politician loses an election, he doesn’t close his eyes. He says he is ‘repositioning ‘ or ‘restrategising’

Translation: I am coming back.

Tomorrow belongs to him.

He will do almost anything to get to tomorrow.

The Nigerian politician is a deeply religious man. Very religious.

He can spend Sunday morning in church, Friday afternoon at the mosque and Saturday night consulting somebody whose office is located behind a mysterious red curtain. He believes in God and all the other gods too.

He also believes in insurance.

And political insurance has many forms.

Prayer. Fasting. Prophecy. Strategic alliances. “Spiritual consultation.” A visit to the native doctor. A mysterious sacrifice somebody insists must be performed at three road junctions for three nights three days before the election.

He will publicly laugh at juju and privately ask somebody to ‘do something’ about his opponent.

Politics, for him, is a strange marriage of democracy and desperation. The ballot box and his oracle don’t always agree and he listens to both.

He will trade almost anybody to get what he wants. That makes him scary because not even his mother is sacred.

The benefactor who discovered him can suddenly become ‘an old friend with whom we have irreconcilable differences.’

The mentor who paid his school fees can become ‘an enemy of progress.’

The political father who made him commissioner or Special Adviser may wake up one morning to discover that his political son has joined forces with the opposition. All is fair in this game.

Not even marriage is spared in the horse-trading. Friendship is not spared.

Loyalty is negotiable.

In Nigerian politics, yesterday’s ‘my leader’ can become today’s ‘agbaaya’, the good-for-nothing old man.

And tomorrow’s ‘that man’ may become next year’s ‘my father and mentor.’

The politician’s dictionary has only one particularly flexible word: interest.

Anything can be justified under that one word. That is why there is a political warning that when you a digging a hole for your political opponent, don’t dig too deep, so that your opponent does not break any bone if and when he falls in that hole. And the interesting part? An opponent who did not break an arm or his leg is easier to persuade to cross the carpet. See? The shallow pit is dug with interest and tomorrow in mind.

Now, that does not mean this logic works all the time. Paralysis and death have been known to take place in politically dug holes.

It is remarkably easy to swindle a politician.

Just wrap a box.

Tell him there is a political position inside.

He will pay to open it.

Tell a politician his name is being considered for a position and his heart starts beating like a campaign drum.

“Some people at the top are interested in you.”

He orders new clothes.

“You may be appointed.”

He begins to call people “my brother.”

“You are being considered for the Senate.”

He starts calculating constituency projects.

This is how powerful men become vulnerable.

A politician who cannot be fooled by ordinary lies can be defeated by one sentence whispered by a supposed insider:

“You are the man they are looking at.”

Suddenly, everybody becomes important.

He is buying drinks.

Paying school fees.

Settling hospital bills.

Donating to associations.

Sponsoring weddings.

Because somewhere inside a wrapped box, he has been promised a political office.

Sometimes the box contains nothing.

A Nigerian politician thinks being a Senator or Governor is the same as being Ooni of Ife or Sultan of Sokoto.

This is perhaps the funniest part.

A political office is temporary.

The Nigerian politician often behaves as though his name has been carved into the walls of eternity.

He fights for a four-year term as if he is defending an ancestral throne.

Everybody becomes an enemy.

The opponent is not merely a contestant. He is an existential threat.

A rival wants the office?

War!

The constitution says four years?

Never mind.

The politician behaves as though the office will be buried with him.

He forgets that somebody held it before him.

Somebody will hold it after him.

And one day, people who used to stand up when he entered a room may not even notice when he enters the same room.

That is the cruelty of political power.

It has a very short memory.

The politician thinks he is rich.

He isn’t.

This is where the laughter should slowly stop.

A politician can spend money like a drunken sailor when he is in office; luxury cars, palatial homes, loud political meetings, parties and endless donations.

People constantly asking.

People constantly receiving.

He begins to mistake access to money for ownership of wealth.

Then comes retirement.

“Former Governor.”

“Ex-Senator.”

“Former Minister.”

“Ex-Chairman.”

The titles remain, but the convoy disappears.

The phone becomes quieter.

The people who used to say “Sir!” now have urgent meetings elsewhere.

And suddenly, the politician discovers something terrifying:

Political power was not an inheritance.

It was a rented apartment.

The rent has expired.

The politician who had no profession, no business, no craft, no serious investment and no life outside politics begins the subtle hustle again.

The clever ones prepared.

They are lawyers, doctors, accountants, engineers, businessmen, academics, farmers and professionals who can return to something when politics returns them to ordinary life.

The others discover that “former” is a very expensive word.

The politician is addicted to relevance.

This one is his almost incurable disease.

He cannot doesn’t know when to stop.

He must be seen.

He must be consulted.

He must be invited.

He must be photographed.

He must be quoted.

He wants his telephone number circulating among the powerful.

The former governor wants to see the new governor’s commissioners list. He wants his boys in the new government.

The former minister wants to know who the president will appoint.

The retired godfather still wants to determine who becomes chairman of the local government.

Nobody has told him that politics has moved on.

He knows.

He simply refuses to move with it.

He believes power will make him happy.

This is the saddest one.

The politician spends years chasing the office.

He tells himself:

“When I become governor, I will be fulfilled.”

Then he becomes governor.

And discovers that the chair is not a magic carpet.

There are still enemies.

Still family problems.

Still illness.

Still betrayal.

Still loneliness.

Still death.

Still the ordinary human fear of losing what one has.

He has everything and may still lie awake at 3 a.m., wondering who is plotting to remove him.

He has a convoy but may not know who genuinely loves him.

He has hundreds of people around him but may not know who he can trust.

He has money but may not know whether people love him or his money.

And one day, the sirens stop.

The cars leave.

The aides disappear.

The office is handed to another man.

The nameplate comes down.

The man who once controlled thousands of lives discovers that he is once again simply Mr. Somebody.

And that is when the joke becomes painful.

Because perhaps the tragedy of the Nigerian politician is not that he wants too much.

It is that he spends so much of his life pursuing power that he forgets to build a life that can survive without it.

He conquers tomorrow.

He captures today.

He defeats yesterday.

And then, suddenly, tomorrow arrives without asking his permission.

He is no longer governor.

No longer senator.

No longer minister.

No longer chairman.

Just an old man sitting somewhere, looking at photographs of the days when people stood whenever he entered a room.

The photographer may still be alive.

The people in the photographs may still be alive.

But the power is dead.

And perhaps that is the final profile of the Nigerian politician:

A man who spends his whole life trying to become somebody, only to discover at the end that the greatest somebody he could have become was his ungreedy, contented self.

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The post Why does a politician’s joy never last till evening? appeared first on Frontpageng.

210 million people are addicted to social media globally

He was inseparable from his phone. For five years. He had no conversation with his wife and children. For five years. He was addicted, not to his phone, but to social media apps. His marriage was at a breaking point. Then, his mother-in-law intervened before his wife could file for divorce. A caller shared this pathetic story on the Fintex Show, which I produce on Nigeria Info 99.3 FM every Monday.

All the radio callers had the same stories of social addiction. They are hooked. They cannot get off. One caller lost his wife. Another lost his job. One lost his sanity. One caller, a pastor, shared how his wife regularly scrolls through her phone in church while he is preaching. Every Sunday. His wife is addicted. Are you a social media addict? I am not a therapist. Do not expect any counselling here.

On the one hand

The social media business has been through the grinder lately. Meta, the owner of Facebook and Instagram, is facing a series of increasingly dramatic lawsuits. This week, Meta settled a case that is history making. It agreed to pay about 18 billion dollars [N14 trillion] to settle a lawsuit that claimed it made its apps addictive for children, ‘’even though the firm knew it would hurt people’’.

On the other hand

About 210 million people are addicted to social media globally. 34 million social media addicts reside in the United States. That is 10% of Americans. Maybe the changes Meta agreed to make to its platforms may tackle the issue of social media addiction. Maybe.

In the long term

For instance, Meta has agreed that users under 18 will get a mandated social media bedtime that disables the app. Besides, some features [which psychologists say are bad for self-esteem, such as beauty filters] will be hidden. However, according to reports from Tech Coded, the biggest news is ‘’kids will be able to turn off the algorithmic feeds on Meta’s apps’’.

Purists have said that the content recommendation systems have turned Instagram and other social media apps into a digital casino. Meaning: you cannot stop using them. As a digital casino, it could ruin your life. As the story above shows, social media addiction is real. You cannot overemphasise the stress level it generates. From my conversation with some experts, there is a psychological and technological angle to this addiction. If you are suffering from low self-esteem, social media will turn you into a narcissist.

Facebook’s beauty filter feature is your artist. If you are shy and cannot hold a conversation with a group at a party, your escape route is a social media app. Do you want to ignore some friends and be lost in an unreal world, plug into a social media app? However, with the option to disable Facebook, the internet and social media will change forever.

This does not mean social media is safe. Facebook will be here. Instagram will be here. Snapchat will be here. Where do you belong in the social media arc now? This is the beginning. No one knows where ultimately it will stop.

In the short term

Digital casinos are harmful. Ditto social media addiction.

READ ALSO: 

Sanwo-Olu inaugurates 44 sports association chairmen

APC unveils Tinubu’s roadmap to $1tn Nigerian economy

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Falconets draw S’Korea 1-1 in U-20 Women’s World Cup friendly

Land dispute: Farmers raise the alarm over alleged defiance of court order

Former British PM Starmer steps down as MP

VDM-NBA conference controversy and Ayonrinde’s perspective

Family confirms Orbih’s death, seeks prayers for deceased

The post Where do you belong in the social media arc? appeared first on Frontpageng.