A nation does not collapse all at once. It erodes — layer by layer, system by system — until what once appeared unshakable begins to give way under the weight of forces it can no longer contain.

This column said that last week. It bears repeating now because there are moments in the life of a crisis when description is no longer enough — when the accumulation of evidence: the kidnapped schoolgirls, the abandoned farms, the bombed houses of worship, the ransomed businessmen, the burning villages — demands not another account of what is happening, but a coherent theory of why it is happening, how the pieces connect, and what it means.

We have arrived at that moment.

In The Sunday Stew, this inquiry has already traced the contours of kidnapping, banditry, and insurgency as distinct but increasingly interwoven forms of violence. The present analysis consolidates these patterns into a single explanatory framework — The Insecurity Triad — as a way of understanding their systemic interaction.

The framework emerged from a growing dissatisfaction with the lenses through which insecurity is commonly understood. Journalistically, these events are too often reported as separate incidents—kidnappings here, raids there, bombings elsewhere—without accounting for the structure that binds them. Policymaking has suffered from the same fragmentation, responding to symptoms in isolation rather than confronting the architecture that sustains them.

Part of the problem lies in the dominance of external security frameworks, especially the Global War on Terror (GWOT) shaped after September 11, 2001, where violence is largely interpreted through counter‑terrorism lens. That framework was necessary for its time and remains analytically useful. However, it obscures local dynamics like resource extraction, weak state authority, and the emergence of rival or parallel sovereignties. The world has changed. Contemporary insecurity—particularly in West Africa—has outgrown the categories that framework alone can provide. To rely on it exclusively is not rigour; it is lag.

What is needed is not it’s abandonment, but its expansion. We need a formulation capacious enough to hold together the economic drivers of kidnapping, the territorial logic of banditry, and the ideological ambitions of terrorism as distinct yet converging forces. A Nigeria‑ or West Africa–specific frame should reorient reportage, analysis, and policy beyond drones and raids, while insisting that the state deploy its full coercive weight against the shadow order and treat force as a central, deliberate instrument of restoring authority—rather than as a last resort.

Banditry and kidnapping are not terrorism in the strict sense. They are driven by economics and territorial control. Yet when they converge with terrorism, they form a more intricate and mutually reinforcing arrangement — one that cannot be understood, or addressed, through a single analytical frame.

It is from this gap — between reality and its interpretation — that The Insecurity Triad emerges.

From Insight to Definition

No framework emerges in isolation, and this is no exception. The Insecurity Triad rests on five scholars whose ideas, taken together, form a causal chain — from the structural weaknesses of the post-colonial state to the fragmentation of sovereignty itself, and finally to the lived reality that fragmentation produces.

Ali Mazrui: The Logic of Convergence

Mazrui, in The Africans: A Triple Heritage, argues that African identity is shaped by three interlocking civilisational forces — Indigenous, Islamic, and Western — and that understanding Africa requires holding these forces together.

The Triad borrows this logic. Where Mazrui described convergence as the making of identity, the Triad reveals convergence as the unmaking of security — a collision rather than a synthesis. His insight provides the method: insecurity must be read in interaction, not isolation.

Claude Ake: The State That Never Arrived

Ake, in A Political Economy of Africa and Democracy and Development in Africa, notes that African states often function not as public institutions but as instruments of private accumulation. Power is privatised; governance is secondary. Large segments of society remain unprotected and effectively ungoverned.

The Triad operates precisely in these abandoned spaces. Kidnapping, banditry, and terrorism are not merely security failures — they are symptoms of a state that never fully constituted itself as a public authority.

Jean-François Bayart: The Normalisation of Extraction

Bayart, in The State in Africa: The Politics of the Belly, extends this diagnosis by showing that the state itself is organised around extraction — the “politics of the belly.” Accumulation precedes service; governance becomes indistinguishable from appropriation.

Within this context, the actors of the Triad are not anomalies — they are imitators. The kidnapper pricing human life, the bandit taxing farmers, the insurgent levying communities all replicate, at the margins, the extractive logic of the centre.

The Triad, then, is not merely a consequence of state failure. It is the diffusion of predation.

William Reno: The Relocation of Authority

Reno, in Warlord Politics and African States, takes the argument to this core insight: when state legitimacy erodes, authority does not disappear — it relocates. In Nigeria, that erosion is not hypothetical. It is territorial. In the Northwest, the Northeast, and the Middle Belt, the state’s claim to sovereign authority competes — and in some spaces loses — against armed networks that govern on transactional terms: protection for compliance, access for tribute, order for loyalty.

This is why conventional responses fail. They assume a vacuum. But there is no vacuum — only competing centres of authority.

Each pillar of the Triad represents a form of rival sovereignty. A state that cannot recognise this reality cannot displace it.

Achille Mbembe: The Texture of the Shadow Order

Mbembe, in Necropolitics and On the Postcolony, provides the final layer. Where Reno shows that authority relocates, Mbembe shows what relocated authority looks like in practice. He argues that in the postcolonial context, sovereignty is exercised above all through the power to dictate who lives and who dies — to commodify life, claim space, and impose a rival moral order.

This is precisely what the Triad does across all three pillars simultaneously. The kidnapper commodifies life and prices safety. The bandit seizes productive territory and determines who works and who starves. The terrorist asserts an alternative ideological universe and decides whose beliefs constitute legitimate order. Together, they do not merely fill the space the state vacates — they govern it, on their own terms, by their own logic.

Mbembe gives the Triad its phenomenological dimension: not just the structure of the shadow order, but its lived texture — the daily reality of populations caught between a state that has withdrawn and armed actors who have moved in.

Taken together, these scholars outline a sequence: Mazrui provides the method — convergence; Ake identifies the condition — state absence; Bayart explains the culture — extraction; Reno delivers the consequence — relocated authority; Mbembe reveals the reality — the lived texture of a shadow order that prices life, claims territory, and contests belief.

It is a chain that moves from intellectual realm to political reality, from the academy to the village, from theory to the lived experience of insecurity.

That relocation maps directly onto the Triad:

Kidnapping: authority over persons — the power to price safety (Money);

Banditry: authority over territory — the power to control land and production (Land);

Terrorism: authority over belief — the power to shape ideological order (Mind).

Each is sovereignty in a different domain. Together, they constitute a shadow order — extractive, territorial, ideological — without formal recognition.

Nigeria is not merely a country with a security problem. It is a state where authority is contested, extraction is normalised, and power has fragmented into rival or parallel sovereignties. In the spaces where the state recedes, these sovereignties manifest as a shadow order — one that prices safety, taxes production, and contests belief itself, levying its own rules where formal authority has withered. This is what I mean by shadow order: not just a metaphor, but a recognisable structure of parallel governance that expresses the Triad in practice.

The Definition

Building on these insights, I now offer a definitive articulation of The Insecurity Triad as I have developed it:

The Insecurity Triad is an interlocking system in which kidnapping finances violence through ransom economies (Money), banditry governs territory and production (Land), and terrorism reshapes the ideological order (Mind). It conceptualises insecurity not as isolated threats or mere state failure, but as a convergent structure of economic extraction, territorial control, and ideological influence — expressed through the dynamic, mutually reinforcing interaction of these three forces.

As I stated in The Sunday Stew last week, this is not an imported or adapted theory. It is an original analytical construction of my own, grounded in five pillars of African scholarship — Mazrui, Ake, Bayart, Reno, and Mbembe — and  tested against the realities of a fracturing state.

The Macro-Diagnostic

​While The Insecurity Triad framework provides the tool to decode, map and address the crisis, I have codified the Trinity of State Decay as the diagnostic lens that reveals the ‘Big Picture.’ It explains how the Administrative Mirage and the Shadow Order interact to make the Triad possible. We will explore this next week.

Don’t miss it.

Trust is Sacred. Stay Seasoned.

Dr. Amuchie is the CEO of Sundiata Post and the developer of The Insecurity Triad Analytical Framework. He writes The Sunday Stew, a weekly syndicated column on faith, character, and the forces that shape society, with a focus on Nigeria and Africa in a global context. X — @MaxAmuchie | Email: max.a@sundiatapost.com | Tel: +234(0)8053069436

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The post The Insecurity Triad: Money, land, and mind —A definitive articulation appeared first on Frontpageng.

The thought returned to me during a quiet moment of reflection after signing off on the maiden edition of The Sunday Stew. It triggered the memory of a conversation from many years ago with Professor Jibril Aminu, the elder statesman who passed away on 5th June 2025, in Abuja at the age of 85. In the days following his death, many tributes recalled his intellectual brilliance. Those who knew him in his student years often spoke of his exceptional performance at the medical school of the University of Ibadan. I was told that he had set an academic record there that remained unmatched for many years. Whether that record still stands today I cannot say with certainty, but his reputation for academic brilliance has certainly endured.

My awareness of him, however, did not begin in medical circles. I cannot remember precisely when his name first entered my consciousness, but I do know that he became Minister of Education the year preceding my admission as a student at the University of Calabar. A year after he was appointed minister, a nationwide controversy erupted over the location of a cross at the Christian chapel of the University of Ibadan. The debate stirred strong opinions across campuses and in the wider public space, reflecting the delicate intersection of faith, identity, and public institutions in Nigeria.

Like many students of that era, I followed the debate closely. His name surfaced repeatedly in the national conversation.

But my earliest personal recollection of someone speaking about him with familiarity came a little later.

It was during our NYSC orientation camp in Zaria, Kaduna State. In the first days of camp, friendships formed quickly, as they often do when young graduates from different parts of the country suddenly find themselves sharing the same uncertain future. One of the friends I made was Sanusi Maiwada, who had studied agriculture or agricultural engineering — I can’t remember precisely — at the University of Sokoto, now Usmanu Danfodiyo University.

We spoke often about what life after national service might look like. Opportunities, ambitions, the usual uncertainties that follow graduation. At one point during one of those conversations, Sanusi mentioned casually that after camp he intended to travel to Lagos to see Professor Jibril Aminu about his future plans. I remember being struck by the ease with which he spoke the name — as though access to a figure of such stature was not unimaginable. This is because at the time we were at the orientation camp, Aminu had left office as minister but remained one of the truly influential Nigerians of the day.

I felt Sanusi Maiwada was very lucky to be associated with a figure of such formidable stature: an ex-minister who remained deeply consequential in the national scheme of things.

That brief exchange stayed with me. I lost contact with Sanusi Maiwada after NYSC and never learned what became of his plans. But the moment lingered. It was another small thread that kept Professor Aminu present in my awareness long before I would encounter him personally.

Years later, in 2012, that meeting finally happened. I was the Bureau Chief of BusinessDay in Abuja when my colleague, Tony Ailemen, arranged an interview with Professor Aminu at his Asokoro residence. By then, he had left active public life, having held a succession of roles that exposed him to the breadth of governance and academia: Executive Secretary of the National Universities Commission (NUC), Vice Chancellor, University of Maiduguri; Minister of Education, Ambassador to the United States, and Senator of the Federal Republic. He had seen Nigeria from the corridors of policy and politics, and he had seen the world — engaging with foreign leaders, international institutions, and global challenges.

Our most persistent crises are not natural. They are manufactured: kidnapping, insurgency, banditry, corruption, collapsing infrastructure, policy inconsistency, and institutional fragility have become recurring emergencies in our country.

That meeting revealed a man whose insight was shaped not by speculation, but by decades of experience in public service and leadership at the highest levels. He remained a widely respected figure in the then-ruling People’s Democratic Party (PDP) and commanded considerable regard in his home state of Adamawa. Yet despite his stature, he carried his perspective lightly: measured, observant, and quietly piercing.

During that interview, against the backdrop of global natural disasters — Hurricane Katrina in the United States, famine in Ethiopia, the harshness of the Sahara Desert, earthquakes in Haiti, Japan, and Turkey, and typhoons in the Philippines — he made a remark that has lingered with me ever since: while other nations contend with nature’s fury, we in Nigeria, largely spared from these hazards, somehow manage to create disasters for ourselves.

Delivered quietly, almost conversationally, the observation was unmistakably clear.

Across the world, geography dictates many of the challenges nations must confront. Japan lives with earthquakes powerful enough to reshape coastlines, as seen in the 2011 Tōhoku Earthquake and Tsunami which triggered the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear disaster. In the Caribbean, the 2010 Haiti Earthquake reduced entire sections of Port-au-Prince to rubble. More recently, the 2023 Turkey–Syria Earthquakes flattened neighbourhoods across southern Turkey and northern Syria. Across the Pacific, the Philippines regularly braces against storms like Typhoon Haiyan — among the most powerful tropical cyclones ever recorded.

In Africa, the famine in Ethiopia in the 1980s claimed hundreds of thousands of lives, while the harshness of the Sahara Desert shapes both the lives and survival strategies of communities and countries across the Sahel. In these cases, nature imposes hardship, yet human ingenuity and adaptation often determine survival.

In Nigeria, by contrast, the crises we face are largely self-imposed, avoidable, and yet persist due to governance failures and neglect. These are nations and regions where nature itself periodically rebels; Nigeria, in contrast, faces no such geological hostility.

We sit outside the world’s major earthquake belts. We have no active volcanoes threatening cities. Hurricanes rarely form along our coastline. Nature, in many respects, has been generous to Nigeria.

Yet our country often operates under the shadow of permanent disaster. Not because the earth trembles beneath us, but because we repeatedly create tremors ourselves.

Our most persistent crises are not natural. They are manufactured: kidnapping, insurgency, banditry, corruption, collapsing infrastructure, policy inconsistency, and institutional fragility have become recurring emergencies in our country. None of these emerged from the soil. They emerged from decisions.

Consider insecurity. Across large parts of our country, farmers abandon fertile land out of fear. Highways that should connect markets instead generate anxiety. Communities negotiate daily life under the shadow of armed groups. This is not the work of nature. It is the consequence of institutional weakness and leadership failure.

The same pattern appears in infrastructure. Countries prone to earthquakes enforce strict engineering standards because the ground beneath them cannot be trusted. Nigeria faces no seismic threat. Yet buildings collapse with disturbing frequency. The earth did not move. Standards did.

Even flooding, one of the few natural hazards we occasionally experience, often reveals deeper governance failures. Blocked drainage systems, chaotic urban planning, and construction on waterways transform ordinary rainfall into catastrophe. The rain falls everywhere. But disaster follows where planning disappears.

The observation Professor Aminu made that afternoon still lingers. It was a simple remark, delivered almost in passing. Yet the longer one reflects on it, the more unsettling its truth becomes. Nigeria is not threatened by earthquakes. We are not battered by hurricanes. Nature, in many respects, has been kind to us. Yet we often behave like a nation permanently under disaster.

In the next edition of The Sunday Stew, we will take a deeper look at this paradox — examining, one by one, some of the most significant self-inflicted and man-made crises that continue to hold the country back. Because if our greatest problems are indeed created by us, then understanding them clearly may be the first step toward finally overcoming them.

Don’t miss it.

Stay seasoned.  See you next Sunday.

• Max Amuchie, CEO of Sundiata Post, writes The Sunday Stew, a weekly syndicated column on faith, character, and the forces that shape society, with a focus on Nigeria and Africa in a global context. X @MaxAmuchie | Email: max.a@sundiatapost.com  +234(0)8053069436

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The post A country without earthquakes — yet shaken by itself appeared first on Frontpageng.

There are debts that cannot be quantified.

They are not financial. They do not accrue interest. They send no reminders. Yet they settle quietly on the conscience and refuse to leave.

This is one of them.

Some people also enter your life almost silently, almost accidentally, yet leave impressions so enduring that you only recognise their depth in their absence. Dr. Chris Asoluka was one such person.

Dr. Asoluka, who passed away on 10th May 2025, at age 70, was an economist, a public servant, and a technocrat of rare intellect. He served as a member of the House of Representatives in the Third Republic and as commissioner for finance and economic development in Imo State from 1994 to 1996. Later, he became Chairman and CEO of Nipal Consulting Network, a firm that provides strategy and policy development for national and subnational governments. He bridged public service, private enterprise, and intellectual engagement — a rare combination of principle, precision, and practice.

The first time I encountered his name, I did not meet him. I was a postgraduate student accompanying a course mate – whose name now escapes me – to his kinsman’s residence in Festac Town, Lagos, to collect books for a thesis. It was my course mate who mentioned, almost casually, “This is Chief Chris Asoluka’s house.”

He was not home. We collected the books and left.

The name lingered, then slipped quietly into memory.

Shortly after, I joined ThisDay newspaper. I found myself in the orbit of Professor Pat Utomi — political economist, restless intellectual, and at the time a faculty member at the Lagos Business School. As part of a book project on him, we drew up a list of key voices to interview. Chris Asoluka’s name resurfaced.

That was the beginning of a relationship that would quietly shape my understanding of accountability, leadership, and intellectual rigour.

My fuller interaction with him deepened during Professor Utomi’s first presidential bid ahead of the 2007 election. By 2006, the Lagos Business School had become a hub for strategy sessions — long hours of debate about economic direction, governance, and the temperament leadership requires.

Dr Asoluka was the arrowhead driving the entire strategy. He was measured and precise. He was never theatrical, never one to dominate a discussion for effect. But when he spoke, arguments gained structure. He anchored them in evidence, numbers, and logic. He demanded clarity where enthusiasm risked becoming vague and challenged assumptions politely but firmly.

It was my first sustained exposure to technocratic discipline applied to politics — and it permanently shaped how I perceive leadership, strategy, and responsibility.

During those Lagos years, our interactions extended beyond formal meetings. Asoluka’s office in Apapa was not far from ThisDay office, and I often dropped in, sometimes with purpose, sometimes simply to converse. He welcomed dialogue without pretence. Our discussions ranged from policy and economy to literature, ethics, and society.

I served as Features Editor at ThisDay for over five years. For three of those years, I wrote the Saturday back-page column, a space to reflect, interrogate, and provoke thought beyond breaking headlines. It was during this period that Dr Asoluka began reading my work.

He responded, sometimes briefly, sometimes analytically, often with questions that sharpened thought. When someone of disciplined intellect reads your work, you write more carefully. You test assumptions. You refine conclusions. He did not flatter; he engaged. That engagement was accountability.

In that moment, I felt the weight of quiet expectation, not from a critic, but from a mentor who believed that a voice once committed to reasoned discourse should not drift casually into silence.

While in ThisDay, I was head-hunted to Truetales Publications Ltd, publishers of Hints magazine, as CEO/Editor-in-Chief to lead a turnaround team. It was a brief but pivotal period. The challenge was organisational: reviving structures, restoring focus, and implementing strategic corrections.

From Truetales, I moved to BusinessDay as a member of its Editorial Board, where I resumed opinion writing, this time on Wednesdays. The platform changed, but the discipline of thinking aloud remained. It was from BusinessDay that I relocated to Abuja in 2011.

Distance altered rhythm. Writing slowed. Columns became occasional, then irregular, then silent. Life, with its multiplicity of responsibilities, filled the spaces once devoted to thought.

Writers rarely stop dramatically. They taper. They postpone. They drift. I drifted.

In 2024, at the Congress Hall of  Transcorp Hilton in Abuja, our paths crossed again. Time had left its mark: there was a walking stick to aid his movement. Yet his mind was sharp, his speech measured, his curiosity intact.

After pleasantries, he asked a simple question:

“Why did you stop writing?”

It was not accusatory. It was observational. He had noticed the silence. He had been reading me, following my work, and he expected the continuity of a voice that had once spoken publicly and consistently.

I offered explanations – distractions, responsibilities, the usual language of postponement. None satisfied me.

In that moment, I felt the weight of quiet expectation, not from a critic, but from a mentor who believed that a voice once committed to reasoned discourse should not drift casually into silence.

I promised to resume.

I did not keep that promise in time.

When news of his passing came, the unfinished promise returned with unusual force. There is a grief attached not merely to a loss, but to deferred action; to knowing that a debt to someone who shaped your thought remained unsettled.

Dr. Chris Asoluka was more than a technocrat. He was what the Italian philosopher, Antonio Gramsci, called an “organic intellectual” – one embedded in society, shaping institutions, translating abstract principles into applied practice.

In a society like ours, where noise often outpaces nuance, the organic intellectual performs an indispensable function. He tempers passion with evidence, insists that arithmetic matters, and reminds power that clarity must precede charisma. He insists that personality shapes policy, temperament informs decisions, and values must guide action.

Asoluka expected consistency. That expectation lingers.

Our national conversation obsesses over events. Beneath every event lies personality. Beneath every policy lies character. Every decision emerges from a constellation of pre-formed values. Institutions matter, yes – but the people who inhabit them matter more.

We do not always control the circumstances that interrupt us. But we control whether interruption becomes abandonment. That is one lesson I have learnt.

The question he asked in that Transcorp Hilton hall has not faded:

“Why did you stop writing?

Today, I answer not with explanation but with action. This column is not just my answer; it is my commitment.

This first edition of The Sunday Stew is my attempt to honour that debt, not through nostalgia, but through consistency. It is my way of responding to a standard quietly set before me.

This column will examine faith, leadership, culture, personality, and the unseen forces shaping our society’s visible outcomes. It will appear every Sunday, unhurried, unfiltered, and thoughtful.

Some weeks it will challenge you.

Other weeks, it may unsettle you.

Occasionally, it may simply provoke a smile.

But it will always be honest.

Addendum

That this debut aligns with March 8, International Women’s Day, is unplanned, yet fitting. If this column speaks of influence and accountability, it must acknowledge that many of Nigeria’s most enduring influences are steady and formative, often embodied by women whose contributions sustain our institutions without spectacle.

Tomorrow, March 9, marks the first anniversary of my mother’s passing. Lolo Angela Iheomahialam Amuchie departed on 9th March 2025. Her life, like that of many women of her generation, was not performed on public stage. It was lived in quiet consistency — in faith, discipline, sacrifice, and the shaping of values long before they found expression in public spaces.

The lessons she taught, alongside my father, the late Chief Emmanuel Ikonne Amuchie, still guide the steps of my siblings and me.

Influence needs not be loud to be lasting. It is visible in the mentors, the colleagues, the educators, and the family members whose work shapes lives quietly, profoundly, and consistently.

Therefore, as this column begins, I honour not only mentors like Chris Asoluka who sharpened my thought, but also those — like my parents — whose diligence, insight, and steadfast values quietly shape society in ways that often go unacknowledged.

Stay seasoned. See you next week.

* X@MaxAmuchie | Email: max.a@sundiatapost.com

 Readers’ reactions are welcome. Selected responses may be edited for clarity and length.

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The post The accountability of thought: A debt I owe Chris Asoluka appeared first on Frontpageng.

The column will debut on Sunday, 8th March 2026, appearing primarily in Sundiata Post, with availability for syndication across print, broadcast, and digital platforms.

The Sunday Stew will focus on leadership, values, institutional culture, ethical governance, and the broader forces shaping public life. The column is designed to provide reflective analysis and structured commentary on national and societal issues.

“Public debate often reacts to headlines rather than examining the structures that produce them,” Amuchie said, adding that “Sustainable progress depends on character, critical thought, and intellectual accountability. This column aims to contribute meaningfully to that conversation.”

The launch marks Amuchie’s return to regular column writing after several years devoted primarily to media management, consultancy and entrepreneurship.

Amuchie previously served as Features Editor at ThisDay newspaper, where he authored a widely read Saturday back-page column.

He later joined BusinessDay as a member of its Editorial Board, contributing weekly opinion articles on national and economic issues.

He also served as Chief Executive Officer and Editor-in-Chief of Truetales Publications Ltd, publishers of Hints magazine, where he led a strategic restructuring effort.

Before founding Sundiata Post Media Ltd, he was Managing Editor of Leadership newspaper in Abuja.

According to Amuchie, The Sunday Stew will maintain a reflective and analytical tone rather than a partisan posture, drawing from professional experience in journalism, editorial leadership, and public discourse.

The column is intended for policymakers, business leaders, media professionals, and engaged citizens seeking thoughtful analysis beyond daily headlines.

Amuchie is a member of the Nigerian Guild of Editors (NGE) and the Guild of Corporate Online Publishers (GOCOP) as well as an associate member of the Nigerian Institute of Public Relations (NIPR). He is a Past President of the Rotary Club of Abuja CBD and currently serves as Media Relations Chair of Rotary International District 9127.

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The post Amuchie launches weekly opinion column ‘The Sunday Stew’ appeared first on Frontpageng.

The Gulf American University, Dubai, United Arab Emirates, has honoured Dr Max Amuchie, Founder/CEO, Sundiata Post Media Ltd., with an Honorary Award of Science (Doctorate).
The award followed a year-long assessment on three areas – contribution to knowledge, humanitarian service and community development – which ended with Amuchie’s successful appearance before an Honorary Award Interview Panel set up by the Board of GAU on 23 December 2024, two days before the award was released.
At the panel session, Amuchie, a Rotarian, talked about his passion for humanitarian service.
As President of the Rotary Club of Abuja CBD in the 2022-2023 Rotary Year, he led a board that successfully ended open defecation in the Central Primary School, Gidan Gimba, Nasarawa State.
The club under his leadership built three modern toilets for the boys, girls and staff of the primary school.

The project was commissioned on 23 June 2023.
He also started a Basic Education Project consisting of a block of classrooms and a headteacher’s office in the school.

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The project reached advanced level of completion before his tenure ended on 30 June 2023.
Amuchie told the panel that ending open defecation in the Gidan Gimba Primary School and starting the Basic Education Project meant so much to him as it was a significant achievement of his Rotary Club under his presidency, adding that the local chief of Gidan Gimba community, his subjects as well as the pupils and staff of the school expressed deep gratitude to the Rotary Club of Abuja CBD for the gesture.
Max Amuchie’s media platform, Sundiata Post, which was officially unveiled at an impressive ceremony in Abuja on 7 July 2015, won, in July 2020, the Google News JERF Award.
Amuchie, a chartered human resource consultant, is a Doctoral Fellow of the Chartered Institute of Human Resource Management.
He is also an Associate of the Nigerian Institute of Public Relations, NIPR, and member of the Institute of Strategic Management, Nigeria.
He is a member and North-Central Zonal Co-ordinator of the Guild of Corporate Online Publishers, GOCOP, where, for three years, he has been a member of the Annual Conference Planning Committee.
A former Vice President, Public Relations of Unity Toastmasters Club, Abuja, Dr Max Amuchie is also a member of the Nigerian Guild of Editors, NGE.
In a letter he sent to GAU in appreciation, he expressed hope that the award would open a vista of relationship between the Gulf American University and Sundiata Post Media Ltd as well as the Rotary Club of Abuja CBD.

The post Amuchie gets Gulf American University’s Honorary Science Award appeared first on Frontpageng.

The president made the remark in welcoming corporate online publishers to Reverton Hotel in Lokoja, Kogi State, where the 8th annual general meeting (AGM) and Conference kicked off Wednesday, October 2, 2024.

The president said members must realise that online is the future of journalism, saying even traditional news organs have realized it and are rushing in.

“We must know we are mediapreneurs and small and medium enterprises (SMEs) in the online media community.”

She noted that the AGM is usually to reinvigorate members’ businesses while adhering to ethical rules.

On capacity building session that started the Day One, the President said the choice of experienced members to serve as resource persons was deliberate, stating that “We have brought our members that have succeeded in various aspects to talk to members so more people can succeed. That is what peer review does to us. Today is capacity-building, peer review, and talking to GOCOP partners. We also have our annual general meeting (AGM) today where we give account of stewardship.”

Chigbo, publisher of Relnews, said GOCOP has its own corporate social responsibility (CSR) projects. “We will visit an orphanage to give back to society. We recommend this to all our corporate members because we must put something aside each year in our different publishing outfits to give back to society.”

She appreciated members for solidarity and support while commending the people and government of Kogi State for playing host to GOCOP members.

She equally commended the organizing committee for painstaking efforts to make Lokoja-24 a bright event.

She gave kudos to the membership committee for strict screening processes to make the Guild a credible group of corporate publishers.

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In the first presentation, Dr Maxwell Amuchie, Founder/CEO, Sundiata Post Media Ltd., spoke to members on ‘Low Hanging Fruits; A Revenue Strategy for Online Publishers’.

He said it is to help online publishers answer a crucial worry in the online publishing business, which is how to earn sustainable revenue from the practice.

He identified the obvious revenue areas which he called low hanging fruits.

He named some of them as: sponsored posts, link insertions, text link adverts, and press releases.

On major revenue schemes available to online publishers, he mentioned banner adverts, special projects writing especially with state governments and agencies, digital advertising, social media revenue, events management, as well as licensing and syndication.

Dr. Amuchie who gave a deep insight into his experience in the beginning and how he stumbled on opportunities, gave hints on how to maximise the revenue areas.

He said: “Despite advices and counsel by GOCOP, members have the responsibility to define their business strategies and make their websites offer value that can attract patronage.”

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