TONY EDEMENAHA bemoans a republic on life support
Nigeria today feels like a courtroom where the judge has removed his wig to share the loot, the bailiff sells adjournments, and the accused sits on the bench. The house hasn’t fallen yet, but the termites are writing memos on letterhead. The landlord is converting the foundation into a private vault.
The Committee for the Defence of Human Rights put it plainly: Rise, speak and unite. And together, let us break every chain of injustice and reclaim the freedom that is ours. That is not sloganeering. It is a diagnosis. In every age of crisis, God raises messengers—voices of courage and truth—to awaken people and restore justice.
Today is no different. We live in a world of political manipulation and economic strangulation. The chains are no longer iron. They are policy documents, padded budgets, midnight court orders, and procurement memos that turn hospitals into mortuaries and schools into relics.
A republic stands on three legs: executive, legislative, judicial. Ours balances on air while the people bruise their tailbones.
The executive, mandated to deliver development, has become an events planner for convoys. A governor commissions a “world-class” bus stop with 47 aides clapping, while the teaching hospital behind it has no bandages. The Federal Executive Council approves billions for “capacity building” workshops in Dubai to teach officials how to use email. Meanwhile, citizens’ capacity to buy food is demolished by inflation that never attends workshops. Remove subsidy, float the naira, tax the air, then tell citizens to “sacrifice” while your SUV fleet renews itself quarterly.
The legislature, the supposed House of the People, is now a House of Per Diems. Lawmakers earn hardship allowances while their constituents live hardship. Constituency projects appear in press releases and vanish in villages, only to resurface as wings of a senator’s hotel. Oversight means negotiating cuts. When the Appropriation Bill leaves the National Assembly, it’s heavier, breastfed with padding.
Then the judiciary, the last temple where the common man hoped to find God in a wig. Lately, the temple is leased to the highest bidder. Election tribunals sound like betting houses. Ex-parte orders stop investigations at 11:58 pm. A man who steals a phone is remanded in 24 hours. A man who steals a state files a “preliminary objection” and gets eight years of adjournments. Lady Justice now squints at bank alerts before reading affidavits.
This is systemic collapse—not because institutions are absent, but because they work for a greedy, self-perpetuating elite stashing our commonwealth into private pouches.
Anecdotes from the Republic of Bruises : In Kogi, 2024, the budget provided ₦1.3 billion for “Government House Catering and Refreshments.” The same year, the state teaching hospital had two functional dialysis machines for 4.7 million people. That’s not a budget. That’s a menu, and the people aren’t invited.
In Ekiti, a man lost a councillorship seat to an opponent who shared ₦2,000 and groundnut oil per voter. Two years later, the councilor is missing, the oil is finished, and voters buy garri on credit. That’s economic strangulation by democracy: choose your poison, drink it for four years.
In Zamfara, Mrs. Halima’s son was arrested during #EndSARS. No charge for 14 months. When her lawyer saw a judge, the judge asked, “Who sent you to defend this boy?” Justice required an invitation letter.
Poverty has become an object—visible, tangible. It’s the child studying under a streetlight because NEPA took the light and the school took the roof. It’s the graduate who submits 300 applications and gets 300 prayers: “We’ll get back to you.” It’s the pensioner who dies on the verification queue while his former governor “rests” in London from the stress of looting.
The elite practice perverse alchemy. They turn public hospitals into private referrals. Government schools collapse so private schools owned by their wives thrive. Roads are left with craters so contracts are re-awarded yearly. Insecurity persists because security votes are unaccountable. The more the country bleeds, the more they bandage their pockets.
They don’t fear elections. If you can’t beat the ballot, buy the collation officer. If you can’t buy him, get a court to cancel him. If the court refuses, get a higher court to confuse him. The game is rigged, and the umpire wears a jersey.
But Freedom Is Never Handed to the Silent.
We are called to rise—not in silence, but in unity; not in fear, but in conviction. Justice doesn’t prevail without those willing to stand for it. Silence is tyranny’s oxygen. Our silence has been so generous the elite breathe better than we do.
To rise is to audit. Follow the money. Your LGA received federal allocation—where is it? Your lawmaker got constituency allowance—where is the constituency? Your state got ecological funds—why is the flood still carrying your neighbor’s house? Questions are the first form of protest.
To speak is to disrupt “it is well.” It’s not well when a Permanent Secretary owns more houses than the ministry has files. It’s not well when a judge’s son schools abroad while he adjourns ASUU cases for “lack of diligent prosecution.” Speak at town halls, on radio, with your PVC, with data. The elite fear a citizen with a spreadsheet more than one with a stone.
To unite is to reject divide-and-loot. The hungry Igbo man and the hungry Hausa man have more in common than either has with the senator who jets to his child’s graduation in Canada. When they say your enemy is the man in the next state, check who signed the contract. When they say your problem is religion, check who owns the oil block. Unity means agreeing that theft has no tribe.
Let us break every chain of injustice and reclaim our freedom, link by link.
Link one: Kill secrecy. Every contract above ₦10 million must be published with the contractor’s name, address, and BVN before mobilization. Let sunlight do what EFCC cannot.
Link two: Jail the big ones. One former governor in prison for corruption does more for deterrence than 10,000 sermons. The law is not a bedtime story. It’s a hammer. Use it.
Link three: Make rigging expensive. BVAS and IReV help, but citizen surveillance is better. Every polling unit needs three independent phones streaming. When collation officers know two million people are watching, they remember their conscience.
Link four: Protect the messengers. God raises voices in every age—the Data-PHYTEs tracking budgets, FIJ reporters exposing smugglers in government, pastors who call theft sin even when the thief is a deacon, lawyers taking pro-bono cases against governors. When one is attacked, 10,000 should tweet, march, or sue. Isolation kills truth.
Remain Peaceful, Remain Relentless. The CDHR added a crucial line: _Remain peaceful as you dedicate your life to this course._ Peace isn’t surrender. It’s strategy. The elite want violence because it discredits you and justifies tanks. They can’t defend against persistence. A citizen who files FOI requests monthly, attends budget hearings, votes, monitors, recalls, and repeats is a nightmare to a thief. Revolutions are also fought with persistence sheets.
Nigeria isn’t yet a failed state. It’s a failing state—which means it can still be caught. A man with a heart attack isn’t a corpse. He’s a warning. Our institutions are in ICU, but the ventilator can still be plugged in—if we stop waiting for doctors and become the doctors.
Speak out against oppression. Stand firm for what is right. Together, we are stronger than any chain. The dark night won’t end by wishing. Owls won’t stop ruining our sleep because we prayed. They stop when dawn is forced by men and women who light lamps.
The commonwealth is ours. The country is ours. The future is ours. The elite are tenants selling the house. It’s time to serve an eviction notice.
With our voices. With our votes. With our unity. With our refusal to die in silence.
Edemenaha, poet and social commentator, writes from Asaba
