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The Oracle: History and Its Unforgettable Events and Personalities That Shaped Them (Pt 10)

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By Chief Mike Ozekhome SAN

INTRODUCTION

Last week, our discourse into the Kanem-Bornu Empire, was extensively into the origin of Kanem; the rise of Kanems and the disintegration of Kanem. In all of these, the Kanem-Bornu Empire was known to the Arabian geographers as the Kanem Empire, from the 8th Century AD onward and lasted as the independent kingdom of Bornu (the Bornu Empire) until 1900. The Kanem Empire was located in the present countries of Chad, Nigeria and Libya. Today, we shall continue our x-ray on same. Thereafter, take on another Empire, Fante, in the central coastal region of Ghana.

THE KANEM–BORNU EMPIRE (Continues)

THE JIHAD AND THE DECLINE

Around that time, Fulani people, invading from the west, were able to make major inroads into Bornu during the Fulani War. By the early 19th century, Kanem-Bornu was clearly an Empire in decline, and in 1808, Fulani warriors conquered Ngazargamu. Usman dan Fodio led the Fulani thrust and proclaimed a jihad (holy war) on the irreligious Muslims of the area. His campaign eventually affected Kanem-Bornu and inspired a trend toward Islamic orthodoxy.

AL-KANEMI

Muhammad al-Amin al-Kanemi contested the Fulani advance. Kanem was a Muslim scholar and non-Sayfawa warlord who had put together an alliance of Shuwa Arabs, Kanembu, and other semi-nomadic peoples. He eventually built in 1814 a capital at Kukawa (in present-day Nigeria). Sayfawamais remained titular monarchs until 1846. In that year, the last mai, in league with the Ouaddai Empire, precipitated a civil war, resulting in the death of Mai Ibrahim, the last mai. It was at that point that Kanemi’s son, Umar, became Shehu, thus ending one of the longest dynastic reigns in international history. By then, Hausaland in the west, was lost to the Sokoto Caliphate, while the East and North were lost to the Wadai Empire.

Although the dynasty ended, the kingdom of Kanem-Bornu survived. Umar eschewed the title mai for the simpler designation Shehu (from the Arabic shaykh), could not match his father’s vitality, and gradually allowed the kingdom to be ruled by Advisers (Wazirs). Bornu began a further decline as a result of administrative disorganization, regional particularism, and attacks by the militant Ouaddai Empire to the east. The decline continued under Umar’s sons. In 1893, Rabih az-Zubayr led an invading army from Eastern Sudan and conquered Bornu. Following his expulsion shortly thereafter, the state was absorbed by the new Northern Nigeria Protectorate, in the sphere of the British Empire, and eventually became part of the independent state of Nigeria. From the arrival of the British, a remnant of the old kingdom was (and still is) allowed to continue to exist in subjection to the various Governments of the country as the Borno Emirate.

THE FRENCH AND GERMAN’S SCRAMBLE

Rabih’s invasion meant the death of Shehu Ashimi, Shehu Kyari and Shehu Sanda Wuduroma between 1893 and 1894. The British recognized Rahib as the ‘Sultan of Borno’, until the French killed Rabih on 22nd April 1900 during the Battle of Kousséri. The French then occupied Dikwa, Rabih’s capital, in April 1902, after the British had occupied Borno in March. Yet, based on their 1893 treaty, most of Borno remained under British control, while the Germans occupied Eastern Borno, including Dikwa, as ‘Deutsch Bornu’. The French did name Abubakar, the Shehu of Dikwa Emirate, until the British convinced him to be the Shehu of the Borno Emirate. The French then named his brother, Sanda, Shehu of Dikwa. Shehu Garbai formed a new capital, Yerwa, on 9th Jan. 1907. After WWI, Deutsch Bornu became the British Northern Cameroons. Upon Sheha Abubakar’s death in 1922, Sanda Kura became Shehu of Borno. Then upon his death in 1937, his cousin, Shehu of Dikwa, Sanda Kyarimi, became Shehu of Borno. As Vincent Hiribarren points out, “By becoming Shehu of the whole of Borno, Sanda Kyarimi reunited under his personal rule a territory which had been divided since 1902. For 35 years, two Shehus had co-existed.” In 1961, the Northern Cameroons voted to join Nigeria, effectively joining the frontiers of the kingdom of Bornu.

HISTORY OF THE FANTE EMPIRE

The Fante lived around Cape Coast and Elmina in the Central Coastal Region of Ghana. They are one of the Akan peoples “Fante” referred to “The half that left”. They initially settled in the Mankessim (Wikipedia). They are believed to have migrated from Techiman (or Tekyiman) in the present day Northwestern Asante region in the 17th century, before they joined the Fante confederacy. In Italian, “Fanti” means infantryman or foot soldier. The Fanei speak a Twi language, which is part of the Kwa group, and number about 1,170,000. Inheritance and succession to public office are determined mostly by matrilineal descent.

ORIGIN

According to their oral traditions, the Fante arrived in their present habitat from the north by the 17th Century. They served as middlemen in the commerce between the interior and British and Dutch traders on the coast. In the early 18th century, the Fante formed a confederation, primarily as a means of protection against Ashanti incursions from the interior. Several Fante-Ashanti wars followed. The Fante were aided by the British, who, however, destroyed the strong Fante confederation established between 1868 and 1872, believing it a threat to their hegemony on the coast. In 1874, a joint Fante-British army defeated the Ashanti, and in the same year the Fante became part of the British Gold Coast colony.

The word ‘Asafo’ is derived from ‘sa’ (meaning war) and ‘fo’ (meaning people). Warrior groups are active throughout the Akan area, but it is the Fante tribe which inhabits the coastal region of Ghana, that has developed a sophisticated and expressive community with a social and political organization based on martial principles, and elaborate traditions of visual art.

THE POLITICAL ADMINISTRATION

The situation throughout the Fante region was always fraught with political complexities, for there were twenty-four traditional states along an eighty mile stretch of the Atlantic coast, and each state was independently ruled by a paramount chief or ‘omanhen’, supported by elders and a hierarchy of divisional, town and village chiefs. In any one state there may be from two to fourteen Asafo companies, with as many as seven active companies in a single town. There is a lack of political unity within the Fante culture as a whole, so that inter-company rivalries – as well as disagreements between the states – are, not surprisingly, endemic. When the Fante were not fighting together against a common enemy, these antagonisms often extended to open conflict among them. Observers report that battles between Asafo companies in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries left many dead and wounded.

By exploiting these divisions, the Europeans could `divide and rule’ and ensure that their control of the coast went unchallenged. At the same time, by organizing the Asafo warriors into efficient military units, they could bring together an army for a quick reaction to any threat from the interior. The enemy was, more often than not, the powerful Ashanti kingdom, a traditional opponent of the Fante, and a dangerous and unpredictable supplier of gold and slaves to the European traders on the coast. The primary function of the Asafo, as we have seen, was defence of the state, nevertheless, the companies were key players in a balance-of- power struggle – typical of the many that exist in communities the world over – between the military and civilian groups within government. Although the Asafo were subordinate to their chiefs and paramount chief, they were intimately involved in the selection of the chief and were responsible for his crowning or ‘enstoolment’. As long as the chief had the support of the people – as represented by the Asafo – he had the authority accorded to him by tradition; the prerogative to appoint and remove Chiefs remained with the people. Asafo elders also served as advisers to the chief.

While Fante chieftaincy was aristocratic and matrilineal – the chief tracing his descent through females back to the founders of the community – the Asafo are patrilineal and democratic, every child, male or female, automatically entered his father’s company, and membership was open to all classes, from stool holders to fishermen.

The installation of a new Asafo captain was the principal motivation for the creation of a flag. It was the responsibility of the incumbent to commission and pay for the ensign, which then became the collective property of his company. The choice of design was his, albeit partly limited to mimicking the examples established by precedent to be the artistic property of the company. The personalizing of flags in memory of the commissioning officer is now a common occurrence.

The display of Asafo flags was associated with the social activities of the company and the town as a whole. For the town the major event of the year is the Akwambo (path-clearing) festival. This was a time of unity, of renewing allegiances and friendships and of the homecoming of family members especially for the celebrations. Paths were cleared to shrines of the gods, often by the river, and as this is a large-scale event, it was the time of the presentation of new Asafo leaders, such as supi or asafohen. Bearing their flags, the Asafo companies’ paraded through the streets, to the river, to the town shrines and past the houses of the chiefs to demonstrate their allegiances.

At these festivals the companies of a town proudly and aggressively defended the right to parade specific and exclusive colours, cloth patterns, emblems and motifs on their art forms. The violation by mimickry of a company’s artistic property established by precedent and since 1859 by local law, was seen as an act of open aggression. The flags were also shown at other Asafo events, including the funeral of a company member and the commissioning of a new or remodeled shrine, or on an important anniversary of its original construction. Town, regional and national events, such as the enstoolment of chiefs, the annual Yam Festival and state holidays, were all celebrated with a show of Asafo flags.

At these social events the flags were displayed in a variety of ways. The flagpoles of the posubans, the shrines of each company, proudly carried the flags aloft and the houses of Asafo members adjacent to the shrine, as well as the shrine itself, were decked with strings of colourful colonial and Ghanaian ensigns, Flags were carried in processions and, most dynamically, there was a spectacular display of elaborate dancing with the flag by specially trained Asafo officers, the ‘frankakitsanyi’.”

In 1853, Cruickshank noted that each company had a distinctive flag; for a company member, ‘the honour of his flag is the first consideration’. He also commented that some flags were specifically designed as challenges or insults to rival companies.

These visual insults and provocations often resulted in fatal inter- company clashes. An image of one company catching their enemies in a dragnet brandished by one company at a festival in July, 1991, nearly caused a riot! Earlier incidents such as these led to the strict control of flag imagery. At Cape Coast, beginning in the 1860s, all companies were ordered to submit their flags to the Colonial Governor for his approval and to register the approved designs and colours with his secretary. The display of unregistered flags was punishable by law. Even today a new flag must be approved by the paramount chief, the general of the combined companies. The Asafo elders then paraded before all the other companies in the area to make sure that no one is offended.

THOUGHT FOR THE WEEK

“There are no extraordinary men… just extraordinary circumstances that ordinary men are forced to deal with.” (William Halsey).

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Opinion

The Stockholm Syndrome in the Delta

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By Boma Lilian Braide Esq.

The water remembers. It remembers when we were queens and kings of the creeks, when our voices carried across the rivers like thunder, and when no external force could dictate the terms of our existence.

Today, as a daughter of the Ijaw nation, I look at our political landscape and my heart breaks into a thousand pieces. The recent withdrawal of Pastor Tonye Cole from the political race reopened a wound that never properly healed. I immediately texted him a single, urgent question: “Why?” His response was a resigned, familiar phrase; “It is well.” At that exact moment, my thoughts were screaming so loudly inside my head, “Not again!” It felt like a brutal repetition of an old script. Every single time, without fail, they treat the Ijaw man badly, pushing him out of the room where decisions are made.

This leadership class continually trades our birthright for political crumbs, leaving me with a profound sadness I cannot shake. Every four years, we are forced to watch the same exhausting, predictable cycle play out. We have become the laughing stock of the Nigerian politics. We roar like lions in the morning, only to allow ourselves to be led like sheep to the slaughter house by nightfall. This pattern is not merely a string of tactical errors. It is a structural and psychological condition that has calcified into our political culture. We begin every election season with unparalleled bravery, massive energy, clarity, and a list of demands. We mobilise, we protest, we declare our rights. Yet at the decisive moment we fold. We trade collective power for personal gain. We accept crumbs while the harvest is taken from our lands allowing our leaders to be used as mere pawns, chess pieces, and foot soldiers on a board completely controlled by outsiders.

Call it what it is, a political Stockholm syndrome. When a people are held hostage by extractive systems for generations, they can begin to see the captor as a provider. When political actors poison our rivers, burn our gas, and extract our wealth, then return during elections with token gifts, the damaged political imagination can mistake those gifts for benevolence. A motorcycle, a solar lamp, a bag of rice, or a ten thousand naira note becomes a substitute for structural justice. We applaud the giver and forget the theft.

This is not a partisan indictment. The major parties have all participated in this system. From the coastal edges of Ondo and Edo, through Rivers and Bayelsa, to the riverine communities of Delta and Akwa Ibom, the script is the same. Political machines arrive with cash and spectacle. They leave with votes. They do not stay to build roads, to clean oil spills, to fund health care, or to restore fisheries. They do not invest in education or in the infrastructure that would make our communities resilient. They know they do not have to. They know that the combination of poverty, fragmentation, and short-term survival instincts will deliver the votes they need.

The spectacle in Rivers State is instructive. The conflict between an incumbent and a predecessor is not only a personal rivalry. It is a mirror of a deeper structural problem. An Ijaw son may occupy the governor’s office, but the expectation of loyalty to an external power broker remains. When disagreements arise, the Ijaw polity does not close ranks. Instead, it fractures. Elders, youth groups, and political actors align with different external centres of power. We tear ourselves apart while the larger system remains intact.

Delta State offers another painful example. The region produces a disproportionate share of the oil wealth that sustains the state and the nation. Yet Ijaw communities are routinely relegated to secondary roles in governance. The highest offices are often out of reach. When an Ijaw candidate shows real ambition, the pressure to step down, to accept a consolation prize, or to be bought off intensifies at the last minute. The result is a steady stream of symbolic representation and token appointments that do not translate into structural change.

Even Bayelsa State, our most homogenous political home, has not been immune. The state has been turned into a dependent outpost. Political life there is often conducted under the shadow of Abuja. During elections, communities are militarized. Young people are paid paltry sums to snatch ballot boxes and intimidate their neighbours. The leaders who emerge from such processes rarely prioritize environmental remediation, health care, or education. They prioritize survival within the national political economy.

Why do we accept this? Part of the answer lies in a minority complex that has been cultivated over generations. We have been taught to believe that because we are numerically small and geographically dispersed across several states, we cannot set national terms. That belief is false. Our geographic position along the southern maritime border gives us leverage. Nigeria’s economy cannot function without the peace of our creeks. Yet we negotiate from a position of weakness because we lack a unified, non-partisan political command structure.

Other major ethnic blocs in Nigeria have developed cultural mechanisms that protect collective interests across party lines. They maintain consensus on key strategic questions and punish those who betray the collective. The Ijaw political house, by contrast, is fragmented. We are divided into Western, Central, and Eastern blocs. Internal jealousy and rivalry consume us. When an Ijaw son or daughter rises to prominence, it is sometimes their own people who are recruited to pull them down. This internal sabotage is a major reason we are treated as expendable by national political machines.

Our representatives in national assemblies and federal boards are often the most silent and compliant. They vote for policies that harm our region because they want to protect their personal seats and committee positions. We have forgotten the intellectual foundation of our struggle. Our fathers did not rely on muscle alone. They fought with logic and strategy.

Harold Dappa Biriye used constitutional arguments to demand minority rights during the pre-independence conferences. Isaac Adaka Boro presented a detailed economic manifesto during the twelve-day revolution, exposing the systematic underdevelopment of the Delta. The Kaiama Declaration of 1998 linked environmental justice with true federalism in a way that remains a model for strategic political thinking. Today, that intellectual tradition has been eroded by a culture of thuggery, praise singing, and the pursuit of quick money.

The social and economic costs of our political submission are visible everywhere. Schools sink into the mud. Primary health centres lack basic medicines. Women die in childbirth because there are no functional boats to transport them to urban hospitals. Rivers that once sustained us are coated with crude oil. Gas flares burn day and night, releasing toxins that cause cancers and respiratory diseases. In any functioning democracy, such environmental devastation would provoke electoral punishment. But our people accept ten-thousand naira, wear party uniforms, and return the same leaders to office.

This pattern is not only morally wrong. It is strategically suicidal. The global energy transition is underway. The world is moving away from fossil fuels. In a few decades, crude oil will no longer be the primary driver of the global economy. When that happens, the Nigerian state’s willingness to distribute minor rents, amnesty stipends, and pipeline contracts will evaporate. If we remain politically domesticated and economically dependent, we will be discarded once our resources lose value. We will be left with a ruined environment and a population unprepared for the modern economy.

Breaking this cycle requires a radical transformation of our political behaviour. It requires both immediate reforms and long-term institution building.
First, we must refuse to sell our votes for temporary relief. If politicians bring money during elections, take it because it is a fraction of your stolen wealth, but enter the voting booth and vote fiercely against them if they have not delivered real, systemic progress. The act of taking money and voting against the giver is not a moral ideal. It is a pragmatic tactic that recognizes the reality of survival while asserting political agency.

Second, we must create a culture of community accountability. Any Ijaw politician, elder, or youth leader who sells out the collective interest for personal gain must face social consequences. They should be stripped of traditional honours, excluded from community gatherings, and greeted with public disapproval rather than celebration. The cost of betrayal must be made higher than the reward offered by external actors.

We must also institutionalize our collective strength. The Ijaw nation needs a permanent, non-partisan political and economic council composed of our finest minds. This council should include intellectuals, legal experts, economists, and community builders from across the globe. Its mandate would be to define a multi decade Ijaw National Agenda that transcends party lines. Any Ijaw person entering politics should be bound by that agenda. Any external political force seeking our cooperation should be required to commit to its verifiable execution.

Again, we must build strategic alliances with other coastal minority groups. From Calabar to Badagry, the coastal communities share common interests in environmental protection, maritime economies, and regional development. A unified coastal voting bloc would create a political force that no national party can ignore. Such an alliance would also strengthen bargaining power for federal resource allocation and environmental remediation.

Fifth, we must shift our economic focus from pipelines to the blue marine economy. Our future lies in the ocean. We must invest in community owned industrial fishing fleets, deep sea shipping logistics, local shipbuilding yards, and aquaculture networks. We must develop port infrastructure and maritime training centres. Economic independence is the foundation of political courage. When our communities can fund their own schools, hospitals, and water systems through independent marine enterprises, we will no longer beg for crumbs.

Sixth, we must invest in education and leadership training. Political courage is not loud rhetoric. It is disciplined strategy. We must train a new generation of leaders who understand constitutional law, public finance, environmental science, and international trade. We must teach negotiation skills, coalition building, and institutional design. The Ijaw struggle must be intellectualized and professionalized.

Seventh, we must reclaim our narrative. For too long our story has been told by others. We must document our history, our legal claims, and our environmental evidence. We must use the courts, the media, and international forums to hold polluters and complicit officials accountable. We must turn our lived experience into verifiable claims that can be litigated and publicized.

Finally, we must practice disciplined solidarity. Political unity does not mean uniformity of opinion. It means a shared commitment to core strategic objectives. It means agreeing on red lines that cannot be crossed. It means supporting candidates who commit to the Ijaw National Agenda and sanctioning those who betray it.

The hour is late. The cost of our political naivety is visible in every polluted river, every jobless youth, and every broken promise. We cannot enter another election cycle with the same broken playbook. We must reject transactional politics and demand structural change. We must hold our leaders accountable and refuse to celebrate personal appointments that bring no collective benefit.

We must heal ourselves of this political Stockholm syndrome. We must stop loving the systems that destroy us and begin the difficult work of building lasting political infrastructure. The future of the Ijaw nation depends on our ability to transform our pain into strategic power. The water is watching. The spirits of our ancestors who resisted colonial domination are watching. We must rise, cleanse our minds of dependency, and stand with dignity. The era of last minute surrender must end. The time for strategic, sovereign Ijaw political courage has arrived.

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Opinion

Leadership in Africa: Forging a New Era of Self-Reliance, Unity and Global Relevance (Pt. 3)

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By Tolulope A. Adegoke

“True leadership in Africa is not the pursuit of power, but the courage to serve — to turn the pain of yesterday into the promise of tomorrow, to bind broken hearts into one destiny, and to raise a continent where every son and daughter can stand tall, not by pulling others down, but by lifting one another higher.” – Tolulope A. Adegoke, PhD

Building upon the foundational principles and practical pathways discussed in Parts 1 and 2, this continuation explores the deeper implementation strategies, institutional reforms, cultural shifts, and long-term vision required to translate African leadership into tangible, sustainable transformation. It addresses the realities on the ground while offering forward-looking, actionable recommendations that can help Africa move from potential to performance on both regional and global stages.

Institutional Reforms as the Backbone of Transformative Leadership

Visionary leadership without strong institutions is like a beautiful dream without a foundation. Africa’s progress depends on building institutions that are resilient, transparent, and people-centred.

Leaders must prioritise civil service reform, judicial independence, and anti-corruption mechanisms that are not only punitive but preventive. For example, Rwanda’s use of performance contracts (imihigo) for public officials has created a culture of accountability and results. Similarly, Ghana’s strong electoral commission and relatively independent judiciary have helped sustain democratic stability. These models show that when institutions are strengthened, leadership becomes less about individual charisma and more about systemic effectiveness.

Regional institutions such as the African Union, ECOWAS, SADC, and the East African Community must also be reformed. They need greater financial autonomy, faster decision-making processes, and clearer enforcement mechanisms. The African Union’s current efforts to reform its Peace and Security Council and operationalise the African Standby Force are steps in the right direction, but they require consistent political will and adequate funding from member states.

Cultural and Mindset Transformation

Leadership that builds Africa must also transform mindsets. Many of the continent’s challenges are rooted in colonial-era thinking, dependency syndromes, and a culture of short-termism.

Progressive leaders should invest in cultural renewal programmes that celebrate African excellence, innovation, and resilience. This includes supporting the creative industries — Nollywood in Nigeria, Afrobeats music, and contemporary African literature — which are already projecting positive African narratives globally. Educational systems must move beyond rote learning to foster critical thinking, ethical reasoning, and entrepreneurial spirit.

Youth leadership development is particularly crucial. With over 60% of Africa’s population under the age of 25, the continent’s future depends on preparing young people not just for jobs, but for leadership. Initiatives like the African Union’s Youth Agenda and national youth service programmes should be expanded and made more impactful.

Economic Transformation and Self-Reliance in Practice

True self-reliance requires deliberate economic restructuring. Leaders must champion value addition in agriculture, mining, and natural resources. Instead of exporting raw cocoa, cotton, or crude oil, African countries should invest in processing facilities that create jobs and capture more value domestically.

The African Continental Free Trade Area (AfCFTA) offers a historic opportunity. When fully implemented, it can boost intra-African trade, reduce dependence on external markets, and create new industries. Leaders who actively remove non-tariff barriers, harmonise standards, and invest in cross-border infrastructure will be remembered as the architects of Africa’s economic renaissance.

Public-private partnerships (PPPs) should be strengthened, with clear frameworks that protect national interests while attracting responsible investment. Countries like Morocco and Ethiopia have shown how strategic industrial policies can attract foreign direct investment while building local capacity.

Global Relevance: Africa as a Solution Provider

Africa must stop seeing itself solely as a recipient of global solutions and begin positioning itself as a contributor. The continent’s vast renewable energy potential, youthful population, and rich biodiversity give it unique advantages in addressing global challenges such as climate change, food security, and digital innovation.

Leaders who understand this will invest in research and development, patent African innovations, and engage confidently in global forums. The success of African pharmaceutical companies during the COVID-19 pandemic and the growth of African tech unicorns demonstrate that the continent can compete and lead when given the right environment.

 

A Balanced and Hopeful Conclusion

Africa stands at a historic crossroads. The challenges — poverty, inequality, climate vulnerability, and governance gaps — are real and significant. Yet the opportunities — a youthful population, abundant natural resources, cultural richness, and growing regional integration — are even greater.

Leadership remains the decisive variable. When leaders rise above narrow interests to serve the collective good, Africa does not just survive — it thrives and offers the world new models of resilience, innovation, and inclusive growth.

The path forward requires a new covenant: between leaders and citizens, between nations and regions, and between Africa and the global community. This covenant must be rooted in trust, mutual accountability, and shared vision. With the right leadership — courageous, ethical, inclusive, and strategic — Africa can forge a new era of self-reliance, unity, and global relevance.

The question is not whether Africa can rise. The question is whether its leaders, supported by an awakened citizenry, will summon the will, wisdom, and courage to make that rise unstoppable. The world is watching, and history is waiting to record the choices made in this decisive decade.

Africa’s story is still being written. With visionary leadership, it can become one of triumph, dignity, and global excellence.

Dr. Tolulope A. Adegoke, AMBP-UN is a globally recognized scholar-practitioner and thought leader at the nexus of security, governance, and strategic leadership. His mission is dedicated to advancing ethical governance, strategic human capital development, resilient nation building, and global peace. He can be reached via: tolulopeadegoke01@gmail.comglobalstageimpacts@gmail.com

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Opinion

A Familiar Kind of Tragedy by Adeoye Inioluwa

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The recent attacks on school communities in Oyo and Borno states have once again forced the country into a familiar emotional cycle — shock, grief, statements, and questions that briefly dominate public attention before gradually fading into silence.
What makes this cycle more unsettling each time is not only the incident itself, but the growing sense that it no longer feels entirely unexpected.
No society is completely free of insecurity. That much is understood. But what often defines public confidence is not the absence of incidents; it is the clarity, consistency, and visibility of response over time.
People do not only want to hear that action will be taken. They want to understand what has changed since the last time similar words were spoken.
Schools are supposed to represent safety at its most basic level. They are meant to be spaces where children are temporarily removed from the uncertainties of the outside world, not exposed to them. So when violence reaches those spaces, it does more than disrupt learning — it disrupts trust.
In the immediate aftermath, responses are often swift in tone. Condemnation is expressed. Sympathy is extended. Assurances are made. These reactions are necessary, but the challenge lies in what follows after the statements are made.
Because for those directly affected, the consequences do not end when public attention moves on.
There is also a broader national concern that emerges in moments like this: the increasing difficulty of distinguishing isolated incidents from a pattern. When similar events recur across different locations and times, they begin to reshape how communities perceive safety itself.
At that point, the issue is no longer only about response, but about prevention — and more importantly, about whether prevention is visibly evolving in a way that matches the scale of concern.
Citizens are not only listening for reassurance. They are watching for evidence that lessons from previous incidents have been fully translated into action. This includes how vulnerable spaces are secured, how intelligence is applied, and how quickly gaps are identified before they are exploited again.
Without that visible progression, reassurance risks becoming routine, and routine reassurance gradually weakens public confidence.
There is also a quiet emotional cost that is rarely acknowledged. Each new incident does not erase the memory of the previous one; it adds to it. Over time, this accumulation creates a national fatigue — a troubling adaptation to repeated distress.
In such a climate, the most important responsibility is not only to respond after events, but to reduce the conditions that allow them to repeat.
Because ultimately, the measure of any serious response is not how firmly it is stated in moments of crisis, but how clearly it reshapes what happens next.
And if that shift is not visible, then the unanswered questions will continue. Not out of impatience, but out of necessity.

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