By Ramatu Ada Ochekliye
A few days ago, I posted a new video about the worth of women, particularly in politics, leadership, and governance. It was the first vlog I had posted in a long while. I remember waking up one morning, more enraged than usual by the state of politics and governance in Nigeria, especially the way it continues to affect women.
Since 1999, when Nigeria entered this current phase of democratic rule, there had been glimmers of progress. However, between 2015 and now, those gains have not just stalled, they have reversed. There are fewer women in government across all levels today than there were a decade ago. Bills aimed at promoting gender equality and equity are consistently struck down in national and state assemblies, often without serious engagement, and enforcing religious and cultural ideologies. Something fundamental is shifting — and it is deeply troubling.
We are not just stagnant. We are moving backwards. And that backward motion is costing lives.
This regression is not theoretical. Women are no longer safe: not in homes, not in workplaces, not in transit, and not in public spaces. The rates of femicide, rape, kidnapping, “ritual killings” — which should be correctly called organ trafficking — and other forms of gender-based violence have become so commonplace that fear has been replaced by fury. Women are now more enraged at the lack of safety than they are afraid.
What is even more terrifying is the silence. Outside feminist circles and a few gender rights advocates, the national conversation does not reflect this crisis. Our representation in government is shrinking. The few women who manage to get into office are either harassed or drowned out by their male colleagues. Some are so focused on keeping their positions that they uphold the same oppressive norms we are trying to dismantle.
The country is still reeling from the alleged mistreatment of Senator Natasha Akpoti-Uduaghan by the Senate President and his supporters. That incident made it painfully clear just how much of a threat a woman’s political voice still is in Nigeria.
So, I did what I could in that moment: I turned on my camera and spoke. Not just to vent, but to signal. To provoke. To inspire. I hoped that someone would hear the urgency in my voice and choose to act, not just for themselves but for all of us.
Then, I received an invitation from Daria Media to attend the premiere of Double Minority, a documentary they produced with support from the MacArthur Foundation. Daria Media is committed to development and nation-building, and they understand the role media must play in shaping governance and democracy. This documentary follows the political journeys of nine Nigerian women who contested for office during the 2023 general elections. It is directed by Kadaria Ahmed, the renowned journalist, television host, and media entrepreneur.
Of course, I accepted. Whether you call it fate, the universe, or alignment, something was pulling me back to the core of my political awakening, reminding me that anger without action is simply despair. The premiere was held on July 14, 2025, at the Shehu Musa Yar’Adua Centre in Abuja. The room was filled with people who have been walking this path for years — women in politics, civil society advocates, journalists, storytellers like me. It felt like home, even in the midst of so much collective frustration.
The keynote addresses were given by Dr. Kole Shittima, Chief Executive Officer of the MacArthur Foundation, and Babatunde Ajala, Senior Political and Economic Specialist at the Embassy of Switzerland. Their messages were clear: women are not a numerical minority in Nigeria, but they have been turned into political minorities.
Dr. Kole Shettima’s address was measured, thoughtful, but unapologetically direct. He began by reaffirming the MacArthur Foundation’s commitment to gender equity and its ongoing support for organizations like Daria Media that are working to center women in Nigeria’s democratic story.
He posed a critical question that has stuck with me since: “If you want to understand the true development indicators of a nation, look at how it treats its women.” It was a stark reminder that Gross Domestic Product (GDP) numbers and national infrastructure projects are not sufficient signs of progress. True development is reflected in the safety, participation, and dignity of women.
He highlighted a chilling trend: at the rate things are going, Nigeria may soon have no female voices representing us in international diplomacy, policy-making, or peace-building processes. Not because we lack capable women, but because the system continues to lock us out by gatekeeping, gaslighting, and grinding resistance.
He made a powerful distinction: women are not numerical minorities in Nigeria. In fact, women make up roughly half the population. We also participate heavily in the electoral process — as voters, mobilizers, volunteers, and community leaders. Yet, when it comes to leadership and representation, we are treated like a footnote. “That,” he said, “is the real crisis.”
And then came a call to action: he urged everyone in the room to support House Bill 1349, a piece of legislation aimed at expanding political opportunities for women in Nigeria. He did not mince words: it is time for less talk and more structural change. We must organize, advocate, and put pressure where it matters.
Dr. Shettima closed with hope. “I hope this evening inspires all of us — not just to feel moved, but to act. Nigeria needs to do better. And we can.”
Babatunde Ajala delivered what I would call a policy-rooted but deeply human speech. From the onset, he made it clear: the documentary we were about to watch was not just about nine women — it was about the systemic injustices women face when they attempt to engage with politics in Nigeria.
He acknowledged the double burden that women carry in political spaces — the burden of proving their competence in a male-dominated field, and the burden of surviving the social, financial, and emotional toll that comes with choosing public service. Hence the name, Double Minority.
He cited a sobering statistic: Nigeria currently ranks 178 out of 182 countries in terms of women’s participation in governance. That is not just a national embarrassment; it is a betrayal of our potential. “As the so-called Giant of Africa,” he said, “Nigeria should not be dragging its feet in gender representation. We should be leading the way.”
His speech was filled with statements that were both principled and pragmatic:
“Leadership has no gender.”
“Democratic ideals are impossible to achieve without the inclusion of all members of society.”
“When women are fully included in governance, democracy is not only strengthened — it becomes legitimate.”
What stood out most for me was his emphasis on visibility. The women featured in Double Minority, he said, are “larger than themselves.” They represent a deep yearning for inclusion, for equity, for dignity. They have challenged societal norms, endured abuse, and kept showing up — not because they had to, but because they believe in something bigger than themselves.
And in that belief, we see what true leadership looks like.
After the speeches, we watched the film.
The documentary follows nine women: Senator Natasha Akpoti-Uduaghan, Senator Ireti Heebah Kingibe, Honourable Nnenna Elendu–Ukeje, Adeola Azeez, Honourable Simi Olusola, Hauwa Gambo, Honourable Khadijah Iya, Honourable M’unira Tanimu, and Joyce Daniels. These women are from all over the country — Kaduna, Abia, Edo, Ekiti, Niger, Ogun, and beyond. Despite the cultural diversity of their regions, the challenges they faced were nearly identical.
Three key themes emerged:
- Slut-shaming.
Every single woman featured in the documentary was called a prostitute at some point during her campaign, for simply aspiring to public office. I have spoken about this before, but watching them share their experiences, seeing the pain in their faces and the resolve in their voices, was deeply upsetting. This is not just casual misogyny. It is systemic psychological warfare.
- Weaponized Poverty.
These women wanted to serve. But the very communities they aimed to serve have been so impoverished that engagement often required cash incentives. Attending a town hall or community meeting? That requires “mobilisation money.” Refuse to give it, and you are met with hostility — even threats of violence. The desperation born of poverty makes it nearly impossible for candidates to connect with voters unless they come bearing money. Most Nigerians are simply trying to survive with the inflation we are currently dealing with. I understand it — but I hate it.
- The Cost of Choosing to Serve.
Running for office in Nigeria is prohibitively expensive. Some candidates spent as much as N100 million to over N1 billion just to contest. Add the emotional toll of being harassed, isolated, and publicly maligned, and you begin to see why many qualified women simply do not bother. And due to societal constraints, most women do not have access to that kind of capital unless they are willing to compromise themselves. That is the price of admission.
I hated seeing it. I talk about these things often, but watching these stories unfold with such rawness only deepened my fury. The system is rigged. And the ripple effect of keeping women out of governance is that we, as a society, are suffering even more.
The panel discussion that followed only deepened the sense of urgency.
Honourable Nnenna Elendu–Ukeje said, “We were the ones on the screen, but each one of us represents every woman in Nigeria.” She has contested five elections — won three and lost two. But even she expressed disillusionment with a society that has become increasingly intolerant and unpatriotic. Still, her presence, her voice, her legacy — all of it has mentored countless women.
Honourable Munira Tanimu, currently in the House of Representatives from Kaduna and the North West, said bluntly, “I am tired of talking. We must walk the talk.” She made it clear that women are being kept out of politics by design. “If they really wanted to open space for us, it could be done in two days.”
Honourable Khadijah Iya, who ran for the executive office in Niger, shared that she never chose politics — politics found her. With eighteen years of experience in public service, she felt called to serve her people. But her party was not truly prepared to win. “Be careful of the party you choose,” she warned. “Some small parties will give women tickets, but they are not built to win.”
Dr. Orede emphasized strategy. “You cannot hop on one foot and hope to match the speed of someone running with both,” she said. Women must choose platforms that are serious about winning. She also warned about “professional political parties” whose only role is to keep the ruling party in power. For women to succeed, they must be clear, principled, and intentional.
By the end of that session, I felt something shift in me. It was not just rage anymore. There was also clarity.
In the video I posted, I spoke about considering politics myself. But let me be honest: I do not fit the mold. I am single. I am liberal. I am a feminist. I am an idealist. I refuse to beg for validation or marry for appearances. I will not bribe people to support me, and I will not accept abuse in exchange for power.
In Nigeria, that kind of woman is not just unpopular — she is dangerous. Already, I am slut-shamed for choosing to remain unmarried. I have no illusions about what running for office would mean. And even if I win, I could very well be harassed the same way Senator Natasha Akpoti-Uduaghan was.
But even with all that, something in me will not back down.
The premiere of Double Minority was more than a screening. It was a reckoning. It is critical in understanding the layered marginalization women face in Nigerian politics. In this context, it refers not only to the systemic exclusion of women from leadership due to gender, but also to their political minority status, despite being half the population and active participants in the electoral process. Women are sidelined both by deeply entrenched patriarchal norms and by institutional barriers that prevent them from holding power. This dual burden creates a reality where women must fight twice as hard for half the recognition, representation, or support.
This documentary reminded me — viscerally, painfully — why this fight matters. The system is rigged. The odds are high. But we are not without power.
As one speaker said, we cannot keep hopping on one foot while others sprint with both. We must stop waiting for the right time. We must act.
Women need more than encouragement. We need funding, protection, solidarity, and strategy. We need to organize around candidates, build alternative systems, and demand legislative reforms like House Bill 1349.
I may not have all the answers, and I may not know if I will ever run for office. But I know this: silence is no longer an option. Not while we are dying. Not while we are being erased. Not while democracy is being reduced to an elite boys’ club.
The fight for women in politics is not just about representation. It is about survival. And we will not stop. Not now. Not ever.
The work continues — and so do we.
