The establishment of the South East Development Commission (SEDC) represents a historic opportunity for Ndi Igbo and the Southeast region. It is a chance to redress decades of marginalization, rebuild critical infrastructure, and create a framework for industrial growth.

Yet, as Prof. Chidi Odinkalu warned in his widely discussed publication, the Commission must be shielded from the entrenched culture of political extortion and rent‑seeking that crippled earlier regional commissions such as the Niger Delta Development Commission (NDDC). Without strong safeguards, the SEDC risks degenerating into another patronage machine, serving political insiders rather than the people it was created to uplift.

This warning has gained sharper relevance in light of the recent Senate Committee probe into the Commission’s activities. While oversight is a constitutional necessity, the timing and tone of the probe raise critical questions: is this truly about enforcing accountability, or is it another manifestation of Nigeria’s entrenched political bargaining, where oversight becomes a tool of leverage rather than reform? Odinkalu’s caution resonates here, if the Senate’s actions are genuinely aimed at strengthening transparency, they should enhance the Commission’s credibility. But if politically motivated, they risk undermining the SEDC before it has even gained traction. The Southeast cannot afford another failed experiment in regional reconstruction.

Analytically, the Senate probe can be viewed through two lenses. On one hand, it may represent a legitimate effort to enforce accountability and prevent the SEDC from repeating the failures of the other Regional Development Commissions, which despite billions in allocations, became synonymous with corruption and mismanagement. On the other hand, it may reflect the entrenched culture of political capture, where oversight becomes a tool of leverage through which institutions are manipulated for rent distribution rather than development. The truth likely lies in the tension between these two possibilities. What is clear, however, is that the Southeast must remain vigilant: the SEDC must not be allowed to become another bargaining chip in Nigeria’s political marketplace.

Unlike the NDDC, which receives statutory monthly allocations from the Federation Account plus 3% contributions from oil companies, and the North East Development Commission (NEDC), which enjoys steady monthly allocations alongside special intervention funds approved by the Presidency and National Assembly, the SEDC has yet to begin receiving regular statutory disbursements. Since its establishment in 2024, it only received its initial take‑off funding in December 2025. Hence, it can be said to have been operational for just six months and with the limited resources, the Commission may not be blamed to have focused largely on groundwork including but not limited to drafting the South East Vision 2050 master plan, consultations with governors, youth empowerment initiatives, and mapping out proposals with stakeholders and investors.

At this stage, the SEDC deserves acknowledgment for laying foundational structures, but it cannot yet be commended in the same breath as its counterparts. Commendation must be tied to results. The Southeast urgently needs visible infrastructure, industrial hubs, erosion control, and social programs. Until the Commission moves beyond planning into delivery, oversight and probe must be anchored in constructive accountability rather than political manoeuvre.

That said, despite its infancy, the SEDC has already demonstrated promising initiatives that point to its potential which deserve commendation. A notable example is the South East Venture Capital Program (SEVCP) Pitch Competition, which marked a milestone in its commitment to building a globally competitive innovation ecosystem. The inaugural edition brought together startups across healthcare, artificial intelligence, clean energy, agriculture, fintech, logistics, and education technology, structured into Incubator and Accelerator tracks. By identifying and supporting indigenous entrepreneurs capable of building scalable businesses, the SEVCP demonstrates that the SEDC is not merely a planning body but is beginning to catalyze innovation‑led growth, job creation, and industrialization in the Southeast. However, while this initiative is commendable, it must be seen as a starting point. The Commission will need to scale such programs and complement them with tangible infrastructure delivery to fully reposition the Southeast as a leading innovation destination, provided it is shielded from political capture and allowed to deliver on its mandate.

The Senate and other institutions must therefore, ensure that their scrutiny strengthens transparency and credibility, not weaken the Commission through rent‑seeking or bargaining tactics. In this fragile phase, probes should serve as instruments of reform, compelling the SEDC to accelerate project execution, publish audited accounts, and demonstrate impact, when adequately funded rather than as levers of political capture. Only then will oversight fulfill its constitutional purpose and help the Commission escape the fate of the NDDC and NEDC, which despite vast allocations became synonymous with corruption and patronage.

Unfortunately, the challenges facing the SEDC cannot be divorced from the broader Igbo political question. Fragmentation has consistently weakened our bargaining power, leaving Ndi Igbo marginalized in national policymaking. The agitation for an additional state in the Southeast is rooted in equity, yet discordant voices have diluted the strength of our case. Insecurity has compounded this problem, destabilizing communities, driving businesses away, and eroding investor confidence. Development cannot thrive in an atmosphere of fear, nor can unity be achieved without a coherent political consensus.

Otu Oka‑Iw Abuja therefore calls for unity of purpose among Igbo leaders, traditional institutions, professional bodies, and diaspora networks to converge on a coherent political agenda that addresses state creation, infrastructure, industrialization, and security. The SEDC must continue to operate with full transparency, adopting open procurement processes and civil society monitoring to prevent capture by political insiders. Oversight must be constructive rather than extortionary, with the Senate and other institutions ensuring accountability without turning the Commission into a bargaining chip.

Development must also be inclusive, going beyond brick and mortar to rebuild minds, memories, and institutions, as Odinkalu emphasized. Regional collaboration on community policing and dialogue is essential to restore confidence and attract investment. Finally, the energy of Igbo youth and the global diaspora must be harnessed to strengthen the Southeast’s position in Nigeria and the wider world.

The SEDC stands at a crossroads. It can either become a transformative institution that delivers genuine development to the Southeast, or it can fall prey to the same political capture that crippled its predecessors. Otu Oka‑Iw Abuja echoes Odinkalu’s warning: the Commission must be protected, not politicized.

The time has come for Ndi Igbo to rise above fragmentation, and insist that the SEDC fulfills its mandate!

SIR. CHIDIEBERE NWABUEZE UDEKWE, ESQ
PRESIDENT
OTU OKA-IWU ABUJA

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By Sylvester Udemezue

(1) INTRODUCTION

The recent suit reportedly instituted by Messrs. Olukunle Edun, SAN, and John Aikpokpo-Martins, seeking judicial intervention to prevent the National Youth Service Corps (NYSC) from posting corps members to what they describe as “high-security-risk states,” has understandably attracted public sympathy and media attention. At first glance, the suit appears noble, compassionate, and well-intentioned.

After all, who would argue against the safety of Nigerian youths? Who would oppose measures aimed at protecting corps members from insecurity? Yet, public discourse must rise above emotions and sentiments. Good intentions, however commendable, do not necessarily translate into sound law, effective governance, workable public policy, or sustainable solutions. The true test of every public-interest action lies not merely in the nobility of its objective, but in the legality, practicality, enforceability, and societal utility of the remedies it seeks. It is against this background that this commentary respectfully examines the conceptual, legal, practical, and policy challenges inherent in the suit.

My purpose is not to diminish the patriotic motives of the Applicants. Far from it. Rather, it is to interrogate whether the litigation itself is capable of achieving its stated objectives and whether the courts are the proper forum for resolving the issues raised.

Public-Interest Litigation Must Remain Solution-Oriented. Public-interest litigation occupies an important place in every constitutional democracy. Historically, public-interest suits have expanded civil liberties, promoted governmental accountability, protected vulnerable groups, and strengthened constitutional governance. However, public-interest litigation was never intended to become an avenue for symbolic activism or headline-grabbing interventions that offer little or no realistic pathway toward solving the problem complained of. A lawsuit may attract public applause and media attention, yet contribute virtually nothing to resolving the underlying challenge.

The ultimate question therefore remains: “Will the reliefs sought, if granted, make Nigeria safer?” If the answer is uncertain, then the utility of the litigation itself becomes questionable.

(2). THE FOUNDATIONAL PROBLEM: WHAT IS A “HIGH-SECURITY-RISK STATE”?

This is perhaps the most fundamental weakness in the entire action. The suit proceeds on the assumption that there exists an identifiable category known as “high-security-risk states.” One immediately asks: Which states are those? Who designated them? By what legal authority? Under what statute? Pursuant to what regulation? Based on what objective criteria? For what duration? This is because to the best of public knowledge, no Nigerian law presently classifies states into “safe states,” “unsafe states,” “high-risk states,” or “low-risk states.” Neither the Constitution nor the NYSC Act contains any such categorization. No Gazette appears to have established such classifications. No known judicial decision has done so. No statutory agency appears vested with the authority to officially classify Nigerian states in the manner contemplated by the suit. The concept therefore appears more political and descriptive than legal and definitional. Yet courts adjudicate legal rights, legal duties, and legal statuses; not abstract descriptions lacking legal certainty.

(3). NIGERIA HAS NO COMPLETELY SAFE STATE

Another conceptual difficulty is that insecurity is not confined to any particular region of Nigeria. Kidnapping has occurred in Abuja. Terror attacks have occurred in the Federal Capital Territory. Banditry has occurred in parts of the North-West. Insurgency, banditry and terrorism have affected parts of the North-East and North-West. Cult violence has occurred in the South-South. Communal conflicts, kidnappings and banditry have occurred in North-Central states. Kidnappings and violent crimes have occurred in parts of the South-East and South-West. Indeed, hardly any state can honestly claim absolute immunity from security challenges.

If insecurity exists in varying forms and degrees nationwide, where exactly should corps members be posted? Would the court be expected to draw a security map of Nigeria? Would it establish categories of risk? Would it update such categories weekly, monthly, or annually?

These questions reveal the inherent difficulties in the reliefs sought. Who Determines Security Risk? This issue deserves particular emphasis.

Security assessment is a highly specialized and dynamic exercise. It involves intelligence gathering; threat analysis; military evaluation; operational surveillance; risk forecasting; strategic response planning. These are functions traditionally performed by security agencies and executive authorities.

(4). COURTS ARE NOT INTELLIGENCE INSTITUTIONS.

Judges are not security analysts. The judicial process is not designed for continuous threat assessment. A courtroom is therefore ill-suited to determining whether Zamfara is more dangerous than Benue, whether Borno is safer than Plateau, or whether Kaduna is presently riskier than the Federal Capital Territory. Such determinations require expertise, information, and operational capacities that courts do not possess.

(5). THE SUIT APPEARS TO INVITE THE COURT INTO A POLICY ARENA

The Constitution establishes a clear separation of powers. The judiciary interprets law. The legislature makes law. The executive formulates and implements policy. Security deployment decisions are quintessential executive functions. The question of where corps members should be posted, subject of course to applicable laws, is primarily an administrative and policy question. The courts can intervene where rights are clearly violated or where governmental action is unlawful. But where the dispute essentially concerns policy preferences and administrative judgments, judicial restraint becomes necessary. Otherwise, courts risk being transformed into super-administrators, super-security advisers, and super-policy makers. That was never the constitutional design.

(6). THE BANKRUPTCY ANALOGY

An analogy may help illustrate the point. Suppose a person files an action seeking an order restraining a company from appointing an individual as a director on the ground that the proposed appointee is an undischarged bankrupt. The obvious question would be: Where is the declaration of bankruptcy? Which court declared him bankrupt? When was the order made? A bankruptcy allegation cannot simply be presumed. It must first be established through a recognized legal process. Similarly, before a court can be asked to prohibit deployment to “high-security-risk states,” one would expect some prior legal, statutory, administrative, or authoritative designation identifying those states. Absent such designation, the court is effectively invited to create the classification itself. That is where the conceptual difficulty lies. What Constructive Engagement Preceded The Litigation?

Another important question concerns process. Litigation should ordinarily be a last resort, not the first. One therefore wonders: Did the Applicants formally engage the NYSC before approaching the court? Did they submit policy memoranda? Did they seek meetings with relevant authorities? Did they propose security reforms? Did they advocate legislative amendments? Did they recommend specific redeployment frameworks? Did they engage the Ministry of Youth Development? Did they consult security agencies? If such engagements occurred, they should be publicly highlighted because they would demonstrate a genuine effort to solve the problem before resorting to litigation. If they did not occur, then legitimate questions arise as to whether litigation was prematurely chosen over dialogue and policy engagement. Public-interest litigation should complement constructive engagement, not replace it.

(7). EXISTING REDEPLOYMENT MECHANISMS ALREADY EXIST

The suit also appears to overlook an important practical reality. The NYSC already operates redeployment mechanisms. Corps members are not entirely without remedies. Applications for redeployment are routinely considered under various circumstances, including medical grounds; marital grounds; compassionate grounds; and exceptional circumstances. The obvious question therefore is: Are corps members who genuinely face security concerns presently denied consideration? If deficiencies exist, would administrative reform not offer a faster and more practical solution than years of litigation? One must be careful not to create the impression that corps members are completely helpless when existing mechanisms already provide avenues for relief.

(8). THE ENFORCEMENT PROBLEM

Assuming the Applicants succeed, another challenge emerges. How exactly would the judgment be enforced? Would the NYSC cease deployments to entire states? Would deployment decisions depend on daily security reports? Would a single attack render a state ineligible? Would improved security automatically restore eligibility? Who would make these determinations? The court? The NYSC? The Attorney-General? Security agencies? The practical difficulties appear endless. A remedy that cannot be clearly implemented may ultimately create more confusion than certainty.

(9). THE REAL SOLUTION LIES ELSEWHERE

The tragedy of insecurity in Nigeria cannot be solved through deployment restrictions. Restricting postings does not eliminate terrorism. It does not stop banditry. It does not dismantle kidnapping syndicates. It does not improve intelligence gathering. It does not strengthen law enforcement. It does not address unemployment. It does not cure governance failures. At best, it manages one consequence of insecurity while leaving the root causes untouched. The real solution lies in comprehensive security reform, improved intelligence architecture, better policing, economic development, stronger institutions, and more effective governance. Those are the measures capable of producing lasting change.

(10). CONCLUSION

The concern for the welfare and safety of corps members is entirely legitimate and deserves universal support. However, respect for the objective of a lawsuit does not preclude scrutiny of its assumptions, methodology, and practicality. With the greatest respect to the distinguished Applicants, the suit appears to raise more questions than it answers. It seeks reliefs founded upon a classification that has not been clearly defined. It invites the judiciary into a field traditionally occupied by security experts and policy makers. It presents significant enforcement difficulties. It overlooks existing administrative mechanisms. And most importantly, it offers no obvious pathway toward addressing the root causes of insecurity. Public-interest litigation is at its most effective when it produces practical solutions, strengthens institutions, and advances constitutional governance. Where a lawsuit is unlikely to achieve those objectives, society must have the courage to ask difficult questions; not out of hostility to the litigants, but out of commitment to meaningful and lasting solutions. Nigeria’s insecurity challenge is real. Its consequences are painful. Its victims deserve protection. But not every public problem is amenable to judicial resolution. Sometimes the most effective remedy lies not in the courtroom, but in constructive engagement, policy reform, institutional strengthening, and responsible governance. That, respectfully, is the conversation we ought to be having.
Respectfully,
Sylvester Udemezue (udems).
Proctor, The Reality Ministry of Truth, Law and Justice (TRM)

8021365546. [email protected].
            (15 June 2026)

The views expressed by contributors are strictly personal and not of Law & Society Magazine.

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This anniversary musing is a continuation of my serial on “Team Tinubu and Danger of Assumption”, which began three weeks ago. It is also for lessons for all of us concerned Nigerians who can recall the profile of the power elites who signed away instead of insisting on the majesty of June 12 mandate in 1993.

June 11, 2000 — When The Sunday Guardian listed names:
On June 11, 2000, seven years after the annulled election, when I, then as Abuja Bureau Chief of The Guardian wrote a lead story that reframed June 12. The headline: “Exposed: Men Who Signed Away June 12”

Remember, it was not an opinion piece. It was a list in a scoop that revealed the names of the “G-34 members who signed the tripartite agreement, which nailed the coffin of June 12 presidential election result”. The agreement was between the Federal Military Government and the two government-created parties, the National Republican Convention (NRC) and the Social Democratic Party (SDP). The strange agreement set up the Interim National Government (ING). Specifically the story contained the names of the power elite who signed away Nigeria’s democracy and subverted Nigeria’s sovereignty expressed on June 12, 1993.

Professor Olatunji Dare later cited my scoop in The Guardian as a reference point in his 2010 book ‘Diary of a Debacle: Tacking Nigeria’s Failed Democratic Transition (1989- 1994).

This piece will use my June 11, 2000 revelation as a lens to examine two assumptions: that the 1993 assumption that the military could be trusted to midwife democracy, and the 2026 assumption that democracy has arrived. Both are dangerous. Both ignore that the battle for actualisation is still about internal democracy.

What June 12, 1993 Actually Was
a. The vote: On June 12, 1993 an estimated 14 million Nigerians voted. MKO Abiola of the SDP defeated Bashir Tofa of the NRC. Abiola won 19 of 30 states, including Tofa’s Kano. Muslim-Muslim ticket. Yoruba candidate winning in the North. It was Nigeria rejecting military rule and ethnic division in one day.

b. The annulment: On June 23, 1993, the Babangida regime annulled the election. No court asked for it. No law required it. It was done by decree.

c. The immediate question: Would the political class insist on the mandate or negotiate it?
That is where my June 11, 2000 story begins.

The G-34 and the Tripartite Agreement: Who Signed What Away?
I had then reported that after General Ibrahim Babangida addressed “what was constituted as a National Assembly operating then at the International Conference Centre, Abuja”, a tripartite committee of the military and the two parties signed a document “purporting to be setting up the Interim National Government (ING)”.

The Guardian exclusive story listed “military officers and political leaders who signed on behalf of the Federal Government and their parties”. The lead story in The Guardian on June 11, 2000 named:

1. Admiral Augustus Aikhomu, Vice President under the military presidency of General Ibrahim Babangida
2. Lt. Gen. Joshua Dogonyaro, Commandant, Command & Staff College, Jaji
3. Lt. Gen. Aliyu Mohammed Gusau, then National Security Adviser.
4. Brigadier-General Anthony Ukpo, former Federal Commissioner for Information and later assigned to Nigeria Defence Academy, Kaduna;
5. Brigadier-General David Mark, then serving with the National War College (now National Defence College), once served as Senate President;
6. Brigadier-General John Shagaya, then serving as General Officer Commanding 1 Division Kaduna. (He died 2018);
7. Alhaji Abdulrahman Okene, then serving as Secretary for Internal Affairs in the Transitional Council signed on behalf of the Federal Military Government;(died in 1999).

The SDP members who signed the document setting up the ING to dismantle Abiola’s mandate were:

8. Maj.General Shehu Musa Yar’Adua, former presidential aspirant who had won the SDP presidential ticket in the primaries that were also annulled before Abiola came in. He died in Abakaliki prison where he was being detained by General Abacha;
9. Chief Tony Anenih, then SDP National Chairman, called Mr. Fix-it who declared that the day the ING document was signed was his happiest day. He later became Works Minister under President Obasanjo (1999-2003). He died (2018).
10. Alhaji Sule Lamido, then Secretary of the SDP, later Foreign Affairs Minister under Obasanjo and had served as Governor Jigawa State;
11. Chief Jim Nwobodo, former governor of old Anambra state and later Senator in this dispensation;
12. Chief Dapo Sarumi, former Governorship aspirant, Lagos state, served the ING as Minister of Communications;
13. Alhaji Abubakar Rimi, former Kano State Governor and a regular face in Abiola’s residence in Lagos but later said, “I am not in politics because of Abiola”. He later served as Communications Minister under Sani Abacha. He died in 2010.
14. Dr. Patrick Dele Cole, former “Daily Times” Managing Director, Political Strategist to Abiola, former Envoy to Brazil later served Obasanjo as Special Adviser;
15. Okechukwu Odunze, then national Treasurer of the SDP Prominent among those who signed the ING document in the then NRC were:
16. Dr Hammed Kusamotu, then Chairman of NRC (died 2005);
17. Arc. Tom Ikimi, former NRC Chairman and later Abacha’s Minister of Foreign Affairs;
18. Alhaji Adamu Ciroma, earlier declared, “Abiola won fair an square” earlier secured party ticket as presidential aspirant but was annulled by IBB; later served as Agriculture Minister under Abacha and later as Finance minister under Obasanjo (died 2018);
19. Okey Uzoho, then National Publicity Secretary, NRC (deceased);
20. Joe Nwodo who signed with unstated “reservations”;
21. Theo Nkire;

22. Professor Eyo Ita;
23. Dr. Bawa Salka;
24. Prince Bola Afonja;
25. Alhaji Y. Anka;
26. Mr. Alba Muritala;
27. Alhaji Halilu Maina;
28. Alhaji Muktari A. Mohammed;
29. Alhaji Ramalan, later a traditional ruler in Nassarawa State,
30. Joseph Toba, and four others signed that infamous document that sealed the June 12 death sentence then before general IBB was forced out of power on August 26, 1993.

In the table-shaking story, I referred to the full group as “G-34 members who signed the tripartite agreement”. The document effectively “nailed the coffin of June 12 presidential election result”.

What this backstory meant: The then SDP and NRC, through their representatives, sat with the military and signed on to the ING under Ernest Shonekan. They did not walk out. They did not insist on Abiola. They accepted a process that bypassed the winner. That is what I reported then as “signing away June 12”.

More important, the 2000 piece did not allege that every SDP or NRC member agreed. It documented the “power elite” who signed the tripartite agreement. While some courageous journalists then were fighting in the trenches even as guerilla journalists, many party members, the leadership structure of both parties was implicated in the agreement that legitimised the ING.

The Assumption of 1993: “Abacha Will Organise Elections”
Why did G-34 members sign? The thinking of the period as documented was that Babangida was exiting, the ING was temporary, and confrontation would bring chaos. The second assumption was worse. When General Sani Abacha sacked the ING on November 17, 1993, many politicians assumed he would be different. Behold, naïve politicians and even scholars hailed Abacha as a “professional soldier.” They believed Abacha would organise elections and leave. Instead, Abacha banned parties, jailed Abiola, and his five parties adopted him as sole candidate.

From 1993 to 1999: The Cost of Assuming
a. Lives: Abiola, Kudirat Abiola, Bagauda Kaltho, and a host of unnamed others died.

Journalists were jailed. The Guardian, Punch and Concord and were proscribed for many months under Abacha. The Guardian was closed for 11 months and the publisher was shut by Abacha’s hitmen.

b. Institutions: Courts issued injunctions that were used to justify annulment. The National Assembly that Babangida addressed at the International Conference Centre had no power. The judiciary could not restore the mandate.

c. Trust: By 1999, voter turnout was 52.3%. By 2023, it was 27%. Nigerians learned from June 12 that “votes do not count” if the elite can sign them away.

6. 1999–2026: The New Assumption — “We Have Uhuru”
   We dangerously assume that because elections hold, democracy is safe. But the June 11, 2000 list forces a question: have the parties that signed away June 12 learnt anything about internal democracy?

Evidence that they haven’t leant:
June 12 G-34 Behavior, 1993: Party Behavior, 1999–2026
Candidate selection: Parties signed agreement that bypassed their own winner, Abiola in 1993. In 2026, Governors impose “consensus” candidates. N100m forms exclude citizens.

Negotiating mandates: Tripartite committee negotiated with military instead of insisting on result in 1993. In 2026, Parties budget for post-election litigation, instead of pre-election mobilisation.

Trust in strongmen: In 1993, politicians assumed that Abacha would midwife democracy. In 2026, politicians assumed every election is a “done deal” for incumbents.

Here is the thing, internal democracy is still a bridge too far. The 2022 Electoral Act tried direct primaries, but parties chose delegates. The same elite bargaining that produced the ING in 1993 now produces “consensus” in 2026. The names change. The behavior does not.

The lesson: Some democrats in the then SDP and NRC assumed they were being strategic. They assumed Babangida and Abacha were rational actors. They assumed the ING was a shortcut to power. The political party signatories to the 1993 agreement were part of the G-34. By signing, they gave military annulment a civilian stamp.

Did they learn? Look at 2023: parties still tell supporters “go to court” instead of protecting votes at polling units. They still assume INEC, not voters, determines outcomes.

They still assume “the people will move on.” That is 1993 thinking.

Assumptions About Abacha vs Assumptions About 2027
1993 Assumption: Abacha will not stay. He will organie elections.

Reality: He stayed for 5 years, buried Abiola’s mandate, and ran as sole candidate of 5 parties described by the late Cicero of Esa Oke, Chief Bola Ige as “five finders on one leprous hand”.

2026 Assumption: 2027 is a formality for incumbents. The judiciary will sort it, after all.
Risk: Low turnout, judicial delays, and the belief that “votes don’t count” is how democracy dies without a coup.

The Battle Not Yet Won: Three Things June 12 Demands Today

a. Name the G-34 logic and reject it
The “power elite” who signed away June 12 believed they were avoiding chaos. They created five years of it. Any party that chooses consensus over primaries in 2026 is using the obnoxious G-34 logic.

b. Make internal democracy the new June 12
Abiola won a party primary before he won June 12. If a party cannot conduct a free primary, it cannot demand a free general election. Direct primaries, electronic transmission of delegate votes, and open primaries are the 2026 version of “actualise June 12”.

c. Kill the Abacha assumption
Abacha was assumed to be a transition man. Today we assume “the military won’t return.” Coups in Mali, Burkina Faso, Niger since 2020 killed that assumption. Democracy is defended by delivery, not by hope deferred. If 60% of Nigerians under 25 see no future, the barracks will always have an audience.

The conclusion of the whole matter is: Not Yet Uhuru Until Assumptions Die!
The democrats in SDP and NRC who signed that tripartite agreement assumed they were buying time. They bought Abacha. They bought five years of dictatorship. They bought Abiola’s death. They smeared the majesty of democracy. Today we assume 1999 was Uhuru. It was not.

Uhuru is when parties cannot sign away candidates. Uhuru is when 27% turnout is treated as a national emergency. Uhuru is when the lesson of G-34 list is taught in civics classes: democracy dies when elected leaders negotiate mandates instead of defending them. June 12 was about actualisation. 2027 will be about preservation. The battle is not yet won.

Internal democracy is still a bridge too far. And until it isn’t, every June 12 anniversary lecture is a reminder of assumptions we cannot afford to make again.

The views expressed by contributors are strictly personal and not of Law & Society Magazine.

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