Nigeria’s chronic underrepresentation of women in elective office came under renewed scrutiny on Thursday as leading lawyers, gender advocates, lawmakers and development experts insisted that the proposed Reserved Seats Bill offers the country an opportunity to correct one of the deepest democratic deficits in its political history.

Speaking during a webinar organised by the Parliamentary Committee of the FIDA Nigeria Abuja Branch, participants argued that the legislation is neither a privilege nor an act of charity for women but a temporary constitutional mechanism designed to dismantle structural barriers that have kept half of Nigeria’s population almost entirely absent from legislative decision-making.

The virtual dialogue, themed “Exploring the Importance of the Reserved Seats for Women Bill,” brought together senior members of the legal profession, former legislators, civil society leaders and advocates for constitutional reform, all of whom urged sustained advocacy to ensure the passage of the proposed amendment.

Chairperson of the FIDA Abuja Parliamentary Committee, Dr. Rosemary Chikwendu, set the tone by confronting what she described as one of Nigeria’s greatest democratic contradictions.

While women constitute well over half of Nigeria’s population, she observed, they occupy barely 4.4 per cent of elective legislative seats across the federal and state legislatures—approximately 64 positions out of about 1,460 available seats. By comparison, she noted, more than 30 African countries have already crossed the 20 per cent threshold for female parliamentary representation, while countries such as Rwanda (63.8%), South Africa (44.7%), Cabo Verde (44.4%), Ethiopia and Senegal (about 41%) have demonstrated that deliberate constitutional and legislative reforms can substantially improve women’s political participation.

Dr. Chikwendu stressed that the Reserved Seats Bill is often misunderstood.

She explained that the proposal is not intended to permanently reserve political offices for women, nor would it suddenly produce gender parity. Rather, if passed, it would increase women’s representation to about 13 per cent, providing what she described as a realistic foundation upon which broader political inclusion could gradually be built.

“This will not solve every problem overnight,” she noted. “It is simply a starting point.”

Serving as moderator, Rachel Osibu walked participants through the contents of the proposed constitutional amendment, explaining that the bill seeks to create additional temporary legislative seats for women at the federal and state levels as an affirmative action measure until greater political balance is achieved through the normal electoral process.

Delivering the keynote address, renowned gender advocate and Executive Director of the Centre for Development, Comrade Ene Obi, challenged what she described as deeply entrenched cultural stereotypes that continue to frustrate qualified women seeking elective office.

Recalling a recent political experience, she narrated how a highly qualified female aspirant was pressured to withdraw her ambition in favour of a male candidate despite clearly possessing stronger credentials, arguing that such experiences remain commonplace across Nigeria’s political landscape.

She warned that Nigeria’s democratic record on women’s representation has steadily deteriorated rather than improved.

According to her, the country recorded its highest number of elected female federal lawmakers during the 2007 general elections, when 36 women entered the National Assembly—nine Senators and twenty-seven members of the House of Representatives—representing about 7.7 per cent of the legislature.

Nearly two decades later, however, the numbers have continued to decline. The Ninth National Assembly had only 19 women, while the current Tenth Assembly has fallen even lower, with only 18 female lawmakers, making Nigeria one of the poorest performers globally in women’s parliamentary representation.

Obi maintained that the Reserved Seats Bill should therefore be viewed as a temporary corrective mechanism rather than a permanent entitlement.

“The objective is not to replace men,” she argued. “It is to build a more representative democracy. Once an acceptable balance is achieved, such extraordinary measures naturally become unnecessary.”

Calling on the Nigerian Bar Association (NBA) to actively support the legislation, she described the proposal as fundamentally an issue of social justice, insisting that legal practitioners have a responsibility to champion reforms capable of strengthening constitutional democracy.

She also criticised what she described as the National Assembly’s inconsistent attention to issues affecting ordinary Nigerians, expressing concern over frequent legislative recesses and poor attendance during debates on critical national reforms.

“Our democracy requires sustained civic engagement,” she said. “Citizens cannot afford to become spectators.”

Quoting former United Nations Secretary-General Kofi Annan, she reminded participants that “there is no tool for development more effective than the empowerment of women” and that no national development strategy benefits society more than one that places women at its centre.

Former Deputy Governor of Ekiti State and former Senate Minority Leader, Senator Biodun Olujimi, drew from her own political journey to encourage women not to retreat from public life despite the obstacles confronting them, insisting that persistence, preparation and institutional reforms must work together to expand women’s participation in governance.

Senior Advocate of Nigeria Yakubu Philemon approached the issue from a constitutional perspective, arguing that Nigeria’s legal framework already prohibits discrimination based on gender and should therefore support stronger affirmative measures to achieve substantive equality.

He recalled the landmark judgment delivered by Justice Donatus Okorowo of the Federal High Court in April 2022 directing the Federal Government to implement the 35 per cent affirmative action policy in public appointments, describing the decision as an important judicial affirmation of inclusive governance.

Vice Chair of NBA Abuja, Unity Bar, Anthony Enahoro Idoko challenged assumptions that political leadership is naturally the preserve of men, insisting that competence, rather than gender, should determine who occupies public office.

Drawing inspiration from civil rights scholar Angela Davis, he argued that societies only progress when they refuse to accept injustice as normal, maintaining that excluding women from leadership impoverishes governance itself.

The webinar also attracted several distinguished members of FIDA, including the association’s immediate past Country Vice President, Amina Agbaje, alongside lawyers, academics and civil society advocates from across the country.

International President of FIDA, Ezinwa Okoroafor, described the campaign for the Reserved Seats Bill as part of a broader global struggle for equal representation, noting that meaningful democracy cannot exist when women remain systematically excluded from the institutions where laws are made. She commended the Abuja Branch for sustaining conversations capable of influencing national policy and urged members to transform advocacy into coordinated action until the constitutional reforms are achieved.

Bringing the event to a close, Chairperson of FIDA Abuja Branch, Chioma Onyenucheya-Uko, said the discussion underscored why legal practitioners must remain at the forefront of constitutional reforms that promote equality, justice and inclusive governance. She urged participants not to allow the momentum generated by the webinar to fade, emphasising that lasting change would require sustained engagement with lawmakers, political parties and citizens across the country.

Mrs. Adejoke Layi-Babatunde, the National Chair person of FIDA Nigeria’s parliamentary committee, expressed appreciation to the speakers and participants for enriching the conversation, describing the overwhelming response to the webinar as evidence of growing national support for reforms that seek to expand women’s participation in governance. She reaffirmed the committee’s commitment to continuing public education and advocacy until the Reserved Seats Bill receives the legislative support necessary to become part of Nigeria’s constitutional framework.

For many participants, the webinar ultimately reinforced a simple but compelling proposition: the Reserved Seats Bill is not about conferring special privileges on women. It is about strengthening representative democracy by ensuring that Nigeria’s legislative institutions more accurately reflect the society they were elected to serve.

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By Lillian Okenwa

As Nigerians grapple with hunger, insecurity, failing hospitals and crumbling schools, the Federal Government has budgeted more than ₦8 billion for the construction and renovation of churches and mosques. The debate extends far beyond religion. It is about what a budget says a nation values most.

Budgets are often mistaken for accounting documents. They are much more than that. Every appropriation law is a declaration of priorities, a catalogue of political choices and, ultimately, a moral statement about what a government believes deserves public money.

Every line in a national budget answers the same question: If resources are limited, what should come first?

That question has become particularly urgent in Nigeria.

Across the country, millions of households continue to struggle with soaring food prices. Public hospitals routinely ask patients to purchase basic consumables before treatment. Primary healthcare centres in many communities operate without essential medicines or qualified personnel. Schools battle overcrowded classrooms, inadequate teaching materials and deteriorating infrastructure. Businesses spend billions of naira annually powering factories, offices and shops with private generators because electricity remains unreliable. Insecurity continues to reshape daily life, forcing communities to abandon farms, discouraging investment and driving up the cost of food and transportation.

Against that backdrop, one allocation buried within the 2026 Appropriation Act has ignited an unusually emotional national conversation. The Federal Government has earmarked ₦8.05 billion for the construction, renovation and rehabilitation of churches and mosques across the country.

On its face, the amount represents only a tiny fraction of the ₦68.32 trillion national budget. Yet public controversies are rarely driven by percentages. They are driven by symbolism and priorities. A relatively modest allocation can provoke profound questions when citizens are forced to choose daily between competing necessities.

The figures contained in the approved budget show that approximately ₦1.91 billion is allocated to church-related projects, while about ₦6.14 billion is set aside for mosque-related projects spread across several Ministries, Departments and Agencies. Some projects involve the construction of new worship centres; others provide for the rehabilitation or renovation of existing religious facilities, including those located within federal institutions.

Predictably, the disclosures have divided public opinion.

Critics argue that government has misplaced its priorities, asking why scarce public funds should be spent on religious infrastructure when hospitals lack equipment, universities struggle for funding, security agencies remain overstretched and millions of Nigerians face worsening economic hardship. Supporters counter that some of the affected worship centres serve public institutions, including schools, hospitals and government establishments, making the expenditure part of broader infrastructure development rather than religious patronage.

Both arguments deserve careful consideration. Yet they also risk overlooking a more fundamental issue.

The real controversy is not whether churches or mosques should exist. Nor is it a contest between Christianity and Islam. Rather, it is whether, in a constitutional democracy confronting multiple social and economic emergencies, religious infrastructure ought to rank among the priorities for federal capital expenditure.

That question goes to the very heart of constitutional governance.

Nigeria’s Constitution proclaims the country a secular state in the sense that Section 10 forbids the adoption of any religion as a State religion. At the same time, successive governments have long maintained institutions such as the National Hajj Commission of Nigeria and the Nigerian Christian Pilgrim Commission, funded chaplaincies within the armed forces and correctional services, and supported religious activities in various public institutions. The relationship between religion and the Nigerian state has therefore never been one of complete separation but of continuous engagement, often raising difficult constitutional and policy questions.

The latest budget has reopened those questions with unusual force.

Is spending public money on the construction and renovation of places of worship compatible with the constitutional obligation of government to promote the welfare and security of the people? Does such expenditure represent legitimate public infrastructure where the facilities are located within government institutions? Or does it blur the line between facilitating freedom of religion and financing religious activity with taxpayers’ money?

These are not merely legal questions. They are questions of governance, fiscal responsibility and national priorities. Budgets, after all, are not judged only by what they include. They are also judged by what they leave behind.

Every naira appropriated to one purpose is a naira unavailable for another. Economists call this opportunity cost. Citizens experience it more simply. It is the health centre that remains unequipped because funds were directed elsewhere; the classroom left uncompleted; the rural road that remains impassable; the security outpost never built; the laboratory never commissioned.

That is why the debate over the ₦8.05 billion allocation is ultimately much larger than the sum itself. It is a debate about the values embedded in public finance, the meaning of constitutional neutrality in matters of religion and the difficult choices governments must make when resources are finite but national needs appear almost limitless.

For every budget tells a story.

The question Nigeria now confronts is this: What story does this one tell?

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By Law & Society Magazine Investigations Desk

When the classrooms in Oriire reopened, the relief was immediate but incomplete.

For parents who had counted fifty-six agonising days between hope and despair, seeing their children walk through the school gates again felt nothing short of miraculous. Teachers who survived captivity embraced colleagues they feared they would never meet again. Across Oyo State, church bells rang, prayers of thanksgiving were offered and communities celebrated what had become one of Nigeria’s most remarkable rescue operations of 2026.

Yet long after the television cameras departed and the congratulatory messages faded, another reality remained. The children had come home, but the consequences of those fifty-six days had not.

Some desks would never again be occupied by the teachers who once stood before them. Some families buried loved ones instead of welcoming them home. Some questions still awaited answers.

The story of Oriire did not end with the rescue. In many respects, it began there.

The human cost of the operation cannot be measured solely by the number of hostages rescued. Among those who never returned were Mr. Michael Oyedokun, the Mathematics teacher reportedly beheaded by the kidnappers, and Mr. Esiyan Adegboye, who was shot dead during the ordeal. Principal Mrs. Rachael Alamu would later recount that the killings were deliberate. According to her, the kidnappers believed executing the teachers would increase pressure on government because they knew the abduction had drawn national and international attention. Terrorism, she suggested, was being used not merely to hold people captive but to manipulate public emotion and influence official decision-making.

The rescue itself also demanded a heavy price from those sent to bring the victims home.

Lieutenant Felix Ademe Isaac of the Nigerian Army, Private Silas Musa of the 81 Battalion and Sergeant Abena John Jerome of the Nigeria Police Force lost their lives during the operation. Lance Corporal Adamu Hussain survived with injuries. The Senate rightly honoured their sacrifice and urged the Federal Government to ensure prompt payment of all statutory benefits, pensions and insurance entitlements to their families. Those resolutions recognised an important truth. Every successful rescue operation has names that rarely appear in the headlines, men and women whose commitment is measured not in speeches but in the risks they accept on behalf of strangers.

For Lieutenant Isaac’s family, however, public tributes have not answered the question that matters most.

Conflicting reports emerged about how the young officer died. Some accounts suggested the convoy encountered explosives planted along the National Park axis. Others indicated that he stepped on a landmine allegedly laid by the kidnappers. Military authorities acknowledged casualties during the operation but did not publicly explain the precise circumstances that claimed his life. His family has since appealed for a fuller account, arguing that transparency is itself part of honouring an officer who died in the service of his country.

That request should not be viewed as criticism of the operation. Democracies owe bereaved families more than condolences. They also owe them honest explanations wherever operational security permits.

Questions of accountability do not diminish sacrifice; they strengthen public confidence in the institutions that ask men and women to risk everything.

The same principle applies to another aspect of the Oriire operation that has attracted far less attention than the rescue itself.

As survivors gradually began speaking publicly, they described captivity through different lenses.

Some children recalled being beaten whenever they cried. Others spoke of the constant fear that hung over the camp deep inside the forest. There were accounts of women cooking rice supplied by the kidnappers and recollections that pieces of nylon were used to shield the children when heavy rain fell. Principal Alamu maintained that she herself was not assaulted, although some of the younger pupils suffered physical punishment whenever they became distressed.

Perhaps the most widely discussed difference concerned the final moments before freedom.

Official statements from the military, the Federal Government and the Senate consistently described the outcome as a coordinated, intelligence-driven rescue involving multiple security agencies after weeks of sustained operations.

One rescued teacher, however, suggested in a broadcast interview that the captors eventually directed the victims out of the forest before they encountered soldiers who escorted them to safety.

At first glance, the accounts appeared irreconcilable. They may not be.

Counter-terrorism specialists have long observed that sustained military pressure can force kidnappers to abandon hostages rather than risk direct confrontation. A prolonged intelligence operation may therefore culminate in captors releasing their victims while security forces secure the surrounding area and recover those emerging from captivity. In such circumstances, the operational picture becomes more complex than a simple choice between “release” and “rescue.”

Nor should differences in survivors’ recollections surprise anyone familiar with the psychology of trauma.

Dozens of people held in captivity for nearly two months will not experience every event in the same way. Some witnessed killings. Others concentrated on protecting frightened children. Some remembered beatings; others remembered hunger, exhaustion or the endless uncertainty of another night in the forest. Memory formed under extreme stress is rarely identical from one survivor to another. Those differences do not necessarily undermine credibility. They remind investigators and journalists alike that traumatic events often leave fragmented but equally genuine recollections.

What remains beyond dispute is that forty-six pupils and teachers entered that forest and not all of them came back alive. What also remains beyond dispute is that the operation demonstrated a level of coordination and determination that many Nigerians had begun to fear was no longer possible.

That achievement deserves recognition. So too do the lessons it offers.

The constitutional responsibility of the Nigerian State does not end when hostages regain their freedom. Rescue is the beginning of a longer process that includes medical treatment, psychological rehabilitation, educational support, criminal investigation and successful prosecution of those responsible. It includes fulfilling every legal obligation owed to the families of security personnel who died in the line of duty. It requires preserving evidence capable of sustaining convictions in court and ensuring that communities traumatised by violence receive adequate protection against future attacks.

Measured against those standards, Oriire remains a work in progress.

Even as Oyo celebrated, fresh reports of attacks on schools and communities elsewhere in the country served as a sobering reminder that kidnapping for ransom and terrorist violence remain persistent threats. Families in other parts of Nigeria continue to wait for children and relatives who have not returned. Their anguish is no less real because it has received less attention.

That is why Oriire should never be remembered as an isolated triumph. It should be studied as a national case study.

It demonstrated that political will, sustained public attention, coordinated intelligence, disciplined security operations and community resilience can alter the outcome of what might otherwise have become another national tragedy. It also exposed the enormous human cost of success and the institutional responsibilities that continue long after hostages leave the forest.

For fifty-six days, the people of Oriire refused to allow silence to overtake their grief. Families spoke publicly. Journalists kept the story alive. Civil society demanded answers. Security personnel continued searching despite formidable risks. Together, those efforts helped sustain national attention on forty-six victims whose lives might otherwise have disappeared into another grim statistic.

History will rightly remember the rescue. Justice, however, will judge Oriire by a broader measure.

It will ask whether those who planned and executed the abduction were successfully prosecuted. It will ask whether the children who survived received the long-term care needed to rebuild their lives. It will ask whether the families of Michael Oyedokun, Esiyan Adegboye, Felix Ademe Isaac, Silas Musa and Abena John Jerome found not only sympathy but lasting support. It will ask whether governments, security agencies and communities applied the lessons learned before another classroom was emptied by armed men.

The children of Oriire came home.

The responsibility to ensure that future generations never endure the same ordeal belongs to the nation they came home to.

Read Also: Law & Society Magazine Special Report: Home, but not yet free

Read Also: After The Rescue (Part II): Beyond freedom

Read Also: After The Rescue (Part III): The battle beyond the forest

Read Also: AFTER THE RESCUE (PART IV A): Beyond the Celebration |The Victory, the sacrifice and the lessons Nigeria cannot afford to forget

Read Also: AFTER THE RESCUE (Part IV B): Fifty-Six Days | What the survivors’ accounts reveal about life in captivity—and the changing character of organised kidnapping

Read Also: AFTER THE RESCUE (PART IV C): The victory that changed the conversation

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