By Sonnie Ekwowusi

Burkina Faso’s irrepressible young military ruler, Ibrahim Traoré, has once again stirred continental debate with his blunt admonition that African countries should “forget about democracy.” In his telling, democracy is not merely flawed; it is bloody, imposed, and a modern instrument of subjugation. “Democracy kills,” he declares, urging Africans to run from it rather than embrace it.

In Traoré’s own words: “People must forget about democracy. If an African wants to tell you about democracy, you should run away. Democracy kills. Democracy as a Western ideal amounts to slavery, and it is killing. Wherever they want to install it in the world, it’s in the blood. There is no democracy in this world. They impose it when they want and they also kill it. Imperialism is the individual who wants to dominate the other, keep him in slavery and oppress him.”

These remarks, provocative as they are, cannot be dismissed outright. They speak to a growing frustration across Africa—one born not of theory, but of lived experience. In too many countries, democracy has failed to deliver its most basic promises. Elections are held, yet poverty persists. Governments are chosen, yet corruption thrives. Institutions exist, yet justice remains elusive. For millions of Africans, democracy has too often been reduced to a ritual devoid of tangible benefit.

For example, Nigeria, the “giant” of Africa, is currently under the iron grip of President Bola Tinubu’s dictatorial, delusional and incompetent misrule. This is testing the limits of public patience and state capacity. Under the dictatorship of President Tinubu life has ceased to exist for many poor Nigerians. At the moment in Nigeria governance is in abeyance as the APC rulling party is only focused on how to return to power in 2027. Consequently, hope hangs in the balance. The Nigerian streets are littered with walking corpses who pitiably regard themselves as human beings. All that President Tinubu is concerned with at the moment is how to return to power in 2027.

To achieve this, he is poised to wipe away the five major opposition political parties so that he himself and his rulling party will be the only political party contesting the 2027 election. It sounds absurd but that is the reality in Nigeria at this moment. Meanwhile the Nigerian economy has collapsed with inflation eroding purchasing power and deepening hardship. Nigeria has just been named as one of the three countries in the world with most hungry people and most malnourished people. Hunger, unemployment, and frustration have become defining features of everyday life in Nigeria.

Even more troubling is the persistence—and in some areas, escalation—of insecurity. From insurgency in the North-East to banditry in the North-West to continuous killings in Kwara State and on the Plateau and communal violence elsewhere, the Nigerian state has lost the struggle to assert control and guarantee the safety of its citizens. This is why terror groups and criminal networks have adapted quickly, exploiting institutional weaknesses and porous borders.

The core issue is lack of responsibility on the part of the Tinubu government. Nigeria’s security architecture remains fragmented, under-resourced, and often reactive rather than proactive. Without a clearly articulated, homegrown strategy that integrates military action with intelligence, technology, economic development, and community engagement, the cycle of violence is likely to persist.

It is within this context that Traoré’s message finds resonance, particularly in Burkina Faso, where years of insecurity and governance failures eroded public confidence in civilian rule. Yet there is a glaring contradiction at the heart of his position. Having seized power in a September 2022 coup—ousting Lieutenant Paul-Henri Sandaogo Damiba, who himself had overthrown President Roch Marc Christian Kaboré—Traoré promised a swift return to democratic governance. That promise has since been deferred. The transition timeline has been extended to 2029, political parties have been curtailed, and citizens have been told, in unmistakable terms, to “forget” democracy.

This is no minor shift; it is a fundamental recalibration of Burkina Faso’s political trajectory. And it sends a troubling signal across the continent: that democratic failure may justify indefinite military rule. Yet to accept that conclusion would be to embrace a dangerous illusion.

The central question is not whether democracy has disappointed—clearly, in many instances, it has. The real question is whether the failures attributed to democracy are in fact failures of its practice rather than its principles. Democracy, properly understood, is not merely the conduct of elections. It is a system grounded in accountability, participation, and the rule of law. Where these elements are weak or manipulated, the result is not true democracy, but its hollow imitation.

Africa’s challenge, therefore, is not to abandon democracy, but to make it work.

On paper, democracy is compelling; in practice, it can be distorted into an engine of fraud. It promises participation, accountability, and freedom. Yet, as the French political thinker Alexis de Tocqueville observed in Democracy in America, even the system’s most celebrated model fell short of its ideals—susceptible to the tyranny of the majority, social inequality, and fragile institutions. Democracy, in other words, has never been a finished product. It is an aspiration that demands constant tending.

Africa’s experience has been more complex still. Democratic systems, often inherited wholesale from colonial powers, were grafted onto societies without the institutional foundations that make them work: independent courts, professional civil services, credible electoral bodies, and a civic culture that prizes accountability. The result, in too many places, has been democracy in form but not in substance—ballots cast without power dispersed; leaders elected without being held to account.

It is here that Traoré’s critique finds its audience. If the purpose of government is the welfare and security of the people, then outcomes matter. A system that cannot protect lives, create jobs, or deliver justice risks forfeiting its legitimacy, however procedurally correct it may be.

But this is only half the truth—and a dangerous half if taken to its conclusion.

The alternative on offer—military rule—has a long and sobering record. Across Africa, military regimes have often begun with promises of order and renewal, only to end in repression and decline. From Uganda under Idi Amin, to Nigeria under Sani Abacha, to the Central African Republic under Jean-Bédel Bokassa, the pattern has been grimly consistent: initial applause, followed by curtailed freedoms, weakened institutions, economic mismanagement, and eventual disillusionment. Without checks and balances, power concentrates; without scrutiny, it corrodes.

This is why the fixation must not be on democracy as a label, but on governance as a lived reality. The ultimate purpose of government is the welfare and security of the people. On this, Traoré is not wrong. But the means of achieving that purpose matter just as much as the end. Good governance cannot be sustained where citizens lack the power to question, to participate, and ultimately, to change their leaders.

The problem, then, is not democracy per se, but the failure to build the conditions that allow it to work. As Plato warned, political systems are only as good as the character and capacity of those who operate them. Democracy assumes civic virtue and institutional integrity that cannot be taken for granted. Where these are absent, outcomes will disappoint.

Yet the remedy is not abandonment but repair.

To dismiss democracy because it has been poorly practiced is akin to abandoning medicine because of a misdiagnosis. The task is to diagnose correctly and treat the underlying ailment: weak institutions, elite capture, impunity, and a deficit of public trust. Elections alone do not constitute democracy. A government that emerges from the ballot but governs without regard for the rule of law, economic justice, or public welfare cannot claim democratic legitimacy.

Good governance—effective service delivery, respect for rights, opportunity, and security—is the true test of any system.

Here, Africa’s own experience offers grounds for cautious optimism. Countries such as Ghana and Botswana demonstrate that democratic governance, though imperfect, can yield stability, legitimacy, and incremental development when institutions are respected and leaders are held accountable. Senegal has sustained civilian rule with credible transitions, while Namibia has combined regular elections with constitutional fidelity. These are not utopias, but they show that democracy—adapted and strengthened—can work.

Nor should the deeper moral dimension be ignored. Tocqueville argued that political institutions cannot endure without corresponding moral ties—that governance reflects the character of society itself. If democratic practice is to improve, it will require more than legal reform. It will demand a renewal of civic norms: integrity in public office, intolerance for corruption, and a citizenry willing to hold leaders accountable between elections, not merely during them.

This is the harder path. It is also the only sustainable one.

Traoré is right to insist that citizens care about results. However, he is wrong to suggest that those results can be secured by setting aside the very principles that make governments answerable. The choice between democracy and good governance is a false one. Properly understood, each requires the other.

Africa should not be fixated on democracy as a label. It should be fixated on governance that works—effective, accountable, and just. But history suggests that such governance is most likely to endure where power is limited by law, leaders are chosen and changed by the people, and institutions outlast individuals.

The continent stands at a crossroads. It can retreat into the false comfort of authoritarianism, or it can undertake the harder—but more necessary—task of building democratic systems that deliver.

Africa may not need to forget democracy.

It needs to finally make it work.

CONCLUDED

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

By Kachi Okezie , Esq.

In international relations, there are no permanent friendships, only permanent interests. This is a truth Nigeria is being forced to confront, often painfully, in its relationship with South Africa. For many Nigerians, the recurring images of xenophobic violence, whether it’s shops looted, migrants attacked or lives otherwise disrupted, have become a source of deep worry. They also raise a profoundly emotional question: how did it come to this? How did a country Nigeria so vigorously supported during the anti-apartheid struggle become one where Nigerians now feel increasingly unwelcome?

The answer lies not in betrayal, but in a misunderstanding; one rooted in history, identity, and the limits of moral politics. Nigeria’s role in the dismantling of apartheid was not symbolic. It was decisive. For decades, Nigeria provided financial, diplomatic, and moral support to liberation movements like the African National Congress, hosted exiles, funded education, and mobilised international pressure through platforms such as the Organization of African Unity. This was not cheap. Nigeria committed vast resources at a time when those funds could have accelerated domestic development. Yet the decision was clear: apartheid was an affront to African dignity, and confronting it was a duty. History has vindicated that stance, but history does not pay dividends.

One of the quiet assumptions underlying Nigeria’s foreign policy at the time was that solidarity would be remembered, and requited. It has not been. This is not because South Africa is uniquely ungrateful. It is because states do not operate on memory; they operate on interest. Post-apartheid South Africa, symbolised by the rise of Nelson Mandela, emerged not as a dependent ally, but as a confident economic and political power pursuing its own priorities, expanding its corporations, protecting its markets, and managing its internal pressures. In that context, Nigeria became not just a partner, but also a competitor. The lesson is uncomfortable but necessary: moral leadership does not automatically translate into strategic advantage.

The xenophobic violence seen in South Africa is often interpreted in Nigeria as a direct affront, but its roots are largely domestic. South Africa remains one of the most unequal societies in the world, with high unemployment and deep structural tensions that have persisted since the end of apartheid. In such an environment, migrants—visible, industrious, and often concentrated in informal sectors—become easy scapegoats. This does not justify the violence, but it does clarify it. The problem is not historical amnesia; it is present-day pressure. Unless those pressures are addressed internally, outbreaks of hostility may continue regardless of diplomatic goodwill.

Nigeria’s miscalculation, therefore, was not in supporting the anti-apartheid struggle. That remains one of the country’s proudest contributions to global justice. The miscalculation was in assuming that solidarity alone was sufficient. Nigeria gave generously, but often without binding economic agreements, enforceable migration protections, or long-term strategic frameworks. In effect, it invested heavily in a future relationship without securing the terms of that relationship. That gap is now visible.

Today, Nigeria and South Africa are bound together, but not in the way many once imagined. They are Africa’s two largest economies, regional powerhouses, and competitors for influence across the continent. South African firms have expanded extensively into Nigeria, while Nigerian businesses frequently encounter barriers in South Africa. Diplomatic tensions flare intermittently, and public sentiment on both sides is increasingly shaped by suspicion rather than solidarity. This is not an anomaly; it is what happens when shared history gives way to overlapping ambition.

If Nigeria is to avoid repeating past mistakes, it must rethin, not abandon, its approach to African engagement. Support for other African countries must be tied to clear national outcomes. Goodwill is not a policy. Economic openness should be mutual, not one-sided. The safety of Nigerians overseas must become a central priority, not an afterthought, with diplomatic responses that are swift and consistent. Above all, Nigeria must recognise that foreign policy influence rests on domestic strength. No country can project power abroad if it is constrained at home.

This moment is not just about Nigeria and South Africa. It reflects a broader transition across Africa, as the continent moves from an era defined by shared struggle against external oppression to one shaped by internal competition and nation-building. Institutions like the African Union provide a framework for cooperation, but frameworks alone are not enough. What is required is a new political mindset—one that balances solidarity with strategy and ideals with interests.

There is a temptation to frame current tensions in emotional terms like betrayal, ingratitude, and disappointment. But sentiment is not strategy. Nigeria’s past actions were right. They helped dismantle one of the most unjust systems in modern history, and that legacy should remain a source of pride. Yet the future cannot be built on memory alone. What Nigeria must confront today is not South Africa, but its own assumptions: the belief that history guarantees loyalty, that solidarity ensures reciprocity, and that moral authority translates into material advantage.

Letting go of these illusions is not a loss. It is a necessary step toward clarity. Nigeria does not need to retreat from Africa; it needs to engage it differently: with structure, with discipline, and with confidence in its own interests. Only then can it transform past sacrifice into future strength, and only then can the promise of African unity move from sentiment to substance.

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

• Says, “Target politicians, not students”

“It will be interesting to see the EFCC’s study on what proportion of Nigerian politicians are involved in criminal pillage or, in fact, what proportion of civil servants or even judges & magistrates are thieves.“

A sweeping claim that most Nigerian university students are criminals has ignited fierce backlash, with human rights lawyer Chidi Odinkalu accusing the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission (EFCC) of reckless profiling and a dangerous misuse of its authority.

In a strongly worded statement shared via his X handle (formerly Twitter), Odinkalu described the assertion—reportedly made by the EFCC chairman that 60 percent of students in Nigeria’s tertiary institutions are criminals—as “irresponsible and unconscionable,” warning that such sweeping generalizations risk stigmatizing an already vulnerable generation.

He argued that the agency’s role is to investigate and prosecute financial crimes—not to profile entire demographics—adding that the claim lacks credible evidence and distracts from the EFCC’s core mandate of holding powerful political actors accountable.

The full text of his tweet reads:

Let’s be clear: The claim by the chairman of @officialEFCC labelling 60% of students in #Nigeria‘s tertiary universities as criminals is plainly irresponsible & unconscionable. It is not law enforcement. 1st, it is outside the statutory responsibility of the #EFCC to profile a demographic or social group by reason of or with reference to their station in life. #Nigeria‘s constitution actually prohibits that.

2nd, it is already difficult enough to be young in Nigeria at this time without having to deal with being officially labelled as expendable by the authority of the Chairman of the EFCC. 3rd, the EFCC was established to go after high profile criminals & PoliticallyExposedPersons who have designs on Nigeria’s patrimony.

Those are not students. They are politicians & in pursuit of that species, the record of the EFCC is – at best – abysmal. The only political rogues whom the EFCC is able or willing to pursue are those who are in opposition. Those of them in the ruling party are patrons of the EFCC. Even in that, it mostly has worse that a patchy record. 4th, the EFCC has not provided proof that its claim against students is founded on any study or survey that can stand the test of minimal methodological rigour.

If it had, then the thing to do would be to make that report public so that its claims can be assessed with due regard to its methods. Above all, even assuming that the EFCC has undertaken a rigorous study to inform this claim, it amounts to an irresponsible waste of public resources to focus on or prioritise students over & above the politicians who have kidnapped Nigeria & hold its citizens & communities to sovereign ransom.

It will be interesting to see the EFCC’s study on what proportion of Nigerian politicians are involved in criminal pillage or, in fact, what proportion of civil servants or even judges & magistrates are thieves.

Until the EFCC Chairman can produce such studies, his attempt to criminalise Nigeria’s young people, especially students, must assume its pitiful place in a disreputable pantheon. The Chairman of @officialEFCC has not yet made good on his promise to bring @OfficialGYBKogi to account. He is still unable to comply with the order of @SupremeCourtNg to ensure the retrial of @OUKtweets.

The Commission seems congenitally wired to fail in bringing every senior politician to account, including those caught with their hands in the proverbial cookie jar. The EFCC should not be this idle or distracted. It is unfortunate that a succession of public servants with pathetically thin records of achievement turn on Nigeria’s young people & students when they should have more important things to do.