IT IS intriguing to celebrate heroes of a system that does not truly exist. Lawyers would argue that you cannot build something on nothing.
While we have made progress in persuading the military to leave the political stage, what we have gained cannot genuinely be called democracy. Politicians come and go, promising change but delivering nothing but empty rhetoric.
We have seen this before — celebrating the end of colonial rule, only to realize that what followed was equally oppressive, if not worse.
Once, revolutionaries sacrificed everything, even their lives, for social progress. Now, they seem to be obstacles to it. A striking paradox has emerged: those who once rejected honours and awards under a relatively tolerable regime, citing principled reasons, have readily accepted them under a far more challenging and oppressive system. What explains this shift? Have circumstances changed, or have values and principles been compromised? The contrast between past convictions and present actions raises important questions about the role of revolutionaries in a multi-ethnic society.
It is essential to acknowledge the struggles of those who fought against military rule. I was part of that group, as were many more Nigerians whose names remain unknown. A great price was paid by all of us. So many citizens lost their lives in the process, but because they are nameless, no one will mention them. We, the survivors, endured excruciating pain.
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The best tribute to our sacrifices would be to critically examine our current system and strive for genuine democracy, rather than just its appearance.
Since 1999, our civilian rule has been marred by anti-democratic tendencies: assassinations, corruption, bigotry, cronyism, parochialism, wanton killings, institutional decay, and the ethnicization of politics — a toxic environment where ethnic identity dominates, fuelling slogans like “Yoruba lo kan” (“It’s Yoruba’s turn”) or “It’s the turn of the North/East.”
Our experiment with democracy has left a bitter taste in our mouths. It is clear that this is not what democracy is. If it is democracy at all, then, this must be its immoral side. This is not why the likes of Chuma Ubani, Abraham Adesanya, Bagauda Kaltho, Kudirat Abiola, and many others, paid the ultimate price.
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The global political community might be astonished at how Nigeria has adapted the concept of democracy. Historically, political theorists have widely regarded democracy as the best form of government, citing its ability to protect fundamental human rights and guarantee a broad range of freedoms.
For a system to truly honour people, it must first exist with integrity and be honourable itself. A system that prioritizes the interests of a select few while placing undue burdens on the masses can only reward those who are part of the status quo.
The current state of affairs reveals a stark contrast: while ordinary people and the working masses have been used by elites to achieve their goals — such as civilian rule — it is the politicians who reap the benefits. As the masses suffer and the nation declines, those in power continue to loot and prosper.
Can the people of Benue, Plateau, Taraba, and other states ravaged by violence truly say that this democracy has heroes worth honouring? Under military rule, ordinary Nigerians’ lives were arguably more precious and protected. Yet under this so-called democracy, life has not only lost its value but meaning.
Once, revolutionaries sacrificed everything, even their lives, for social progress. Now, they seem to be obstacles to it. A striking paradox has emerged: those who once rejected honours and awards under a relatively tolerable regime, citing principled reasons, have readily accepted them under a far more challenging and oppressive system. What explains this shift? Have circumstances changed, or have values and principles been compromised? The contrast between past convictions and present actions raises important questions about the role of revolutionaries in a multi-ethnic society.
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It is not right for a few to receive honours on behalf of those who have perished or suffered. As Elie Wiesel aptly put it, accepting such recognition can be presumptuous. No one can truly speak for the dead or interpret their unfinished dreams.
Instead, Wiesel’s words remind us that any honour belongs not to individuals but to the collective — the survivors, their families, and the community whose experiences shape their identity. This perspective encourages humility and gratitude, acknowledging the sacrifices and struggles that have come before us.
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Can the people of Benue, Plateau, Taraba, and other states ravaged by violence truly say that this democracy has heroes worth honouring? Under military rule, ordinary Nigerians’ lives were arguably more precious and protected. Yet under this so-called democracy, life has not only lost its value but meaning.
The frequent killings and maiming by unknown gunmen and cattle herders have become a grim reality. Just on June 14th, unconfirmed reports emerged of 200 people murdered in a single attack. Even the new Catholic Pope referenced these killings in a homily on Father’s Day, yet our president has remained silent.
Were these sacrifices part of the democracy that supposed heroes fought for? The silence of leaders in the face of such atrocities is deafening.
When will those in power prioritize the lives and safety of Nigerians? Truly, a civil rule that is sustained by the blood of patriots cannot be called democracy — and certainly cannot have heroes.
