The Crest

Category: Living

  • A Review of Citizen Experience: Reset for Superior Civil Service Delivery, By Michael Harry Yamson

    A Review of Citizen Experience: Reset for Superior Civil Service Delivery

    By Michael Harry Yamson,
    Administrator, District Assemblies Common Fund, Ghana

    Dr. Julius Debrah
    Dr. Julius Debrah

    I have spent a considerable portion of my professional life working within the architecture of Ghana’s public financial management system — specifically at the intersection of central government policy and local government delivery. From that vantage point, I have had occasion to observe, with both pride and discomfort, the distance that so often exists between what the state intends for its citizens and what citizens actually receive. It is from this perspective — not as a detached academic observer, but as a practitioner who has sat on both sides of the accountability equation — that I commend to the reading public this timely, necessary, and admirably courageous work by Professor Robert E. Hinson and the Honourable Julius Debrah.

    Citizen Experience: Reset for Superior Civil Service Delivery is not a comfortable book. It is not designed to be. It is designed to disturb the settled assumptions of those of us who have made careers within the public service and to invite us, with intellectual rigour and moral seriousness, to ask the harder questions we have too long deferred.

    The Question We Forgot to Ask

    The book opens with a distinction so simple it is almost embarrassing — embarrassing, that is, because it exposes a blind spot that runs through virtually every tier of Ghana’s public administration, including, I confess, my own.

    Governments ask whether their systems are functioning. Citizens ask what it feels like to deal with those systems. These are not the same question. They have never been the same question. And for too long, we in the public service have congratulated ourselves for answering the first while barely registering the existence of the second.

    As Administrator of the District Assemblies Common Fund, I am acutely aware of this divergence. The DACF exists constitutionally to channel resources to the 261 district assemblies across Ghana — to finance local development and bring government closer to the people. On paper, disbursements are made, accounts are rendered, and the system functions. But the citizen in Bongo, in Nkoranza, in Ellembelle, in Kpone-Katamanso — what does that citizen experience when they interact with the district assembly that those resources are meant to strengthen? That is the question that Hinson and Debrah insist we must answer. And they are absolutely right to insist.

    Citizen Experience Is Governance — Not a Service Department Problem

    The authors make a distinction that I believe is foundational and that public administrators at every level must internalise: citizen experience is governance, not a customer service issue. This framing matters enormously because it determines where responsibility sits.

    If citizen experience is a customer service problem, it belongs to the receptionist, the front-desk officer, the call centre. Management is absolved. Leadership is untouched. Strategy is undisturbed. But if citizen experience is governance — if it is the substance and measure of what government actually does — then responsibility travels all the way to the top. To the minister. To the board. To the administrator. To me.

    That is an uncomfortable but necessary accountability. And it is one that the systems of the Ghanaian state, including the local government financing architecture within which I work, have not always been designed to enforce.

    The book argues, correctly, that leadership drives institutional performance. The systems of state — strategy, structure, technology, culture, people, and skills — must be designed around citizens’ priorities, not deployed to shape those priorities to the convenience of the institution. I have seen too many strategic plans in the public sector that are written by institutions, for institutions, to justify the continued existence of institutions. The citizen appears in such documents as a beneficiary — passive, undifferentiated, grateful. What Hinson and Debrah demand, and what the evidence of our governance history demands, is a complete inversion of that orientation.

    The God Complex in Local Government

    The passage in this book that I found most arresting — and most personally challenging — is the authors’ treatment of what I would call the monopoly mentality in public service. There is, they note, only one Ghana Police Service. Only one Ghana Health Service. Only one local government office that a citizen in any given locality can deal with. The citizen has no alternative. There is no competitor. There is no exit.

    I want to sit with this observation for a moment, because in my work with district assemblies, I encounter its consequences regularly. The district assembly is, for the majority of Ghanaians, the face of government closest to their daily lives. It is where building permits are sought, where sanitation complaints are lodged, where market tolls are collected, where social intervention programmes are administered. And because it is the only such face — because there is no rival district assembly the citizen can patronise if they are dissatisfied — the incentive structure for service excellence is, structurally, weak.

    The authors frame this with an image that is equal parts humorous and tragic: the citizen dealing with the state may as well be dealing with God, and God is never wrong. From this absolute asymmetry of power flows the most dangerous of public service pathologies — the loss of humility. And from that loss of humility flows the institutionalised indifference, the casual contempt for citizen time, the administrative arrogance that has made so many Ghanaians regard their government offices with dread rather than confidence.

    This is not a peripheral observation. In the local government space, where I have particular insight, it is the central driver of poor citizen outcomes. District assemblies that know their citizens have nowhere else to go rarely feel the urgency to improve. And without that urgency, accountability becomes ceremonial.

    Bribery Dressed as Appreciation

    I have worked long enough in public financial management to know that corruption is rarely spoken of by its own name within the institutions that practise it. The authors identify this phenomenon with clinical precision. The culture of bribery does not announce itself as such. It reinvents itself, socially and linguistically, as appreciation — a gesture of gratitude from citizen to servant that happens, entirely coincidentally, to secure the service that was owed as a matter of right. The vocabulary changes. The corruption does not. The essential element — the coercion of a citizen who has no recourse — remains perfectly preserved beneath the new social grammar.

    From a public financial management perspective, this matters deeply. The District Assemblies Common Fund is public money — constitutionally mandated, taxpayer-funded, intended for the development of communities. When the administrators of those funds, at district level and beyond, participate in cultures that extract informal payments from citizens for services that should be freely and efficiently rendered, they are not merely committing individual acts of dishonesty. They are systematically undermining the integrity of the entire local governance financing architecture. Every act of “appreciation” is a tax levied on the citizen twice — once through the formal system, and once at the point of service. It is governance failure in its most intimate form.

    The Framework: Seven Dimensions, Five Principles

    The conceptual framework that Hinson and Debrah offer is one of the book’s most practically valuable contributions, and one I intend to carry into my own institutional thinking.

    The seven dimensions of citizen experience — accessibility, clarity, speed, dignity, fairness, consistency, and outcomes — define what must be delivered. The five distinguishing principles — universality, dignity, equity, accountability, and public value — define how those dimensions must be delivered. The citizen, the authors rightly observe, evaluates both simultaneously and holistically.

    This framework has direct application to the work of district assemblies. Consider accessibility: how many district assembly offices are physically inaccessible to persons with disabilities, to elderly citizens, to those without private transport? Consider clarity: how many citizens leave a district office without a clear understanding of what was decided about their request, or what the next step is, or why their application was declined? Consider dignity: in how many district offices does the citizen wait for hours without acknowledgement, without information, without the basic courtesy of being told what is happening?

    These are not rhetorical questions. They are the audit that Hinson and Debrah demand we conduct — honestly, publicly, and with consequences attached to the findings.

    Prof. Robert Ebo Hinson
    Prof. Robert Ebo Hinson

    The Structural Problem and the Post-Colonial Reckoning

    As someone who has navigated the legislative and institutional architecture of Ghana’s local government system for many years, I recognise with particular sharpness the authors’ observation about foundational structural failures. Public institutions, they argue, are designed with their mandates, boundaries, and accountability relationships oriented toward institutional self-definition rather than citizen outcomes. None of the original design embeds best practice or accountability into the organisational DNA. The institution knows what it is. It does not always know what the citizen needs it to be.

    The District Assemblies Common Fund, for instance, has a clear constitutional mandate: at least five percent of government revenue, disbursed to district assemblies. That mandate is administratively well-defined. But the citizen’s experience of what happens to those resources once they reach the district — whether roads are actually built, whether markets are actually improved, whether social grants are actually disbursed with dignity and accuracy — is a different and more complex story. The structural accountability that connects the national financing architecture to the last-mile citizen experience is, at best, imperfect.

    On the question of colonialism, I am in full agreement with the authors, even as I acknowledge the provocation of their position. We have had seventy years. The inherited architecture of colonial administration was not designed for citizen service — it was designed for control, extraction, and hierarchy. But we chose to preserve large portions of that architecture, and we have had generation after generation of leadership with the power to redesign it. To continue to narrate our present failures primarily as colonial inheritance is, at this point, to practice a sophisticated form of self-deception. What remains is our own accountability — in our own time, to our own people.

    On the Human Capital of the Public Service

    As an administrator who depends daily on the competence and commitment of public servants — at the DACF, at the district assemblies, across the agencies and departments whose work intersects with local governance — I read the book’s treatment of people and culture with particular personal investment.

    The authors do not scapegoat the public servant. They understand that transformation is not simply a matter of willingness. It requires framework, rules, rewards, and sanctions — consistently and courageously applied. Outrageous performance must be outrageously rewarded. Innovation in public service delivery must be celebrated, not merely tolerated. And training must no longer be treated as a privilege or a reward. It must be the minimum requirement for remaining fit to serve.

    This resonates with me deeply. In my experience, morale is the most fragile and most consequential resource in any public institution. When public servants feel unseen by leadership, when excellence goes unacknowledged, when the path of least resistance is also the path of least accountability — morale collapses. And when morale collapses, the citizen pays the price.

    The dignity of the citizen and the dignity of the public servant are not competing values. They are mutually reinforcing ones. We cannot demand that public servants treat citizens with respect and humanity while those same servants are poorly paid, inadequately trained, inconsistently supervised, and routinely exposed to political interference that makes a mockery of merit. The book is right to hold both accountabilities simultaneously. Public servants must be paid well, trained rigorously, and held to the highest ethical standards — including zero tolerance for corruption in all its linguistic disguises.

    Measurement, Transparency, and the Blackstar Standard

    The book’s call for rigorous, transparent, publicly accessible measurement of citizen experience is one that I believe must become a non-negotiable feature of Ghana’s governance reform agenda. You get what you measure. If we do not systematically measure the quality of the citizen’s experience at every point of government interaction, we will never know with precision what we need to fix — and we will never be able to demonstrate to citizens, credibly and verifiably, that things are improving.

    As Ghana’s government sets out a manifesto aspiration for superlative performance — what the authors describe as a Blackstar experience across every dimension of public service — measurement becomes the infrastructure of credibility. It is not enough to declare a standard. The standard must be qualified, made visible, and placed in the hands of citizens to rate. Every public servant must understand that the system measures and that measurement has real consequences for recognition, compensation, promotion, and career advancement.

    From a local government financing perspective, this means that the quality of citizen experience at the district level must become a dimension of how we evaluate the performance of district assemblies — not merely whether funds were received and accounts rendered, but what those funds produced in terms of the lived experience of the citizens they were meant to serve.

    A Word on Technology and the Shrinking Margin

    The final urgency that the book names is one that administrators of my generation must take with maximum seriousness. Artificial intelligence, social media, and the broader digital transformation of civic life are changing not only how services can be delivered but how quickly citizens form, share, and act on their expectations and grievances. Best practice and worst practice travel at the same speed. A citizen who experiences seamless, dignified, efficient service — whether from a private institution or a government in another country — carries that expectation into every subsequent interaction with their own government.

    The margin for mediocrity is shrinking. The digital citizen of today is not comparing the District Assembly of today to the District Assembly of 1990. They are comparing it to every excellent experience they have encountered anywhere. That is a high standard. It is also the right one.

    Conclusion: A Book That Demands Action, Not Admiration

    I want to close this review with a caution — one directed as much at myself as at any reader. There is a temptation, when encountering a book as thoughtfully constructed as this one, to admire it, to reference it in speeches, to circulate it among colleagues, and then to return to the daily business of institutional life largely unchanged. That temptation must be resisted.

    Citizen Experience: Reset for Superior Civil Service Delivery is not written to be admired. It is written to be acted upon. Its arguments are precise. Its prescriptions are practical. Its moral urgency is real and justified. For those of us who administer the resources and institutions of the Ghanaian state, it carries the weight of an obligation — to the citizens who fund us, to the constitutional vision of a government that serves, and to the possibility of a public service we can genuinely be proud of.

    Something has got to change. The citizen and their experience of satisfaction must sit at the heart of governance. Every government must ultimately be measured by the perception that citizens have of the dignity with which they are treated when they interact with its services. That is not an aspirational footnote. It is the purpose of the state.

    I commend this work without reservation to every public administrator, political leader, civil society actor, and engaged citizen in Ghana — and indeed across the African continent. Read it. Argue with it. Be disturbed by it. And then do something about it.

    • Michael Harry Yamson is the Administrator of the District Assemblies Common Fund of Ghana. The views expressed in this review are his own.
  • Naija Times Publisher, Ehi Braimah, Emerges District Governor Nominee Designate of Rotary International District 9112

    Naija Times Publisher, Ehi Braimah, Emerges District Governor Nominee Designate of Rotary International District 9112

    Publisher/ Editor-in-Chief of Naija Times and Lagos Post, Ehi Braimah, has emerged as the District Governor Nominee Designate of Rotary International District 9112, a development that positions him to serve as District Governor for the 2028-2029 Rotary year.

    The announcement, made following the district’s nomination and election process, means Braimah will assume the leadership of one of Rotary’s most vibrant districts in Nigeria, comprising over 86 Rotary clubs and more than 2,300 Rotarians spread across sections of Lagos and parts of Ogun States.

    In this role, he will be responsible for providing strategic leadership, strengthening club performance, driving humanitarian projects, promoting Rotary’s public image, and advancing the organisation’s service ideals across the district.

    Braimah’s emergence has been widely acknowledged across Rotary and professional circles, with many citing his extensive leadership experience, professional achievements, and long-standing commitment to service as key strengths he brings to the role.

    A seasoned public relations specialist, marketing strategist and media entrepreneur, Braimah is also a regular television pundit, writer, author, motivational speaker, mentor, public policy analyst, and member of the Nigerian Guild of Editors.

    He is the Chairman/Chief Executive Officer of Neo Media and Marketing, a public relations, marketing, and event management agency delivering integrated communication solutions across various platforms.

    He completed his MBA programme at the University of Roehampton, London in 2017, and was subsequently honoured with the institution’s Distinguished Chancellor’s Alumni Award in the Inspiration and Innovation Category in October 2024, in London.

    Braimah is the Publisher and Editor in Chief of Naija Times and Lagos Post, two independent online newspapers he founded in 2020 and 2021 respectively.

    He is a Fellow of the National Institute of Marketing of Nigeria and serves as Chairman of the Naija Times Journalism Foundation, the nonprofit arm of Naija Times.

    He is also the Deputy President of the Nigerian American Chamber of Commerce and a mentor with the Tony Elumelu Entrepreneurship Programme.

    With professional affiliations spanning over three decades, Braimah has been a member of the Nigerian Institute of Public Relations and the Nigerian Institute of Management since 1993.

    Within Rotary, he is a committed Rotarian and a member of the Rotary Club of Lagos, Rotary International District 9112. He currently serves as a Rotary regional leader in Africa Zone 22 and is a Past Assistant Governor.

    His extensive Rotary service includes roles as Past President of his club, District Secretary, and chair of several district committees in both District 9112 and the defunct District 9110.

    His current district and regional assignments include Chair of the District 9112 Public Image Committee, Assistant Rotary Public Image Coordinator for Africa Zone 22, Editor of Region 27 Magazine, and Coordinator of the 2026 Distict Team Learning Seminar (DTLS). He is also a Major Donor to The Rotary Foundation.

    Reacting to his emergence, stakeholders within the district described the nomination as a reflection of Braimah’s consistent service, leadership capacity, and passion for advancing Rotary’s humanitarian mission.

    Braimah is happily married and blessed with children.

  • Obasanjo’s ‘Not My Will’: A Review With a Rejoinder, By Professor Ladipo Adamolekun

    Obasanjo’s ‘Not My Will’: A Review With a Rejoinder, By Professor Ladipo Adamolekun

    Professor Ladipo Adamolekun
    Professor Ladipo Adamolekun

    Fair comment on any piece of writing would require that the author’s objective should be the reviewer’s major reference point. The objective of Not My Will (Ibadan, 1990) is stated in the Introduction as follows: “I have endeavoured to put this book out before the third republic and early in the last decade of the twentieth century as part of my contribution to making the decade a period of soul-searching, deep sober reflection, stability, progress, development, peace and cooperation through the lessons of history for all of us, individually and collectively.”

    What contributions does this book make towards enabling Nigerians to rise to the challenges of the 1990s and beyond? I would venture to say that it makes three main contributions. First, it provides an insider’s account of the complexities and intricacies of running a federal system in the Nigerian milieu. General Obasanjo is the first leader at the federal level to have given an account of his stewardship in writing. Not My Will is, therefore, a welcome addition to our knowledge of the running of regional governments by the first three premiers: Alhaji Ahmadu Bello, Chief Obafemi Awolowo and Dr. Nnamdi Azikiwe. Those who aspire to rule Nigeria under the third republic and in the foreseeable future would benefit from reading all the four books.

    Second, General Obasanjo provides insights on some issues that will continue to feature prominently in the governance of the country: national census, religion, national integration, economic management, and international relations. I find his views on national census and religion eminently sensible. Without prejudging the work of Alhaji Shehu Musa and his team, faithful implementation of the strategy spelt out in the book (pp. 53-55) appears to be a more promising road to the achievement of a reliable and acceptable census in the country. In addition to the useful insights, he has provided on “Sharia politics”, General Obasanjo has also demonstrated his own personal; religious tolerance by worshipping both in a Baptist church and a mosque after his “triumphant” return to Abeokuta in October 1979. Those involved in the Organisation of Islamic Council (OIC) fiasco have committed the serious crime of bringing religion to the centre stage of Nigerian politics. This dangerous trend has to be reversed and religion must be kept serenely as a private affair of individual Nigerians.

    On national integration, this reviewer is convinced that General Obasanjo is a genuine believer in one Nigeria. Anyone who has read My Command, Nzeogwu, Constitution for National Integration and Development, together with Not My Will is likely to agree with this verdict. It does appear that he genuinely and consistently sought to rely on a “national caucus of advisers” (p.170). However, it would also be correct, in my opinion, to assert that certain actions that he took in the name of promoting national integration were based on wrong assumptions and were, therefore, counterproductive. My two favourite examples are the location of some industries and the posting of university vice chancellors like police commissioners or military commanders without regard for the peculiarities of university culture. As an insider of the Nigerian university system at the time, I make bold to declare that this action hastened the decline of the universities by bastardising the appointment of their chief executives. Unfortunately, General Obasanjo continues to believe that the end of national integration justifies whatever means he adopted.

    On economic management, the lesson to learn from the account in this book is that only limited concrete results can be achieved in the absence of a clearly thought-out and coherent economic policy framework. Unlike the political programme with a definite end-product and a well-articulated sequencing, the Murtala-Obasanjo administration had no economic programme. The regime weas guided by a mixture of pragmatism, economic nationalism (the “commanding heights” of the economy idea), and a belief in efficient management. Overall, the regime’s record in the field of economic development was patchy. There were some concrete achievements in agriculture and transportation but the problem of telecommunication persisted in spite of huge investments. And it is difficult to rate the regime highly in financial management, especially the controversial jumbo loan decision in a period of relative affluence.

    Chapter 7 on “International Relations” is a succinct account of how our foreign policy came of age. It is arguable that we could have achieved more but the Murtala-Obasanjo administration richly deserves credit for launching the country on the path of an assertive foreign policy. General Obasanjo certainly contributed significantly to this achievement. However, reading between the lines in the chapter, there are clear warnings that our persistent inability to keep our domestic problems under control will continue to constitute a drag on our foreign policy.

    The third contribution of this book relates to General Obasanjo’s leadership style. I must confess that I find it difficult to separate elements of the General’s leadership style that derive from his military profession from those that derive from the combination of his religion, cultural and educational backgrounds. It is very likely that all of these elements combined in an inextricable manner to produce what emerges in the book as the General’s leadership style. There is evidence of courage, a touch of abrasiveness, dedication, hard work and integrity. His commitment to a consensual approach to politics almost amounts to an article of faith. The consistent use of task forces and study panels, and the periodic “Saturday meetings” in Doddan Barracks (essentially brainstorming sessions), were all in the pursuit of consensus politics. Of course, this did not evolve into a system of governance (the time was obviously too short) but some practical illustrations of its merits are provided in the book.

    I would like to put on record two reservations about this book. The first relates to the ad hominem references made in different parts of the book. Those whose advice General Obasanjo sought in writing this book are not named, deliberately I would imagine. Similarly, in a few instances where uncomplimentary comments are made about individuals, no names are provided: the eye specialist who metamorphosed into a crude lobbyist and the corrupt “two star” General. In practically all cases of praise, the names are provided. I would consider all this desirable. In contrast, I think that the majority of the cases where persons are named for negative comments could have been avoided without detracting from the usefulness of the book for the achievement of the author’s stated objective. Notable examples are the references to Alhaji Sule Katagun, Justice Elias, and General Oluleye. On late Chief Obafemi Awolowo and his party, the Unity Party of Nigeria (UPN), General Obasanjo has clearly sought to settle a score. This could have been avoided. He could have simply limited himself to a few paragraphs on both the Chief and his party as he did for the other political leaders of the second republic. Given the General’s new “large constituency… as large as the world itself” (p.65), a significant proportion of Chapter 9 is inappropriate (especially pp.182, 188, 196-202). Would the General consider expunging these pages from a reprinted edition of the book? I was very sad to read of the attempt to assassinate the General in Ibadan (p.224).

    My second reservation is that writing ten years after the events, General Obasanjo did not stand back sufficiently to enrich his contributions with some of the useful lessons he must have learnt from having the world as his new “constituency”. The closest he comes to doing this is the strong case he makes for democratic politics (pp.1-2). There are no real indications about how he would like to see the institutions he criticizes so trenchantly strengthened to enable them play their respective roles in the 1990s and beyond: the civil service, labour unions, the press, universities, and the judiciary. One can only hope that he would address these important issues within the framework of his excellent African Leadership Forum initiative.

    Although General Obasanjo lavishes praise on his publishers, careful and detailed editing should be carried out before the book is reprinted. The book also deserves a better index; the existing one appears hurriedly done and is most inadequate.
    July 25, 1990.

    A REJOINDER
    Let me take three issues in your review that I disagree with.
    Our economic policy was self-sufficiency through self-reliance and that take with it those factors which you acknowledge – economic pragmatism, economic nationalism, and efficient management among others. That economic policy framework was not without success in self-sufficiency in rice and poultry production, consciousness and awareness raising in agriculture and food production and encouragement of light industries in furniture, domestic and household goods and grounding of the economy in base industries of iron and steel, petrochemical and infrastructures of roads, fuel depots, and pipelines although the incoming administration short-circuited and frustrated some of the achievements and successes in this regard.

    As for my comments on political leaders and their organisations, I go by the parable of the talents which in summary says to whom much is given, much is to be expected. You got it right when you said that national integration is of primary concern to me. Unless we have uniformity of purpose, we are not going to make progress. We are not going to have integration unless we work consciously, assiduously and arduously for it. If posting university Vice Chancellors as Customs officers is one of the ways of working for it so be it. Our universities have not evolved the way those we try to copy evolved. Not to see all aspects of our national life as essential ingredients of national integration is to make a grievous mistake. And for any group to think and behave as if they are a special breed outside the integrative mesh is to make themselves irrelevant in the circumstance and in the process.

    Professor Ladipo Adamolekun, wrote from Iju, Akure North local government, Ondo State

  • The silent press and the silent siege, By Segun Adediran

    The silent press and the silent siege, By Segun Adediran

    The silent press and the silent siege,Segun Adediran
    Segun Adediran

    Within the next several years, the invisible architecture of Nigeria’s democracy faces a quiet but existential threat. For decades, the local press served as the bedrock of our national identity, but today, that foundation is being hollowed out by unregulated global digital gatekeepers.

    Led by Lady Maiden Alex-Ibru, the President of the Newspaper Proprietors’ Association of Nigeria, the Press is opening up. On the platform of the Nigerian Press Organisation, NPO, which represents the collective weight of the NPAN, the Nigeria Guild of Editors, Broadcasting Organisations of Nigeria, Nigerian Union of Journalists and the Guild of Corporate Online Publishers, it broke the “ungolden” silence.
     Last Tuesday, it issued a stark warning on a major threat: Nigeria’s social cohesion, national security, and democratic governance are being surreptitiously surrendered to algorithms controlled from outside our borders. It gladdens my heart.
    Silently, the Big Tech firms, under the guise of technological innovation, have been killing the global media one bit at a time.  But it appears the Nigerian press can no longer bear the pains of where their “shoe pinches” like their peers elsewhere. They have rightly identified the specific point where troubles, difficulties and stresses for their survival originate: Big Tech’s thieving technology.
    They have also highlighted a more insidious vulnerability. In an era where foreign-coded narratives can dictate public discourse and relegate professional journalism to the margins, the “information sovereignty” of the republic is no longer a theoretical concern. It is an active crisis.
    And the message is crystal clear: A new commitment to establishing terms of engagement with these global platforms will be needed to ensure that Nigeria’s national conversation is not quietly outsourced to opaque commercial interests beyond our control.
     The Nigerian government should be worried. As the world pivots toward a digital-first existence, the structural pillars of the Nigerian Fourth Estate are being dismantled by global forces that owe no allegiance to our national borders, our social cohesion, or our democratic survival.
    Yet, amid this mounting disruption, our policy response remains dangerously dormant. While the Presidency and the National Assembly grapple with immediate crises of security and currency, a more insidious vulnerability is being coded into our daily lives: the surrender of Nigeria’s public square to unregulated, transnational digital gatekeepers.
    There is no precedent for the complexity of the current digital era. The era of the “town crier” or the monopolistic state broadcaster has given way to a fragmented reality where foreign-owned algorithms determine what a citizen in Kano, Lagos, or Enugu sees, believes, or ignores. They, “the big boys”, smile at the banks while our news organisations gnash their teeth.
    Today, Nigeria’s total advertising spend is estimated to be nearing $1 billion, yet a staggering $340 million of that is being swallowed by digital platforms—primarily Search and Social Media. By 2025, Social Media alone is projected to command $131 million in Nigerian ad spend, while online video and banner ads—territories dominated by Google and Meta—will siphon off another $269 million. Recent reporting from BusinessDay (February 2026) highlights that the digital ad sector is projected to grow to $148 million in social media alone by the end of this year. Meta’s total 2024 revenue was approximately $134 billion, and Alphabet (Google) exceeded $307 billion.
    This is not merely a market disruption; it is a strategic decapitation of the local press. While these global behemoths reported 2024 revenues as high as $164.5 billion globally, their Nigerian operations operate in a financial “black box,” extracting local capital while returning almost zero reinvestment into the newsrooms that provide the very content their users discuss.
    When professional journalism collapses, the vacuum is not filled by silence; it is filled by chaos.
    The other answer lies in the global history of democratic resilience. When nations in the 20th century realised that certain industries—telecommunications, banking, energy—were vital to national security, they created robust frameworks to ensure they remained indigenous and accountable. Journalism is no different. It is strategic civic infrastructure, as essential to the health of the republic as the judiciary. Yet, we are currently treating it as a disposable commodity in a lopsided global auction where foreign entities pay billions in taxes to the Federal Government—N3.85 trillion in the first nine months of 2024 alone—yet provide no direct compensation to the industry whose intellectual property they monetise.
    The Nigerian press does not come to the government seeking a handout. We come with a warning: a democracy of Nigeria’s scale cannot afford to outsource its information sovereignty. And this is not just Nigeria’s trouble; it’s a global movement. Leading democracies have already concluded that non-intervention is a recipe for the institutional collapse of their trusted news industries. The European Union has moved to curb gatekeeper dominance; Australia has implemented a bargaining framework that forces tech giants to remunerate local newsrooms; and Canada has enacted legislation to secure long-term funding for domestic journalism.
    These nations recognised a fundamental truth: press freedom requires economic viability. A journalist who cannot afford to eat cannot afford to be brave. A newsroom that cannot fund a legal team cannot challenge corruption.
    Today, the Nigerian safety net for truth is frayed. The good news is that it can be restitched. As a first step, the Federal Government should empower the Federal Competition and Consumer Protection Commission (FCCPC) and the Nigerian Copyright Commission (NCC) to establish a mandatory bargaining code. This would ensure that when global platforms monetise Nigerian news content, a fair portion of that value is reinvested back into the newsrooms that produced it.
    Finally, we must insist on transparency in algorithmic distribution, ensuring that local, credible news is not buried under a mountain of sensationalist, offshore-driven “engagement.”
    Democracy rarely prevents the emergence of new technologies, but it must serve as a check on their excesses. Citizens need to exert their influence now, demanding that their representatives protect the integrity of the news they consume. We should not allow the next generation of Nigerians to inherit a world where they cannot distinguish between a verified fact and a manufactured lie, or where their national discourse is merely a data point for a foreign corporation’s profit margin.
    The decisions made in the hallowed chambers of the National Assembly and the offices of the Presidency over the next two years will define the digital sovereignty of this nation. We can either act to secure a professional, independent, and viable press, or we can watch as the “last major treaty” between the truth and the public is allowed to expire.
    This is the time when silence is not golden.
    Adediran, NPAN CEO, writes via [email protected]
  • Fela’s Wizkid, By Lasisi Olagunju

    Fela’s Wizkid, By Lasisi Olagunju

    Lasisi Olagunju
    Lasisi Olagunju

    The Cambridge English dictionary defines ‘Wizkid’ as “a young person who is very clever and successful.” Collins Dictionary defines it as “a person who is outstandingly successful for his or her age.” Wisdom Library says “’Wiz’ is a shortened form of ‘wizard,’ connoting skill, talent, and expertise, while ‘kid’ implies youthfulness or being junior. When combined, ‘Wizkid’ suggests a young, talented, and skilled individual, particularly in a specific field.”

    Fela and Wizkid? The space between the nose and the forehead is not as short as it appears. A noisy digital skirmish: a torrent of online exchanges; an endless war of words. All between Seun Kuti and Afrobeat super star, Wizkid, with his fans, over a reported off-hand tweet that super-rich Wizkid had surpassed Fela Anikulapo Kuti in music and social stature.

    Seun Kuti is reported to have remarked that “it’s an insult to Fela to call Wizkid the new Fela.” Apparently in frustration with the back and forth over the inanity on the Internet, the living star is reported to have retorted: “Ok. I big pass your Papa!!! Wetin u wan do? Fool at 40.” That “igán” was the spark that caused the conflagration.

    It is a needless quarrel. Wizkid is not Fela. He is Fela’s wizkid. The fight is stupid because the truth is self-evident. A child may own as many garments as an elder, but he cannot possess the same number of rags. Time, not tailoring, produces experience. But, there is nothing that the Internet and its warriors cannot weaponise. And, the undiscerning is easily conscripted into the raucous army. Wizkid himself understands the distance involved. So, let no one summon tension where harmony is the musical key.

    The younger wizard knows the source of his tumultuous river; he has never denied where it flows from. In a May 3, 2017 interview with English DJ and author, Semtex, Wizkid traced the arc of his musical influences with disarming candour. “So I was influenced by rap, reggae, Bob Marley, Fela… like good music, some big names,” he said. Yet he admitted that Fela’s music did not immediately appeal to him. His parents played Fela and King Sunny Ade at home, but the young Wizkid, by his own account, was “not old enough to understand or enjoy the music.” He wasn’t alone with that judgment. Even Fela’s mother, at the experimental beginning of his career, told him: “Start playing music your people understand, not jazz.”

    Time, however, has a way of teaching the tentative how to stand firm and take their share of what life offers. Wizkid, the young man who once declared that he did not want to be “just an African star” grew into a global figure by climbing the ladder of destiny mounted on the shoulders of global giants. He mentions them in that Semtex interview: Bob Marley of Reggae, and unmistakably, Fela Anikulapo Kuti of Afrobeat.

    Another old interview is unearthed by the present noise. In it, Wizkid speaks to the Fela matter with humility and clarity: “We can’t compare, let’s not use that word because it is like disrespect when you’re mentioning Wizkid and Fela in the same sentence. You can’t compare. Fela is someone that inspires me. I have him tattooed on me. Fela’s face is all over my body. Everything he did with his music, his legacy, inspires me to be great and to want to do more.”

    Wizkid is big because he is wise. Reading him, hearing him, tells that the young man enjoys the benefit of good upbringing. There is his ‘Ojuelegba’ line:

    “Ti isu eni ba dele

    A f’owo bo je…”

    And he remembers to tell his interviewer that underneath that line is the timeless advice he got from his mother: “When I was like younger my Mama told me, you when God blesses you, you should be smart enough to know that you should be more cautious. That’s when you should get more cautious of what you say, what you do and how you move.” To be cautious is to act with care, with prudence. The synonym is wisdom. What Wizkid says his mother told him is the same as what Kahlil Gibran tells us: “Travel and tell no one, live a true love story and tell no one, live happily and tell no one, people ruin beautiful things.”

    The young wizard is wise. Wizkid is lucky he has a mother who prays. He sings:

    “See eh, e kira fun mummy mi o,

    Ojojumo lo n s’adura…”

    He is as lucky as Abraham Lincoln who said the same: “I remember my mother’s prayers and they have always followed me. They have clung to me all my life.”

    Now, if there is a positive gain for me in the ‘childish’ fight over which is bigger and deeper between the Atlantic and the Lagos Lagoon, it is the opportunity to read and know more about the music of the youth, and the chance to throw long-owed libation at the king of waters. In celebrating Fela, therefore, we celebrate a king of songs whose insistence is that art must not be for art’s sake; that music must matter, that it must speak when politics lies, and that it must disturb the comfort of the powerful.

    The difference between fire and light is in what is done with them. Some music is not meant to entertain alone, but to awaken. The music of Fela is fire and light combined; it is a force that moves more than bodies; it moves minds. He created Afrobeat; he made music, and with it, made life and living into sound and resistance. His everything is a fine blend, whether of assonance or of alliteration; he made sense out of nonsense. His ‘Zombie’, for instance, has not stopped teaching us that when power stops thinking, rhythm must do the thinking for it.

    Fela sang the outrage of today and the rage of tomorrow yesterday. Like NASA’s Perseverance Rover on Mars, the Afrobeat king orbited power with defiance. He was at once coarse and smooth, abrasive and balmy in the same breath.

    The Yoruba know that when you sing wahala softly, you can get an entire city dancing. Call it iboosi if you like, trouble turned into tune. Fela sang “Palaver” and made it sound sweet; even his “Yeepa” sounds so sweet that it pirouetted the sonics of chaos into pleasure. Where there is “Sorrow, Tears and Blood”, Fela trained his voice and drum not to keep quiet; and they never did; they still are not quiet. In the moral urgency of African chant, Fela’s music sings and dances; and as it dances, it indicts. When he winks his wings make meaning. His clenched fist circles the earth; his art is an eraser that continually cleans off the boundary between stage and street, between rhythm and revolt. You listen to his ‘Alagbon Close’ lyrics, you hear his sax speak the language of condemnation, while his drum sings defiance to state captors.

    The Gen Z fighting on X over which star is the biggest in the cosmos should know this: Fela was one spirit who stretched tradition until it screamed. He was the potter who scooped mounds of Yoruba earth and, from it, moulded an impossible steed for the battlefield of the world. In his sax, step and sup, music became the language of war and peace. His truth is dense, his anger repetitive, his chant hypnotic. In his dance steps are disclaimers that deprecate the chaos of Nigeria’s politics. In 1975, he flung defiantly rebellious “Expensive Shit” at power and its police; the steel-hearted swooned in pain. Fela’s truth is eternally too heavy for weak stomachs.

    He acted alone in his rebellion. “Solitude sometimes is best society,” says John Milton. Fela’s choice of road to tread almost obeys that Milton poetry. He was not a gentleman, and he sang it into our skulls: “A no be gentleman at all o.” His songs, like his life, wear no borrowed manners. Every Fela song is a sermon rudely delivered; every performance a trial of societal evils; every arrest a verse added to an unfinished composition on power and freedom. His eclecticism, with his synthesis, and his defiance, give his music oxygen. They are what make Fela endure.

    In Fela’s biological musical children, “heirs of fame,” and in the wizard kids who sing his legacy, he lives. The Abami Eda spirit pulses through Femi and Seun Kuti; their blazing saxophones and militant energy carry forward the torch of political Afrobeat. This paragraph is a product of reading and asking. In reading and exploring, I got to know so much about this subject: Fela’s legendary drummer, Tony Allen, was right here, modifying the rhythms, making the music irresistible. Beyond his fecund loins, Fela’s immortality is heard in the sounds of contemporary stars: Burna Boy, Wizkid, Davido, Tiwa Savage, Yemi Alade, Rema, Joeboy, and Olamide. In these stars, Afrobeat’s pulse blends seamlessly with the aplomb of Afropop, hip-hop, and global pop. Singly or in pairs, they speak to new audiences, while across the world, fans feel Fela in the music of Benin’s Angélique Kidjo, UK-based Afro B, and even Major Lazer. And, writing and reading this paragraph again, I realize I have convinced myself that decades after death yanked Fela’s fingers from the pot of world music, his creation, Afrobeat, still walks the streets loud, stubborn, and unbowed

    A thoroughly studied phenomenon; in one text, Academy Award winner, Joseph Patel, says “Fela Kuti is the truth.” In another line, American writer, Knox Robinson, describes him as “the original Afronaut.” Music scholar and historian, Peter Guralnick and Douglas Wolk, published a survey of turn-of-the-millennium music in 2002. In it, they make the bio of “irreducible” Fela read like a political chant. Now, read them and chant along:
    “Fela Kuti: 77 albums, 27 wives, over 200 court appearances. Harassed, beaten, tortured, jailed. Twice-born father of Afrobeat. spiritualist, pan-Africanist. Commune King. Composer, saxophonist, keyboardist, dancer… There will never be another like him.”

  • Eunice Kayode: Exit of a Virtuoso, By Smolette Adetoyese Shittu-Alamu,

    Eunice Kayode: Exit of a Virtuoso, By Smolette Adetoyese Shittu-Alamu,

    Smolette Adetoyese Shittu-Alamu
    Smolette Adetoyese Shittu-Alamu

    For very man or woman to be seen to have run his or her full course or cycle here on earth, such a person must have a sunrise and then a sunset. The piece we write today is about a Virtuoso who was a great female specie of homo sapiens; one woman who played her role and purpose in life, in the city of Ibadan, the capital of Oyo State of Nigeria.
    Sunrise for her came in the little town of Ilare-Ijesa, in today’s Obokun East Local Council Development Area of Osun State. It dawned on the 6th of December 1940.
    By the time sunset for her came on the 5th of January 2026 in lbadan, she had spent a total of 85 years and one month here on earth. To the glory of God the Father, her full name was Eunice Moyofore Kayode, MON. The national merit award of Member of the Order of the Niger (MON)was conferred on her in 1981 when Alh. Shehu Aliyu Shagari was President of the Federal Republic of Nigeria. She bagged the award as a citizen of old Oyo State alongside the then Ataoja of Osogbo, the late Oba Iyiola Oyewale Matanmi III. But Who was Mrs.Eunice Moyofore Kayode, MON?
    Eunice, the focus of this effort in writing was born in the rural environment of Ijesa land called Ilare Ijesa. Without any silver spoon in hand, her parents struggled hardest to give her western education from primary school level to that of a trained and qualified Nurse. She came out to be a very successful Nurse who by late 1970s had retired from the Public Service to lead a Maternity Home that became not only a formidable name , but a brand in Oke-Ado in Ibadan. The Omotayo Maternity Home, Oke-Ado in Ibadan which she established and gave a practical leadership to, was for the first quarter of a century of its existence, a leading Maternity Home in old Oyo State. There, many children were given birth to. Today, many of them have become leading lights in our nation. Right now, almost fifty years of the existence of that Health Care Giving Home, the impact it has created especially in care-giving to women and children is simply tremendous.
    Eunice got married to her heartthrob, a renowned agriculturist and farmer late Engr. Kayode (of the larger Kayode Adedeji family of Ilesa) as a young nurse. The pair remained a shining couple and an example for many on how to live a true married life. They remaind so until death separated them about a decade or so ago when the male half got called to glory
    For the almost 45 years that I have known her, Mama Eunice Moyofore Kayode was always an energetic woman. She was also a woman of many parts who played parts very effectively.
    She was not only a trained medical professional, she was a football enthusiast and much later an administrator.
    For many years she served as a Member of the Oyo State Football Association which later transitioned into Oyo State Football Federation.
    Mama( Sootin) Kayode was the undisputed patroness of Shooting Stars Sports Club (3SC) from the days the team was known as IICC Shooting Stars of Ibadan.
    As a former Sports Editor of the Broadcasting Corporation of Oyo State (BCOS) in the late 1980s, I knew and related with her a great deal. Mama Eunice was a formidable football enthusiast and as Administrator. There was no football match day, one would not find her in the State Box of the Lekan Salami Stadium now Lekan Salami Sports Complex.
    The seat before her in the State or VIP Box was always left empty for her as a commandeered annexure. This was because whoever sat in that seat (no matter how highly placed such a person was) was bound to suffer blows and kicks from behind each time the home team missed glaring opportunities at goal scoring. Mama Eunice Kayode was passionate with football and always watched the game with a physical drive and the demonstration of that passion she had for the game.
    When the 3SC qualified for a Continental championships in 1991 or so, she invited me to her house(which was my regular and 2nd home in Ibadan) for a discussion.
    “Wo Smolette mo fe ma ba Shooting Stars lo fun gbogbo continental matches won. Mo sI ma san owo flight mi fun ra mi ni o! Ki lori so si yi? She was seeking my opinion on her readiness to pay her flight tickets to encourage the 3SC in all the team’s continental matches outside Nigeria. I told her the Football Federation which she was a formidable member of, should be able to do that. But Mama said she was not interested in the FA sending her. ” Wo Smolette, problem mi ni Baba Peju. Ko ni tele mi lo. Mi o si le da lo!”.
    As much as she was willing to foot the bills for two, her husband, Baba Peju was not an interested party in going to watch football matches outside Nigeria while his farm and livestock suffered unduly. My advice to her was this simple: “Mama ti daddy oba ti nii tele yin, ajepe e o le lo niyen o! Naija ni wa o!” l had told her. She knew Naija her country people and their sense of imagination in circumstances like that. That was how she abandoned the idea completely. That was a sheer demonstration of the passion she had for the game of football.
    In the late 70s and 80s, Mama Kayode as the Chief Nursing Officer and Matron in-charge of Omotayo Maternity Home, developed a liking for Radio O-Y-O especially since the Radio Station moved to its permanent premises at Orita Bashorun in Ibadan. Perhaps this was because because the late Mrs Anike Agbaje-Williams and late Mrs Abeke Lawore were her friends (through their Radio presentations), At that same time, Mrs Kayode transferred her love for the two women to those of us who were on-air presenters on Radio O-Y-O whose shows she loved.
    In those days, by mid- December, she would convey different hampers (each of them labelled) to her favourite presenters or producers.
    An open van usually brought in the Christmas gifts to the office of Mrs Anike Agbaje-Williams. This our lady boss always ensured that every labelled gift got to the targeted name.
    Young Radio presenters then like Ayo Iyanda, Ayo Adeyemo, Ayo Adeosun, Yanju Adegbite and my humble self used to get our hampers before the 20th of every December as Christmas present from her.
    You may not believe it, l had regularly collected that annual gift for some 3 or 4 years before I ever set my eyes on this philanthropist and “yearly donor.”of gifts.
    How then did I meet the silent philanthropist?
    Okay, I had passed out of University of Ibadan after my undergraduate studies in 1983.
    The Television Service of Oyo State (TSOS) had come on board in 1982 with its razzmatazz style of news reporting drama and music presentation. As a Radio Disc Jockey and student at UI, l was invited by two of the station’s producers ( late Tunji Fatilewa and Senyor Dorleku to present a musical Show called “The Discotheque” and a Quiz Programme called “What Do You Know?”
    After passing out as UI graduates in November 1983, our graduation ceremony couldn’t hold around the usual UI Founder’s Day on 17th November because the 1983 academic session was disrupted for almost four months (February to May 1983) We had started as Mobilised National Youth Corps Member from the Premier University by December 1983. When the University’s graduation ceremony came up finally in February 1984,
    two TSOS staffers covering the event, a reporter and a producer swam on me to interview me. I refused to oblige them initially. My reason? When I left for higher studies in 1980, no body knew of it. Why must the whole world know I have passed out! I queried? There was among the TSOS three men crew, Mr Senyor Dorleku who was the Producer of the Quiz Programme. “What do you know?” that l used to present. He was much older than I and must have been in his 40s. Well he succeeded in “bullying” me as it were and so I granted the TSOS interview!
    Mrs Kayode, as we used to call her had watched the news report of my graduation in the TSOS evening News bulleting called NEWS AT 7. The next day, she sent a UBA cheque on which N250.00 (two hundred and fifty naira cash) was drawable to my Director of Programmes Mrs Anike Agbaje-Williams for it to be given to me as a gift for going to school and becoming a university graduate.That was huge money then for a “corper” whose monthly allowance was only two hundred naira a month. My friend Ayo Adeosun had to lead me to Omotayo Maternity Home after I had completed my NYSC in 1984 and l had insisted whoever knew the Mama among my friends should take me to her so l could say thank you. That was how Mrs Kayode and I met for the first time late in 1984. I had gone with a letter of appreciation in hand, thanking her for the N250 naira she had sent me earlier in February. That day she did something that I could not understand nor belief. What was it? When I gave her the typewritten letter, she opened it, read out the heading which read “Letter of Appreciation”. She topped reading it, folded the letter back, tore it into pieces and put the shreds into a waste paper basket beside her. Then smiling she turned to Ayo Adeosun and I and said “Smolette The Alamu Man” that letter is not meant for me. You needed not to have written it in the first place.” I could not believe what she did or said. Oh what a woman!
    I have told this story to reveal the great bond that existed between the late Mama Kayode her late husband, four children and I over the years. She was a mother figure to me. My wife and children knew her as my Mom in Ibadan. She was mother to many of my broadcast colleagues in O.Y.O and later at OSBC when Osun State was created. This reminds me of this one fact.In the early days of the setting up of Osun State Broadcasting Corporation (OSBC) in Ile-Ife, the News and Programmes departments’ functionaries were both housed an “officed” at the now defunct Trans Motel in Ile-Ife. Then, they relayed their programmes to their listeners from the then locally fabricated studios that was some seven kilometers away in the heart of town. Mrs. Kayode’s biological mother Mama Lolade was alive then and lived quietly in Ilare-Ijesa,
    their hometown. Every two weeks Mama would travel from her base in Ibadan, to visit her aged mother. Each time she made the trips, she always brought two big food flasks (cooler/warmer as we call them) for the OSBC staffers in Ile-Ife. One wa dropped in the Newsroom for the news staff and the other for the Programmes staff. On her way back from Ilare she would branch to take back the empty flasks! If she was late in returning or had had to pass through Osogbo to get back to lbadan in time the flasks would be kept in the news room till she called up again two weeks later. She was so consistent with her food supply to us all through our one year stay at Trans Motel, in lle-Ife.
    That was a silent philantropism, wasn’t it?
    All Mama needed to bond with anyone she met was for the person to be diligent at work and truth-talking. Mrs.Eunice Kayode pushed these qualities and many more in her four biological children she had.
    Peju the first, Seyi the second, Dipo the third and Tope the fourth and last are all beneficiaries of the great mother they had.
    It was a great quartet of two ladies and two gentlemen she had. Three of them are into medical care-giving. The first male child, Seyi has towed the Agric Mechanization, farming and livestock raising of their late father.
    Here was a very descent lady, a Dame of the Methodist Church, Nigeria and one who supported soul-winning and the living of a Christ-like life style in the very way the old Church in Antioch gave humanity the hope and the heritage that we know today as Christianity.
    The late Mama Eunice Kayode was from Ibokun Local Government in Ijesa land( now Obokun East Local Council Development Area). Being from the same Local Government with late Chief Bola Ige, when he was Governor of the old Oyo State, made her “a younger sister” (an aburo) to the great Cicero of Esa Oke. Mama Eunice
    was that one woman who could boldly tell the peoples “uncle” if he did anything wrong and the Cicero would accept her fault-finding process without much a do.

    The great Cicero, scholar and political statesman loved to call her “Aburo mi Eunice” and would smile away after hot sessions they used to have
    Mama Kayode was born into the Lejua family compound in Ilare-Ijesa in the old Obokun Local Government of old Oyo State. She was the daughter of Pa Akande Fakade and his wife Lolade. As nee Fakade the little town of Ilare-Ijesa knew and respected her family background.
    She was the first qualified Nurse from the rural community. She became the first ever female President of Ilare Federation Union, the umbrella body for all sons and daughters of the community. In that position she pioneered the celebration of Ilare Day in the year 1995 and used the funds raised to build a modern palace for the Ilare-Ijesa.
    She was known to have assisted many sons and daughters of the rural community through the educational scholarship. she gave many of the indigent students of the town. She is a woman who never forgot her source. Consequently her source has never forgotten her.
    Here was a great woman by every stretch of imagination. Ever strong will, industrious, diligent, candid, intelligent, noiseless and ever humble. Mama Kayode was a woman who had the drive to lead people to their purpose in life and always did so very effortlessly.

    The Yoruba language has a saying: “A kii da ke kasi wi !”. Simply, it translates that Silence is Golden. The late Mama Eunice was a woman who sought egalitarianism for all irrespective of class. Her drivers and other domestic staff will attest to this. This was why she gave freely to life. Patients of her Omotayo Maternity Home dictated how they would pay their bills and it never bothered her. If they paid up, fine. If they ended up not paying it never bothered her.
    She was a great woman who led a life of both impact and impart on people. This writer is a living testimony. He knows of several others Mama Kayode touched positively. At 85, we cannot but thank God we had a mother in Mama Omotayo as we got to call her since she turned three scores and ten, some 15 years ago.
    May her gentle soul find solace with and in God, the Maker of all great things and who she served very diligently
    while here on earth.

    • Smolette Adetoyese Shittu-Alamu,.a veteran journalist, writes from Osogbo
  • Tech innovator, Hanu donates AI-powered glasses to the hearing impaired

    Tech innovator, Hanu donates AI-powered glasses to the hearing impaired

    In a move that underscores his commitment to deploying technology for good, Nigerian-born tech innovator, Hanu Fejiro Agbodjie has donated AI-powered smart glasses to hearing-impaired Nigerians, as part of efforts at expanding access to opportunities and social inclusion for persons living with disabilities.
    The early beneficiaries — Joylyn Oge Jacobson, a video production assistant based in Lagos; and Sodiq Olopade, a student of Bayero University, Kano — received the innovative hearing aids in company of their relatives in Lagos.
    With a 270-degree speech recognition range, the AI smart glasses are designed to capture spoken conversations and ambient sounds happening around the user, transcribing them in real time into readable text that are displayed on the lenses, without requiring sign language interpreters or lip-reading.
    The innovative glasses come in an ergonomic lightweight design that makes them comfortable for all-day use, while operating via Bluetooth connectivity and a mobile application that allows for user customisation and software updates.
    Speaking on the initiative, Hanu said that the gesture goes beyond giving out glasses, but more about advancing what technology is expected to do.
    “Today represents what’s possible when technology meets purpose. We are entering a world of accelerated growth with AI and I believe there has never been a better time than today, to build a world where disability is no longer a permanent sentence; a future where limitations are not defined by the body or circumstances you are born with, but by how bold we are in building solutions with today’s technology.
    “I believe technology should give people a second chance at living freely, and fully.
    He continued. “I believe technology can restore dignity, independence, and access to possibilities. Today, that future starts with Joylyn and Sodiq,” he stated
    For Joylyn, who works behind the scenes in the creative industry as a video production assistant and content creator, everyday conversations have often been exhausting and isolating.
    “I miss out on instructions, jokes, and even simple interactions at work because I can’t always hear clearly. And it’s been truly difficult, especially with my clients and in relationships. But with these glasses, I can actually see conversations happening around me. This changes how I work, how I relate with people, and how confident I feel. I’m so happy”, she said.
    Sodiq, who is pursuing his studies at Bayero University, described the device as life-changing: “As a student, not hearing clearly affects lectures, group discussions, and friendships. These glasses make me feel included again. I can follow conversations without embarrassment r dependence on others. It’s going to help very much. It will make communication much better”, he said.
    Family members of the recipients also expressed relief and optimism, noting the emotional toll hearing impairment often takes.
    “We have watched Joylyn struggle silently for years, withdrawing more inward and away from socializing. This is more than a device; it is freedom and confidence returning to her life”, Christiana, Joylyn’s cousin said.
    Medical professionals have also endorsed the innovation. Dr. James Nnowaluem, who coordinated the outreach exercise described the smart glasses as a breakthrough in assistive technology. “Hearing loss is not just a medical condition; it affects mental health, productivity, and social belonging. This devise will bridge the communication gap in real time and significantly improve quality of life”, he noted.
    Dr. Johnson Ukeje, an E.N.T. specialist, added that the AI glasses complement traditional hearing solutions: “Not everyone benefits fully from hearing aids, this real-time transcription technology offers a reliable path to inclusion for the hearing impaired in our environments”, he said.
    On his part, K.D. Ibitoye, a clinical audiologist, expressed his belief that many people with profound hearing loss will benefit greatly from the innovation.
    The donor, Hanu revealed that the donation is aimed at improving the quality of life for the beneficiaries. He reaffirmed his intention to continue investing in tech-driven innovations and deploying such for good, stressing that innovation must be measured by impact on relationships, employability, and overall social inclusion, not just in terms of money, mobile applications, and social media.
  • Saraki’s persona in Bolaji’s book, By Lasisi Olagunju

    Saraki’s persona in Bolaji’s book, By Lasisi Olagunju

    Dr. Lasisi Olagunju, the book reviewer
    Dr. Lasisi Olagunju

    I begin with a telling scene. In 2001, former Sports Minister, Bolaji Abdullahi, then a young journalist, visited the strongman of Kwara politics, Dr. Olusola Saraki, at his Lagos home. From his vast library, the elder Saraki presented his guest with a book: ‘Life in the Jungle’ by Michael Heseltine. “Politics is truly a jungle,” the old politician told the young journalist.

    That moment stayed with me as I read Bolaji’s latest book, ‘The Loyalist: A Memoir of Service and Sacrifice’, slated for presentation in Abuja on January 27. I was to review it at the event but for my phobia for Abuja and its toxins. The author, nevertheless, sent me an advance copy. I got it on Friday. This is my preview of the book.
    From beginning to end, what I see here is Bolaji’s own version of D.O. Fagunwa’s ‘Ogboju Ode’, a forest thick with demons, trials, and betrayals. Former Ekiti State governor, Dr. Kayode Fayemi, captures its essence in a cover blurb; he describes the book as an exploration of “the underbelly of human nature.” Aptly so.
    The author started his political life as Governor Bukola Saraki’s Special Assistant, then commissioner for education. Later he became Goodluck Jonathan’s Sports Minister. Did he become minister because Saraki willed it? If the position did not come through Saraki, why did he lose it because of him? The book speaks on these.
    ‘The Loyalist’ is an unflattering, tell-all account of the author’s long association with Senator Bukola Saraki. It takes a brief detour into Nigeria’s ailments, then settles into a story of power, patronage, promise, and eventual separation after 22 years. It is a primer on godfather-godson politics and on what happens when loyalty is repeatedly tested.
    Bolaji insists he set out to tell his own story, but he concedes that “in telling your own story, you tell other people’s as well.” He writes: “Nobody’s story has been as intricately connected with mine in the 20 years that this book covers as Senator Bukola Saraki’s… For most of the journey, I walked under his shadow… Therefore, readers will find that, to a large extent, this book is his story as well.”
    I would argue it is even more Saraki’s story than the author admits.
    Throughout the book, the boy sketches the boss as a man of effortless authority and magnetism—one who draws people in while holding them at arm’s length. Proximity here is never accidental; it is rationed, measured, controlled. Once, boss and boy shared a romance of duty, trust, and friendship. The early chapters bear witness to that bond. Later chapters show how politics devoured it.
    What Bolaji is set to release is less a memoir of self than a study of a ruler—a cold, calculating king who “keeps himself in clouds,” to borrow from William Shakespeare’s ‘Hamlet’. Many orbit him; few approach; none fully enter.
    The book runs to 13 chapters and 287 pages. Chapter Three, “Sowing the Mustard Seed,” is described by Olusegun Adeniyi, who wrote the foreword, as “easily the most important chapter.” Perhaps. I might have chosen the later chapters of raw politics, broken promises, and disappointment. Still, it is here that Bolaji takes a scalpel to power’s façade, slicing through the boss’ fine charm to reveal the architecture of control beneath.
    He writes of Saraki: “He exuded an aura that appeared to attract and repel at the same time… It was as if he was surrounded by invisible fences… In the innermost chamber of his life, he resided alone, inscrutable, like a god.”
    To write thus is to lay a living leader on a cadaver table. Power prefers action to autopsy. Bolaji’s disquisitive tendency could actually be the undoing of his politics. Who knows? In Shakespeare’s ‘Julius Caesar’, Caesar loathes Cassius because he “looks quite through the deeds of men”—a man too observant to be safely ignored.
    The recurring theme of promise and disappointment runs through the book. Check this: In November 2016, Saraki urged Bolaji to accept the role of APC Publicity Secretary, warning: “I don’t want us to send someone who will see small money and turn against us.” Twenty months later, on July 27, 2018, Saraki hinted that Bolaji would soon be asked to quit that office. A consolation prize was dangled: the governorship of Kwara State. Three days later, Saraki asked him to resign and follow him back to the PDP. Bolaji complied. He pursued the governorship with total commitment. One day, boss asked a cleric to pray for Bolaji’s success; Bolaji knelt before cleric and received the supplication into his life. Bolaji’s campaign ran out of cash, boss supplied cash. Days before the primary, boss quietly instructed delegates to support another aspirant. The directive leaked to Bolaji. Bolaji asked boss, boss did not confirm or deny it. The D-Day knocked. Without announcing it, boss doubled down on giving the ticket to the other man. A shattered Bolaji withdrew from the race. End of story. Or, as Shakespeare would have it in Richard II – Act 5, scene 5: “I wasted time, and now doth time waste me.”
    Disappointment recurs. Like photographs in a coffee-table book, the author lays them out for judgment. What emerges is a tactician who rationed intimacy, gave offices in the evening and withdrew them in the morning; a leader who made unreadability a method. You could orbit his star, but are never allowed to explore it.
    Some would argue that what this persona reflects is not cruelty but strategy for survival in a field of mines and betrayal. Perhaps.
    Segun Adeniyi says readers will enjoy “Bolaji’s disquisition on Saraki’s persona.” Disquisition. The word is precise: exposition, interrogation, laying bare. Readers may enjoy it. The subject himself is unlikely to. To dissect power is to threaten its crown. Someone said leaders prefer to be felt, not explained. Power feeds on mystery.
    The book also offers insight into how power was organised. Bolaji wrote: “Collective decisions presupposed the existence of a team, but he never built a team… No one ever had the full picture… There was always a game at play, with the end goal known only to him.”
    Yet ‘The Loyalist’ is not only about a ruler and his follower. It is also a portrait of a wicked Nigeria that sees nothing wrong betraying its poor. As commissioner for education, Bolaji encountered schools without learning. “We soon found ourselves clapping for pupils in Primary IV” because they “could spell their names,” he writes. He experienced the bad and the ugly. He saw teaching jobs sold and teachers’ salaries siphoned by officials employed to enforce moral and academic standards.
    ‘The Loyalist’ is a beautiful book well written. But the content is a warthog in ugly details. It has a space for the Nigerian voter cashing in before elections. Bolaji recalls a hospital calling him because a man had abandoned his pregnant wife, left Bolaji’s number, and named him as the one to pay for a caesarean section. All politicians from Bola Tinubu to the lowliest of the low will easily connect with this. The Nigerian hangers-on is an albatross on their necks.
    In the early chapters, Bolaji’s relationship with Saraki is rendered almost as governor and unofficial deputy. It was that close. So what became of everything? The answer comes quickly. At Pastor Tunde Bakare’s church in 2017, Bolaji heard a counsel: “Do not treat as optional those who treat you as their priority.” He wished he could send that message to his boss without sounding rebellious. He has now written a whole book to do just that.
    It is a notorious notion that every book must have a last line; the question is whether it closes the story or merely ends it. On page 280 comes Bolaji’s final verdict: “Some relationships can only be saved through an amicable divorce.” It is a sad, dramatic closure.
  • Did America Happen to Ademiluyi? By Zayd Ibn Isah

    Did America Happen to Ademiluyi? By Zayd Ibn Isah

    Former Judge April Ademiluyi
    Former Judge April Ademiluyi

    A former judge of Prince George’s County in Maryland, United States, April Ademiluyi, recently broke the internet after an interview she granted The Punch went viral. In the interview, Ademiluyi recounted a harrowing ordeal, alleging that she was drugged and raped by her colleagues during a U.S. lawyers’ conference.

    Ordinarily, one would expect her story to end with the comforting assurance that the predatory lawyers who violated her are now behind bars, because “God’s own country,” as we are meant to believe, is supposedly a sane society where crime does not go unpunished. But for Ademiluyi, the reverse was the case. She did not get justice, not even after reporting the matter to the police. Her alleged rapists are still walking freely.

    Imagine if such a thing had happened during a Nigerian Bar Association conference. We would have said, without hesitation, that “Nigeria happened to her”, that such a disgraceful incident could only occur in a dysfunctional system. We would swear that nothing like that could ever happen in a “sane” country like America. Yet it did happen, and the perpetrators were not jailed.

    This is not an attempt to draw a simplistic parallel between America and Nigeria. Rather, it is a reminder that the way we portray our own country whenever something bad occurs is markedly different from how citizens of other nations respond to the failings within their own systems.

    In fact, some of the despicable things that happen in these so-called sane countries cannot even happen here. For instance, no Nigerian lawyer would dare rape a fellow learned colleague during an NBA conference, except if village people truly followed them, because the consequences would be dire. He or she would be immediately de-robed and prosecuted.

    Ademiluyi’s case also exposes a delusion many Nigerians harbour, the belief that once you “japa,” you are suddenly insulated from wahala. It is a dangerous fantasy. Abroad, you will still confront the harsh realities of racism, discrimination, and a justice system that may never truly recognise you as one of their own. Ademiluyi was not just a resident; she was born in America, raised in America, and built her career in America. Yet when she needed the system to protect her, it treated her like an outsider. This is why I am always astonished when Nigerians obtain the precious “green card” or permanent residency abroad and rejoice as though they have secured front-row seats in heaven. Citizenship on paper does not automatically translate to acceptance, dignity, or justice in real life. Ademiluyiʼs story is a stark reminder that belonging is not guaranteed simply because a document says so.

    In the interview, she also revealed that when she decided to contest for the position of judge, she met stiff resistance, not from the public, but from within the judiciary itself. Her “offence” was that she was advocating for justice and transparency, exposing the rot in the system, including how some judges allegedly collected bribes to jail minors. For daring to challenge entrenched interests, her appointment was eventually terminated. She was frustrated out of the system entirely. I could hardly believe what I was reading. I asked myself over and over again, “Is this really the same America that I know?”

    Yet, through all of this, not once did Americans begin demarketing their country on social media. Even the recent security breach at the White House, an incident that shook the entire nation, did not make them declare America a failed state. And how about the countless incidents of gun violence (school shootings, urban crime, mass murders) that have claimed thousands of lives in America since the turn of this century alone? Imagine if a similar breach had occurred in Aso Rock. The internet would have been flooded with obituaries for Nigeria. Meanwhile, the White House security breach itself has even made some of us wonder whether the so-called most fortified building in the world is truly as impregnable as we were made to believe.

    And this is where Nigerians must look in the mirror. We have perfected the art of national self-sabotage. The slightest incident, no matter how isolated, becomes an opportunity to declare Nigeria a jungle, a zoological republic, or a failed experiment. Meanwhile, countries where far worse things happen maintain a disciplined silence. They criticise their flaws internally, fix them quietly, and move on. We, on the other hand, turn every mishap into a global PR disaster, amplifying our weaknesses before the world has even noticed them. How can we hope to progress in this manner?

    It is almost as if demarketing Nigeria has become a national hobby. A traffic jam becomes evidence that the country is irredeemable. A power outage becomes proof that we are cursed. A security lapse becomes ammunition for online commentators to scream “failed state,” as though other nations do not battle the same demons, sometimes even worse. The irony is that the people who drag Nigeria the loudest are often the ones who have never lifted a finger to improve anything. Yet they carry megaphones on social media, announcing our doom with relish.

    But here is the truth many Nigerians do not want to confront: the constant bashing is not patriotism; it is self-inflicted reputational damage. No country moves forward when its own citizens are its biggest enemies. Even when Americans are angry with their leaders or institutions, they do not gleefully advertise their country’s failings to the world. They do not weaponise isolated incidents to destroy the global perception of their homeland. They understand something we have not learned, that national image is an asset, and once destroyed, it is hard to rebuild.

    At the end of the day, Ademiluyi’s ordeal is more than a personal tragedy, it is a revelation. It shatters the illusion that salvation lies abroad and exposes the hypocrisy in how we judge our own country. No nation is perfect, and no system is immune to social instability, moral decay, corruption, or injustice. But until Nigerians learn to criticise with purpose instead of contempt, to demand reforms without dragging the country through the mud, we will continue to weaken ourselves while others protect their national image with fierce loyalty.

    If we must fix Nigeria, it will not be by glorifying foreign lands or demonising our own, but by confronting our issues with honesty, dignity, and a sense of ownership. Because whether we like it or not, this is the only country that will ever fully recognise us as its own. And as such, we must be more willing to help our nation progress, rather than proclaim its shortcomings.

    It is said that if you look at a treeʼs branches swaying during a storm, you’ll almost believe that the tree will fall. But if only you could see how deep the treeʼs roots go into the earth, you would never doubt its stability just because of a storm. Little storms always makes it seem like Nigeria is bound to disintegrate or fail, but as a nation, we are rooted deeply in stability and strength.

    May Nigeria succeed against all odds and doubts.

    Zayd Ibn Isah can be reached via::
    [email protected]

  • An Unfinished Life: A Tribute to a Respected Scholar and Brother, By Prof. Olutayo Adesina

    An Unfinished Life: A Tribute to a Respected Scholar and Brother, By Prof. Olutayo Adesina

    Prof. Olutayo Adesina
    Prof. Olutayo Charles Adesina

    The passing of Professor Siyan Oyeweso, FHSN, FNAL, into glory on 2 December 2025 is one of the most sorrowful events for me in recent years. Every tribute written by friends, family, colleagues, and well-wishers from around the world for Prof Oyeweso brings tears to my eyes. It is deeply painful to hear him spoken of in the past tense. Some are closer than the skin of one’s body. Professor Oyeweso was one such person. He was my brother, friend, confidant, and mentor. He was all these without any guile.

    We were together for years! Undergraduate, postgraduate, lecturer, teacher, assessor, examiner, professor of history, conference convener, co-authors, co-editors, celebrants — you name it. We shared everything. Nothing fazed him. He was never tired of working. Even then, he socialised well. I am sorry I could not be with him at his final moments. He was someone who socialised with you, challenged your intellect, gave advice, asked for advice, and inquired after everyone. I don’t know how he managed it!

    He wanted to do so much for Obafemi Awolowo University, Ile-Ife, as Chairman of the Governing Council. He had his dreams. He was a tireless worker. We have just finished editing the 400-page book arising from the three-day International Conference in Honour of His Imperial Majesty, Iku Baba Yeye, Oba Lamidi Olayiwola Adeyemi III, JP, CFR, LLD, which took several years to edit. He was involved in numerous other projects and programmes. It was truly an unfinished life! He had so much goodwill to give. Unfortunately, the Grim Reaper came calling.

    Yes, he had many friends. But he also had detractors. The stories will be shared in future when we talk about his life and times. But now is the time to pray for the repose of his soul and for God to grant us all the strength to bear this great loss.

    Dear Professor, AbdulGafar Siyan Oyeweso, Requiescat in Pace.
    My comfort is that even death will die!
    Farewell, Professor Siyan Oyeweso

    Prof Olutayo C. Adesina
    Department of History
    University of Ibadan

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