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OPINION: Death Has Made Another Mistake

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Tunde Odesola

After a five-week break, I’m back at my desk, thankfully. Where the heck did I go? I went to the Land of Moriah. Tunde tun ti de o; where on planet Earth is the Land of Moriah? Moriah was the land where Abraham, the Father of Faith, took his son, Isaac, and bound him hands and feet, clutching a razor-sharp knife, ready to spill blood by the jugular.

Only a handful of friends and family know I bear Isaac, a name I grew to dislike for a couple of reasons, one of which is that it sounds like I-Sick. Another reason is that the name is utterly unrelatable to me. And, if Jews don’t bear Nigerian names, why should I bear a Jewish name? For me, nothing is special in Isaac; if you gave a rose another name, it would smell just as sweet.

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As all Yoruba names, all the variants of Tunde – Babatunde, Awotunde, Oguntunde, Ifatunde, Omotunde, Ayotunde, Olatunde, Yetunde, Iwintunde, Sotunde, Obotunde, etc, carry the weight of family history. The name Tunde connects a symbolic thread between an unpalatable past and a palatable present. I don’t feel Isaac in my core, probably because my father was not 100 years old like Abraham, nor was my mother 90, like Sarah, when I was born. They never laughed in disbelief at my conception and birth. Both expected and got me.

It wasn’t my father who bundled me to the Land of Moriah, it was my children. But instead of binding me by the limbs like Abraham bound Isaac, I was anaesthetised and placed on a slaughter slab where I lay, as dead as a dodo – before I was knifed by the neck. If my description of a hospital bed as a slaughter slab feels like an exaggeration, what else can I call a bed upon which I was placed, while my neck was split halfway? Do I call it a waterbed or a bed of roses?

By the way, how did I become a specimen for Moriah? I’ll explain. About 13 years ago, a little lump, the size of a cashew nut, sprouted under my left jaw. The lump wasn’t as visible as the horn on the head of a rhino, but it was there all the same, tucked out of sight, like the trigger of a gun. Because it wasn’t painful, I adopted a ‘live and let live’ philosophy and let the lump be, even though it grew slightly bigger over time.

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After church service, one Sunday, my daughter, Ara, pointed to my neck while we were walking in the car park. “Oh, this?” I asked, feeling the lump, and explaining, “It’s a lump I’ve been carrying since God-knows-when.” She became curious and took a closer look at it. “You need to have a doctor check it out, Baba-T,” she said. “I will,” I promised.

After some weeks of pussyfooting and Ara harassing me, I activated my workplace medical insurance. Then, I shilly-shallied on the hospital I wish to go to. Finally, I picked the hospital of a Nigerian-American general practitioner, who has been in the US for donkey’s years. He asked me question upon question and checked out the lump by feeling and measuring it, explaining that it wasn’t likely to be cancerous because it wasn’t painful; it hadn’t grown much bigger, it wasn’t fixated to surrounding tissue, and because I hadn’t lost weight.

“But we must have it checked out by specialists,” he said. So, he recommended a diagnostic centre to me. After asking me what time and date I preferred, the hospital booked an appointment with the diagnostics centre. “Do not eat from the evening of the day before the appointment,” said the doctor. “Yes, sir,” I replied. The diagnostic centre called me a few minutes later to confirm my appointment.

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Since way back during my cigarette-smoking, youthful exuberant days, I have loved to wear good perfumes, but Americans are far more perfume-centric than Nigerians. Like their sophisticated ultrasonic aircraft, the nose of an average American can pick up an odour or a scent meters away. So, I arrived diagnostic centre, perfumed and looking like I just stepped out of a magazine.

After the diagnosis, I asked for the result. The medical officer said the result would be sent to my doctor. I insisted on knowing the result, and she assured me there was ‘nothing serious’. Nothing serious? Uhmm.

MORE FROM THE AUTHOR:[OPINION] Wasiu Ayinde: The Shame Of A Nation (2)

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Because my next appointment with my doctor was for another day, I had to wait, wishing ‘nothing serious’ wasn’t a euphemism for ‘something disastrous’. Punctuality is key in medical appointments; otherwise, you risk being surcharged for a failed appointment. I no fit risk am, money wey never complete.

I was prompt with my next appointment with the doctor. As he swept into the consultation room, I peered into his eyes as though I could read the result on his forehead. He broke into a smile and said all was well. “The results came out fine, but…”

But what? I kept my cool. “You need to be booked for surgery. And another round of tests?” “Why?” I asked. “Because there’s a lump in your salivary gland. Though it is not malignant, it is recommended that you remove it surgically. The head and neck specialist at the hospital I’m recommending for you wants you to do another round of tests because that’s what he personally requires for patients above a certain age.” I silently wondered if I was Methuselah. So, he had me booked for surgery and another series of tests.

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Preparing a patient for surgery is like preparing the Oloolu masquerader for a carnival. Talk about the eyes-for-details preparation of the bridal train on wedding eve. The truckload of medical literature about the dos and don’ts of surgery, which the hospital gave me, was enough to earn me a lifetime meal as a fake ENT medical consultant.

I visited the specialist hospital twice before the D-Day. On my first visit, I met the doctor who was to perform the surgery and his entire team. During the meeting, my diagnosis, neoplasm of submandibular lymph nodes, aka pleomorphic adenoma, was explained to me. I asked what the underlying cause was. The doctor said a couple of factors could be responsible, including impact and smoking. Impact? What impact did I have when I didn’t cross the path of Antony Joshua or Moses Itauma? It must be that smoking! Ha, after quitting smoking for more than 25 years and washing myself with hyssop, a guilt of smoke still hid in my gland?

The second time I visited, the procedure was again explained to me in the tone of Angel Gabriel talking to Virgin Mary. Every member of the team was patient with patient Isaac. I remember I was given an antiseptic ointment with which to wash the area the night before and on the morning of the surgery.

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Before now, I’ve never had surgery. Only twice have I ever gone to the hospital for treatment. That was the afternoon when one of my kindergarten siblings was running after his ball. The ball strolled over to the dining area from the sitting room. I was eating when the ball came my way, and I decided to show the little man some Jay-Jay Okocha skills.

MORE FROM THE AUTHOR:[OPINION] Wasiu Ayinde: Shame Of A Nation (1)

Swiftly, I abandoned my food on that hot afternoon, and picked the ball up with my right foot, juggled it to my left foot, then to my right, and my left, right, left-right, left-right, moving from the dining to the sitting room, left-right. Still juggling, I looked up, saw the balcony, and decided to make it my final port of destination. The balcony had two sliding doors with transparent glass. With an eye on the ball, I kept juggling and moving towards the balcony. As I made to step onto the balcony, the ball was going to fall off my foot, so I called my thigh to the rescue. I thrust my knee forward to steady the ball back into juggling position, shattering the transparent glass door, which I thought was unlocked. Salem Specialist Hospital, Orile Agege, here I come. Even Lionel Messi never sustained this type of bloody injury.

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The other time I got admitted to a hospital was when I had a decaying molar extracted. So, I looked forward to my appointment with confidence in the American healthcare system, but not without the occasional thought of ‘if’. I shared my inheritance among my children and told them to bury me with my Digger video game and Barcelona hat. “Baba-T, don’t start,” they chorused.

My son, whose nickname is Prof, was behind the wheel, Ara sat at the back, while I sat beside Prof, on the way to the Land of Moariah. At Moriah, my blood pressure was checked. It was unusually high. Abi, Baba-T dey fear ni?, Ara and Prof teased me. I said it probably was because I didn’t sleep enough as I read late into the night.

We were ushered into a private room, where various medical officials took turns to explain the various steps of the surgery. I was placed on a bed and given a clean hospital robe, a pair of socks, gloves, blankets, etc, and a transparent bag to put my belongings. I put my clothes in the bag, but opted to give my phone to Ara.

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A male official came in, strapped me, and wheeled me out to the theatre. This was after a female official had come to explain all the injections and medicines I would be given and all their side effects.

In the white theatre that looked like a ball of floating cotton, doctors began to explain to me the procedure. I wanted to shout, “E don do!” But I kept my cool. “Are you comfortable with the pillows. I can get you smaller ones? You can have your shoes on if you wish. Is the air ok for you?…” Finally, a mask distended from a machine above. A doctor fixed it to my mouth and told me to inhale through my mouth. It felt like methylated spirit in my throat. I breathed in about four, five times, and my eyes felt heavy. I closed them.

After some time, I opened my eyes. It was another room. Why? “When am I having the surgery?” I asked. “It has been done. You’ve been here for more than four hours.” “Four hours?” “Yes.” “Are you ready to go home now?” “Yes.”

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So, the anesthesiologist wheeled me to the room where I was prepared for the surgery. Ara and Prof were waiting. Their sibling, nicknamed Ixy, had to go back home because the hospital could take only two relatives per patient.

Another round of explanatory dos and don’ts began. She told me I was catheterised at the neck to take post-surgery drains. She also told me how to measure and record the drains, and how to clean the spot. “If you feel very uncomfortable after taking your meds, call 911, please,” she said.

MORE FROM THE AUTHOR:OPINION: Oluwo Holier Than The Godless Ilorin Imam (1)

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My blood pressure was measured. It was still high. Quite unusual. Kilode? 150/90. They kept me for a little while, hoping to check if it would decline or continue to rise. Then, one of the medical staff asked if I wanted to pee, because holding back urine could make blood pressure rise. To her question, I said ‘yes’ and ‘no’. I said yes, because I’m pressed, but no, because my children would accuse me of being a jelly.

We all laughed. I made to get up and walk to the bathroom. I staggered. A female nurse offered to go with me. I declined, but she followed on my heels. I came back and changed into my clothes, ready to leave.

“You will be put in a wheelchair, sir,” the female nurse said. “Ha, why put me in a wheelchair when I walked by myself to and from the bathroom?” I protested. “That is the standard practice here, sir; no surgery patient walks out of the hospital,” she said, smiling.

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So, a wheelchair was brought, and I sat myself in it as the nurse pushed me through the hallway of the expansive hospital to the car park. The hand gloves, sanitisers, gauze, bandages, med cups, etc, I was given were enough to open a pharmaceutical shop.

On September 17, my classmate at Abia State University, Maurice Uzoma Ogbonna, called me around 4 a.m. I was asleep. When I woke up, I returned his call. Maurice was born funny. He could have been the Gbenga Adeboye of Igboland. But on this day, Maurice’s voice was low. I asked him, “What happened to your voice, ewu? Are you in a meeting?”

I had to ask where his voice went because if Maurice called you, be ready for jocular harassment and intimidation. He would say, “I no sabi why God make my path with una cross. Na una; you, Oghuehi Dike and Maurice Okeke, teach me all the bad things wey I know for dis world.”

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Still talking in a low voice, Maurice continued, “I have been promoted as Cross River State NDLEA Commander. Shebi Femi Babafemi na your man?” “Yes, Femi Babafemi na my man. He’s the director in charge of media,” I said. “I go need am at the head office,” Maurice said. “I’m driving now. More so, I don’t need to call Femi Babafemi to introduce you to him. He’s a jolly good fellow, just call him and say you’re from me,” I said. “Ok, I go call am.”

Because Maurice’s elder brother, Emmanuel, who had joined the NDLEA much earlier than Maurice, died prematurely in service, I rained prayers on Maurice over his new position. I prayed and prayed for Maurice. That was about 7:10 pm Nigerian time.

I concluded by saying, “I will not abuse you today. I no go flog a man wey im hand dey tied. When you finish your meeting, call me, make I abuse you well, well, ewu.”

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The next day, I woke up to a text from another classmate, Joe Ugwokaegbe, saying, “Mr T, very bad news. Got a message not long ago from a friend in Cross River that Maurice Ogbonna died this morning in his hotel room.”

Must be a joke, I muttered to myself as I put a call across to NDLEA spokesperson, Femi Babafemi. “I am still in shock, Tunde. This was a commander who called me last night, introducing himself as your friend. I spoke with him around 9 pm. Someone spoke with him after that, and the person noticed he was sounding well. I’m devastated, Tunde. He was promoted and posted to Cross River exactly one month ago,” Babafemi lamented.

A few days later, Babafemi told me that the result of Maurice’s autopsy was still being awaited, adding that the Cross River Police Command was still investigating the death.

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I’m still in shock to write a tribute for Maurice yet. As an undergraduate, Maurice, whose father was a police officer, was disciplined, diligent, studious, forthright, amiable and kind. Together with Dike Oghuehi and Maurice Ogbonna, the trio ceaselessly bought me food and cigarettes when funds took a long time coming from my parents in Lagos.

Maurice is gone with his bag of love and humour. An Iroko has fallen! Mbaise is mourning. The ABSU Alumni of English Language and Literature Students (ELSA) are in tears. May his beautiful soul rest in peace. May the Lord take care of his wife and children. Too sad, I won’t see my Moore, my Mbe, my paddy again. Death has made another mistake.

Email: tundeodes2003@yahoo.com

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Facebook: @Tunde Odesola

X: @Tunde_Odesola

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Out-of-school: Group To Enroll Adolescent Mothers In Bauchi

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Women Child Youth Health and Education Initiative (WCY) with support from Malala Education Champion Network, have charted a way to enroll adolescent mothers to access education in Bauchi schools.

Rashida Mukaddas, the Executive Director, WCY stated this in Bauchi on Wednesday during a one-day planning and inception meeting with education stakeholders on Adolescent Mothers Education Access (AMEA) project of the organisation.

According to her, the project targeted three Local Government Areas of Bauchi, Misau and Katagum for implementation in the three years project.

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She explained that all stakeholders in advancing education in the state would be engaged by the organisation to advocate for Girl-Child education.

READ ALSO:Maternal Mortality: MMS Tackling Scourge —Bauchi Women Testify

The target, she added, was to ensure that as many as married adolescent mothers and girls were enrolled back in school in the state.

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Today marks an important step in our collective commitment to ensuring that every girl in Bauchi state, especially adolescent who are married, pregnant, or young mothers has the right, opportunity, and support to continue and complete her education.

“This project has been designed to address the real and persistent barriers that prevent too many adolescent mothers from returning to school or staying enrolled.

“It is to address the barriers preventing adolescent mothers from continuing and completing their education and adopting strategies that will create an enabling environment that safeguard girls’ rights to education while removing socio-cultural and economic obstacles,” said Mukaddas.

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READ ALSO:Bauchi: Auto Crash Claimed 432, Injured 2,070 Persons In 1 Months — FRSC

She further explained to the stakeholders that the success of the project depended on the strength of their collaboration, the alignment of their actions, and the commitments they forge toward the implementation of the project.

Also speaking, Mr Kamal Bello, the Project Officer of WCY, said that the collaboration of all the education stakeholders in the state with the organisation could ensure stronger enforcement of the Child Rights Law.

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This, he said, could further ensure effective re-entry and retention policies for adolescent girls, increased community support for girls’ education and a Bauchi state where no girl was left behind because of marriage, pregnancy, or motherhood.

“It is observed that early marriage is one of the problems hindering girls’ access to education.

READ ALSO:Bauchi: Auto Crash Claimed 432, Injured 2,070 Persons In 1 Months — FRSC

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“This organisation is working toward ensuring that girls that have dropped out of school due to early marriage are re-enrolled back in school,” he said.

Education stakeholders present at the event included representatives from the state Ministry of Education, Justice, Budget and Economic Planning and Multilateral Coordination.

Others were representatives from International Federation of Women Lawyers, Adolescent Girls Initiative for Learning and Empowerment (AGILE), Bauchi state Agency for Mass Education, Civil Society Organization, Religious and Traditional institutions, among others.

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They all welcomed and promised to support the project so as to ensure its effective implementation and achieve its set objectives in the state.

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OPINION: Fubara, Adeleke And The Survival Dance

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By Israel Adebiyi

You should be aware by now that the dancing governor, Ademola Adeleke has danced his last dance in the colours of the Peoples Democratic Party. His counterpart in Rivers, Siminalayi Fubara has elected to follow some of his persecutors to the All Progressive Congress, after all “if you can’t beat them, you can join them.”
Politics in Nigeria has always been dramatic, but every now and then a pattern emerges that forces us to pause and think again about where our democracy is heading. This week on The Nation’s Pulse, that pattern is what I call the politics of survival. Two events in two different states have brought this into sharp focus. In both cases, sitting governors elected on the platform of the same party have found new homes elsewhere. Their decisions may look sudden, but they reveal deeper issues that have been growing under the surface for years.

In Rivers, Governor Siminalayi Fubara has crossed into the All Progressives Congress. In Osun, Governor Ademola Adeleke has moved to the Accord Party. These are not small shifts. These are moves by people at the top of their political careers, people who ordinarily should be the ones holding their parties together. When those at the highest levels start fleeing, it means the ground beneath them has become too shaky to stand on. It means something has broken.

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A Yoruba proverb captures it perfectly: Iku to n pa oju gba eni, owe lo n pa fun ni. The death that visits your neighbour is sending you a message. The crisis that has engulfed the Peoples Democratic Party did not start today. It has been building like an untreated infection. Adeleke saw the signs early. He watched senior figures fight openly. He watched the party fail to resolve its zoning battles. He watched leaders undermine their own candidates. At some point, you begin to ask yourself a simple question: if this house collapses today, what happens to me? In Osun, where the competition between the two major parties has always been fierce, Adeleke was not going to sit back and become another casualty of a party that refused to heal itself. Survival became the most reasonable option.

His case makes sense when you consider the political temperature in Osun. This is a state where the opposition does not sleep. Every misstep is amplified. Every weakness is exploited. Adeleke has spent his time in office under constant scrutiny. Add that to the fact that the national structure of his party is wobbly, divided and uncertain about its future, and the move begins to look less like betrayal and more like self-preservation.

MORE FROM THE AUTHOR:OPINION: Wike’s Verbal Diarrhea And Military Might

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Rivers, however, tells a slightly different story. Fubara’s journey has been a long lesson in endurance. From the moment he emerged as governor, it became clear he was stepping into an environment loaded with expectations that had nothing to do with governance. His political godfather was not content with being a supporter. He wanted control. He wanted influence. He wanted obedience. Every decision was interpreted through the lens of loyalty. From the assembly crisis to the endless reconciliation meetings, to the barely hidden power struggles, Fubara spent more time fighting shadows than building the state he was elected to lead.

It soon became clear that he was governing through a maze of minefields. Those who should have been allies began to treat him like an accidental visitor in the Government House. The same legislators who were meant to be partners in governance suddenly became instruments of pressure. Orders came from places outside the official structure. Courtrooms turned into battlegrounds. At some point, even the national leadership of his party seemed unsure how to tame the situation. These storms did not come in seasons, they came in waves. One misunderstanding today. Another in two weeks. Another by the end of the month. Anyone watching closely could see that the governor was in a permanent state of emergency.

So when the winds started shifting again and lawmakers began to realign, those who understood the undercurrents knew exactly what was coming. Fubara knew too. A man can only take so much. After months of attacks, humiliations and attempts to cage his authority, the move to another party was not just political. It was personal. He had given the reconciliation process more chances than most would. He had swallowed more insults than any governor should. He had watched institutions bend and twist under the weight of private interests. In many ways, his defection is a declaration that he has finally chosen to protect himself.

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But the bigger question is how we got here. How did two governors in two different parts of the country end up taking the same decision for different but related reasons? The answer goes back to the state of internal democracy in our parties. No party in Nigeria today fully practices the constitution it claims to follow. They have elaborate rules on paper but very loose habits in reality. They talk about fairness, but their primaries are often messy. They preach unity, but their caucuses are usually divided into rival camps. They call themselves democratic institutions, yet dissent is treated as disloyalty.

MORE FROM THE AUTHOR:OPINION: Nigerian Leaders And The Tragedy Of Sudden Riches

Political parties are supposed to be the engine rooms of democracy. They are the homes where ideas are debated, leaders are groomed, and future candidates are shaped. In Nigeria, they increasingly look like fighting arenas where the loudest voices drown out everyone else. When leaders ignore their own constitutions, the structure begins to crack. When factions begin to run parallel meetings, the foundation gets weaker. When decisions are forced down the throats of members, people begin making private plans for their future.

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No governor wants to govern in chaos. No politician wants to be the last one standing in a sinking ship. This is why defections are becoming more common. A party that cannot manage itself cannot manage its members. And members who feel exposed will always look for safer ground.

But while these moves make sense for Adeleke and Fubara personally, the people they govern often become the ones left in confusion. Voters choose candidates partly because of party ideology, even if our ideologies are weak. They expect stability. They expect continuity. They expect that the mandate they gave will remain intact. So when a governor shifts political camp without prior consultation, the people feel blindsided. They begin to wonder whether their votes carry weight in a system where elected officials can switch platforms in the blink of an eye.

This is where the politics of survival becomes dangerous for democracy. If leaders keep prioritizing their personal safety over party stability, the system begins to lose coherence. Parties lose their identity. Elections lose their meaning. Governance becomes a game of musical chairs. Today you are here. Tomorrow you are there. Next week you may be somewhere else. The people become bystanders in a democracy that is supposed to revolve around them.

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Rivers and Osun should serve as reminders that political parties need urgent restructuring. They need to rebuild trust internally. They need to enforce their constitutions consistently. They need to treat members as stakeholders, not spectators. When members feel protected, they stay. When they feel targeted, they run. This pattern will continue until parties learn the simple truth that power is not built by intimidation, but by inclusion.

MORE FROM THE AUTHOR:The Audacity Of Hope: Super Eagles And Our Faltering Political Class

There is also the question of what these defections mean for governance. When governors are dragged into endless party drama, service delivery suffers. Time that should be spent on roads, schools, hospitals, water projects and job creation ends up being spent in meetings, reconciliations and press briefings. Resources that should strengthen the state end up funding political battles. The public loses twice. First as witnesses to the drama. Then as victims of delayed or abandoned development.

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In Rivers, the months of tension slowed down the government. Initiatives were stalled because the governor was busy trying to survive political ambush. In Osun, Adeleke had to juggle governance with internal fights in a crumbling party structure. Imagine what they could have achieved if they were not constantly looking over their shoulders.

Now, as both men settle into new political homes, the final question is whether these new homes will provide stability or merely temporary shelter. Nigeria’s politics teaches one consistent lesson. New alliances often come with new expectations. New platforms often come with new demands. And new godfathers often come with new conditions. Whether Adeleke and Fubara have truly found peace or simply bought time is something only time will tell.

But as citizens, what we must insist on is simple. The politics of survival should not become the politics of abandonment. Our leaders can fight for their political life, but they must not forget that they hold the people’s mandate. The hunger, poverty, insecurity and infrastructural decay that Nigerians face will not be solved by defection. It will be solved by steady leadership and functional governance.

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The bigger lesson from Rivers and Osun is clear. If political parties in Nigeria continue on this path of disunity and internal sabotage, they will keep losing their brightest and most strategic figures. And if leaders keep running instead of reforming the system, then we will wake up one day to a democracy where the people are treated as an afterthought.

Governors may survive the storms. Parties may adjust to new alignments. But the people cannot keep paying the price. Nigeria deserves a democracy that works for the many, not the few. That is the real pulse of the nation.

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Human Rights Day: Stakeholders Call For More Campaigns Against GBV

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Panel of discussants at an event to commemorate the International Human Rights Day, 2025 on Wednesday called for more campaigns against Gender-Based Violence, adding that it must start from the family.

The panel of discussants drawn from religious and community leaders, security agents, members of the civil society community, chiefs, etc, made the call in Benin in an event organised by Justice Development & Peace Centre (JDPC), Benin, in collaboration with Women Aid Collective (WACOL) with the theme: Multilevel Dialogue for Men, Women, Youth and Critical Take holders on the Prevention and Response to Gender-Based Violence (GBV).

The stakeholders, who said causes of GBV are enormous, called for more enlightenment and education in the family, community and the religious circle.

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Security agents in the panel charged members of the public to report GBV cases to security agents regardless of the sex Involved, adding: “When GBV happens, it should be reported to the appropriate quarters. It doesn’t matter if the woman or the man is the victim. GBV perpetrators should not be covered up, they must be exposed. We are there to carry out the prosecution after carrying out the necessary investigation.”

READ ALSO:World Human Rights Day: CSO Tasks Govt On Protection Of Lives

Earlier in his opening remarks, Executive Director, JDPC, Rev. Fr. Benedicta Onwugbenu, lamented that (GBV) remains the most prevalent in the society yet hidden because of silence from victims.

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According to him, GBV knows no age, gender or race, adding that “It affects people of all ages, whether man or woman, boy or girl.”

It affects people from different backgrounds and communities, yet it remains hidden because of silence, stigma, and fear. Victims of GBV are suffering in silence.”

On her part, Programme Director, WACOL, Mrs. Francisca Nweke, who said “women are more affected, and that is why we are emphasising on them,” stressed “we are empowering Christian women and women leaders of culture for prevention and response to Gender-Based Violence in Nigeria through the strengthening of grassroots organisations.”

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