By Israel Adebiyi

Nigeria is a paradox wrapped in pain and promise — a country with vast resources, fertile soil, and brilliant minds, yet locked in the chains of systemic failure and elite manipulation. Milk and honey may flow across its landscapes, but the people remain hungry — not for food alone, but for justice, dignity, and a government that works.

Why is it that a nation so blessed seems to curse its people with poverty, insecurity, and hopelessness? Apathy? Maybe. Complicity? Definitely.

The truth is, many Nigerians have stopped holding their leaders accountable. Some are simply waiting for their turn at the table of loot, convinced that justice is no longer a collective pursuit but a personal ambition. Yet, there remains a vast population of everyday Nigerians who wake up each day to survive — not thrive. These are the people with every reason to protest. If not for today, then for tomorrow’s children, who risk inheriting a more broken nation than the one we live in now.

The 1999 Constitution of the Federal Republic of Nigeria (as amended) grants every citizen the right to peaceful assembly and protest. Section 40 explicitly states: “Every person shall be entitled to assemble freely and associate with other persons…” More so, Section 14(2)(b) is unambiguous about the purpose of government: “The security and welfare of the people shall be the primary purpose of government.”

If the government fails in this duty — and it has, tragically and consistently — then the people are not only justified to protest; they are obligated to.

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But what do we see instead? We see silence — not the silence of peace but the silence of resignation. We hear nothing from the elite whose mouths are full but consciences hollow. These are the ones who dine with oppressors but ask the oppressed to “show understanding.” Understanding for what, exactly? For rising food prices? For fuel subsidies that vanish into thin air? For lives lost in Plateau, Benue, Zamfara and countless unreported communities across Nigeria?

And when voices dare to rise, when the streets start to stir, when placards are raised, what happens?

Another crowd appears — not in solidarity, but in opposition. Paid counter-protesters. Men and women bought for the price of a meal, waving banners that defend the very system crushing them. This is the politics of protest in Nigeria: a tragic theatre where hunger is weaponized, and voices are drowned in a sea of rented noise.

On Monday, April 7, 2025, young demonstrators under the banner of the Take-It-Back Movement defied police orders and took to the streets in Abuja, Lagos, Oyo, Rivers, and other states. Clad in signature orange berets, these protesters sang solidarity songs as they marched through major roads, demanding better governance and the fulfillment of Nigeria’s democratic promise.

Their defiance came despite a warning from the Nigeria Police Force, which labeled their protest “ill-conceived and mischievous.” Unsurprisingly, turnout was low. More disturbingly, police officers—who ought to protect peaceful demonstrators—unleashed canisters of teargas on them. In Port Harcourt and Abuja, protesters scattered in panic. Sadly, this is nothing new in a nation where dissent is often treated as a threat rather than a right.

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Nigeria is no stranger to protest. Our history is marked by brave men and women who rose against oppression: the Aba Women’s Riot (1929), the Abeokuta Women’s Revolt (1947), the Ali Must Go protests (1978), the anti-SAP riots (1989), the June 12 protests (1993), Occupy Nigeria (2012), End SARS (2020), End Bad Governance (2024), and now the Take-It-Back Movement (2025). Each was a cry for justice — a demand for better governance and dignity.

But with every protest comes a familiar pattern: counter-protests mysteriously spring up, police brutality follows, and then, silence returns.

There is a peculiar madness to the Nigerian situation: citizens who should be protesting against hunger, insecurity, and misgovernance are instead recruited to counter such protests. Sponsored by political actors, these counter-demonstrations are often manned by the very people being plundered. Poverty becomes a currency of control. The politicians understand that controlling the purse means controlling the pulse of the nation.

It’s not uncommon to see protesters sharing cash “appreciation” after an outing. When the promised payment falls short, arguments erupt — sometimes violently — over stipends. This turns a supposed civic action into a spectacle. The powerful know: feed the hunger, and you silence the anger. It is political theatre masked as civil resistance.

How can a people march against poverty in the morning and return in the evening to counter the same protest — cheering the very suffering they denounced? It is not ignorance — it is a system that has made survival more urgent than liberty.

While the poor are manipulated, the elite remain eerily silent. Those who should speak truth to power would rather urge “understanding” — the same understanding that sent their fathers to the grave, unremembered.

We’ve also allowed cultural and religious narratives to dilute our collective courage. “Respect authority,” they say. “Do not rebel against God’s anointed.” But does obedience mean silence in the face of injustice? If our forebears showed this same understanding and retired to their early graves penniless, must we die the same way?

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Let’s be clear: silence is not spiritual. Submission is not sainthood. A people cannot fear both God and their government — one must give way.

Can Nigeria break free? Can Nigerians demand a system where lawmakers represent us, not themselves? Can we insist that those elected are the best among us, not the wealthiest or most connected? Can we rise above tokenism and stop celebrating crumbs from those who stole the bakery?

The politics may never end — the elite will always find a way to protect their privilege. But the people must become wiser. The price of silence is higher than the risk of protest.

Until Nigerians rise not just in anger but in strategy — not just in numbers but in purpose — we will remain trapped in this vicious cycle of elite manipulation and manufactured consent.

The pulse of this nation beats faintly, but it still beats.

Let us protest — not just with placards but with our voices, our votes, our pens, and our principles. Let us remind those in power that the people are not spectators in the theatre of governance — we are the soul of the nation.

And when the people rise — truly rise — no paid protest, no media spin, no bullet can stop them. The elite must speak louder. And the youth must march — more organized, more informed, and more relentless.

History is watching. And the future is listening.

Until next week, keep your finger on The Nation’s Pulse.