Buratai to army officers: Democracy must be sustained

Former Chief of Army Staff, retired Lt.-Gen. Tukur Buratai, has said military officers must see themselves as defenders of the nation’s democracy and custodians of its stability.

“You must remain loyal. Democracy must be sustained and maintained.

“Whatever the challenges, I believe democracy itself will solve them. Loyalty is very key as a military officer even in retirement, we still maintain that loyalty,” Buratai said on Tuesday in Abuja during the decoration of two senior officers of the Nigerian Army Corps of Military Police, Col. Ibrahim Bunza and Col. Adetunji Idowu, who were recently elevated to their new ranks.

The former COAS also urged newly promoted Nigerian Army officers to remain loyal, disciplined and committed to the sustenance of democracy in the country.

He reminded the officers that promotion marks the beginning of a new phase of responsibility in their careers and must be matched with hard work, integrity and professionalism.

“I remember vividly when I was promoted to the rank of Colonel. That rank signifies the beginning of a new era.

“If you must get to generalship, it starts now. Your performance, your attitude, your character, and your disposition to duty will determine your next and subsequent ranks,” he said.

Buratai, who served as the 20th Chief of Army Staff between 2015 and 2021 congratulated the newly promoted officers, describing them as disciplined, battle-tested and worthy ambassadors of the Nigerian Army Corps of Military Police.

Speaking specifically about Col. Bunza, who served as his Aide-de-Camp (ADC), Buratai recalled his dedication and composure during challenging times, including operational visits to the North East.

“He was my last ADC, and God made it in such a way that I had him. He was very calm, very calculated, and maintained discipline among all the close aides that worked with me.

“He is battle-tested. I remember one of our visits to the North East when we came under fire, but he remained composed throughout,” he added.

The retired general also commended Col. Idowu for his performance as Commander of the 6 Provost Group in Port Harcourt, describing him as “a disciplined and resilient officer who commanded in a very challenging environment and came out with his head high.”

Buratai highlighted the importance of maintaining a stable home, saying the home front was very strategic.

He urged their spouses to ensure that their homes reflect positively on the officer’s performance in the field and in the office by giving them the needed support.

He urged the officers to pursue continuous self-development and professional education, adding that learning must never stop even after promotion or retirement.

“You must continue to improve yourself. Development is very important. Even in retirement, I continue to learn.

“In February, I obtained a certificate in communication and leadership from the University of Cambridge. So don’t stop improving yourselves,” he advised.

Earlier in his remarks, the Provost Marshal (Army), Maj.-Gen. Mathias Erubelu, thanked Buratai for his mentorship and contributions to the Corps, especially the approval for the construction of its present headquarters.

According to him, this edifice we are seated in today was built during your time as Chief of Army Staff.

He congratulated the newly promoted officers, describing their elevation as a product of hard work, diligence and divine favour.

“Promotion comes from God, but not without hard work. There were 298 officers presented for promotion, but only 225 made it.

“So, this is a privilege that comes with responsibility,” the Provost Marshal stated.

Responding on behalf of the newly promoted officers, Col. Bunza expressed gratitude to the Chief of Army Staff, Lt.-Gen. Olufemi Oluyede, for finding them worthy of elevation, and to the Provost Marshal for his leadership and mentorship.

“We assure the Nigerian Army of our renewed commitment to service, loyalty, and upholding the core values of the institution.

“We are also grateful to our families, colleagues, and friends for standing by us.”

He also thanked former COAS Buratai for his mentorship, describing him as “a father and a leader whose guidance shaped their careers”.

June 12, 1993: The Day Democracy Was Promised. Then Stolen!!

By George Omagbemi Sylvester | Published by SaharaWeeklyNG.com

“They voted. Power panicked. History remembers. Three decades on, the ghost of June 12 still haunts Nigeria’s democracy.”

June 12, 1993, should have been the beginning of a new chapter in Nigeria’s modern history, a peaceful transfer from military rule to a democratically elected civilian president. Instead it became the day the state reneged on its word, the day a legitimate popular verdict was extinguished by the brass of power. The annulment of that election did more than deny one man the presidency; it punctured the fragile hopes of an entire nation and set Nigeria on a grievous detour that cost lives, liberties and decades of political trust.

The vote itself was, by all credible accounts, decisive. Chief Moshood Kashimawo Olawale (M.K.O.) Abiola, the Social Democratic Party’s candidate, SDP won a clear nationwide plurality, with unofficial tallies putting him well ahead of his rival, Bashir Tofa of the National Republican Convention, NRC. The results made Abiola the first candidate in modern Nigerian history to assemble a truly cross-regional coalition, carrying the southwest and large tracts of the north and middle belt. Unofficial tabulations commonly cited put Abiola’s share near 58 percent against Tofa’s roughly 42 percent. These figures, reported by independent observers and later compiled by historians and news outlets, left little doubt about the will of the electorate.

Yet that mandate was never honoured. On 24 June 1993, General Ibrahim Badamasi Babangida (IBB), the country’s military ruler, announced the outright annulment of the election, citing irregularities and legal technicalities. The announcement was more than a bureaucratic reversal; it was a renunciation of popular sovereignty. The National Electoral Commission had begun releasing state-by-state results; civil society groups, foreign observers and the citizenry at large had accepted the outcome as the genuine expression of the people. To nullify that expressed will was to signal that POWER, not LAW or CONSCIENCE, would write Nigeria’s political future.

The consequences were immediate and brutal. Protests erupted across the southwest and in other cities; security forces responded with deadly force. Independent human-rights investigations documented mass arrests, press closures and a systematic campaign to silence dissent. Human Rights Watch, in its contemporaneous reporting, described the post-annulment months as a hardening of repression (“hundreds arrested and press muzzled”) and traced how the regime’s maneuvers culminated in renewed military domination and the eventual rise of Sani Abacha. The democratic promise of 12 June was replaced by a night of state-sanctioned fear.

It is tempting to reduce June 12 to a story about one man or to an arithmetic of votes. The annulment lit a torch that illuminated fault lines and truths about Nigeria’s political order. Firstly, the military’s professed “TRANSITION” was always precarious; power retains habits and the guardians of order are often the last to relinquish it. Secondly, civic cohesion had matured enough to cross ethnic and regional barriers; millions voted not for parochial advantage but for national possibility; and Thirdly, when the state violates the most basic democratic compacts, the price is paid in legitimacy and human life. Scholars who studied the period later characterized the annulment as the climax of a failed transition and a deliberate, avoidable betrayal. Peter Lewis, writing on Nigeria’s failed transition, concluded that the annulment irreparably undermined the trust that a durable democratic order requires.

Over the long arc of history, however, the memory of June 12 refused to die. The struggle for recognition of that mandate became a moral and political rallying point for activists, lawyers and the bereaved. Chief Abiola’s eventual declaration of himself as the rightful president in 1994 (and his subsequent arrest and detention) turned him from an ELECTORAL VICTOR into a MARTYR for DEMOCRATIC LEGITIMACY. His death in custody in July 1998 seared the issue into the national conscience and foreshadowed the end of the Abacha era. The narrative of June 12 thus transformed from a tale of theft into an enduring assertion that the people’s choice must count.

International reaction to the annulment was swift and unequivocal; governments suspended aid, international organizations condemned the action and a global spotlight shone on Nigeria’s betrayal of democratic norms. Yet external pressure, while symbolically important, could not substitute for internal repair. That repair required accountability (an honest accounting of how and why a transition was broken) and institutional reforms that would render future annulments impossible. For a time, Nigeria’s political institutions lay weakened and hollowed, susceptible to the predators of authoritarianism.

Time, ironically, has helped vindicate the moral core of June 12. In 2018 the Nigerian state (belatedly) took the symbolic step of renaming Democracy Day to June 12, acknowledging the election’s place in national memory. Even Ibrahim Babangida, in later years, publicly expressed regret about the annulment, admitting that the election had been free and fair; “A RECOGNITION THAT CAN NEVER UNDO THE PAST” but does confirm the original truth of the vote. Still, symbolic gestures are only the start; institutional guarantees are the remedy.

So what does June 12 teach us today? Firstly, that democracy is not merely a schedule of elections but a system of rules, norms and respect for outcomes. When leaders treat elections as optional, they invite cycles of instability that corrode development and human dignity. Secondly, the legitimacy of a polity rests on its willingness to accept inconvenient truths, including the possibility of losing power. Thirdly, the people’s memory is a political force. The tens of thousands who marched, protested, litigated and mourned after June 12 ensured that the event became a permanent reference point for claims to justice and reform.

Finally, if June 12 is to be more than a commemorative date, Nigeria must translate memory into measurable reforms and transparent electoral administration, an empowered and independent judiciary, protections for the press and a security apparatus subordinated to constitutional authority. Without these, anniversaries become mere ceremonies and history becomes a mourning ritual instead of a blueprint for progress.

June 12, 1993, remains a wound and a promise. It is a wound for the lives lost, the liberty denied and the democratic years squandered. It is a promise because millions of Nigerians made a deliberate choice for inclusion, reform and national cohesion. A choice that, despite the state’s betrayal, has continued to haunt and eventually to guide the nation’s democratic restoration. To honor June 12 is to insist that no future annulment can ever again stand. It is to demand that the people’s voice be the final arbiter in a nation still searching for government by consent.

“They voted. The Army stole it. Three decades later, Nigeria still pays the price.”

– George Omagbemi Sylvester

When Freedom Bled: Nigeria’s Hard Road from Independence to the Biafran Cataclysm.

By George Omagbemi Sylvester 

“WE WON INDEPENDENCE AND THEN ALMOST DESTROYED THE COUNTRY TRYING TO KEEP IT.”

On October 1, 1960, Nigeria emerged from the long shadow of British colonial rule and took its place (in name and ceremony) amongst the WORLD’S INDEPENDENT NATIONS. That date remains a lodestar, the end of formal imperial control and the beginning of a treacherous experiment in self-government for a country STITCHED TOGETHER from hundreds of ethnic groups, languages, religions and colonial legacies. Yet independence did not magically end the structural fractures that British rule had deepened; instead it exposed them. Within seven fraught years those fractures detonated into a conflict that became one of modern Africa’s most brutal tragedies; the Nigerian Civil War (1967–1970).

Independence was, for many Nigerians, a moment of dizzying hope. Leaders who had campaigned for self-rule (Nnamdi Azikiwe, Obafemi Awolowo, Ahmadu Bello, Abubakar Tafawa Balewa among them) promised unity, development and dignity. Azikiwe himself, whose life had been bound to nationalist struggle, famously said on independence: “My stiffest earthly assignment is ended and my major life’s work is done. My country is now free” Those words captured the public optimism (and the weight of expectation) that independence bequeathed.

Although beneath the pageantry were unresolved structural dangers. Colonial rule had created administrative regions, promoted uneven economic development and favoured some groups over others; the partitioning logic of empire left behind artificial boundaries and competition for resources and political power. As historian Toyin Falola notes, the legacy of colonial boundaries and the unequal modern structures they produced made citizenship and belonging contested in the newborn state; a volatile mix when combined with elites jockeying for advantage.

The first years of independence saw fragile experiments in parliamentary democracy. But the window for peaceful resolution of deep grievances closed fast. A series of political crises, contested elections and ethnic paranoia culminated in military coups in 1966, assassinations and anti-Igbo pogroms in the north that forced tens of thousands to flee. The Eastern Region, led by Colonel Odumegwu Ojukwu, declared secession as the Republic of Biafra in May 1967. The federal government, under General Yakubu Gowon, answered with military force and a blockade that would be devastating in its human consequences.

The war that followed was not merely a clash of armies, it was a political catastrophe with a staggering humanitarian price. Biafra, initially militarily agile, soon found itself landlocked, deprived of seaports and fuel and subjected to an effective blockade. Starvation (weaponized by logistics and politics) ravaged civilians. Modern estimates of the civilian death toll range widely; reputable historical accounts place the figures between roughly 500,000 and several million, with many scholars converging on a figure that reflects the horrifying scale of famine and disease. No number adequately conveys the moral and social ruin, families destroyed, entire generations scarred and civic trust pulverized.

This violence was not inevitable. It was the foreseeable consequence of leadership failures, hurried nation-building and the refusal of political elites (civilian and military) to forge stabilizing institutions. Atrocities and miscalculations escalated because neither side was prepared to manage the political compromises necessary for plural coexistence. The oft-invoked post-war slogan “NO VICTOR, NO VANQUISHED,” pronounced by Gowon at the war’s end, was meant to close wounds; in practice, it papered over grievances rather than heal them, leaving many questions of justice and reconciliation unanswered. The absence of accountability and meaningful inclusion after the war seeded later crises of trust.

Literature and memory have been the country’s conscience. Chinua Achebe’s account in There Was a Country and Wole Soyinka’s anguished reflections remind us that intellectuals and artists were not mere bystanders (they were witnesses and participants who tried to make sense of the wrenching ruptures. Achebe’s writing, in particular, documents how the Igbo were singled out both as scapegoats and as targets of structural resentment) resentment that predated independence but metastasized in the post-colonial scramble for power. These cultural testimonies force a nation to look unflinchingly at itself.

To say “LESSONS” is not to indulge in cheap moralizing. The real lessons are concrete and urgent. Firstly; nationhood demands institutions that outlive individual politicians; impartial judiciaries, professional civil services, credible electoral systems and federal arrangements that balance unity with regional autonomy. Secondly; economic equity is not optional. When wealth (whether oil or agricultural bounty) is distributed through patronage rather than transparent mechanisms, grievance becomes fuel for conflict. Thirdly; truth and reconciliatory processes matter. The war’s victims deserved a public reckoning; without it, hurt festers and narratives ossify into rival myths that fracture the public sphere. Britannica’s sober accounting of the war shows how the interplay of ethnic tensions, economic disparity and weak institutions produced the catastrophe; reading that account should be a compulsory civic education for every Nigerian leader.

History also offers a final, stubborn demand, that remembrance be coupled to reform. If independence was meant to unlock dignity and prosperity, then remembering Biafra’s dead must not become an exercise in nostalgia. Rather, it should be the prologue to systemic change, decentralised governance structures that allow regions to govern local affairs; educational curricula that teach honest history instead of selective amnesia and economic policies aligned to inclusive growth rather than narrow elite enrichment.

We must also listen to scholars who insist that the contours of modern Nigerian crises are not accidents. Toyin Falola’s scholarship warns that colonial structures and elite manoeuvres shaped durable inequalities; to address our present we must engage with the structural past honestly. To put it plainly; ignorance of history is not innocence, it is a political choice that guarantees repetition.

At its best, independence promised a covenant between rulers and the ruled; protection, opportunity and reciprocal duty. The Biafran nightmare revealed how quickly that covenant can be broken. As Nigeria approaches each anniversary of October 1, the country should do more than parade veterans and raise flags. It should enact policies that make the union meaningful, expand avenues for redress and uphold the dignity of all its peoples.

There is no simple balm for the past. There is a path forward; robust institutions, shared memory, accountable leadership and an economic architecture that binds rather than divides. If independence taught us anything, it is that freedom without justice is brittle and that the test of nationhood is not when flags are raised, but when every citizen can live without fear and with hope.