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Tag: Dakuku Peterside

  • Harvard Prof endorses Dakuku Peterside’s “Leading in a Storm”

    Harvard Prof endorses Dakuku Peterside’s “Leading in a Storm”

    Hugh O’Doherty, adjunct professor of leadership and conflict at Harvard Kennedy School and former faculty member at the University of Maryland, has praised Dakuku Peterside’s latest book, Leading in a Storm, calling it an indispensable resource for leaders facing times of uncertainty and upheaval.

    Describing the book as more than a typical leadership volume, O’Doherty highlights its practical nature and timely relevance. “This is not just another leadership book; it is a practical guide filled with applicable lessons for anyone striving to lead effectively amid uncertainty, volatility, and complexity. Leading in a Storm illuminates the critical skills we must develop to thrive in turbulent times,” he said.

    O’Doherty’s strong endorsement underscores the book’s potential to empower leaders across both corporate and public sectors with the tools necessary to navigate and excel during challenging conditions. The book’s emphasis on adaptive leadership and resilience has resonated with experts who recognise the growing need for such guidance in today’s rapidly changing global environment.

    Hugh O’Doherty brings a wealth of experience to his evaluation. He is the former director of the Ireland-US Public Leadership Program and of the Jepson School of Leadership Studies. His expertise is rooted in adaptive leadership, particularly in conflict zones such as Northern Ireland, where he grew up during the Troubles.

    Over the years, O’Doherty has consulted extensively with government and organisational clients across Ireland, the United States, Canada, Bosnia, Croatia, Cyprus, and other regions affected by conflict. His insights have been shared at prominent international platforms, including the United Nations Global Forum on Reinventing Government. He also serves as a senior associate at Cambridge Leadership Associates.

    Leading in a Storm arrives at a critical moment, offering timely and practical leadership wisdom from Dakuku Peterside. His work, now receiving high praise from some of the world’s foremost experts in the field, is particularly relevant in today’s rapidly changing global environment.

  • Safari announces release of Dakuku Peterside’s new book, “Leading In A Storm”

    Safari announces release of Dakuku Peterside’s new book, “Leading In A Storm”

    Safari Books Limited has announced October 2025 as the release date for “Leading in a Storm”, a thought-provoking and deeply relevant new work by renowned author, public intellectual and turnaround management expert, Dr. Dakuku Peterside.

    A statement from the publishers disclosed that the book is scheduled for international and Nigerian release, with high-profile public presentations slated for Lagos, Abuja, London and Chicago.

    In an age defined by volatility and uncertainty, Leading in a Storm offers a compelling guide to navigating crisis with clarity, calm and conviction. 

    Dr. Peterside, drawing on decades of high-level experience in politics, corporate governance and public administration, explores what distinguishes resilient leaders from those who falter when the stakes are highest.

    This landmark book presents practical strategies across eight pillars of crisis leadership, including situational intelligence, calm confidence, sense-making, strategic decision-making, among others. 

    “Crisis does not build character, it reveals it,” writes Dr. Peterside, as he unpacks how true leadership is tested when order gives way to chaos. 

    Through real-world case studies and hard-won insights, he offers a practical playbook for leaders in government, business, civil society and the non-profit world.

    Leading in a Storm is not just another leadership manual, it is a timely call to action for a new generation of leaders committed to empathy, effectiveness and ethical clarity in uncertain times.

    The book will be available in print and digital formats at major bookstores across Nigeria and globally.

  • Remembering Nigeria’s victims of terror – By Dakuku Peterside

    Remembering Nigeria’s victims of terror – By Dakuku Peterside

    Every year on 21 August, the world pauses to honour victims of terrorism. In Nigeria, that pause is never a simple act of remembrance. It is a reckoning—one that asks us to say the names we know, acknowledge the stories we have not heard, and refuse the comfort of forgetting.

    The dead and the living—widows and widowers, children who suddenly became heads of households, farmers too afraid to enter their fields, young women returning from abduction to a chorus of suspicion—are not statistics in a ledger.

    They are our neighbours. Any observance that does not place them at the centre becomes performance, not tribute. To remember in Nigeria is not merely to mourn the dead—it is to reckon with the living whose survival continues to be a struggle for dignity.

    The stories arrive in fragments that feel almost incompatible with ordinary life. They unfold across landscapes as different as the arid fields of Borno, the forests of Zamfara, and the farmlands of Benue. They reach into displacement camps and city markets, as well as into schools and places of worship. In Gwoza, a wedding became a site of coordinated suicide bombings; by nightfall, a hospital and a funeral were also attacked.

    At least eighteen people died—some reports suggest more than thirty—and among the wounded were children and pregnant women. In Katsina, a community security group returning from a condolence visit was ambushed; twenty-one of them were confirmed dead, even as rumours swelled the toll. In Benue’s Yelewata, a displacement camp was overrun in June; accounts put the number of the dead in triple digits, with thousands forced to flee again.

    There are older wounds too: farm workers massacred near Maiduguri, whole wards like Mafa set ablaze, families burying loved ones before help could arrive. These are not isolated events. They are chapters in a long, cruel book that communities have been compelled to read without consent.

    When we speak of “victims,” we too easily default to those who died. But survivors carry an aftermath that resists tidy closure. Young boys pressed into insurgent ranks are left to wrestle with guilt, suspicion, and trauma even when rescued. Widows struggle to provide for children in IDP camps where rations are meagre, education is sporadic, and safety is never guaranteed.

    Girls and women abducted by insurgents return with trauma, with children, with the stigma of rumours that shadow their attempts to rebuild. Men who escaped with their lives live with untreated injuries, with night terrors, with the economic ruin of a burnt shop or a stolen herd. Children drift in and out of school because displacement has no respect for timetables. First responders and community guards, feted as heroes when they hold the line, are often left with little more than a burial fund when the line breaks.

    Numbers can illuminate, but they can also mislead. Several trackers attempt to count the dead; their estimates differ, and some headline figures have been credibly disputed or withdrawn. What we can say with confidence is that displacement has run into the millions over the years and that lethality spikes in certain hotspots, especially where insurgency meets banditry and where farmer–herder tensions are inflamed by drought, arms flows, and weak local justice. Treating these numbers as precise does more harm than good. Treating them as a call to action may save lives.

    Action, however, must begin with clarity. Nigeria’s Chief of Defence Staff has said publicly that identifying and prosecuting terrorism financiers is ongoing, slowed by legal and cross-border complexities. That admission matters. It acknowledges what communities learned the hard way: violence requires supply. Motorcycles are bought, fuel is procured, SIM cards are replaced, cash is moved through informal couriers and seemingly legitimate businesses.

    The Nigerian Financial Intelligence Unit has reportedly advanced several cases, working in conjunction with the Attorney-General and the National Security Adviser. That is the right direction. Yet victims cannot live on “work in progress.” If remembrance is to mean anything, the financial pipes that feed atrocity must be traced, frozen, and forfeited—openly enough that the public can see the difference between rumours and results.

    Justice is wider than courtrooms. It is a child sleeping through the night because the road to her village now has an early-warning network and a rapid response unit that arrives. It is a farmer counting planting days instead of counting rumours of raids. It is a survivor who can speak without fear of retaliation and receive counselling without having to trade dignity for pity. It is the knowledge that when politicians, contractors, or “big men” dabble in the business of insecurity, a predictable chain ensues: investigation, prosecution, conviction, confiscation—no matter the surname.

    For years, we have relied on a familiar blend of troop deployments and community vigilance. Both have saved lives; neither is sufficient on its own. Community guards require training, insurance, and clear rules of engagement to prevent them from becoming targets without protection or morphing into militias without accountability.

    Security agencies must be closely aligned with financial-intelligence teams, so that a spike in attacks triggers not only patrols but also audits of cash hotspots, scrutiny of bulk phone purchases, and visits to real estate fronts whose ledgers never add up. Early-warning systems should be co-owned with communities, not parachuted in as gadgets with no maintenance plan. When we say, “civilian protection,” we must mean protected routes to farms and markets, escorted windows during planting and harvest, and safe transport corridors that align with curfews instead of colliding with them.

    We also need to repair how we see and speak. Benue’s tragedy is often narrated through the language of identity; so too are killings in the Northwest and Northeast. Precision matters. There are attackers and victims across ethnic and religious lines; there are criminals and there are communities; there are grievances and there are atrocities. Collapsing these categories into easy labels invites reprisals, not solutions. On a day of remembrance, the most ethical storytelling is that which refuses to convert grief into a weapon.

    The government can do several things quickly if it chooses to be measured by outcomes, rather than announcements. Victim support funds should be scaled up and ring-fenced for medical and psychosocial care, with mobile clinics reaching remote settlements and displacement camps. Compensation should not require documents that displaced people no longer have; case workers must go to survivors, not the other way round.

    Two or three “protected livelihood zones” can be piloted, where farming windows and market days are secured through predictable, escorted access—success measured not by ribbon-cutting but by the number of harvested hectares and market-day attendance. A public tracker should report terror-finance cases from investigation to conviction, alongside the values seized and the portion diverted—by law—to survivor services. These are not moonshots. They are the unglamorous work of a state that wishes to be believed.

    For Nigeria, the sobering truth is that terrorism has risen to challenge the state’s once-unchallenged grip on the monopoly of violence. Its weapon is not only the gun or the bomb, but the calculated disruption of order—an assault designed to jolt citizens out of the fragile comfort of everyday life.

    Terrorism thrives on chaos, and its victims are not statistics but men, women, and children whose lives are scarred in ways no displacement camp can ever fully describe. It is time for a national awakening—a recognition that terrorism must be remembered alongside wars and natural disasters as one of the gravest sources of human suffering in our land. The police, the armed forces, and every arm of the state must stand with the rest of the world in marking this day, not as a ritual but as a solemn act of solidarity.

    A fitting memorial must rise, carved in stone and spirit, to honour those who were cut down or forever altered by these senseless acts. Their memory demands more than mourning; it calls for resolve. What Nigeria needs now is not only compassion for the wounded but an unyielding commitment to ending terrorism, so that the nation’s children can inherit a future no longer shadowed by fear.

    Remembrance is often mistaken for silence—a minute observed, a candle lit, a prayer said. Those rituals are good. But in a country where grief is staggered across dates and dialects, remembrance must be noisy enough to jolt the powerful and tender enough to cradle the broken. It must insist that the measure of security is not the number of press briefings held after a crisis, but the number of crises prevented. It must have space for complicated truths: that some casualty figures are uncertain, that some perpetrators will plead grievance to excuse cruelty, that some rescues will come too late, and that the work of healing will outlast every news cycle.

    “Remembrance with remedy” is more than a slogan. It is a compact. We honour the dead by protecting the living. We respect survivors by providing services that are predictable, not performative. We mark this day not to rehearse despair but to recommit to the ordinary labour that, multiplied across villages and ministries, makes terror less profitable and less possible.

    If we do this—steadily, visibly, together—then perhaps next year’s list of names will be shorter, the farming season longer, and the distance between promise and practice a little smaller. That would be a tribute worthy of the people we remember today.

  • The pre 2027 party gold rush – By Dakuku Peterside

    The pre 2027 party gold rush – By Dakuku Peterside

    The 2027 general elections are fast approaching, and Nigeria’s political landscape is undergoing a rapid transformation. New acronyms, and freshly minted party logos are emerging, promising a new era of renewal and liberation.

    To the casual observer, this may seem like democracy in full bloom—citizens exercising their right to association, political diversity flourishing, and the marketplace of ideas expanding. However, beneath this surface, a more urgent reality is unfolding. The current rush to establish new parties is less about ideological conviction or grassroots movements and more about strategic positioning, bargaining leverage, and transactional gain.

    It is the paradox of Nigerian politics: proliferation as a sign of vitality, proliferation as a symptom of democratic fragility. With 2027 on the horizon, the political air is electric, not with fresh ideas, but with a gold rush to create new political parties. Supporters call it the flowering of democracy. But scratch the surface and you see something else: opportunism dressed as pluralism. This is not just politics — it is political merchandising.

    Parties are being set up like small businesses, complete with negotiation value, resale potential, and short-term profit models. Today, Nigeria has 19 registered political parties, one of countries with the highest no of registered political parties in the world behind India (2500) and Brazil (35) and more than Indonesia (18).

    History serves as a cautionary tale in this context. Whenever Nigeria has embraced multi-party politics, the electoral battlefield has eventually narrowed to a contest between two main poles. In the early 1990s, General Ibrahim Babangida’s political transition programme deliberately engineered a two-party structure by decreeing the creation of the National Republican Convention (NRC) and the Social Democratic Party (SDP).

    His justification was rooted in the observation—controversial but not entirely unfounded—that Nigeria’s political psychology tends to gravitate toward two dominant camps, thereby simplifying voter choice and fostering more stable governance. Pro-democracy activists condemned the move as state-engineered politics, but over time, the pattern became embedded.

    When Nigeria returned to civilian rule in 1999, the People’s Democratic Party (PDP) emerged as the dominant force, facing off against the All People’s Party (APP) and the Alliance for Democracy (AD) coalition.

    The 2003 and 2007 elections pitted the PDP against the All Nigeria Peoples Party (ANPP); in 2011, the PDP contended with both the ANPP and the Congress for Progressive Change (CPC). By 2015, the formation of the All Progressives Congress (APC)—a coalition of the CPC, ANPP, Action Congress of Nigeria (ACN), and a faction of the All Progressives Grand Alliance (APGA)—restored the two-bloc dynamic.

    This ‘two-bloc dynamic’ refers to the situation where most of the political power is concentrated within two main parties, leading to a less diverse and competitive political landscape. Even when dozens of smaller parties appeared on the ballot, the real contest was still a battle of two heavyweights.

    And yet, here we are again, with Nigeria’s Independent National Electoral Commission (INEC) registering nineteen parties but facing an avalanche of new applications—110 by late June 2025, swelling to at least 122 by early July.

    This surge is striking, especially considering that after the 2019 general elections, INEC deregistered seventy-four parties for failing to meet constitutional performance requirements, a decision upheld by the Supreme Court in 2021. That landmark ruling underscored that party registration is not a perpetual license; it is a privilege conditioned on meeting electoral benchmarks, such as a minimum vote share and representation across the federation.

    The surge in party formation could potentially lead to a more complex and fragmented electoral process, making it harder for voters to make informed decisions and for smaller parties to gain traction.

    So, what explains the surge in the formation of new parties now? The reasons are not mysterious. Money is the bluntest answer, but it is braided with other motives. For some, creating a party is a strategic move to position themselves for negotiations with larger parties—trading endorsements, securing “alliances,” and even extracting concessions like campaign funding or political appointments.

    Others set up “friendly” parties designed to dilute opposition votes in targeted constituencies, often indirectly benefiting the ruling party. Some political entrepreneurs build parties as personal vehicles for regional ambitions or as escape routes from established parties where rival factions have captured the leadership.

    Some are escape pods for politicians frozen out of the ruling APC’s machinery. There is also a genuine democratic impulse among certain groups to create platforms for neglected ideas or underrepresented constituencies. But the transactional motive often eclipses these idealistic efforts, leaving most new parties as temporary instruments rather than enduring institutions.

    The democratic consequences of this kind of proliferation are profound. On the one hand, political pluralism is a constitutional right and an essential feature of democracy. On the other hand, too many weak, poorly organised parties can fragment the opposition, confuse voters, and degrade the quality of political competition.

    Many of these micro-parties lack ward-level presence, a consistent membership drive, and ideological coherence. Their manifestos are often generic, interchangeable documents crafted to meet registration requirements rather than to present a distinct policy vision. On election day, their presence on the ballot can be more of a distraction than a contribution, and after the polls close, many vanish from public life until the next cycle of political registration. This is not democracy — it is ballot clutter.

    This is not uniquely Nigerian. In India, a few thousand registered  parties exist, yet only a fraction of them is active or competitive at the state or national level. Brazil, notorious for its highly fragmented legislature, has struggled with unstable coalitions and governance deadlock; even now, it is reducing the number of effective parties.

    Indonesia allows many parties to register but imposes a parliamentary threshold—currently four per cent of the national vote—to limit legislative fragmentation. These examples, along with others from around the world, suggest that plurality can work, but only when paired with guardrails: stringent conditions for registration, clear criteria for participation, performance-based retention, and an electoral culture that rewards sustained engagement over fleeting visibility.

    Nigeria already has a version of this in place, courtesy of INEC’s power to deregister. We deregistered seventy-four parties in 2020 for failing to meet performance standards, and five years later, we are sprinting back to the same cliff.

    Yet loopholes remain especially, and the process is reactive rather than proactive. Registration conditionalities are lax. This is where both INEC and the ruling APC must shoulder greater responsibility. The need for electoral reform is urgent, and it is time for all stakeholders to act.

    For INEC, the task is to strengthen its oversight by tightening membership verification, enhancing financial transparency, and expanding its geographic spread requirements, as well as introducing periodic revalidation between election cycles.

    For the ruling party, the challenge lies in upholding political ethics: resisting the temptation to exploit party proliferation to splinter the opposition for short-term gain. A strong ruling party in a democracy wins competitive elections, not one that manipulates the field to run unopposed. Strong democracy requires a credible opposition, not a scattering of paper platforms that cannot even win a ward councillor seat.

    Here is the truth: this system needs reform. Reform doesn’t mean closing democratic space, but making it meaningful and orderly. Democracy must balance full freedom of association with the need for order. While freedom encourages many parties, order requires limiting their number to a manageable level.

    For example, Nigeria could require parties to have active structures in two-thirds of states, a verifiable membership, and annual audited financials. Parties failing to win National Assembly seats in two consecutive elections could lose registration.

    The message to new parties is clear: prove you’re more than just a logo and acronym . Build lasting movements—organize locally, offer real policies alternatives , and stay engaged between elections.

    Democracy is a contest of ideas, discipline, and trust. If the 2027 rush is allowed to run unchecked, we will end up with the worst of both worlds — a crowded ballot and an empty choice. Mergers should be incentivised through streamlined legal processes and possibly electoral benefits, such as ballot priority or increased public funding. At the same time, independent candidates should be allowed more room to compete, ensuring that reform does not entrench an exclusive two-party cartel.

    Ultimately, the deeper issue here is the erosion of public trust. Nigerians have no inherent hostility to new political formations; what they distrust are political outfits that emerge in the months leading up to an election, strike opaque deals, and disappear without a trace. Politicians must resist the temptation to treat politics as a seasonal business opportunity and instead invest in it as a long-term public service.

    As 2027 approaches, Nigeria stands at a familiar but critical juncture. The country can indulge the frenzy—rolling out yet another logo, staging yet another press conference, promising yet another “structure” that exists mainly on paper. Or it can seize this moment to rethink how political competition is structured: open but disciplined, plural but purposeful, competitive but coherent.

    Fewer parties will not automatically make Nigeria’s democracy healthier. But better parties—rooted in communities, committed to clear policies, and resilient beyond election season—just might. And that is a choice within reach, if those who hold the levers of power are willing to leave the system stronger than they found it.

  • Turning brain drain into bridges – By Dakuku Peterside

    Turning brain drain into bridges – By Dakuku Peterside

    On a humid Monday morning in Abuja, the air buzzed with anticipation as Vice-President Kashim Shettima hailed “a deliberate and commendable effort to align global expertise with national priorities”. The launch of Diaspora BRIDGE—Bridging Research, Innovation, Development & Global Engagement—was more than a ceremonial gesture.

    It marked a historic shift in Nigeria’s attempt to reconnect with its global citizens, not through sentiment or speeches, but through structure, strategy, and measurable impact. The BRIDGE initiative, championed by the Federal Ministry of Education under Dr. Maruf Tunji Alausa, aims to achieve what countless conferences, diaspora town halls, and memoranda have failed to do—create a genuine, functioning platform that matches need with capacity, and vision with delivery.

    With an estimated 18 million Nigerians living abroad, Nigeria has one of the largest diasporas in the world. These citizens are not just scattered individuals with ancestral nostalgia—they are decision-makers, researchers, doctors, entrepreneurs, engineers, and artists playing key roles in the economies of the United States, the United Kingdom, Canada, Germany, Saudi Arabia, South Africa, and dozens of other nations.

    According to the World Bank, Nigerians abroad remitted more than US$20.5 billion in 2024 alone. To put this in perspective, remittances now exceed Nigeria’s earnings from crude oil exports in foreign exchange value, accounting for nearly 6% of the national GDP. While oil is finite and volatile, these diaspora flows are resilient, sustained by personal bonds, family obligations, and increasingly, a sense of shared destiny.

    However, Nigeria’s development cannot be built solely on remittances. At their core, remittances are a private, household-level economic lifeline. They pay for school fees, food, rent, and emergency medical care—but they don’t necessarily build hospitals, upgrade curricula, or create high-paying jobs on a large scale.

    What the country has needed, and what BRIDGE attempts to deliver, is a structured mechanism for converting financial capital into human, intellectual, and social capital. This is the foundation for what development economists now call “brain circulation,” a step beyond brain drain, where the movement of skilled professionals out of a country is no longer a one-way loss but becomes a two-way exchange of knowledge, ideas, and investment.

    Consider the evidence. In 2022, a group of Nigerian cardiac surgeons from the US and the UK collaborated with Lagos University Teaching Hospital to perform over 25 complex open-heart surgeries in just two weeks. These procedures would have cost upwards of US$3 million if the patients had travelled abroad, a common practice among Nigeria’s middle and upper classes due to the country’s chronically under-resourced health sector.

    In the tech space, diaspora-founded companies such as Flutterwave and Paystack have collectively attracted over US$500 million in venture capital, created thousands of jobs, and inspired a generation of Nigerian digital entrepreneurs. These are not anecdotes—they are proof that when the right conditions are present, the diaspora can be a powerful lever for transformation.

    BRIDGE, at its core, is an attempt to replicate and scale these examples through a digital-first, policy-backed architecture. It provides a unified dashboard that connects verified Nigerian professionals abroad with domestic institutions in need of specific expertise.

    Whether it’s a university seeking a guest lecturer in biotechnology, a polytechnic looking for a mentor for its mechanical engineering students, or a research institute requiring collaboration on climate adaptation, the system allows both parties to declare their needs and capacities. Through integration with TETFund’s TERAS system, each engagement—be it a semester-long sabbatical, a virtual seminar series, or a joint research project—is tracked from initiation to completion, with clear milestones, timelines, and expected outcomes.

    The government has also removed a significant barrier: cost. In the past, diaspora outreach initiatives have faltered due to the financial burden placed on participants. With BRIDGE, logistics such as flights, accommodations, and transportation are covered, allowing professionals to volunteer their time without incurring personal expenses.

    This is expected to unlock contributions that could rival initiatives like India’s “Know India Program” or China’s “Thousand Talents Plan”, both of which have successfully mobilised their overseas citizens. India, for instance, raised more than US$11 billion through diaspora bonds in the 1990s and early 2000s to stabilise its economy, while China’s talent programs have seeded technology hubs in Shenzhen and Hangzhou.

    In less than a few weeks of soft deployment, more than 3,500 diaspora professionals had registered on the BRIDGE platform from countries including Canada, the United Kingdom, the United States, the UAE, Germany, and South Africa. They include neuroscientists at the Mayo Clinic, fintech analysts at JP Morgan, oncologists from Toronto General Hospital, and engineers from Siemens.

    Importantly, these professionals are not being paid stipends. The government covers the logistical expenses—such as flights, accommodation, and local transport—but participants volunteer their time and knowledge. This creates a model of shared commitment: the state removes barriers to engagement, and the diaspora contributes in good faith. This alone is revolutionary in a system long plagued by distrust and half-hearted implementation.

    What makes BRIDGE even more promising is its ambition to expand beyond the immediate education and health sectors. Discussions are underway to deploy similar diaspora engagement pathways in agriculture, linking agronomists and food scientists abroad with Nigeria’s value chain development initiatives.

    In the creative economy, plans are being shaped to connect Nigerian filmmakers, writers, and musicians in the diaspora with mentorship programs, content incubators, and cultural diplomacy networks at home. Even the climate and energy sectors are expected to benefit, as Nigeria looks to attract diaspora professionals involved in solar energy, carbon capture, and sustainability research.

    The initiative’s ambitions are equally bold in education and health. Nigeria ranks 118th in the QS World University Rankings, and its research output accounts for less than 0.5% of global scientific publications. BRIDGE aims to change that by connecting Nigerian scholars with world-class laboratories abroad.

    The first phase is heavily focused on STEM(M) and medical sciences, where shortages are most severe. The World Health Organisation notes that Nigeria has a doctor-to-patient ratio of 1:5,000, compared to the WHO’s recommended ratio of 1:600. If even 2,000 diaspora doctors rotate through Nigerian hospitals annually, as BRIDGE envisions, the country could significantly reduce its need for outbound medical tourism, which drains an estimated US$1.6 billion each year.

    But while the blueprint is robust, the challenges are undeniable. The infrastructural context in which BRIDGE operates is still far from ideal. Electricity is unreliable in many parts of the country, broadband penetration remains below 45%, and university staff unions still threaten periodic strikes.

    More troubling are the deeper, structural issues—poor inter-ministerial coordination, weak monitoring and evaluation culture, and a governance environment often riddled with opacity and short-term thinking. A 2023 NiDCOM survey found that 41% of diaspora professionals were unwilling to engage with Nigerian institutions due to concerns about corruption, a lack of follow-through, or fears of the politicisation of initiatives. For BRIDGE to succeed, these fears must be addressed not just with rhetoric but with data. Transparency dashboards, quarterly public reports, and independently audited scorecards must become non-negotiable.

    The international playbook is instructive. Between 1991 and 2001, India raised over US$11 billion through diaspora bonds, using that capital to stabilise its economy during critical fiscal crises. Today, Indian-Americans are instrumental in that country’s booming tech and pharmaceutical industries, many of them encouraged back home through targeted incentives and honorary appointments.

    China’s “Thousand Talents” program, despite controversies, has successfully brought back hundreds of scientists who have gone on to lead innovation hubs in cities such as Shenzhen, Hangzhou, and Beijing. South Korea’s diaspora integration model, facilitated through KOTRA and other trade networks, has made it one of the most effective developers of global industrial competitiveness.

    For Nigeria, BRIDGE presents an opportunity to create its own success story. If the planned US$10 billion diaspora fund is launched alongside this platform, with reduced transfer costs and attractive co-investment opportunities, it could unlock capital for infrastructure and innovation hubs nationwide. If managed transparently and linked to measurable development outcomes, it could co-fund innovation hubs, public infrastructure, and entrepreneurial capital in partnership with BRIDGE.

    Tax holidays, fast-track visas, diaspora voting rights, and intellectual property protections must be aligned with contributions, not handed out as symbolic gestures but tied to active participation in knowledge, investment, and human capital flows. Career advancement for diaspora professionals must go hand in hand with capacity development for home institutions.

    The conversations following the BRIDGE launch captured this new mood. University Dons spoke of the chance to redesign their curricula with global input, finally. Tech entrepreneurs discussed establishing virtual exchange programs that could reach students in remote areas of Nigeria. Medical consultants discussed telemedicine partnerships with rural clinics.

    Medical directors envisioned specialist exchange programs that could train residents and reduce brain drain. Tech hubs looked to establish virtual co-working clusters with Nigerian professionals in Toronto, Berlin and Dubai. These are not the dreams of a distant future—they are the low-hanging fruit of deliberate policy and sustained political will.The momentum felt tangible, almost contagious.

    When the speeches faded and the cameras turned off, what remained was the sense that Nigeria might finally be taking its global talent pool seriously and converting it into a domestic force multiplier. Diaspora engagement is no longer just about sending money; it’s about building institutions, accelerating innovation, mentoring the next generation, and restoring public confidence.

    BRIDGE is not perfect—it’s only a beginning. However, if Nigeria remains committed, if it fulfils its promises and follows through on its commitments, the country might soon discover that its most significant natural resource is not underground, but scattered across the globe, waiting to reconnect not with a slogan, but with a plan.

  • New wave of malnutrition and the road to 2027 – By Dakuku Peterside

    New wave of malnutrition and the road to 2027 – By Dakuku Peterside

    As political season begins in Nigeria ahead of the 2027 elections, we are beginning to see another round of promises, slogans, and declarations of vision. Billboards will soon rise, rallies will be held, and political actors jostle for public attention. But beneath this loud, choreographed performance, a quieter tragedy unfolds in the country’s northern belt—children are wasting away, not in war, not in displacement, but in silence.

    The contrast is jarring while politicians vie for airtime, a grave, slow-motion emergency is eroding the potential of an entire generation. Across northeast and northwest geopolitical zones, severe acute malnutrition has reached levels comparable to what is often seen in war times. Yet no formal war is raging. Instead, an absence of attention, of priority, of leadership is doing the damage.

    I first sensed the scale of that dissonance on a sweltering July afternoon in in my visit to one of the northern states. A nurse at a community health post held up a measuring tape— green for healthy, red for danger—around the twig‑thin arm of a three‑year‑old girl. The dial fell deep into crimson. “We see wartime numbers,” the nurse whispered, shaking her head, “but there is no war.” That single sentence captures the moral puzzle now facing Nigeria: How can such devastation grow in the relative calm of peacetime?

    In clinics scattered across the North, community health workers continue their daily rituals: measuring the circumference of toddlers’ arms, documenting weight loss, and trying, with limited resources, to stem a tide of hunger that has outpaced both state responses and national outrage. According to the International Committee of the Red Cross, over 3.7 million people are acutely food insecure in northern Nigeria.

    However, this figure, as dire as it is, likely underestimates the accurate scale of the crisis. Many remote villages receive no formal visits, no surveys, no clinical screenings—only the steady arrival of hunger and poverty. Factor them in, and the count edges toward five million. Even these aggregates blur the lived reality. In Zamfara’s dusty hamlets, entire households survive on a single meagre meal; in Yobe’s IDP camps, mothers dilute porridge to stretch one cup for three children.

    The UN Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs (OCHA) had warned that in 2024 alone, more than 700,000 children in the region suffered from severe acute malnutrition (SAM), with over 100,000 of them at imminent risk of death without urgent medical intervention. The figures in 2025 will be even more staggering, given the recent evidence of malnutrition in the area. Médecins Sans Frontières (MSF), also known as Doctors Without Borders, has raised alarm over the growing number of malnourished children in Nigeria, revealing that it admits more than 400 cases daily in Kebbi State alone.

    Malnutrition is rarely dramatic—it arrives in shrunken bellies and dulled eyes, in children too tired to cry and mothers too weak to breastfeed. It creeps in through drought, displacement, conflict, food inflation, and broken systems. And because it does not explode, it often does not make headlines. Unlike terrorism or natural disasters, it is quiet. But it is just as deadly. Every single day in Nigeria, approximately 2,300 children under five die, and malnutrition is a contributing factor in nearly half of these deaths.

    The painful truth about this crisis is its preventability. Hunger in northern Nigeria is not a natural disaster, but a consequence of a system that values political optics over structural reform. During campaigns, politicians often launch food drives and cash transfers with great fanfare—short-term gestures that provide immediate relief and long-lasting headlines.

    However, these interventions are rarely part of a long-term strategy. They do not enhance food production, maternal health, access to clean water, or early detection systems. There are no incentives to invest in reforms that take years to show results. Why build resilience when elections are won by what people can see now?

    The cost of ignoring malnutrition is profound and enduring. A stunted child is not just a personal tragedy but a national one. Nigeria has the second-highest burden of stunted children globally, with an estimated twelve million under the age of five affected by chronic undernutrition.

    Nearly one in three Nigerian children is stunted, which means their physical and mental growth is permanently impaired. These children will likely do worse in school, earn less over their lifetimes, and face greater risks of chronic illness. The World Bank estimates that malnutrition can reduce a country’s GDP by up to 11 per cent when you account for lower productivity, higher health costs, and lost potential.

    Every untreated case of malnutrition is an invoice deferred to the future. Neuroscientists remind us that the first 1,000 days of life shape the brain’s wiring. A stunted child may never fully catch up cognitively, no matter the quality of later schooling. Economists convert those impairments into lost productivity, estimating that Nigeria could be forfeiting 2–3 per cent of its GDP annually.

    Public‑health accountants tally the hospital admissions for pneumonia and diarrhoeal disease that soar when immune systems are starved of zinc, iron, and vitamin A. Sociologists track the link between food scarcity and unrest, noting how hunger can erode social trust faster than any televised grievance. Put differently: malnutrition is not just a humanitarian concern—it is a stealth saboteur of national security, economic diversification, and educational reform. Ignore it, and every other development target becomes more complex and more expensive to hit.

    Children who come to school hungry are less likely to concentrate, more likely to drop out, and far less likely to escape poverty in adulthood. In northern states like Kebbi and Zamfara, school absenteeism is often directly linked to hunger. According to UNICEF, 70% of school-age children in food-insecure households miss more than three days of school a month. The cycle is cruel and self-reinforcing: hunger leads to poor learning, which in turn leads to unemployment and poverty; poverty then feeds back into hunger.

    And yet, there are glimmers of what is possible when leadership is guided by vision and conscience. A state in the southeast has introduced a “one balanced diet a day” policy for all school-age children, recognising the devastating effects of hunger on education, health, and long-term human capital. This singular act, although modest in scale, presents a transparent and replicable model that other states should adopt urgently.

    It shifts nutrition from being an emergency response to a daily, institutionalised commitment, integrating school feeding with agricultural and health systems. Already, early evaluations show improved school attendance, weight gains in children, and even local economic stimulation through the sourcing of produce from nearby farms.

    Dr. Ali Pate, Nigeria’s Coordinating Minister of Health and Social Welfare, is leading a comprehensive national effort to combat malnutrition as a public health emergency. His multi-sectoral approach combines immediate treatment with long-term prevention strategies.

    Treatment centres equipped with locally produced, ready-to-use therapeutic foods (RUTF) have been established in the northeast and northwest, achieving recovery rates of up to 90%. Funding has significantly increased, with $11 billion allocated by the federal government and an additional $60 million from UNICEF to support healthcare infrastructure and nutrition programs.

    Community-level early detection systems using MUAC tapes are being scaled up, and over 40,000 health workers are being trained to identify and manage malnutrition. Through the National Strategic Plan of Action on Nutrition and the N774 program, nutrition services now reach most local government areas.

    Nationwide implementation of standardised guidelines, micronutrient supplementation, food fortification, and public nutrition education campaigns has reached many caregivers. Crucially, Dr. Pate has unified efforts across ministries and sectors through a central coordination platform, accompanied by new accountability mechanisms, to track progress and ensure sustainability.

    What is a pragmatic roadmap between now and 2027? Make nutrition politically contagious. Party manifestos must feature explicit, budgeted nutrition targets—malnutrition cannot survive the scrutiny of voters. Scale what already works. Community Management of Acute Malnutrition (CMAM) programmes, when fully funded, can treat a child for less than the daily cost of a campaign rally.

    Mandatory fortification of flour, cassava, and cooking oil can reach millions silently and efficiently—re-engineer agriculture for climate reality. Drought‑tolerant millet varieties, solar‑powered boreholes, and warehouse‑receipt systems to curb post‑harvest loss will outlast any campaign poster. None of these actions requires reinventing the wheel. They demand, instead, a political imagination wide enough to see past the next podium.

    Still, the work ahead remains monumental. These initiatives, while promising, must be scaled aggressively and protected from the shifting winds of politics. If Nigeria is to stand any chance of reversing the tide of child malnutrition, this moment—this narrow window between now and 2027—must become the tipping point. Every state must follow the example set by Anambra. Every governor must internalise that a child fed today is a citizen empowered tomorrow. Every candidate must treat child nutrition not as a talking point but as a policy cornerstone.

    If Nigeria’s political class decides that malnutrition is not a side issue but the central test of stewardship, the nascent election season for the 2027 elections could mark the start of a renaissance in child survival and, by extension, national renewal. The road is narrow, the window short. Yet history is replete with moments when political will, once awakened, turned statistics into stories of recovery.

    The children of northern Nigeria deserve that pivot—deserve to swap the colour red on a measuring tape for the bright green of health, growth, and possibility. If Nigeria’s political class truly wishes to build a country that works for all, it must start by ensuring no child falls through the cracks of neglect. Let the road to 2027 be paved not just with promises, but with full bellies, thriving children, and a generation finally given a fair start.

  • What’s going on with education in Nigeria? – By Dakuku Peterside

    What’s going on with education in Nigeria? – By Dakuku Peterside

    Walk into almost any public school in Nigeria, and you feel the weight of history pressing down on the desks. Much of the system still operates to the rhythm of colonial-era regulations and syllabuses, which were conceived for a world that no longer exists. The design, the assumptions, the teaching style—all of it points backwards.

    Students memorise facts to pass exams, teachers rush to “complete the syllabus,” and education officials track school success by the number of children registered, not by what or how they learn. The result is a production line that manufactures certificates but struggles to produce thinkers, innovators, or adaptable workers.

    Across the country, you hear the same complaints from employers: graduates who struggle with writing, problem-solving, collaboration, or basic digital skills. The disconnect is no longer anecdotal—it’s structural. It is an indictment of decades of denial, neglect, and inertia.

    Despite the deep-rooted problems, there’s a sense of optimism in the air. The 2024/2025 school year didn’t just bring new speeches and slogans, but also new tools—something that has long been missing from Nigeria’s education reforms: reliable, accessible, and actionable data.

    Until now, education planning in Nigeria was akin to weather forecasting without satellites. Budgets were allocated based on guesswork, and staffing decisions were influenced by local politics and exigencies rather than the needs of students. Dropout rates, learning outcomes, and school performance were largely unknown. However, with the advent of data-driven reform, even the most well-meaning interventions now have the potential to deliver results.

    But the fog is lifting, and what we’re beginning to see is as sobering as it is transformative. During the pilot phase of the Nigeria Education Data Initiative (NEDI), which includes the repositioned Nigeria Education Management Information System —a digital infrastructure that collects and stores records of schools and individual students— data from 11 states revealed that approximately 12 million children were enrolled in primary school.

    Yet by junior secondary school, that number had dropped to 1.76 million, and only 1.23 million made it to senior secondary school. Nearly 9 million children disappeared from the system between Primary school and JSS/SSS. For decades, these gaps were obscured in averages or attributed to vague notions of poverty or culture. NEDI is making the crisis real, personal, and measurable.

    What was once a distant problem is now a national emergency, starkly depicted in charts and decimals. These numbers don’t just represent policy failure, but also individual dreams cut short. Every dropout is a lost opportunity, a potential health worker, teacher, engineer, artist, or entrepreneur denied a future they were never properly introduced to.

    Girls are forced out of the system due to early marriage, household chores, or distance from schools. Boys drift into informal jobs, street vending, or crime. And now, for the first time, we can see the dropout spike in real-time. The Nigeria Education Data Initiative (NEDI) has highlighted the extent of our past failures.

    At the heart of this shift is not just data for the sake of data, but a recognition that without evidence, reform is merely rhetoric. NEDI, championed by the Minister for Education, Dr. Tunji Alausa, is Nigeria’s first serious attempt to build a nationwide, cloud-based education management system with student-centred data.

    Each child has a digital profile tracking their academic progress, behavioural records, attendance, health, and contact history. Teachers, school heads, ministry officials, parents, and even students themselves have role-based access to this information. This isn’t just a dashboard; it’s a lifeline for planning, equity, and accountability.

    Why does this matter so much? For the first time, we have education data across all levels of Nigeria’s education sector to support decision-making, policy analysis, planning, monitoring, and management. Education planners can track precisely how many girls in Zamfara transitioned from Junior Secondary School 3 (JSS3) to Senior Secondary School 1 (SS1).

    School leaders in Bayelsa can identify precisely how many desks are missing before the next academic year. Because curriculum developers in Abuja can analyse where children consistently underperform and target support accordingly. Because parents can follow their children’s academic and behavioural growth, and teachers can tailor interventions for those at risk of falling behind. This is a quiet revolution—technical, yes, but also deeply human.

    Yet, as with any good data system, NEDI is not just revealing problems. It’s also helping us ask better questions. For example, why are so few students choosing technical and vocational education (TVET)? In the same pilot data set, only about 63,000 students across the 11 states enrolled in technical colleges or vocational training centres, despite widespread demand for skills in construction, ICT, agriculture, and the creative economy.

    This gap isn’t just an education issue—it’s a labour market crisis in slow motion. We are producing many graduates who struggle to find employment, while employers face difficulties in finding skilled technicians, artisans, and service providers. It is a perfect storm of misalignment.

    Then there’s the curriculum itself. Even for those who stay in school, what they learn often bears little relation to what the economy requires. The national curriculum, rigid and outdated, still treats subjects such as entrepreneurship, coding, environmental literacy, and financial planning as optional or peripheral.

    The result is a generation of young people graduating with theoretical knowledge that does little to prepare them for modern jobs or civic life. We cannot discuss job creation or economic diversification without addressing this disconnect.

    Dr. Alausa’s approach is not to overhaul the system overnight but to let data guide every step of change. His team is prioritising technical and vocational pathways as a legitimate and respected alternative for students who cannot—or choose not to—follow the traditional academic route.

    New funding and partnerships are being directed toward making TVET more accessible, aspirational, and aligned with industry needs. Online schooling, starting in September this year, is also being introduced for primary, junior and senior secondary students, particularly in areas such as conflict zones, urban slums, coastal regions, and nomadic communities. By expanding access through technology, the system can reach children whom the traditional brick-and-mortar school model has long abandoned.

    While public schools dominate headlines, non-state schools (NSNs)—including faith-based, private, community, and home-school networks—teach an estimated 40 per cent of Nigerian children. Their growth has been explosive but uneven, with quality ranging from world-class to woeful.

    For years, they have operated in a grey area—serving a growing portion of the population but without consistent standards or oversight. The new National Policy on Non-State Schools (NPNSN) recognises their essential role, sets minimum standards for infrastructure, teacher qualification, and safety, and provides a regulatory framework to improve quality, safety, and collaboration. It also introduces a voucher system for out-of-school children enrolled in accredited non-state schools—a bold move toward inclusive financing. The message is clear: the government welcomes help but insists on rules.

    Meanwhile, reform is being localised and humanised through the Universal Basic Education, School-Based Management Committee and School Improvement Programme (SBMC-SIP). This initiative empowers communities to take real ownership of their schools by enabling them to manage small-scale infrastructure and accountability projects.

    Alongside this, the Teacher Professional Development (TPD) strategy seeks to rebuild the capacity of educators through new guides, peer mentoring, and a modular training rollout that supports the 2025/2026 curriculum shift. After all, no education system can rise above the quality of its teachers.

    By 2030, we should be able to log into NEDI and see transition rates above 90 per cent in every state. We should see tripled enrolment in vocational education, gender parity in science classrooms, rising national assessment scores, and a decline in dropouts across every demographic. If the numbers stay stagnant, we will know that the momentum has been lost. That is the power—and discomfort—of real-time data: it holds us accountable to the children behind the statistics.

    For too long, Nigeria’s education debate has swung between despair and denial. The real task now is to occupy the hard but hopeful middle ground of stewardship — refusing to romanticise the past but also resisting cynicism about the future.

    That means rejecting the fantasy that reform will be easy—but also refusing the excuse that change is impossible. Stewardship means celebrating civil society tutors who coach girls after farm chores, critiquing budgets that underfund rural teacher housing, asking politicians for evidence rather than platitudes, and—above all—letting numbers guide our outrage and our hope.

    It means investing in data not as an end in itself but as a mirror that tells us who we are, and a compass that shows us where to go. It means elevating the voices of parents, teachers, and learners, not just policymakers. And it means asking more complex questions every year, not fewer.

    For the first time in a generation, the tools to do so are on the table. The servers are spinning, the dashboards are live, and the pilot data are whispering their truths. We are at a fragile but undeniable moment. What remains is collective resolve: from ministry war rooms in Abuja to chalk-dust-filled classrooms in Akwa Ibom, from software developers in Lagos to parent councils in Bauchi.

    If we listen to the data—and one another—we may yet turn Nigeria’s vast education deserts into fields of possibility, where every child’s potential is mapped, measured, and nurtured. If we choose to listen—carefully, consistently, courageously—then Nigeria may finally build an education system that doesn’t just enrol children but uplifts them. Not just a factory of certificates, but a ladder to opportunity. Not just a promise, but a plan. And this time, the plan is backed by numbers. The moment is fragile, but it is real. And it is ours to lose.

  • Is the world shutting its door to Nigeria? – By Dakuku Peterside

    For years, Nigerians have walked through the world with a quiet pride, knowing that their talent, resilience, and creativity were respected far beyond the country’s borders. Our people have built lives in faraway places, contributing as doctors, engineers, professors, artists, and entrepreneurs.

    From Silicon Valley to the lecture halls of Oxford, UK, and Philadelphia, US, from the oil rigs of Alberta to the studios of Nollywood, the Nigerian spirit has pushed boundaries and opened doors that seemed locked to others. Our diaspora’s remittances, now estimated at over $20 billion annually, have been a vital source of foreign exchange and a lifeline for millions of families.

    Our cultural exports—music that fills arenas in London, novels that shape global discourse, fashion that turns heads in Paris—have ensured that even when our country stumbles, our people remind the world of what Nigeria can be.

    Yet that assurance is now steadily eroding. Behind the headlines of visa denials, visa validity cuts, and new travel restrictions lies a deeper story about how our standing in the world is slipping. For too long, we have coasted on a narrative of potential without doing the difficult work of securing it.

    Our economy’s persistent underperformance, with GDP growth hovering around a meagre 2.3% in 2024 despite our large population, leaves millions behind. Youth unemployment officially stands at over 53%, driving the desperation that pushes so many to seek opportunities abroad.

    Diplomatically, we have often undercut our interests by failing to show up where it matters. As of mid-2024, Nigeria still had vacant ambassadorial posts in key capitals like Washington D.C., Ottawa, and Riyadh—posts that should be filled by seasoned diplomats who can advocate for our people and negotiate fairer visa deals.

    The United States now caps most non-immigrant Nigerian visas at three months, single entry, compared to the ten-year multiple-entry visas routinely given to citizens from countries with stronger diplomatic ties. Thirty other African countries are affected but Nigeria stands out .  In 2024 alone, the US denied nearly 60% of B1/B2 visa applications from Nigeria, compared to an average global rejection rate of about 27%.

    And so, country after country has begun to raise its walls. The United States’ visa validity cut for Nigerians to three months for a single entry sends a message. The message is clear: “They do not trust Nigerians to stay longer, and they do not want Nigerians to put down roots”.

    Once a dream destination for young Nigerians looking to build careers, the UAE has repeatedly suspended visa streams and imposed ever-tighter background checks that make migration feel more like a lottery than a process. The UAE has suspended, reviewed and reinstated its visa policies multiple times in the last five years, citing fraud concerns and overstays.

    Canada, once an open door for our students and skilled workers, now demands higher proof-of-funds and rejects study applications at unprecedented rates, often with reasons that feel humiliatingly vague. In Canada, the rejection rate for Nigerian study permits has been staggering. In 2024, over 60% of Nigerian study visa applications were rejected, even as Canada welcomed record numbers from other countries. Students have lost entire academic years waiting for decisions that never came.

    Even the UK, with its deep ties to Nigeria’s past and present, has tightened its immigration screws. New rules introduced in 2024 prevent many international students from bringing their dependents, a move that disproportionately impacts Nigerians, who accounted for over 40% of the dependents brought by international students to the UK between 2021 and 2023. For families already juggling high tuition fees and living costs, this change has shattered dreams of studying abroad together and forced painful choices about who stays behind.

    These changes are justified officially by talk of “security and technical benchmarks.” But we know better. Underneath the paperwork is a deeper question: does the world still trust Nigeria to send people who will play by the rules, build communities, and contribute meaningfully? Or are we increasingly seen as a risk to be contained? It is a painful thing to say out loud, but it is our reality today. The image of Nigeria abroad has become a contradiction.

    On one side, there is the brilliance of our best minds and the unstoppable energy of our entrepreneurs and artists. On the other hand, there is the lingering shadow of internet scams, organised fraud, and sensational headlines of Nigerians involved in criminal networks. There is also the international community’s concern about the trajectory of our economy – it does not inspire confidence that the “Japa” syndrome would not continue unabated. The poor state of our economy is our bane. There is a direct correlation between “japa”and youth unemployment, economic uncertainties and economic hopelessness. Any improvement would positively impact the japa.

    For those caught in the middle, the consequences are heartbreaking. Young Nigerians, full of hope and promise, spend sleepless nights gathering documents, paying exorbitant fees, and waiting months for visa decisions that often end in rejection with no clear explanation. Brilliant students have their study plans disrupted because a three-month visa is worthless for a two-year degree. Businesspeople miss opportunities because they cannot secure multiple-entry visas to meet international partners and sign deals.

    Skilled professionals who could gain new knowledge abroad and send money home find their paths blocked by suspicion and bureaucracy. Families that once relied on remittances now watch their loved ones languish in endless queues outside embassies; their futures locked behind counters and glass walls. Families save for years, selling land and emptying bank accounts to fund study abroad plans, only to see dreams dashed in a single line at the consulate window.

    In response, Nigeria has tried to flex its limited leverage. We have suspended certain trade deals, especially those involving critical minerals like lithium that are increasingly in demand for global green-energy transitions. Officials issue strongly worded statements condemning “one-sided arrangements” that treat Nigeria as a problem to be managed rather than a partner to be respected.

    There is renewed talk of pivoting towards BRICS and other emerging partners—China, India, Brazil, and Russia—who might offer trade and investment without the heavy governance conditions attached by the West. But these moves will not carry real weight unless we address the reasons the West feels justified in raising its walls in the first place. Some see this as a healthy pivot towards greater foreign-policy independence. But there is a danger too—that this realignment becomes an excuse to ignore the deeper work we must do at home.

    Underneath it all lies the same hard truth: insecurity, poor governance, and economic fragility. Our security crisis, from terrorism in the northeast to banditry in the northwest, makes headlines that foreign governments cannot ignore. Investors and immigration officers alike read the same reports of kidnappings, attacks, and communities living in fear.

    Foreign investors and foreign governments read these reports; they adjust their risk calculations accordingly. Western aid and visa regimes increasingly link cooperation to governance and human-rights records—areas where our improvements have been too slow, too piecemeal, and too often reversed at the next election cycle. Weak governance and slow justice systems send a signal that corruption can thrive unchecked. Why should any country trust us to keep our commitments?

    If we want to rebuild trust and reopen doors, the solution is not begging for visas or threatening boycotts. It is the hard, unglamorous work of restoring credibility. We must build an economy that truly works for our people, where opportunity does not depend on escaping to foreign shores. We must strengthen our security forces and our courts, so that law-abiding citizens are protected and criminals cannot tarnish our name. We must fight corruption at every level so that we are seen as a nation that keeps its promises and uses its resources for the public good.

    Our embassies must stop being graveyards of empty offices and instead become hubs of skilled negotiators who can advocate for our people’s mobility with facts, not excuses. We must invest in telling our true stories—the stories of young innovators, artists, professionals, and honest traders whose success should define us more than the few criminals who have sold our name cheap. This is not just about image; it is about facts. The world must see that Nigeria is serious about its future, so they can believe in the future we offer to their shores.

    Visa restrictions are more than bureaucratic hurdles. They are a mirror reflecting how the world sees us. They are red flags waving in our faces, telling us that we are falling behind where it matters most: the trust and respect of the global community. But we are not powerless. With serious reforms, a clear diplomatic strategy, and a collective national effort to live up to the promise our people have always carried, we can change that image. We can earn back the welcome that our parents and grandparents once knew—a world that opens its doors not out of charity, but because Nigerians have proven, repeatedly, that wherever we go, we bring value.

    Rebuilding that trust is not about begging for open doors; it is about earning them through bold action, honest governance, and a clear signal that we will not settle for being seen as a risk to be contained. Only then can we stand before the world again with confidence, passports in hand, doors open not because of charity but because we have made ourselves welcome guests—partners, not problems, wherever we choose to go.

  • What can Nigeria learn from China’s electricity revolution? – By Dakuku Peterside

    The moment of revelation came unexpectedly on a high-speed train leaving Beijing, where a screen showed that 36% of the train’s traction power came from wind energy. Outside, rows of wind turbines turned gracefully under the sun. For someone familiar with Nigeria’s unreliable grid—where diesel generators hum through the night and candles are often the only light—this was astonishing. By nightfall, Shenzhen’s LED-lit skyline shone brighter than Nigeria’s entire grid on its brightest day.

    After ten days engaging with institutions and professionals in Singapore, Qatar, and China, I am convinced Nigeria’s energy independence is achievable. The raw materials and technology to power Nigeria exist; what is missing is an unwavering commitment to unite our resources under a common vision. If China’s electricity generation can soar from just over  1,300 TWh in 2000 to over 10,000 TWh by 2024 and if Uruguay, a small country with no fossil fuels reserves, can leap to  90% renewable electricity in a decade, then Nigeria, blessed with abundant sunlight, deep gas reserves, and hydropower potential, can close its electricity gap in five years.

    Electricity is more than illumination—it is the backbone of modern life. It is the force that powers cocoa presses in Ondo, preserves fish catches for the market in the Niger Delta, drives vaccine cold-chain trucks delivering vaccines to remote clinics, fuels data centres, and charges batteries for homes in bustling cities. In Lagos, factories lose up to 40% of their profits due to reliance on diesel generators during outages. In a world where the cost of backup power can turn a manufacturer from profit to loss, a reliable grid power is nothing less than an economic lifeline. The potential economic benefits of dependable electricity demand decisive action.

    Reliable electricity is not just about balance sheets and national budget narratives; it is about social stability and well-being. The International Energy Agency notes that each additional gigawatt of dependable power can support between 40,000 and 50,000 jobs in construction, manufacturing, and services. This potential for job creation is a beacon of hope for Nigeria’s youth, comprising approximately 70% of the population. More jobs mean fewer vulnerable youths susceptible to insurgency or crime; electricity thus becomes a preventive measure for security. Its social benefits underscore its importance and the gravity of the situation, motivating us to work towards it.

    At the same time, scarcity also means lost opportunity. For example, Bitcoin mining consumes approximately 33 TWh annually, comparable to Denmark’s annual electricity production. Where power is cheap and abundant, tech firms thrive; where it is rationed and generator-dependent, capital and high-skilled jobs flee, along with tax revenues and tech cluster growth.

    Most importantly, universal electricity saves lives. Clinics with reliable refrigeration reduce maternal and infant mortality. Schools with dependable power extend learning hours and offer digital curricula to children in rural areas, providing them with access to educational resources. Streetlights deter crime and help women feel safe. Access to electricity correlates strongly with literacy, life expectancy, and income. These social benefits underscore the urgency and importance of ensuring reliable electricity for all Nigerians, emphasising the need for immediate action.

    China’s story demonstrates how quickly a nation can pivot when policy is clear and capital is welcome. In 2000, China’s grid produced just over 1,300 TWh, approximately one-third of the U.S. output. By 2006, it had surpassed the U.S., and by 2024, it had generated over 10,000 TWh, nearly twice the U.S. output. How? This was driven by legally binding Five-Year Plan targets for capacity, efficiency, and emissions, which provincial governments and state enterprises implemented consistently. The annual investment in generation, transmission, and distribution peaked at approximately 5% of GDP, significantly higher than Nigeria’s rate of under 1%.

    China then diversified its energy mix: coal remained the backbone, but hydroelectric dams, solar farms, wind parks, and nuclear reactors grew rapidly. By 2024, non-fossil sources accounted for over 38% of generation. Transparent auctions and two-part tariffs -fixed network charges plus variable consumption charges-aligned incentives for consumers, utilities, and investors. Oversight by a Supra-ministerial National Energy Commission, chaired by the Premier, ensured sector accountability and minimised bureaucratic conflicts. Programmes like Made in China 2025 have invested billions in solar chemistry, grid batteries, and power electronics, driving down costs and increasing capacity.

    China is not a perfect analogue for Nigeria, with different political and fiscal realities. However, its trajectory reveals a key truth: a country can add the equivalent of America’s entire grid in one generation when policy is clear and capital is welcome.

    Uruguay offers another lesson. In the early 2000s, it faced drought-prone hydropower, oil imports for thermal plants, rolling blackouts, and tariff spikes. In 2005, all political parties agreed on a 25-year energy policy ensuring bipartisanship and stability. Transparent auctions attracted global wind and solar developers. Within eight years, Uruguay installed 1.3 GW of wind capacity—the highest per capita worldwide—plus solar and biomass projects. By 2016, renewables generated over 90% of electricity, tariffs had stabilised, and Uruguay exported a surplus of power to Argentina. The secret was not sheer size or resource advantage, but a credible, long-term plan backed by market discipline.

    It’s heartening to see the federal government take such decisive action to reshape Nigeria’s electricity landscape. The repeal of the Electric Power Sector Reform Act of 2005 and its replacement with the Electricity Act 2023 is more than a legal adjustment—it feels like the opening of a new chapter. Beyond simply rewriting the rules, we have witnessed the very architecture of our power sector undergo a transformation. By dividing the Transmission Company of Nigeria into two distinct bodies —the Transmission Service Provider, which maintains towers, lines, and substations, and the Independent System Operator, which coordinates the flow of power —there is hope. There is something fundamentally reassuring about having a dedicated steward for our physical network and a separate, impartial referee for load allocation among generators, distributors, and consumers.

    And yet, as promising as these reforms are, I cannot help but pause and wonder: Will structural change alone bridge the yawning gap between the electricity we have and the electricity we need? True transformation will demand more than new acronyms and fresh mandates. We will need a power regime that ignites investment, drives innovation, and sustains long-term growth—one that reaches into every corner of this country and lights up the lives of all Nigerians. In this moment of transition, I am reminded that reform is always a beginning, never an end. The Electricity Act 2023, along with the creation of ISO and TSP, marks a bold step forward. But the journey toward an abundant, reliable power—one that can fuel homes, industries, and imaginations – remains ahead of us.

    Mapping Nigeria onto those blueprints reveals the scale of our challenge, but also the path out. We have 13 GW of nameplate capacity but less than 5 GW reliably available; combined technical and commercial losses exceed 40%; a generation mix skewed to gas and hydro; fourteen primary policy documents since 2001; a single-buyer market struggling to pay gas plants; retail tariffs below cost; and almost no R&D investment for home-grown solutions. China and Uruguay faced similar gaps at the start of reform; the difference lies in governance, investment discipline, and market design.

    None of these gaps is immutable. Nigeria needs a five-year Power Sufficiency Roadmap, enshrined in law, to ensure stability during periods of political transition. This roadmap should be overseen by a presidential Energy Council with a real-time dashboard tracking capacity, dispatch, losses, finance, and service quality. The Transmission Company of Nigeria should be ring-fenced and spun into an independent system operator, funded by sovereign guarantees, green climate funds, and pension bonds. New generation projects should leverage Nigeria’s advantages, including utility-scale solar in the north with domestic panel assembly, run-of-river hydro in the Middle Belt, gas peaking plants in Lagos, and gas plus near-shore wind farms along the coast. Tariffs must be cost-reflective, offering a subsidised lifeline block of approximately 50 kWh per month. Digital meters and mobile money will target subsidies precisely to the poorest households.

    Ten per cent of the Rural Electrification Fund should seed university-industry consortia developing battery recycling, smart meter firmware, and modular inverters tailored to local conditions. Heavy-load offenders—such as illegal crypto mines and inefficient data centres—should face time-of-use penalties or bans, thereby freeing a few terawatt-hours for factories and clinics. If executed faithfully, Nigeria could achieve 20 GW of dependable capacity within five years, with unserved energy below 5%, grid losses cut by two-thirds, and reliable power in every urban centre. Manufacturing output would rise, household bills would fall by up to 30%, and over three million jobs would emerge in generation, contracting, assembly, and services. Clinics and schools would run uninterrupted; entrepreneurs would no longer budget for diesel; foreign direct investment would flow into tech parks and export zones.

    Nigeria has richer sunlight than Spain, deeper gas reserves than Norway, and hydropower potential rivalling that of Ethiopia. Our entrepreneurial spirit, mobile money networks, and growing digital workforce equip us to leapfrog legacy barriers. What remains is the decision to marshal policy, capital, and markets toward power sufficiency for all.

    China demonstrates that a nation can turbocharge its grid with single-minded policy, and capital feels secure. Uruguay indicates that even a small, import-dependent country can become a net power exporter within a decade. Nigeria has the resources and technology; what it lacks is coordinated conviction. Progress is a choice. If Nigeria adopts coherent policy, disciplined investment, and market incentives, five years from now, 2024 will be remembered not as a year of darkness but as the turning point toward reliable, affordable electricity for all. The switch is within reach. Let’s flip it.

  • Reactions as Dakuku Peterside set to release book exposing unvarnished truth about Nigeria

    Reactions as Dakuku Peterside set to release book exposing unvarnished truth about Nigeria

    Public Affairs Analyst and Columnist, Dr. Dakuku Peterside is set to launch his book, a collection of essays, the publishers have said exposed unvarnished truth about Nigeria as a nation.

    The book with the title, “Beneath the Surface: Essays on Nigeria’s Chequered Journey”, is set for international and Nigerian release in October 2025, with public presentations planned in Lagos and Abuja.

    According to Masobe Books, the publishers, the “explosive compilation sparks conversations on economics and politics, challenging preconceived notions and uncovering the authentic soul of a nation on the rise”.

    Masobe Books revealed that Beneath the Surface is the key to unlocking the vibrant, complex, and ever-evolving narrative of an introspective look at Nigeria.

    “The book is set for international and Nigerian release in October 2025, with public presentations planned in Lagos and Abuja.

    “This highly anticipated work is a compelling collection of essays that peels back the layers to reveal the unvarnished truth about this remarkable nation.

    “From the pulsating heartbeat of its economy to the intricacies of governance, from the vibrant spirit of its youth to the enigmatic realm of leadership, from the scars of conflict to Nigeria’s dynamic role on the world stage, this book provides a 360-degree perspective, leaving no stone unturned.

    “With penetrating insight and unwavering thoroughness, these essays deliver a powerful exposé of Nigeria’s multifaceted reality.

    “This explosive compilation sparks conversations on economics and politics, challenging preconceived notions and uncovering the authentic soul of a nation on the rise.

    “Beneath the Surface is the key to unlocking the vibrant, complex, and ever-evolving narrative of an introspective look at Nigeria,” the publishers stated.

    Meanwhile, anticipatory reactions have trailed the release of the book by Dr. Peterside.

    Commenting on Beneath the Surface, Professor P. L. O. Lumumba stated: “a manual that every conscientious person in authority should read”.

    Also commenting, Bishop Mattew Kukah stated: “a window for future exploration of the options for a new Nigeria”.

    Similarly, Prof Kyari Mohammed stated: “a must read for policy makers, academics and the general reader”.

    TheNewsGuru (TNG) reports Dr. Peterside is a Public Sector Management Turnaround Expertn and Leadership Coach.

    He had served at all tiers (Local, State and Federal) and two arms (Legislative and Executive) of government in Nigeria.

    As one of the most syndicated columnist in Nigeria, he is a regular feature in most of the country’s top media publications.

    He is the author of two other books: Strategic Turnaround, story of a government agency; and Leading in a storm, practical leadership strategies in crisis situations.