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Ebony Nation, Port Harcourt (2025)

28/10/2025

*Republic of Defectors: How Political Nomads Hold Nigeria Hostage*

*By Ebony Nwuke Ibe*

Once upon a time in this country, politics was not a job description for the ambitious. It was a sacred trust. A leader was expected to be the best among us, a guardian of the common good. The sight of a public official was enough to stir hope. People listened because they knew their leaders had earned the right to speak. There was a code of honour that framed the political arena, an invisible boundary that prevented a descent into shamelessness. Those we elected held the banner of this nation tightly, determined to hand it unto our children without stain.

Politics in Nigeria was not a game of survival. It was a duty of service, a noble craft guided by the weight of conscience and the dignity of purpose. Men and women who joined politics did so with philosophy, conviction, and often personal sacrifice. Their political affiliations reflected ideology, not opportunity. You could tell a progressive from a conservative, a federalist from a nationalist. Party loyalty was an oath, not a temporary arrangement of convenience.

In those early years after independence, politics was synonymous with nation-building. Dr Nnamdi Azikiwe, Chief Obafemi Awolowo, Sir Ahmadu Bello, Chief Anthony Enahoro, Margaret Ekpo, Funmilayo Ransome Kuti, they represented parties that stood for something tangible. Whether the Action Group or the NCNC, the NPC, or the UPN, there was ideological clarity. Political parties were schools of thought. Members read manifestos as if they were scriptures.

Even in disagreement, there was grace. When Chief Awolowo and Dr. Azikiwe clashed, they did so with ideas, not insults. They fought for vision, not vengeance. Politics had a soul, and that soul was the belief that Nigeria could be better, fairer, and stronger.

Fast forward to today, and the transformation is alarming. The art of politics has become the business of self-interest. A culture of defection has risen like a virus. Elected officials hop across party lines as if the people’s mandate were a personal handbag. They shift allegiance based on where they believe the next meal ticket will come from. It is a dangerous tradition because it damages the belief that the electorate truly matters. How can a citizen trust the ballot if the results can be carried to any camp at the whim of a politician who views ideology as clothing to be changed whenever fashion dictates.

Each defection weakens the spiritual core of democracy. It tells citizens their votes are merely stepping stones in someone else’s climb to relevance. It teaches our children that politics is not a calling but a hustle. It is a cunning game where the smartest player is the one who knows how to protect his advantage and never the one who sacrifices for the future of others. When young people conclude honesty has no place in governance, we have already failed them.

In a serious country, defection should be a moral scandal. It should provoke outrage. The people should demand that any leader who abandons the platform under which they were elected must return to the polls to seek a fresh mandate. That is the democratic way. That is how you show respect to the voters. Without that accountability, democracy becomes a theatre show in which the audience never gets to influence the ending.

Back in the day, political parties represented clear beliefs. There were men and women who held on to their party flags through storms because principles mattered. They debated ideas and development. They defended loyalty because loyalty represented stability. Today, all those things sound like folklore. Politicians change sides faster than they change speechwriters. Loyalty now follows the direction of cash flow. When values evaporate, only chaos remains.

The tragic part is not just that leaders defect. It is that they do so brazenly and are rewarded instead of punished. New parties receive defectors like heroes returning from war. They are offered privileges, positions, and praise. The old party responds by cursing them publicly while secretly preparing its own defection strategies. Everyone becomes a strategist in self-preservation. Nobody stays to build. Nobody feels shame.

This is why the perception of political leadership in Nigeria has shifted dramatically. Politicians are no longer seen as patriots called to duty. They are seen as investors expecting return on investment. They are viewed as gladiators who fight not for the nation but for territory in the marketplace of power. Honestly, the people can not be blamed for this belief. A society is shaped by what it sees consistently. When the behaviour of leaders contradicts national values, people lose faith in the institutions that govern them.

The greatest tragedy is the silence of oversight. Nigeria has an Independent Electoral Commission whose constitutional purpose is to protect the integrity of elections and the mandates that flow from them. Nigerians fear that this important body is far from independent. If it were, we would not still be arguing about the legality and morality of defection after decades of political evolution. Citizens deserve to know the truth. Is the commission unable to enforce necessary accountability, or is it simply unwilling? Are the laws too weak, or is the interpretation too convenient? Why must democracy suffer every time politics becomes turbulent?

Democracy dies when oversight sleeps. Institutions must serve the people, not the powerful. The Independent Electoral Commission should be a roaring lion when the will of voters is threatened. Instead, it appears like a silent observer taking notes while the future of Nigeria is negotiated behind closed doors. Reform is essential. The country must empower institutions to protect the public interest with authority and confidence. Accountability must be restored not as decoration but as a consequence.

Nigeria has seen leaders before who stood their ground even when they stood alone. People who believe that what is right must remain right even if they are punished for defending it. Those leaders fought to keep the promise of independence alive. They understood that corruption of values is a greater danger than any foreign enemy. We have come too far to abandon their courage now.

This is a call for introspection. A call to every Nigerian who believes this nation can rise higher than where selfish politics has dragged it. We can not build a great nation on shifting loyalties. We can not preach unity while celebrating opportunism. If we want democracy to work, we must water it with honesty and discipline.

The practice of defection has turned public office into a comedy. Imagine a governor elected on a platform of change suddenly deciding progress smells better in another party. Imagine legislators who swore to represent the people under a particular banner now explaining that their destiny lies elsewhere. What then is democracy? A translation error? A misunderstanding? A contract without enforcement? The people are slowly waking up to the reality that their votes have become spectators in a stadium where power plays against accountability and wins every match.

Nigeria deserves leadership that knows embarrassment. Leadership that fears disappointing the people. Leadership that understands the privilege of being chosen to serve. The mandate belongs to the people and must never be hijacked or exchanged for personal comfort. If any leader wishes to serve under a different platform, they must return and ask the people once more. If the people agree, they continue. If the people refuse, they return home. That is what true democracy demands.

We all know what Nigeria can become if we finally take ourselves seriously. We know what this country would look like if truth and sacrifice returned to government houses. We know the joy of handing our children a banner without stain. Africa is watching. The world is watching. History is writing. And she has no patience for those who abuse power.

Democracy is not self-sustaining. It needs guardians. It needs citizens who refuse to be fooled. It needs institutions that are brave, transparent, and loyal only to the law. Nigeria stands at a crossroads, and the road we choose will determine whether we continue deceiving ourselves or finally embrace the greatness that lies waiting within this land.

Enough of these political musical chairs. Enough of treating leadership like a private gamble. Enough of dancing in the corridors of power while the people stand in darkness. It is time to return politics to a place of dignity. It is time to remember that honour still matters. It is time to rebuild trust between the government and the governed.

This is not rebellion. This is patriotism. The loud beating heart of democracy calling Nigeria home. We answer it today or regret our silence tomorrow.

22/10/2025

*The Unbroken Line: From Deborah’s Palm to Canterbury’s Throne*

_Why the world must finally embrace women’s leadership in the Church, politics, and beyond_

*_By Ebony Nwuke-Ibe_*

For centuries, men have insisted that women belong at the margins of history, permitted to sing the choruses but never conduct the symphony. Yet every time society tried to silence them, women had carried more, done more, and changed more than the world was prepared to admit. When women claim their place, they do not simply lead. They transform the course of history itself.

The Bible itself is crowded with inconvenient heroines. Deborah judged Israel and spoke as prophet, summoning generals to battle and leading an army to victory when men faltered. Huldah declared God’s word to kings without hesitation. Esther risked her crown to save her people. Mary Magdalene carried the most important news of history, that Christ had risen, while the men hid in fear. Long before Europe celebrated queens, Africa gave us Empress Candace of Ethiopia, a monarch whose dynasty commanded armies and whose name echoes in the Acts of the Apostles when her official met Philip on the desert road.

This is not only ancient history. Women today continue to bear the weight of nations. Ngozi Okonjo-Iweala, now Director-General of the World Trade Organisation, once steered Nigeria’s fragile economy through storms of debt and corruption. Angela Merkel kept Europe steady through financial crisis. Ellen Johnson Sirleaf governed a broken Liberia with resilience. Jacinda Ardern redefined leadership through empathy. Kamala Harris, as Vice President of the United States, symbolises a door long shut now opening.

So when critics claim that appointing Dame Sarah Mullally as Archbishop of Canterbury is a mistake, one wonders what history they are reading. Was Deborah a mistake? Was Esther a mistake? Was Candace of Ethiopia a mistake? Is Okonjo-Iweala a mistake at the World Trade Organisation? Or is the true mistake the centuries-long refusal to acknowledge what God has already made clear, that women can lead, govern, and shepherd as faithfully as any man.

Politics without women is politics half-blind. Nations that silence half their people can not see clearly. Yet across continents, women have fought to be heard in parliaments, cabinets, and councils. In Rwanda, they hold a majority in parliament and reshape laws with urgency. In Nigeria, though representation is still slim, women in leadership have begun to tilt conversations on education, healthcare, and equity. Globally, their presence in boardrooms, ministries, and international organisations signals what has always been true, that the rise of women is not novelty, it is continuity.

This debate is not about favour but about fairness. Not about charity but justice. Not about tokenism but trust. Women do not need permission to lead. They have led when it was dangerous, when it was costly, when no title was offered.

The cry of our age is simple. Support women who deserve to lead. Stop twisting scripture into shackles. Stop turning tradition into prisons. The Church at Canterbury has now opened its doors. Politics and markets have already begun to do the same.

History has always known this truth, even when men denied it. From Deborah under her palm tree to Empress Candace on her throne to Okonjo-Iweala at the World Trade Organisation to Dame Sarah at Canterbury, the line is un

When women claim their place, justice rises, prosperity rises, nations rise.
And when they are silenced, we all fall.

14/10/2025

*GREEN ENERGY INTERNATIONAL LIMITED: FROM MARGINAL FIELDS TO MONUMENTAL VISION*

*By Ebony Nwuke-Ibe*

In a country where oil has been both bread and burden, a quiet revolution is rising along the creeks of Rivers State. Its name is Green Energy International Limited, and its song is written in the language of courage, intellect, and persistence.

Nineteen years ago, it was only an idea. A daring thought born from a longing to see Nigerian oil wear a Nigerian face. Professor Anthony Adegbulugbe, a man whose mind marries science and service, dreamt of a homegrown energy company that would not bow to dependency. He imagined a nation where local expertise would drive global excellence. He refused to wait for miracles. He built one.

From the once silent Otakikpo field in Rivers State, GEIL emerged as a force. What began as a marginal field became a masterclass in innovation. It was not handed success; it worked for it.

Today, GEIL stands tall as the first indigenous company in Nigeria to build and operate a crude oil export terminal with Engr. Kingsley Chimamkpam Nwafor as the brain behind it. This achievement is more than historic. It is revolutionary. It rewrites the story of who can and who can not. It tells the world that Nigerians can create, control, and sustain greatness.

The Otakikpo Onshore Crude Oil Export Terminal is no ordinary structure. It is proof of faith and engineering. Built with an initial investment exceeding four hundred million dollars, it has the capacity to store seven hundred and fifty thousand barrels of crude oil, expandable to three million barrels as the horizon widens. Each day, it can export three hundred and sixty thousand barrels, linking producers across the Delta to global markets with seamless precision.

This terminal is not just about oil. It is about access, freedom, and the future. For decades, smaller indigenous operators were trapped by high evacuation costs and weak infrastructure. Barges sank, pipelines leaked, and profits vanished into the swamp. The Otakikpo Terminal has broken that cycle. It reduces evacuation costs by nearly forty per cent and safeguards the value of every drop extracted.

It is not only a triumph of engineering but a triumph of belief. Ninety per cent of its construction was executed by Nigerians. From the welders in the heat of Otakikpo to the engineers in control rooms humming with precision, it was built by the hands of our own people. It is evidence that local content is not policy written on paper but a pulse that beats in the heart of enterprise.

The benefits extend beyond Nigeria’s borders. In a world often shaken by energy shocks and geopolitical tension, the Otakikpo Terminal offers stability. It is Africa saying to the world that we can deliver energy responsibly and reliably. For the global market, it means one more anchor in a sea of uncertainty. For Nigeria, it means more control, more jobs, and more pride.

This is not an industrial story alone. It is a human one. In Otakikpo, GEIL’s presence has rewritten the rhythm of life. Schools have been refurbished. Scholarships given. Health centres upgraded. Women are finding voice and vocation. Youths are learning trades that go beyond oil extraction. The land itself has begun to heal.

Professor Adegbulugbe’s leadership breathes quiet power. He is not a man of noise but of nuance. His voice carries conviction and calm. He believes that true patriotism is excellence in action. His philosophy is simple. Build first. Speak later. Under his watch, GEIL has become an emblem of discipline and direction.

As Nigeria celebrates sixty-five years of independence, GEIL stands as a mirror reflecting what the nation could become when vision meets will. It shows that the Nigerian dream is not dead. It only needs believers who will rise early, work hard, and think deeply.

The terminal also positions Nigeria as a serious player in the global transition to cleaner energy. By integrating oil production with gas monetisation and renewable strategies, GEIL is not clinging to the past. It is building the bridge to the future. It understands that the world is moving from black gold to green promise, and it is walking that path with intelligence and grace.

Each pipeline that snakes across the Otakikpo terrain and twenty-three kilometres into the Atlantic Ocean to the Single Point Mooring (SPM) carries more than crude. It carries the story of doggedness, of a people who refused to be spectators in their own economy. It carries the quiet roar of progress.

To the world, GEIL is not just a company. It is a statement. A declaration that Africa can produce excellence that competes globally and cares locally. It is the meeting point of vision and virtue of enterprise and empathy.

On the 4th of June 2025, when the first tanker sailed out of the Otakikpo Terminal, it carried not only oil but a nation’s hope. Hope that we can build what we need. Hope that we can dream without limits. Hope that we can lead without losing ourselves.

Nineteen years ago, it was a dream whispered by a handful of believers. Today, it is a legacy written in steel and success. Tomorrow, it will stand as a monument to possibility.

For in the quiet determination of Green Energy International Limited lies the loudest truth of all. That the Nigerian spirit, when anchored in vision, can move from marginal to monumental.

11/10/2025

Who Benefits from Boko Haram?

By Ebony Nwuke-Ibe

As Nigeria marked sixty-five years of independence, it was impossible to ignore a grim truth, Boko Haram had consumed fifteen of those years, a quarter of the nation’s freedom spent under the shadow of terror. A fifteen-year insurgency did not run on nothing. Guns did not grow from the soil. Bullets did not appear like raindrops. Men who vanished into forests could not survive on dust. Someone supplied the fuel, someone provided the food, and someone made sure that money passed from hand to hand. The story of Boko Haram and banditry was not only about those who pulled triggers. It was about the quiet machinery that sustained them from afar.

Nigerians are told that they are faceless. Yet faceless men buy motorcycles in hundreds. They build houses of stone while villages crumble. They speak through satellite phones in places where ordinary citizens cannot make a call. The word “faceless” is a convenient shield, an easy way to explain what we cannot confront. The truth is simpler. These forces are not faceless, they are sheltered.

Terror is not only their ideology, it is their economy. Farmers in Borno, Yobe and Lake Chad surrendered parts of their harvests to be allowed to till their land. Fishermen handed over portions of their catch before they could cast nets. Traders were stopped at checkpoints where levies were demanded. Communities contributed grain, livestock or money for the right to survive. This was not religious duty, it was coercion disguised as order. Citizens lived under two authorities. One taxed with the language of law and the other taxed with the threat of death.

Banditry in the North-West has become its own enterprise. Children are taken for ransom, villages are raided, highways have become no man’s land. What sustains this is not just the desperation of young men with guns. It is the networks that bring weapons through borders, that supply food across distances, and that move money through channels large enough to be noticed yet small enough to be ignored. A farmer could not move fifty thousand naira without scrutiny, yet criminal groups move far more and the nation is asked to look away.

There are fresh reminders that this menace is not distant or confined to the North-East. Reports from Kwara State revealed that a police officer, Ezra John, attached to the Lade Division in Patigi Local Government, was abducted by bandits while returning from duty at the Patigi General Hospital to his base. The incident, which happened in the early hours of the morning, of Friday, 3rd October, 2025, stresses the brazenness of these groups. His colleague managed to escape, but the abduction shows again how even officers of the law are not spared. In Patigi and neighbouring rural areas, kidnappings and attacks have become frequent, proving that insecurity has now spread across regions once thought safe.

There are questions too important to ignore. How did motorcycles arrive in forests by the hundreds if not through roads guarded by checkpoints? How did guns cross borders where ordinary goods were seized? How did insurgents use modern communication tools in places where citizens could not find a signal? These are not riddles without answers. They are questions waiting for courage.

What is frightening is not only that terror survives but that it prospers. A war lasting over a decade is not fuelled by hunger alone. It is sustained by those who profit in the shadows, by structures that look away, and by a system too often unwilling to confront itself. While this grows, schools remain unsafe, farmers abandon their land, and families are forced to ransom their own blood.

The emergence of Boko Haram was not sudden. Its roots stretched back to decades of social, economic, and political marginalisation in the North-East. Communities that had long endured poverty, underdevelopment, and limited access to education became fertile ground for extremist ideology. The insurgency thrived where grievances were ignored, and promises of progress were unfulfilled.

This was not a phenomenon unique to Nigeria. Around the world, insurgencies had thrived on networks of hidden sponsors. In Afghanistan, the Taliban survived decades with tacit support from neighbouring states, illicit trade, and financial networks that crossed borders. The Colombian FARC relied for years on drug money and sympathetic actors within government structures to maintain its operations. ISIS in Iraq and Syria, too, built an empire not only on battlefield victories but on financial and logistical support from shadowy benefactors far from the frontlines. These cases reveal a common truth: no insurgency survives without enablers. Funding, protection, and access to resources are as vital as the fighters themselves.

If Nigeria was to confront Boko Haram and the bandits of the North-West, she had to understand the same lesson. The Nigerian government had to look beyond gunmen in the bush. She had to trace the supply chains, follow the financial flows, and identify the quiet approvals that allowed terror to endure. Arresting those who carried rifles would not end an industry if those who supplied the rifles remained untouched. The day the veil is lifted on the enablers, the story of facelessness will finally collapse.

The human cost of this insurgency is staggering. Families live in constant fear, villages are emptying, and children have been denied education for years. Women carry the burden of survival, sustaining households in the absence of fathers, brothers, and husbands who have been killed, abducted, or forced to flee. Entire generations are growing up in fear, their childhoods shaped by loss, displacement, and trauma.

It was impossible to run a fifteen-year insurgency without food, without bullets, without fuel, and without protection. These protectors are not nameless. They are part of systems we live in, systems that have to be unmasked. The nation bleeds while silence shields the truth. It is no longer enough to look away.

Nigeria has lessons to learn from these global parallels. The lessons are not merely strategic, they are moral. Insurgencies thrive where oversight is weak, where accountability falters, and where the costs of complicity are low. It is not enough to send troops into the forests. It is not enough to issue statements of condemnation. The machinery that sustains terror, financial, logistical, and political, has to be dismantled with the same tenacity. Only then can the cycle of survival, extortion, and fear be broken.

The citizens of Nigeria deserve to live in a country where law and justice, not shadow networks and silent enablers, govern their lives. They deserve schools that are safe, roads that connect, and marketplaces free from the coercion of armed groups. To achieve this, the nation has to confront uncomfortable questions, pursue hidden channels of support, and restore the legitimacy of the state in every corner. Only by naming systems rather than individuals, only by revealing structures rather than singling out faces, can Nigeria uphold both justice and safety without stepping outside the law.

Boko Haram and the bandits are not merely fighters in the bush. They are products of a system that allowed terror to be financed, tolerated, and in some cases indirectly shielded. The nation cannot afford to look away. Every day the hidden support continues, every day that shadow networks operate unchecked, the cost is paid in lives, in dreams, and in the quiet despair of communities that have nothing left but resilience. It is time for Nigeria to reclaim that space, dismantle the structures that fuel insurgency, and restore the promise of security, hope, and governance.

06/10/2025

Unionism and the Market: Shield, Sword, or Strangling Rope?

By Ebony Nwuke-Ibe

Every market tells a story, and Nigeria’s markets tell one of solidarity, survival, and power. Before asphalt, before colonial tariffs, before modern inflation, there were guilds and associations, market women, trade elders, and community-appointed leaders who governed the flow of palm oil, cassava, fish, and cloth.

Among the Yoruba, trade was woven into a rich fabric of ẹgbẹ́ oníṣòwò, specialized traders’ guilds. Each association was organized by commodity: Ẹgbẹ́ Alátà for pepper sellers, Ẹgbẹ́ Alárọ̀ for cloth dyers, Ẹgbẹ́ Alájà for fishmongers. At their helm stood the Ìyálọ́jà (market mother) and Bàbálọ́jà (market father), custodians of fairness and order. They negotiated with kings, settled disputes, and ensured the lifeblood of commerce flowed without collapse.

In Igboland, markets bore the imprint of women’s leadership. The Omu, revered as market queen, presided with authority over trade and morality. Women’s associations, like the Umuada and other age-grade groups, ensured discipline, fairness, and solidarity. These were not informal gatherings but deeply respected institutions that could challenge male authority and influence political decisions. The Igbo market was not just an economic hub; it was a stage where women’s power found voice.

In the North, trade was organized under the emirate system. Guilds, or ƙungiya, flourished, each representing a craft or trade: butchers, weavers, leather workers, grain sellers. The Sarkin Kasuwa (market chief), appointed under the Emir’s authority, regulated commerce, maintained justice, and collected dues. Markets such as Kano’s Kurmi became legendary crossroads, not only of goods but of governance. The guilds were both economic engines and political instruments, tightly woven into the Islamic administrative order.

These systems were not perfect, but they held one thread in common: commerce was community, and trade was regulated by tradition and consensus, not naked competition.

Then came colonial administration. With taxation, imported goods, and foreign economic intrusion, these organic associations became rallying points. Traders realized that only in numbers could they resist exploitation. By the mid-20th century, unions had hardened into structured, semi-political forces. What began as a cultural fabric of communal trade became a shield against external control.

That shield has not only survived; it has grown into something larger, heavier, and more complicated.

Step into any major Nigerian market today, Mile 12 in Lagos, Ariaria in Aba, Oil Mill in Port Harcourt, Dugbe in Ibadan, Kurmi in Kano, and you step into a republic within a republic.

Here, unions collect levies with a discipline that rivals government tax offices. They dictate prices with the force of law. They assign stalls, regulate who trades and who does not, and sometimes even provide the security that local authorities fail to guarantee.

For traders, there is safety in numbers. A single tomato seller cannot withstand the fluctuations of wholesale buyers or the bullying of local government agents. But a unionized market is strength, an army of voices.

Yet, for consumers, the story often feels different. Benchmark pricing is union’s polite term for price-fixing. If the union says a basket of onions will not fall below ₦50,000, then it will not, whether harvest is abundant or scarce. For the young graduate hoping to start a stall without joining, exclusion looms. For the farmer hoping to bypass middlemen, harassment awaits.

Unions offer solidarity, yes, but they also build barriers.

Nigeria’s inflation crisis has many causes: poor infrastructure, insecurity in food-producing belts, heavy import dependence, and currency instability. But tucked within this storm is a quieter driver, union-controlled pricing.

When market unions set uniform prices, they interfere with the natural rhythm of supply and demand. A glut in tomatoes should bring relief to households. Instead, prices stay high because the union decides relief will not come. A bumper harvest of yams should reduce cost. Instead, a levy here, a “union tax” there, and the final price inflates beyond reason.

This cycle pushes inflation further, not because of scarcity alone, but because competition has been stifled by decree. Artificial scarcity is created when unions deliberately hold back supply. Levies upon levies, sometimes multiple in a single day, raise overheads for traders and inevitably trickle down to the consumer. Closed doors for new entrants discourage entrepreneurship in a country that desperately needs fresh energy in its markets.

Inflation, then, is not merely numbers on a Central Bank bulletin. It is lived reality in a market where unions call the tune and the people must dance.

Unions are no longer just trade groups. They are political actors. They mobilize votes, negotiate with politicians, and sometimes shut down entire markets as protest. In some regions, union leaders wield more power than elected councilors.

With this power comes patronage. Who gets the best stalls? Who receives leniency on levies? Who benefits when government relief materials arrive? These questions are often answered not by free competition but by union discretion.

Some call this corruption. Others call it survival. Either way, it has reshaped the political economy of Nigeria’s markets.

There is a school of thought that insists that government must reform unions. After all, no private body should hold the power to dictate prices across entire sectors of trade. Reform could mean greater transparency in levies, with dues channeled to market development rather than private pockets. It could mean clear regulation to prevent exploitative price-fixing while preserving the unions’ protective function. Reform might also encourage competition, allowing traders who choose independence to thrive without persecution. Another possibility lies in partnership, where unions and government operate as co-regulators rather than rivals.

But reform is not without risk. To weaken unions abruptly is to pull away the fragile structure holding chaotic markets together. It is to expose vulnerable traders to the full brutality of unregulated capitalism, where only the strongest survive. Reform, therefore, must tread carefully, firm but not reckless.

Unionism in Nigeria’s markets was born as a shield. It grew into a sword. And now, for many, it feels like a rope tightening around the economy’s neck.

But perhaps the truth is not so simple. For every trader protected from exploitation, there is a consumer paying too much for garri. For every family supported in hardship through union solidarity, there is a young entrepreneur barred from entry. For every sense of order preserved, there is an inflationary fire stoked.

The question remains: Can Nigeria afford to reform unions without breaking the fragile ecosystem they sustain? Or will the status quo continue, half protection, half exploitation, until a crisis forces the nation’s hand?

It is a question without easy answers. A question that lingers like the hum of bargaining voices in a crowded market.

Ebony Nation

28/10/2025

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