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Ebony Nation, Port Harcourt (2025)

01/09/2025

*Nigeria: A Country Without a Nation*

*By Ebony Nwuke-Ibe*

We sing the anthem together, but we do not always share the same dream. At stadiums and school assemblies, the words roll easily off our tongues: “Though tribe and tongue may differ, in brotherhood we stand…” Yet beneath that harmony, we carry different memories, loyalties, and histories. Nigeria is a country, but it is still struggling to become a nation.

Before colonial ships docked, before the Union Jack flew over our skies, there was no “Nigeria.” There were empires and kingdoms: the Sokoto Caliphate, the Oyo Empire, the Benin Kingdom, the Igbo kinship democracies. Each had its gods, its languages, its rhythm of life. Then, in 1914, Britain fused north and south into a single colony. It was not the result of negotiation among the people, but an administrative convenience meant to ease governance and trade. Lord Lugard drew a line on a map and called it one country. The people within it were never consulted. That silence at birth continues to shape us more than a century later.

Independence in 1960 brought flags, parades, and fireworks. But what we celebrated as freedom was, in truth, a transition, not a transformation. The colonial structures; political, military, and economic intact. Power passed into the hands of a small elite, not through the voice of the people, but through arrangements that mirrored the colonial order. Our anthem changed, but our divisions deepened. By 1967, the Biafran War exposed the fragility of our unity, costing over a million lives. Nigeria remained one country, but a fractured one.

Even today, our 1999 Constitution begins with the words: “We the people of the Federal Republic of Nigeria…” But Nigerians never directly wrote or voted for it. It was produced under military rule and handed down as law. This is why debates on “restructuring,” “federal character,” and “power rotation” remain constant. They are not just political strategies. They are attempts to patch a foundation never openly discussed or agreed upon.

Nigeria was not born of indigenous consensus but of colonial decision. The boundaries that now define us were drawn by foreign hands, not by dialogue among our ancestors. That is why loyalty bends first to tribe, region, or religion before it stretches toward the fragile idea of a nation. We were Ijaw before Nigerian, Yoruba, before Nigerian, Fulani before Nigerian, Igbo before Nigerian. In moments of crisis, it is easier to retreat to ethnic identity than to stand as one people.

Our politics reflects this reality. Unwritten formulas of power-sharing; north and south, Christian and Muslim, majority and minority, have kept us from collapse, but they are patches, not foundations. In the shadows, whispers of secession remain constant, from Biafra to Oduduwa, from Arewa dreams to Niger Delta grievances. A nation is not truly one until its people choose to be, and Nigeria has not yet asked its people to choose. Naming this truth is not disloyalty; it is honesty. Silence will not resolve it.

Nigeria is at once miracle and mirage. Miracles, because despite civil war, coups, dictatorship, and corruption, the country still stands. Mirage, because what stands is often a structure of necessity, not yet a nation forged by shared conviction. We excel abroad but stumble at home. Our anthem is recited more than it is believed. Our green-white-green is waved, but not always revered.

A nation is not just geography; it is shared imagination. America was founded on liberty. Ghana is anchored on Pan-African pride. Rwanda rebuilt on reconciliation after genocide. Nigeria, by contrast, has never fully confronted the fundamental question: Do we want to be one people? Until we ask and answer sincerely, we will keep patching cracks instead of laying new foundations.

It is not too late. A country without a nation can still become a true nation without losing its country. The journey is difficult, yes, but it is not impossible. What it requires is not another slogan on billboards but the courage of genuine constitutional dialogue. A gathering where every group sits not as subordinate but as equal. It requires leadership that chooses truth over empty promises, leaders who know that fragile unions can not be held by fear or force, but only by fairness. And it requires citizens willing to place the collective we above the corrosive pull of us versus them.

If these conditions are met, perhaps one day, the words of our anthem will carry a new weight. When we rise to sing, “Nigerians all are proud to serve, our sovereign Motherland,” it will not be a chant of endurance or survival, but a declaration of belonging. A song of a people who have finally chosen each other.

Nigeria is a country still searching for its nationhood. But our story is not finished. And maybe, just maybe, the greatest generation of Nigerians is not those who fought for independence, nor those who endured the civil war, but those who will answer the question our forefathers never asked...What does it mean to be Nigerian?

22/08/2025

Dare to be more. Have a beautiful and blessed day.

21/08/2025

Dare to be the woman, the world can not ignore.

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07/08/2025

Big shout out to my newest top fans! 💎 Scott Ibe, Eziaha Opurum

Drop a comment to welcome them to our community, fans

07/08/2025

I Was Meant to Teach: Na Who Thief My Future?

Written by: Ebony Nwuke-Ibe

Abobi, I been suppose teach...
No be only facts and dates,
I suppose make Gen-Z dem lap with dia headpan
Make dia mind touch ground
Make dia mind dey
Make dem reason
Make dem think of freedom.
Of spirit.
Of truth.

I was meant to walk into lecture halls
and awaken sleeping minds. (Chai! Chineke)
To challenge the easy answers.
To stir the still waters.
To tell young women that their voices are valid,
and young men say no shortcut to success because regrets go yakpa.

I was meant to shape policy, not from a pulpit,
but from a podium.
I was meant to debate ideas, not identities.
To give back what I learned from foreign lands,
Not to flaunt, but to build
To raise a generation of thinkers, visionaries, rebuilders

As this Barney lap,
I say Hhhhsshhh! Focus!
with my degrees wrapped in honour,
Dean's list standard
with my mind sharpened like a blade from distant bookshelves,
Ayeba! My people no welcome me.

My certificates were not just documents.
They were declarations
proof that I did not waste my mother’s prayers
or my father’s hunger.
But they did not ask about my brilliance.

They did not ask what I knew.
Dem ask me who I sabi.
I sabi book, I sabi ideas, I sabi vision but I no sabi Oga, I no sabi Madam.
I no gree use connection
I tell myself say,
I GO GET AM BY MERIT!
As I dey wait to teach, e no come
I say make I find work because
Anyway na way

A girlie, na so dem shock me...
They told me I was too qualified.
One company wen I go, Oyibo man show
Him say, “you’re a threat.”
Oyibo reason me, dash me t-fare make I jazz out

As a Pitakwa Barney, I no panic
I say I go wait.
I wait sotay Godot come, go
And so they locked the doors to the classrooms
and handed the keys to those
who feared questions,
who ran from excellence,
who trembled before light.

And I wept.
Yes, I wept.
I do pass the one Jesus do for Bible
I wept in silence.
Mine was gut wrenching, soul crushing, pride breaking kind
Not because I was weak,
but because strength had nowhere to go
with an already flawed system
and integrity is disqualified at the door.

When a woman prepares her entire life to give back,
and her country slams the door in her face,
it is not just rejection.
It is theft.
Dem thief my future!

They stole my blackboard.
But they forgot
I still had my pen.
So now I teach from the margins.
I teach from my phone,
From the glowing screen of a tired Samsung,
From the silence of the night,
Where dreams still whisper and rage still burns.

I teach from WhatsApp statuses,
From Facebook posts that bleed,
From reels where poetry dances with pain.
From long nights when insomnia becomes syllabuses
From articles that dare to say,
“What Nigeria rejected, the world must now read.”

I lecture in metaphors.
I educate through ink and heartbreak.
My classroom has no walls,
No time,
No invigilator.
But my students are everywhere
In the market,
On the bus,
In Parliament,
In The State House

I, who was denied the microphone,
Have become the echo.
Dem forget say,
I could have been a professor.
I could have built a new academic order.
I could have led a ministry,
Reformed a curriculum,
Mentored minds that would cure cancer maybe,
Rebuild nations,
Write histories.

But as dem no gree me become
Wetin God say I go be,
I became something they can not unmake
a living archive of truth.

No be cho, cho, cho
This brown skin girl,
She dey write now.
She writes for the girl who reads in candlelight.
For the boy who doubts his worth because he has no godfather.
For the woman who hides her certificates in shame.
For the man who turned down the bribe and paid for it with obscurity.

The tragedy is not that I was denied the chance to teach.
The tragedy is that my country is hemorrhaging minds like mine
every single day.

And yet, still,
I write.

I write because this country did not want my mind in a classroom
But it can not stop my mind from teaching the world

Mama Nigeria, see eh, know say,
You for don get ogbonge teacher.
You could have had a prophet.
You could have had a reformer,
A voice, a visionary, a legacy.

But you were too afraid of her light.
So she lit the world instead.
You know why?
Her blood is green
And Naija spirit no dey die
Because Naija no fit carry last!

01/08/2025

I had an engaging conversation with my friend. We need to be deliberate about the preservation of our Nigetian indigenous languages. We can be more and we can do more.

゚

21/07/2025

When Governance Retreats, Insecurity Advances: A Letter from a Wounded Rivers State

By Ebony Nwuke-Ibe

There are days when a land bleeds, and the world turns its face.
There are moments when silence grows louder than bullets.
Rivers State is living through one of those moments.

On March 18, 2025, Nigeria watched as the federal government declared a form of emergency rule in Rivers State. Governor Siminalayi Fubara a duly elected, sworn in, and leading a fragile but determined recovery was suspended. So was his deputy. The legislative assembly dissolved. Power, overnight, shifted from the will of the people to the desk of a federal appointee.

The justification was “peace.” But what has followed is anything but the said "peace. "

Since that suspension, Rivers State has not rested. She has burned, mourned, and bled. Cult violence, communal killings, and fear have returned with a vengeance, almost as if they were waiting for governance to take a break.

Let us follow the dates not just for data but for dignity:

July 2025. Obelle, Emohua LGA:
Chief Ferdinand Dabiri, a respected elder and vice chairman of the Council of Chiefs, was murdered inside a community peace meeting. Shot point-blank. No arrest. No press conference. Just grief, unresolved and unanswered.

June 2025. Obele Community:
Five young men were dragged from their homes at night and executed by suspected cultists. Their crime? Living in a contested territory. The community remains under fear. The killers still roam.

May 2025. Mile 3, Mile 1 Diobu, Port Harcourt:
People butchered in a marketplace in full view of traders and commuters. Machetes. Gunfire. Mothers covering their children’s eyes. Peace, it seems, was never part of the emergency.

April 2025. Onne, Eleme LGA:
Lives lost in a retaliatory cult attack. The streets went quiet, not because the killers were caught, but because people were too afraid to speak.

Please know this, this is not fiction. This is the cost of what happens when the soul of governance is suspended, and the streets are left to decide who rules next.

Before the intervention, Governor Siminalayi Fubara’s administration, young and politically embattled, was still inching its way toward stability. Security dialogues were ongoing. Traditional rulers were engaged. Cult groups were being tracked and confronted.

But that slow, deliberate process was abruptly interrupted. When Fubara was removed, a delicate system collapsed. Community watch groups lost support. Police coordination became unclear. Traditional rulers, once empowered, were left to fend for themselves.

And the cult groups? They moved in like wolves, sensing weakness. The truth is, crime thrives where authority loses credibility. Credibility can not be federally appointed. It must be earned on the soil by the people.

Section 14(2)(b) of the Nigerian Constitution affirms that “the security and welfare of the people shall be the primary purpose of government.” What, then, do we call a system where those same people now live in hiding, haunted by gunfire and uncertainty?

The law grants intervention only in the rarest, most dangerous circumstances. But when intervention creates more danger than it prevents, then it is important to ask, who, truly, benefits from this silence in governance?

It will be sad to reduce this tragedy to numbers.
Each casualty was a dream, a name, a heartbeat.

Chief Dabiri’s wife now mourns in silence.
The children in Emohua sleep to the sound of gunshots.
Market women in Mile 3 and Mile 1 pack their goods before sundown, praying they will make it home.
Entire communities live in the shadows of uncertainty, unable to trust anyone wearing a uniform not because they are enemies but because they are absent.

This is not a political point. This is a humanitarian one.
This is not opposition rhetoric. This is the cry of a state left without its voice. Rivers State deserves her voice back!

Governance is not a title. It is not a decree.
It is presence. It is trust. It is the contract between the governed and the governor.
Until Rivers State returns to democratic leadership, chosen, trusted, and present, we will remain a people governed not by policies but by fear.

Read this as an appeal, not a protest.
Take this as a call to action, not a confrontation.
See this as a demand for dignity, not defiance, because the truth is simple and searing.

When governance retreats, insecurity advances.
When leaders are silenced, it is the people who pay with their lives.

18/07/2025

Disclaimer: 🛑 The following story contains descriptions that may be distressing to some readers. Shared with the intent to raise awareness and promote justice.

Adaku's Escape: A Cry from the Shadows of West Africa's Child Trafficking Network

A True Life Story

By Ebony Nwuke-Ibe

At thirteen, Adaku was just like many young girls. Full of dreams, questions, and a fiery sense of independence. After a mild correction from her parents, she packed her things and left home, seeking the kind of freedom she didn’t yet understand. She was determined to earn a living, to "make it" on her own terms. But what began as innocent rebellion quickly spiralled into a nightmarish journey that would scar her for life.

With promises of a salesgirl job and a monthly salary of ₦100,000, (Hundred Thousand Naira), Adaku and her friends followed the whispers of false hope. The only catch? The job was in Gambia. That didn’t faze them. At thirteen, Gambia might as well have been the land of golden streets. She was eager, impressionable, and unaware of the trap she was walking into.

The journey began by boat through Benin Republic, by bus into Burkina Faso, Senegal, and by boat finally to Gambia. At no point was she stopped. No one asked questions. No authority intercepted the movement of these minors. In countries with proper systems, red flags would have been raised. But here in West Africa, innocence is trafficked as easily as produce in the open market.

Upon her arrival in Gambia, her supposed "employer" recanted the offer. Claiming she now had "family problems" and no longer needed staff. The real plan quickly unfolded. Adaku and her friends were sold to a woman known as Madam Bull, a trafficker originally from Southern Nigeria, but now based in Ghana.
That’s where the horror truly began.

Madam Bull was no mere trafficker. She was a spiritual and physical tormentor. She made them take oaths of allegiance and ritualistic in nature. She shaved their hair, including their p***c region, clipped their nails, and drew their blood. All of it went into a calabash. Control wasn’t just physical; it was spiritual. These girls became prisoners of fear.

They were locked behind tall fences, subjected to relentless violations from men of different ages and nationalities. Their humanity eroded, their minds slowly broken. Adaku recounted nights filled with pain, shame, and dread. She was repeatedly assaulted. Health care was non-existent. Escape was impossible.

One day, Adaku became pregnant. She carried the child through the torment, hoping her baby would be the beginning of something new. Instead, that hope was violently extinguished. Her baby was taken and used as a ritual offering on Madam Bulls altar before her very eyes. Her cries went unanswered. Her soul shattered.

In another chilling moment, Adaku was fetching water outside when she caught a glimpse of Madam Bull dismembering the body of a girl named Christiana. Terrified, she ran, but there was nowhere to go. She survived by compliance. Doing what she was told, when she was told, how she was told.
This went on for three years.

Then, in a twist of fate, a miracle happened.
While prayers were being offered by a Bible-believing church back home called God's Glory Zone Revival Ministries, domiciled in Lagos, State, Nigeria, a divine error took place. Madam Bull, either in arrogance or fatigue, sent Adaku out early one morning to buy some items. With cash in hand, Adaku saw a rare window of freedom, and she took it.

She met a stranger, a good Samaritan, and poured out her story. Moved by her desperation, the man whisked her on a bike straight to Accra in Ghana. There, she boarded a vehicle headed back to Nigeria. Waiting for her were the same parents who once scolded her, and the Senior Pastor Vincent Odinaka Ndubuisi, of God’s Glory Zone, the man who had been interceding for her deliverance all along.

At sixteen, Ezinne is now back in Nigeria. Still, the trauma lingers. She is pregnant again, and a second child conceived in bo***ge. She is undergoing rehabilitation. She has moments of silence that stretch for hours. She trembles at slight triggers. Loud voices make her flinch. And yet, she is alive. That alone is a miracle.

It is pertinent to ask some very important questions:
• How can a thirteen-year-old girl pass through five African countries without security or documentation?
• How porous are our borders that minors vanish without a trace?
• What exactly is Naptip Nigeria NAPTIP (National Agency for the Prohibition of Trafficking in Persons) doing beyond press statements?
• Where are our embassies when Nigerian minors are trafficked and enslaved abroad?
• How many "Madam Bulls" are still operating today with immunity?

Child trafficking is a multi-billion naira industry. Built on the backs of stolen futures. But beyond statistics, each number is a life like Adaku's. Torn, violated, and left to rot in spiritual and sexual slavery.

There should have been checkpoints.
There should have been border alerts.
There should have been early intervention.
But we have failed. Not just as a government but as a people. As a society that hushes uncomfortable truths and buries stories like Adaku’s because they are too heavy to carry.

What we need in our region is:
• A West African Anti-Trafficking Task Force with powers beyond borders.
• Public sensitization campaigns in rural and urban areas on the dangers of child trafficking.
• Government-monitored hotlines and rescue teams.
• Special rehabilitation shelters for survivors.
• And most importantly, we need justice. Full legal prosecution of traffickers, their sponsors, and their clients.

Adaku is not just a victim. She is a witness.
Her survival is a rebuke to the silence that enables evil. Her story is a summons to speak, act, and fight for every girl still trapped in the dark. Adaku escaped, but many more are still waiting to be saved.

Note: Names have been changed for privacy sake)

Please share this if you are tired of injustice and silence.

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18/07/2025

WELCOME TO EBONY NATION

Where the mic is ON, the truth is LOUD, and silence is officially cancelled.

This is not just a page.
This is a force.
A rising wave of thinkers, truth-tellers, reformers, and fixers who won’t keep quiet in the face of injustice.

Welcome to Ebony Nation, where we:

Speak truth to power .

Shake tables and systems when necessary

Write truth into history ✍🏾

And demand better for our communities

Here, your voice matters. Your outrage is valid. Your silence is no longer an option.

🎤 Hosted by: Ebony Nwuke-Ibe
📣 Purpose: Fix it. Fearlessly. Tirelessly

Please 🙏 🙏 🙏

📌 Tag a friend.
📌 Share the mandate.
📌 And get ready because the national conversation just got louder.

゚

05/12/2023

I've just reached 900 followers! Thank you for continuing support. I could never have made it without each one of you. 🙏🤗🎉

05/12/2023

05/12/2023.

RIVERS EAST SENATORIAL DISTRICT LIAISON OFFICE IS OFFICIALLY OPEN.

Distinguished Senator Allwell Onyesoh DSSRS, JP, officially opens his liaison office. The office is to enable correspondence to the Distinguished Senator, as well as feedback and every necessary information regarding the constituents and the Senatorial District.

The State Liaison Office, is located at No. 4 Mini-Igbogo Street, Behind Mopol 19 Barracks, Off Mummy B Road, GRA, Port Harcourt.

Signed,
Ebony Nwuke
Media Assistant to the Senator.

Ebony Nation

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