Every nation has those who birth hope and those who betray it. On Democracy Day, we don’t just remember but reflect deeply and honestly on the heroes who fought for democracy and the villains who sought to crush it. We must honour both groups: not with equal praise, but with equal clarity and acknowledge that Nigeria’s democratic journey is a mixed bag of sacrifice and treachery.
June 12 is more than just a date; it marks the anniversary of what is widely acknowledged as the freest and fairest election in Nigeria’s history—the 1993 presidential election. It was a day when Nigerians across ethnic, religious, and regional divides came together to vote overwhelmingly for Chief Moshood Abiola, in what remains a watershed moment of unity and democratic aspiration.
But that hope was cruelly dashed when the military government of General Ibrahim Babangida annulled the election, citing vague and unsubstantiated “irregularities.” The decision plunged the country into political turmoil and set back our democratic journey.
Saints and Scoundrels of the Struggle
MKO Abiola remains the central figure of this drama, not because he was perfect, but because he came to symbolise the democratic mandate of the people. His wealth, political reach, and philanthropic legacy were notable, but it was his insistence on claiming his mandate, even at the cost of his freedom and eventually his life that turned him into a martyr for democracy. His campaign slogan, “Hope ’93”, captured the aspirations of a weary nation.
His wife and fierce ally, Kudirat Abiola, campaigned tirelessly for the restoration of his mandate and paid the ultimate price when she was assassinated in 1996. Her courage remains a powerful reminder that democracy’s cost is often paid in blood including those of activists, journalists, union leaders, women’s groups and ordinary citizens who resisted military tyranny.
Pa Alfred Rewane, paid with his life for funding the pro-democracy movement, Beko Ransome-Kuti, Prof. Wole Soyinka and Gani Fawehinmi, faced repeated arrests and intimidation for speaking truth to power. Human rights lawyers like Femi Falana, Ayo Obe, NADECO leaders like the current President Bola Tinubu, the student unionists including the late Innocent Chukwuma, Chima Ubani, Bamidele Aturu and Emma Ezeazu and the diasporan voices amplified the call for justice.
Organisations like the Campaign for Democracy, Civil Liberties Organisation, and NADECO became the conscience of the nation, carrying the flame of resistance through some of Nigeria’s darkest nights. Their weapons were courage, conscience, and an unshakeable belief that Nigeria deserved better against tyrants who jailed and terrorised the press, muzzled free speech and murdered activists.
Civilian collaborators—politicians, traditional rulers, and opportunists who, out of fear or ambition, validated the military’s illegality are the enablers of tyranny who wore agbadas over their cowardice and cloaked complicity in constitutionalism. Their silence was loud.
Yet, history is complicated. Many who stood against democracy then have since reinvented themselves as elder statesmen. Some now sit in positions of national honour or influence, never having accounted for their roles in suppressing the will of the Nigerian people.
Selective Memory and Sanitised History
There is a reason repressive regimes fear memory. They know that to forget is to permit repetition. A country that forgets its heroes will keep rewarding its villains. Therefore, our schools must teach June 12 not as an event but as a civic lesson. Our media must tell the stories of resistance, not just recount the names of rulers. Our leaders must be judged not by their rhetoric but by their actions.
One of the great dangers Nigeria faces is the slow erosion of collective memory. Our national history is often rewritten, revised, or forgotten altogether. Official commemorations of June 12 are now marked by parades, presidential addresses and national honours, but how often do they tell the full truth?
Where are the names of those who died in the protests that followed the annulment? Where is the national curriculum that teaches young Nigerians what happened on June 12 and why it matters? Where is the justice for MKO Abiola’s family beyond symbolic recognition?
The risk of remembering only the convenient part of history is that we fail to learn its full lessons. Democracy was not gifted to us; it was fought for at great cost. Hence, we must continue to ask: what kind of democracy are we practising today? One in which voter suppression, electoral violence, judicial capture, and economic exclusion have become routine? One in which many citizens do not believe their votes count not because of overt military interference, but because of institutional decay and political cynicism?
The struggle for democracy is not behind us; it is with us. It lives in the fight against insecurity, corruption and poverty, in the call for electoral reform, in the demand for social inclusion, and in the resistance to authoritarian tendencies. The ultimate betrayal of June 12 is not in its annulment but in the ongoing erosion of democratic principles. Every time we allow stolen mandates, disenfranchise voters, or silence dissent, we repeat the sins of the past.
Honouring the True Legacy
Symbolic recognition alone cannot vindicate June 12. Democracy is not just a date or a procession of elections. It is about justice, inclusion, development, and voice. Most importantly, we must tell the truth. About what happened, who did what, who paid the price and who profited.
To honour June 12 authentically, we must shift from symbolic gestures to substantive change. Electoral reforms must deepen transparency and citizen trust. The rule of law must be non-negotiable. Institutions must be strengthened to withstand political manipulation. Citizens must be empowered not just as voters but as constant custodians of democracy. That, perhaps, is the greatest honour we can offer MKO Abiola and the countless others who lit the torch of democracy in a time of darkness.
To honour our democratic heroes, we must go beyond symbolic gestures, institutionalise democratic norms like transparency, accountability, inclusion, and the rule of law, protect the space for dissent and elevate the voices of marginalised groups.
We must also confront the erasure of women and marginalised groups from the democratic narrative. Nigerian women are on the frontlines organising, voting, advocating, leading. Yet the corridors of power remain hostile and exclusionary. Any democracy that sidelines half its population is still in deficit. History does not remember everyone equally, but it does remember.
Three decades after June 12, Nigeria’s democracy remains fragile. Elections are held, but they are often marred by violence, vote buying, judicial capture, and low voter turnout. The shadow of June 12 looms over our polity, not as a nostalgic footnote but as an unresolved moral challenge.
Who are today’s saints? Are they the young Nigerians risking jail for organising #EndSARS and #EndBadGovernance protests? Are they the whistleblowers revealing corruption in public service? Are they the women pushing against gender exclusion and violence in politics? Are they the journalists under threat for exposing the truth?
And who are today’s scoundrels? Are they the lawmakers who inflate budgets and sabotage electoral reforms? Are they the political elites who trade votes for bags of rice and coins? Are they the social media influencers spreading propaganda in the service of the powerful?
June 12 is a mirror. It reflects who we were, who we are, and who we must become. It reminds us that democracy was not handed down; it was fought for. And it can be lost if we do not remain vigilant.
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