Nigeria is doddering on the edge of never-before-seen economic desolation, but President Bola Ahmed Tinubu administration’s major preoccupation is not to bring ministration to a badly hurting nation but to prosecute harmless, impoverished, malnourished, and undernourished minors of northern Nigerian origin who, months ago, joined millions of Nigerians to protest for their right to a life without crippling poverty and fear, for which the only reply from the state has been detention and starvation.
Yesterday social media platforms were suffused with piteous, nerve-wracking videos and photos of four malnourished minors—kids in their early teens whose bones bear witness to weeks in captivity—who collapsed in a courtroom in Abuja. Their fragile, pity-inducing bodies provide evidence of the brutal conditions they’ve endured in jail. It was an unmitigated scandal, a total embarrassment, a tear-jerking spectacle.
What intolerably rank insanity is this? What halfway sensible government would arrest, imprison, and then publicly try its underage children just because they stood against the unendurable economic tyranny that has pushed millions of Nigerians into incalculable torment?
These children didn’t rise up in protest because they were troublemakers. They rose because they were hungry. They saw, in their communities, a growing tide of desperation and despair brought about by a series of misguided neoliberal policies that have squeezed every last drop of dignity from their lives.
The #EndBadGovernance protest was not an act of rebellion for the sake of anarchy, or for the overthrow of the Tinubu administration. It was a scream for survival in a country that has turned a deaf ear to its poorest, youngest, most vulnerable citizens. The children joined the protest, not because they were instigators, but because they are the victims of policies that have crushed them and their parents.
Now, Tinubu is prosecuting these poor children’s audacity to feel hunger, their nerve to protest against it, and their courage to ask for a better future.
Yes, young Nigerians, weakened by malnutrition, denuded of hope by unceasingly mounting prices, and drained by the unyielding fear that Nigeria’s streets are now safer than its government, are being hauled into court as though they were hard-boiled criminals. There is no parallel for this that I can recall in Nigeria in my lifetime.
How hollow must we be, as a society, to accept that the government’s solution to rising dissent and desperation is to prosecute the youth it has left to wither? This is not governance; this is a callous persecution masquerading as law and order.
The logic is Kafkaesque: punish the hungry, hush up the desperate, and maybe, just maybe, the problem will go away. But hunger and despair don’t disappear when you throw a child in jail. Poverty doesn’t vanish when you suppress a protest. The anger and frustration simmer, unaddressed, until they spill over.
I couldn’t hold back tears at the sight of four minors, weak from hunger, fainting as they were called to stand trial. It’s a sight that would shame even the most despotic regimes.
Here were young Nigerians, handcuffed by a state that refuses to feed, clothe, or educate them, collapsing before their accusers as if in silent protest, their very bodies speaking louder than any courtroom defense ever could.
Even lawyers and court officials, perhaps briefly awakened from the stupor of compliance, rushed to assist them. But as the immediate shock subsided, what remained was an undeniable truth: Nigeria’s youth are being starved, punished, and brought to the brink, not for crimes, but for demanding their right to survive in a country that fails them at every turn.
At the heart of this blot on Nigeria’s escutcheon is a government that seems more beholden to the dictates of the International Monetary Fund and the World Bank than to the needs of its own people. President Bola Tinubu’s administration has followed the familiar playbook of austerity and subsidy removal, but without the slightest regard for the human cost.
Inflation is climbing, prices are soaring, the naira is plunging, hope is walking away, and the nation is dying. Families cannot afford basic sustenance, the middle class is disappearing, the poor are being crushed beyond the bounds of tolerance, and the nation’s youth, who see no future in the darkening landscape, are told to keep silent or face untoward consequences.
These poor, hapless children are not the problem. The government’s own policies are the problem. As I have pointed out repeatedly in multiple columns, the unbending loyalty to IMF austerity measures and “economic reforms” that do nothing but deepen poverty and widen the gulf between the haves and have-nots are the problem.
So why are these policies, and those who enforce them, not on trial instead? Why are the architects of this economic catastrophe not being called to account for the collapse of hope and opportunity?
The prosecution’s temporary suspension of the trial of the four minors, after the children slumped in the courtroom, is not mercy; it is an insult. A government that detains minors for protesting unexampled economic adversity has already lost the moral high ground.
The temporary reprieve is nothing more than a bureaucratic sleight of hand, a way to postpone the embarrassment without addressing the real atrocity: the inhumane treatment of minors for daring to stand up against systemic injustice.
In a twist of poetic irony, the administration’s heavy-handed tactics reveal a fearful truth: the voices of Nigeria’s youth are a threat to the powerful. It is their courage, their unyielding desire for a better future, that sends tremors through the halls of power.
Instead of seeing in these children a spark of hope, a chance for renewal, the government has chosen to crush that spirit. These young people are Nigeria’s conscience, and by silencing them, the state only exposes the depths of its own desperation and degeneration.
Where is the humanity, the leadership, the understanding that a nation’s youth are its most precious resource? The Tinubu government must immediately end this untenably appalling charade of prosecuting minors who have the misfortune of being born in desperately poor homes.
It should release these children to their families forthwith. What the kids need is food, opportunity, and security, not prosecution. They are the voices of a generation calling out for empathy, action, and understanding, not retribution. Their cries are not a threat; they are a call to conscience, a summons to a government that has seemingly lost its way in the maze of worthless economic jargon and self-created fiscal constraints.
Let the children heal and live free of the fear that their hunger and hardship will be met with chains. The government must prioritize people over inhuman policies dictated by distant, no-good, vampiric financial institutions in Washington. It must recognize that these policies have consequences, consequences borne not by politicians and their cronies but by millions of Nigerians who struggle daily to survive.
For every child in that courtroom, for every young voice silenced by detention, Nigeria loses a part of its soul. Let this be a warning to those in power: the future is watching, and history will remember which leaders chose compassion over cruelty, justice over vengeance.
Because if a nation’s children cannot protest peacefully without fear of reprisal, if their hunger is not a call to action but an excuse for punishment, then the government itself stands on trial—and it is failing spectacularly.
Farooq Kperogi, author and Professor of Journalism @KennesawState University, is a columnist with Nigerian Tribune
