By Rt. Hon. Eseme Eyiboh, mnipr

Nigerian politics is not for the faint-hearted. It is noisy, dramatic, and often unforgiving. In a space where rumours travel faster than facts and headlines are written before the full story is known, substance can easily be drowned out. Real governance — the slow, patient work of building consensus, following procedure, and making tough decisions — rarely makes for exciting news.

The tenure of Senate President Godswill Akpabio has unfolded in that same charged atmosphere. It has drawn criticism, sparked debate, and generated its share of controversy — some sincere and rooted in genuine concern, some exaggerated for effect. That is the terrain of public life in Nigeria: intense, watchful, and rarely quiet.

Yet to evaluate this leadership solely through the prism of passing storms is to overlook the structure rising beneath the scaffolding. It is to confuse the weather with the architecture. Akpabio’s defining legacy will not be found in the daily churn of sensationalism, but in something far more consequential and far less clamorous: the deliberate stabilization of the legislature and its purposeful alignment with the executive in service of national progress.

Perhaps the most critical — and least celebrated — achievement of the current Senate is the restoration of constructive collaboration between the arms of government. After years in which legislative-executive friction often stalled governance in cycles of ego and brinkmanship, Akpabio has presided over a quiet but decisive shift.

What has emerged is a more mature, problem-solving partnership anchored in the understanding that Nigeria’s challenges transcend partisan divides. Under his stewardship, the 10th Senate has fostered an atmosphere in which policymaking rises above inherited animosities, enabling a focused pursuit of national interest.

Stability has been the oxygen of this Senate. It explains the timely consideration of executive communications, the passage of complex reform bills, and ministerial screenings that have been firm without being obstructionist.

From the presiding officer’s chair, this coherence has given government a more unified voice. In a federation as intricate and delicately balanced as Nigeria, coherence is not optional; it is essential. By prioritizing unity of purpose, Akpabio has repositioned the Senate from a potential arena of paralysis to a functioning engine of reform.

The most visible dividend of this stabilized framework is legislative output. The figures speak for themselves. In two years, the Senate has introduced over 844 bills, passed more than 90, and seen over 58 receive presidential assent under President Bola Ahmed Tinubu.
This pace — noticeably faster than that of recent assemblies — reflects what many observers describe as Akpabio’s leadership style: one that values efficiency, transparency, and measurable results over political theatrics.

Consider the Minimum Wage Act, a reform with a distinctly human impact. The law more than doubled the national minimum wage from ₦30,000 to ₦70,000 and exempted minimum wage earners from personal income tax. This was not an abstract fiscal adjustment; it was direct relief for millions of households navigating economic pressure.

Complementing this reform is a suite of tax legislation, including the Nigeria Tax Bill and the Nigeria Tax Administration Bill. Together, they represent a structural recalibration of Nigeria’s fiscal framework. By streamlining administration, responsibly broadening the tax base, and introducing targeted relief measures, these reforms have encouraged healthier fiscal competition among states and strengthened revenue generation. Nigeria’s GDP expansion from ₦314.02 trillion in 2023 to ₦372.8 trillion in 2024 stands as one indicator — among many complex factors — of renewed economic momentum supported by legislative-executive synergy.

Beyond macroeconomic indicators, Akpabio’s legislative vision reflects a keen appreciation of Nigeria’s geopolitical realities. His focus has not been confined to national aggregates. Under his leadership, the Senate has established five Regional Development Commissions covering the South East, South West, South South, North West, and North Central zones. These commissions are designed to reduce bureaucratic bottlenecks and accelerate infrastructure and social investment in regions long accustomed to delay.

This is development with strategic intent. It signals inclusion and reassures every zone that it is not peripheral to the national project.
Equally significant is the Local Government Financial Autonomy Act, which strengthens local councils’ control over their resources. By decentralizing both power and accountability — from Kaura Namoda to Urue Offong/Oruko — the law reduces dependency and narrows the space in which petty corruption thrives.
In the sphere of human capital development, the Students Loans Act stands out. Through the Nigerian Education Loan Fund, it provides zero-interest loans to students, directly addressing one of the most persistent barriers to social mobility. It is an investment in Nigeria’s most renewable asset: the intellect and ambition of its youth.
Akpabio’s influence has also extended beyond national borders. His leadership roles in international parliamentary forums have contributed to strengthening Nigeria’s voice in global conversations on climate resilience, migration, and development. At home, he has confronted controversy with openness rather than evasion. Allegations of budget padding were addressed in plenary debate, reinforcing institutional credibility.

His support for the removal of fuel subsidies — politically risky yet economically consequential — further demonstrates a willingness to endure short-term discomfort in pursuit of long-term stability. It reflects political courage anchored in conviction.

This posture is consistent with a career marked more by continuity than reinvention. From Governor transforming infrastructure in Akwa Ibom, to Minister of Niger Delta Affairs prioritizing regional development, to Senate President stabilizing the national legislature, the thread is unmistakable. It is this consistency that has led many to regard him as among the most effective Senate President in Nigeria’s political history. The claim is not one of perfection, but of performance — an operational legislature that works, visibly and persistently.

When history eventually asks what Senator Godswill Akpabio will be remembered for, the answer may not lie in the headlines of his era. It will lie in structure. His enduring contribution is the consolidation of legislative stability — transforming the Senate from a potential theatre of obstruction into a nucleus of collaborative policymaking.
That achievement is the platform upon which all else rests. It explains why bills move, why reforms gain traction, and why noise can gradually be shaped into governance. In a polity often pulled apart by centrifugal pressures, Akpabio has chosen to function as a centripetal force — holding the center not through coercion, but through deliberate and strategic harmony

And in doing so, he has supplied what a nation in transition requires most: stability — the firm foundation upon which a more secure future can be built.

Rt. Hon. Eseme Eyiboh, mnipr, is the Special Adviser, Media/Publicity, and official Spokesperson to the President of the Senate.

BY Mike Arnold

The Islamization of Nigeria Is Not a Theory. It’s a blueprint. Tinubu Isn’t Hiding It Anymore
By Mike Arnold

The Nigerian government is spending millions on lobbyists and PR firms in Washington and London. They’ve hired some of the best spin doctors money can buy. And I’ll give them this: they can muddy the waters about the terrorist massacres. They can repackage government failures as “security challenges.””” They can trot out ambassadors with talking points about “farmer-herder conflict” and “climate-driven migration.”

But there is one thing they can not hide: the historic, aggressive, and ongoing effort to fully Islamize Nigeria by any means necessary.

Not the violence. Not the body count. The structure. The laws. The Constitution. The courts. The schools. The appointments. The architecture of a 220-year conquest that is not winding down but accelerating—right now, in broad daylight, with receipts.

All the talk of a “secular democracy” is an elaborate masquerade to keep Nigeria in the good graces of the West. It is a fraud. The evidence is so overwhelming that no amount of lobbying can bury it.

I’ve made sixteen trips to Nigeria since 2010, multiple under Level 4 “Do Not Travel” warnings. I’ve spent time with children who watched their parents slaughtered for being Christian. I run three schools in displacement camps that the Nigerian government says don’t exist. I’ve sat across the table from two former Nigerian presidents. I carry protection now—even at my home in Texas—because of what I’ve uncovered.

So when I tell you the Islamization of Nigeria is not a conspiracy theory, not an exaggeration, and not Islam phobia—I’m telling you what I’ve spent fifteen years documenting with my own eyes, my own hands, and my own money. And every piece of it is on the record.

Let me show you.
This Didn’t Start Yesterday

People hear “Islamization of Nigeria” and think it’s a recent problem. It isn’t. It’s a 220-year project, and the blueprint has never changed.

In 1804, a Fulani scholar named Usman Dan Fodio launched a violent jihad across what is now Northern Nigeria. Historical records indicate as many as 250,000 died. He established the Sokoto Caliphate—an Islamic empire that swallowed dozens of ethnic groups and governed by Sharia. It was the largest state in Africa south of the Sahara.

When the British arrived, they didn’t dismantle it. They preserved it. Under “indirect rule,” they empowered the emirs, propped up the Islamic aristocracy, and suppressed the South. When they left in 1960, they handed the keys to the heirs of the caliphate.

On independence Day, the man holding those keys was Ahmadu Bello—the Sardauna of Sokoto, direct descendant of dan Fodio, Premier of Northern Nigeria. His vision was explicit. He founded Jama’atu Nasril Islam—the Society for the Victory of Islam—in 1962. He launched conversion campaigns across the North that converted more than 100,000 people in just two provinces. His stated goal: Nigeria as “an estate of our great-grandfather, Uthman dan Fodio.”

He was assassinated in the 1966 coup. But the project didn’t die with him.

When the Christian South tried to leave—when the Igbo people declared the Republic of Biafra in 1967—the Muslim-dominated North crushed them. Britain backed the North. Not for values. For oil. BP was extracting billions annually. The blockade starved one to three million people to death—mostly women and children. The message was clear: resistance will be annihilated.

After the war, the military government seized Christian missionary schools across the country. Schools that missionaries had built, funded, and operated since the 1840s—the backbone of education in Nigeria. Overnight, they were nationalized. In some Northern states, the names were changed to erase their Christian origins. St. John’s College became Rimi College. Queen of Apostles became Queen Amina College. The curricula were gutted. The moral foundations that had produced generations of Nigerian leaders were replaced with state-controlled content.

In 1986, military dictator Ibrahim Babangida secretly enrolled Nigeria as a full member of the Organisation of Islamic Cooperation—the 57-nation body that calls itself “the collective voice of the Muslim world.” He did it without consulting his cabinet. His own deputy—Commodore Ebitu Ukiwe, a Christian—said publicly that it was never discussed at the Supreme Military Council. Ukiwe was fired. In 2012, Nigeria’s Minister of State for Foreign Affairs described Nigeria at an OIC meeting in Saudi Arabia as “an Islamic state with the largest Christian population.” The backlash was fierce. The minister backpedalled. But Nigeria remains a full member of the OIC to this day.

And then there’s the constitution itself—the document that supposedly guarantees Nigeria’s “secular” character. The 1999 Constitution mentions Sharia 73 times. It mentions Islam 28 times. It mentions Muslims 10 times. It mentions Christianity zero times. The Bible? Zero. Not once. It establishes a Sharia Court of Appeal as a federal institution. It provides for Grand Khadi appointments. It embeds Islamic law into the legal architecture of a nation that calls itself secular.

Structural gerrymandering goes deeper. Nigeria’s 36 states were drawn to guarantee a permanent Muslim majority in the federal system. The North has 19 states, the South 17. Senate seats, revenue allocation, and federal appointments—all flow from a map designed to ensure that the heirs of the caliphate never lose control of the centre, regardless of what happens at the ballot box.

When Babangida built Aso Rock—the presidential villa—in 1991, he included mosques. No chapel. No church. Nothing for the Christians who make up roughly half the country. It wasn’t until President Obasanjo, a Christian, took office in 1999 and noticed the imbalance that a chapel was finally built in 2000—nine years after the villa opened. Today, under Tinubu’s Muslim-Muslim administration, reports indicate that the chapel has been shut while the mosques continue to operate.

In 1999, twelve Northern states immediately implemented full criminal Sharia law. Amputation. Flogging. Stoning. Not in some distant past. In the lifetime of every adult Nigerian alive today.

This is the through-line. 1804 to 2026. It has never stopped.

What’s Happening Right Now
After banning the teaching of Nigerian history in public schools for more than fifteen years—removed from the curriculum in 2009, with multiple failed attempts to restore it—the Tinubu administration finally mandated that Nigerian History be made compulsory from primary through junior secondary, effective 2025.

That sounds good. Until you see who Tinubu put in charge.

In December 2024, he appointed Professor Salisu Shehu as Executive Secretary of NERDC—the Nigerian Educational Research and Development Council. The man who controls what every child in Nigeria learns.

Shehu’s life’s work is something called “The Islamization of Knowledge.””” That’s not my phrase. It’s his. He wrote the book—literally. Islamization of Knowledge: Conceptual Background, Vision and Tasks, published in 1998. He served as National Coordinator of the International Institute of Islamic Thought in Nigeria. He was Deputy Secretary-General of the Nigerian Supreme Council for Islamic Affairs. In 2024, he was turbaned “Khadimul Qur’an”—Servant of the Quran—for promoting Islamic knowledge.

This is the man now designing the curriculum for 50 million Nigerian school children.

And the curriculum content? Hidden behind a paid NERDC membership wall. Nobody outside the system can read what children will be taught. Meanwhile, coordinated praise from regime-friendly influencers celebrates a curriculum they haven’t seen.

After fifteen years of erasing history from the classroom, Nigeria’s children will now learn their history—as written by the man whose career mission is the Islamization of Knowledge. Who controls the past controls the future. Who controls the curriculum controls the nation.

The Tinubu Record
Here’s what Tinubu has done since taking office in May 2023. Not speeches. Actions.

He ran on a Muslim-Muslim ticket—the first in Nigeria’s history. He appointed a Sharia advocate to redesign the national curriculum. He issued $500 million in Sukuk bonds—Islamic financial instruments that channel public funds through Sharia-compliant structures. He left Sharia courts and Hisbah morality police operating with full impunity across twelve Northern states, enforcing Islamic law on Muslims and non-Muslims alike.

His National Security Adviser, Nuhu Ribadu, armed Miyetti Allah—the Fulani herders’ association—with AK-47s under the Terrorism Prevention Act The government confirmed it. At the same time, Christian community defenders had their weapons confiscated. Hunters who protected their villages were left outgunned. In July 2025, more than 70 vigilantes were killed in a single ambush in Plateau State—because the government took their weapons while arming the other side.

He transferred Nnamdi Kanu—convicted on charges an Enugu court had already nullified—to a prison in Sokoto. The seat of the Caliphate. Eight hundred kilometres from his lawyers and family. His crime? Words. Not violence. Words.

Meanwhile, Isa Pantami—communications minister under Tinubu’s predecessor—is on tape praising Osama bin Laden, celebrating the killing of unbelievers, and Taliban victory. He kept his cabinet position. Nobody touched him.

Praise jihad and you keep your job. Advocate for your people with words, and you die in the Caliphate’s backyard.

And last month? Tinubu flew to Ankara to sign a military cooperation protocol with Erdogan. Turkish Special Forces will now train Nigerian soldiers. Turkish satellites will share intelligence. And Erdogan’s Maarif Foundation—a network of Islamic schools that scholars describe as having “a more pronounced Islamic character” – than the schools they replaced—will expand its educational footprint in Nigeria

Tinubu isn’t breaking the pattern. He’s accelerating it.
The Sultan’s Silence—and His Southern Advance

In January 2025, the Sultan of Sokoto—Sa’ad Abubakar III, 19th hereditary successor to dan Fodio—expanded Sharia arbitration panels into Southern states. Ekiti. Oyo. Yoruba Heartland. States that were never part of the caliphate. Not criminal Sharia. Not yet. Arbitration panels. Soft entry. The camel’s nose.

The Sultan presides over 108 million Muslims and 19 emirs. He could issue a fatwa against the violence tomorrow. He did it once—in 2015, and his fatwa against Boko Haram is reported to have reduced their recruitment by 40 percent. He has the authority. He has the platform. He has the reach.

He hasn’t done it. His silence is policy.
His 2025 message to the faithful: “The ummah must unite to confront challenges facing the Muslim world.” Not Nigeria. Not peace. Not coexistence. The Muslim world.

The Justice System They Built
A girl named Deborah Samuel was stoned to death and burned alive for thanking Jesus on WhatsApp. Her killers were defended by a team of 34 devout Muslim volunteer lawyers who rallied to their cause. They were acquitted—prosecution lawyers who failed to appear. In response to the arrests, Muslim mobs attacked and looted three churches.

A Christian healthcare worker named Rhoda Jatau spent 19 months in prison for condemning that murder.

A 74-year-old pastor’s wife named Bridget Agbahime was beaten to death by a mob of more than 500 for asking a man to move his ablution water from her shop door. All five suspects were discharged in five months. The magistrate’s ruling: “No case to answer. All suspects are innocent.”

A young musician named Yahaya Sharif-Aminu has been in prison more than five years for sharing song lyrics on WhatsApp. His sentence: death by hanging. The Kano state government’s lawyer said publicly: “If the Supreme Court upholds the lower court’s decision, we will execute him publicly.”

Nigeria is one of only seven countries on earth with a blasphemy law carrying the death penalty. The European Parliament, the UN Working Group on Arbitrary Detention, and the ECOWAS Court have all demanded Nigeria repeal these laws. Nigeria has not complied with any of them.

Meanwhile, captured jihadists get vocational training, cash payments, and startup equipment through Operation Safe Corridor. Nearly a thousand “repentant Boko Haram members” graduated in 2025 alone. Their victims—millions in displacement camps—have their camps bulldozed and are told to go home. To villages still controlled by the killers.

Kill a Christian for “blasphemy” and walk free. Defend a murdered Christian’s memory and go to prison. This is not a broken system. It’s working exactly as designed.

The Man Who Wants You to Look Away
After Trump’s Christmas Day strike on ISIS targets in Sokoto, a man named Sheikh Ahmad Gumi stepped to the microphone.

Gumi is the most influential Islamic cleric in Northern Nigeria. Son of the man critics called “the Ayatollah of Nigeria.” Preaches at the Sultan Bello Mosque in Kaduna. In 2021, he walked into forest camps to meet more than 600 armed bandits. He distributed Islamic books to them. He gave them medical treatment. He demanded the government give them amnesty and money. He said publicly—on the record—that “kidnapping children from school is a lesser evil.”

He’s also the man who exchanged emails with Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab before the young Nigerian tried to blow up 289 people on a Christmas Day flight to Detroit in 2009. U.S. intelligence found the correspondence. Saudi Arabia arrested Gumi and held him for more than six months. The Nigerian government lobbied for his release.

In May 2025, Saudi Arabia banned him from entering the country, immediately deporting him upon arrival. Too radical for Saudi Arabia—the same Saudi Arabia that the United States has designated a Country of Particular Concern.

And after the Christmas strike? Gumi demanded Nigeria “halt all military cooperation with the United States” and pivot to “neutral countries”—China, Turkey, and Pakistan.

Those are not neutral countries. Turkey just signed a military cooperation protocol with Tinubu. Pakistan already has fighter jets in the Nigerian Air Force—co-developed with China. Iran has built a three-million-strong proxy movement in Northern Nigeria. When Gumi says “pivot,” he’s describing what’s already underway.

The Numbers
Ninety per cent of all Christians killed for their faith on earth are killed in Nigeria. More than 10,200 were killed by armed groups in just the first two years of Tinubu’s administration, according to Amnesty International. 725 villages under bandit control in Zamfara. All 23 local government areas of Benue State attacked. Boko Haram and ISWAP recruitment videos indicate that Nigeria is “phase one” of a worldwide caliphate revival—with $40 billion a year in oil and $700 billion in strategic minerals to finance it.

Former AFRICOM Commander General Michael Langley called the region anchored by Northern Nigeria “the of global terrorism.”

The Nigerian government’s official position stated in September 2025: “There is no religious persecution in Nigeria.”

Why I’m Telling You This
The lobbyists can spin the violence. They can reframe massacres as “community disputes.” They can buy op-eds and plant friendly stories.

But they can not rewrite the constitution that mentions Sharia, Islam, and the Quran more than 100 times and Christianity zero. They can not un-seize the missionary schools. They can not un-join the OIC. They can not erase the conversion campaigns or the caliphate or the curriculum czar whose life’s work is the Islamization of Knowledge. They can not explain away a presidential villa built with mosques and no chapel. They can not make Ahmadu Bello’s vision disappear or pretend that twelve states don’t enforce criminal Sharia in a “secular democracy.”

The masquerade is over. The record is clear. And the full picture—how this 220-year conquest machine works, who built it, who feeds it, and what it will take to stop it—is coming. Soon.

EarthShaker

Prof P. I. Ukase

Once again, our children aspiring to gain admission into universities for the 2026/2027 academic session are compelled to endure the painful process of registering for the UTME conducted by the Joint Admissions and Matriculation Board across designated centres nationwide.

The challenge of registration has become a recurring decimal since the adoption of selected CBT centres. Year after year, candidates struggle through congestion, delays, and frustration, with little evidence that the system is adjusting to rising demand.

With the increasing quest for tertiary education, the number of candidates seeking university admission has grown geometrically. It is therefore troubling that JAMB has been unable to unbundle and simplify the process to reflect this reality.

The inadequacy of registration centres—especially in rural and semi-urban areas—worsens the situation. Many candidates travel long distances just to find an available centre. Others queue for hours, sometimes days, under the scorching sun to complete a process that should ordinarily take minutes.

Why must Nigerians constantly suffer for everything they seek to do? NIN registration, BVN enrolment, voter registration—now UTME registration. Basic administrative processes in Nigeria often resemble endurance tests.

In this age of ICT, why is it so difficult to make these processes seamless and less herculean? Is it impossible for candidates to register securely using their Android phones? What then is the purpose of widespread digital devices if they cannot be effectively deployed for simple public services?

It took innovative platforms like Moniepoint and OPay to demystify conventional banking by making e-banking easy and user-friendly. Nigerians can now open accounts, transfer funds, and conduct transactions in real time without the endless complaints of “network challenges.” These platforms are faster, smoother, and more efficient. That is what Nigerians desire—real-time service delivery.

Ironically, I took JAMB in the 1990s when the process was manually driven, yet we were never subjected to the level of stress candidates experience today. One would expect technological advancement to reduce hardship, not multiply it.

In my view, JAMB appears to be biting more than it can chew. With nearly 200 universities in the country, why must admission remain excessively centralised? Is it truly the best practice for all candidates to sit for a single matriculation examination? Why should a candidate not be free to sit for entrance examinations organised by individual universities and keep trying within the same academic cycle until admission is secured?

Why must a candidate who has passed UTME but was denied admission be compelled to register and pay again for another UTME the following year? Is that fair or efficient?

University admission should be liberalised. It makes little sense in the 21st century for a candidate to sit for WAEC or NECO, then UTME, and still be required to take Post-UTME examinations—each with its financial implications.

Beyond registration, similar bottlenecks affect the admission process itself. With JAMB as the sole admitting authority and with astronomical candidate numbers, admissions are often delayed due to technical and administrative glitches. The cancellation and rescheduling of examinations in parts of the country last year underscore the strain on the system.

If JAMB insists on managing the entire tertiary admission framework—a model I consider unhealthy—it must drastically improve its delivery capacity. It must upgrade infrastructure, expand digital access, decentralise operations where necessary, and eliminate the excruciating pains candidates currently endure.

Information and communication technology has made life easier across sectors. JAMB must leverage modern technology to ensure seamless registration, efficient change-of-course processes, and real-time release of admissions.

Our children deserve efficiency, dignity, and a system that works.