Poor service delivery in our aviation industry has for long been a daily occurrence that no one does anything about. The level of discomfort that passengers face in our airports gives an impression that Nigeria’s aviation industry has no regulator. It is against this backdrop that the reported uproar last Wednesday at the Lagos airport between the Air Peace airline and the Senator representing Edo North in the National Assembly, Senator Adams Oshiomhole should attract considerable interest. It is not uncharitable to imagine that if more and more of such conflicts do not occur more regularly and with greater intensity, the industry is not likely to change. The point to be made is that last week’s uproar is not about a particular senator or a particular airline; instead, it is an inevitable reaction to an exasperating ethos.

The airline’s argument that it had to lock out Oshiomhole in line with its own supposed policy of keeping to time is laughable. In the entire week of the incident, how many times did the airline in question or any other airline for that matter keep to time? The truth is that lateness of flights if not complete cancellation is the order of the day in our aviation industry making it exceedingly irritating for any airline to occasionally sanction lateness of passengers who are never in a position to similarly sanction the incessant lateness of airlines. In other climes where service delivery is not temperamental, anyone who raises uproar simply because he is locked out for lateness would look strange to anyone who gets to know about it, but not so in our clime that can be described as a jungle.

It is only in Nigeria that a passenger with no luggage and who has already checked in on-line still has to be subjected to an additional visit to the checking counter. What imaginary defects do such passengers need to redress at the checking counter? Why pretend to have an on-line check-in system that is not credible? In another country it is at the boarding gate and not at the checking counter that Oshiomhole would have realized that he was late if indeed he truly was. Those who travel often know that last minute purchase of tickets at exorbitant costs is our airlines’ emergency strategy of exploiting passengers. I used to think that such smart moves were the handiwork of young operators and that their supervisors had no hand in that until I heard that it was an across-the-board practice which those on top also subscribe to.

It is difficult to fault Oshiomhole’s story about the lucrative business around the counters after certain passengers had been declared late and their seats given up and resold for huge amounts in compartments behind the counters. The other day, a friend who was to fly business class in a particular airline was told that the seats were exhausted but that if he paid a particular additional sum, another passenger could be persuaded to give up his seat for the big man. My friend did, only to find after boarding, that he was the only passenger in the business cabin of the flight.  Of the 8 seats in the cabin, 7 were empty.  If by chance some of the airline proprietors are unaware of such sharp practices, perhaps they need to look more closely because it happens daily in line with Oshiomhole’s story. 

Already, several versions of what happened last week are now in the public domain. The airline has not only alleged that the senator disrupted their services, they have also put a lie to Oshiomhole’s defence. The two parties are great unionists and their supporters are currently actively seeking to undo each other. On the side of the airline, there is the Airline Operators of Nigeria (AON) which has since described the conduct of the former Edo state governor ‘as unacceptable and another example of the growing trend of unruly passenger behaviour towards domestic airlines.’ For two reasons, the AON’s reaction cannot be easily dismissed. First, it was personally issued by its respected AON spokesperson, Professor Obiora Okonkwo. Second, the AON is shocked that days after the incident, the relevant agencies ‘were yet to provide clarity on what transpired.’

On its part, the South-South zonal chapter of the All-Progressives Congress (APC) has decried what it called the alleged maltreatment of Senator Adams Oshiomhole, by operators of Air Peace airline. For the same clarity that the AON is demanding, Blessing Agbomhere, the zonal organizing secretary of the party wants the Nigeria Civil Aviation Authority (NCAA) to wake up from its long slumber, as the world has gone beyond Nigeria’s poorly regulated airline industry. Agbomhere insists that it is the NCAA which had given “local operators, the leeway to delay, cancel, and roundtrip tickets purchased by unsuspecting customers, thereby denying them the opportunity to travel on schedule without any sort of sanction on erring airlines.”

The above allegations are quite strong and they are capable of creating a situation where the result of the investigations demanded by both sides may not be acceptable to any of them. Ordinarily, one would have asked both sides to sheathe their swords as Festus Keyamo the energetic Minister of Aviation and Aerospace Development has already intervened. To start with, if the same NCAA that is to conduct the investigation is already condemned by one of the parties, will the same party accept a negative report from the agency?  On the other hand, although Keyamo has done commendably well especially on the international scene to reposition our aviation sector, will he be able to release a result that is against Oshiomhole who is his political associate?

Well, Keyamo knows what it looks like to offend a federal legislator. It is not only the aviation budget of the sector that would suffer, Keyamo himself would ‘hear hot’ as we say in our part of Nigeria. As Minister of state for Labour and Employment during the Buhari administration, Keyamo cannot forget with ease the heated debates between him and the law makers over the recruitment of some casual workers in the 774 local government areas to perform tasks in roads rehabilitation, social housing construction, urban and rural sanitation etc. Keyamo enumerated all the legal provisions concerning the jobs but because N52 billion was involved, the fight never ended. When President Tinubu submitted Keyamo’s name for clearance as Minister in 2023, he would not have passed through if he didn’t pacify the Senate.

What the above suggests is that the current uproar between Air Peace Airline and Senator Oshiomhole is not as simple as it looks. The airline made a tactical error when it sought to present the Senator as a hooligan. It was also too quick with the statements it issued as well as its provocative diction. From his days as President of the Nigerian Labour Congress NLC, Oshiomhole established himself as a leader who fights for the rights of others. It is too late in the day to change the perception because even as governor of Edo state, Oshiomhole led protests in Benin against political opponents and even INEC. When asked if it would not have been neater for others to arrange a protest to call on him as governor to redress the relevant grievances Oshiomhole insisted that no one could change his life style. 

On the other hand, Allen Onyema the owner of Air Peace airline is loved by many Nigerians for his high degree of patriotism. To that extent, the claim that he runs an airline that relishes the exploitation of Nigerians appears contradictory. In between these claims lies the undercurrent of last week’s uproar at the Lagos airport. The way forward is to separate the personalities involved in this instant case. It is also important to recognize that the real malaise in Nigeria’s aviation industry is beyond a particular airline. All Nigerian airlines have the same disposition to the concept of aviation in the country. For example, anyone who buys a ticket on-line must wait for a minimum of 3 months to get back his refund concerning a trip that was cancelled by the airline to the discomfort of the passenger.

Having cultivated the freedom to indiscriminately change flight times “due operational reasons” something drastic must be put in place to curtail such impunity by our airlines. For this reason, Minister Keyamo must constitute a responsive regulatory body that can immediately stop the exploitation of Nigerians in the aviation industry. His efforts at compelling other countries to respect us and our airlines would be in vain if he cannot similarly compel our airlines to operate according to professional standards and also respect our citizens.

Twenty years ago, I got a message that Uncle Sam Amuka-Pemu, the publisher of the Vanguard Newspapers could not be found. It was his 70th birthday and plans to mark it were in place, but the celebrant was not responding to calls. He seems to have simply vanished.

I placed a call and he picked. I congratulated him and asked him where he was. “Departure lounge,” he responded. “Which airport, Sir?” “…Of the world. Once you are 70, you are at the departure lounge, waiting for your flight to be called.” He similarly dodged the celebration of his 80th birthday. A few years ago, I baked a birthday cake for him and delivered it at his residence in Abuja. I  assumed he would be at his Lagos home. It was received by his house keeper. Next morning, he called saying the cake was quite good and that he personally carried it on his flight back to Lagos. I said: “So you were in when I came to deliver the cake.” He responded: “Go your way, my friend.”

As his June 13, 2025,  90th birthday approached, it was difficult to know if this time around, he could be trapped to mark it. Former Ogun State Governor, Aremo Olusegun Osoba revealed at the celebration, that the Newspapers Proprietors Association of Nigeria, NPAN;  the Nigeria Union of Journalists, NUJ; and the Nigeria Guild of Editors, NGE; had to combine forces to put pressure on Uncle Sam to allow  generations of Nigerians honour him. Osoba, who has been his friend for over six decades, was given the difficult task of  extracting  a commitment  from Uncle Sam. After difficult negotiations, he gave conditions which the organisers accepted.

Last year, I called him on phone. He  asked whether I no longer come to Lagos as I had not visited him for some time. I replied that I had no ‘visa’ to Lagos. By that, I implied that the flight ticket to Lagos had become too expensive for me. He asked if there are no donkeys in Abuja. I told him there were. He laughed and said: “Take a donkey to Lagos, I am sure in one month or two, you will get to Lagos. Call me when you arrive.”  Uncle Sam is  as free with people and witty as that; he is given to informality. That was how I came to work in the Vanguard Newspapers. In January, 1985, I had gone to the newspaper to see some friends. None was present. 

But somebody told me the publisher was in the office. I had never met him and had no appointment. But I was told such things don’t matter to Uncle Sam. I walked into his office; he was on his way out and asked that we spoke on the corridor. He asked where I was working. I told him I had been fired from the newspaper I was working for leading a journalists’ revolt. He said that did not mean I was a journalist; I should send him some current news reports. I did immediately, and left them with his Secretary. Next day, I went to see him, I had been hired!      The Vanguard Newspapers was quite unique, especially in the development of a journalist. In the media, the reporter’s duty was to report news; the features writer, to write features, and that of the elite editorial board, to write editorials and columns. But Uncle Sam, in practice, virtually erased such demarcations. If a reporter wrote a good story, the publisher was likely to ask for a follow-up features material. He had also created a two-column down space called ‘Personal Opinion’ that could contain 650 words. All reporters were encouraged to write their opinions. Sometimes, he would meet a reporter with a good story and suggest he writes an opinion   on the story. This way, the average reporter  was made to straddle the gamut of journalism. This was how  a  number of us in the newspaper learnt editorial and column writing. 

The newspaper was run like a family, and victimisation was difficult because everybody, from the lowest  to the highest  paid staff, had direct access to the publisher. There were no protocols. Any staff could stop him anywhere on the premises and discuss any issue. The atmosphere in Vanguard was quite relaxed with a whole structure ‘The Canal’ allocated for canteen and bar. Some of my colleagues drank generously for the rest of us, and if you ran into Uncle Sam, you are likely to get free food and booze.

The Vanguard Newspapers was also one of the freest in the country. Although the governments of the day courted Uncle Sam,  and indeed, some, like General Ibrahim Babangida, were his friends; that  was never allowed to interfere with the newspaper’s independence. I recall that sometimes when I wrote  reports or opinions critical of the Babangida regime, Uncle  Sam would  say: “Owei, you know IBB is my friend.” He would wink, and I would reply: “I know, Sir” The military  regimes were so angry with the Vanguard Newspapers that, at least on two occasions, they shut it down.  Some of its staff were also detained without trial. It wasn’t just about government, but all institutions and individuals. Uncle Sam always defended the staff provided he was satisfied that they were professional. 

I was a Labour Reporter and once, an angry Nigeria Labour Congress, NLC, President sent one of Uncle Sam’s classmates,  Comrade Paul Epuh, to complain against me and asked that I be replaced on the beat for allegedly being anti-NLC and antagonistic to workers. The publisher called me and said he was confused. He thought I was too pro-labour but here was the Congress President accusing me of being anti-labour. He thought there must be something wrong with the Congress leader. Fifteen years later, I was a principal staff of the NLC when I got a call from Uncle Sam. He had just gotten off a long call from the then NLC President  who piled a litany of allegations against  the Labour Editor. The labour leader demanded that the Editor should not just be reprimanded but  sacked from the newspaper. Uncle Sam asked for my advice. I replied: “Ignore him, Sir.” He ignored the labour leader.

I left the newspaper a quarter of a century ago to join the Labour Movement. Despite this length of time, I still maintain two weekly columns on Nigeria and international affairs in the ‘Vanguard Newspapers’. This is partly in appreciation for my professional training, my personal gratitude to Uncle Sam, and the fact that the newspaper remains an independent, fearless and pro-people publication. I join the multitudes in congratulating Uncle Sam Amuka for becoming a nonagenarian and, his unquantifiable service to humanity.

In every generation, few personalities rise not just as politicians but as enduring forces in the story of a nation. Among notable Nigerians in public, private and political life, only few individuals have journeyed with as much persistence, clarity of purpose, and passionate connection to the Nigerian dream as Alhaji Atiku Abubakar, Waziri Adamawa, a man whose name has become synonymous with resilience, strategy, and national ambition.

For more than three decades, his name has been a constant fixture in the evolving story of Nigeria’s democracy. To some, Atiku is the man who has tried and failed. But to the more discerning, he is the man who has refused to quit not because of blind ambition, but because of an unrelenting quest for Nigeria’s redemption.

His name, often evoking debate and admiration in equal measure, is now etched not only in the history of electoral contests but in the enduring hope of a nation still searching for balance, prosperity, and unity. His quest for the Nigerian presidency over time is not one of failure, but of a legacy deferred, not denied.

This is a journey that goes beyond the ballot, beyond the noise of campaigns and the calculations of politics. It is the story of a man who sees leadership not as a title to be won, but as a platform to rebuild a nation that he knows, loves, and refuses to give up on.

In a country desperate for visionary leadership that speaks to the values democracy and development, Atiku remains one of the few leaders with the scars of battle and the compass to march forward.

From the agrarian village of Jada in Adamawa State to the grandeur of Aso Villa, Atiku’s journey has been tortuous, layered, and unrelenting. He possesses the grit of a marathon runner. His evolvement into a political titan is not a happenstance; it is the product of sheer determination, vision, and an unwavering belief in the Nigerian project.

Born on November 25, 1946, into a modest Fulani household, Atiku’s father was a farmer and later a primary school teacher. The early death of his father placed the young Atiku at crossroads, but even then, the seed of leadership has already been planted. He would go on to complete his education through the benevolence of individuals and government scholarships, eventually graduating with a diploma in Law from Ahmadu Bello University,Zaria, in 1969.

That same year, Atiku joined the Nigeria Customs Service, where he served diligently for two decades, rising to a Deputy Director, as the second highest position in the Service was then known. He retired in April 1989 to full-time business and politics.

His business interests spans real estate, agriculture, logistics, and education. The American University of Nigeria in Yola, is a globally ranked and an example of how private enterprise could fuel national development.

Still hungry for knowledge, Atiku later enrolled, completed and passed his Master’s degree in International Relations at Anglia Ruskin University, Cambridge, United Kingdom. His tenure as Vice President was marked by the privatization of key national assets, an initiative that, while controversial at the time, was aimed at unshackling Nigeria’s economy from decades of stagnation. Love him or hate him, Atiku has always been a man unafraid to take difficult decisions.

His story is also one of fierce resistance from within and without. He has faced betrayal by allies, smear campaigns by rivals, legal battles, and party machinations designed to thwart his ambitions. Yet, through it all, Atiku has never abandoned the democratic project or the dream of a better Nigeria.

Unlike many who retreat into self pity after political setbacks, Atiku’s resolve seems to be galvanised after every setback, whether it is presidential primaries or general elections. With each attempt from 2003 till 2023, he has returned, not as a man desperate for power, but as a statesman committed to a vision of new Nigeria able to realise its huge potentials.

Atiku’s political story mirrors that of other world leaders who were once underestimated, ridiculed, or cast aside, yet returned, time and again, powered by conviction rather than blind ambition for power.

Think of Winston Churchill, once labeled a political has-been in Britain, who returned to power at the age of 65 to lead the United Kingdom through its darkest hour in World War II. Or Abraham Lincoln, who lost multiple elections before finally becoming the 16th President of the United States to preside over the salvation of the American union.

Closer in time is Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva of Brazil, a man who lost three presidential bids before finally being elected in 2002. Today, Lula is back in power after surviving jail, political banishment, and media crucifixion. Like Atiku, he was mocked for his persistence until that very persistence became a badge of honor.

Atiku Abubakar, in similar fashion, has endured four presidential attempts, dozens of court battles, multiple defections and endless media trials, yet the man returns not as a politician grasping at power, but as a patriot yearning for a better Nigeria.

What truly sets Atiku apart is that he offers a national vision when most others offer regional rhetoric. He has consistently campaigned on themes that can be regarded as Nigeria’s pain points: restructuring, inclusivity, economic modernization, and educational reform. These are not soundbites, but desiderata to Nigeria’s greatness.

Atiku’s all for restructuring is a recognition that Nigeria, as currently arranged, cannot thrive. He sees the imbalance between the center and the states as a ticking time bomb, a truth many politicians recognized but are afraid to tackle.

He understands that for Nigeria to be redeemed, it must be reinvented, not just rebranded. This is not the language of an opportunist; it is the language of a reformer.

Nigeria, in recent years, has grown dangerously divided along ethnic and religious lines. Yet Atiku, a Fulani Muslim from the North-East, is perhaps the most Pan-Nigerian politician of the Fourth Republic. His political alliances cuts across zones, his running mates have represented every major bloc, and his message has always been framed in the language of unity, not division.

He is one of the few northern politicians who can command applause in the South-East and mobilize structure in the South-West, while maintaining a stronghold in the North. This is not mere strategy; it is national stature.

Just as Nelson Mandela emerged from prison not seeking vengeance but reconciliation, Atiku has refused to play the ethnic card, even when it would have been politically expedient. His campaigns have not been built on fear, but on hope. That is statesmanship.

Away from politics, Atiku has invested in education, job creation, and enterprise. The American University of Nigeria (AUN), which he founded in Yola, stands as one of West Africa’s leading private institutions. His business ventures have provided employment for thousands. These are not campaign promises they are living testimonies.

It would be easy, even tempting, to write off Atiku Abubakar as yesterday’s man just another name in Nigeria’s long, winding history of presidential contenders. But to do so would be to miss the essence of his quest.

The ballot has not yet handed him the final mandate. But history may yet prove kinder than the vote.

In a country where most politicians see public office as the only path to relevance, Atiku has shown that national building can begin in the private sector. His actions reflect an understanding that redemption is not just the work of government it is the burden of citizens, especially those privileged with wealth and wisdom.

Nigeria stands today at the edge of multiple crises: economic hardship, insecurity, ethnic and religious polarization, and institutional decay. In this fractured landscape, Atiku’s message of national unity, restructuring, and economic revival resonates more urgently than ever.

Fluent in Hausa, Yoruba, English, and several northern dialects, Atiku is one of the few Nigerian leaders with a truly national identity. He is a Fulani man who preaches inclusion; a northern elite who defends southern aspirations.

Atiku has often been misunderstood branded by critics as overly ambitious or “politically overstretched.” Yet those who have studied his political philosophy understand that beneath the ambition lies a deeply strategic mind, one that envisions a Nigeria where states have more autonomy, where the youth are empowered through innovation and job creation, and where institutions are respected, not manipulated.
While others offer slogans, Atiku offers blueprints—clear, actionable plans backed by experience in both the private and public sectors.

In a country where political relevance fades quickly, Atiku’s enduring influence speaks volumes. He remains a rallying figure for millions especially those who believe that age, experience, and perseverance still matter in leadership. His political base remains strong, his international reputation intact, and his voice steady amid the noise.

To write Alhaji Atiku Abubakar off would be to misunderstand the pulse of Nigerian politics. His journey mirrors Nigeria’s own: bruised, battered, raped but remain undaunted.

Atiku’s legacy is not defined by whether he ever holds the title of “President of the Federal Republic of Nigeria.” His legacy is already being written in the courage of his convictions, the ideas he champions, and the generations he has inspired.

But if history is fair and Nigerians finally yearn for tested vision over empty populism, then that legacy, though long deferred, will not be denied.

Kalu Okoronkwo, a leadership and good governance advocate writes from Lagos and can reached via kalu.okoronkwo@gmail.com

When the clouds gathered above Mokwa at the start of the 2025 rainy season, no one reached for a weather almanac; the townspeople needed only memory. They had seen the river climb its banks before, had watched water swirl down gullies that doubled as rubbish dumps, and had heard radio callers warn—almost cheerfully—that nature’s annual rehearsal was underway. What they had not felt was the sensation of genuine safety. So, when the torrents finally broke their modest records, they landed on a place that had already surrendered its defences.

Mokwa was never merely a location on a map; it was a warning sign blinking for years. The tragedy that unfolded in June 2025, claiming over 1,300 lives—including 700 children—was not a bolt from the blue. It was the inevitable result of chronic neglect, dysfunctional planning, and a dangerous culture of silence. Entire families disappeared. Homes, schools, businesses, and a critical section of Nigeria’s railway infrastructure were annihilated. Yet this devastation was neither mysterious nor accidental. It was a known risk that was allowed to fester.

Long before the flood, experts had flagged Mokwa as a high-risk area. Ecologists had pointed to the fragile river systems and deforested buffers. Meteorologists had issued forecasts highlighting changing rainfall patterns driven by climate change. Urban planners had warned that the unchecked spread of informal settlements, many of which were constructed directly on floodplains, was a disaster waiting to happen. But the alarms were met with bureaucratic shrugs. No concerted response, no clear regulatory enforcement, no serious public communication. For years, federal, state, and local governments took turns ignoring the looming threat, focusing instead on short-term political expediency over long-term risk reduction, turning what should have been manageable seasonal flooding into a lethal disaster.

When the rain finally came, it did what water always does: it followed the path of least resistance. River Dingi, a seasonal tributary typically dry outside the rainy season, transformed into a violent, swelling force. The natural channels it once used had been blocked by construction and waste. The drainage systems designed decades ago had long ceased to function. Many had been filled with silt, others narrowed by illegal buildings, and almost all were incapable of handling the volume of rain driven by climate-induced extreme weather events.

The town’s land surface—stripped of trees and vegetation—could no longer absorb runoff, accelerating the scale and speed of the flooding. There had been no meaningful enforcement of zoning laws. No incentives to dissuade illegal building. No functioning flood management systems. No early-warning network tailored to local conditions. When the floods came, they revealed not just the weakness of physical infrastructure but the collapse of institutional responsibility.

A nearby agricultural dam, weakly constructed and poorly maintained, gave way, sending an additional torrent crashing towards an already drowning town. And while Nigeria’s major dams—Kainji and Jebba—remained intact, the lack of effective communication from their operators only added to the confusion and delayed emergency responses. The human cost was staggering: bodies swept away, children separated from parents, people clinging to rooftops as the water swallowed everything below.

Yet beneath this devastation lies something far more painful: the awareness that it did not have to be this way. Mokwa’s flood was not a punishment from nature—it was the price of inertia. It was what happens when government institutions become deaf to science and blind to their own responsibilities. It was a consequence of fragmented governance, where agencies overlap but do not collaborate, plans are drafted but never implemented, and illegal structures mushroom in full view of regulators without consequence.

Still, the story must not end in despair. Tragedy can be a turning point, if only we have the courage to transform grief into resolve. In the ashes of destruction lies a rare chance for a complete reset—not just of infrastructure, but of the governance systems that allowed this to happen. Mokwa can become a model of what post-disaster resilience should look like in Nigeria and beyond. And it has already started.

To its credit, the Niger State government has initiated a commendable response. Governor Bago has promised to literally build a new town in Mokwa. This is real leadership. Roads are being constructed to serve as resilient evacuation routes in the event of future emergencies. The state is building 200 brand-new homes, featuring flood-resilient designs, solar-powered electricity, and communal layouts designed to promote safety and cohesion. Healthcare and educational institutions are being built.

This reset must begin with a new planning philosophy—one that acknowledges climate change not as an abstract threat but as a force that is already reshaping Nigeria’s landscape. Rebuilding is not the same as transformation. If we truly want to make Mokwa a symbol of resilience, then we must go further. Urban growth must now be risk-informed, and urban planning must transition from a reactive to a proactive approach. Land-use zoning needs to be enforced with seriousness and consistency, especially in areas historically considered flood-prone.
Informal and illegal settlements must be regularised, relocated, or reimagined with proper infrastructure. Natural ecosystems—such as river buffers, wetlands, and tree belts—must be restored and protected, not sold to the highest bidder. Drainage systems must be overhauled and engineered for the climate realities of today, not the assumptions of 30 years ago. Traditional engineering solutions must be complemented by nature-based infrastructure, such as reforestation, rain gardens, and permeable paving.

Additionally, resettlement policies must shift from a reactive to a proactive approach. People living in high-risk zones cannot be blamed or punished; they must be supported and relocated through inclusive, well-communicated programmes that provide safety, dignity, and economic opportunities. The new homes being built should set a benchmark—elevated foundations, flood-resistant materials, and solar power should become standard, not an exception. Also, communities must be placed at the heart of early warning systems. It is no longer enough to have rainfall predictions sitting in some government office.

Low-cost technologies, such as SMS alerts, local siren systems, and community radio broadcasts, should be utilised to inform and prepare residents. Schools must be reconstructed as safe learning spaces, not just buildings. Clinics must be resilient to climate extremes. Children who lost parents or homes must be given trauma support, scholarships, and a chance to dream again. Schools and churches can be designated as evacuation centres with supplies pre-stocked. River levels should be monitored by trained local volunteers who can feed real-time data to emergency agencies. Education about flood risks should be embedded in school curricula, turning awareness into a generational skill.

The federal government must also play its part. It should take responsibility for high-cost infrastructure, such as river training, national flood modelling, and interstate water basin management. Climate finance—whether from development partners, carbon markets, or green bonds—should be mobilised aggressively to support Niger State and others like it in rebuilding better. The Ministry of Environment, the Ministry of Water Resources, and the Nigeria Hydrological Services Agency must harmonise their data and work together, rather than in silos. Niger State must enact and enforce zoning and building regulations. The local government must take community engagement seriously—not just in times of crisis, but every day. The private sector must also be drawn in, not just as contractors but as partners in resilience. What Mokwa teaches us is that flood does not recognise bureaucratic boundaries—and neither should our response.

Over the next twelve months, the focus must be on stabilisation: dredging the River Dingi, clearing blocked drainage, and providing clean water, health services, and shelter to survivors. Relief camps must be upgraded to include water, healthcare, and sanitation facilities. In the next three years, a comprehensive flood-risk master plan should be developed, unsafe settlements systematically phased out, and attention must turn to permanent solutions: new settlements away from risk zones, resilient schools and clinics, and a binding flood-risk master plan. Over the next five years, Nigeria must institutionalise what Mokwa has exposed—making flood risk management not a temporary intervention but a standing function of governance.

Every state should have a mapped and budgeted disaster resilience plan. In the long term, climate finance must be harnessed to support green infrastructure. A new regional river-basin authority should be created to manage upstream land use and coordinate data across states. Flood education must be integrated into classrooms, and urban planning must become a core component of professional and political training. Every new housing development must pass environmental impact assessments. Every citizen should know what to do when the rains become a threat.

Mokwa cannot be allowed to fade from memory. It should haunt us, yes, but more importantly, it should teach us. This disaster reflects what happens when data is ignored, when illegal becomes normal, and when warnings are lost in the noise of bureaucracy. However, it also demonstrates what is possible when political will aligns with public need. If the momentum of recovery continues and systemic issues are addressed, Mokwa can be remembered not for how it drowned, but for how it rose. Let this be the moment we stopped rebuilding the same vulnerabilities and started designing for resilience. Mokwa must not just recover—it must lead. It can also serve as a blueprint—a place that rose from the waters not with hollow slogans, but with new systems, better infrastructure, and a public willing to hold leaders accountable.