“History reminds us that dictators and despots arise during times of severe economic crisis.”

-Robert Kiyosaki

As a preface to this week’s piece, permit me two brief confessions on military intervention in the governance of a nation-state. Firstly, I am not seduced by the glamour of military adventurism. I hold no affection for putschists who trample constitutions under the jackboots of rifles and enthrone regimes alien to democratic imagination. Secondly, the crises of democracy are not resolved by rupturing democracy. They are cured within democracy. The Constitution is both ailment and remedy. What wounds it cannot heal, nothing outside it can. Military coups wear the mask of order, but they carry the heart of chaos. They do not reset the nation. They rupture it. In my view, democracy, fragile and flawed as it is, remains the only legitimate instrument for renewal.

Given the foregoing, it is only appropriate to situate the current economic crisis our country faces within the framework that speaks directly to the widening conditions that allow the type of politics that strengthens the arms of strong men intent on harming liberties. When despair deepens and institutions grow brittle, the soil only becomes fertile for authoritarian seeds. It is in this perilous moment that citizens must insist on democratic remedies, however imperfect, over the seductions of unconstitutional force. Our country is in the middle of a severe economic meltdown. Food inflation has crossed 40 per cent. Fuel prices are unbearable. The naira continues to fall. There is growing unemployment, deepening poverty, and widespread despair. Amid this national hardship, the Tinubu administration has chosen not to address the crisis while deploying state apparatuses of power to repress dissent and silence critical voices.

The recent arrest and detention of social activist, Martins Otse, popularly known as Very Dark Man, is emblematic of this trend. According to the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission (EFCC), his arrest is based on “petitions bordering on sundry issues of alleged financial crimes.” The EFCC, however, has not offered specifics. No formal charges have been made public. No transparency. Just silence, and continued incarceration. This has become the familiar script: faceless petitions, vague allegations, and indefinite detention. This is not the pursuit of justice. It is a campaign of fear. The target is not corruption, but criticism.

In a related development in Benin City, human rights activists, Marxist Edokpayi Kola and Orako Hanson, were arrested and charged with inciting an “unlawful procession.” Their offence? Displaying a banner expressing solidarity with Ibrahim Traore, the transitional president of Burkina Faso and a symbol of anti-imperialist defiance in West Africa. Edokpayi and Hanson were released a few days ago, in circumstances which depicted the SSS as having had a bite of the humble pie. 

What, one might ask, links these two seemingly disparate cases? Why does Tinubu’s government suddenly find itself imperiled on one hand by a lone activist who has assumed the burden of shielding the public from the encroachments of a totalising state and its exalted agents of power and the self-styled custodians of what the French once called la mission civilisatrice, the civilising mission; and on the other hand by the image and symbolism of a Burkinabé soldier-president? 

Why does the mention of Ibrahim Traore inspire such a crackdown? It is a paradox as old as power itself: those who claim to rescue the people from darkness often become the architects of a deeper twilight. The activist stands alone, armed with nothing but the moral clarity of conscience and the weight of public disaffection. At the same time, the state, draped in the regalia of modern governance, deploys the familiar instruments of coercion and apparatuses of violence to the theatre of the absurd. What threatens the government is not merely dissent, but the piercing mirror held up to its contradictions: a government that invokes civilisation yet enacts repression; that touts reforms yet recoils from scrutiny; that invests in renewed hope, yet secures hopelessness as profit. In that reflection, its legitimacy begins to unravel.

But the answer also lies in what Traore represents. At just 36, he is a youthful Pan-African voice who openly challenges French neocolonialism and champions economic and political independence. In a continent dominated by ageing elites, Traore is an anomaly. And anomalies make the system nervous. Traore came to power through a military coup that ousted the French-aligned elite in Ouagadougou. Since then, he has nationalised assets, cut ties with foreign military bases, and restored dignity to many of his people. He speaks the language of self-determination and accountability, which resonate deeply with young Africans who feel betrayed by their leaders.

And that is precisely why Tinubu’s government is unsettled. This is not because Traore poses any military threat to Nigeria but because his power of example has become politically contagious.

Today, in our country, the youth are restless. They are tired of the recycled leadership of men who have been in power since the 1970s. They are looking for inspiration from elsewhere, from someone who dares to challenge the global order, who talks about local control of resources, and who puts citizens’ interests first. Ibrahim Traore, like Thomas Sankara before him, embodies that hope. And in our country, hope is dangerous.

Rather than address the rising cost of living, unemployment, and insecurity, Tinubu is more focused on suppressing civic expression. It has turned the EFCC, the State Security Service (SSS), and the police into tools of censorship and intimidation. From journalists to influencers, activists to union leaders, anyone who questions the system is met with arrest or threats.

This is the context in which many citizens view the crackdown on Very Dark Man, Edokpayi, and Hanson. They are not being punished for crimes. They are being punished for dissent. For daring to speak truth to power and taking sides with the poor of our country. For choosing solidarity with a foreign leader who stands for everything our government seems to oppose. 

Now, a few questions and answers. Why is Tinubu’s government afraid? It is afraid that citizens will ask: why not us? Why does a banner in Benin City pose such an existential threat? The answer is simple. When leadership is illegitimate, every truth sounds like rebellion. When power is rooted in elite deals and electoral manipulation, every protest feels like a referendum. When the government loses the people’s trust, even a banner becomes a battlefield. So, repression becomes the weapon of choice. Repression is not just political, it is ideological. It is a short-term strategy. It is aimed at extinguishing the idea that another country is possible. A country that is not bound to the IMF’s economic prescriptions. A country that is not permanently beholden to France, the United States, the United Kingdom, or any foreign power. A country where leadership listens, responds, and acts with courage.

Traore’s example makes these questions urgent. His youthfulness exposes the generational gap in our country’s leadership. His rhetoric contrasts sharply with Tinubu’s incoherent governance. His posture of defiance makes our government’s subservience appear even more hollow. African leaders have long feared examples that challenge their status quo. From the overthrow of Kwame Nkrumah, the death of Samora Machel, to the assassinations of Patrice Lumumba and Thomas Sankara, the continent’s post-independence history is littered with the destruction of bold voices. But even in death, these voices endure. And now, in the age of social media, they travel faster, resonate deeper, and inspire more.

History teaches us that dictators, no matter how powerful, always fall. The people may be silenced for a while, but silence never lasts forever. Economic crisis breeds resistance. And the more the government doubles on fear, the more inevitable resistance becomes. By arresting citizens for celebrating Traore, Tinubu’s government is only fuelling the fire. It is drawing more attention to Traore. It proves that he is not just a leader but also the symbol of youth, resistance, and the new reawakening. Tinubu is exposing our country, once the continent’s hope, both as a tragedy and a cautionary tale. A country with brilliant minds, abundant resources, and a rich history of activism has been reduced to a state of managed decline. And yet, rather than course-correct, he prefers to clamp down on free speech and intimidate critics.

But, our citizens are not damfools. They are watching. They are listening. They are reading about Ibrahim Traore. They are taking notes. They are drawing comparisons. And one day, they will act. No arrests will be made when they do, and the deployment of secret police will be enough to hold them back.

The warning of the acclaimed author of Rich Dad Poor Dad, Robert Kiyosaki, should be heeded: it is in times of economic crisis that despots emerge. But it is also in those times that citizens rediscover their power. 

History is watching with “Koboko on the rafters”, as my friend, the late Professor Pius Adesanmi, once described it with flourish.

Abdul Mahmud is a human rights attorney in Abuja