Opinion

Farooq Kperogi: Celebrating ASUU-FG’s historic reset with caveats

Published

6 months ago

January 17, 2026

Farooq Kperogi

Farooq Kperogi: Celebrating ASUU-FG’s historic reset with caveats

After sixteen years of stalemate, serial strikes and ritualized brinkmanship, the Federal Government and the Academic Staff Union of Universities (ASUU) have finally signed a renegotiated agreement that replaces the moribund 2009 pact. This is at once historic, consequential and praiseworthy.

For the first time in a generation, Nigeria’s public universities have a framework that promises industrial harmony, predictability of academic calendars and an end to the cruel cycle in which students lose years of their lives to shutdowns that have nothing to do with them. If implemented faithfully, the agreement will allow students to graduate on time, restore confidence in public universities and begin the long task of rebuilding Nigeria’s battered higher education system.

Credit is due to the Minister of Education, Dr. Tunji Alausa, and to President Bola Ahmed Tinubu for pushing this through. In fact, the ASUU agreement is about the only major promise Tinubu made in the poetry of campaign that he has clearly kept in the prose of governance.

The symbolism is even more striking when contrasted with the immediate past. The Muhammadu Buhari administration presided over one of the most destructive eras in the history of Nigerian university education.

This was made all the more tragic by the presence of Adamu Adamu as Minister of Education. Before his appointment, Adamu, for whom I had enormously unconditional respect, was a well-known public defender of ASUU in his intrepid newspaper columns in the Daily Trust. Once in office, however, he turned out to be one of the most hostile ministers Nigerian academics have ever encountered.

On October 9, 2022, at the height of that administration’s war with ASUU, I wrote on social media: “Adamu Adamu, an erstwhile ASUU ally, is turning out to be the deadliest foe ASUU has ever had. With help from Ngige, he’s dealing the union one crushing blow after another…. Lesson: the fact that someone is your friend today doesn’t mean they can’t be a murderous foe tomorrow.”

The Tinubu administration has, at the very least, reversed that posture of antagonism and replaced it with negotiation, compromise and a willingness to reset the relationship between government and academia.

At its core, the new pact addresses the three issues that have driven nearly two decades of conflict: pay, welfare and the structure of university funding.

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First is a 40 percent salary increase for lecturers, effective January 1, 2026. Someone rightly remarked that it’s the single largest upward review of academic salaries in over a decade. It’s a long overdue correction after years of erosion by inflation and currency collapse.

For professors, this comes with a new professorial cadre allowance of about 140,000 naira monthly, while readers (roughly equivalent to associate professors) receive about 70,000 naira. Earned academic allowances have also been restructured and tied more clearly to actual academic labor such as postgraduate supervision, fieldwork and research coordination.

Second is a major reform of retirement benefits. Professors who retire at the statutory age of 70 are now guaranteed pension benefits equivalent to their full annual salary. This provision alone is transformative. It ends the shameful tradition of professors retiring into poverty after decades of service and sends a powerful signal to younger academics that a life devoted to teaching and research will not be punished at the end.

Third is the institutionalization of research funding through the proposed establishment of a National Research Council, funded at not less than one percent of GDP. For the first time in Nigeria’s history, research financing is being embedded in national planning rather than left to donor whims and sporadic government interventions.

If implemented properly, this could anchor doctoral training, strengthen laboratories and libraries and finally position Nigeria as a serious knowledge producer.

Fourth is a new funding structure for universities that links capital funding, infrastructure development and staff development to long-term planning rather than emergency interventions. TETFund remains central, but funding is now part of an overarching reform framework.

Fifth is a recommitment to university autonomy and academic freedom, including protections against political interference in hiring, curriculum and internal governance. If faithfully implemented, which is never a guarantee but noteworthy nonetheless, vice-chancellors may not be the glorified political appointees that many of them are now, and universities may cease to be extensions of the civil service.

Finally, the agreement formally buries the 2009 pact that haunted the system like a zombie document. The new framework, produced by the Yayale Ahmed Committee after fourteen months of negotiations, is structured, phased and subject to periodic review. This gives ASUU leverage and gives government predictability.

Yet it is important to separate celebration from illusion. The new agreement is a noteworthy improvement on the living and working conditions of Nigerian university lecturers. But it is not yet competitive by continental standards, and it is unlikely, on its own, to halt academic brain drain.

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Before the agreement, a full professor in a federal university earned roughly 525,000 naira to 630,000 naira monthly. With a 40 percent raise and the new 140,000-naira professorial allowance, a senior professor will now earn in the range of 1 million naira to 1.1 million naira per month, depending on rank and allowances.

That sounds impressive in naira terms. In continental terms, however, it remains deeply uncompetitive.

In South Africa, professors earn the equivalent of about $4,500 to $5,000 per month. In Kenya, professors earn around $1,300 monthly. In Uganda, the figure is about $1,100. In Ghana, professors earn roughly $700 to $800 monthly. In Egypt and Morocco, senior academics earn well above Nigeria’s new scale.

At current exchange rates, a Nigerian professor earning 1.1 million naira a month makes roughly $700. That places Nigeria near the bottom of Africa’s academic pay ladder, ahead of only a handful of fragile economies.

This is why Nigerian universities continue to hemorrhage talent. Professors are leaving for South Africa, Rwanda, Kenya, Botswana, the Gulf, Europe and North America not because they dislike Nigeria but because Nigeria does not value academic labor competitively. A Nigerian professor now earns in a month what a South African professor earns in a week.

The salary increase is therefore a necessary correction, not a strategic solution. It slows the bleeding. It does not stop it.

There is also a potential booby trap embedded in the agreement that deserves sober reflection. The guarantee of full-salary pensions for retired professors has been widely welcomed, and rightly so. But pension experts have warned that this provision resembles a return to the old defined-benefit pension system that Nigeria abandoned two decades ago because it was fiscally unsustainable.

A January 16, 2026, report by TheCable highlighted the controversy sparked by the Director-General of the National Pension Commission, who defended the ASUU deal amid fears that it could undermine the contributory pension scheme. Critics argue that guaranteeing pensions equivalent to full salaries without a clearly defined funding mechanism risks recreating the very problems that forced Nigeria to reform its pension system in the first place.

If the new pension promise is not carefully structured, transparently funded and legally insulated from political manipulation, it could become a future flashpoint for industrial conflict that unfairly punishes students and parents.

Expectations will rise. Budgetary pressures will mount. Regulators will resist. And another round of industrial disharmony could follow.

There is one more omission in the agreement that deserves attention. My friend Prof. Moses Ochonu and I have long argued that the federal government should not simply accede to ASUU’s demands, however legitimate, without also insisting on mechanisms for instructional accountability, research productivity, service delivery and innovation.

Without a system to institutionalize accountability and transparency, students will always be shortchanged, and the nation will be betrayed by lecturers who show little commitment to their craft or to genuine knowledge production and dissemination.

It has become a disturbing culture in Nigerian universities for lecturers to show up in class whenever they please without consequence. In my undergraduate days, I took courses where lecturers appeared only twice in the entire semester, first to introduce themselves and last to set an exam on material they never taught. My conversations with today’s undergraduates suggest that this still happens.

Of course, not everyone is guilty of this. Many Nigerian academics are dedicated teachers and serious scholars working under brutal conditions. But not even one person should be allowed to get away with such negligence.

University lecturers should also not be allowed to publish in substandard, pay-to-play, predatory journals simply to climb the academic ladder. Promotion should reward intellectual rigor, not transactional publishing.
If Nigeria is going to invest billions in salaries, pensions, and research funding, it must also demand excellence in return. Anything less is a betrayal of students and of the country’s development aspirations.

This agreement gives Nigeria a chance to rebuild. Whether it becomes a renaissance or another chapter in the long story of squandered opportunity will depend on what happens next.

Kperogi is a renowned Nigerian columnist and United States-based Professor of Journalism.

Opinion

Release Sowore and Hausa activist Maisango, By Farooq Kperogi

Published

6 days ago

June 27, 2026

Trends Admin

Release Sowore and Hausa activist Maisango, By Farooq Kperogi

When I chose to visit Nigeria in 2023 after seven years of staying away, family and friends cautioned that the change of leadership from Muhammadu Buhari to Bola Ahmed Tinubu should not anesthetize me into a false sense of security.

But many people that I know to be close to President Tinubu swore that he had vowed never to hound any critic and that I would never be arrested or detained.

They said Tinubu was a discursive democrat who recognized the right of citizens to vigorously ventilate their angst and anger, however disagreeably they may do so. They pointed me to the fact of his having never sued anyone even when multiple people libeled him daily. I was persuaded.

In fact, a bragging right among Tinubu supporters is that even as a candidate he never sued anyone for libel in spite of the steadily unceasing cornucopia of manifestly defamatory statements against him on social media. Even as president, with complete control over the instruments of coercion, his supporters say, he has been remarkably restrained in the face of withering criticism from commentators and opponents.

I was almost convinced that Tinubu was genuinely persuaded by what theorists Chantal Mouffe and Ernesto Laclau have called agonistic pluralism, which is the idea that vigorous and intense disagreements are fundamental to a healthy democracy and that society should channel passionate political disputes into productive debate rather than strive for forced and false consensus.

But the last few weeks have shown that Tinubu, or people in his close circles, are trying to borrow a leaf from the book of past presidencies by showing intolerance for deliberative pluralism.

The ongoing detention of Omoyele Sowore and Ibrahim Aliyu Maisango, the Hausa activist known on social media as Bichiia Maisango, is a troubling signal that the Tinubu administration is either losing its democratic nerve or is allowing people acting in its name to drag it into the familiar cesspit of state intimidation.

Sowore is, of course, no stranger to state harassment. He has built a public life around provocation, resistance and confrontation with power. He can be intentionally abrasive, sometimes rhetorically excessive and almost always allergic to political conformity. But none of these is a crime. Democracies do not imprison citizens because their words offend the fragile ears of power. They do not turn presidential displeasure into a criminal justice project.

The charge against Sowore, stripped of its procedural clutter, is that he called President Tinubu a “criminal” on social media. The DSS reportedly demanded that he delete the post. He refused. The state then activated the Cybercrimes Act against him, like Buhari did a few years ago.

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Now he is in Kuje Correctional Centre after the court revoked his self-recognition bail and issued a bench warrant for his absence on June 16, even though he had appeared in court on June 15, when the court did not sit, informed court officials that he would be traveling to Lagos and requested a later date, only for the matter to be rescheduled for the very next day in what looked like an effort to ensnare him.

People can argue about Sowore’s tone. But the proper answer to harsh speech is more speech, not handcuffs. A president with Tinubu’s long history in opposition politics should know this more than most people. He benefitted from the moral economy of dissent. He used the oxygen of protest, media criticism and oppositional defiance to rise to national prominence. It would be a historic irony if, as president, he now helps to suffocate the very liberties that made his political career possible.

The case of Ibrahim Aliyu Maisango is even more disturbing because it is shrouded in the familiar opacity of Nigeria’s security state. His wife, Hauwa Mundi, says he was invited to DSS headquarters in Abuja on June 2, 2026, and detained after honoring the invitation. For two weeks, the family reportedly had no access to him. She was later allowed to see him but expressed concern about his health.

Maisango is not a bandit. He is not a terrorist. He is not known to lead an armed cell. He is only a Hausa activist whose social media advocacy centers on Hausa ethnic consciousness, the distinction between Hausa and Fulani identity, insecurity, northern leadership, banditry and what he considers the political marginalization of ordinary Hausa people in the North.

I have followed, studied and written about these questions for years. Although I have issues with Maisango’s idea of Hausa ethnic purism, which is sociologically and historically impossible, I have often said that the lazy, ahistorical “Hausa-Fulani” label is a political shorthand invented by the Southern press to simplify the complexity of Hausaphone northern Muslim identity. Read, among many articles I wrote on this, my January 9, 2016, column titled “Is There Such a Thing as ‘Hausa-Fulani’?”

Hausa and Fulani are distinct peoples with distinct histories, even though centuries of contact, Islam, intermarriage, commerce and state formation have created deep cultural entanglements between them. To insist on that distinction is not incitement. It is not treason. It is not a threat to national security. It is, at worst, a contestable claim in the marketplace of ideas. At best, it is a necessary correction of a historically sloppy elite vocabulary.

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If Maisango has called for violence, charge him publicly and let the evidence speak. If he has threatened anyone, put the threat before a judge. If he has broken a law, arraign him in open court. But detaining him in the shadows while unnamed officials mutter darkly about “dividing the country” is pure, unacceptable intimidation by insinuation.

Nigeria’s security agencies have perfected the art of treating thought as contraband. They arrest first, search for justification later and outsource explanation to anonymous whispers. When citizens ask why someone is being held, the response is often a fog of national security language designed to scare people away from scrutiny. That is how illegitimate and insecure states behave.

The DSS reportedly says it does not detain people without detention orders. That is not reassuring. A detention order is not a moral blank cheque. It is not a substitute for transparency. It does not answer the question about what exactly Maisango did. If his offense is serious enough to justify detention, it should be clear enough to state. If it is too embarrassing to state, then it is probably too flimsy to sustain.
There is a deeper danger here. The North is a graveyard of unasked questions. Entire communities are being emptied by bandits. Farmers pay taxes to terrorists. Villagers negotiate with kidnappers because the state has abandoned them. Traditional institutions have lost moral legitimacy in many places. Young people are angry, suspicious and politically restless. In such a climate, suppressing speech about Hausa identity, Fulani power, banditry and northern elite failure will only produce more resentment, drive debate underground, cause mutual suspicions to fester and convert grievances into conspiracies.

Tinubu should understand this. He was once on the receiving end of state repression. His political mythology is built around NADECO, exile, resistance and pro-democracy activism. His supporters still invoke June 12 as evidence of his democratic credentials. But June 12 and its symbolism mean nothing if the state can detain activists for speech, criminalize insult and hide behind security agencies when citizens demand accountability.

This is why Sowore and Maisango should be released. In Sowore’s case, the government should end this needless prosecution. A president who is daily called worse things by angry citizens should not be seen to be hiding behind the Cybercrimes Act to hound an activist. If Tinubu truly has the thick skin his admirers attribute to him, he should prove it by refusing to dignify insult with prosecution. Let Sowore speak. Let people judge him. That is how democracy works.

In Maisango’s case, the DSS should either charge him immediately in open court with a recognizable offense or release him without further delay. His health and access to family should not depend on the benevolence of security officials. He is a citizen, not a captive of imperial power.

The presidency also needs to send a clear message to security agencies that criticism of the president, ethnic self-definition, historical argument and social media advocacy are not crimes. Nigeria is already too fragile for the state to manufacture new enemies from citizens with strong opinions.

Tinubu still has a chance to show that the people who assured me in 2023 that he would not hound critics were not merely laundering wishful thinking as insider knowledge. He can show that his democratic credentials are not museum artifacts from the 1990s.

Release Sowore. Release Ibrahim Aliyu Maisango, known to his followers as Bichiia Maisango. Let the country breathe. Let citizens speak. Let arguments be defeated by better arguments, not by detention orders.

Kperogi is a renowned columnist and United States-based Professor of Journalism

Release Sowore and Hausa activist Maisango, By Farooq Kperogi

Opinion

Mob Justice and the Death of Malama Ummulkhair: A Test for Nigeria’s Rule of Law

Published

1 week ago

June 24, 2026

Trends Admin

MURIC Denounces Joint Statement With Fulani Group, Clarifies Identity Confusion With AMURIC

Mob Justice and the Death of Malama Ummulkhair: A Test for Nigeria’s Rule of Law

By Mallam Ibrahim Agunbiade

The brutal killing of Malama Ummulkhair, a respected Islamic teacher and mother of four in Maraban Jos, Kaduna State, is more than a tragic incident; it is a disturbing reminder of the grave dangers posed by mob justice, misinformation, and the erosion of the rule of law.

Reports indicate that Malama Ummulkhair was accused of attempting to steal children—an allegation that had not been verified before an enraged mob descended on her. Although security operatives reportedly rescued her and took her into police custody, the situation took a horrifying turn when the crowd allegedly overpowered security personnel, dragged her from custody, and killed her.

What makes this tragedy even more heartbreaking is the story behind the victim. A woman who left her home to attend an Islamic programme after exchanging farewell words with her husband never returned. A devoted mother and teacher who spent her life educating and nurturing children became a victim of the very society she served.

This incident raises profound questions that Nigerians must confront. How can an unverified accusation become a death sentence? Who granted ordinary citizens the authority to act as judge, jury, and executioner? Most importantly, how could an individual already under police protection become vulnerable to mob violence?

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Those responsible for this heinous act must face the full weight of the law. Every individual found to have participated in the attack should be identified, arrested, and prosecuted. Equally important, any security personnel whose negligence, compromise, or failure of duty contributed to the breach of custody must be thoroughly investigated and held accountable.

The protection of individuals in custody is a fundamental obligation of law enforcement agencies. If citizens can be forcibly removed from police custody and killed by a mob, it signals a dangerous breakdown in public security and threatens the very foundations of justice.

Beyond accountability, there is a compelling humanitarian responsibility. The government should consider providing comprehensive support for the children left behind by Malama Ummulkhair. Educational scholarships, welfare assistance, and opportunities that secure their future would not erase their loss, but they would demonstrate society’s commitment to standing with victims of injustice.

There is also a need to preserve her memory. Malama Ummulkhair should not become another forgotten name in a long list of victims of mob violence. Appropriate measures should be taken to honour her legacy and ensure that her story serves as a lasting reminder of the consequences of lawlessness and the importance of justice.

Sadly, this is not an isolated case. Nigeria has witnessed several instances where rumours, suspicion, and collective anger have led to the deaths of innocent people. The killing of Deborah Samuel, who was lynched following allegations linked to religious sentiments, remains one of the most painful examples of how mob action can destroy lives and undermine justice.

These incidents underscore a sobering reality: a society where accusations replace evidence is a society where no one is truly safe. Today, the victim may be someone falsely accused of a crime; tomorrow, it could be any innocent citizen caught in the tide of public outrage.

The fight against jungle justice requires a collective response. Government institutions, security agencies, religious leaders, traditional rulers, community elders, civil society organisations, and ordinary citizens must continue to condemn and resist mob violence in all its forms. Neither faith, culture, nor tradition justifies the taking of human life without due process.

Justice is a cornerstone of every civilised society. No allegation, regardless of its severity, gives anyone the right to kill. The law exists to investigate accusations, establish facts, and determine guilt or innocence.

Malama Ummulkhair’s death must not become another forgotten tragedy. Instead, it should serve as a turning point—a moment that compels Nigeria to choose law over lawlessness, justice over vengeance, and humanity over mob brutality.

May her soul rest in peace, and may her family find strength, comfort, and the justice they deserve.

Mob Justice and the Death of Malama Ummulkhair: A Test for Nigeria’s Rule of Law

Opinion

Oluwo, Elebuibon and Terror war

Published

2 weeks ago

June 22, 2026

Trends Admin

Oluwo, Elebuibon and Terror war

Lasisi Olagunju

The Oluwo of Iwo, Oba Abdulrasheed Adewale Akanbi, recently threw a challenge at Yoruba spiritual leaders. His target was the forest where terrorists are holding schoolchildren and teachers abducted from Oriire Local Government Area of Oyo State.

“All the Babalawo, Araba and Alfas who are always boasting of one charm or another, the time has come to use your powers to rescue the abducted children of Oriire. If money is the problem, I will provide it. Or are your charms effective only when it is time to afflict innocent people? Isé ti dé. War is here. The children are still in the bush.”

The oba did not stop there. He mentioned Chief Yemi Elebuibon and a few other prominent custodians of Yoruba spirituality by name. It was the sort of challenge that would earn applause in the marketplace. Many heard it and nodded in agreement; some clapped for the Oba. After all, if spiritual powers are as potent as their possessors claim, why should they not be deployed against kidnappers and terrorists?

But there was a problem. The challenge may have sounded attractive; it was not one that an Oba should throw.

Chief Elebuibon, like every able elder of Yorubaland, did not leave his vocal cords at the launderette. He responded with characteristic wit and lyrical force.

“What Oluwo said was not properly said,” he declared. “He should have called on pastors, mallams and babalawo alike to help. We know how things are done in Yorubaland. We do not invite farmers to deliberate on warfare, nor do we summon traders to teach farming. No one fights a war with a babalawo’s staff, just as no one uses an ìrùkèrè to sack a town.

“If you see a babalawo at the war front, he is there to prepare the ground for victory, not to fight the battle himself. Warriors fight wars; babalawo perform the duties assigned to them by tradition.”

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A professor friend listened to Oluwo. She listened to Chief Elebuibon. Then she exclaimed: “What stops the Oluwo himself from leading the war as the kings of old did?”

“That is true,” I replied.

Oduduwa came to Ile-Ife not as a social commentator but as a conqueror. His descendants inherited crowns and swords together. In old Oyo, Alaafin Ajaka lost his throne because he could neither confront nor defeat the enemies threatening his kingdom. Only after the death of his warlike brother, Sango, did he return to power and redeem his reputation on the battlefield.

If, therefore, the Oluwo believes the forests of Yorubaland are overrun by terrorists, perhaps the challenge should begin closer to home. Let the king do as his forefathers did. Let him enter the forest and emerge with victory. Ogun dé! The war drums are sounding.

Yet, that is precisely why an Oba should be careful with challenges such as the one the Oluwo threw at priests, pastors and mallams.

An Oba may possess the mystery of Ọbatálá, who “sits on the skin of an ant.” Yet he is not permitted to drag a priest about like a bag of beans. They should work together.

The Yoruba say that the crown is not merely worn on the head; it is carried in the mouth. Once a king speaks, his words cease to be ordinary words. They acquire the weight of the throne. That is why our fathers insisted that certain utterances belong to the marketplace and must never escape from the palace gates.

The palace and the street are not the same institution. The marketplace thrives on noise; the palace survives on measured dignity. An Oba may be criticised, but he must never sound like a critic. He may be angry, but he must never appear quarrelsome. The throne is diminished when it descends into the arena of everyday disputation.

As the Yoruba wisely observe, ọba kì í jà; aṣojú rẹ̀ ńii jà fún un (the king does not fight; his emissaries fight on his behalf). They also say: ọba kì í péjọ; ìjọ ni ń péjọ fun ọba (the king does not go seeking gatherings; gatherings come seeking the king).

The late economics historian, Professor Wale Oyemakinde, captured this ideal brilliantly in his ‘The impact of nineteenth century warfare on Yoruba traditional chieftaincy.’ He wrote that the Yoruba Oba was “distinct and distinguished.” He was Kabiyesi—one whose authority could not be casually challenged; Alaiyeluwa—the earthly representative of divine order. He was expected to be the eyes and ears of the people, the bridge between the living and their ancestors, the custodian of peace and, when necessary, the inspirer of war.

For that reason, the Oba’s conduct was governed by restraints as much as by privileges. Oyemakinde reminds us that while all roads led to the king’s palace, the king hardly travelled. While subjects visited him, he did not go about visiting subjects. While others paid homage, he paid homage to no one. Distance preserved dignity; restraint protected majesty.

William Shakespeare understood this burden of kingship. In Henry IV, Part II, as the king broods over the burdens and anxieties of office, he contrasts his own restless nights with the tranquil sleep of his lowliest subjects and concludes: “Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.” The crown is heavy not because it grants power but because it demands discipline and sacrifice. A king must often resist saying what every other person is free to say.

That is why Oluwo’s challenge, though entertaining, sounded misplaced. There are words that may come from a warrior, a politician, a priest or a columnist. There are words that should not come from the throne.

The Yoruba compare the king to the eagle perched atop the iroko tree. From that lofty height, the eagle sees farther than every other bird. Yet it does not, like the restless ẹyẹ ẹ̀ga (weaver bird) or the ever-chattering ibaka (canary), flutter noisily from branch to branch advertising its presence. The eagle’s authority lies in its stillness; its majesty in its composure.

The throne is diminished when it competes with the marketplace or the cyberspace. Whenever a king abandons the elevated language of the palace for the rough-and-tumble of public controversy, he risks exchanging majesty for momentary. But applause is like the crackle of dry leaves in harmattan—briefly loud, then gone with the first dews of dawn.