From my part of the country, there is a proverb that carries the weight of ancestral wisdom and the sting of moral clarity: Aje ke l’ana, omo ku l’eni. Tani ko mo pe aje to ke l’ana lo pa omo je? Meaning: The witch cried last night, and the child died this morning. Who doesn’t know it was the witch who cried that killed the child?

This adage, deceptively simple yet profoundly intuitive, captures the eerie confluence of events that have recently unsettled Nigeria’s political landscape. The alleged coup plot, the arrest of military officers, the scrutiny of civilians, and the abrupt shakeup in the military high command have unfolded like a slow-burning drama – its script obscured, its implications impossible to ignore. The military denies. The Presidency denies. But the facts, like stubborn shadows, refuse to disappear. They linger, like a phoenix that refuses to be buried.

Let me state this without equivocation: I am not a military apologist. I do not romanticise khaki rule, nor do I subscribe to the illusion that authoritarianism is a shortcut to national redemption. I am unmoved by the theatrics of politicians – whether fair or foul – in their pursuit of power. My concern is with the architecture of governance, the integrity of institutions, and the moral compass of a nation that must choose between the rule of law and the rule of force. If Nigerians were to participate in a free, fair, and credible plebiscite today, I am convinced that the majority would still opt for democracy – not because it is perfect, but because it is preferable.

Yet, in recent weeks, Nigeria has found itself once again flirting with the spectre of military intervention – a troubling echo from a past many hoped had been buried. Reports from credible platforms such as Premium Times and Sahara Reporters have pushed into public consciousness the alleged arrest of military officers over a suspected coup plot. While one of these platforms is often treated with caution due to its sensationalist leanings, the other has earned a reputation for rigorous journalism. Yet both, in this instance, have served as veritable sources of information, forcing the nation to confront a question that should never have to be asked again: Is Nigeria at risk of another military takeover?

The Nigerian military, in its official response, offered a statement that was more procedural than clarifying. It confirmed the arrest of 16 officers, including a brigadier-general and a colonel, and acknowledged that an investigative panel had been constituted to probe the matter. The Defence Headquarters insisted that the arrests were part of a routine internal process aimed at maintaining discipline and professionalism within the ranks.

However, the timing, the secrecy, and the gravity of the allegations suggest that this is no ordinary disciplinary review. Worse still is the angle of “examination failures” – a curious euphemism that only deepens public cynicism.

According to multiple reports, the detained officers were allegedly holding secret meetings and expressing discontent with the current administration. Intelligence sources claim that the plotters had tentatively picked a date for the putsch and were continuing consultations when the plan was leaked. Some sources even suggest that top government officials were marked for assassination – a claim that, if true, elevates the matter from internal dissent to existential threat.

More troubling still is the suggestion that civilians, particularly politicians not favourably disposed to President Bola Tinubu, may be under scrutiny for possible involvement.

A former governor from the southern part of the country is reportedly being investigated for allegedly financing the plot. If this is accurate, it points to a dangerous convergence of military ambition and political desperation – a cocktail that has historically proven toxic for democratic stability.

To understand the gravity of this moment, we must revisit Nigeria’s history with military rule. Between 1966 and 1999, the country experienced multiple coups, each justified by the promise of reform and national salvation. Yet, each regime left behind a trail of suspended constitutions, stifled freedoms, economic mismanagement, and institutional decay. The military, for all its discipline and structure, proved ill-suited to the complexities of civilian governance. The question then arises: where were these advocates of military rule when the barracks held sway over the nation? What did they do with the power they once wielded?

The resurgence of coup rhetoric is not unique to Nigeria. Across West Africa, military takeovers have returned with alarming frequency. In recent years, Mali, Burkina Faso, Guinea, Niger, and, less than a fortnight ago, Madagascar have all succumbed to juntas, often under the guise of rescuing their nations from corruption and insecurity. But the empirical evidence is sobering. Military regimes, while initially welcomed by disillusioned populations, tend to entrench authoritarianism, suppress dissent, and delay democratic recovery. The promise of order quickly gives way to the reality of repression.

In Nigeria’s case, the current wave of speculation may be symptomatic of deeper governance failures. The economy is strained. Inflation bites. Insecurity persists. Public trust in institutions is eroding. The judiciary is politicised. The legislature is often seen as a rubber stamp. The executive, despite its electoral mandate, struggles to inspire confidence. In such a climate, the witch’s cry becomes seductive. The military, with its discipline and command, begins to look like a saviour of sorts, or worse, assumes a messianic sensibility. But this is a dangerous illusion.

Military rule is not corrective – it is corrosive. It replaces accountability with autocracy, debate with decree, and progress with paralysis. The barracks are not built for ballots. Soldiers are trained to obey, not to deliberate – sometimes kill or get killed. The uniform, for all its dignity, cannot substitute for the Constitution.

And yet, some politicians, frustrated with the current administration, may be tempted to flirt with the barracks. This is not new. History is littered with examples of civilian actors colluding with soldiers to orchestrate coups. But such thinking is not only dangerous – it is delusional. Power must be earned, not seized. Legitimacy must be built, not borrowed.

Then came the announcement on October 24, 2025 – just three days from when you are reading this: President Tinubu sacked the service chiefs. Though framed as routine restructuring, the move was unmistakably strategic. It followed weeks of tension, arrests, and speculation. The timing was not coincidental – it was calculated. The President’s decision to overhaul the top brass was not merely administrative; it was preventive. It was a signal to the ranks that loyalty is non-negotiable, and that the barracks must remain in service – not in power. A gesture, perhaps, echoing and taking lessons from the old fable of the witch and the child.

General Olufemi Oluyede, the new Chief of Defence Staff, survived the purge. His appointment, alongside Major-General W. Shaibu (Army), Air Vice Marshal S.K. Aneke (Air Force), and Rear Admiral I. Abbas (Navy) is not just about competence – it is about confidence. These are men now entrusted with the delicate task of restoring discipline, rebuilding trust, and reaffirming allegiance to civilian authority. But the shakeup also raises questions. If there was no coup plot, why the urgency? If the arrests were routine, why the reshuffle? If civilians are not involved, why the scrutiny? The answers, like the witch’s cry, remain mysterious.

In the village square of democracy, transparency is the talking drum. When leaders speak in parables and riddles, the people dance in confusion and complacency. The lack of openness surrounding the coup scare undermines public trust. It fuels speculation. It invites conspiracy theorists. And it weakens the very institutions it seeks to protect.

The Nigerian populace, long accustomed to political drama, now watches with deep-seated cynicism. They have seen promises made and broken. They have witnessed reforms announced and abandoned. They have watched leaders rise with fanfare and fall with silence. The average citizen no longer asks, “What happened?” but “What are they hiding?” This is not apathy – it is exhaustion. And it is dangerous, precarious and malevolent.

As Chinua Achebe once wrote, “When the centre does not hold, things fall apart.” Nigeria’s centre – its democratic consensus – is wobbling. The military must also search its conscience. It must ask: what legacy do we want to leave? Will we be remembered as guardians of sovereignty or gamblers with power? Will we serve the republic or subvert it? The answer lies not in rhetoric, but in restraint.

The electorate, too, must be vigilant. Democracy is not a spectator sport – it is a participatory enterprise. Citizens must understand the Constitution, the role of institutions, and the responsibilities of citizenship. They must learn to demand accountability, not just access. They must recognise that democracy is fragile, but it is theirs to protect.

As Alexis de Tocqueville observed, “The health of a democratic society may be measured by the quality of functions performed by private citizens.” Nigeria must cultivate a citizenry that is not merely reactive, but reflective. A democracy is only as strong as the civic culture that sustains it.

Jean-Jacques Rousseau warned, “The strongest is never strong enough to be always the master, unless he transforms strength into right, and obedience into duty.” The military must heed this wisdom. Its strength must serve the republic, not subvert it.

Similarly, A.V. Dicey, the great British constitutional theorist, insisted that the rule of law is not just a legal principle – it is a moral imperative. It demands that no one is above the law, and that power must be exercised within the bounds of legality. Nigeria must recommit to this ethos. The Constitution must be more than a document – it must be a covenant. The ballot must be more than a ritual; it must be a reckoning.

The way forward lies not in nostalgia for khaki rule, but in the strengthening of democratic institutions. The judiciary must be independent and swift. The legislature must be assertive and transparent. The executive must be accountable and responsive. Civil society must be vigilant and vocal. The media must be free and factual. And the military must be professional and apolitical.

Political actors must also resist the temptation to weaponise discontent. Opposition is vital to democracy, but it must operate within the bounds of legality and ethics. Financing or encouraging unconstitutional change is not dissent – it is sabotage. The rule of law must apply equally, whether one wears a uniform or an agbada. The idea that the military can be a fallback option when civilian politics becomes inconvenient is not only regressive – it is a betrayal of the democratic journey we have collectively embarked upon.

The current investigation into the alleged coup plot must be thorough, transparent, and fair. If the allegations are true, the culprits must be prosecuted with the full weight of the law. If they are false, the accused must be exonerated and their dignity restored. The public deserves clarity, not conjecture. The military must communicate openly, not cryptically. And the government must reassure the nation – not merely react to panic. In the absence of transparency, rumour becomes currency, and trust becomes collateral damage.

We must also confront the deeper issue: the erosion of public faith in the democratic process. When elections are marred by irregularities, when courts are perceived as compromised, when lawmakers are seen as self-serving, and when the executive appears aloof, the people begin to disengage. They retreat into cynicism, into silence, into survival. And in that vacuum, dangerous ideas begin to fester.

This is why the military must not only be professional, but it must also be seen to be professional. It must not only be apolitical, but it must also be seen to be apolitical. The perception of neutrality is as important as its practice. The military must recommit to its constitutional role as a defender of the republic, not a referee in political contests. It must remember that its legitimacy derives not from the barrel of a gun, but from the trust of the people.

The political class, too, must rise to the occasion. They must stop treating power as a prize and start treating it as a responsibility. They must stop seeing elections as a zero-sum game and start seeing governance as a shared enterprise. They must stop playing chess with the lives of citizens and start building institutions that outlast their ambitions.

The media must continue to shine a light in dark places. It must resist the lure of sensationalism and the pressure of censorship. It must inform, not inflame. It must investigate, not insinuate. It must be a watchdog, not a lapdog. Civil society must not relent. It must organise, educate, and mobilise. It must hold power to account, amplify marginalised voices, and defend the democratic space. It must be the conscience of the nation – the bridge between the governed and the governors.

And the people – Frank Olize’s ordinary Nigerians – must reclaim their agency. They must vote, not just during elections, but every day, with their voices, their choices, and their values. They must reject apathy. They must resist despair. They must remember that democracy is not a gift from the powerful – it is a right earned and defended by the people.

As the old Igbo proverb says, “A man who does not know where the rain began to beat him cannot say where he dried his body.” Nigeria must remember where the rain began to beat us. We must remember the coups that silenced our voices, the decrees that erased our rights, and the juntas that ruled with iron fists. We must remember the cost of silence, the price of complicity, the burden of rebuilding.

We must also remember the gains we have made. Since 1999, Nigeria has witnessed six consecutive general elections. Power has changed hands peacefully. Civil society has grown stronger. The media has become bolder. The youth have found their voice. These are not small feats. They are the building blocks of a democracy in progress.

But progress is not permanent. It must be protected. It must be nurtured. It must be defended – not just by institutions, but by individuals. Not just by laws, but by values. Not just by words, but by deeds. In the end, the coup scare and the military shakeup are not just about uniforms and appointments. They are about the soul of the nation. They are about the kind of country we want to be. Do we want to be a republic governed by law, or a territory ruled by fear? Do we want to be a democracy that learns from its mistakes, or a state that repeats them?

The choice is ours. And it is urgent. Let us not wait for another witch to cry. Let us not wait for another child to die. Let us act – decisively, collectively, and courageously. Let us build a Nigeria where the military is respected, not feared. Where politicians are accountable, not untouchable. Where citizens are empowered, not ignored. Where democracy is not just a system, but a spirit. Because democracy, for all its imperfections, is still our best hope. And hope, as history has shown, is a powerful thing – when it is matched with action.