By By Vitus Ozoke
WEDNESDAY will be ‘Octoberfest’, and as Nigeria once again raises the green-white-green flag – a banner that to some symbolises injustice, hypocrisy, and selective oppression, while to others representing freedom, justice, and self-determination – one uncomfortable and challenging question must echo across every hill and valley of Igboland: Who is afraid of Nnamdi Kanu?
Because, make no mistake, this is not about law, nor is it about order. It is not even about national security. This is about fear. Fear of one man’s voice, one man’s courage, and one man’s defiance. Fear of a truth that shakes the foundations of a flawed federation. Fear of a son of Igboland who refuses to bow to oppression and intimidation.
After all, beyond all the noise, the political posturing, the stomach-churning propaganda, and the endless legal gymnastics, one truth stands unshaken: Maazi Nnamdi Kanu remains behind bars for daring to speak truth to power; for daring to question the injustice of Nigeria’s uneven structure; for daring to awaken a people long lulled into slumber and silence; and for being Igbo and unafraid. And he is behind bars in flagrant defiance of the courts and multiple court orders for his release, in violation of both the national constitution and international law, and in total mockery of our collective moral conscience.
Let us call this what it truly appears to be: an extraordinary rendition and unlawful detention. Nnamdi Kanu was seized in Kenya through a covert operation that violated every known principle of international law. He was not formally extradited; he was taken. Nigeria’s own courts have ruled that Kanu’s arrest and ongoing detention are unlawful, unconstitutional, and violate his fundamental rights. Yet, the Federal Government, initially under the late Muhammadu Buhari and now under Bola Ahmed Tinubu, continues to ignore these court orders. All of this suggests a country where justice is bent by politics and truth is chained to the rusted pillars of corruption. In a nation supposedly governed by law, the state positions itself as the primary violator.
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This is not a democracy; this is tyranny. And what is Kanu’s ‘crime’? Kanu has never bombed a market, never killed a soldier, and never kidnapped anyone. His only weapon is his voice. His only offence is bravery. But this is Nigeria, a country where truth-tellers are imprisoned, while Sunday Igboho, who made similar calls for self-determination, remains in exile. It is a country where Boko Haram terrorists who slaughter children are ‘rehabilitated’ and ‘reintegrated’, where bandits who decimate villages are granted amnesty. It is a country where a man who simply speaks for justice is chained like a criminal. If this is not injustice, what is? If this is not the perception of ethnic persecution, what is? If this is not a declaration of war on the Igbo conscience, then what could it be?
But where are the voices of Igbo leadership? Where are the thunderous demands, the mass resignations, and the coordinated legal and diplomatic firestorm that should follow such a monumental injustice? Where are the men of courage? Let us be frank: we see a silence born of fear and complicity. The most heartbreaking part of this saga is not what Abuja has done, but what Igboland has failed to do. Where are our governors? Where are the supposed voices of our people? In Enugu, Awka, Owerri, Abakaliki, and Umuahia, five men sit as governors, sworn to defend their people, uphold justice, and protect the dignity of Ndi Igbo. Yet, when history demanded courage, these men offered cowardice.
They have stood idly by, spouting empty platitudes while an innocent son of Igboland languishes in a detention centre. None of these Igbo governors can claim with full conviction that they have done everything in their power to secure Nnamdi Kanu’s release. Not one.
They have whispered when they should have roared. They have paid lip service where they should have drawn a line in blood and principle. They attend Abuja’s meetings. They pose for photographs. On 1 October, they will cut ribbons, hold independence ceremonies, and deliver hollow speeches about unity and progress while an innocent son of Igboland, imprisoned under highly questionable legality, suffers in humiliation.
They will cut the Independence Day cake and drink champagne while ignoring the festering wound of injustice that has made Igboland a subject of scorn before the world. They have danced around Abuja’s corridors of power like frightened schoolboys, terrified of offending their masters. All because a free Nnamdi Kanu would expose their cowardice. A free Nnamdi Kanu would become the de facto leader of Igboland, not by title, but by moral authority. And that, right there, is the heart of their fear.
They fear Nnamdi Kanu not because he is violent, but because he is visionary. They fear that a free Kanu will expose their hypocrisy. They fear that his voice will outshine their empty rhetoric. They fear that once the people wake up, they will no longer tolerate their incompetence and mediocrity. A free Nnamdi Kanu is more than just a man; he is a symbol – a symbol of fearless truth. A symbol of Igbo dignity. A symbol of leadership conceived and birthed in consummate conviction, not convenient compromise.
Perhaps there would still be hope if only the five Igbo governors were the only ones failing. But what about Ohanaeze Ndigbo, the so-called apex socio-cultural organisation representing the Igbo? They issue endless press statements that vanish into thin air. They hold conferences and talk endlessly. Ohanaeze has become a talk shop for political appeasement, a club of tired men and women more focused on appointments and handshakes than on justice for those they claim to represent. Their voice lacks thunder. Their words lack fire. Their presence does not intimidate the enemies of Ala Igbo. Ohanaeze has become an echo chamber of betrayal – loud enough to seem relevant but empty enough to be useless.
Where is the action? Where is the moral outrage? Where is the bold diplomacy? Truth be told, Ohanaeze has become a shadow of its former self – a mere gathering of ageing politicians and timid elites who speak in whispers when they should be roaring like lions. They have failed to lead. They have been unable to defend. They have grown comfortable in the luxury of irrelevance. A body that cannot defend and protect its sons has no moral authority to speak for its people.
So, to my Igbo brethren, this is a moment to rise. Let no one be fooled: Kanu’s freedom will not come from Abuja. Abuja is deaf to justice. The key to his release lies in the unity and moral strength of the Igbo people. It is time for the Igbo masses to stand up – peacefully yet firmly. The protests should no longer be directed solely at Abuja; Abuja does not care. Instead, the protests must now focus on the gates and doorsteps of the Igbo governors who have failed Kanu and the rest of us. Until these governors and elites feel moral and political pressure from their own community, they will continue to play deaf and ignore the call for justice for Nnamdi Kanu.
Therefore, on 1 October, as Nigeria observes yet another hollow ritual of a false Independence Day, let the streets of Enugu, Awka, Owerri, Abakaliki, and Umuahia fill with peaceful protesters demanding justice for Nnamdi Kanu. Let the chants ring out across the land: “Free Nnamdi Kanu! Free Justice! Free Our Conscience!” Because yes, the lock that secures Kanu’s cell may be in Abuja, but the key to that lock is hidden in the cowardice of the five Government Houses across Igboland. Now, mark my words: this is not a call for violence, nor a call for chaos. This is a call for peaceful resistance. For moral awakening. For the courage to say ‘enough’.
This 1 October, we will demand that every Igbo governor dedicate at least 20% of their Independence Day address to the immediate and unconditional release of Maazi Nnamdi Kanu. And let the people hold them accountable if they fail to do so. Let Abuja hear from every corner of Ala Igbo that this 1 October, we will not celebrate independence; we will mourn it. We will mourn it because a nation that defies its own courts is not free. A people whose leaders trade justice for comfort are not free. We will not celebrate freedom while our brother is in chains. We will not sing the anthem of a country that spits on its own constitution. And we will not raise the flag of a nation that mocks justice.
For those who have not yet realised it, Nnamdi Kanu’s ongoing detention is not just a political issue; it is a blemish on the collective conscience of Igboland. It acts as a test of whether we remain a proud people who stand for justice or a subjugated tribe content with crumbs and cowardice.
We must not forget that history will remember. It always does. It will remember those who stood for justice and those who bowed to comfort. It will remember those who spoke the truth and those who hid from it and swallowed lies. It will remember those who fought for Kanu and those who feasted while he suffered. The day will come when the names of cowards fade away like dust, but the name Nnamdi Kanu will stay, burned into the conscience of a nation. This struggle is not about one man; it is about the soul of Igboland. If we fail Kanu, we fail ourselves. If we abandon him, we abandon our history. If we stay silent, we become complicit in our own oppression.
Let the question, who is afraid of Nnamdi Kanu, haunt every Igbo politician, every bishop, every traditional ruler, every chief, and every complacent elite. If you are, then you are afraid of the truth. You are afraid of justice. You are afraid of freedom. You are afraid of the very spirit that made us Igbo. And if that is the case, then you have already chained yourself long before Abuja chained Kanu. But the people will rise; the truth will roar; and justice, no matter how long delayed, will prevail. Justice will prevail because Maazi Nnamdi Kanu must not – and will not – be forgotten. To the entire Igbo brotherhood, fear has never built a nation, nor has silence ever freed the oppressed. It is time to rise – peacefully, powerfully, and purposefully – for Maazi Nnamdi Kanu. If we cannot fight for one of our own, then we have no right to call ourselves a people.
Dr. Vitus Ozoke is a lawyer, human rights activist, and public commentator based in the United States.
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