In Memory of Mustapha, June 12, and the Myth of Government by the People

Written by Safa Alhassan 

This morning, I woke up with the TV remote in my hand. I turned to my husband and simply said, “It’s June 12. I want to watch something about Moshood Abiola.” But beyond that, I woke up under a heavy cloud. Not just the physical discomfort I felt, but something deeper; a sadness I can’t shake off, not today. Because before I think of Moshood Abiola, before I think of democracy, I think of Mustapha, my dear brother.

I’ll start today by remembering Dr. Mustapha my brother’s best friend. Mustapha wasn’t just anybody. He was brilliant, kind, and deeply responsible. He was the president of the Medical Students’ Association at Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria. He was raised by intentional parents who instilled in him sound islamic values many of us admire. He had a bright future ahead of him. Mustapha was an upright young man who never missed a day of the Sunnah fasts of Mondays and Thursdays. The kind of person you meet once and remember forever

It’s been three years since Mustapha died, but the pain still cuts fresh. He had just completed his final exams after seven years of intense study. Years marked by stress, breakdowns, and incredible perseverance. Like many others, he went on a student retreat in Calabar, a reward of sorts after the long haul. The last time we saw him was just a few days before the retreat. He had come to the house to convince my brother Yasin to go along with him, knowing how much of an introvert he is. Yasin was torn between his deep introversion and the loyalty he felt towards his friend. He even tried to persuade my dad to let him travel with Mustapha. But as Allah would have it, Yasin didn’t end up going.

Mustapha never made it back home.

He drowned.

The boat capsized in the river they were crossing, and Mustapha, who had earlier given his life jacket to a classmate, didn’t survive. He chose to protect someone else, like he always did. It was raining heavily that morning. His body was found the next day.

Mustapha died. Not from illness. Not from a self-inflicted mistake. He died because we live in a country where carelessness and mediocrity are normalised.

ABU Zaria didn't honour him or the other student who died. No mention, no tribute, not even at their graduation. But I remember seeing Mustapha’s older brother, Ishaq at the convocation, handing out souvenirs, smiling through pain I could almost touch.

Sometimes, we still sit and wonder how differently things might have turned out. But all we can do now is remember Mustapha for his brilliance, his kindness, and the light he carried. A light that dimmed too soon.

Allah ya jikan ka, Mustapha. May Allah (SWT) grant you Jannatul Firdaus.

But Mustapha is just one of thousands of young Nigerians who have died due to the negligence of our government and sometimes, the indifference of our own people. In remote towns across Nigeria, young lives are being snatched away, quietly, cruelly and we rarely hear about them.

So I ask again: Is this a government by the people and for the people?

Democracy Day is supposed to be a celebration. A day to honour the sacrifices made by many, especially MKO Abiola, the man who won the freest and fairest election in Nigerian history on June 12, 1993 and paid for it with his life. But when we say Nigeria practises a government of the people, by the people, and for the people, I find myself asking: Do we really?

No honour for Mustapha and the others lost. No statement. No accountability. Not from the school. Not from the government. Not even a pause to reflect. And life went on. So forgive me if Democracy Day doesn’t feel like a celebration.

Today, the average Nigerian cannot afford a meal. The markets are filled with food, yes! but priced far beyond the reach of the man riding an okada or the woman selling akara with four children clinging to her wrapper. Our leaders’ pockets are filled to bursting. Their silk babanriga flow elegantly, their stomachs round from abundance. Is this democracy?

We say democracy is about equal representation but where is the equality when a female senator is publicly insulted and shouted down for speaking her truth, for demanding fair treatment in her political office? And what do we do as a people? We turn her pain into memes. We laugh. We choose sides. We forget.

Then there’s the disillusionment among young Nigerians. Our votes do not seem to count. Our voices are muted. So we flee. The Japa syndrome is real. We abandon our homes and run to foreign lands to become second-class citizens, because we no longer believe in our homeland.

Whose fault is it?

Have you heard about the recent flood in Mokwa, Niger State? Over 200 lives lost. Gone. Quietly. Like whispers in the night. And what about our hospitals? Death rates from childbirth, infant mortality, lack of basic healthcare these are everyday tragedies in Nigeria. But they don’t trend. They don’t go viral. They are forgotten.

Just the other day, I read about the tragic loss of a young woman in Niger State after a surgery to remove her fibroid. The surgery was successful. But shortly after, there was a power outage and the government hospital had no standby electricity. The generator had no fuel. They had to go out to buy fuel. When they returned, the generator refused to start. They had to look for the repairman. By the time they did, she was gone. She didn’t die because her surgery failed. She died because the system failed her. Because a government hospital had no fuel, no backup plan, no urgency. Where are our priorities as a nation?

Let’s not forget the #EndSARS movement. Youths brutalised for daring to speak. Some killed. Some still missing. Our country is plagued by terrorism, insurgency, and kidnappings. And in the midst of it all tribalism, archaic beliefs, bribery, internet fraud, prostitution, drug trafficking. We’re not just victims of poor governance, we’ve become architects of our own destruction.

For the very first time in my life, just a few days ago, I saw prostitutes lined up on the roadside as I drove past at night in Wuse, Abuja. There they were, not one, not ten, but a whole lot of them. Standing in the dark, under dim streetlights, like a scene from a movie. I was literally shaking as I told my husband how shocking and heartbreaking it was. My chest tightened. Is this what things have come to? What kind of despair would lead this many young women to the streets like this in the capital city of our country? And just a stone’s throw away from them were policemen at their checkpoint, doing routine checks on vehicles and casually asking drivers for “Eid money.” Nobody batted an eyelid. It was business as usual. It’s not just a moral crisis; it’s an economic one. A symptom of a failed system. Of hunger. Of neglect. Of abandonment.

Right now, I’m sitting on my bed, watching the President address the nation at the National Assembly. Senate President Godswill Akpabio introduced him as “a beneficiary of the people’s trust, a veteran of democracy, and the architect of democratic dividends.” It’s laughable and yet painfully true. But I told myself I wouldn’t dwell on what went wrong today. I wouldn’t dwell on the fact that Mr President would rather address the National Assembly than the people. I want to reflect on our resistance. Our survival. Our hope.

Still, I remember the blood that was shed for this day to even exist. I remember: Moshood Kashimawo Olawale (MKO) Abiola, whose mandate was stolen, imprisoned, and killed. Kudirat Abiola, his brave wife, who was assassinated for fighting for his release. Alfred Rewane, businessman and NADECO financier, murdered for speaking truth to power. Pa Abraham Adesanya, persecuted and nearly assassinated. Shehu Musa Yar’Adua, who died in prison under General Abacha’s regime. Bagauda Kaltho, journalist who disappeared under suspicious circumstances, reportedly killed for refusing to spy for the military. And the nameless, faceless students and protesters who died during crackdowns in places like Ogba, Lagos, and Alagbon. We remember them. We remember everyone who bled and was buried so we could raise our voices today, freely, even if shakily.

It's been 26 years of democracy, and as imperfect as our journey has been, we are still standing. There is still hope for redemption. But as Allah (SWT) says in the Qur'an:

“Indeed, Allah will not change the condition of a people until they change what is in themselves.” (Qur’an 13:11)

Just a few days ago, my husband was complaining about artisans who take money and do shoddy work. And it made me reflect: we, the people, are not always better than the leaders we condemn. We are sometimes envious, lazy, entitled, corrupt, selfish, and mean. We are often not our brother’s keeper. We take, we hate, we hoard, we hurt.

Ask me again if the government is by the people and for the people.

The government is the people.

We must hold ourselves accountable too. We lost Mustapha not just to the government's negligence, but to our own collective failure to love, protect, and look out for each other.

As I watch the president speak in his signature cap and finely tailored agbada, navy and sky blue, confering national honours to notable Nigerians I say this:

There is hope for Nigeria. But not because of him.

Because there is a God.

A God who owns all authority. The true Overseer of justice. The Protector of the helpless, the Guide of the weary, the Hope of women, children, and men.

Today, on June 12, I remember our martyrs and all who fought for this fragile freedom we have.

And with all my heart, I whisper again:

Allah ya jikan ka, Mustapha.

And to Nigeria, I say: May we rise. May we change. May we heal.