In a recent interview, Peter Obi, the former governor of Anambra State and presidential candidate of the Labour Party, declared that if he were president, he would address Nigeria’s persistent political agitations through dialogue. Speaking specifically on the case of detained IPOB leader, Nnamdi Kanu, Obi remarked that “his incarceration does not make sense.” That comment, while grounded in a desire for peace, sparked a complex web of reactions. It inadvertently exposed the deeper malaise within Nigeria’s political and security establishment: an inability—or refusal—to grasp how state power must be exercised with proportionality, maturity, and foresight.

Kanu’s trajectory from a fringe agitator to a symbol of Igbo political disenchantment illustrates how not to handle dissent in a democracy. His story is not just about him, or IPOB. It is a case study in the dangers of heavy-handed governance and how poor leadership can radicalise otherwise inconsequential movements into existential threats.

The Making of a Modern Rebel

Nnamdi Kanu was not a serious political figure when he began broadcasting incendiary messages from his Biafra Radio station abroad. His audience was limited, his rhetoric outrageous, and his credibility flimsy at best. He capitalised on post-2015 election bitterness, when many Igbos felt excluded from the national power structure after President Muhammadu Buhari’s victory. Yet in the early days, Kanu was more of an online rabble-rouser than a revolutionary.

Like other social media personalities, his broadcasts were vulgar, inflammatory, and often comical. Many people listened not out of ideological commitment but for the sheer shock value. It was entertainment—until the Nigerian state made it serious.

The Buhari administration chose the worst possible path. Instead of treating Kanu as an irritant, they cast him as a national threat. By deploying force, detaining him in 2015, and later attempting a militarised arrest, they elevated his profile from nuisance to messiah. And in a country where grievances run deep, particularly among marginalised groups, martyrdom is often one wrong arrest away.

When the State Amplifies the Noise

The decision to arrest Kanu in October 2015 gave him legitimacy he never earned. That same week, he reportedly apologised to President Buhari for his inflammatory broadcasts—clearly, the man was not ready for the weight of political rebellion. But the state’s insistence on humiliation and punishment turned a contrite influencer into a radicalised insurgent. His bail conditions were harsh, and his rearrest was botched so badly it became a national spectacle. The moment the DSS began raiding his home and Kanu fled abroad, the die was cast.

The Buhari government didn’t just miscalculate; it mishandled every step. It sought to crush a symbol without addressing the discontent that made him relevant. It unleashed the military against IPOB members—young, disenfranchised citizens who had found a purpose, however misguided, in the idea of Biafra. In doing so, the administration radicalised a generation. Rather than douse a spark, it fed a fire.

This is the point Peter Obi is trying to get at—dialogue, not domination, is the answer. But Obi too must be careful. Dialogue does not mean blindly legitimising every political agitator. A President must know when to engage, when to ignore, and when to act decisively. That balance requires deep statecraft, not sentimentalism.

Buhari’s Revenge Politics and the Criminalisation of Insults

The most telling moments in Kanu’s saga were Buhari’s own words. When Igbo elders visited him to plead for a political resolution to Kanu’s case, Buhari reportedly replied: “He has been insulting us.” Not “He violated Nigeria’s constitution.” Not “He threatened national unity.” But “He insulted us.”

That personalisation of public grievance reveals the core rot in Nigerian leadership: ego trumps duty. When Femi Adesina released his 2024 book quoting Buhari as saying, “We could have eliminated him but we didn’t,” it wasn’t just a chilling confession of extrajudicial intent. It was a declaration that national security under Buhari was a personal vendetta.

The irony, of course, is that the very real threats that plagued Buhari’s eight years—bandits, terrorists, kidnappers, and killer herdsmen—received nowhere near the attention or force that IPOB did. Fulani militia attacked communities with impunity. Boko Haram continued to abduct and slaughter civilians. Yet, it was IPOB, a group whose earliest activities consisted of online broadcasts and flag-waving rallies, that bore the brunt of the federal government’s wrath.

Why? Because Kanu made Buhari look bad. And that, apparently, is the gravest offence in the Nigerian political dictionary.

The Meaningless Proliferation of “Treason”

Kanu’s charges included treason—a charge Nigeria hurls with reckless abandon. Today, the word is so diluted it no longer carries weight. In a truly democratic society, treason is a narrowly defined, high-level offence. But in Nigeria, it’s the go-to label for anyone who annoys the government. If a stray dog barks too loudly outside the president’s window, it might be declared a national security threat.

When treason becomes a political tool, it loses meaning. Worse, it criminalises dissent and justifies state violence. Kanu’s transformation from a digital provocateur to an outlaw was facilitated by a system that weaponised its own laws. His trial isn’t about justice—it’s about control. The court case is just theatre. The real decisions are made elsewhere.

The Price of Misgovernance

Whether Kanu is guilty or not—and let’s be clear, he did violate bail terms and made wildly inflammatory remarks—the far bigger issue is how his case has been managed. A mature democracy does not elevate fringe agitators by overreacting. It tracks them, isolates them, and lets them fade when the winds change. Instead, Nigeria turned him into a cause.

Peter Obi’s call for dialogue is a welcome contrast to Buhari’s spiteful rigidity. But it’s not enough to want peace; one must understand the psychology of political agitations. Many of the people who rally to IPOB’s cause are not secessionists—they are victims of systemic failure. For them, Biafra is not a destination; it is a protest. It is a way of saying: “This country has failed us.”

The only way to kill IPOB—or any other secessionist movement—is to make Nigeria work. Build roads. Provide jobs. Deliver justice. Uphold dignity. When people believe in the state, they won’t need alternatives. But when governance is about punishing dissent, suppressing rights, and rewarding failure, movements like IPOB will continue to find relevance.

Conclusion: Kanu, Buhari, and a Broken Cycle

In truth, both Nnamdi Kanu and Muhammadu Buhari are culpable. Kanu stoked ethnic fires and sometimes crossed into dangerous rhetoric. But Buhari set the forest ablaze. His administration elevated Kanu into a martyr and radicalised thousands through excessive force and selective outrage.

Today, Kanu remains in detention—not because justice demands it, but because political interests require it. His continued incarceration is less about national security and more about preserving political narratives. If President Tinubu ever releases him, it won’t be out of legal or moral obligation—it will be a strategic move for 2027.

The tragedy of Kanu’s saga is that it could have been avoided. A mature leadership would have known when to speak, when to be silent, and when to act with subtlety. Instead, we got a government that responded to a tweet with a sledgehammer.

Now, Peter Obi and others who aspire to lead must learn the real lesson: dissent is not war. Agitation is not treason. And not every critic needs to be crushed. Sometimes, the greatest show of strength is restraint. Sometimes, letting the clown perform without applause is all it takes to end the show.