THROUGHOUT Nigeria’s history, the voices of her young people have risen again and again to demand change. From the battle for democracy in the 1990s, to the cry against injustice in 2020, and the demand for a new political order in 2023, Nigerian youths have shown that they are not just witnesses to history, but active participants in shaping it. Three movements stand out as powerful milestones in this journey: the MKO Movement (June 12), the #EndSARS protests, and the Obidient Movement. Together, they tell the story of resilience, hope, and the enduring will of a generation determined to reclaim their country’s destiny. Nigeria’s youth have never been short of energy, passion, and a stubborn belief that this country can be better; it’s no longer just a dream; across the continent and beyond, a new generation is stepping into the driver’s seat just as in Senegal. Over the last three decades, they have birthed three mighty movements. But if you look closely at their condition today, you’ll realise that history has turned into a hospital ward: two are already buried, and the last one, the Obidient Movement, is struggling on life support.
This first part of our reflection focuses on the very first of these movements: the MKO Movement of June 12, 1993. It was more than an election; it was an awakening, a generational cry for freedom, and a unifying moment in Nigeria’s fractured history.
History is often shaped not only by events but by the individuals who, knowingly or unknowingly, become symbols of hope in their time. In Nigeria, one such figure was Chief Moshood Kashimawo Olawale (M.K.O.) Abiola. His story is more than just the tale of a man; it is the chronicle of a movement that drew strength from Nigeria’s restless youth, disillusioned middle class, and even the sceptical elites, all yearning for change after years of military dictatorship. By the late 1980s and early 1990s, Nigeria was in turmoil. The country had been under successive military regimes for most of its post-independence years. The younger generation and the supposed middle class were confused, restless, and uncertain about the future. They watched the military squander opportunities, silence opposition, and deepen poverty. The dream of a prosperous Nigeria seemed to drift further away, and there was an increasing consensus that something had to give.
It was at this point of frustration, with a generation yearning for direction, that Abiola began to emerge not just as a wealthy businessman, but as a bridge-builder and a quiet revolutionary.
When the story of modern Nigeria is told, one date echoes louder than most: June 12, 1993. On that day, Nigerians defied years of military rule to vote in what many still regard as the freest and fairest election in the country’s history. The man they chose to lead them was Moshood Kashimawo Olawale (M.K.O.) Abiola, a wealthy businessman, philanthropist, and unexpected symbol of national unity. But instead of inaugurating a new democratic dawn, the election’s annulment triggered one of the most significant youth-led resistance movements in Africa. What followed was years of protests, repression, sacrifice, and, ultimately, the eventual return to civilian rule in 1999. The MKO Movement wasn’t just a political struggle; it was a generational awakening.
Abiola’s appeal was not accidental; it was carefully cultivated over decades. He was a man who understood the deep divisions of Nigeria: religion, ethnicity, and class and sought to bridge them. A Muslim by faith, he donated generously to the building of churches across the country. He funded mosques as well. He gave scholarships to students from all backgrounds, ensuring that both Christians and Muslims, rich and poor, felt his generosity. His personal life mirrored this inclusivity; he married wives from all six geopolitical zones of Nigeria, embodying in his household the unity that Nigeria had always struggled to achieve. His philanthropy and deliberate national embrace meant that both the younger generation and their parents could look at him and see a man who cared for the future of all, not just a select few.
He also ventured into sports, establishing the first-division football club known as Abiola Babes, alongside investments in bookshops and farms that carried his name. Beyond business, Abiola deliberately nurtured his connection with the people. He made it a point to attend university convocation ceremonies across the country, and on nearly every occasion, he was welcomed like a hero mobbed by thousands of excited students who saw in him not just a benefactor, but a true champion of their future.
Perhaps one of the paradoxes of Abiola’s life was his close relationship with the military. He had been a strong supporter of the military governments, contributing to their programs and maintaining friendships with top officers. In fact, his financial and moral support to the military establishment won him influence in corridors of power that most civilians could never dream of entering. But herein lay the irony: while the people were disillusioned with military rule, Abiola, despite his closeness to the generals, was increasingly being seen as the one man who could command respect from both sides. He was both an insider and an outsider, a man trusted by the people yet friendly with their rulers.
Beyond politics, Abiola was a towering figure in Nigeria’s economic landscape. He owned a substantial part of the Nigerian press, giving him a powerful tool to shape public opinion. He related seamlessly with captains of industry and even rose to become President of the Nigerian Stock Exchange. His national stature also made him a role model for ambitious young Nigerians.
When I became the first Nigerian to serve as Managing Director (CEO) of a multinational company quoted on the Nigerian Stock Exchange, Abiola personally invited me to his office. He hosted me to a dinner event, not only to honour me but also to congratulate the company for entrusting such a position to a Nigerian. Moments like these revealed Abiola’s consistent belief in lifting others and celebrating Nigerian excellence. By this time, his quiet movement was no longer so quiet. Nigerians, young and old, rich and poor, Muslim and Christian, were looking to him with a kind of hope that had long been absent.
It is worth recalling that a former military Head of State once told the nation that Abiola was not the “messiah” Nigeria was waiting for. Yet, as events unfolded, it became clear that he was precisely the figure Nigerians were rallying behind. He had become larger than life, a symbol of unity, democracy, and the future. As Nigeria approached the lifting of the ban on political activities in the early 1990s, the anticipation grew. The people wanted a new dawn, and Abiola looked increasingly like the man who could lead them there.
Two dominant political parties emerged when the military finally lifted the ban on political activities. On one side was a party that looked like a conservative coalition, favouring a mix of ideologies and interests. On the other side was a more liberal-democratic party, whose roots drew heavily from the ideology of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, the late statesman described by Chukwuemeka Odumegwu Ojukwu as “the president Nigeria never had.”
Abiola, with his mass appeal, threw his weight behind the liberal-leaning party. This alarmed the military establishment. Though they did not openly oppose the party, they quietly perceived it as a threat. Abiola’s chances of winning the presidential election were real and, to the military rulers, unsettling.
By 1993, the momentum was unstoppable. Abiola’s candidacy brought unprecedented enthusiasm, especially among the youth. For the first time in a long time, Nigerians of different ethnicities and religions seemed to agree on one thing: the country needed change, and Abiola was the man to deliver it.
The military, however, had other plans. Though Abiola won the June 12, 1993 presidential election in what was widely regarded as Nigeria’s freest and fairest poll, the results were annulled by General Ibrahim Babangida. The annulment plunged Nigeria into chaos, sparking protests, civil disobedience, and years of unrest. The decision felt like a betrayal of the people’s will. Overnight, the dream of democracy was snatched away, and anger erupted across the nation.
The annulment triggered one of the most significant resistance movements in Africa’s modern history. Youths poured into the streets. Civil disobedience campaigns sprang up. Workers went on strike. Pro-democracy groups rallied in cities across the country, demanding justice and the restoration of the mandate.
The regime responded with violence, protesters were shot, activists jailed, and journalists silenced. But instead of dying, the MKO Movement grew stronger. It became a battle not just for Abiola, but for Nigeria itself. Abiola refused to give up his mandate. In 1994, he declared himself the rightful president of Nigeria. For that boldness, he was arrested and imprisoned. For four years, he remained behind bars, even as international pressure mounted on the military regime.
In 1998, on the brink of his release, Abiola died in detention under suspicious circumstances. His death broke hearts across the country, but it also immortalised him. He became a martyr for democracy; a symbol that no bullet, no prison, no annulment could erase.
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JUNE 12 became a rallying point for later youth movements like the #EndSARS protests in 2020 and the Obidient Movement of 2022. Each generation has carried the same spirit: the belief that Nigeria belongs to the people, and that real change is possible when citizens, especially the youth, refuse to remain silent.
The restless generation of the 1990s found in M.K.O. Abiola a leader who embodied their hopes and frustrations. He was not perfect, but he was a unifying figure in a fractured nation, a man who proved that it was possible to be a friend of the military and still the people’s champion. His life reminds us that movements for change are not built on slogans alone, but on trust, generosity, and the courage to bridge divides.
Three decades later, Nigerians still remember June 12 not just as a date, but as a movement, one that lit the torch of democracy and handed it to the youth, who continue to carry it today.
It is from this torch that the next generation rose in October 2020 with the #EndSARS movement; a youth-led cry for justice, dignity, and accountability. This second article will now turn to that story, tracing how a protest against police brutality grew into one of the most significant civic movements in Nigeria’s history.
If June 12, 1993, marked the awakening of a political consciousness in Nigeria’s youth, October 2020 announced the rebirth of that consciousness with fire, courage, and tragedy. The #EndSARS Movement was not simply a protest against a rogue police unit; it was the eruption of years of pain, frustration, and dashed hopes. It was a moment when Nigerian youths, tired of broken promises, chose to speak with one voice and demand change. And though the state tried to silence them with bullets, the echo of their chants “Soro Soke!” still lingers in Nigeria’s collective memory.
Nigeria has one of the youngest populations in the world: over 60 per cent of its people are under the age of 25. Yet, this youthful energy, instead of being celebrated and empowered, has often been stifled by unemployment, corruption, and misgovernance. At the heart of the rage that would later explode in 2020 was the deep sense of betrayal. Young Nigerians looked around and saw a country where leaders grew older and richer while the citizens grew poorer. Universities went on endless strikes, jobs were scarce, and even basic dignity was denied by a system rigged against them.
The #EndSARS protests were not born overnight. The Special Anti-Robbery Squad (SARS) formed in 1992 to curb violent crimes, slowly mutated into a feared institution of brutality. Over time, the unit became infamous for unwarranted arrests, extortion, torture, and extrajudicial killings, especially targeting young, well-dressed Nigerians, artists, techies, and creatives.
The trigger came in early October 2020. A viral video circulated online allegedly showing SARS officers dragging a young man from a hotel in Ughelli, Delta State, shooting him, and driving off in his car. Though the police denied the incident, the anger it provoked spread like wildfire across Twitter, Instagram, and WhatsApp.
Within hours, the hashtag #EndSARS trended globally. Influencers, musicians, comedians, and everyday Nigerians rallied behind it. Young people who had been silent now found their voice. What started online soon spilt onto the streets.
On October 8, 2020, small groups of youths staged sit-ins and demonstrations in Lagos, Abuja, and other cities. Their demands were clear: end SARS, release detained protesters, compensate victims, and reform the police. For once, the youth were united, cutting across tribe, religion, and class.
By October 10, the protests had grown. From Lagos to Ibadan, Benin to Port Harcourt, Jos to Enugu, and even in London, New York, and Toronto, Nigerian youths carried placards, chanted songs, and occupied major roads. The atmosphere was electric. Streets that usually echoed with traffic jams became stages of resistance filled with music, laughter, prayers, and solidarity.