Olu Allen
June 12 is back in the headlines, not for remembrance, but for rivalry. Another year, another scramble for credit.
This time, it’s Sule Lamido versus the presidency. A former governor questioning the president’s claim to the legacy of June 12, a man who stood with Abiola in ’93 but later navigated the very political machinery that once crushed democracy.
Aso Rock returns fire, brandishing Tinubu’s NADECO credentials while opponents whisper of Rivers State and the silencing of dissent. But in this shouting match, we must pause and ask: When did June 12 become a trophy to be claimed?
June 12 was never about Tinubu. It was never about Lamido. These men were in the room, yes—some as foot soldiers, others as survivors—but they were not the sacrifice. They were not the ones who bled.
The true owner of June 12 is Moshood Kashimawo Olawale Abiola.
The man who won an election that was annulled. Who refused exile. Who said “No retreat” when others said “Negotiate”? Who died in custody while generals counted their spoils and today’s champions were still calculating their risks.
And let us never forget Kudirat Abiola—wife, mother, warrior. Gunned down in the open by state bullets for speaking when silence would have saved her life.
Theirs is not just a love story; it is a legacy of courage and consequence. Beside them stand the forgotten: Pa Rewane in his Lagos home, Bagauda Kaltho in his Kaduna hideout, the nameless students whose bodies vanished into unmarked graves.
Today, their children walk the earth with scars—the kind that do not fade. Orphaned by a struggle now repackaged as political history. It is they, and millions like them, who bear the cost of this democracy. Not the ones now passing around plaques and portraits like shared loot.
When Buhari declared June 12 a national holiday in 2018, it was justice delayed, but also justice diluted. The same state that once murdered democracy now manufactures its heroes, carefully scrubbing the radicals from the record.
So, forgive us if we wince when the president’s portrait is boldly displayed at Eagle Square on May 29. Forgive us if we feel uneasy when national honours are given to men who inherited a struggle they did not start, for a democracy they now ration like favours.
This is not about bitterness. It is about balance.
June 12 is not just a date. It is a graveyard. It is where the will of the people was murdered, where hope was ambushed, and where redemption came wrapped in mourning cloth. It is not a brand for political leverage. It is a debt.
A debt we owe the dead. A duty we owe the future.
So when we tell the story of June 12, let us tell it in full. Let us speak of ballot papers soaked in blood, of widows made by gunfire, of children raised without fathers. Let us name the torturers who still walk free and the collaborators who now dine in Abuja. Let us honour those who died, not just those who lived to write the script.
This democracy has many godfathers, but only one martyr.
MKO.
Let no narrative edit him out. Let no noise drown out the silence of his grave. Let no politician, whether from Kano or Bourdillon, wear a struggle he didn’t die for as a medal.
The story of June 12 is not about who speaks the loudest, but about who paid the highest price.
And if we dare to claim its legacy, let us first prove we can carry its weight.
Let us remember, not just the day, but the dead.
Allen is a writer and social commentator who lives in Kano. He is passionate about preserving truth in civic discourse and amplifying the voices often erased from national narratives.
