By Ebuka Ukoh
The heroes of June 12 did not struggle simply for the right to vote. They struggled for a society in which the will of the people would matter, institutions would serve citizens, and the government would be accountable, with power deriving its legitimacy from public trust. Those aspirations remain as relevant today as they were on June 12, 1993.
Thirty-three years after Nigerians voted in what is widely regarded as the freest election in their country’s history, the question confronting the nation is no longer whether democracy was won. The question is whether its promise has been fulfilled, and the labours of our heroes past are not in vain. As Nigerians mark another June 12, children and teachers remain in captivity, communities continue to mourn victims of insecurity, and many citizens are asking an uncomfortable question: What exactly are we celebrating?
To ask this question is not to diminish the significance of June 12…far from it! June 12 remains one of the most important milestones in Nigeria’s democratic journey. It represents courage in the face of oppression. It represents sacrifice. It represents the determination of ordinary citizens who refused to accept that their voices could be erased by military decree. It represents the struggle of countless Nigerians who paid a personal price for the democratic freedoms many now take for granted.
The story of June 12 is ultimately a story about citizenship. It is also impossible to reflect on June 12 without remembering Chief Moshood Kashimawo Olawale Abiola. Whatever one’s politics, his story remains a reminder that democracy is not merely about conducting elections.
June 12 is also about respecting the will of the people when the results are known. The annulment of June 12 was not simply the denial of one man’s victory. It was the denial of a nation’s voice. It is the story of Nigerians insisting that their votes matter. Their voices matter. Their choices matter. Their dignity matters. That was the promise. The question before us today is whether that promise has been fully realised.
Democracy was never meant to be measured only by the ability to hold elections. Elections are important, but they are only the beginning…the means to a promised end. A democracy is not tested on election day. It is tested on the ordinary days that follow. It is tested when citizens travel on public roads. It is tested when children go to school. It is tested when farmers go to their farms. It is tested when families sleep at night. It is tested when citizens criticise those in power. It is tested when institutions are called upon to act fairly and impartially. And it is tested when the government is confronted with the suffering of ordinary people. This is where many Nigerians increasingly find themselves in conflict.
On the one hand, Nigeria continues to celebrate the restoration of democratic rule. On the other hand, many citizens struggle to reconcile democratic ideals with their lived realities. Across parts of the country, insecurity remains a daily concern. Communities continue to experience violence. Families continue to mourn loved ones. Children have been abducted from schools. Teachers have been taken from the very institutions meant to nurture the next generation. Parents continue to live with fears that should never accompany something as basic as sending a child to learn.
For those families, democracy can feel distant. Not because they oppose it. But because democracy, at its core, is supposed to deliver something more than periodic elections. It is supposed to provide security. It is supposed to provide accountability. It is supposed to provide equal citizenship under the law. Most importantly, it is supposed to affirm that all lives matter. This is why the continued captivity of Oyo school children and teachers should trouble every Nigerian on Democracy Day.
Somewhere, while speeches are being delivered and ceremonies are being held, families are still waiting. Waiting for news. Waiting for rescue. Waiting for answers. Waiting for loved ones to come home. No democracy should become comfortable with that reality. Somewhere today, a classroom remains incomplete because a teacher has not returned. Somewhere, a child’s education has been interrupted by fear. Somewhere, parents are still waiting for the phone call that tells them their loved one is safe. These are not merely security statistics. They are democratic failures because democracy means little if citizens cannot safely exercise the ordinary freedoms that confer dignity on life.
The issue extends beyond insecurity. Many Nigerians are increasingly concerned about the health of public institutions. Questions continue to emerge about public accountability, transparency, and trust. Citizens frequently wonder whether institutions serve the public interest or merely protect themselves.
Trust, once lost, is difficult to rebuild. Democracy cannot survive indefinitely on speeches, anniversaries, and commemorations. It ultimately depends on whether those entrusted with power demonstrate through action that public trust is deserved. Citizens listen to addresses. But they judge governments by governance outcomes.
Democracy cannot thrive without trust. Citizens do not need perfection from the government. No government can provide that. What citizens need is confidence that institutions are working honestly to address problems, respond to concerns, and uphold the public good. That confidence appears increasingly fragile.
Perhaps this explains why voter enthusiasm today feels different from what many Nigerians experienced in the lead-up to previous elections. People do not disengage because they hate democracy. People disengage when they begin to doubt whether their participation changes outcomes. That should concern every democrat regardless of political affiliation because the greatest threat to democracy is not criticism. The greatest threat to democracy is indifference. A citizen who complains still cares—a citizen who protests still hopes. A citizen who demands accountability still believes improvement is possible. The greater danger emerges when citizens stop expecting anything at all.
June 12 should therefore be more than a celebration of history. It should be a moment of national reflection. A moment to ask difficult questions. A moment to measure how far we have travelled and how far we still have to go. The heroes of June 12 did not struggle simply for the right to vote. They struggled for a society in which the will of the people would matter, in which institutions would serve citizens, and in which government would be accountable, with power deriving its legitimacy from public trust. Those aspirations remain as relevant today as they were three decades ago.
Democracy is not a destination that a nation reaches once and for all. It is a continuous project. It requires vigilance. It requires accountability. It requires participation. It requires leaders willing to listen and citizens willing to engage. Most of all, it requires a shared commitment to the idea that every Nigerian life has value. That is why the question, “What exactly are we celebrating on June 12?” is not an attack on democracy. It is, in fact, a defence of it.
Because the best way to honour the sacrifices of June 12 is not merely to remember them. It is to continue demanding the Nigeria they envisioned. A Nigeria where children can go to school without fear. A Nigeria where teachers return safely to their families. A Nigeria where institutions earn public trust. A Nigeria where citizenship carries both rights and dignity. A Nigeria where democracy is measured not only by the ballots cast, but also by the lives protected.
Until then, June 12 should remain both a celebration and a challenge. A celebration of how far Nigeria has come. A challenge to confront how far it still has to go. And a reminder that the true measure of June 12 is not found in speeches, ceremonies, or public holidays. It is found in whether ordinary Nigerians can live in freedom, safety, dignity, and hope. That was the promise of June 12. The question before the nation is whether we have fulfilled it.
*Mr Ukoh, a PhD student and coauthor of Built By The Ancestors, writes from his US base in New York.
