By Abdulkareem Adeyemi
On the morning of April 7, 2025, the capital city of Nigeria stirred not just with the sounds of routine bustle, but with voices—peaceful yet piercing—chanting for change.
Members of the Take It Back Movement, a growing coalition of young Nigerians disillusioned by economic hardships and political frustration, gathered for what was meant to be a peaceful protest. They carried placards, banners, and, most of all, hope.
But by midday, the scene at the Unity Fountain had turned into a haze of tear gas, chaos, and confusion.
Their chants were swallowed by the shriek of sirens and the urgency of feet scattering for safety.
This was not just a protest; it was a cry—one that echoed through the hearts of many Nigerians who feel they are running out of options and opportunities. But the question remains: why did a peaceful call for attention result in a forceful shutdown?
According to statements from law enforcement, the protest was “ill-timed.” Coincidentally, April 7 marked the National Police Day celebration—a day dedicated to honoring the efforts and sacrifices of the Nigeria Police Force.
However, for the citizens gathered, their presence was no less about duty. It was about responsibility: to speak, to question, and to demand better.
Critics have since raised concerns: was the issue truly about timing, or was it another instance of shrinking democratic space in a country where protest is fast becoming perilous?
The heart of the protest was not just about political rhetoric. It was about food prices, rent, job scarcity, and the suffocating cost of living in a country where the minimum wage barely covers a week’s worth of groceries.
Young professionals, artisans, graduates, and civil servants are increasingly unable to maintain even the most basic standard of living.
A bag of rice that cost ₦8,000 three years ago now sells for over ₦50,000.
Power supply remains erratic, insecurity festers in rural and urban areas alike, and yet, the elite continue to thrive untouched, their lives unfolding in opulence just a few kilometers from struggling communities.
To protest this reality is not a crime—it is a civic duty. Silence in the face of such hardship is complicity. If we continue to stifle these voices, we risk not just the loss of protest, but the loss of hope itself.
