The Minors: A reflection of decay in society
By Dakuku Peterside
When voices rise in waves of protest, deeper wounds are laid bare—truths woven into our laws and ethics, waiting to be unearthed. In Nigeria, one such moment emerged in the #EndBadGovernance protests, where voices for change faced harsh reprisals. The arrest and prosecution of 76 individuals, among them children, echoed like a sombre drumbeat across the nation. The image — young souls accused of plotting to topple a government they scarcely understood—was not merely a misstep in justice, but a profound betrayal of innocence.
This incident, crying out for redress, cuts to the heart of justice, empathy, and humanity. It has kindled outrage and sorrow, a collective heartbreak that reveals the frailty of a system meant to protect its most tender lives. Here, in the shadow of these events, society stands accused—faced with the question of how to shelter its children from harm and injustice. The charges of treason against these minors were shocking in their harshness. Treason, a grave accusation reserved for those who endanger a nation’s stability, was weaponised against children—kids who were strangers to one another, with no understanding of the political weight of their actions.
Seeing the children dragged into a courtroom under such grave accusations is heart-breaking. It evokes disbelief, fear, and deep anger, prompting painful questions: How could the state fail them so profoundly? What kind of society would allow its youth to be subjected to such trauma? This incident exposes how, in some cases, the government prioritises control over compassion, even if it means breaking the spirit of the innocent. The result is a scar on the nation’s conscience, a painful reminder of the injustices that children are sometimes forced to endure.
In addition to the emotional toll on the children involved, this incident has forced society to confront its failures on a moral level. Nigeria’s criminal justice system allowed these minors to languish in detention for three long months without verifying their ages or giving them a fair trial. Each day spent in confinement stripped them of a piece of their innocence, safety, and hope. Imagine the loneliness, confusion, and fear that these children must have felt, torn from their families and subjected to the cold, intimidating machinery of a justice system that saw them not as children but as threats. For these minors, every passing day was a reminder that they were alone, abandoned by the very system meant to protect them. For those watching, it was a harrowing reflection of a society that had lost sight of its humanity.
In Chapter 2, the Nigerian Constitution outlines the state’s responsibility to protect the dignity, equality, and welfare of its citizens, particularly the young and vulnerable. Yet, in reality, the system falls painfully short. According to UNICEF, over 10.5 million Nigerian children are out of school, many of whom are forced to fend for themselves on the streets. These numbers evoke not only sorrow but a sense of urgency. The fact that children are denied basic rights to education, healthcare, and protection is a mark of shame that weighs heavily on the conscience of any empathetic society. It begs the question: How can we allow children—our future, our hope—to be so vulnerable and unprotected? And more pointedly, how could our justice system betray them in their hour of need?
Critics may argue that since Chapter 2 rights are non-justiciable, the government technically has no legal obligation to enforce them. Yet this argument only deepens the wound, highlighting the gap between what the law permits, and what our collective conscience demands. These minors, imprisoned and alone, have endured the kind of fear that can scar a person for life. Studies by the Nigerian Psychological Association show that children exposed to prolonged detention often suffer from severe trauma, depression, and anxiety. For these young individuals, the horrors they endured may leave them struggling with emotional scars for years to come. Their innocence, once lost, can never be fully restored, and the memory of these experiences will likely haunt them into adulthood. The country, too, will be haunted by these scars, knowing that it allowed its children to be subjected to such harm.
This case stirs emotions beyond anger and sadness; it raises profound questions about our society’s empathy, accountability, and commitment to its youngest citizens. How can a nation that claims to value its future generation turn a blind eye to their suffering? Nigeria has one of the highest rates of out-of-school children globally—over 20 percent of children aged 5-11 do not have access to education. These statistics are not mere numbers; they are the faces of real children, each with hopes, dreams, and aspirations that are crushed by systemic failures. When these vulnerable children end up wrongfully detained or abused, it is a failure that reverberates through the entire society, echoing a painful truth about the lack of compassion and justice.
The need for accountability and reform among government officials and law enforcement is urgent and undeniable. The recent #EndSARS protests highlighted this very issue, with the world watching in horror as police and government officials were exposed for their brutal treatment of young Nigerians. The fact that this behaviour continues and that officials are not held accountable for mistreatment and abuse evokes feelings of frustration, helplessness, and even betrayal. When those sworn to protect instead become oppressors, trust in the government’s ability to safeguard its citizens erodes, leaving a society that feels abandoned and vulnerable.
Immediate action is necessary to begin healing from this. First, we must reform Nigeria’s legal system to include specific protections for minors. This means creating laws that prevent children from facing wrongful detention and safeguarding their rights in any legal process. The thought of a child languishing in detention without representation or support is unbearable, and our laws must reflect that. Civil society groups play a critical role here, advocating for children and bringing these issues to light so that change becomes inevitable. Advocacy is not merely about changing laws; it is about instilling a sense of empathy in the public and policymakers, reminding them that each child affected by these failures is an individual deserving of compassion and protection. A legal system built on empathy is not just a dream; it’s a necessity.
Beyond legal reform, empathy training for government officials and law enforcement agents could change how cases involving minors are handled. Studies from Kenya have shown that training police officers in sensitivity and child protection leads to fewer cases of abuse and mistreatment. These are promising signs that change is possible and that we can build a society where officials treat vulnerable individuals with the care they deserve. Such a change, which is within our reach, would not only protect children but also help restore faith in a system that often feels indifferent to the needs of its people.
Societally, we need a shift toward collective responsibility in protecting our vulnerable populations. UNICEF’s work in Nigeria has shown that community programs supporting at-risk children can significantly reduce their exposure to dangerous environments. Community initiatives offer hope, protection, and a sense of belonging, showing these children, they are not alone. Expanding such programs nationwide could serve as a lifeline for many young people, sparing them the pain and isolation of facing life’s hardships alone.
The recent arraignment of minors during the #EndBadGovernance protests is more than just a legal case—it is a human tragedy that confronts us with the harsh realities of our society’s shortcomings. As a nation, Nigeria must grapple with the pain, frustration, and sense of betrayal that this incident has evoked. For the children involved, their experiences will likely remain a dark shadow in their lives, a reminder of how they were let down by the systems that should have protected them. For the rest of society, it should serve as a wake-up call, a painful reminder of the importance of justice, empathy, and compassion.
Most of these vulnerable children are out-of-school children with little or no education and are exposed to being used as tools for political manipulations. It is neither their fault that “Nigeria has happened to them”, and it seems all hope is lost for many of them to use their God-given talents to contribute to Nigeria’s development. Their ordeal is about to change. Dr Tunji Alausa, our new minister of education, has already demonstrated a commitment to vocational education and addressing the needs of out-of-school children. He has laid out intentions to enhance technical college facilities and include vocational skills in the basic school curriculum, focusing on practical training over theoretical courses. These boys can learn a trade or profession and contribute meaningfully to society. It is our collective responsibility to set them on the right path.
We must not forget this incident; it should fuel a movement for change, pushing Nigeria toward a future where children are seen, heard, and protected. We owe it to these minors, ourselves, and future generations to build a society that values every individual’s dignity, rights, and humanity. Only then can we hope to heal from the scars of this injustice and create a society where all children, regardless of their circumstances, are safe and valued.
