What killed them?

The NSCDC’s Niger State Commandant, Suberu Siyaka Aniviye, said the deaths were by a suspected disease outbreak, with the suspected disease being diphtheria.听The Minister of Interior, Olubunmi Tunji-Ojo, has since Commandant Aniviye pending the outcome of the investigation.听

Niger State Governor, Umar Bago, who the death toll at 37 during a Thursday press conference in Minna, however, said the cause of death hadn’t been officially established, and it was too early to draw conclusions. 

Bago disclosed that investigators were examining several possible causes, including exposure to hazardous chemicals. Meanwhile, an AFP intelligence report overcrowding and poor ventilation inside the detention facility may be the reason for the deaths.

A filmed during the Minister of Interior, Olubunmi Tunji-Ojo’s, visit to some of the survivors has added another layer to the dispute. In it, one survivor says: “They sprayed something in the cell after putting us inside, and people started falling down.”

The clip has circulated widely on social media, with other survivor accounts say that around 65 to 66 people were packed into a small cell.

VIDEO: They sprayed something in the cell after putting us inside, and people started falling down.'

– One of the survivors of the NSCDC horror cell in Niger states

— Rinu Oduala (@SavvyRinu)

Families of the deceased are not buying the disease explantion and are questioning how a sudden infection could kill dozens of healthy youths in a single night while leaving facility guards untouched. The bodies have been to the General Hospital, Minna, for autopsy.

Who鈥檚 telling the truth?

The NSCDC’s Commandant General, Professor Ahmed Abubakar Audi, has an internal panel, led by the Deputy Commandant General for Intelligence and Investigation, to examine the arrests, detention conditions, medical care provided, and the circumstances of the deaths. 

Separately, the Nigeria Police Force (NPF) has opened its own , with its spokesman Wasiu Abiodun confirming this on Thursday, September 17.

What are people saying?

The deaths have protests in Niger State, with families and residents gathering at Minna General Hospital and demanding answers. Some protesters are calling for criminal charges if negligence is confirmed.

The bigger picture

Niger State is in gold and attracts thousands of small-scale miners, many of whom are from poor communities. Security agencies have stepped up on illegal mining sites in recent years, arguing the informal trade is smuggling and armed criminal activity. 

A 2024 found much of the region’s gold moves through global supply chains largely untracked, which is part of why crackdowns like this one keep happening.

We need answers

As of the time of this report, we don’t know the actual cause of death, and that shouldn’t take long to establish. Both investigations need to conclude quickly, and whoever’s responsible needs to be held accountable for their actions or inactions.

Central to the policies and strategies unveiled is the idea of a technology-driven government that delivers services digitally from the start, where data drives decisions, and citizens can interact with public institutions as easily as they use their phones. The Digital Government Policy Framework (DGPF), an ambitious blueprint launched in 2020 for a smarter, more responsive state, outlines this vision across six pillars, with initiatives like Digital by Design and Proactive Governance. However, ambition alone doesn鈥檛 build systems; it requires execution.

In theory, Digital by Design operates on the philosophy that government services should be created with technology at their core. In practice, progress has been slowed by fragmented regulations and uneven capacity across states. While some parts of the country are moving forward, others are playing catch-up, leading to a fragmented system instead of the unified digital experience that these innovations are meant to achieve. 

A similar pattern is evident in the push for a data-driven public sector. There are indeed signs that the Nigerian government is beginning to take data governance more seriously. For example, in trying to achieve a geo-political system of equity and inclusion, all 36 states were reached through the Build-A-thon programme, with learning communities set up that focused on youths and female groups. But what鈥檚 missing is consistent, disaggregated data that reflects differences across factors like gender, geography, and income levels. Without this level of detail, policies run the risk of missing the people who need them most, and data can not be effectively used to create inclusive solutions. 

The same pattern appears in Government as a Platform鈥檚 vision, which envisions an interconnected, efficient, and accessible public service. While infrastructure investments like the installation of 145,000km of fibre optic cable, which was laid, suggest that the foundation is being built, only 27% of rural LGAs are connected against a target of 60%, making the experience of navigating them still feel disjointed. The promise of seamless digital governance has yet to materialise.

Perhaps more telling is the lingering gap between openness and transparency. While the government has made efforts to engage citizens through consultations, signalling a willingness to be more transparent, limited visibility into program performance makes it difficult to assess how policies are actually working. This disconnect becomes even clearer in user-driven governance. In principle, citizens should help shape the services they use; in practice, feedback channels are often weak or inaccessible, particularly for rural areas or underserved communities. 

On the brighter side, Nigeria appears to have made real progress in building its digital backbone with broadband infrastructure expansion and continued growth in the telecommunications ecosystem. However, only about 27 percent of local governments have reliable connectivity compared to their urban counterparts. This means that for millions of Nigerians, the digital economy still feels out of reach, a divide with real consequences.

Beyond infrastructure, a deeper structural challenge is coordination. Nigeria has a deep-seated challenge of aligning efforts across different agencies working toward similar goals. Policies are developed and launched in isolation, creating a system that moves while being pulled in different directions. The startup ecosystem, for example, boasts over 12,000 registered startups and billions in investment, but still lacks stronger institutional support, which means this growth may be difficult to sustain.

Yiaga Africa鈥檚 assessment report on President Tinubu鈥檚 Renewed Hope Agenda, legal and regulatory framework is described as transitional, with important tools like the National AI Strategy and the Digital Economy Bill still in development and facing delays in enforcement. The Federal Ministry of Communications, Innovation, and Digital Economy (FMoCIDE) has demonstrated leadership, but execution is uneven as a result of poor interagency cooperation and limited connections in local governments. According to the policy assessment brief facilitated by Yiaga Africa, more than 12,000 registered firms and 鈧�21 billion in investments raised in 2025, the Startup Ecosystem is referred to as emerging but is not institutionalised and threatened by issues including poor budgetary integration and sluggish tax incentive disbursement.

Similarly, the national Build-A-Thon STEM effort emphasises the importance of human capital development; nonetheless, inclusion mechanisms remain inadequate, particularly for rural areas, gender-specific data, and disability inclusion. Only 7.7% of young people with training are employed in northern states due to a lack of investments in digital infrastructure. 

The path forward is one where rural connectivity must be improved through reforms like reducing right-of-way costs and investing in alternative power solutions. Policies like the Digital Economy Bill must move from draft to implementation, and coordination across different local governments must become more deliberate and unified. Ultimately, progress must be measured not just by policies announced, but by outcomes experienced by everyday Nigerians.

Read more on the #Fulfillit campaign by Yiaga Africa here

Who is Senator Buba?

For many who have never heard of this man, let鈥檚 have a bit of a history class. was born on October 2 1976, in Nabordo village, Toro LGA, Bauchi State. He began his career as a classroom teacher before as a Special Assistant and then a Senior Special Assistant under then-Governor Isah Yuguda’s administration. He built out a business portfolio, too, serving as of business development at Aquawave Oil and Gas.

In February 2023, Umar the Bauchi South Senatorial District seat with 175,505 votes, defeating the People Democratic Party鈥檚 (PDP) Garba Dahiru. By July that year, he had chairman of the Senate Committee on National Security and Intelligence, a position that put the first-term senator at the centre of legislative oversight of the agencies tasked with identifying illegal armed groups and preventing terrorist attacks. That鈥檚 why this story is almost unbelievable; somehow, the man overseeing Nigeria’s security intelligence is now the man accused of funding terrorists and bandits

Where did the rumours come from?

The allegations against Buba trace back to September 2024. Then-Bauchi Governor Bala Mohammed wrote to President Tinubu after Department of State Services (DSS) operatives flagged two people who were registered for the 2024 Hajj through the state pilgrims’ board.听

Governor Mohammed’s alleged that Buba had sponsored a bandit kingpin for the pilgrimage through an aide named Yahaya Ibrahim. One of the two travellers, Abubakar Idris, was detained by the DSS on suspicion of banditry and kidnapping in Zamfara State.

Around the same time, a civil society group, the Nigeria Democratic Front (NDF), Buba was affiliated with a notorious bandit linked to kidnappings across Zamfara. 

Since 2024, Buba’s defence has remained consistent: that he has only pilgrims whom local traditional rulers recommended to him, not people he personally vetted.

In November 2024, Buba was as chairman of the Committee on National Security and Intelligence and moved to chair the Committee on Livestock and Animal Husbandry instead.

Governor?

Afterwards, Buba left the All Progressive Congress (APC) for the Peoples Redemption Party (PRP) and its 2027 Bauchi State governorship candidate. That’s when the allegations resurfaced, and this time with more fire.听

In September 2026, a content creator known as “D English Alhaji” with a man named Hassan Husseini, who accused Buba of harbouring bandit kingpins at his residence and claimed people connected to bandit leader were taken to Abuja for training with help from the senator’s aide.

Buba called the videos fabricated and politically motivated, tied the timing directly to his defection and governorship run, and filed criminal defamation complaints against his accusers in in both Nigeria and Niamey, Niger Republic. That defamation case is now proceeding in a federal court.

鈥淚 have nothing to hide鈥�

To prove his innocence, Buba the State Security Service (SSS), the Defence Intelligence Agency (DIA), and the Nigeria Police Force (NPF) to formally investigate the allegations against him. He also voluntarily submitted himself to the SSS for questioning and publicly challenged anyone with actual evidence to hand it to security agencies rather than social media.

Keep your eyes and ears open

This story is far from over, and here’s what to track: Watch the federal court defamation case; its outcome will shape whether these allegations are ever legally tested.

Follow up on whether the SSS, DIA, and police actually publish the findings from the investigation Buba himself requested, since that’s the clearest path to the facts. 

This is a test of whether Nigeria’s institutions can hold powerful people accountable when the accusations point at their own. That’s worth watching, no matter how the Buba case ends. 

Before September 30, 2011, my life was on track. I studied geography and regional planning at the university, but there were no jobs when I graduated, so I chose what I actually loved: movies.

By 2008, I was working with one of the biggest production companies in Nigerian entertainment, Wale Adenuga Productions (WAP), doing motion graphics and visual effects. I was the go-to person for opening title sequences on shows like Papa Ajasco and Company, , and This Life. I had opportunities to leave the country, but I turned them down because I believed I could contribute something to the industry here.

My plan was to spend five years at WAP, learn everything I could, and then start directing my own shows. I’d already started shooting music videos on the side. I was 32, and everything was pointing in the direction I wanted it to go.

Then came September 30, 2011.

We’d just wrapped preparations for a children鈥檚 Independence Day event, Nnenna and friends, at the National Theatre. I was supposed to sleep at the office, but around 9:30 pm I decided to head home instead. I picked up a friend on the way, and by 10:15 pm, we reached the police checkpoint I pass almost every night.

The officer asked for my ID; I handed it over, and while I waited for him to hand it back, I heard shouting from further down the road, then two gunshots.

I didn’t even see what happened next. The third gunshot came through the boot of my car and hit my right arm, which was resting on the armrest. I felt my whole arm jerk forward, and blood was everywhere. It felt like something out of a horror movie.

My friend took cover from being shot while I got out shouting that I’d been shot. The officer who’d been questioning me looked back at the others, and they just scattered, like someone had given them a signal to run. My friend and I ran toward the nearby police station instead, and I remember tearing off my shirt to tie around my arm to slow the bleeding, 

I don’t remember much after that. I collapsed near my car and blacked out. When I regained consciousness, I woke up to a crowd surrounding me, people were shouting that the police had killed somebody, and a woman nearby was crying, convinced I was dead. It turned out the officers manning that checkpoint had been drinking since 6 pm, celebrating the eve of October 1st.

We eventually got a police report and identified the officer who shot me. His name is Ayuba Philip, tag number: 257745. I can never forget it. Afterwards, I was rushed to Lagos State Teaching Hospital (LASUTH), where I spent the next month.

The bullet had hit the major artery supplying blood to my arm. The first surgery, where doctors took a vein from my leg to try to restore blood flow, failed within 72 hours. I passed out again from blood loss and had a second near-death experience in that hospital. Doctors told my family they might have to amputate. We prayed instead, and tried physiotherapy, but by the time I was discharged, my doctor’s advice was that the only way to save the hand was to undergo reconstructive surgery in India.

WAP held my position and helped where they could, but the hospital bill was mine to pay. When the Divisional Police Officer (DPO) finally visited a few weeks later, they brought Milo and milk. I remember this so clearly because there was no sugar, and I kept asking for sugar. The DPO promised that the police would cover the bill, but that promise never materialised.

When I eventually found a hospital in India for the surgery, they saidand the entire procedure would cost  $10,000. In order to raise the money, I sold everything I owned that was worth selling, including the car I got shot in. I borrowed from my family and took out a loan from my office. 

In India, doctors told me the hand needed nine separate procedures across three stages: restoring blood supply, then flexibility, then transplanting new tendons, since mine had died from lack of blood flow. I could only afford the first stage. I came home, unable to raise money for the second time, and that’s what pushed me to get a lawyer.

I wrote to the DPO first and got no response. I hired a Barrister who wrote to the Commissioner of Police and received no response for eight months, until we took the case to court in 2012. It dragged on for four years. The police sent one lawyer to the proceedings, a very subpar lawyer, if I say so myself. 

In 2015, we got a judgment from the Federal High Court; the police were held responsible for my medical bills and trauma, close to $47,000 combined, part of it in naira for the trauma I’d suffered.

Getting the judgment turned out to be the easy part. When we tried to get the money from the police accounts, every bank we approached said the police no longer held individual accounts; everything had moved into the Treasury Single Account (TSA) set up under the Buhari administration, which meant we needed the Attorney General’s consent to touch federal funds at the Central Bank of Nigeria (CBN). My lawyer wrote to every Inspector General who came and went after that, but still nobody replied.

Around 2020, my story got picked up by the BBC during the heat of the EndSARS movement. Punch and Vice News interviewed me, too. My case got admitted into the panel set up on Lagos Island to review police brutality cases, but the panel couldn’t override a federal court judgment; it could only compile findings and forward them to the federal government. That went nowhere as well.

In 2024, after the AGF finally acknowledged our petition and formally requested comments from the police, months passed with no response. So I did what I had learned works: I put the Inspector General on blast online, with a wanted poster and everything. That got a reaction, but only a promise to follow up again. When that AGF was replaced, we lost that thread entirely. I’ve since done the same to the current IGP, and my lawyer, who has some access through his current role, was invited to Force Headquarters. We submitted a fresh petition earlier this month. I’m still waiting.

I’ve told this part of the story before. What I haven’t talked about as much is what living with this injury actually did to me.

I went back to work at WAP, and they were generous; they even assigned someone to assist me, knowing I’d struggle to work at my former pace. But learning to do everything with my left hand, tying my shoes, buttoning a shirt, eating, was its own kind of hell. The moment that broke something in me was realising I could no longer shake someone’s hand. That’s when it hit me: I was disabled now, not just injured.

During a company reorganisation a while later, WAP eventually had to let some staff go, and it affected me. Finding new work afterwards was nearly impossible. I could still do the job; I’d adapted to using my left hand for everything, but employers would see my hand and say they’d get back to me and never did. I leaned on my wife and my family to survive, and i鈥檓 currently raising funds to complete the second and third stages of reconstructive surgery on his hand in India. 

The pain never left. It’s still there right now, as you鈥檙e reading this. I switched from painkillers to nicotine because the veins relax and it eases things, though it comes back whenever I need to use the toilet. My hand is permanently stiff. I can’t turn my palm to look at it. I had to invent my own ways of coping with the pain because there was no other option.

There were years when I thought about suicide, more than once, without knowing that’s what it was. I tried a couple of things that didn’t work. I’ve survived on remote gigs, ten dollars here, twenty there, and the belief that something will eventually change if I don’t give up.

In the years right after the shooting, I wasn’t looking for justice. I was looking for vengeance. What pulled me back was talking to actual police officers and realising most of them are victims of the same broken system; underpaid, undertrained, some of them drunk on duty because nobody’s holding them accountable either. The ones who pull triggers carelessly are the exception, not the rule, but the system protects them exactly the same way.

Justice for me now isn’t revenge. It’s the Nigerian police obeying a Federal High Court judgment that’s been sitting unenforced for over ten years. It’s an institution meant to enforce the law and actually respect it.

Amnesty International has documented close to 10,000 Nigerians killed by the police over two decades, and almost nobody outside those families is talking about it. Everyone’s debating police reform and state police right now, but nobody’s asking how any of that protects the next person who gets caught in a bullet meant for someone else.

I’m 47 now. I was a young man with a dream when this happened. If I could tell anyone one thing, it’s this: know your rights before you ever interact with the Nigerian police. Know what they can and cannot do to you. If you understand the law, you’ll instinctively resist unlawful treatment, and if you’re recording, they’ll usually back off once they realise you know what you’re doing. There are always bad actors within the force, no matter how clean the public image looks.

I’ve survived for a reason, and I still believe something will give. But surviving shouldn’t require this much.

Emmanuel Tomori is currently raising funds to complete the second and third stages of reconstructive surgery on his hand.

Busayo (19) always planned to leave Nigeria; the only question was where and how. After watching his friends get shut out of US student visas one by one, he pivoted his entire plan to the Netherlands, landed a scholarship at one of the country’s top universities, and rebuilt his life.

Where do you live now, and when did you leave Nigeria?

I live in Rotterdam. Everyone thinks of Amsterdam when they hear “Netherlands,” but Rotterdam is honestly one of the best cities here. I left Nigeria on August 19, 2025.

What did life look like for you before you left?

I finished high school in 2024. The original plan was America. I applied to a bunch of universities while I was still in school, got into a few good ones, and even got scholarships ranging from 20% to 60%, but when my family sat down and did the maths on four years of tuition, it just didn’t make sense in the long term. My older sister, who’d already been living in the Netherlands for years, was the one who the bigger picture, the job market, the opportunities, in a way the rest of us couldn’t yet.

Wow, so what actually killed the American dream for you?

A few things stacked up. I didn’t want to retake the SATs, so I applied to two Ivy League schools with just my GPA, and that didn’t work out. Then there was the high rate of visa denials for international students and the tuition affordability in the long run. That’s when America was officially off the table for me.

So you pivoted to the Netherlands. How did that happen?

I actually applied to the Netherlands the same year I applied to US schools, before I even finished high school, and I got into Erasmus University Rotterdam. I just didn’t get the scholarship, so it would’ve still meant a huge amount of money. 

During my gap year, I reapplied. My sister kept telling me Erasmus is one of the best universities in the world, with a really strong media and communications program, so I put more effort into the scholarship application this time. I got in, and I got the scholarship. 

Nice! Walk me through the process, how you found the scholarship, and what the application involves

Honestly, a lot of it was self-directed research. I still have a YouTube playlist titled “university application” full of videos of people breaking down how they got in and guidance from my sister. For the university application, I submitted my West African Examination Council (WAEC) results and a motivation letter. 

For the scholarship, I had to write two essays, one on why I needed the money and one on why I deserved it academically and socially. I leaned on the fact that I’d been on scholarship in high school too, so I could show I wouldn’t waste the investment. The scholarship was 鈧�5,000.

The Big Daily is your weekday shortcut to the biggest news shaping Nigeria. We cut through the noise, connect the dots, and explain why the news actually matters, all in one quick read.

Alright. What did the process cost?

My tuition was 鈧�11,300. But once you add the living fee, a deposit you pay upfront to prove you can sustain yourself, which gets returned to you once you’re in the country, plus tuition and immigration costs, the total comes to 鈧�25,500. With the 鈧�5,000 scholarship, I was left paying 鈧�20,500.

Okay, now the visa. What was that process like?

Because my university was my sponsor, I didn’t apply separately; the school handled much of the paperwork on my end, including obtaining my V-number from the immigration authority. What I signed was more of a declaration-of-acceptance form, along with the usual documents, like my Nigerian passport. Before you get your actual residence permit, you need a Machtiging tot Voorlopig Verblijf (MVV), which is a provisional entry visa sticker that lets you enter the country and is valid for 90 days.

Did you face any issues during this process?

Yes! I went to submit my documents in person, very organised, and found it shocking there was hardly anyone in line. The woman who attended to me told me the MVV would now take 40 to 60 days instead of the usual five to ten. I panicked because I already had pre-academic programs and orientation to attend before school started on September 1st.

I emailed my school immediately, and they emailed the embassy the same day. Within a day or two, I got a message telling me to come back; my visa was ready. That was the fastest process time I have ever experienced, Kudos to my Uni on that one. I literally collected it the day before my flight and started packing that same night.

That’s so stressful. What was your first week in the Netherlands actually like?

It was mostly documentation, honestly. My sister picked me up from the airport, and even the free luggage trolleys shocked me, coming from Nigeria. In my first week, I registered at the municipality to get my Burgerservicenummer or Citizen Service Number (BSN), which is your citizen number. 

You need it for literally everything: a SIM card, a bank account, and health insurance. I also signed up for my school’s pre-academic programme and got my OV chip card sorted for public transport, where you have to remember to tap in and tap out, or they’ll charge you the full fare regardless of where you actually got off. So it was a pretty decent first week.

What do you love most about living there?

The organisation, hands down. Everything is documented, accountable, and clean. 24/7 electricity still shocks me sometimes. I can leave the house and come back, and my lights will be on as long as I’ve paid my bill. I also love that the country is so central, a two-hour train gets you to Belgium, and an hour’s flight to Paris. My residence permit lets me travel anywhere in the EU.

And what’s been the hardest part?

The restrictions on international students, honestly. There aren’t nearly as many scholarship opportunities for us compared to students from other regions. I also had an internship offer from a global company that I had to turn down in my first year because of a binding agreement between the student, the university, and the employer that doesn’t apply to EU passport holders. That one really hurt.

So sorry about that. What鈥檚 the housing situation like in the Netherlands? 

It’s genuinely tough. Rent runs anywhere from 鈧�650 to 鈧�1,200 a month, and that’s often for a shared place; a studio to yourself can go for 鈧�900 to 鈧�1,300. It depends on where you find housing and how lucky you are. My honest advice: have a very solid financial plan before you get here. If you don’t have family or any other person here already, reach out to your university directly; they’re usually lenient with first-years and keep some emergency housing for international students. Facebook groups can help too, but watch out for scams, and don’t send money upfront. Some people end up commuting an hour or two from a neighbouring city because they couldn’t find anything closer.

What about jobs and the cost of living? Does the pay match the cost of living?

It depends on the job. As a non-EU international student, you’re capped at 16 hours a week during the school year or 40 hours in summer, but only one or the other, not both. Your employer must also apply for a work permit for you every 6 months, except for internships. I’ve worked a bar job and a cup-stacking job; the cup-stacking paid about 鈧�12 an hour. Pay generally scales with age, too; an 18-year-old typically earns less than someone in their early twenties for the same retail-type job. Some corporate student jobs pay better. I earned 鈧�19 an hour leading a team for my school’s pre-academic programme over the summer. Whatever you make, you get taxed, but you can file at the end of the year and often get money back if you were overtaxed.

Is the language a barrier, and how did you build community?

Not really, most people speak English here, which is part of why the Netherlands is such a popular study destination. Learning basic Dutch helps with day-to-day life, but you won’t die without it. For the community, I joined my university’s African Students Association, where I met people who are my friends now. I also go to Hillsong church here, and I’m part of a church connect group. It takes time, and I’d tell anyone not to be desperate about it; you’ll find your people.

Do you miss Nigeria?

I miss my friends and family back home. I miss the accessibility of proper Nigerian food. We mostly cook African food at home, but it would be a great addition to  just step out for a proper Nigerian meal. I don’t see myself moving back permanently anytime soon, though. Maybe short visits during summer, when it’s calmer.

Any mistakes you’d warn other japa hopefuls about?

Kill the mindset that you’ll land and start making serious money immediately, even as a student; the reality is very different from what you plan for. Don’t come in with an unrealistic, Netflix-fed idea of what university life abroad looks like either. Save money, even if it’s just 鈧�5 a week. Don’t try to work a full course load and a full-time job at the same time; it’s not sustainable. And please, stop converting every price back to naira in your head, it’ll only stress you out.

On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate life in the Netherlands?

A solid 7.9. It’s not an eight or a nine because the restrictions on international students are real, and funding cuts have been hitting scholarships and social programmes hard recently. But the organisation, the quality of life, and the fact that I can afford to travel around Europe on a few hundred euros have made this start to feel like home. The main thing that still reminds me I’m an international student are the restrictions and heavy documentation to do certain things- internships. 

Any final words for someone thinking about doing the same thing?

Do your research obsessively, Think and prepare finances in the long run before you come, and don’t be afraid to put yourself out there, even when it’s scary. It’s worth it. And at times when you feel less in comparison to your classmates AKA Imposter syndrome remember you earned your spot here just like everyone else you deserve every bit of it. 

Want to share your japa story? Please reach out to me

On Thursday, August 27, 2026, President Bola Tinubu that transport fares nationwide will be reduced starting October 1, 2026, as a result of the adoption of Compressed Natural Gas (CNG) and electric vehicles.

He made the announcement after a meeting with the Nigeria Governors’ Forum (NGF), with the changes expected to take effect from October 1.听

The plan will require the Federal and state governments to work together to pass the savings from CNG and electric vehicles on to commuters. It’s a big promise. The question is whether it’s a new plan or an old one with just a new deadline.

• President Bola Ahmed Tinubu

What did he say?

Tinubu’s math is simple: CNG vehicles can 60 to 80 per cent less on fuel than petrol-powered ones, so operators’ running costs should fall and so should transport fares.

He has ordered 500 more CNG refuelling stations, on top of the 500 already approved this year, bringing the national target to 1,000 stations. The Federal Government is currently financing over 100 gas projects nationwide, including 15 CNG “mother stations” and 86 “daughter stations,” and more than have already been converted to CNG. This sounds like a brilliant plan, but this isn’t Nigeria’s first CNG rodeo.

Remember me?

The Presidential CNG Initiative initially in 2023  to reduce the hardship Nigerians were facing from the fuel subsidy removal. Petrol prices were around 鈧�950 per litre at the time. Back then, the promise was  150,000 vehicle conversions within a year. 

Three years later, the country has only just 120,000 total conversions. The government’s own long-term plan 2,322 CNG stations, 3,000 conversion centres, and one million converted vehicles by 2027, meaning Tinubu’s “new” 1,000-station push is still less than half the original target, arriving with 15 months left on the original timetable.

The Big Daily is your weekday shortcut to the biggest news shaping Nigeria. We cut through the noise, connect the dots, and explain why the news actually matters, all in one quick read.

Have you seen the prices?

If you鈥檙e not already raising an eyebrow, you should. This fare-cutting announcement is happening after years of CNG rollout. 

Data from the National Bureau of Statistics (NBS) the average intra-city bus fare hit 鈧�1,431.25 in May 2026, representing a 38.63 per cent increase from 鈧�1,032.46 in May 2025. Transport fares were rising like crazy during the same period that the CNG initiative was supposed to bring costs down. 

Experts have noted that despite CNG’s cost advantages, the policy hasn’t led to lower fares for commuters, and analysts warn that inadequate infrastructure, high conversion costs, and the usual government delays could continue to slow adoption. Nigeria’s CNG push was also never matched by aggressive investment in refuelling stations, leaving stations severely inadequate to meet the demand they created, which is why long queues at CNG stations have become their own story.

What does this mean for you?

If you commute in Lagos, Abuja, Kano, or any major city, this is your money and your time. Your transport fare has already climbed by nearly 40% over the past year under a program that was supposed to bring it down. 

If October 1 comes and goes without a visible drop in your bus prices, you’re not imagining things. The pattern of the last three years says the infrastructure to back this promise still isn’t fully built, and if fares do drop, it’d be worth asking why it took three years and a new press release to get there.

So..what can you do?

Check whether your state government has published its own CNG fare-reduction plan. Tinubu clearly put intra-state transport in governors’ hands, so your state’s silence or action matters now more than ever. 

Use the MyCNG app to see if refuelling stations are actually near your route. If it’s still the same old story after October 1, ask your state transport ministry directly what happened to the plan and keep the receipts. Take note of your fares now, so nobody can rewrite what “before” looked like.

What happened next depends on who’s telling the story, but the ending is the same: Anthony is dead, and the streets of Port Harcourt have been hot for three days as citizens demand answers nobody in the police force seems able to give.

Dem say, dem say

According to eyewitness accounts, officers chased Anthony for over 30 minutes through the Federal Housing Estate before he drove toward a busier junction. 

Multiple shots were fired in Anthony鈥檚 direction, with one of the bullets hitting him while he was in his car, ultimately leading to his death, and his car crashing into three people. 

But the police there was simply an “altercation” before the shooting, and that Anthony failed to stop when flagged down. The officer named is, attached to Agip Police Division. 

One Corporal, zero Surprises

Several human rights groups estimate roughly3,000 Nigerians have been in fishy circumstances between 2020 and 2026, with hundreds of cases every single year. 

During the #EndBadGovernance protests in August 2024 alone, Amnesty International at least 24 people killed by police in just 10 days. 

Officer of which law?

The exists precisely for moments like this; it mandates that officers protect fundamental rights and directly links misconduct to punishable offences. 

A fresh set of was released early this year, specifically to tighten accountability. On paper, Nigeria has never had more rules about how a checkpoint stop is supposed to go, but in practice, a corporal allegedly fired at a moving car, and bystanders paid for it with their bodies.

Where is the justice?

When accountability does happen, it’s rare enough to make headlines on its own. ASP Drambi Vandi was for killing pregnant lawyer Bolanle Raheem in Lagos in 2022 鈥� a case that has been cited as an exception in the Nigerian justice system, because most cases collapse under weak investigations, missing witnesses, or quiet internal interference. 

Five years after the Special Anti-Robbery Squad (SARS) was disbanded following the EndSARS protests,: the Lekki Toll Gate panel’s recommendations remain largely unimplemented and still delay more often than they deliver.

Also, in 2023, a went viral showing police officers assaulting a motorist. The video sparked reactions online, leading to the arrest of the policemen, with one of the officers being demoted after an administrative trial.

This is why the arrest of Corporal Louis isn’t a win yet; it’s just the first, most reversible step in a process that has failed many families before.

The Big Daily is your weekday shortcut to the biggest news shaping Nigeria. We cut through the noise, connect the dots, and explain why the news actually matters, all in one quick read.

Three days, zero answers

Protests have run since Friday, spreading from the Ada-George/Agip axis to Anthony’s hometown of Agba-Ndele in Emohua LGA, with youths in anger.

Rivers State Commissioner of Police Olugbenga Adepoju met the family, called the shooting condemnable, and assured protesters that the arrested personnel would face strict internal disciplinary actions and court prosecution. 

Protesters, however, are demanding that the police publicly parade the accused officer, Corporal  Louis, to prove he is not being shielded from justice. 

Meanwhile, Anthony’s father, Princewill Obodo, alleges the officers had abandoned a security post at the Nigerian Bar Association (NBA) conference before ending up at the checkpoint that killed his son, a claim that, if true, means officers already away from their assigned duty were the ones who pulled the trigger.

What now?

Nigerians should demand an independent probe. An investigation run by the same command whose officer is the suspect is not a sign of accountability. 

Anthony was waiting for a call-up letter that was supposed to send him into a year of service to his country. Instead, an alleged interaction at a checkpoint sent him into a coffin. Nigeria doesn’t need another hashtag. It needs one conviction that actually sticks.

Ronke, 31. Lagos

My mum was very sick and was admitted to a general hospital in Lagos, where she eventually died. Even before that traumatic day, I had noticed that the service from some of the hospital staff was very poor, but what happened on the day she passed is something I still find difficult to process.

That day, I was in the hospital room with my mum when I noticed that something was wrong. I didn’t want to believe that she had passed, so I went to call one of the nurses to come and check her.

The nurse told me she had just resumed duty and was busy, so she couldn’t come immediately. I insisted that she come because I needed someone to check on my mum. When she eventually came in, she checked on my mum and then left the room. She didn’t do anything else. My mum just lay there, still on oxygen.

For about two hours, nobody came to check on her or even ask what was happening. I was already crying and yelling because I knew that she had passed.

I eventually told a friend what was happening, and she advised that I go and get the hospital staff to come and take my mum’s body away.

They didn鈥檛 tell me my mother had died. I figured it out myself, and they didn鈥檛 take away her body until I got them to. That experience was horrible. Dealing with the loss of my mum was already too much for me. Having to fight for someone to tend to her body made everything much worse.

The Big Daily is your weekday shortcut to the biggest news shaping Nigeria. We cut through the noise, connect the dots, and explain why the news actually matters, all in one quick read.

Gift*, 24. Delta state

I was feeling very dizzy and sick, so my mum took me to the general hospital in Agbor, Delta state. I thought I would get checked out and be on my way, but the whole experience was unnecessarily frustrating from the moment I got there.

The staff were very rude, and there were so many processes I had to go through before I could even get a hospital card. Everything took so long, and there were so many unnecessary steps.

After finally getting the card, I still had to do some tests before I could see the doctor. When I got to where they were doing the tests, there was already a long queue. I ended up waiting for about three hours. After waiting for all that time, they eventually told me that they wouldn’t be able to do the test that day and that I had to come back the next day.

I was already feeling sick when I got to the hospital, so having to spend hours waiting only to be told to come back another day was exhausting. The whole experience was terrible.

Seyi*, 28, Lagos

I was at a general hospital for a checkup, and I was sitting at the reception waiting for my turn when someone suddenly rushed in shouting, 鈥淓mergency! Emergency! Emergency!鈥�

They were calling for the nurses to come and get a doctor because someone needed urgent medical attention. I was expecting everyone to jump into action immediately, but that wasn’t what happened.

The nurses didn’t seem bothered at all. There was no sense of urgency, and they didn’t appear to care that someone was having an emergency right in front of them.

It took about five to ten minutes before a doctor came to attend to the person. That experience made me realise how poorly human life can sometimes be treated in government hospitals. The lack of urgency was disturbing.

Melody, 31, Lagos

I went to a general hospital in Shomolu for my postnatal care, and honestly, I had a good experience.

The nurses were very nice and kind, and the service was good. They were also well-trained, and I felt like they knew what they were doing.

From the way the nurses attended to me to the general quality of service, I was impressed with the experience.

I know people often have bad experiences at government hospitals, but mine was different. The staff were helpful, professional and kind throughout my postnatal care.

Mercy, 38. Abuja.

My son was playing at school when he got a bead stuck in his ear, so I took him to a general hospital to get it removed. When we got there, the nurses said they couldn’t touch it because they were waiting for the doctors to come. The doctor who was supposed to be on duty wasn’t around either, so we just kept waiting.

I waited and waited. At some point, his ear started bleeding, and I became even more worried.

I eventually had to take him to a private hospital. When we got there, they attended to him almost immediately, and it didn’t take up to 30 minutes for them to remove the bead and sort everything out. I was so frustrated that day. It was traumatising.

Chinyere left Nigeria in February 2025 with her husband and children after a rough stretch at her husband鈥檚 job forced their hand. In this story, she talks about Spain鈥檚 Highly Qualified Professional visa and the legalisation process of all your documents and one thing that she wants every applicant to know.

Where do you live now, and when did you leave Nigeria?

I currently live in Madrid, Spain. I left Nigeria in late February, 2025. I moved with my husband and our two children. 

Okay, take me back. What did life look like before you left?

Honestly, it wasn’t bad. My husband and I both worked in tech, both remotely. There was some restructuring at his workplace, and he was laid off in early 2024. It pushed him to start applying for international jobs with visa sponsorship.

I was still working remotely, though my company had transitioned to a hybrid model. I wasn’t going into the office as often as I should have because I’d just given birth in the first or second week of May 2024.

How long before he found another job? 

It didn’t actually take long. He got another job fairly quickly after that one, but the pay cut and the environment were so bad that he eventually had to quit.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t get a job. It’s that once you’ve worked somewhere like where he did and experienced that culture, transitioning into something far below it is genuinely discouraging. That was the real trigger, not unemployment but disappointment.

So how did Spain come into the picture?

The company that eventually hired him is a global firm, so once he got through the interviews, we actually had options: the United Arab Emirates (UAE), Spain, Portugal, and Poland. We did our research on the political climate, the presence of tech hubs, the overall economy, and the presence of Black or Nigerian communities. Spain wasn’t doing badly at all. We also told ourselves we’d need to properly learn the language and integrate; we were already on Duolingo before we even landed. That’s what tipped it for us.

What happened to your own job in Nigeria when it was time to leave?

My company was genuinely good. But once we transitioned into hybrid, my manager understood I couldn’t come in as often post-maternity leave. When it was time to relocate, though, there was a rule that you had to resign within a month of officially notifying them. So that’s what I did, I told them the truth, that I was moving to Spain with my family, and I resigned within that window.

Let’s get into the visa. What type of visa was it?

So the visa is called the . It’s one of several visa pathways in Spain; there’s also a student visa, a digital nomad visa, a general work permit, and a jobseeker visa. 

The Highly Qualified Professional visa is handled by a specific body, which I know as “UGE”; I think it means Unidad de Grandes Empresas y Colectivos Estrat茅gicos (Large Companies and Strategic Groups Unit). It comes with strict criteria: the employer has to prove they couldn’t fill the role locally, meaning they’ve posted the job extensively within Spain or the EU and genuinely couldn’t source the talent.

There’s also a salary threshold; I can’t remember the exact figure, but it has to fall within a specific high range  to be deemed as “highly qualified.” Below that, it’s just not this visa.

It also allows direct dependents, so my two children and I came in under it, though technically ours was a separate category: a family reunification visa.

The Big Daily is your weekday shortcut to the biggest news shaping Nigeria. We cut through the noise, connect the dots, and explain why the news actually matters, all in one quick read.

Walk me through the actual process. What did you have to do once your husband got the offer?

There are two major stages: legalisation and the visa application itself. Legalisation comes first and essentially involves the authentication of every document you plan to submit.

Because we went to school in Nigeria and our documents were issued here, and because there’s no central Nigerian database anyone abroad can check to confirm a certificate is real, everything has to be physically verified.

Nigeria isn’t part of the Hague Apostille Convention, an international treaty that makes it easier to use public documents in other countries so we couldn’t shortcut this. Every document, including birth certificates, marriage certificates, academic transcripts, and the children’s birth certificates, had to be processed by Nigeria’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Academic documents had to go through the Ministry of Education first, before Foreign Affairs would even look at them.

What documents specifically did you submit, and what did that cost?

Birth certificates, a marriage certificate (they insist on a fresh copy, not your original from years ago; my husband had to go back to the Ikoyi registry for ours), academic transcripts or statements of result, and a police character report.

For academic documents, if your school can’t email the transcript directly to the Spanish consulate, you’ll pay per page for a representative to come to your old school to verify it in person. When we did this in late 2024, a school in the east charged about 鈧�250,000 for a single document. I heard it鈥檚 cheaper for schools in western Nigeria.

The marriage certificate was the slowest to lock in; it took about two months. They actually send someone to interview you, sometimes visit your family, to confirm the marriage is real and not just for show.

The police character report is also another one that gave us a headache. It’s only valid for three months in Nigeria. If there’s any delay in your legalisation appointment, you might end up doing it two or three times. It’s also the one document where nobody can stand in for you; you have to be physically present in Nigeria to get it. That’s actually why some Nigerians already living abroad have to fly home just for this.

Once everything’s authenticated, then what?

Then you translate everything into Spanish, but not with Google Translate or any random online service. It has to be a certified “sworn translator” recognised by the relevant Spanish body. After that, you apply for your NIE, the acronym for the Spanish phrase N煤mero de Identificaci贸n de Extranjero, which is basically Spain’s foreign ID number used for taxes and everything else. Our employer actually handled our NIE application, so I can’t speak to doing that independently.

How long did the whole thing take, start to finish?

We officially started the process in late September or early October 2024. Legalisation alone took about two months; we submitted in October, and the lawyer called us in December to confirm we’d cleared. My husband’s visa was ready the first week of January. Mine came out around the first week of February, along with the children’s.

Worth noting: the rules have already changed since we went through it. Back then, we applied together as a family. Now, from what I’m hearing from people I mentor, the main applicant has to establish themselves in Spain, paying taxes and social security, for a period before the rest of the family can apply to join.

How did your husband find the job?

LinkedIn, though more accurately, recruiters found him there once he started interviewing widely. Job posts on LinkedIn will often tell you upfront if a role sponsors a visa and relocation. He did, they covered our flights and our first 30 days of accommodation in Spain.

Okay, you’ve been in Madrid for over a year now. What hit you as culture shock in the first few weeks?

The zebra crossings, honestly. In Lagos, you might see one, and cars still won’t stop. In Madrid, even on smaller streets, cars wait for you to fully cross, no rushing. On major roads, there are buttons pedestrians press to control the traffic lights.

I also expected more English, given that I was in the capital. But most people don’t speak it; the lingua franca is Spanish, so it was on me to adjust to that, not them.

Public displays of affection are much more open than I was used to. And Spain actually has way more spice variety than I expected; different types of pepper, even though Spaniards themselves don’t really eat spicy food.

What do you genuinely love about living there?

Madrid is beautiful and well organised. The bureaucracy has its annoyances, but there’s structure: first come, first served, always.

Healthcare is effectively free once you’re paying into Social Security, and public education is accessible the same way. The climate is manageable too, apart from summer, nowhere near as extreme as in somewhere like Finland or Germany.

And what’s been hard?

Getting locals to open up and talk has been hard, especially when considering that I don’t know the language. People are generally nice, but the accent moves fast, and it’s a real effort to keep up.听

The bureaucracy cuts both ways, too. If you just want to ask a quick question, you still have to join the full queue, which makes no sense to me, but I get why they do it. Another struggle has been commuting especially during rush hours. On the trains, for instance, it鈥檚 a hustle, it鈥檚 always packed.听

Have you found a Nigerian or African community there?

Honestly, I don鈥檛 have much of one, at least not organised. When we were researching before the move, we found scattered mentions of Nigerians in Spain but no real group. Even now, sharing my own content, most people I connect with found me through my videos rather than an existing network. I recently joined a WhatsApp community called “Melanin Tribe. It鈥檚 a gathering of women of African descent in Spain, but I’ve only seen their first meetup announcement so far; I was on duty and couldn’t attend.

A lot of immigrants here just keep to themselves, “don’t put me in trouble” energy. Understandable, but it does mean building community takes real effort.

How about work? Have you been able to find a job since? 

Oh yes, I have. I transitioned into cloud computing from the IT work I was doing before. It鈥檚 really interesting so far

Nice! How did that happen?

When I resigned and started job hunting, most postings wanted Spanish, so I knew I needed to upskill instead of waiting around. I moved from IT service management to cloud computing and applied for an Amazon Web Services (AWS) . 

I’d actually tried to get in since 2022 and been rejected twice. The third time, right after landing in Spain, I got in. From there, I applied for jobs and got one in March of this year. I’m currently a technical specialist in platform engineering, which sits somewhere between DevOps and cloud computing. Still transitioning fully into the DevOps side.

Was the language a barrier to job hunting?

Not for tech, no. Most of these companies are global, and English is still the default working language even inside Spain-based teams. My team communicates in English day-to-day. It’s different for customer-facing roles, though; if you’re supporting Spanish customers directly, you need Spanish. But engineering, DevOps, and technical roles generally run in English.

What’s the cost of living in Spain like?

Minimum wage is just over 鈧�1,000. You can survive on it if you budget properly and cut your spending according to your income. Groceries are manageable as long as you’re not constantly buying imported African ingredients; those are pricier, so we go to the African market maybe once a month instead of weekly. Housing and utilities are flexible too; you’re not locked into one provider, so we switched gas and electricity vendors early on when the bills were too high.

Do you miss Nigeria?

Honestly, yes. I miss my people, my siblings, my in-laws, the food, and my friends. But outside of that, I don’t miss much. I think the loneliness people talk about with japa mostly hits people who have moved alone. I have my husband and my children here, so it’s different for me.

Anything that would make you move back?

Not really, no. My husband already switched employers once within his first six or seven months here, and it worked out, but the visa comes with pressure. If you lose your job, you have three months to find another one, or you’re expected to return to your country.

We’re not on permanent residency yet, which requires five consecutive years in Spain with no more than six months total spent outside the country. Full citizenship is a much bigger ask: ten years of residency, and you’d have to renounce Nigerian citizenship entirely, since Spain doesn’t allow dual nationality with Nigeria. Most people just settle for PR instead.

Any regrets or mistakes from the process you’d warn people about?

One real regret, I didn’t legalise my own transcript early on, back when I was considering applying for a master’s before this job came through. I had my certificate legalised, but not the transcript, and you need both for school admissions. I had to get my brother to stand in for me with a notarised affidavit, then courier the documents from Nigeria to Spain by DHL. It cost extra money and time that early legalisation would have avoided.

On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your life in Spain right now?

A solid 8.5. My dream would be a fully remote role since I love working from home. Right now, my commute alone can take up to three hours round-trip, depending on how busy the trains are. But aside from that, I don’t have any real complaints. My husband works from home and takes care of the children while I’m out, so the balance works.

What’s the one piece of advice you’d give someone considering this route?

Be detail-oriented and open-minded, and actually do your research. Run away from agents, anyone offering to “facilitate” your visa for a fee. We didn’t pay anyone a single naira through this entire process; everything the Spanish consulate needs is in the email they sent you. It’s just long, and most people won’t read it. Be cautious about where you source your documents, too; an invalid one can get you a visa ban, and that’s a much bigger problem than a slow process.

Want to share your japa story? Please reach out to me .

Some of these groups may work just fine for a bit. But deep down, we all know they can also come with plenty wahala. One person can collect everybody鈥檚 contribution and suddenly disappear, or the collector uses your money to play Sporty or buy Valentine gifts for their crush. And when things go south like this, it can be difficult to know how to get your money back.

To avoid stories that touch, there are laws and government-backed schemes that give you more formal ways to save money together with your friends, manage funds, invest together, or even build property as a group. 

We have compiled five of them for you.

1. Register as a cooperative society听

Under, a group of at least 20 friends can register a cooperative society to pool savings and access financing that is often cheaper than commercial bank loans. Basically: turn your “squad savings” WhatsApp group into a registered entity that can actually sue and be sued (hopefully never by each other).

2. Register a business name or a partnership under CAMA 2020

Instead of running your joint hustle as an informal “we’ll split it later” arrangement,CAMA) lets two or more friends formally register a Limited Liability Partnership (LLP) with the Corporate Affairs Commission (CAC).

This structure ensures that the business is a separate legal entity, protecting everyone鈥檚 personal assets if things go sideways. Nothing tests a friendship faster than money, so write the agreement down before anyone starts saying, “I thought we agreed…” 

罢丑别听听is returning on August 22, 2026, in Lagos! Come learn from finance experts and industry leaders, and partake in unfiltered conversations about building wealth and diversifying your income stream in a country like Nigeria.听Real stories, expert advice you can actually use, and a community ready to build wealth together.听.

3. Pool Money Through an SEC-Regulated Collective Investment Scheme

Securities and Exchange Commission (SEC)  (CIS) allow groups to invest through regulated unit trusts and mutual funds, with a fund manager handling the day-to-day operations. So instead of handing your money to that one friend who “knows crypto,” your friend group can invest together through SEC-regulated mutual funds or unit trusts managed by licensed professionals, protecting you and your friends from unnecessary risk with strict regulatory transparency to prevent unnecessary 峁脿l脿y茅.

4. Fund a group idea through a licensed crowdfunding portal听

Under the, your friend group’s business idea can raise money from a larger pool of small investors through a registered portal, because your friend’s rich uncle shouldn’t be the only funding strategy. However, to use this, your business must be formally recognised as a Micro, Small, and Medium Enterprise (MSME) and typically possess a two-year operating track record.

5. Build property together through FMBN鈥檚 cooperative housing development loan听

Register as a cooperative (and make sure every member actively contributes to the National Housing Fund for at least 6 months), and you and your besties may qualify for the Cooperative Housing Development Loan, which can help finance massive housing development plans, provided your squad already owns the land with a clean title before individual members transition into mortgages. In simple terms, your cooperative handles the land and construction financing as a group, then each member gets an individual mortgage to own their unit. Yes, you and your friends really can build an estate together, no billionaire required.

So..what now?

We know money has a funny way of testing even the strongest friendships. So before you start pooling millions with your besties, agree on the rules, put them in writing, and make sure everyone knows exactly what they’re signing up for. Your friendship will thank you later. 

And if you’re looking for more ways to understand your money and the systems that help you build and protect your wealth, the is where you want to be, because knowing what options are available is often the first step to making better decisions with your money.听