There is a young boy or girl who woke up to silence this morning. No early morning bath. No school runs. Just a stillness that reminded them it was June 12, Nigeria’s , and there was no school because the day had been declared a public holiday. It’s a day off for many office workers, and operations generally would be halted or minimal throughout the day, except for those who work in the media.
But I wondered: what exactly are we supposed to do on a day like this? Rest? Remember? Rejoice?
marks the day of the presidential election of 1993, the one widely believed to be the freest and fairest in Nigeria’s history. The one that was annulled. The one day that annually reminds us of what democracy could have looked like, and what it still struggles to become.
In 2018, former President Muhammadu Buhari said, “June 12, 1993, was the day when Nigerians in millions expressed their democratic will in what was undisputedly the freest, fairest and most peaceful election since our independence. The fact that the outcome of that election was not upheld by the then-military government does not distract from the democratic credentials of that process. Accordingly, after due consultations, the federal government has decided that henceforth, June 12 will be celebrated as Democracy Day.’’ So, when we call it a holiday, what are we observing?
Should Democracy Day be treated like Easter Monday or Christmas, a time to recharge with family and jollof? Or a moment to mourn what could have been?
When we call it a holiday, are we celebrating democracy or simply escaping from it for 24 hours? What does democracy mean in a country where many young people who vote are unsure if their votes really count? Where voter turnout keeps dropping, but the price of bread keeps rising? Where voices get silenced when they protest against bad governance?
What about the people who carried June 12 on their backs, those who lost their lives, their freedom, their mothers and fathers to a stolen mandate? Would they see today’s Nigeria and feel pride? How would they feel? Does a day off do justice to their sacrifice?
Maybe we need the quiet to hear ourselves think. Maybe, in a country where we’re always running, June 12 forces us to sit with memory. But what do we do with that memory? Should Democracy Day be more than a holiday?
Maybe the question isn’t whether Democracy Day should be a holiday, but what we choose to do with it. What if we used the day not just to rest, but to remember what’s been lost and to ask for what’s still missing? What if we made it a day to demand good governance, better schools, safer roads, working hospitals, and leaders who serve rather than rule? What if, instead of only looking back at what June 12 once meant, we used it to look ahead, and ask harder questions about the kind of country we want to build? Perhaps that’d be the real tribute to those who fought for the power of the people?
