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A Pope’s Funeral and New Leadership Paradigm
By Dakuku Peterside
The world came together on a warm April morning in Rome. Under Bernini’s wide colonnade, a simple wooden coffin lay, almost shy against the grand marble of St Peter’s. It held the body of Jorge Mario Bergoglio, better known as Pope Francis; it also carried a final message, passed without words.
As I watched the funeral, I wondered if the message would be clear to leaders in places where leadership is often about show, instead of service. Nigeria, my country, came to mind, because its people long for leaders who serve with humility, rather than rule with power.At first glance, comparing a Pope to political leaders might seem unconventional, but important commonalities exist. Upon reflection, parallels are audacious: a Catholic pontiff and a republic’s president inhabit very different orbits. Yet, both preside over institutions that store immeasurable wealth – monetary, cultural, spiritual – and both command loyalties that can bless or wound the human spirit. The difference lies in the currency they spend. Francis traded almost exclusively in moral capital. His motorcade rarely stretched beyond a small Fiat. He lived in a guesthouse, took meals in a communal dining hall, and instructed that his funeral expenses be redirected to shelters for people experiencing homelessness.In stark contrast, many political leaders, notably in Nigeria, have consolidated power through patronage, wealth accumulation, and coercion, severely damaging their credibility and the public’s trust. Nigerian power, by contrast, is often measured in sirens, convoys, and security votes; in the distance a public office holder can place between himself and the exhaust of everyday life. The funeral invited a radical thought: What if legitimacy flowed from humility, not from the choreography of importance? This stress on the importance of humility in leadership could enlighten and provoke reflection on governance.Humility, though, is not a mannerism. It is a decision made daily, a refusal to situate oneself above the collective story. Francis’ last request, “bury me outside the Vatican walls”, was a slight tectonic shift, the first such break with tradition in over a century. It told pilgrims and presidents alike that holiness is not the property of marble tombs but of living deeds. Pope Francis was buried in a simple wooden coffin, instead of the traditional three-nested casket, symbolising a life dedicated to humility and service. This act is probably the first of its kind in papal history. This powerful statement of reform and decentralisation challenged entrenched traditions that maintain privilege.Nigerian leaders, accustomed to the trappings of power and privilege, could profoundly benefit from embracing servant-leadership that prioritises citizens’ welfare above personal gain. Imagine for a moment a Nigerian governor choosing to sleep occasionally in the wards of a rural clinic that lacks electricity, a senator commuting without escorts, or a budget speech opened with an apology to those whose dreams are still postponed. Such gestures, inspired by Pope Francis’ humility, would earn ridicule from cynics trained by years of theatrical piety, yet they might also crack the granite of distrust that politics has laid around the citizen’s heart.Throughout his papacy, Francis consistently demonstrated simplicity, living modestly, rejecting extravagance, and continuously expressing empathy for ordinary people. For Nigerian political leaders, adopting similar modesty could substantially enhance their legitimacy, distancing them from the extravagant lifestyles that alienate them from the realities of the people they govern. By following PopeFrancis’ example, Nigerian leaders could bridge the gap between themselves and the citizens they serve, fostering a deeper connection and understanding.The scenes in Rome offered other lessons as subtle as incense. Refugees and cardinals knelt side by side; presidents exchanged the sign of peace; atheists joined murmured prayers. I thought of the Plateau and Benue, of plains made fertile by rivers and yet stained by cycles of reprisal killings, each side armed with grievances as old as maps. If a Pope’s funeral could fold the devout and the doubtful into the same silence, perhaps state ceremonies in Nigeria could be reimagined as platforms for reconciliation, rather than patronage. Symbols matter because they reach the imagination before the policy can touch the pocket. A wooden coffin whispered more convincingly than any communiqué on inclusive governance ever could.None of this is to canonise a man in hindsight; Francis was criticised, resisted, and sometimes misunderstood. Reform always bruises the edges of comfort. But in death, he achieved what many living leaders rarely managed: he convinced opposing camps to pause their quarrels long enough to say, “Thank you, Father.” The applause that rippled through St Peter’s Square did not celebrate power captured; it celebrated power surrendered. How extraordinary and disconcerting to think that the shortest route to influence might be the surrender of privilege.I wish to reference the testimony of Vinod Sekar, the Hindu philanthropist who once described being in the presence of “someone relentlessly good,” pointing to Pope Francis. Sekar confessed that holiness ceased to be a place, temple, mosque, or cathedral, and became instead a verb: to shelter, to include, feed. Nigeria’s streets are crowded with worship houses, yet the mood often betrays scarcity – the scarcity of trust, of light, of potable water, of the belief that tomorrow might be gentler than today. What if holiness were measured not by the decibels of our prayers but by the quality of our public schools and hospitals? What if fiscal policy became a beatitude, not just a technical tool or to score cheap political points but a source of broad social good?Authentic goodness, the kind that disarms calculation, cannot be legislated; it must be modelled. Leaders who publish their asset declaration unprompted, reject grandiose titles, and break bread with market women without cameras in tow, begin to tilt the atmosphere. And atmospheres are contagious. When a Pope chooses simplicity, bishops take notice; when a governor chooses public transport, commissioners start to wonder whether the show of might is worth its cost. A single act does not topple corruption, but it can short-circuit the logic that sustains it.Critics will argue that symbolism is cheap and that coffins and cassocks cannot patch roads or fund hospitals. They are right, unless the symbol changes the story, and the story changes the budget. A nation cannot legislate self-respect into its citizens, while its leaders accumulate properties in distant capitals. Neither can it ask for sacrifice, while official lips sip champagne at state banquets. The funeral in Rome stubbornly insisted that credibility is the one commodity no treasury can purchase; it must be earned in increments of integrity.As I write, the image of that lone coffin lingers, framed by sunlight and the tear-streaked faces of strangers who felt seen by a man in white. Power looked strangely like the vulnerability that morning, and history tilted, not dramatically, but perceptibly, toward the possibility that public office might again be synonymous with public service. I imagine a version of that morning unfolding on Abuja’s Eagle Square: no imported SUVs, no choreography of arrival times to signal rank, only leaders standing shoulder to shoulder with nurses, farmers, students, and the internally displaced. I imagine a moment when applause signals not relief that the ceremony is over but gratitude that the example is true. Perhaps that is naïve. Yet every durable reform was once a naïveté stubborn enough to outlive its ridicule.
The cypress boards of Francis’ coffin will one day fade, but the memory of his choices will migrate from anecdote to folklore, from folklore to benchmark. Nigeria, a country whose anthem pleads to “build a nation where peace and justice shall reign”, needs new benchmarks more urgently than new oil blocks. It requires the quiet scandal of servant leadership to make corruption look as outdated as a triple-nested casket. Nigerian leaders should embrace key principles drawn from Pope Francis’ life and funeral rites: humility that transforms rulers into servant-leaders; real and courageous reforms dismantling corruption; moral authority grounded in integrity and humility; inclusivity that fosters unity across ethnic and religious divides; and a legacy defined by public trust rather than accumulated wealth.Ultimately, Pope Francis’ funeral provided a profound narrative on leadership that Nigerian political figures must internalise. By embodying these principles, they can cultivate a governance system rooted in moral authority, transparency, and service, genuinely transforming their nation and securing a legacy that endures beyond wealth or power. I end where I began, in the quiet of that Roman square, listening to chants swell like a rising tide, watching a coffin slip into the basilica, and feeling the strange comfort of a paradox: the smaller the ego, the wider the circle of souls who find shelter beneath its shade. This truth, more than any doctrine, is the gospel political leadership must embrace if it hopes to bury an age of hollow grandeur and awaken a season of genuine hope.Dakuku Peterside, a public sector turnaround expert, public policy analyst and leadership coach, is the author of the forthcoming book, “Leading in a Storm”, a book on crisis leadership.
By Joan Odafe
In the quiet farmlands of Chibok in northeastern Nigeria, the steady rhythm of women cracking groundnuts and sorting harvests now carries a meaning deeper than livelihood.
For the mothers whose daughters were abducted during the 2014 school attack by terrorists, the work has become both survival and healing.
What began as a response to grief has gradually grown into a small but meaningful enterprise, one rooted in farming, peanut processing and the determination of mothers to rebuild their lives and secure a future for their children.
Their story is documented in the film, ‘Mothers of Chibok’, by Nigerian filmmaker, Joel Kachi Benson, which moves beyond the moment of the abduction to focus on the everyday lives of the women who continue to live with its consequences.
In the film, the camera lingers on the rhythm of daily labour: women tending farms, negotiating land prices, planting corn and groundnuts, and later selling the groundnuts that have become central to their community enterprise.
One scene captures a mother negotiating to rent farmland. The landowner initially demands N100,000 but after persistent bargaining the woman brings the price down to N35,000, a small victory that reflects her determination to keep farming in spite of financial hardship.
Groundnuts have become the backbone of their livelihood. After harvest, the women sort, roast and process the peanuts, adding value before they are sold.
The enterprise not only sustains their farming activities but also provides income to support their families and pay school fees for their children.
Scenes in the documentary show women sitting together in courtyards and fields, cracking shells and drying harvests under the sun.
The work is demanding but it carries a quiet sense of solidarity among the mothers.
For many of them, motherhood remains the strongest source of motivation.
In one scene, a mother sits with her children during a home lesson, gently encouraging them through their reading.
“Myself well done. Try it another day. Mango and banana for Mau,” she sings as a reward for a lesson completed.
In spite of the trauma that reshaped their lives, education remains central in the community.
The mothers continue to send their children to school, determined that fear will not define the future of the next generation.
The film also captures moments that reveal the emotional weight many of the women still carry.
In one poignant sequence, a mother receives a phone call informing her that her daughter has been rescued and will soon return home.
Earlier in the film, she had been shown carefully arranging her daughter’s clothes, preserving them as if preparing for the day she will come back.
Elsewhere, another mother breaks down after learning that her daughter was not among those rescued.
Through these moments, the documentary presents the mothers not as symbols of tragedy but as women navigating grief, hope and everyday survival.
Benson said the film took about three years to complete, allowing the production team to build trust within the community and document realities that rarely make headlines.
“When you spend time, you see things,” he said.
The producer explained that the intention of the film was to shift attention toward the strength and resilience of the women rather than presenting them solely through the lens of tragedy.
“The idea was to show them as strong, resilient women who are rebuilding their lives and supporting their families,” he said.
Beyond the film, the mothers’ groundnut enterprise is gradually reaching wider markets.
Their products are now available at a few outlets, including ‘The Gather House’, a concept store that showcases women-owned African brands and products with strong community stories.
By connecting the Chibok women’s produce to urban consumers, the initiative is helping transform their small-scale processing into a sustainable livelihood.
For the mothers, every bag of processed peanuts sold represents more than income. It reflects their determination to rebuild stability for their families and create economic security for their children.
Their story carries particular resonance during moments such as International Women’s Day and Mother’s Day, occasions that celebrate women’s strength and the enduring power of motherhood.
In Chibok, those ideals are lived daily in the fields and courtyards where the women work.
Through farming, enterprise and collective resilience, the Mothers of Chibok are gradually transforming a painful chapter of history into a story of dignity, survival and hope. (NAN)
By Ebuka Ukoh
If Nigeria is serious about reform, it must study not only who the late Right Reverend
Jesse Jackson was, but also how he operated. He did not merely protest injustice; he built lasting institutions to sustain his quest for justice.
Born in 1941, Jackson emerged from the civil rights movement under the leadership of Dr Martin Luther King, Jr.
He marched in Selma. He organised in Chicago. He founded Operation PUSH and later the Rainbow Coalition. In 1984 and 1988, he ran for President of the United States, becoming the first African American to mount a serious national campaign and win millions of votes across racial lines.He did not win the presidency.
But he definitely expanded the imagination of who could lead. And sometimes that is how structural change begins.Jackson understood something that Nigeria is still struggling to internalise. Protest without structure is noisemaking. Structure without moral vision is empty. A nation requires both structure and vision.
Architecture of Moral Language
Jackson brought moral language into the centre of political discourse. He spoke of dignity, economic justice, inclusion, and accountability. He challenged corporate
America and government policy with the vocabulary of conscience.
Nigeria is deeply religious. Churches and mosques overflow. Sermons are powerful. Yet our politics often lacks moral restraint. We speak the language of faith but operate the mechanics of patronage. We invoke God but rarely demand ethical clarity from those in office.
Jackson’s example forces a question. What would Nigerian politics look like if leaders were pressed not only on strategy and tribe but on justice and responsibility? What if we evaluated leadership not just by who benefits, but by who is protected?
Coalitions Across Difference
Jackson’s Rainbow Coalition was not a slogan. It was a deliberate attempt to unite
Black Americans, Latinos, labour unions, farmers, and low-income communities under a shared platform of economic and social justice. It required negotiation. It required compromise. It required maturity.
Nigeria is a federation of identities – ethnic, religious, and regional. Yet our coalitions are often temporary arrangements built for elections, not for transformation. They dissolve after victory. They fracture under pressure. We have ethnic champions. We have party loyalists and chieftains. We have influencers…but we lack bridge builders who can gather citizens around shared interests rather than shared enemies.
Jackson’s campaigns proved that diversity is not a weakness. It becomes a weakness only when leaders exploit it instead of organising it. Jackson understood something many movements forget: protest is emotional energy, but institutions are stored power.
Nigeria has seen this before. The resistance that followed the annulment of the June 12, 1993, election did not survive on outrage alone. It survived because labour unions, pro-democracy coalitions, student movements, journalists, religious leaders, and civil society groups worked in uneasy alignment. The pro-democracy movement of the 1990s was not a hashtag. It was infrastructure. It was a coalition. It was architecture.
Without that web of organised actors, military rule might have endured longer.
Even the fuel subsidy protests years later revealed the same pattern. When labour federations coordinated action, the nation listened. When the organisation fractured, momentum faded. History keeps teaching the same lesson. Energy without structure exhausts itself. That is the lesson Nigeria must not ignore.
From Protest to Policy
The civil rights movement did not end with marches. It produced legislation. The Civil
Rights Act of 1964. The Voting Rights Act of 1965. Structural outcomes followed sustained pressure.
Nigeria trends outrage quickly, hashtags rise, emotions flare. Then the moment fades.
What often does not follow is institutional design, policy literacy, electoral strategy, budget scrutiny, and local organising.
Jackson moved from the streets to the ballot. He did not see activism and governance as enemies. He saw them as stages of the same struggle. Nigeria does not need fewer passionate voices. It needs more disciplined movements. It needs citizens who understand that democracy is not event-based. It is process-based.
What made Jesse Jackson’s life particularly instructive was not merely his charisma. It was the ecosystem that produced him.
He emerged from a dense network of Black institutions in America that did not operate in isolation. The African Methodist Episcopal Church laid spiritual and organizational foundations. Prince Hall Freemasons built mutual aid networks and leadership pipelines. Historically Black Colleges and Universities trained generations of professionals. The Divine Nine fraternities and sororities cultivated bonds of service and activism. The NAACP reshaped legal strategy. The Urban League advanced economic mobility.
These were not parallel stories. They were interdependent systems. Leadership moved between them. Resources circulated among them. Victories in one strengthened the others. Remove one pillar, and the structure weakens. This is precisely the argument of our joint bookwork, Built By The Ancestors. Most historical accounts treat such institutions as separate chapters. They are not. They are ecosystems. The durability of a people rests not on one hero but on coordinated pillars of faith, education, economics, law, and civic action.
Jackson was not an accident. He was the architecture itself. Nigeria must ask itself an uncomfortable question: Where is our architecture?
Economic Justice as Stability
Jackson consistently linked race and poverty to economic exclusion. He argued that political rights without economic access produce fragile democracies.
Nigeria is learning that lesson the hard way. Youth unemployment, insecurity, inflation, and regional instability are not isolated crises. They are symptoms of exclusion. When large segments of the population feel economically locked out, frustration becomes combustible. Economic justice is not charity. It is national security.
Hope as Strategy
Perhaps Jackson’s most enduring contribution was not a policy but a posture. He believed in what he called the “architecture of hope.” Not optimism detached from reality. Not a denial of hardship. But structured belief that systems can be changed when people organise deliberately.
Nigeria often oscillates between two extremes: Cynicism and magical thinking. Either nothing will ever change, or change will come through a single election or saviour.
History suggests something different. Change requires sustained effort. It requires a coalition. It requires moral clarity paired with institutional work.
Movements, Not Moments
Jesse Jackson’s presidential campaigns did not end racism. But they shifted representation. They expanded political possibilities. They prepared the ground for future breakthroughs.
Nigeria must learn this lesson. Not every attempt at reform will succeed immediately.
Not every campaign will win. But disciplined participation builds capacity. Capacity builds influence, and Influence builds reform.
We cannot afford to be a country of moments only. Moments trend, but movements transform.
If Nigeria desires a different future, it must cultivate leaders who can speak with moral courage and organise with strategic patience. It must nurture citizens who understand that democracy demands more than applause or outrage. It demands structure.
Before we ask why the system does not work, we must ask whether we are building systems strong enough to hold our hopes.
Jackson’s life offers Nigeria a mirror. A nation does not change because it feels injustice. It changes because it organises against it. And that work begins long before the next election cycle. We have voices. We have anger. We have talent. What we have not consistently built is a system strong enough to outlive any one leader.
Jackson’s life reminds us that movements mature when they become institutions. And institutions endure when they are interdependent.
Before we ask whether Nigeria will produce another charismatic reformer, we must ask whether Nigeria is building the pillars that can sustain one. Nations do not rise on moments. They rise on structures. And without structure, even the loudest cry fades into silence.
Mr Ukoh, an alumnus of the American University of Nigeria, Yola, and PhD student at Columbia University, writes from New York.
By Jane Eze
Lucky Elohor was still conscious when they placed her in the ambulance.
The 29 year old founder of Digital Creator Chic had built her career connecting young Nigerians to digital opportunity. After a serious road accident in Ilorin, doctors suspected spinal cord and head injuries.
To know the full extent of the damage, they needed an MRI scan.They did not have reliable access to one.
Ilorin, a major state capital, could not provide immediate, functional and accessible MRI imaging in that critical moment. The decision was made to stabilise her and transfer her to another city. She died before reaching definitive imaging.
Her death highlights a national problem that extends far beyond one tragedy.
A National Deficit
Nigeria has about 58 MRI machines for roughly 218 million people. That equals 0.3 scanners per one million citizens.
By comparison: Ghana has about 0.48 per million, The United States has nearly 39 per million and Japan has more than 50 per million
Even more troubling is distribution. Nearly all MRI machines are located in urban centres. Rural Nigeria has virtually none.
Within cities, access is unequal. Many scanners are in private facilities where a single scan costs between fifty thousand and two hundred thousand naira. In a country where most healthcare expenses are paid out of pocket, this cost alone delays or prevents care.
In public hospitals, unstable electricity is a major obstacle. The Nigerian Association of Resident Doctors has repeatedly warned that erratic power supply leaves many public hospital MRI machines non-functional. MRI systems require constant power and cooling. Voltage fluctuations damage sensitive components.
A machine on record is not the same as a machine that works in an emergency.
Geography Determines Survival
Advanced imaging in Nigeria is concentrated in a few cities such as Lagos, Abuja and Port Harcourt, with smaller numbers in other major urban centres. Patients from smaller states often travel hundreds of kilometres for scans.
For conditions such as stroke, traumatic brain injury, spinal cord damage and cancer staging, delay in imaging can mean permanent disability or death.
Studies show that more than seventy percent of cancer cases in Nigeria present at late stages. Limited access to diagnostic tools contributes to that delay. Tens of thousands of cancer related deaths occur annually, many with poorer outcomes because of late detection.
For families, the economic burden is severe. When public facilities cannot provide imaging, patients are forced into private centres. A single scan can equal months of income. Some delay testing. Others never receive it.
Why the Gap Persists
MRI machines require more than purchase funds. They demand uninterrupted power supply, specialised rooms with shielding, stable cooling systems, liquid helium, trained technologists and biomedical engineers.
A new 1.5 Tesla MRI machine can cost between two and three million dollars before installation. Even refurbished machines remain expensive. Without maintenance and stable electricity, they deteriorate quickly.
Policy choices have also shaped the crisis. Investment in advanced diagnostics has not matched population growth. Public private partnership models have concentrated high end imaging in profit driven centres, reinforcing inequality. This means hose who can pay are scanned. Those who cannot travel, wait or gamble with time.
What Must Be Done
Solutions are practical and achievable: Conduct a national audit to determine which of the 58 MRI machines are functional and which can be restored.
Stabilise power supply at designated MRI centres before purchasing additional machines.
Ensure every federal teaching hospital has at least one reliably functional MRI unit.
Mandate insurance coverage for medically indicated MRI scans to improve affordability.
Invest in local training for biomedical engineers and MRI technologists to reduce downtime.
Deploy mobile MRI units to underserved state capitals while permanent infrastructure is developed.
A Question of Priorities
Lucky Elohor’s story is not only about a road accident. It is about diagnostic distance. It is about a country where access to lifesaving imaging still depends on geography and income.
The MRI crisis is not a technical mystery. The machines can be bought. The expertise can be trained. The infrastructure can be built.
What remains uncertain is whether access to advanced diagnosis will be treated as a national priority or continue as a privilege.
Jane N Eze is a Research and Data Analyst.
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