The song at Agbor was a protest wrapped in melody.

By Abdul Mahmud

A video of the First Lady’s visit to the School of Nursing, Agbor, Delta State, turned up in the virtual space. Her visit, which was meant to project presidential power and presence, turned into its own Kasongo moments of sensation that often elicited the excitements of Tiktokers when Warthogs enact extraordinary feats that put wild cats to shame. Something happened. The Master of Ceremonies led a song which tried to cast the First Lady as the mother of all. The student nurses did not agree. They responded with a song of their own. They told him she was his mother, not theirs.

It was a small act of defiance. A simple song. But it carried weight. It was a rejection of forced allegiance. A refusal to accept imposed authority. The moment echoed something from the past. It was reminiscent of another time. Many years ago, students at the University of Ibadan welcomed General Babangida onto their campus. They sang praises. It seemed like admiration. But it was a trap. When the moment was right, they turned on him. They stoned him. The praise had been a façade. It was a performance designed to deceive power. A playbook of resistance.

History often lingers to reenact itself. Sometimes, it stays hidden like the molten heart of a volcano until it erupts into the open with flames that create their own spectral presences in the eyes of those who dare to witness. It waits beneath the surface, silent but never still, weaving itself into the fabric of time. Then, at the right moment, it returns. The past does not die. It only buries itself in the cracks of forgotten moments, gathering strength like embers beneath the ash.

When it finally emerges, it does not ask for permission. It rises with a force that reshapes the present, turning whispers of memory into the thunder of reckoning. Its flames do not merely burn. They illuminate, casting shadows that dance in the minds of those who once believed history could be left behind. What happened in Agbor is not new. It is part of a long tradition. A tradition of youth rejecting the narratives imposed on them. It is a reminder that authority cannot always dictate loyalty. Young people in Nigeria have always found ways to speak. When they have no stage, they create one. When they have no weapons, they use their voices.

The song at Agbor was a protest wrapped in melody. It was an assertion of choice. It was a declaration that not everyone accepts imposed motherhood. It is tempting to think that our youths have changed—that they have become passive. That they have surrendered to power. That the fire of resistance has died. But history suggests otherwise. The past speaks through them. Even when it seems forgotten, it waits. It waits for the right moment to rise again.

In 1978, students across Nigerian universities revolted. They protested against the military rule and education policies of Obasanjo’s government. The protest, which became known as “Ali Must Go”, was a truly defining moment for the student movement that suffered its first casualty six years earlier—with the murder of Kunle Adebukola Adepeju, a two-hundred-level student of agricultural economics. It showed that students were not afraid to challenge power. The military tried to suppress them. Many were injured. Some were killed. But the protest left a mark. It proved that the youth could not be silenced.

In 1989, another wave of protests erupted. This time, it was against the Structural Adjustment Program. The program was designed to stabilise the economy. But it caused hardship. Inflation soared. Unemployment rose. The youth responded. They took to the streets. They demanded change. Again, the state responded with murderous brutality. But again, the youth proved they would not be ignored.

In 2012, the Occupy Nigeria movement emerged. The removal of fuel subsidies triggered it. The government claimed it was necessary. The people saw it differently. They saw it as another burden on the poor. Protests spread across the country. Young people organised themselves. They used social media to mobilise. It was one of the first major digital uprisings in our country. It showed the power of online activism. It showed that resistance could take new forms.

Then came #EndSARS in 2020. It was a movement against police brutality. But it was more than that. It was a cry against injustice. Against bad governance. Against the neglect of young people. The protests were massive. They lasted for weeks. The government responded with violence. But the movement left an impact. It showed that young Nigerians were still ready to fight.

Now, in 2025, there is a shift again. The youth are reaching back. They are drawing from history. They are using old tactics in new ways. The song at Agbor is one example. A small moment. But a significant one. It shows that the spirit of resistance has not faded. It has only adapted.

Why does history repeat itself? Because power does not change. It still tries to dictate loyalty and demands obedience. It still expects praise. But people remember. The streets remember. The classrooms remember. The campuses remember. Students remember. The youth are not just responding to the present. They are walking back into the past. They are reclaiming old methods. They are reviving old strategies. In their defiance, they echo those who came before them. There is a lesson in this. Power must learn that it cannot always control narratives. It cannot force people to accept leaders they do not recognise. Respect is earned. Allegiance is a choice.

What happened in Agbor is a reminder. The youth may be quiet for a while. But they are not asleep. They watch. They listen. They remember. And when the moment comes, they act. This is the cycle of history. This is the rhythm of resistance. It is not always loud. Sometimes, it is just a song. Sometimes, it is just a phrase. But it carries the weight of the past. It is the voice of a generation that refuses to be silenced.

The past is alive. It walks among us. It sings in the voices of those who refuse to bow. It rises in the moments when power least expects it. It reminds us that no era is truly new. It is only a continuation of what has come before. Those in power should pay attention. They should listen to the songs of the youth. They should hear what is being said. Because history has shown, again and again, that when people reject imposed authority, they do not stop at words. The rejection can turn into something else. Something louder. Something stronger.

The past is walking into the present. It is demanding recognition. It is showing that history is not dead. It is waiting. Watching. Ready to rise again.

Abdul Mahmud is a human rights attorney in Abuja

Credit: Peoples Gazette

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