As Senator Natasha Walks Back In, the Senate’s Men Must Stand Before Women and Girls, Before Nigeria, Before History -By Professor John Egbeazien Oshodi

The Gates of Parliament, the Gates of Pain

On September 23, 2025, the gates of the Nigerian National Assembly became symbols of both resistance and disgrace. Senator Natasha Akpoti-Uduaghan, having endured six months of unlawful suspension, arrived with dignity to reclaim her office. Around her gathered a sea of supporters—women, youths, elders—waving Nigerian flags, drumming, singing, some even carrying mattresses, pillows, and bags filled with clothes, toothbrushes, and toothpaste.

Their message was unmistakable: if you shut us out, we will camp at the door of democracy until it reopens.

Instead of welcome, they were met with teargas. Mothers clutched their choking children. Young men staggered and collapsed, their lungs seared by chemical smoke. Blood was spilled as citizens forced open the gates with bare hands. The Nigerian Parliament, meant to protect its people, turned into the stage of their humiliation.

A Chamber of Men, A Nation of Men

Nigeria’s Senate has 109 members. Only four are women. That lopsidedness is more than numbers—it is a cultural mirror. It reflects a nation where men dominate political life, defend one another at all costs, and weaponize institutions against women who dare to resist.

When Natasha refused to be shoved into a corner seat in March, Senate President Godswill Akpabio ordered her out. When she accused him of harassment and abuse of office, the Senate did not investigate. Instead, it suspended her. It sealed her office. It attempted to erase her.

And the men followed. They signed recommendations they did not draft. They endorsed suspensions they did not question. They allowed one man’s ego to become the Senate’s rule.

This is not just Nigeria’s crisis. It is Africa’s crisis—a continent still too comfortable with being nations of men, ruled by men, against women.

Institutional Timidity

The Senate had announced September 23 as the date for resuming plenary. Nigerians waited. But sensing the storm Natasha’s return would bring, leadership postponed to October 7. It was timidity disguised as scheduling.

Meanwhile, in the courts, her lawyers revealed missing evidence, procedural delays, and abuse of prosecutorial powers by the Attorney General of the Federation. Televised hearings made plain what Nigerians already knew: delay was being used as punishment. The judiciary, too, appeared captured.

But their excuses collapsed in broad daylight. On the very day they argued her matter was sub judice, the Sergeant-at-Arms unsealed her office. Their logic destroyed itself. It all backfired.

“I Won’t Apologise”

When asked if she would apologise to her colleagues as a condition for reinstatement, Natasha refused outright.

“You can’t apologise for an injustice,” she declared. She described her suspension as “illegal” and “fraudulent,” exposing how the recommendation was forged and forced. She accused Akpabio of treating her like a slave, forcing her to resist efforts to reduce her into domestic staff for the Senate President.

Her refusal was more than defiance. It was a shield for women everywhere. To apologise for naming harassment would wound women and girls beyond Nigeria’s borders. It would validate silence, reward predators, and teach future generations that dignity is negotiable. Natasha’s stand is not stubbornness—it is leadership.

The Global Shame

President Bola Tinubu may have quietly permitted the reopening of Natasha’s office, but the damage has already become global.

On the very day Natasha’s supporters were teargassed at the gates of Parliament, the United Nations General Assembly was meeting in New York. Leaders spoke of democracy, inclusion, and the rights of women and girls. Nigeria’s president was absent. His vice president delivered words abroad while, at home, women were suffocated by teargas.

The contradiction is now permanent record. Nigeria cannot claim democratic leadership abroad while practicing humiliation at home. The shame is not procedural—it is moral.

Lessons for Men in Power

On October 7, the Nigerian Senate will resume plenary. Natasha will walk in. The men must decide how they will respond.

They should stand.

Mr. Akpabio, you should rise first. Then every senator should follow. Stand, and apologise—to Natasha, to Nigerian women, to African women, to women and girls everywhere. Not because apology erases six months of illegality, but because refusal to apologise cements shame into history.

Mr. Akpabio, learn this lesson: the days of women sitting in the back seat are over. Do not make that mistake again. See what it has already cost you—personally, politically, historically. Your name is now tied to disgrace, while Natasha’s is tied to courage.

And to President Tinubu: even if you played a quiet hand in the reopening of her office, the stain remains. The world does not remember backroom deals. It remembers images: women fleeing teargas, men collapsing at Parliament’s gates, supporters sleeping on mattresses outside the Senate.

Africa’s Larger Reckoning

Natasha’s return is not only Nigeria’s turning point. It is Africa’s.

The continent cannot remain a community of nations where men rule against women. The United Nations debates inclusion even as Africa’s largest democracy hides behind spinelessness. If Africa is to lead the future, it cannot continue as a continent where loyalty to men outweighs justice, and where women leaders must bleed for dignity.

A Final Reflection

October 7 will not just be the resumption of plenary. It will be a test of conscience, humility, and manhood.

If the men of the chamber pretend nothing happened, history will record them as weaklings. If they stand and apologise, history may still remember them with dignity.

Natasha has already proven what history will hold onto: that humiliation can be transformed into resistance, that truth outlives manipulation, and that one woman can force a chamber of men to confront their shame.

Mr. Tinubu. Mr. Akpabio. The world is watching. Nigerians are watching. Africa’s daughters are watching.

And history will not remember how many motions you passed. It will remember how you treated one woman who refused to bow.

Prof. John Egbeazien Oshodi is an American psychologist, educator, and public affairs analyst with expertise in forensic, legal, clinical, and cross-cultural psychology. Born in Uromi, Edo State, Nigeria, and son of a 37-year veteran of the Nigeria Police Force, he has dedicated his career to linking psychology with justice, education, and governance. In 2011, he introduced state-of-the-art forensic psychology to Nigeria through the National Universities Commission and Nasarawa State University, where he served as Associate Professor of Psychology.

He is currently a contributing faculty member in the Doctorate in Clinical and School Psychology program at Nova Southeastern University’s College of Psychology; contributing faculty in the PhD Clinical Psychology, BS Psychology, and BS Tempo Criminal Justice programs at Walden University; Professor of Leadership Studies/Management and Social Sciences (Virtual Faculty) at ISCOM University, Benin Republic; and a virtual faculty member at Weldios University. He also serves as President and Chief Psychologist at the Oshodi Foundation, Center for Psychological and Forensic Services in the United Stares.

Prof. Oshodi is the founder of Psychoafricalysis, also known as Psychoafricalytic Psychology, a culturally grounded theoretical framework that centers African sociocultural realities, historical memory, and future-oriented identity in psychological science.

He has authored more than 500 articles on Africa, Nigeria, and global issues, along with several books and numerous peer-reviewed journal articles. His work spans Africentric psychological theory, higher education reform, forensic and correctional psychology, African democracy and institutions, and decolonized therapeutic models—making him one of the most prolific African voices in psychology today.