Dear President Tinubu: For Allah’s Sake, Act Now — From France or Wherever You Are in Europe, Before This Stain Becomes Your Legacy -By Professor John Egbeazien Oshodi

Mr. President, you may be in France now — handling meetings, brokering diplomacy, or seeking investment — but there is a fire burning back home in Nigeria, one that your silence is only helping spread. That fire is not just political; it is spiritual. It is the smoldering destruction of trust, fairness, and constitutional dignity. And it is consuming the very foundations of the democracy you swore to uphold. I do not know if you are directly orchestrating the shameful obstruction of Senator Natasha Akpoti-Uduaghan. I do not know if it is your allies acting on your behalf or acting to protect your silence. But what I do know — what the public knows, what the global community is now beginning to say — is this: it is your name that now carries this crisis. It is your legacy that is being wrapped in this disgrace.

Let us state it plainly: Senator Natasha’s six-month suspension, imposed by the Senate itself, has expired. It ended as of early September 2025. She has written formally to notify the National Assembly of her intention to resume. She has taken no inflammatory steps. She has exercised restraint. And yet, she remains locked out — her seat unoccupied, her office sealed, her staff unpaid. The Clerk to the National Assembly, in a stunning display of procedural gaslighting, responded that her return cannot be processed because an appeal is still pending. But this appeal was initiated by Natasha herself, against a lower court judgment. No stay of execution has been granted. No legal bar exists to her return. This is not judicial prudence; it is political cowardice weaponized through bureaucracy.

And it becomes more insulting — even sinister — when we reflect on the Senate’s recent record. Imagine the same Senate that refused to obey a valid court order reinstating Natasha now using that very same judicial system as the excuse to block her. This is the same Senate that has, time and again, trampled on court decisions it finds inconvenient, only to suddenly find reverence for the judiciary when it wants to delay a woman’s rightful return. This is hypocrisy draped in official robes. It is manipulation disguised as order. And it reveals what we all know too well: that the judiciary in Nigeria has become a captured instrument, deployed selectively to punish the vulnerable and protect the powerful.

This is not just an abuse of Natasha’s rights; it is an attack on the very meaning of electoral representation. The people of Kogi Central voted for her. They did not vote for a six-month voice, or a temporary seat. They did not vote to be silenced. And yet today, that entire senatorial district has no representative voice in the Red Chamber. Their votes have been made meaningless. Their will discarded. Their development, security, and future abandoned — all because the Senate is afraid of a woman who will not bow. Mr. President, do you not see the danger of this precedent? If a woman can be silenced this easily, with your government’s silence as cover, what message are we sending to all Nigerian voters, to all citizens, and especially to all girls?

Across the nation, girls are watching. They are seeing that no matter how hard you fight, no matter how clean your victory, no matter how well you serve your punishment — men can still lock the gate. They are learning that politics is not merit-based. It is fear-based, and women are to be feared, not supported. And in a nation where only four women currently serve in a 109-member Senate, the continued exclusion of Natasha is not an isolated administrative error — it is a symbolic act of gender war. It tells every aspiring female leader, “This country will punish you for your courage, then pretend it is following the law.”

Let me speak now as a psychologist. What we are witnessing is institutional violence. Senator Natasha has not only been suspended — she has been emotionally erased. Her absence is not neutral. It is constructed. It is choreographed. This is not a delay; it is a denial. Her office has not simply remained closed — it has been symbolically sealed, turned into a warning to any other woman who dares to challenge male dominance in that chamber. The psychological message is chilling: “Know your place, or we will reduce you to a spectator in your own story.” This is not discipline. It is public humiliation disguised as order. And when such humiliation is allowed to persist, it becomes national trauma — not just for her, but for every woman watching, and for every citizen who still believes in fairness.

And this, Mr. President — as you, like millions of Nigerians and observers across the globe already know — is the painful and politically inconvenient background to it all: Senator Natasha dared to speak up about a powerful man who allegedly sexually harassed her, calling her phone after midnight. And she dared to say no — no, I will not solicit corrupt money from others and send you the proceeds. For this double refusal — to be violated and to be used — she has been punished, shamed, and locked out.

And you, sir, are not far from this moment. You are a father to daughters, a grandfather to young girls, and the husband of a woman of national standing. This is no longer about politics. This is about conscience. About dignity. About the moral spine of the nation. And it is not just Natasha who feels the weight of this injustice — it is every woman watching, and a whole country asking what kind of republic we are becoming.

Mr. President, your silence has become more than a pause — it has become a message. And with each passing day, that message grows heavier: that constitutional abuse can survive if cloaked in process; that an entire region’s voice can be denied without consequence; that a woman’s seat can be indefinitely sealed while her male colleagues remain untouchable. Whether this road you are on is of your own making or the consequence of hesitation, it is leading your presidency toward something quietly corrosive — a slow decay of moral authority. This is not just a political matter anymore. It is spiritual. Emotional. Human. The weight of this silence does not only settle on Natasha; it now rests on you — on your body, your name, your dignity, and your soul.

And let us not pretend the world is unaware. International observers, foreign missions, policy analysts, and global investors are watching this closely. They recognize the signs of democratic decay. They know what it means when a country punishes its women, disregards its courts, and hides injustice behind procedural smoke. At a time when Africa’s future is being debated on the global stage — when women’s voices, judicial credibility, and political inclusion are being measured as signs of national maturity — this case is rapidly becoming a symbol of regression. You may be in France or elsewhere in Europe, but the crisis you are ignoring has already crossed oceans and entered every diplomatic room with your name on it.

President Tinubu, not long ago you stepped in when Nigerian children were brought before the courts simply for protesting their hardship. You said their detention was inhumane, unworthy of a country that calls itself just. And in the case of Tigran Gambaryan, the foreign Bitcoin executive detained under your government’s crackdown, your administration found a path toward mercy, diplomacy, and resolution. In both moments, you acted — and the world noticed. So why now, sir, do you fall silent while a Nigerian citizen, a woman, a mother, a sitting senator elected by her people, is being held outside the gate long after her punishment expired? Why is she met with less compassion than detained children? With less flexibility than a foreign crypto executive?

President Tinubu, listen not to the noise of power, but to the still voice of your own conscience. Do not follow the men in the Senate who believe they are immune to judgment, who operate as if they are the law unto themselves. Not even your wife — whose visible lack of solidarity with Senator Natasha, another woman in a chamber overwhelmingly male, is both bewildering and painful — should influence your silence. This is not between you and the Senate. This is between you and Allah. Do not let handlers write your heart. Do not let loyalty to politics override your loyalty to truth. Think of your health, your breath, your legacy. Think of what it means to carry this silence on your shoulders when your account is one day required.

What will it truly cost you to act? Not your title. Not your seat. Not even your political capital. Only your pride. A single call, a public instruction, a firm declaration that the Constitution must be obeyed — and she returns. You do not have to love her. You do not have to like her politics. But you must honor her rights. Because to remain passive now is to embrace injustice. And to embrace injustice is to betray everything a reformer claims to stand for.

You told us you wished to be remembered as a builder — a healer of broken institutions, a father of modern democracy. Then let it begin here. Let Natasha return. Let Kogi Central be heard again. Let Nigeria believe once more that the Constitution has not been dethroned by ego. Because this moment will define you, more than any trip abroad, more than any speech.

Because right now, Mr. President, the gate remains locked. And though you may not have built the wall, you are the one holding the key.

I do not do this for her. I do not know her. I have never met her. I owe her nothing. I speak because silence offends my conscience. I write because I fear what this injustice is doing to our nation’s soul. I do this, sir, not for Senator Natasha — but for you. For your overall emotional, spiritual, physical, and diplomatic health. I know no one — I only know justice. And justice, when delayed out of politics or pride, becomes violence wrapped in process.

And if you choose not to turn the key — if you let this moment pass in silence — then know this: the stain will not fade. It will follow your name. It will echo through our institutions. It will stand beside you on the Day when all things are made plain. That is the burden of power. And that is the cost of silence — not just in this world, but in the next.

And the people — all of us — are watching what you do next. So is Allah.