#FreeNnamdiKanu Protest Sweeps Abuja, Freezes South-East Streets
By: Abudu Olalekan
The air was tense. Monday dawned with chants, flags, and a heavy mix of dust and defiance. Across Abuja and down the subtle spines of the South-East, thousands stood still—physically, symbolically—demanding one thing: Free Nnamdi Kanu.
By sunrise, security trucks had already roared to life near the Three Arms Zone. The usually bustling roads of the capital looked tense, like the city was holding its breath. At first, it sounded like just another Monday. But by 8 a.m., Abuja felt locked down from inside out. Protesters, led by long-time activist Omoyele Sowore, gathered first at the Unity Fountain. Then they were on the move—chanting, waving placards, some drying their voices under the harsh sun.
They didn’t get far. Smoke. Noise. A swift pushback from police in riot gear. The air burned with tear gas. It wasn’t chaos, just a scattered intensity—people running, coughing, regrouping. Some called it overkill, some said it was caution. Depends who you ask.
Reportersroom gathered that the Three Arms Zone—housing the Presidential Villa, National Assembly, and Supreme Court—was sealed up tight. Armoured trucks perched like sleeping beasts. Soldiers everywhere. Federal staff stood stranded, their ID cards suddenly meaningless. A police officer, face hidden behind a shield, muttered quietly: “We got orders. No one gets through today.”
The protest’s epicentre may have been in Abuja, but its echoes stretched far—Onitsha, Enugu, Aba, Owerri. Cities went still. Markets shuttered. Schools quiet as stone. Even motor parks—usually loud with shouts and smoke—stood empty. It wasn’t fear alone. It was statement. Unity by absence.
In Umuahia, the scene felt almost ceremonial. Groups of supporters humming freedom chants, others waving small flags as loudspeakers barked, “Free him now!” Some Igbo leaders joined in spirit, urging the government to choose justice over stubbornness. James Uchegbuo of the Igbo Vanguard Group told Reportersroom that freeing Kanu isn’t rebellion; it’s reconciliation. “You can’t heal a wound by pretending it’s not bleeding,” he said.
But while the chants rose, the government stayed unmoved. The police defended their actions—tear gas, blockades, and all. Force Public Relations Officer Benjamin Hundeyin explained that officers were enforcing a court order barring protesters from sensitive areas. “This wasn’t arbitrary,” he insisted on live TV. “We only used minimal force. No live bullets. Just tear gas.”
Yet, eyewitnesses spoke of panic, of roads turned into ruts of confusion. Taxi drivers stranded. Civil servants calling offices to say they couldn’t pass security cordons. Even in places hundreds of kilometres away—like Akure—Igbo traders locked their shops out of solidarity. “We can’t all go to Abuja,” a woman named Nkechi said, her shop shuttered tight. “But we can support from here. They should just release the man.”
The story has layers. There’s the legal one—Kanu’s detention since 2021 despite multiple court rulings ordering his release. There’s the political one—the government citing national security and treasonable felony. And then, the human one. The man himself. Sick, detained, surrounded by questions no one seems eager to answer.
At the NSCDC headquarters in Abuja, officials weren’t amused. They called the demonstration “anti-government,” a masked act of disruption. Their spokesman, Afolabi Babawale, wasn’t mincing words. “Yes, people can protest. But not when the courts say no,” he warned. The tone—official, cold, maybe tired. His message: Rules first, emotions later.
Still, emotions keep writing their own headlines. In Anambra, the familiar Monday sit-at-home crept back despite its official cancellation. Streets that once roared with traders now whispered silence. Even Governor Soludo’s order to reopen markets couldn’t override the mood of the day. “It’s solidarity. Not defiance,” one market leader whispered, eyes darting around like the walls could be listening.
Protests like these do something strange to a nation’s pulse. They freeze it and accelerate it at the same time. Streets go silent, but conversations get loud. Radio callers debating justice. Cafe whispers turning philosophical. Drivers on long trips arguing about law and loyalty.
Monday ended with tension still hanging in the Abuja air, but something else too—persistence. You can tear-gas a crowd, barricade a road, even shut a market. But an idea? That’s trickier. The country’s still talking, and the chants, though quieter by nightfall, seem unwilling to fade.
