Suspend Constitution Amendment — Olanipekun Urges N’Assembly, Calls for Referendum
By: Abudu Olalekan
It was an afternoon of truth-telling in Ado Ekiti. The air was mild, the hall packed. Chief Wole Olanipekun, Senior Advocate of Nigeria and one of the country’s most respected legal minds, stood before graduates, dignitaries, and restless youth. His voice? Calm. His message? Explosive.
“Pause the amendment,” he said sharply, cutting through the quiet hum. “This Constitution—1999’s—must go. Not patched. Not revised. Replaced.”
It wasn’t just another lawyer speech. It was almost an intervention.
The former NBA president spoke during the 13th Convocation Lecture of Afe Babalola University, a session titled “Nigeria Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow: Imperative of a Sober and Definitive Recalibration.” The title alone was a mouthful, but the essence was simple: Nigeria needs a reset. A clean slate.
He told lawmakers, with the firmness of a teacher correcting unruly pupils, to step away from their endless tinkering with the 1999 Constitution. Enough patches, he said. The document, birthed under the military in the rushed winter of 1999, has served its purpose—and stretched beyond it.
“It was never ours,” he almost whispered. “We inherited a decree disguised as democracy.”
Olanipekun wasn’t calling for chaos. Far from it. His proposal? A carefully managed transition, one that would give Nigeria room to breathe, think, and rebuild. Between now and 2031, he said, the nation should collect every constitutional report, every committee document on restructuring and reform, and weave them into something truly ours.
During that time, elections should still hold. Presidents and governors will rule. But come May 29, 2031, he envisions a new dawn—a constitution born from Nigerian hands, voices, and dreams.
Bold, right? But also, strangely practical.
And at the centre of this reawakening sits one word many politicians dread: referendum. To Olanipekun, it’s not rebellion. It’s democracy, pure and unfiltered. A moment where the people—not assembly members or party chieftains—decide how they want to be governed. “A referendum will tell us if we even need a National Assembly,” he mused with a small smile. “You can’t be a judge in your own case.”
He called Nigeria’s current structure lopsided. The states, he said, have lost their “grip and gravitas.” Too much power flows upward. Too little authority trickles down. He warned against creating more states—a favorite pastime of politicians—saying it only weakens the federation, spreads thin the already strained purse, and feeds the “imperious” centre.
His call wasn’t just legal. It was moral. Almost sentimental. “Nigeria must learn to heal itself,” he said, scanning the hall. “Reconfiguration isn’t destruction. It’s discipline.” You could feel the weight of that line linger in the space between applause and silence.
But Olanipekun didn’t stop there. He took a swipe at the political class—those who jump from one party to another like musical chairs powered by ambition. His words carried both weariness and sarcasm. “Politics shouldn’t be a tea party,” he said with a wry laugh. “Or a picnic for convenience.” He warned that reckless defections will one day cause implosions within parties that seem invincible today.
To his credit, he held up an example: President Bola Ahmed Tinubu, who, in Olanipekun’s view, showed what fidelity to a party looks like. “He stayed,” the lawyer said simply. “Even when it was hard, even when the winds were against him.” It wasn’t praise for politics—it was a call for principle.
There was also a softer layer to his tone when he applauded Tinubu’s reintroduction of the old national anthem. To Olanipekun, symbols matter. They remind us who we are—or who we hoped to be.
“Look,” he concluded, “we must stop parading people. Start producing citizens.” A hush fell. The words hit differently. Maybe because everyone knew he was right.
From the front row, Aare Afe Babalola himself nodded in approval. The university founder and legal titan called the lecture “well-thought-out” and in perfect harmony with his own dream of a homegrown constitution.
Nigeria, it seems, is again at that crossroad—one hand clutching the old, the other reaching for something newer, something truer. Whether the National Assembly listens remains to be seen. But on that campus in Ado Ekiti, for one loud, crisp afternoon, the message was clear: rewrite the story, don’t edit the ending.
