Nine years after he was abducted by unknown gunmen alleged by some to be state security agents, Dadiyata has re-appeared again like the proverbial Banquo’s ghost- a presence that unsettles power and resists erasure.
Abubakar Idris, widely known by his online pseudonym Dadiyata, was a Nigerian lecturer, social media commentator and civic critic whose voice resonated across northern Nigerian political discourse. Before his disappearance in August 2019, he had built a significant following by blending sharp political commentary with data-driven critique on governance, corruption and public accountability- often targeting powerful figures and administrations across state politics. On 2 August 2019, as he pulled into his home in Barnawa, unidentified armed men abducted him, and he has not been seen since, sparking sustained public outcry, legal actions and the long-running #WhereIsDadiyata movement demanding answers from authorities.
For years, debate swirled over who was responsible: many accused then-Kaduna State governor Nasir El-Rufai of complicity, given that the disappearance occurred under his watch. In a 2026 interview, El-Rufai denied Kaduna’s involvement and instead suggested Dadiyata was more fiercely critical of former Kano governor Abdullahi Ganduje, alleging a police confession about officers being sent from Kano. Ganduje has vehemently rejected such claims as “reckless and unfounded,” insisting the critic’s documented opposition was rooted in Kaduna governance, and calling for a transparent probe.
Regardless of where you sit about the truth of the claims and counter claims, this latest instalment of the Dadiyata "re-appearance" underlines a bigger truth that is of special relevance and resonance to Nigeria: it is practically impossible to kill an idea with brute violence. Let's dilate on that. In fact, it does not matter if it is a "bad" idea or good idea. Once you bring brute violence to the battleground of ideas, you automatically elevate an otherwise bad idea to a higher moral ground. And if it is a good idea, you elevate it higher still to a mythical realm, infusing it with transcendent powers to command stronger hold on minds and hearts of adherents. This is the ultimate paradox of brute force: it is an instrument of the weak unable or unwilling to engage in a battle of ideas; unable to mobilise superior arguments; unable to communicate to win hearts and minds with great ideas of their own.
Dadiyata was no philosopher. He was a public commentator with strong and often partisan views. He was an unapologetic supporter of former Kano state governor Rabiu Kwankaso, and his fierce criticisms of Kwankaso's successor, Ganduje, could be reasonably seen by some as an extension of his loyalty to Kwankaso. He was also a critic of the then Kaduna State governor El Rufai, in spite of the latter's disingenuous denial of knowledge of Dadiyata's existence.
The thing is, whether or not you agree with his views, Dadiyata has the rights to air them. If any of his public commentary was libelous, there are laws to resolve that and mete out appropriate consequences to offenders. Once you bring in brute violence and force, you elevate the man of ideas- good or bad ideas- to a higher moral, and human, pedestal. Arguably the most significant thing that distinguishes humans from beasts is the singular capacity to generate ideas and communicate them in language. It is precisely why ideas are the life force of human civilisation, and it is the highest form of human endeavour. It is no surprise that the most advanced societies, throughout history and contemporary times, are societies that cultivates, incentivises and rewards ideas. Conversely, the dark ages of human civilisations were the ages when men and women of ideas were hounded, killed and persecuted.
The German Philosopher, Friedrich Hegel, makes this point eloquently in his Phenomenology of Spirit (1807) and his Science of Logic (1812–16): human understanding, and the societies built on it, advance when we stop treating disagreement as a threat and instead work through it. For Hegel, clashing viewpoints expose what each side can’t see on its own; the friction forces clearer thinking, better institutions, and, over time, a more mature public life. He captures the engine of progress bluntly: “Contradiction is the very moving principle of the world.” As he puts it elsewhere, “The True is the whole,” meaning truth emerges through development, not instant certainty. When we allow competing ideas to meet in open argument, the aim is not endless quarrel, but a wiser outcome- often a third position that keeps what is strongest in both sides while correcting blind spots. That is how civilisations learn: by testing claims in the public square, refining norms, and widening collective freedom rather than shrinking debate.
Beyond the specific views he espoused, which anyone is free to support or contradict, Dadiyata stood for the transcendent idea that humans in society should be able to form and communicate opinions. It is for this very idea that Dadiyata wont disappear, seven years after he was disappeared. The capacity to form and express ideas is a distinctly human vocation and, when you think about it, the principal objective of education. Any leader that threatens this human vocation is not only unfit to lead, they are also inherently lesser humans by the very fact. There is no middle ground or hiding place on this matter.
While, in a liberal democracy, we elect representatives and office holders to take responsibilities, governance itself is, and has to be, a collective enterprise driven by the Office of the Citizen, the most important office of all in a democratic society. And it is through the exercise of freedom of thought and expression that citizens are able to bring their elected leaders under scrutiny, continuously demand accountability about how public resources are being deployed, and thereby elevating the quality of representation and the quality of governance.
Nigeria, sadly, is a country that has routinely meted violence, threat and intimidation on journalists, citizen inquirers, and public intellectuals. The 1986 parcel-bomb assassination of Dele Giwa, founding editor of Newswatch, remains one of the most chilling symbols of impunity. In 1995, writer and environmental activist Ken Saro-Wiwa and eight others were executed after a widely condemned military tribunal. In 1998, investigative reporter Bagauda Kaltho disappeared; his remains were later linked to a bomb blast. In September 2009, journalist “Bayo” Ohu of The Guardian was shot dead in Lagos after his reports on corruption and the oil sector. Even in the social-media age, intimidation persists: in 2021, the army arrested and detained broadcaster and influencer Ahmad Isah (“Ordinary President”) over a broadcast that embarrassed security agencies, while journalists covering protests and insurgency have faced arrests, beatings, and equipment seizures. During the #EndSARS protests, security forces opened fire on demonstrators at the Lekki Toll Gate on 20 October 2020, an event documented and amplified by journalists and influencers who themselves faced harassment and asset freezes. These episodes- spanning military and civilian eras- signal a troubling pattern: when scrutiny is answered with force, the state weakens the very civic energy that sustains democratic life.
There is an even more troubling pattern here- one that suggests a nation-state in atrophy, inching towards the precipice. Political leaders, with the full weight of security agencies at their command, threaten, brutalise and intimidate journalists and ordinary citizens for speaking plainly, organising peacefully, or asking inconvenient questions online. Yet the same state often appears indulgent, sometimes even deferential, towards bandits and other open merchants of violence. The signal is perverse and corrosive: dissent attracts punishment, while violence attracts negotiation, recognition, and, in some cases, political relevance. When citizens learn that the safest way to be heard is to be feared, civic life begins to collapse into a grim marketplace of coercion. In such a climate, civil society is weakened, responsible leadership is disincentivised, and the public square is emptied of the very voices that make governance smarter, fairer, and accountable. A country that trains its institutions to hunt critics while tiptoeing around armed predators is not merely struggling with insecurity; it is eroding the moral logic of the state itself.
There is one final point to make. The recent lamentations of former Kaduna State governor Mallam Nasir El-Rufai offer an instructive lesson for all who have held, or still hold, power. He has watched a former protégé, now governor, turn against him; and his loudest denunciations of President Tinubu have gathered force only after he was sidelined from the inner corridors of influence. Yesterday’s ally becomes today’s inconvenience; today’s shield becomes tomorrow’s target. The Yoruba capture this truth with unsparing clarity: Igba kan kì í lọ bí oréré; ọba mẹ́wàá, igba mẹ́wàá- no season lasts forever; ten kings, ten eras. Power is episodic; authority is borrowed time. And when that time runs out, what remains is not the sirens, the swagger, or the machinery of state you once commanded, but the idea: what you stood for, the principles that shaped your choices, the restraint you showed when you could have been ruthless, and the memory you leave behind when the crowd has moved on.
_The power of ideas that elevate human consciousness and animate public service will always trump the idea of power as an end in itself._