Ten years after the Zaria massacre, the Nigerian conscience remains unsettled and perturbed, not merely because a crime of historic magnitud...
Ten years after the Zaria massacre, the Nigerian conscience remains unsettled and perturbed, not merely because a crime of historic magnitude was committed, but because those who wielded the machinery of the state believed that the annihilation of a faith-community was within their political reach. The events of 12th to 15th December 2015 were not an accident, nor a momentary lapse in judgment; they were the outcome of a deliberate and coordinated exercise of state power, fueled by arrogance, intoxication with authority, and a profound misreading of the moral resilience of a people.
Among the chief actors in this tragic chapter was the former governor of Kaduna State, NASIRU AHMED EL-RUFAI, whose behaviour during and after the massacre reflected a startling level of political intoxication. So consumed was he by the illusion of absolute power that he appeared to lose count of human lives sacrificed under his watch. He acted not as a guardian of citizens but as an enforcer reporting upward to President Muhammadu Buhari, who had already sanctioned a path of repression. El-Rufai’s obsession with the elimination of the Islamic Movement in Nigeria was so intense that he reportedly gave direct assurances to the presidency that Shi’a identity had been crushed in Kaduna State.
The public admission by his own Secretary to the State Government—that 347 bodies were buried in a single location (Mando) at the outskirts of Kaduna—remains one of the most chilling illustrations of institutional complicity. That such a confession could surface without leading to any meaningful accountability demonstrates the alarming fragility of Nigeria’s justice system when political elites stand accused.
Yet, a decade later, one question echoes across Nigeria and beyond: “Is there still Shi’a in Kaduna?” Only a mind dulled by power could have asked this question in the first place. And only a mind unfamiliar with the history of religious communities could have imagined that identity, belief, or conviction could be erased by state violence. What El-Rufai, Buhari, and their collaborators failed to understand is that the Islamic Movement community is not a transient political structure, it is a living moral, belief system and tradition rooted in centuries of struggle, perseverance, scholarship, and resistance to tyranny.
If anything, the massacre did not extinguish Shi’ism in Kaduna. It revealed its resilience.
Today, Sheikh Ibraheem Zakzaky, whose name was meant to disappear from public life, remains alive, physically, intellectually, and spiritually. Despite years of unlawful detention, injury, and intimidation, he continues to guide Muslims and even non-Muslims with clarity, dignity, and unwavering principle. He continues to speak for justice, moral governance, and spiritual accountability. His influence now extends even further, precisely because the state overplayed its hand.
The paradox is unmistakable: the very brutality intended to erase him instead amplified his moral authority and command.
This is not a new story in human history. Political tyrants frequently mistake force for legitimacy, unaware that every abuse of power weakens the very structure they seek to preserve. Buhari and El-Rufai, driven by a mix of ideological intolerance and political paranoia, believed that the machinery of the state could reshape religious reality. They acted on a delusion: that faith can be silenced by bullets, and conviction eliminated by executive orders.
But while governments rise and fall, communities of belief persist. While political actors fade into irrelevance, moral leadership endures. While the architects of injustice spend their years defending their records, victims and survivors strengthen their resolve.
What remains today is not the legacy of those who ordered or justified the massacre, but the enduring dignity of those who suffered it. And what remains unanswered, painfully, profoundly is the question of justice. Nigeria’s judiciary, which ought to serve as the final refuge for the oppressed, has struggled to rise to the occasion. Cases drag, excuses multiply, and institutional hesitation becomes indistinguishable from complicity.
How does the judiciary feel when justice is so visibly mortgaged?
How do judges sleep when facts are clear, when confessions exist, when graves have been acknowledged, yet justice moves at the speed of political convenience?
(I will revisit this issue in another write up by Allah's grace).
History will press these questions harder than any contemporary critic.
Ultimately, the Zaria massacre stands as a test not only for those in power in 2015, but for every institution that has touched the case since then. It tests the conscience of the security agencies that carried out unlawful orders. It tests the moral credibility of politicians who justified the killings. It tests the independence of the judiciary. It tests the courage of civil society. It tests the memory of the nation.
Yet, in this struggle between state violence and moral resilience, the balance is unmistakably clear. Ten years later:
The Shi’a are still here.
The memory of the victims is still alive.
The call for justice is louder than ever.
The truth remains unburied, even if 347 people were.
And Sheikh Zakzaky continues to stand as a symbol of hope, justice, endurance, faith, and defiance against tyranny.
History will not forget.
The world will not forget.
And justice, however delayed, cannot be denied forever.
Prof. Danladi can be reached at adanladi08@gmail.com or (+234) 8039208479.
12/12/2025
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