In the heart of Igbo society, the Umuada embody a paradox of power. They are daughters of the land who, once married out, retain the right to return and speak with a voice that often eclipses that of men. Across the Igbo landscape, their influence still resounds, sometimes as a shield for tradition, and sometimes as a sword that cuts into dignity and rights. However, as the clash between culture, law, and human rights heightens, GODFREY GEORGE asks if they are timeless custodians of identity, or have become instruments of exclusion and abuse

“A chorom ima (I don’t want to know). You will pay everything, and not one kobo will be left. Okwa onu gi na ga wa wa wa? (You have a sharp mouth, right?) We shall see who is who!”

According to Nneoma, the only surviving daughter of a retired civil servant in Ekwusigo Local Government Area of Anambra State, those were the harsh words flung at her during her father’s burial; they were uncompromising demand of the Umuada.

The Umuada, literally translated as “daughters of the land,” are not just a gathering of women but a formidable institution in Igbo culture. Bound by tradition, they return to their natal homes as custodians of customs, wielding a kind of authority that shapes both the social and spiritual fabric of their communities.

Their presence can sanctify a burial, settle festering disputes, or, as in Nneoma’s case, turn moments of grief into tense negotiations of power.

Nneoma’s eldest sister had died during childbirth, leaving her and two brothers, who work as builders in Delta State, to shoulder the weight of family responsibilities.

Years earlier, when her mother died after a brief illness, her body was taken to Ihite for burial. Some Umuada objected, insisting her marriage rites had not been fully completed and that she could not be regarded as a true wife of the community.

“I didn’t even know my mother was not fully married to my father till that day. It was both shocking and embarrassing to be referred to as ‘children whose legs have not reached the ground,” Nneoma recalled.

The group was split, their voices rising in sharp disagreement. It took relentless pleas, coupled with the payment of fines by the in-laws and the intervention of the Umunna, the male counterpart of the Umuada, before her mother’s body was finally allowed to be lowered into the ground.

Nneoma remembered the day vividly. She and her late elder sister had clashed openly with the women, their grief colliding with tradition.

Though still young, she had refused to cower. Her voice, sharp with anger, rose against the authority of the Umuada.

Looking back now, she admits she might have spoken more harshly than she intended, but at that moment, fear had no place, only defiance.

“I think they took offence and kept a record of me,” she said with a smirk on her face.

So, when her elder sister died in childbirth and was brought home, unmarried to the man who fathered her child, the Umuada again resisted.

This time, not because of family ties, but because she, being the first daughter of her family, refused to associate and identify with the Umuada.

Nneoma’s father and brothers were forced to plead and pay some fines before the burial could proceed. The women, Nneoma noted, were only forgiving because of the circumstances surrounding the young woman’s passing.

“They accused us of failing to pay dues or join in communal chores like cleaning the village square,” Nneoma said.

Living in Lagos, with her sister in Abuja, she struggled to see the relevance.

“My father and aunts mentioned it once or twice at Christmas, but honestly, these women’s practices didn’t sit well with me. I discarded the idea,” she said.

By the time her father was laid to rest, the demands of the Umuada had become relentless, almost suffocating. For two straight days, they turned the family compound into their base, expecting to be catered for at every hour. Morning began with bread and steaming tea; by midday, full meals were required; and at night, nothing less than plates of spicy isiewu would suffice.

One midnight, as the compound lay in heavy silence, they banged on doors and roused her brother from sleep, ordering him to fetch goat meat to satisfy their craving. Their preferences were non-negotiable: a specific brand of chocolate beverage for their tea, a particular malt drink at hand, and a beer brand of their choice to “step down” their pepper soup.

“They just wanted to punish us,” Nneoma said with painful recollection. “It was terrible. We kept paying fine after fine, mostly because I couldn’t hold my tongue.

“…And my father was a very popular man, and these women claimed we abandoned him till he died, alleging that it was the same way we abandoned our mother till her demise.

“That’s not true. On several occasions, we had asked our father to move to Delta State to stay with the boys, but he declined. He insisted on staying back at home after retirement. What were we supposed to do? When my elder sister was still here, we wanted to take him to Abuja, but he refused, saying he didn’t love the noise.”

In the end, Nneoma and her brother had no choice but to comply. They paid the fines, served bread and tea to the women for the two mornings they camped, and ensured there was more than enough refreshment throughout the funeral.

“We were warned by my father before he passed that we must obey the traditions of the land so his spirit would be accepted by the ancestors in the other world,” she explained.

“So, we just did it as part of his dying wishes. Left to me, I would have buried my father in Lagos. Let me see how they would come and drink tea at Ikoyi Cemetery,” she blurted.

Nneoma’s experience is far from isolated. Across many Igbo communities, especially among women, punishments are meted out for alleged infractions, whether neglect, abandonment, adultery, petty crimes, or even something as simple as failing to provide every item demanded during a customary occasion.

Bathed in muddy water

One February morning in a quiet Igbo community, the air heavy with the wails of mourners, an incident unfolded that unsettled many. A woman, long accused of neglecting her mother-in-law while she was alive, had dared to show up at the funeral. Her presence sparked outrage. The Umuada swiftly intervened. They accused her openly before the crowd and declared that she must be punished.

They led her to the village stream, forced her to fetch water with a clay pot balanced precariously on her head, and marched her back along the dusty path. In front of the gathered crowd, she was made to kneel while the Umuada bathed her with the water, then smeared her skin with mud scooped from the ground. Her dignity stripped, she was publicly shamed, the Umuada insisting they were enforcing cultural rights.

Scenes like this are neither rare nor entirely hidden. They speak to the enduring power and controversial role of the Umuada, once revered as custodians of morality and peacemakers in Igbo society.

Traditionally, they stood above factional politics and were known to challenge patriarchy, step into land disputes, and intervene where men’s councils faltered. But in contemporary Nigeria, their actions have become layered with contradiction: part shield, part sword.

Social media is littered with videos of Umuada gatherings where women are doused with dirty water for allegedly neglecting family obligations, some forced to grovel for forgiveness, while others are painted with ashes or mud.

Demands for bread and tea at funerals

Three months later, another episode made the same cultural friction plain. On July 5, 2025, a burial in the South-East went viral after a Facebook post from an attendee complained that a local Umuada group allegedly behaved insensitively at the service of songs held for a 26-year-old woman. They were said to be consuming tea and bread in a way the poster described as “uncaring” and inappropriate for such a young deceased.

The post, the images and video that accompanied it produced hundreds of online reactions with debate centred on what constitutes respectful mourning and the authority of Umuada at funerals.

The incident was reported and dissected by local news sites and lifestyle blogs, framing it as a flashpoint in changing expectations of ritual behaviour.

That episode surfaced a second truth: the same institution that acts as community custodian and mediator can also be seen, by many observers, as having become ritualistic, performative, or out of step with contemporary norms—tensions now amplified and archived on social media.

The pattern on video is familiar: public shaming, forced “cleansing,” and community discipline. Since February and July, reporters, rights groups, and private users have uploaded several short clips fitting two related patterns: crisis-era rites directed at widows, and local enforcement and social sanctioning at weddings and funerals.

Blockade of a monarch’s gate

A viral video from Akokwa in Imo State showing members of the Umuada storming the residence of Eze Okachie after he allegedly locked them out of his palace and refused to grant them an audience recently sparked outrage online.

In the footage, the women, armed with sticks, hurled dirt into his compound and were even seen defecating on the premises as a form of protest. For them, this dramatic display was not just defiance but a way of enforcing their authority in a community where their role remains both revered and feared.

Commenting on the video, social commentator Dr. Uche Nworah noted that while Umuada are recognised as a powerful collective of women born into a kindred or village in Igboland, their methods are often confrontational, sometimes crude, and widely considered excessive. He explained that during burials, marriages, and other ceremonies, many Umuada still insist on practices such as sleeping over in bereaved families’ homes and being served tea in the morning, an ancient tradition that some say has been overtaken by time.

Yet, to avoid conflict, families frequently negotiate with them or pay cash settlements.

As Nworah observed, “They are a very powerful group and play varying roles in society. People don’t like to incur their wrath.”

The beginnings of Umuada in pre-colonial Igbo history

They are born into a house but summoned back to it by duty. The Umuada carry an authority that is at once intimate and public, ancestral and performative.

In the pre-colonial village, according to several scholarly accounts, this authority was intensely practical: they washed the dead, asked the difficult questions, quelled feuds, and shaped the morals of a community in ways that male councils often could not. Their power was not a legal precinct so much as cultural pressure, a mobilisation of daughters that could shame, reconcile, or restructure behaviour overnight.

With the coming of colonial courts and missionary exhortations, many outward trappings of that authority shifted. Some communities saw the Umuada’s rituals curtailed by a new law; others adapted, folding their work into emerging civic roles. Where the colonial state weakened male line stability, the Umuada sometimes reasserted themselves as functioning institutions still able to move families and markets. Their survival was not merely conservatism; it was a capacity for reimagination in the face of new constraints.

The late 20th and early 21st centuries brought another transformation: institutionalisation.

Umuada chapters emerged as organised associations, engaging in education, widow advocacy, and diaspora outreach. They mounted campaigns to secure women’s inheritance rights and represented communal grievances in state fora.

Yet alongside this civic turn, a more troubling continuity persisted. The same mandate that authorised daughters to discipline, ensure a woman honoured her marital obligations, test a widow’s conduct, and regulate ritual propriety could, when unchecked, slip into humiliation and coercion. In practice, the mechanism of enforcement that once held men’s excesses to account can paradoxically become a tool that polices women’s bodies and choices.

The central question for a just modern polity is a normative one: how can customary institutions retain their conflict-resolving virtues without violating inalienable rights?

A considered answer appears in an essay by a former Dean of the Faculty of Social Sciences at Ebonyi State University, Dr Ngozi Emeka Nwobia. In her July 2021 piece, “Understanding Gender Complementarity in Igbo Society: The Role of Umuada and Umunna in Peacebuilding”, Emeka Nwobia, who served as the Southeast regional consultant for the Nigerian Women Trust Fund on a Ford Foundation-backed project, argues that gender roles and relations in Igbo peacebuilding are essentially complementary, though popular misconceptions have obscured this fact.

Of note is the portrayal of Igbo women by some early scholars as subservient, voiceless, and merely appendages to men. Quoting G. T. Basden, Emeka Nwobia reproduces a sentiment that has long coloured outsider accounts of Igbo life:

“Women have but few rights in any circumstances and can only hold such property as their lords permit. There is no grumbling against their lot; they accept the situation as their grandmother did before them, taking affairs philosophically; they managed to live fairly contentedly.”

Basden’s opinion, however, has been critiqued by later scholars, notably Akachi Ezeigbo, as misleading and rooted in a limited understanding of Igbo sociopolitical relations.

Barely eight years after Basden’s observations, Igbo women rose to confront colonial policies during the anti-colonial Aba Women’s Riots of 1929. That these same women, earlier represented as powerless, could mobilise so forcefully suggests they already possessed deep social clout.

Ifi Amadiume, as cited by Emeka Nwobia, captures the flexibility of gender construction among the Igbo. She notes that women can occupy roles conventionally assigned to men in particular situations, acquiring statuses such as “male daughters” and “female husbands.”

The practice of designating a “male daughter” is often adopted when a man has no male heir: a daughter may remain in her father’s household to produce male children who will carry his name. Parents may arrange or accept a lover for her, or the daughter may choose one herself. Similarly, the role of “female husband” can be assumed by a woman who is childless or widowed and who wishes to ensure the continuity of a lineage. A female husband may marry women who will bear children in her husband’s name, or she may acquire sufficient wealth and authority to assume public power akin to that exercised by men.

This explains why some Igbo names celebrate continuity. Examples include Amaefuna/Amaechina (“my compound will not go desolate”) and Ahamefula (“my name will not be forgotten”). The “female husband” status can thus be achieved either through strategic family arrangements or by amassing wealth and public influence. In both cases, the practice illustrates the adaptability of Igbo social institutions and how women have long negotiated power within customary frameworks.

Umuada vs. Ụmụnna

Emeka Nwobia notes that the dynamics of complementarity and power relations between Igbo men and women are visible in two transgenerational institutions, Ụmụada and Ụmụnna groups, whose legacies are passed from one generation to another.

She describes the term Ụmụada as derived from two Igbo words: Ụmụ (children) and Ada (a generic name for all first daughters, though it may loosely be used to refer to every female child of Igbo ancestry).

According to her, the Ụmụada is an association of daughters of the land from the same natal community. They are ever-present forces in their natal homes, as opposed to their matrimonial homes, where their powers are limited. They assume juridical and peacemaking roles and regularly perform purification as well as funeral rites for deceased members of their lineage.

The term Ụmụnna is derived from two Igbo words: Ụmụ (children) and Nna (a generic name for all sons). It is a group of men from the same family or sharing the same ancestry.

Like in most African societies, the extended family includes parents, grandparents, children, aunties, uncles, brothers, sisters, and cousins, and even extends to their children. This has given birth to neologisms such as “cousin-sister” and “cousin-brother” to emphasise affinity and blood ties with a cousin.

According to Emeka Nwobia, these are common terms used to describe kinship relations and show endearment and closeness.

“The duties of members of the family include education, training, and the transmission of family values, legacies, skills, and knowledge systems (such as medicine, architecture, vocation, craft-making skills, apprenticeship, trades, etc.) to the younger members of the families, who in turn transfer them to their younger ones.

“Thus, the family unit in Igboland is a transgenerational platform for the conveyance of values. The elders ensure that these transgenerational knowledge systems are effectively transferred and inculcated in the younger ones. That is why skills such as traditional orthopaedics, healing/medicine, craft-making, and artistry run in certain families. These skills are learned or transferred through participant observation and Igba boyi (apprenticeship),” she noted.

Umuada membership

Membership of Ụmụada, Emeka Nwobia noted, comprises both married and unmarried females of a particular community, though some communities in Igboland do not welcome unmarried Ụmụada into the group.

“The unmarried daughters (those who have reached marriageable age) are not as powerful or outspoken as the married ones, as they are sidelined or easily dismissed as ‘Nna ga-alụ’ (literally meaning ‘father will marry’) or ‘Ọtọ n’aka Nne’ (‘abandoned in the hands of the mother’).

“Indeed, staying unmarried as a fully grown girl in Igbo traditional societies was a burden, and such unmarried ladies were largely treated as social outcasts. That is why, though they are daughters, their married counterparts are considered more respectable. One of the primary aims of the Ụmụada association is to enable women to sustain their matrilineal ties.

“This implies that every Igbo female at birth is socialised into automatic membership in the Ụmụada and Ndi Inyom, while upon marriage she becomes a member of both Ụmụada and Ndi Inyom / Nwunye di (a group of married wives in a particular community).

As a married woman, she performs a dual function as daughter (in her natal home) and wife (in her matrimonial home),” she noted.

According to the scholar, the association is a formidable sociocultural and political organisation in Igbo communities.

Umuada as peacekeeping pillar

The powers of Umuada can be observed in their natal homes, where they exercise power and influence, as well as contribute to informal peacemaking and peacebuilding. Decisions reached by Umuada are considered final, even by the Umunna, although their domains of operation are almost the same.

Emeka-Nwobia noted that the Umuada deploy various strategies to ensure the preservation of their cultural heritage and peaceful coexistence within the community and with their neighbours.

In traditional Igbo society, family and land disputes, as well as inter- and intra-communal conflicts, are resolved or adjudicated upon by traditional institutions like the Umunna and Umuada.

She noted, “Their influence and power have survived in contemporary society, mainly because of the bias and lack of trust in inherited Western legal systems whose methods of adjudication are expensive, time-consuming, and tend to reward winners and punish losers without leaving space for reconciliation.

“Also, the courts mostly offered temporary relief, and conflicts tended to be reignited by the little provocation. Again, in the colonial era, it was common knowledge that the court clerks collected bribes to slant judgment in favour of erring parties.

Actor James Ikechukwu, popularly known as Jim Iyke, talks to NAOMI CHIMA about his career, family and other issues

Tell us a bit about your background.

To start with, about 70 per cent of what you read online about me is false, and mostly from unreliable sources. My academic background is in Banking and Finance, and Psychology. I studied at the University of Jos, and before that, Federal Government College, Kwali, Abuja. Over the years, I have broadened my path. I am deeply invested in personal development, and my greatest education has come from unveiling myself as a student of the world.

How did you end up as an actor?

For most people, their field of study doesn’t usually align with their eventual career. Life is really a journey of self-discovery. Along the way, you find your true passion, as opposed to your parents’ dreams for you. For those of us from Eastern Nigeria, parents usually set the course of our journies right from childhood. By the time you’re three or four years old, they’ve already decided who will be a lawyer, doctor, or businessman.

Somewhere along the line, you realise that you’ve been living your parents’ dreams, not yours. Those who follow that path to the end are often not the happiest, because they discover too late that their true calling lies elsewhere. You could even be financially successful, but still feel a deep emptiness that no amount of money can fill.

For me, things shifted unexpectedly. One day, a friend and I were broke and looking for money to buy a few bottles of beer. Then, we heard about an audition. We decided to go, thinking we’d just get cameo roles and head to the lounge. But in the middle of it, I had a moment of epiphany. I thought: “this is what I want to do for the rest of my life”.

I didn’t come from an entertainment background. My family members were traders, businessmen, scientists and politicians; but never entertainers. Choosing acting was seen as a taboo— a waste of life. But I stuck to my guns. At that point, rebellion was necessary. I had done everything they wanted, including graduating early. I told them (parents) to give me a year or two to explore acting, then return for my Master’s and PhD.

Suffice it to say, I never went back. What was supposed to be a quick look became a lifelong pursuit.

How has acting influenced the course of your life?

People often warned that acting was a hopeless pursuit, because there was no financial stability, or job security. Their logic was sound, but I couldn’t let it go. My counter-argument was simple: Give me a chance.

My father instilled in me survival skills, including a pursuit of knowledge, self-confidence and accountability, which are foundations for success in any field. I believed acting would not be different. But, when our relationship deteriorated over my choice, I was kicked out (of the house). That became fuel for me to prove them wrong.

Eventually, when things began to turn around, we revisited the conversation. I told him my agenda was clear: I just needed his blessing. Reluctantly, he gave it, and taught me the importance of financial literacy and delayed gratification. He said if I mastered those, it wouldn’t matter what career I chose, I’d already be 50 per cent ahead.

What about your mum, how much support did you get from her?

My mum was the anchor of my dreams. Sadly, she’s no longer with us. Nothing rivals a mother’s intuition; she is irreplaceable.

When conflict arose between the two men she loved most—her husband and her only son—she took a remarkable approach. Instead of taking sides, she let things play out, trusting each of us to do the right thing. I will always be grateful to her for believing in me when I had nothing to show for it, and for giving me the emotional support I needed.

Later, when I became successful, she was also the one who kept me grounded. She reminded me: It’s the decisions you take now that will shape the next generation. Choose carefully. Her influence on me is immeasurable.

As the only son of your family, how did growing up among sisters shape you?

Growing up with women can shape you in two ways—you either become extremely tough or extremely soft. You can probably tell which side I fall on. I fought many battles, often defending my sisters, until one day my father’s boss warned him: “Train this boy; he’ll get badly hurt one day. He must learn the principle of standing alone.”

That advice led me into early boxing and taekwondo, which taught me discipline, emotional control, and self-defense. At home, I wasn’t even allowed in the kitchen. That was part of the Eastern cultural belief system. My biggest regret today is not learning to cook.

When I left home, that became a real problem. I had to rely on others, sometimes even begging women to cook for me. Who knows what was put in my food (laughs) So, I always advise people to teach their sons how to cook. It’s a vital life skill every man should have.

You’ve played a range of characters over the years. What influences the choice of roles you take on?

I believe an actor should be open to interpreting a wide range of characters. In early Hollywood, typecasting was a thing, but thankfully, that era has passed. Interestingly, 90 per cent of the laurels and trophies I’ve received came from “nice guy” roles; not violent ones. People often assume we (actors) are the roles we play, but they rarely see the sensitive side— the deep person who can hold conversations on any subject under the sun.

My choices are influenced by my belief system, which is deeply rooted in God and fortified by my upbringing. When you play a character so well that people believe there’s a piece of you in it, that’s when you’ve truly succeeded as an actor.

What influenced the title of your latest movie, ‘Sin’?

The title is deliberate. Sin reflects the current global state of affairs. If anyone has ever wondered what “Sodom and Gomorrah” looked like, look around; we’re living in it. Everything described in that era is happening again.

We often sweep these things under the rug because we’re busy chasing dreams, watching football, or binging Netflix. But right before our eyes, there are drug epidemics, social experiments like lockdowns, and moral chaos.

Sin is a satire, a mirror to the life we live but refuse to confront. I don’t want to make slapstick films that only release dopamine. I want to create films that make you think, shift paradigms, and spark conversations about the order of life we exist in. It is an eye-opener. It hasn’t left the top three spot on Amazon Prime, and I’m very proud of that. It was a three-month production shot across three countries.

What advice do you have for young men who admire your craft?

Don’t look at Jim Iyke; look at yourself. To replicate another man’s journey is the wrong road to take. Everyone’s path is different. My successes, failures, and discoveries are not yours.

When I emulate, I don’t look at the person; I look at the substance of their life. Some pursue acting to feed their families, some see it as a divine calling, others as a stepping stone. Whatever it is, find your truth. Do it for the right reasons, because when everything else fails, it’s that truth that will sustain you.

Do you have any plans to revive your music career?

Doing music was a regrettable experience; not in a bitter way, but in a humbling one. At that point in my life, it was just fun. 2Baba and I had a great time with it. For me, it was a dare, a phase when I thought I could do anything.

God allowed it, but He also humbled me. I could have built a career from it, but I would have ended up as one of those mediocre acts still stumbling along because their early hits were just good enough to keep them afloat. That’s not me. I know my limits.

I don’t live with regrets though; only lessons and triumphs. Music gave me a glimpse into another world, and I enjoyed it. But when the fever calmed, I knew it was time to return to what I díd best.

Will I ever be a music executive? Absolutely. No experience is wasted. I can sign an act today, and no one would tell me I don’t understand the business.

You’ve often spoken about your experience at the Synagogue where you seemingly fell into a trance. Looking back now, how does that experience make you feel?

I don’t want to dwell on that, and I’ll tell you why. It came with so much pain and disappointment. I only went there for my mother, and she has since passed.

Life gives us highs and lows. When you pass through your lows, you take the lesson, put it in a box, and tuck it away in your mental archive as a path never to walk again. Bringing it up now only stirs despair and bitterness. And my mother— the reason I went there— would never want me to live in that space.

Even the person I once felt antagonism toward is gone as well. So, what’s the point of holding on? I’ve let it go.

How would you describe your relationship with Gideon Okeke, who has constantly called you out online?

I don’t acknowledge it as a problem. If I ever recognise it as one, I’ll solve it. I don’t waste energy on things that don’t concern me. If anyone wants resolution in a place of logic and manhood, I’ll be there. I’ll state my grievances; listen, and resolve it. But I will never meet anyone in the court of public opinion. That space is a circus. It’s for entertainment, and I am not wired to be entertainment. I leave that to clowns.

Your message to Kate Henshaw on her birthday recently caused a buzz on social media. Why did you write it?

I have never looked at life the “normal” way. I live and express myself intensely; whether in laughter, friendship, love, or even hate. My ode to Kate was exactly that: an honest expression to someone I’ve known for over half my life. As a teenager, when I was hungry, she gave me money for food, made sure I got home safely, and guided me. She’s more than a friend; she’s a big sister and someone very special. Why would I not celebrate her?

Two hundred people read that poem. One hundred and seventy found it offensive or disrespectful. But the one person it was written for came online, hugged me electronically, blessed me, then called me for an hour-long conversation. I also sent her a beautiful gift; one many of my critics may never receive in their lifetime. So tell me, why should those 170 people matter? Too many people waste energy trying to be liked by strangers who don’t count. I don’t. I’ve been misunderstood all my life; why should it bother me now? I’ll keep doing what I want, whether it’s writing for Kate or penning a similar piece to the president tomorrow. Those who matter will understand; the rest need to upgrade their brain cells.

How long did it take to pen that “ode”?

Fifteen minutes. Writing is one of my strongest skills, perhaps even greater than my acting. It’s always been a deep passion, though acting took the spotlight. Yes, people often misunderstand my writing, but I no longer care. In the past, maybe it bothered me. Now, if anyone misinterprets my expression, I don’t owe them clarification.

How has your role as a father affected your life, career and relationships?

I am what you’d call an unorthodox father. I stand between the strictness of our fathers’ generation and the overly soft style of today. My children are not afraid of me in a way that prevents them from being open. I’m their father, friend, and sometimes big brother; but they also know that parenting is not a democracy. Leadership sometimes requires dictatorship.

Our parents were dictators, and we turned out resilient, able to face hardship. On the flip side, this modern overindulgent style has raised a generation that crumbles at the slightest adversity. My duty is to instill independence, resilience, and survival instincts. But, also compassion, emotional intelligence, and respect. That balance cannot come from one parent alone. That’s why I believe neither single mothers nor single fathers are fully equipped to raise complete men. Both masculine and feminine energies are needed for balance.

As a divorcee, how do you ensure that your children get that balance?

Divorce doesn’t change my role. Children don’t listen to words; they copy actions. My son mirrors me— how I dress, sit and even speak. That’s why I’m deliberate about the life I live. I avoid unnecessary drama in the media because I know he will soon access everything I’ve ever done. I want him to see a man of restraint, not a man consumed by battles.

Sure, I could respond to insults online or match words with words; even break bones if I wanted to. But I don’t. I’m accountable to someone greater now— my son. He must look at me and see a man who won the war, not someone distracted by petty fights. My parenting order is simple: presence, example, sacrifice, and resilience without excuses.

Do you have plans to remarry?

No. I’m very clear about this: I took full responsibility for that union. She’s a great person, and I’m a great guy. But marriage and fame together are tough, so you must be intentional. Sadly, ours happened at my lowest point; just after I lost the most important person in my life (my mother). There were cultural differences and racial tensions; not just from strangers but sometimes even within the family structure. It drained me.

Eventually, the marriage ended, but we stayed friends. Today, we’ve built something rare— a great post-divorce family. My ex still picks me up from the airport sometimes, even with her new partner, and comes to me for advice. That’s intentional, because our child didn’t choose to be born. He deserves stability.

Don’t you get jealous or bitter seeing her with someone else?

No. Bitterness is useless. If I cut her off completely, she could end up with someone who mistreats my son, and that would haunt me forever. But her partner is a good man. Instead of jealousy, I see my son as blessed with two fathers.

We have different parenting styles. Her partner is a pleaser; the easy-going liberal type. I’m the disciplinarian; the one who teaches resilience and perspective as a successful black man navigating the world. Together, my son gets balance. He’s one of the happiest, most grounded kids I know.

What’s your favourite food?

My taste is global. I have lived in four countries and picked favourites everywhere. It changes constantly, so I can’t pin down just one.

How do you ease stress and relax?

God. Worship is my sanctuary. While others party on weekends, I play gospel music and roll on the floor asking for mercy. That’s my happy place— giving thanks to the One who brought me out of tunnels and defended me when I couldn’t defend myself.

Once hailed by some as the voice of a renewed Biafran agitation, Simon Ekpa’s influence has collapsed following his sentencing to prison by the Finnish Päijät-Häme District Court.

It was gathered that Ekpa’s imprisonment has shaken members of the separatist movement and cast a shadow over the recent declaration of a Biafran state by his supporters online.

The Päijät-Häme District Court sentenced the Nigerian-born Finn to six years in prison for terrorism-related crimes and other offences.

The 40-year-old former municipal politician from Lahti was convicted on multiple charges, including participation in the activities of a terrorist organisation, incitement to commit crimes for terrorist purposes, aggravated tax fraud, and violations of the Lawyers Act.

The court ordered that Ekpa remain in custody.

According to the judgment, between August 2021 and November 2024, Ekpa attempted to promote the independence of the so-called Biafra region in southeastern Nigeria through illegal means.

“He used social media to gain a politically influential position and took advantage of the confusion within a key separatist movement in Nigeria to play a significant role in it,” the court statement said, as reported by BBC News Pidgin.

But Ekpa denied all the charges against him.

Ekpa’s hubris

Ekpa had been thriving in his self-appointed leadership role, using online broadcasts and social media activities to assert influence and rally support before he was remanded in May 2025.

He gained prominence after the arrest of the detained leader of the proscribed Indigenous People of Biafra, Nnamdi Kanu, in 2021.

Kanu was arrested for instigating violence in the South-East geopolitical zone using various social media platforms.

Ekpa, wielding his influence, showed his strength by single-handedly ordering sit-at-home in the South-East region for years.

This was part of his strategy to advance the agitation for a sovereign Biafran state.

Ekpa’s sit-at-home orders forced residents across the South-East to shut down shops and stay indoors, while businesses and companies were compelled to halt operations.

The directive crippled commercial activities, slashed company profits, and resulted in significant economic losses for both the federal and state governments.

An intelligence report released in May 2025 revealed that over 700 people were killed in the South-East region between 2021 and 2025 as a result of the sit-at-home orders.

The report, published by Lagos-based consultancy SBM Intelligence, attributed the deaths to targeted killings of civilians who defied the weekly Monday sit-at-home directives and other sporadic orders, as well as violent clashes between members of the Indigenous People of Biafra and security forces.

Findings revealed that Ekpa received millions of naira in donations from supporters both within Nigeria and across the diaspora.

This was done through the platform of the ‘Biafra Republic Government-in-Exile’.

While the secessionist leader appeared to enjoy growing influence and attention abroad, the Nigerian government grappled with the escalating crisis at home.

In addition to issuing sit-at-home orders, Ekpa’s separatist activism drew global attention, particularly his calls to boycott Nigerian elections.

“No elections will be held! Nigerian elections will not be allowed in Biafran territory in 2023,” he declared in a video on social media.

Ekpa had publicly justified the use of violence.

“I support violence against Nigerian government forces. This is self-defence. They constantly attack us and have committed numerous war crimes. We have no choice but to defend ourselves,” he stated.

In 2023, Ekpa also commanded loyal armed groups, the “Biafra Liberation Army,” who terrorised communities in the South-East and targeted individuals perceived to be opposing the secessionist agenda.

His fall

The doom of the Finland-based leader of the Autopilot began in 2023.

The Finnish National Bureau of Investigation suspected a man who lived in Lahti of money collection offences.

Although the NBI did not initially name the suspect, a Finnish local publication, Yle, identified him as Ekpa.

Yle reported that he was detained on suspicion of fundraising fraud but released the same evening in 2023.

Despite facing multiple trials, Ekpa, who served on Lahti’s public transport committee as a member of the National Coalition Party, had not received any public comment from his party regarding the matter.

The NCP Secretary, Timo Elo, declined to comment on Ekpa’s possible membership of the party while speaking with Yle.

“We never say who is and who isn’t our member. That is confidential information,” Elo told Yle.

Elo, however, said that if a member of the party was suspected of terrorism offences, that would likely lead to their expulsion.

According to Elo, Ekpa’s role on the public transport commission, for example, should be assessed locally.

In May 2025, the separatist leader was remanded by the district court and scheduled to face charges.

Throughout his remand, Ekpa was held in the Kylmäkoski Vankila prison.

A senior detective superintendent at Finland’s National Bureau of Investigation, Mikko Laaksonen, told Saturday PUNCH that Ekpa could not get bail due to the criminal procedure of the country.

“Our procedure is based on the case, remand, or travel ban as coercive measures for limiting freedom of movement for persons suspected of offences to which such measures are applicable.”

A Finnish legal document obtained by Saturday PUNCH revealed that remand is a coercive measure implemented during a criminal investigation and trial.

However, our correspondent could not confirm if Ekpa had been transferred to another prison after his sentencing as of the time of filing this report.

Ekpa’s jail term splits agitators

It was noted that Ekpa’s imprisonment divided supporters of BRGIE over the approach to the agitation for freedom.

Also, the jailing of Ekpa impacted the proclaimed Biafran state.

Despite the announcement of independence on November 29, 2024, in Finland, and a proposed referendum to establish a “United States of Biafra” comprising 40 states, the initiative failed to produce any concrete outcomes.

Checks by our correspondent revealed that the official website of the movement had become inactive.

Attempts to access the site returned an error message that read, “This site can’t be reached.”

It was also gathered that several individuals who once supported the movement now believe it was merely a conduit for embezzlement, disguised as a struggle for Biafran independence.

This comes as the self-styled BRGIE Acting Prime Minister, Ogechukwu Nkere, took to his X handle, urging supporters to continue donating to the cause.

Nkere wrote, “Fund your freedom.”

In a separate post, he wrote, “The world can only be a good place when injustice such as this stops happening, where a freedom fighter is sentenced for terrorism.

“The Biafra Government calls on the good people of the world to intervene, because Finland has escalated the problem instead of providing a solution in Biafraland.”

Meanwhile, his posts were met with criticism from members of the movement.

Reacting in an X post, a member of the movement, @KelvinNnoa27957, wrote, “Just stop this nonsense already. Freedom is not funded; it is the steps taken in the right direction that lead to freedom. Nobody so focused on money ever achieved freedom, because money doesn’t really bring freedom; it is our action and seriousness that will give us freedom.”

Also, @nwa_nne accused Nkere of backstabbing.

He posted, “You can now go and collect your balance from whoever sent you against our PM. But be rest assured that, in due time, those who have used you against our PM will come looking for you, because they are done with you. Criminals don’t trust each other. They will come for you.”

Another member, @Biafratimeisnow, wrote, “Onyeoshi! Oge Nkere, a hardened criminal, was transferring money from the BRGIE bank account to his personal and business accounts. Now you all can understand why this criminal sold Mazi Simon Ekpa and also refused to allow anybody to become a signatory to our BRGIE account.”

Similarly, @AngusOkeke wrote, “You criminals sold out our PM, MSE, to keep extorting money from us, just as the criminals in DOS did to our Onyendu, MNK.

“But we genuine Biafrans are wiser. You criminals will never get shishi from genuine Biafrans, because genuine Biafrans have all of you criminals’ track records.”

Speaking on the matter in an interview with Saturday PUNCH, the President of Igboekulie, an association dedicated to promoting Igbo language and culture, Benjamin Obidegwu, stated that he did not support the current approach to agitation.

He acknowledged that the right to agitate was a fundamental entitlement of every Nigerian.

Obidegwu said, “My position has always been that issues about agitation for Biafra are political issues that should be settled politically. People have the right to agitate and express their concerns in a country. What is happening is not unusual, but it’s just a problem of approach.

“I have always said that Nnamdi Kanu’s problem is something that should be settled politically. If you try to do it in another way, the problem will remain. For Ekpa, he was sentenced by a foreign country. Igbo people have the right to complain about how they are treated in Nigeria, especially since after the civil war. If the government will listen, fine; if they don’t, the problems will linger, and it’s not good for the state of Nigeria.”

Also speaking, the President-General of the Coalition of South-East Youth Leaders, Goodluck Ibem, urged the public to refrain from funding non-state actors under the guise of supporting agitation.

He said, “People should stop these agitators who hide themselves under the pretence of fighting for freedom. What they are doing is not agitation. This is just a private business to defraud innocent citizens who are ignorant of their tricks and antics.

“There is no way they are fighting for freedom while carrying guns to shoot at people and also causing fear. People should stop supporting them by giving them finances.”

The apex Igbo socio-cultural organisation, Ohanaeze Ndigbo, had earlier commended the Federal Government for the incarceration of Ekpa in Finland.

In a statement, the Deputy President-General of the body, Okechukwu Isiguzoro, lauded the National Security Adviser, Nuhu Ribadu; the Minister of State for Defence, Bello Matawalle; and the Chief of Defence Staff, General Christopher Musa, for their efforts in dismantling the reign of terror that had affected the South-East zone.

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