The recent interaction between Tony Elumelu and a young lady from the UBA Graduate Management Accelerated Programme (GMAP) raises an interesting question about the relationship between respect, organisational culture, hierarchy, and familiarity.

During the programme’s graduation ceremony, the young graduate addressed Tony Elumelu simply as “Tony.” He corrected her and indicated that she should address him as “Mr Elumelu” or “TOE.” To some observers, this was a straightforward lesson in respect. To others, particularly those familiar with UBA’s workplace culture, the young lady may simply have been following what she had been taught: that people within the organisation should address one another by their first names, regardless of rank.

This distinction is important. Calling someone by their first name does not automatically mean that the person is being disrespectful. In many modern organisations, first-name culture is deliberately encouraged because it reduces unnecessary hierarchy and makes senior leaders more approachable. It can encourage younger employees to ask questions, share ideas, challenge assumptions and speak openly without being intimidated by titles.

At the same time, the African and particularly Nigerian understanding of respect often goes beyond an individual’s intentions. Age, position and social status influence how people are expected to address one another. Words such as “Sir,” “Ma,” “Chief,” “Dr.” and “Mr.” are not merely formalities; they can communicate recognition, courtesy and appropriate social boundaries.

This is where the Elumelu incident becomes particularly interesting. If UBA has cultivated a culture in which employees are encouraged to use first names, then it is understandable that a young graduate might assume that the principle applies even when addressing the Group Chairman. Her use of “Tony” therefore may have reflected organisational conditioning rather than arrogance or bad manners.

On the other hand, leaders also have the right to establish how they wish to be addressed. If Elumelu believes that “Tony” is excessively familiar in a particular setting, correcting the young woman is entirely legitimate. Respect should not be reduced to whether someone uses a title; it should also include recognising another person’s preferences, position and the context of the interaction.

The deeper lesson is that respect and hierarchy are not necessarily the same thing. A leader can promote an egalitarian workplace without requiring every individual interaction to be informal. Likewise, a person can address a senior executive formally without feeling intimidated by him.

There is therefore a balance to be found between organisational culture and cultural sensitivity. An organisation may encourage first-name communication because it wants to eliminate fear and excessive hierarchy. But employees should also be taught that context matters. A casual conversation in the office, a formal board meeting and a public graduation ceremony may require different levels of formality.

For the young lady, this appears to have been a moment of learning rather than a serious breach of respect. For Elumelu, it was an opportunity to communicate his personal preference and reinforce the distinction he wanted to maintain. The incident becomes problematic only if a simple correction is transformed into a judgment about the young woman’s character or upbringing.

Ultimately, true respect is found more in how we treat people than in the titles we use for them. Titles can express respect, but they do not create it. Similarly, first names can create accessibility and equality, but they should not be used to disregard legitimate boundaries.

The most valuable lesson for young professionals is therefore simple: be confident enough to engage senior leaders, humble enough to recognise hierarchy, and wise enough to understand the context. And for leaders, the lesson is equally important: create an environment where people are not afraid to speak to you, while making your expectations about formality clear.

The objective should not be to choose between “first-name culture” and “African respect.” It should be to build a culture where accessibility and respect can coexist.

George Bamidele Ogunjimi Esq

jurisrepubliclegal@gmail.com

23/08/2026.

The post Respect, First Names, and Leadership: The Tony Elumelu–UBA GMAP Moment appeared first on Alpha News Nigeria.

Let’s rewind the tape. Not too long ago, Okonkwo was Peter Obi’s vocal spokesperson during the 2023 presidential campaign under the Labour Party. He spoke with passion about Obi’s vision, his integrity, and the need for a Southeast presidency after decades of marginalization. He threw himself into the fray, defending the “Obidient” movement with the zeal of a true believer. Nigerians listened. Many were inspired. But fast-forward to 2026, and the script has flipped dramatically. Okonkwo now accuses Obi of betrayal, indecisiveness, and even worse- alleging bribe-taking and shady dealings that have landed him in hot water with a hefty N5 billion defamation suit from his former principal.

“I stopped speaking for him because he lacks the decisiveness to lead,” Okonkwo declared on national television. He wanted Obi to “fight ferociously” for the mandate, to sacrifice more amid the post-election turmoil. Fair critique? Perhaps, if it came from a consistent voice. But coming from a man who has danced across party lines, it reeks of convenience. Obi, ever the calm operator, has challenged Okonkwo to spill all his “secrets” in court, even vowing to quit the 2027 race if proven unfit. The ball is in Okonkwo’s court, yet the drama continues.

Now, enter Atiku Abubakar, the man Okonkwo once roasted mercilessly. Throwback clips show Okonkwo eviscerating the former Vice President: accusing him of corruption, disloyalty, a “propensity for coded corruption,” and sacrificing national interest for personal gain. He painted Atiku as the embodiment of the old, tainted order. Yet here we are in 2026, with Okonkwo freshly appointed as Atiku’s spokesperson for the ADC’s 2027 push. Suddenly, Atiku is a “talent discoverer,” a man of vision who saw value in Okonkwo despite past barbs. “He looked beyond my criticisms,” Okonkwo gushes, contrasting Atiku’s magnanimity with Obi’s alleged betrayal.

Talk about selective amnesia! Atiku, to his credit, seems a pragmatic and vocal operator who brings media flair and Southeast outreach. But for observers, it’s a textbook case of political opportunism. Okonkwo himself has admitted using anti-Atiku rhetoric because “it was profitable” at the time. Now, the calculus has shifted. South-East marginalization remains his rallying cry- he even briefly withdrew support over Atiku’s VP choice- but the alliance holds, at least for now.

This double-faced dance isn’t new for Okonkwo. His political CV reads like a revolving door: dumping PDP, joining APC in 2018 (after criticizing Atiku), pushing for Southeast interests within Buhari’s party, then jumping to Labour with Obi, and now ADC. Each switch comes packaged with righteous indignation, as if this time it’s different, this time it’s pure. He blasts the Tinubu presidency and APC with gusto- labeling it a “government of catastrophe,” decrying insecurity, economic hardship, fuel prices, and leadership incapacity. “Tinubu is gone” if the opposition unites, he thunders. Harsh words from someone who once aligned with the party.

One can’t help but chuckle at the consistency of inconsistency. In a country starving for principled leadership, Okonkwo embodies the very cynicism many decry: politics as performance, loyalty as transaction, principles as props. His Nollywood background serves him well- delivering lines with conviction, switching roles seamlessly. But voters aren’t an audience buying tickets; they’re living the consequences of these flip-flops.

Critics from the South-East Revival Group and others rightly question which Okonkwo to believe: the passionate Obi endorser or the fierce detractor? The Atiku-basher or the loyal spokesman? Both can’t be true, they argue. Exactly. This chameleon act erodes trust in the political class. It fuels apathy among the youth who once saw Obi as a break from the script.

As 2027 looms, Nigerians deserve better than actors playing multiple parts. We need leaders with spines, not weather vanes. Kenneth Okonkwo’s saga is entertaining, no doubt- a real-life drama of ambition, grudges, and reversals. But it’s also a cautionary tale: in the end, the chameleon might change colours, but the tree it clings to remains the same old political forest. Will Nigerians fall for the latest act? Or demand a new script altogether?

By Chigozie Nnuriam

The post The Chameleon of Nollywood Politics: Kenneth Okonkwo’s Masterclass in Political Gymnastics appeared first on Alpha News Nigeria.

That question stayed in my mind as I followed the latest debate in the National Assembly about
discontinuing the controversial terrorist rehabilitation program.
The particular debate I am talking about took place on Tuesday, July 7, 2026, when lawmakers
led by Senator Abdulaziz Yar’Adua called on the Federal Government to stop rehabilitating and
reintegrating former Boko Haram members. Instead, they argued that terrorists should face
investigation, prosecution and punishment under Nigerian law.

Their position immediately sparked fresh discussions across the country, with many Nigerians
praising the Senate while others insisted that rehabilitation still has an important role in ending
insurgency.
As I read through the Senate’s arguments, I could understand why the issue has become so
emotional. Through a United Nations publication, I gathered that Boko Haram has displaced
more than 2 million Nigerians, and accounts for over 350,000 official deaths. Many families still
do not know where their loved ones are. And entire communities have struggled to rebuild their
lives.

It’s easy to understand why the terrorist rehabilitation debate is heated, and it prompts me to ask
myself, “but if rehabilitation can help end insurgency, then shouldn’t the program receive proper
funding?”
I got a shocking answer while reviewing interview footage of some Boko Haram victims in the
North. During these interviews, many of the victims claimed that they are still waiting for justice,
compensation and proper support.
That alone explains why emotions run high whenever the rehabiitation programme and the
money being spent on it is mentioned. Because if the government can spend money
rehabilitating outright criminals, why can’t the same resources be channelled towards
compensating those who have been hurt by these very criminals?
This begs another question. Can any country truly heal when many victims still feel forgotten?
The Federal Government has consistently defended Operation Safe Corridor, the programme
created in 2016 to rehabilitate selected former Boko Haram members who voluntarily surrender.

According to military authorities, the initiative aims to weaken terrorist groups by encouraging
defections. Officials say participants go through psychological counselling, religious
reorientation, education and vocational training before being returned to society.
From a military point of view, I understand the argument. If more fighters surrender instead of
continuing to attack communities, fewer soldiers and civilians may lose their lives.
Several countries facing insurgencies have adopted similar approaches alongside military
operations. But as I continued reading official documents and following expert opinions, another
concern became impossible to ignore. Many Nigerians simply do not know enough about how
the programme works!

Who decides which former fighter qualifies for rehabilitation? What crimes automatically lead to
prosecution instead? How thorough is the screening process? How often are communities
consulted before former insurgents return?
These are not unreasonable questions. They are questions taxpayers deserve answers to.
The more I looked into this issue, the more I realised that public distrust is not driven only by the
programme itself. It is also driven by a lack of transparency.
Could better transparency have prevented much of the public anger we see today?
Another issue that stood out during my research was the voice of victims. I came across reports
of displaced families struggling to rebuild their lives years after attacks. Many still depend on
humanitarian assistance. Many children lost their parents. Many parents lost their children. And
some survivors still battle emotional trauma long after the gunfire stopped.
Speaking of trauma, after interviewing a few individuals who have chosen to remain
anonymous, many swore that they would never visit or live in the North, due to what they (or
someone they know) have suffered at the hands of terrorists.

As a Nigerian, I can understand why many people struggle to accept headlines about
rehabilitation when countless victims are still waiting for meaningful government support.
Whether that perception tells the whole story or not, it has become part of the national
conversation.
The Senate appears to share some of those concerns. Lawmakers argued that rehabilitation
should not replace justice. They insisted that those responsible for acts of terrorism should
answer for their actions in court instead of simply returning to civilian life.
That argument carries weight. Justice is one of the foundations of every democratic society.

When people lose confidence that justice is being served, trust in public institutions begins to
weaken.
At the same time, I also found another side of the debate that deserves attention.
Counterterrorism experts often argue that defeating insurgency requires more than military force
alone. They say encouraging defections can reduce violence, provide intelligence and weaken
terrorist organisations from within.
So where does that leave Nigeria?
That is where I believe the real conversation should begin.
Instead of asking whether rehabilitation is entirely good or entirely bad, perhaps we should ask
whether Nigeria has built enough safeguards around the programme.
What if the real problem is not rehabilitation itself, but the way it is managed and explained to
the public?

One issue I found particularly alarming is the amount of money that had been spent on terrorist
rehabilitation. While reading an article published in a popular Newspaper, I discovered that the
Nigerian government has spent over N604,000,000 (Six hundred and four million Naira) on its
terrorist rehabilitation program.
This amount of money certainly raised eyebrows among the individuals I interviewed. While
some felt that such a large sum should have been spent on compensating victims, others gave off cheeky laughs, insinuating that the whole thing was a scam. Being a Nigerian myself, and
going by our long history of corrupt leadership, I wouldn’t blame Nigerians for feeling that way.
But while public suspicion of embezzlement alone is not proof of wrongdoing, the government
should recognise that a lack of transparency creates room for rumours.
If public money is funding rehabilitation programmes, then Nigerians deserve regular public
reports containing detailed breakdowns of how, where, and to whom these monies are being
disbursed.

Now, after assessing the argument from both ends, I believe that if terrorist rehabilitation must
continue, then support for victims should become even more visible
Just imagine losing your family, your business and your home because of terrorism. Years later,
you are still struggling to survive while the government is spending hundreds of millions on
former insurgents. That will never sit well with victims.
Even if the government is helping victims behind the scenes, many Nigerians do not see enough evidence of that support. That is also something they should work on.
As I finished reviewing the available reports, I came away with one conclusion. Nigeria should
not be forced to choose between security and justice. A responsible government should pursue
both with equal determination.

Former insurgents who qualify under clearly defined legal standards can still undergo
rehabilitation where appropriate. But those accused of committing serious crimes should face
transparent investigations and due process. At the same time, victims should receive the
attention, care and support they deserve.
The Senate’s latest intervention has reopened an important national conversation. What
happens next will shape public confidence for years to come.
Nigeria has paid far too high a price for terrorism to allow uncertainty and secrecy to dominate
such an important programme.
Every naira spent out of the N604,000,000 terrorist rehabilitation program should be accounted
for.

Every participant should pass through a transparent process.
Every victim should know that their pain has not been forgotten.
Only then can rehabilitation become part of a broader system of justice instead of appearing to
replace it.
And only then will Nigerians view the Operation Safe Corridor program as legit, and not another
means for corrupt government officials to loot.

The post Does Nigeria’s Boko Haram Reintegration Programme Reward Terrorism Instead of Justice? By Amechi Okoli appeared first on Alpha News Nigeria.