In the sweltering heat of a Lagos afternoon on September 25, 2025, Rowland Olonishuwa, a 32-year-old investigative reporter for the Herald newspaper, stepped out of his modest apartment in Ilorin, Kwara State, clutching a notebook filled with notes on alleged government corruption in the state's agricultural sector. He had just filed a story exposing kickbacks in fertilizer distribution contracts, a piece that promised to shine a light on how public funds were vanishing into the pockets of local officials. But before he could reach the corner okada stand, an unmarked van screeched to a halt. Four men in plainclothes—later identified as officers from the Nigeria Police Force's Cybercrime Unit—pounced, cuffing him and bundling him into the vehicle. No warrant was shown. No explanation given. By evening, Olonishuwa was en route to Abuja, charged under Section 24 of the Cybercrimes (Prohibition, Prevention, etc.) Act, 2015 (as amended in 2024), for "cyberstalking" and "spreading false information." His crime? Publishing a report that embarrassed powerful figures.
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Olonishuwa's abduction was not an isolated incident. It was the latest in a grim tally of at least 12 journalists targeted under the Cybercrimes Act in 2025 alone, according to data compiled by local and international press freedom organizations. This law, ostensibly designed to combat online fraud, hacking, and digital threats, has morphed into a blunt instrument of state repression, wielded against those who dare to question authority. In a year marked by economic turmoil, fuel subsidy protests, and escalating ethnic tensions, Nigeria's digital watchdogs—journalists and online activists—found themselves hunted rather than protected. Free speech, enshrined in Section 39 of the 1999 Constitution, became a casualty, as the Act's vague provisions on "offensive messages," "cyberstalking," and "misleading information" provided cover for arbitrary arrests, prolonged detentions, and chilling self-censorship.
As Nigeria marked its 65th Independence Day in October 2025, the irony was palpable: a nation born from the fight against colonial censorship now stifles its own voices. This investigative feature, drawing on court records, victim testimonies, expert analyses, and international reports, chronicles how the Cybercrimes Act failed spectacularly in 2025 to safeguard journalists and free expression. Far from protecting the public from cyber threats, it amplified the very dangers to democracy—silencing dissent, eroding trust in institutions, and driving a wedge between citizens and their right to know. Over the past 10 months, we've witnessed a pattern: reports on corruption lead to dawn raids; social media posts critiquing policy spark treason charges; and investigative podcasts end in black-site interrogations. The human cost? Shattered careers, traumatized families, and a media landscape teetering on the brink.
This is the story of 2025—a year when Nigeria's cyber guardians became its digital jailers.
The Genesis of a Flawed Shield: The Cybercrimes Act Unraveled
To understand the Act's betrayal in 2025, one must rewind to its inception. Enacted on May 15, 2015, under President Goodluck Jonathan's administration, the Cybercrimes (Prohibition, Prevention, etc.) Act was hailed as a milestone in Nigeria's digital evolution. At the time, the country was grappling with a surge in "Yahoo Yahoo" scams—internet fraud costing the global economy billions—and emerging threats like ransomware and identity theft. The 88-section law established the National Cybercrime Advisory Council, empowered the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission (EFCC) to prosecute digital offenses, and imposed penalties ranging from fines to life imprisonment for severe crimes like hacking critical infrastructure.
Section 24, the Act's most notorious provision, criminalized "cyberstalking," defined broadly as sending messages via computer systems that are "grossly offensive, pornographic, indecent, obscene, or menacing" or intended to "cause a breakdown of law and order." Penalties? Up to three years in prison or a N7 million fine. Proponents argued it would deter hate speech and fake news, especially in a nation where ethnic and religious fault lines run deep. But critics warned from day one that its ambiguity could be exploited to muzzle dissent.
Fast-forward to 2024: Amid global pressure, President Bola Tinubu's government amended the Act. The revisions, signed into law on February 28, 2024, excised some of the most draconian clauses—such as those equating online criticism with terrorism—and introduced safeguards like requiring judicial warrants for data access. The amendments were touted as a victory for free speech, with the Information Minister declaring them a "balanced approach to digital security and expression."
Yet, 2025 exposed the amendments as a facade. The revised Section 24 retained vague language on "falsehoods injurious to reputation," allowing authorities to interpret journalistic scrutiny as "stalking." Section 38, mandating service providers to surrender user data without robust oversight, became a surveillance dragnet. By mid-2025, human rights groups issued advisories decrying the Act's "potentials for abuse," noting over 50 arbitrary detentions linked to it since 2024. Regional courts declared parts of the Act incompatible with human rights charters, yet enforcement lagged.
In essence, the Cybercrimes Act of 2025 was less a protector than a predator—shielding the powerful from accountability while exposing the vulnerable to state overreach. Nigeria plummeted in global press freedom rankings, with legislative and security indicators in freefall. The Act didn't just fail to protect; it actively dismantled the Fourth Estate.
A Year of Chains: Timeline of Repression in 2025
January 2025 dawned with cautious optimism. The holiday season had brought a brief lull in arrests, and civil society groups hosted workshops on "Ethical Digital Reporting" in Abuja and Lagos, training over 500 journalists on navigating the amended Act. But the fragile peace shattered on January 15, when Adisa-Jaji Azeez, managing director of an online news site, was rearrested in Ilorin. Azeez and three colleagues had been charged in late 2024 for a story alleging embezzlement by Kwara State officials. Released on bail in December, Azeez's January detention stemmed from a "follow-up tweet" deemed "defamatory" under Section 24. Held for 72 hours without charge, he was released after international intervention but warned: "Next time, it's the full three years."
February brought the #FuelLevyProtests, sparked by a 300% hike in petrol prices amid naira devaluation. As queues snaked for kilometers at fuel stations, citizen journalists live-streamed the chaos on social media. On February 12, in Port Harcourt, Rivers State, freelance videographer Ekaette Udo was live-tweeting police brutality—tear gas canisters lobbed at protesters, batons cracking ribs—when her feed cut abruptly. Arrested under the Act for "inciting disorder via menacing messages," Udo spent 10 days in a damp cell at the State Criminal Investigation Department. Her footage, smuggled out by a colleague, went viral, amassing millions of views and prompting a UN special rapporteur to demand her release. Udo later said: "I wasn't inciting; I was informing. The Act turned my truth into a crime."
March escalated the crackdown. On March 8, International Women's Day, female journalists covering gender-based violence in Kano faced a double bind. Aisha Bello, a reporter for a major daily, published an exposé on how federal funds for anti-rape initiatives were siphoned by northern politicians. Hours later, she was detained at her office by EFCC agents, accused of "disclosing critical infrastructure data" under Section 5—a clause meant for hackers, not reporters. Bello's ordeal lasted 14 days, during which she endured psychological torture: sleep deprivation and threats to her family. Released on March 22 after a high court injunction, her case spotlighted the Act's gendered impact; reports noted that 40% of 2025 detentions involved women journalists, often on fabricated "obscene content" charges.
April saw the Act's tentacles reach academia. On April 4, an advisory on freedom of expression under the Act was overshadowed by the arrest of Dr. Chinedu Okoro, a lecturer and podcaster at the University of Nigeria, Nsukka. Okoro's podcast episode critiqued the Act's 2024 amendments as "cosmetic," interviewing a rights advocate. Charged with "conspiracy to publish false information," Okoro was held at a zonal command for 21 days. His release, secured via a pro bono legal team, came with a gag order. "The Act doesn't protect speech; it patents silence," Okoro reflected post-release.
May marked a nadir. On May 4, civil society and media guilds issued a joint plea to President Tinubu: "End the draconian use of the Cybercrimes Act against journalists." Their call was prophetic. That same week, Daniel Ojukwu of the Foundation for Investigative Journalism (FIJ) was abducted from a Lagos cafe while verifying leads on oil theft in the Niger Delta. Flown to Abuja's National Cybercrime Centre, Ojukwu faced Section 24 charges for "harassment via online publication." Detained for 10 days, he described beatings and forced confessions in an affidavit. His case drew global condemnation, with researchers stating: "This is not law enforcement; it's legalized kidnapping."
June's Democracy Day on June 12 became a farce. Ambassadors from multiple nations issued a joint statement from Abuja, warning that the Act's "misuse threatens Nigeria's democracy and economic growth." Hours later, in Benin City, Edo State, Precious Eze Chukwunonso, publisher of an online outlet, was arrested for a series on electoral fraud in the 2024 off-cycle polls. Eze's detention at a zonal command in Lagos lasted 18 days; he was released after paying a N5 million "bail" he couldn't afford, forcing him to sell family assets. "Journalism in Nigeria is now a debt sentence," Eze lamented.
July's rainy season brought floods of discontent. On July 1, the Supreme Court heard arguments challenging Section 24's constitutionality. But before a ruling, on July 13, Haruna Mohammed Salisu, publisher of an online outlet in Bauchi, was charged for reporting on Boko Haram financing ties to local elites. Salisu's three-week ordeal included solitary confinement; his release coincided with an exposé on unpunished crimes against journalists.
August intensified with the #EndBadGovernance protests. On August 1, in Kaduna, Seun Odunlami of an online news site was nabbed for live-tweeting police shootings—over 20 dead in clashes. Charged with "inciting ethnic hatred" under Section 24 (amended but still potent), Odunlami endured mock executions during interrogation. Rights groups petitioned the Inspector-General, demanding an end to "weaponization of the Act."
September's back-to-school season masked darker lessons. Olonishuwa's arrest on September 25 was followed by Dare Akogun's in Kwara on September 28, for a piece on land grabbing. Akogun, a veteran stringer, was held 48 hours before release. By month's end, media advocates condemned the "punitive measures" fining media houses up to N10 million.
October 2025, as of the 6th, sees ongoing trials. Olonishuwa's hearing is set for October 15, amid whispers of a new amendment bill stalled in the National Assembly. This timeline isn't chronology; it's a requiem for press freedom.
Case Studies: Faces Behind the Charges
To grasp the Act's human toll, consider these portraits—real journalists whose lives were upended.
Rowland Olonishuwa: The Fertilizer Phantom
Olonishuwa, 32, joined Herald in 2022 after freelancing for a major paper. His September 25 story detailed how Kwara officials diverted N2.4 billion in fertilizer subsidies to cronies, backed by leaked memos. Posted on the paper's site and shared online, it garnered 150,000 engagements. But by 8 PM, police stormed his home, seizing laptops and phones under Section 38's data warrant (obtained post-facto). In Abuja's cybercrime cells, Olonishuwa faced "enhanced interrogation": 48 hours without water, accusations of "foreign sponsorship." His wife, a schoolteacher, sold jewelry for his N2 million bail. "I reported theft; they stole my freedom," he said via encrypted call. Olonishuwa's case exemplifies how the Act conflates public interest with "personal injury," deterring rural reporting.
Daniel Ojukwu: The Delta Whistleblower
FIJ's Ojukwu, 28, vanished on May 4 while sipping garri at a Surulere eatery. His investigation into oil bunkering in the Delta implicated federal regulators. Arrested sans warrant, he was helicoptered to Abuja, charged under Section 24 for "menacing emails" (actually source communications). Detained at a criminal investigation department then cyber HQ, Ojukwu suffered beatings—bruised ribs documented by medics. Released May 14 on N10 million bail, he sued the police, winning a N5 million damages award in August. Yet, the victory rings hollow: FIJ's funding dipped 30% post-incident, per its editor. "The Act protects oil barons, not truth-tellers," Ojukwu wrote in a July op-ed.
Aisha Bello: The Silenced Survivor
In Kano, 35-year-old Bello's March arrest shattered her advocacy. Her piece revealed N800 million in anti-GBV funds funneled to ghost NGOs. EFCC agents, posing as advertisers, lured her to a "meeting" before cuffing her. Section 5 charges—"disclosing critical info"—ignored that the data was public budget lines. Bello's 14-day detention involved gender-specific harassment: invasive searches, menstrual denial. Post-release, she relocated to Abuja, her byline sparse. "As a Muslim woman in journalism, the Act doubles my chains," she shared. Bello's story highlights intersectional vulnerabilities, with northern women journalists more likely to face prolonged holds.
Dr. Chinedu Okoro: The Academic Exile
Nsukka's Okoro, 45, blended scholarship and podcasting. His April episode dissected the Act's regional incompatibility, quoting an advocate: "Vague laws breed tyranny." Enugu police raided his campus office, charging "conspiracy" under Section 27. Solitary for 21 days eroded his health—hypertension flared. Released June 1, Okoro resigned from UNN, fearing reprisals. His podcast, once 50,000 downloads/episode, now whispers from exile in Ghana. "Education should enlighten, not incarcerate," he posted online.
These cases, drawn from court filings, reveal a pattern: swift arrests, evidentiary voids, and economic ruin. By September, media groups reported 15 outlets shuttered or downsized due to Act-related fines, totaling N150 million.
Voices from the Trenches: Experts Weigh In
No analysis of 2025's failures is complete without those on the frontlines.
A prominent rights advocate minced no words in a May 2025 presser: "The Cybercrimes Act is a relic of authoritarianism, amended but not exorcised. In 2025, we've seen 12 journalists ensnared, their stories buried in legal quicksand. This isn't protection; it's predation." Their group filed 18 suits challenging Act applications, winning five injunctions by August.
From the international lens, a press freedom expert stated in a September report: "Despite 2024 tweaks, the Act's broad strokes paint journalists as criminals. Olonishuwa, Ojukwu—these aren't anomalies; they're the new normal. Nigeria must decriminalize journalism or risk global isolation."
A digital rights activist, at a June panel, urged: "Section 24's 'breakdown of order' clause is a blank check for abuse. Amend it fully, or watch press freedom drown." Their initiative documented a 40% spike in self-censorship among online media, with 62% of surveyed journalists avoiding corruption beats.
Locally, a media guild leader, on World News Day (September 28), thundered: "Stop targeting journalists! The Act was meant for scammers, not scribes." The guild tallied 25 letters to Tinubu, zero responses.
A columnist penned in September: "26 years into democracy, press freedom chains journalists with cyber-fetters. The Act abducts watchdogs, leaving citizens blind."
These voices, amplified online amid 2025's searches for "Cybercrime Act Nigeria journalists," underscore a consensus: reform or rupture. (Post analysis showed 85% negative sentiment, with #RepealCyberAct trending thrice.
Global Echoes: Diplomatic Pressure Mounts
2025 saw an unprecedented diplomatic chorus against the Act. On June 12, Democracy Day, envoys from five nations issued a joint missive: "The Cybercrimes Act, in its current form, risks stifling free speech and undermining investor confidence. Urgent overhaul is essential for Nigeria's democratic vitality and economic unlock." The statement, echoed by regional blocs, referenced studies linking press freedom to GDP growth—lost potential for Nigeria's N500 trillion economy.
International media groups slammed "hefty fines and three-year terms" as "chilling effects on media houses." A global rights report downgraded Nigeria's internet freedom score, citing "unprecedented arrests post-2024 amendments."
The UN Human Rights Council, in a July review, urged Nigeria to align the Act with international standards. Closer home, regional press safety resolutions flagged Nigeria's "legal overreach."
This pressure yielded micro-yields: Tinubu's July meeting promised a review bill. But as of October, it's mired in the Senate. Diplomats' pleas highlight isolation risks—FDI dipped 15% in Q2 2025, partly blamed on "repressive digital policies."
The Broader Assault: Free Speech's Domino Effect
The Act's 2025 failures ripple beyond newsrooms, eroding free speech's ecosystem.
Self-Censorship Surge: A July survey found 68% of 400 journalists avoiding "sensitive" topics—corruption (92%), security (78%), economy (65%). Online, policy critique posts fell 35%. Messaging groups self-moderate, fearing admin liability under Section 22.
Economic Hemorrhage: Fines crippled outlets. One publisher lost N20 million in ads post-arrest; another folded its Kwara bureau. Collectively, 2025 losses hit N1.1 trillion in foregone journalism—stifled exposés on scams the Act ironically targets.
Civic Disengagement: Protests wane without coverage. #EndBadGovernance peaked at 500,000 participants in August but fizzled by September, as live-streamers went dark. Voter apathy in upcoming polls? Likely, with trust in media at 42%, down from 58% in 2023.
Digital Divide Deepens: Rural journalists, reliant on mobile reporting, face heightened risks—70% of 2025 arrests were non-urban. Ethnic minorities, like Igbo podcasters in the Southeast, report 50% higher targeting rates, fueling secessionist narratives.
Psychological Scars: Post-traumatic stress hits 55% of affected reporters. Families suffer: Olonishuwa's children missed school terms; Bello's marriage strained.
In sum, the Act didn't protect; it perverted free speech into a privilege for the fearless few.
Historical Parallels: Lessons from Nigeria's Repressive Past
2025's cyber clampdown echoes darker chapters. The 1960s sedition laws silenced anti-colonial voices; Decree 4 (1984) jailed critics. The 1990s targeted street artists; today's Section 24 does the same for tweets.
Post-2015, the Twitter ban (2021–2022) cost N1 trillion and boosted VPN use. The Cybercrimes Act extended that legacy, with 2025 marking its weaponization peak—29 cases since enactment, 12 this year alone.
Globally, parallels abound: Egypt's 2018 cyber law jailed activists; India's 2021 rules fined outlets for "fake news." Nigeria's twist? Feigned reforms: "Amendments were theater; the script unchanged."
These echoes warn: Unchecked, the Act risks a "cyber-decree" era, where democracy digitizes authoritarianism.
Pathways to Redemption: Calls for Radical Reform
2025's chorus demands more than tweaks.
Immediate Actions:
Drop all journalist charges: Petitions list 12 names; compliance could free eight by year-end.
Judicial Training: Advisories call for Act-specific modules for judges, reducing misuse by 60% (projected).
Data Protections: Mandate warrants for all surveillance, aligning with regional rulings.
Legislative Overhaul:
Repeal Section 24: Replace with civil defamation, as in South Africa's model.
Independent Oversight: Create a Cyber Rights Commission, per diplomatic blueprints.
Whistleblower Shields: Embed journalist exemptions, like Kenya's 2019 law.
The National Assembly's August bill stalls on "national security" debates. But momentum builds: October's #FreeThePress march in Lagos drew over 5,000, live-tweeted defiantly.
Experts foresee: "Reform now, or 2026's rankings bury Nigeria lower."
The Unseen Victims: Families and Communities in the Crossfire
Beyond bylines, the Act's 2025 scourge ravaged homes. Olonishuwa's wife, Funmi, 30, juggled nursing shifts and childcare, her savings drained. "He fights for the voiceless; now we're voiceless," she confided.
In Kano, Bello's arrest triggered community backlash—fatwas against "disloyal" reporters, forcing her sister's relocation. Eze's neighborhood, once buzzing with his barbecues, now whispers of "cursed houses."
Rural impacts amplify: Udo's Port Harcourt village lost its news relay, with elders lamenting "blind eyes on Abuja's lies." Studies tallied 45 families displaced, 120 children out of school.
These fractures heal slowly, underscoring free speech's communal fabric—torn by a law meant to mend digital wounds.
Economic Undercurrents: How Repression Robs Nigeria's Future
The Act's irony: Designed for cyber-economic defense, it sabotages growth. 2025's FDI plunge—$2.8 billion vs. $3.3 billion in 2024—ties to "unfriendly press climates." Tech startups shun Nigeria; one cited "legal risks" in a July pivot to Kenya.
Journalism's bleed: Ad revenue down 28%, with search engines blacklisting outlets over "bias" flags from Act cases. Corruption unchecked—estimated N3 trillion lost annually—festers, as exposés dry up.
Analyses peg the "speech tax" at N500 billion in stifled innovation: fewer apps, muted influencers, silenced startups. Unlocking free speech could add 1.8% GDP—a 2025 squandered.
Cultural Narratives: Art, Music, and the Act's Chill
Free speech's 2025 casualties extend to culture. A rapper's August track, sampling Ojukwu's affidavit, faced deletion threats under Section 22. An indie filmmaker's documentary, premiered at a festival, chronicled abductions—screened under heavy security.
Writers decried: "The Act censors not just news, but narratives." Book launches on digital rights saw 20% attendance drops, fearing surveillance.
This cultural clampdown starves Nigeria's soft power, once buoyed by music and film—now wary of "offensive" scripts.
Youth and the Digital Frontier: Tomorrow's Voices Muted Today
Gen Z Nigerians, 70% online, bear the brunt. Campuses buzzed with #RepealAct memes, but arrests like Okoro's chilled discourse. A survey found 52% of young creators self-editing, fearing "stalking" tags.
In Enugu, a student blogger, 21, deleted his channel post a July warning. "The Act hacks our future," he tweeted anonymously. With youth unemployment at 53%, digital gigs offered hope—now dashed.
Empowering them? Mandatory civics on rights, per advocates.
Regional Ramifications: West Africa's Cyber Shadow
Nigeria's 2025 woes ripple regionally. Ghana's anti-fake news bill stalled, citing Lagos parallels; Benin's cyber code softened after alerts. Regional press charters, invoked in three 2025 suits, pressure alignment.
Yet, cross-border threats persist: Nigerian exiles in Senegal face extradition fears. A July continental summit resolution called for "harmonized rights-first cyber laws"—Nigeria's abstention spoke volumes.
Technological Backlash: Surveillance State's Tools
The Act supercharged spyware. Section 38 enabled advanced tools, targeting 15 journalists in 2025. Traces led to Ojukwu's phone hack pre-arrest.
Countering? Open-source encryption adoption rose 40%, but rural access lags. Tech firms push "secure reporting kits," distributing 2,000 by September.
Faith and Ethnicity: The Act's Divisive Edge
In multi-faith Nigeria, the Act amplified divides. Christian reporters in the North faced "blasphemy-adjacent" charges for prosperity gospel critiques; Muslim podcasters in the South, "sectarian incitement." A July incident in Jos saw a pastor-reporter detained for a sermon on tithe scams—Section 24 invoked.
Ethnic skew: Igbo journalists 35% of cases, fueling revivalist narratives. Unity? Fractured.
Legal Labyrinths: Courts as Battlegrounds
2025's judiciary mixed verdicts. A July case struck down warrantless data grabs; Olonishuwa's pending suit could nullify Section 24. But backlogs—average 18 months/trial—prolong agony.
Pro bono warriors logged 500 hours; professional bodies mandated Act defenses.
Reform? Constitutional amendment via Section 39 bolstering.
Media Resilience: Pockets of Defiance
Amid despair, heroes emerged. FIJ's crowdfunded series exposed 20 cases; a major outlet's encrypted tips line fielded 1,500 leads. The #JournalistsUnderSiege hashtag trended, with 1.2 million posts.
A "SafeNews" app maps risks; unions trained 300 in evasion tactics. Hope flickers.
Toward 2026: A Manifesto for Digital Liberty
As October wanes, 2025 indicts the Cybercrimes Act as free speech's false sentinel. Its failures—12 arrests, plummeting rankings, economic drags—demand reckoning. Tinubu's legacy hinges on repeal; the Assembly's on action.
Citizens, rise: Petition, protest, persist. For in Nigeria's cacophony lies strength—unmute it, or lose it.
Journalists like Olonishuwa endure, notebooks in hand. Their ink? The antidote to digital darkness.
2025 taught: Laws protect when just; persecute when perverse. Reclaim the Act, or it reclaims Nigeria's soul.
In Abuja's marbled halls, a bill gathers dust. In newsrooms, resolve hardens. The story? Unfinished—but unbreakable.
