by Chinedu Emmanuel Oda

A dispatch from the African Social Impact Summit 2026

I want to be honest about something: when I landed in Lagos for the African Social Impact Summit (ASIS) 2026, I was not expecting to be unsettled. I have sat through my share of post-development conferences, and they usually confirm what I already know, just with better slide decks. ASIS 2026 was different. The numbers on the screen described the exact world I work in every day, and the picture they painted was uncomfortable.

Here is the dive. Global Overseas Development Assistance, the grant funding that has sustained civil society work across Africa for decades, has contracted by 23.1% over the preceding cycle. At the same time, the annual gap to fund the Sustainable Development Goals in Africa alone stands at $2.5 trillion. Yet over $300 trillion sits in private capital markets, largely untouched by development finance. The problem is not that the money doesn’t exist. It’s that no one has yet built the bridge between that capital and the communities that need it most.

CODE has been building that bridge for over fourteen years. We just haven’t been calling it that. For most of CODE’s history, our funding has operated on what the Summit called “activity financing.” A donor asks us to run community monitoring workshops; we run them, count attendance, submit reports, and the grant closes. That model is ending, not because our work is poor, but because the institutions controlling development capital are now asking a fundamentally different question. Not “what did you do?” but “what actually changed, can you prove it, and can you improve it?”

Under the emerging impact-financing model, donors and private investors only release payment after an Independent Verification Agent (IVA) confirms that promised outcomes actually occurred on the ground. No verified outcome, no payment. The IVA is not a supporting role in this structure; it is the mechanism the entire system depends on.

Here is what struck me sitting in that conference hall: CODE has been doing IVA work for years. We have simply never packaged it as such. Take our Girls’ Education Project in Bauchi, one of Nigeria’s most educationally disadvantaged states, where over a million girls are out of school. We don’t just run girls’ mentorship programmes. We track education budgets through the State Education Accounts model, monitor school infrastructure through community champions across four LGAs, and independently verify whether money allocated for classrooms actually produced classrooms. That is outcome verification. That is IVA work.

Consider also our role on AGILE (Adolescent Girls Initiative for Learning and Empowerment), which operates across multiple states. We serve as Third-Party Monitor: our dedicated monitors, including civil engineers, independently assess the construction quality of school buildings, audit Conditional Cash Transfers, and verify that life-skills delivery happened as promised. Again, IVA work, simply not labelled as such.

Then there is Follow The Money. Since 2012, our iFTM platform has tracked more than $500 million in public funds across all 36 Nigerian states, and 12 African countries, with over 9,000 active community monitors documenting what they find in real time. In Kaduna alone, FTM monitoring directly contributed to the delivery of $1.5 million in education infrastructure that had been budgeted but never built. Follow The Money is an IVA methodology. We have simply never priced it as one.

One session that didn’t get enough attention outside the room was the presentation on the Public Sector Performance Index (PSPI) and its state governance rankings. The core argument was pointed: governance performance is not about what a state has, but about how well it uses what it has. A state with a modest budget that deploys it transparently outranks a resource-rich state that does not.

PSPI ranks Nigeria’s 36 states and the FCT across five criteria: citizen satisfaction, revenue self-reliance, debt sustainability, revenue mobilisation, and transparency. One finding landed hardest in the room: as of the 2026 report, only 14 of Nigeria’s 36 states had publicly released their 2025 audited accounts. Among the non-compliant states is the FCT, the seat of the Federal Government, alongside Rivers State, one of the country’s wealthiest. If those two cannot meet this basic standard, the picture elsewhere is considerably worse.

For our Follow The Money work, this matters immediately. PSPI’s rankings tell us which states have the widest gap between resources and delivery, while FTM tells us what is actually happening on the ground in those same communities. Together, the two close an accountability loop that neither can close alone.

On my flight back, I kept thinking about the girls in Bauchi whose school roof we helped get fixed because a community monitor noticed the contractor hadn’t returned after the first payment. That is not an abstract development outcome. Those are children who now go to school when it rains.

The question ASIS 2026 forced me to confront is this: five years from now, will the financial structures that fund this kind of work still exist in the form we know? Or will we have been bold enough to build the ones that replace them?

CODE has the networks, the credibility, and the methodology. What the shift to impact financing asks of us now is the courage to name what we already do, and charge for it.

On the emotional and reactive cost of conflict, and what I am still learning about leading through it

By Hyeladzira James Mshelia, Ag. Chief Executive, Connected Development [CODE]

No one really tells you, before you step into a leadership role, how much time you will spend dealing with conflict that has very little to do with the work itself.

And do not get me wrong, some of it is serious. Perhaps someone keeps missing deadlines, and every time there is a reason for it. Maybe there was a delay upstream, or they are still waiting for approval, or something unexpected came up. And when you look at each explanation on its own, it can sound completely fair.

But when it keeps happening over months, it starts to look less like bad luck and more like a pattern. That is when the conversation changes. It is no longer an informal check-in about what went wrong. You are documenting concerns, gathering the facts, and preparing for formal action if things do not improve. And honestly, that whole process carries weight, especially when you are already trying to manage everything else the role is asking of you.

And that, at least, is the kind of conflict that makes sense to spend time on.

The other kind is smaller, but in some ways, it can be even more draining. Two people who cannot seem to work well together. Someone feels slighted in a meeting, and then the tension somehow lasts long after the meeting is over. One person quietly tells you what another person said about them, and suddenly you are in the middle of something that has very little to do with the actual work.

And in those moments, I often catch myself thinking, this is not what I signed up to lead. I did not take on this role to spend my mornings mediating disputes between capable adults who should, at least in theory, be able to work things out themselves. I used to feel almost embarrassed admitting that. I thought that if I found office politics draining, then maybe I was not cut out for leadership. But I do not believe that anymore.

The conflict nobody prepares you for

Most leadership writing prepares you for the big conflicts: a disagreement in the boardroom, a funder deciding to leave, or a crisis becoming public. And those situations are real, so they do deserve preparation.

But a lot of the conflict that takes up your time as a leader is much smaller. It is someone missing a deadline and having a reason for it again. Or it is two people having a personal disagreement that starts affecting a meeting that should be focused on the work. And sometimes, it is spending an hour trying to sort out a problem you did not create and would not have chosen to deal with.

I have fortunately never had to manage a conflict that became public or affected our reputation. But within a team, these kinds of issues can come up often. Some are important and need proper attention, while others are small but still take up more time and energy than they should.

None of it comes without a cost. When there is unresolved tension between colleagues, it does not stay between just those two people. It can affect how people feel about coming to work, how well they work together, and whether talented people start to feel like the environment is no longer worth the stress. And every hour a leader spends trying to resolve a personal dispute is an hour the team is not spending on the work it is there to do. You will not always see that cost on a balance sheet, but it is real.

The part people mistake for weakness

If there is one thing I have always known about myself, it is that I read people well. I pay close attention to emotions, both my own and those of the people around me, and I have learned to rely on that just as much as I rely on a strategy document or a KPI.

And for what it is worth, I am a Libra. So I have always been drawn to balance. I do not function well in unresolved conflict. It unsettles me in a way that most other pressures at work do not. For a long time, I thought that meant I was the wrong kind of leader for difficult moments. And I have seen people mistake it for weakness. They assume that because I do not enjoy confrontation, I cannot hold my ground.

But that has not been true. My discomfort with conflict has not stopped me from dealing with it. If anything, it has made me more aware of it early. I notice when a disagreement is starting to build, and I can often read the room before things become more difficult. I try to find a way forward that allows people to leave the conversation with their dignity intact. What people do not always see is how much thought goes into those conversations. Before I have one, I am usually thinking about what the person needs to hear, how I need to say it, and what outcome will actually resolve the issue instead of just delaying it.

That does not mean conflict comes naturally to me. It takes effort, and it can leave me drained, even when that does not show on the outside.

“My discomfort with conflict has not stopped me from dealing with it. If anything, it has made me more aware of it early.”

Is this a skill you are born with?

Some of it is probably temperament. But I think most of it is built over time.

I used to assume that leaders who handled conflict well were just naturally calm. Like it was something you either had or did not have. But I see it differently now. It is a skill you build by having difficult conversations, usually before you feel fully ready and often when you would rather not have to.

What has actually helped

The biggest shift for me has been learning to be intentional instead of reactive.

Being emotionally aware does not mean you have to act on the first emotion you feel. And for a long time, I did not fully understand the difference. When someone lets you down or you feel they have treated you unfairly, your first instinct can be to respond immediately.

I have had moments where I wanted to make a decision on the spot, like docking someone’s pay, before I had properly checked what was fair, lawful, or proportionate. Now, I pause. I check the relevant policy, consider the legal position where necessary, and sometimes use an AI tool to help me think through the situation before I make a decision I cannot take back. That pause between feeling something and acting on it has saved me from decisions I would probably have regretted.

The second thing that has helped is separating the person from the pattern. It is easy to get frustrated when someone keeps offering explanations. But it is more useful to look at the facts and ask a simple question: is this a one-off issue, or is it a pattern that needs a fair and documented process?

Photo: ©CODE/Peace Ita

Once I stopped taking these things personally and started looking at the record, the difficult decisions became less about my frustration and more about what the situation actually showed. And when it comes to conflict between colleagues, I have had to accept that I cannot, and should not, resolve every disagreement myself. Some situations need a short, direct conversation. Others need me to say clearly that I will not mediate and that the people involved need to work it out themselves. Learning the difference has given me back time for the parts of the role that actually need my judgement.

Earlier in my career, I would carry these conversations home with me. I would replay what I said, question my tone, and wonder whether I handled it well enough. That has not disappeared completely. But now I am better at making the decision, communicating it clearly, and letting the matter close once it has been addressed.

For anyone in this seat who did not expect to be here

If you never imagined yourself being the person who settles disagreements among your own team, and there are still days when the role feels bigger than you, I do not think that means you are not suited to it.

I think it means you are growing into the role as you do it, without a manual. No one really gives you a guide for this part of leadership. You just deal with it often enough that, over time, it stops catching you off guard.

A few things I would tell someone starting out in this kind of role:

1. A meaningful part of your week will go towards conflict that no one warned you about. It helps to expect it and plan for it mentally.
2. Small disagreements between people can sometimes take more energy than the bigger and more visible problems. Do not be surprised when that happens.
3. Feeling uncomfortable with conflict does not mean you cannot handle it. Do not let other people, or your own doubts, convince you otherwise.
4. This is not a skill you either naturally have or do not have. You build it over time, usually under pressure and before you feel ready.
5. Look at the pattern, not only the explanation in front of you.
6. You cannot mediate every disagreement between people on your team. Trying to do that will exhaust you and will not always solve the problem.
7. Feeling drained by this work does not mean you are failing. It often just means you are taking the situation seriously.

None of this is why I do the work. I did not take on this role because I wanted to become good at managing conflict. Most days, I would still rather spend that energy on the mission itself. But I have made peace with the fact that helping a team stay focused on that mission is part of leading well. The conflict is not the job. But protecting the space for the real work to happen is.

About the author

Hyeladzira James Mshelia is the Acting Chief Executive of Connected Development (CODE), where she provides strategic leadership and organisational oversight to ensure effective delivery of CODE’s mission of promoting social accountability, gender equality, and environmental justice across Africa. She leads strategic planning, guides programme implementation, and strengthens systems that advance transparency, learning, and impact.

Hyeladzira also drives high-level donor and partner engagement, representing CODE on national and international platforms to shape conversations on gender, climate, and governance. She fosters a culture of ethical leadership, collaboration, and accountability within the organisation.

Job Description
State Field Officers

Locations: Wamakko, Kware, Bodinga, Sokoto South, Sokoto North, Yabo and Wurno LGAs of Sokoto State

Reports to: Project Lead

Organizational Background

Connected Development [CODE] is Africa’s leading civil society organization whose mission is to empower marginalized communities in Africa. We strengthen local communities by creating platforms for dialogue, enabling informed debate, and building capacities of citizens on how to hold their government accountable through the Follow The Money project. CODE provides marginalized and vulnerable communities with resources to amplify their voices with independence and integrity while providing the communities with information that ushers social and economic progress. To enhance effective democratic governance and accountability, CODE creates platforms [mobile and web technologies] that close the feedback loop between citizens and the government. With global expertise and reach, we focus on community outreach, influencing policies, practices, and knowledge mobilization. 

About S-TRACE Project

The Sokoto Tracking and Accountability for Equitable Immunization (S TRACE) Project is an accountability and community engagement initiative designed to improve equitable access to routine immunization services across Sokoto State. The project strengthens transparency, citizen participation, and evidence-based advocacy to address persistent barriers to immunization, particularly among underserved and hard-to-reach communities.

The project works closely with government institutions, health facilities, community leaders, community-based organizations, and community volunteers to monitor immunization service delivery, track the availability of vaccines and essential commodities, document community-level challenges, and promote timely action by relevant authorities. Through community feedback mechanisms, social accountability platforms, and data-driven advocacy, the project seeks to improve the quality, accessibility, and responsiveness of immunization services.

S TRACE also supports the collection and analysis of field-level data to generate evidence for decision-making, facilitates stakeholder engagement at community and local government levels, and promotes collaboration between citizens and public institutions to strengthen health system accountability. The project contributes to increasing immunization coverage, reducing the number of zero-dose and underimmunized children, and ensuring that every eligible child has equitable access to life-saving vaccines.

Specific duties:

• 1. Conduct routine field monitoring of immunization services across assigned LGAs, wards, health facilities, and communities to assess service quality, accessibility, and equity.
  2. Collect, verify, and submit accurate field data using approved digital tools, ensuring timely reporting on immunization performance, community feedback, and implementation challenges.
  3. Engage community leaders, health workers, and other stakeholders to strengthen community participation, facilitate accountability processes, and promote demand for routine immunization services.
  4. Monitor and document barriers to immunization, identify zero-dose and underimmunized children, and generate evidence to support advocacy and timely corrective actions by relevant authorities.
  5. Prepare high-quality field reports, document lessons learned and best practices, and provide regular updates to the Project Manager to support evidence-based decision-making and adaptive project implementation.

Skills & Qualities  

1. Data Collection and Reporting: Demonstrated ability to collect, verify, analyze, and accurately report field data using digital data collection tools and standard monitoring frameworks.
2. Community Engagement and Communication: Strong interpersonal, facilitation, and communication skills with the ability to effectively engage community leaders, government officials, health workers, and other stakeholders.
3. Monitoring and Problem Solving: Ability to identify implementation challenges, assess service delivery gaps, and provide timely, evidence based recommendations to improve project performance.
4. Organization and Accountability: Excellent organizational and time management skills with the ability to manage multiple field activities, meet reporting deadlines, and maintain high standards of professionalism and integrity.
5. Local Knowledge and Adaptability: Good understanding of the local context in Sokoto State, willingness to travel extensively within assigned LGAs, and ability to work independently and collaboratively in diverse community settings.

APPLY HERE

By Dr. Ogbonna Amarachi Onyeyirichi 

Not because people do not know it is happening, but because speaking about it comes at a cost. Conflict-related sexual violence thrives in that silence. Survivors carry the trauma, communities turn a blind eye, institutions fall short, and perpetrators walk away unpunished. Nowhere is this cycle more visible than in North-East Nigeria, where years of insurgency have made sexual violence one of the conflict’s most hidden and enduring legacies. As the world marks the International Day for the Elimination of Sexual Violence in Conflict, we should ask not only why these crimes continue, but why survivors are so often left to confront them alone. I often think that one of the greatest tragedies of conflict-related sexual violence is not only the violence itself, but the silence that surrounds it. Survivors carry unimaginable physical and psychological scars, while communities, institutions, and even justice systems too often look away. The result is a cycle where survivors remain isolated, perpetrators act with impunity, and the crime itself becomes hidden in plain sight.

Conflict-related sexual violence is, sadly, as old as warfare itself. Throughout history, women’s bodies have been treated as spoils of war, as collateral damage, or as tools through which armed groups humiliate, terrorise, and dominate entire communities. Women and girls have been subjected to rape, sexual slavery, forced marriage, forced pregnancy, and other forms of sexual and gender-based violence. Men and boys have also experienced these crimes, although their stories often remain untold because of the profound stigma and shame associated with disclosure. In reality, conflict-related sexual violence includes a broad range of abuses—rape, sexual slavery, forced prostitution, forced abortion, enforced sterilisation, forced marriage, and other comparable acts committed against women, men, and children that are directly or indirectly linked to armed conflict.

In Nigeria, the insurgency that has ravaged the North-East for more than a decade has created conditions where these violations flourish. The conflict has displaced millions of people, destroyed livelihoods, fractured communities, and exposed women and children to extraordinary risks. According to humanitarian estimates, by 2019 approximately two million people had been internally displaced across Borno, Adamawa, and Yobe States, with women and children making up around 80 per cent of the displaced population. Within this environment of insecurity and displacement, sexual violence has become not merely a by-product of war but a deliberate strategy used to intimidate, punish, and exert control.

The United Nations has documented patterns of rape, abduction, forced marriage, and sexual slavery committed by armed groups, particularly Boko Haram, against civilian populations. Existing gender inequalities in northern Nigeria have been ruthlessly exploited, with abducted women and girls reportedly offered to fighters as rewards and subjected to gang rape, forced marriage, and sexual servitude. Refusal of sexual demands has, in some cases, resulted in severe punishment, torture, and even execution. The trauma inflicted on survivors does not simply disappear once captivity ends. Some victims struggle with profound emotional and psychological consequences that complicate reintegration into their families and communities, while stigma and fear often prevent them from speaking publicly about their experiences or participating in legal proceedings against their abusers.

What is particularly striking is that the available data almost certainly underestimates the true scale of the problem. The same conditions that enable sexual violence—fear, insecurity, social exclusion, and weak institutions—also suppress reporting. Many survivors never come forward because they know that disclosure may bring shame, rejection, or even further harm. Research conducted by Ojengbede and colleagues in conflict-affected communities across North-East Nigeria offers a sobering picture. Their study found that roughly one in three women surveyed (33.2 per cent) had experienced sexual violence, while one in five (20.5 per cent) had experienced physical violence. Beyond these forms of abuse, 28.4 per cent had experienced socioeconomic violence, 30.5 per cent reported emotional violence, and almost half had been subjected to harmful traditional practices. Even after displacement, women remained vulnerable. About 7.6 per cent reported experiencing sexual violence since being displaced, with perpetrators including Boko Haram insurgents, unknown assailants, members of the police and armed forces, intimate partners, and even relatives. The findings are a reminder that conflict-related sexual violence cannot be understood simply as isolated criminal acts. It exists within a wider ecosystem of violence, inequality, and displacement that leaves women and girls vulnerable long after they have fled active conflict zones. The study also revealed another troubling reality: only about one-third of survivors of sexual violence sought care, and fewer than half of those who experienced physical violence accessed support services. In other words, for many survivors, the violence itself is only the beginning; the journey towards healing and justice is often blocked at every turn.

Part of the challenge lies in the multiple barriers survivors face when trying to seek help. Research carried out in Borno State by the Population Council and Médecins du Monde paints a vivid picture of how these obstacles operate simultaneously at personal, family, community, and institutional levels. Many survivors simply do not know that specialised medical care exists or understand the importance of accessing treatment within the critical 72- to 120-hour window after an assault. Others are paralysed by fear—fear of being blamed, fear of being ostracised, or fear that speaking out will bring dishonour to their families. Families themselves often reinforce this silence. Faced with poverty, displacement, and social pressures, many choose to conceal incidents of rape rather than risk community stigma. Survivors may be actively discouraged from reporting or seeking medical attention because disclosure is perceived as a greater threat than the violence itself. In some communities, rape continues to be viewed as a stain on the victim rather than a crime committed by the perpetrator. Community attitudes deepen the problem. Victim-blaming, discrimination, and social exclusion create an environment where survivors feel they have little to gain and much to lose by coming forward. Poor access to justice reinforces this perception. When perpetrators are rarely investigated or prosecuted, violence becomes normalised, and survivors lose faith in the institutions that are meant to protect them.

Even where survivors decide to seek help, institutional barriers remain daunting. Long waiting times at health facilities, inadequate referral systems, lack of privacy, language barriers, and concerns about confidentiality all reduce access to essential services. Some survivors have reported avoiding clinics altogether because they fear being recognised and labelled by others in their communities. Facility assessments have shown that many health facilities and police stations in camps and host communities simply lack the resources and infrastructure required to manage sexual and gender-based violence cases effectively or support the prosecution of offenders.

The justice gap is perhaps one of the most pressing aspects of this crisis. Legal scholars have argued that Nigeria’s response to conflict-related sexual violence continues to be undermined by outdated laws, weak institutional capacity, and the absence of specialised legal frameworks for prosecuting these crimes. For decades, wartime sexual violence has thrived within what many describe as a “culture of silence,” where victims are reluctant to speak, and society often behaves as though the crime does not exist. This silence serves the interests of perpetrators, allowing them to operate with little fear of accountability. The challenge becomes even more complex in the context of insurgency. Reports have documented instances where Boko Haram fighters took abducted women and girls as so-called “bush wives,” subjecting them to prolonged captivity and abuse. In some cases, survivors who eventually regained their freedom struggled with trauma bonds and emotional attachment to their captors, making it extraordinarily difficult for them to testify in court or participate in prosecutions. These are not signs of consent or acceptance; they are recognised psychological responses to prolonged coercion and abuse. Yet they create additional hurdles for justice systems that are often ill-equipped to understand the realities of conflict-related sexual violence.

And still, despite these immense challenges, there are reasons for hope. Across Nigeria, organisations are developing innovative, survivor-centred approaches that demonstrate what meaningful support can look like. Libraries Without Borders, in partnership with We Are NOT Weapons of War (WWoW), has introduced the BackUp digital platform to support survivors of conflict-related sexual violence in several conflict-affected states. The platform helps connect survivors with medical, psychosocial, legal, and protection services while also strengthening the secure documentation of incidents that can support future accountability efforts.

At the same time, the deployment of offline digital libraries and community-based information hubs is helping to close another critical gap: access to information. Many survivors do not know where to turn, what services are available, or even that they have rights that deserve protection. Providing communities with culturally appropriate information in local languages is a simple but powerful intervention. People cannot access services they do not know exist, and they cannot demand justice for rights they have never been told they possess.

Ultimately, ending conflict-related sexual violence requires much more than annual statements of solidarity. It requires investment in survivor-centred healthcare, stronger referral pathways, trauma-informed psychosocial support, and legal systems that are capable of holding perpetrators accountable. It requires community engagement that challenges the social norms and stigma that keep survivors silent. It requires strengthening data collection and documentation so that the true scale of the problem can no longer be ignored. And perhaps most importantly, it requires listening to survivors themselves and allowing their experiences to shape policy and practice.

As we mark the International Day for the Elimination of Sexual Violence in Conflict, it is worth remembering that sexual violence is not an inevitable consequence of war. It is a deliberate act, enabled by inequality, impunity, and institutional failure. The women and girls in displacement camps across North-East Nigeria, the men and boys whose experiences remain hidden by stigma, and the countless survivors whose stories have never been documented deserve more than symbolic recognition once a year. They deserve justice. They deserve care. And they deserve communities and institutions willing to stand with them rather than turn away.

If this day is to mean anything at all, it must remind us that breaking the silence is only the first step. The real challenge and the real responsibility is ensuring that silence is replaced with action.

By Ogbonna Amarachi Onyeyirichi, Chinedu Emmanuel Odah, and Tajuddeen Garba Muhammed

Every year on March 8, the world pauses to celebrate women. Songs are sung, speeches are made, and social media is filled with tributes. But what is the use of this yearly celebration if it is neither backed by actions nor women-centred? This year’s theme, “Give to Gain,” is not merely a rallying cry. It is a challenge to every individual, institution, and government: what are you willing to give, so that women can gain equal opportunities across all sectors, including the home? We should not just mark the day. We should ask the harder question: what are we giving, and what are women gaining?

While global efforts to empower women are laudable, one cannot help but notice that these efforts do not fully centre women. Whenever individuals, development practitioners, governments, and relevant stakeholders evaluate the profitability of investing in women, they often speak in terms of the benefits accruing to others as a result of women’s empowerment. For example, development practitioners posit that economically empowering women improves household food security and nutrition, especially for children, which is a great outcome. But how does investing in women’s economic empowerment undo the patriarchy of family meals to accommodate women’s dietary needs over the course of their lives?

According to medical professionals, women and men have the same recommended dietary allowance (RDA) for protein at the baseline. As women age, their protein needs increase due to hormonal changes. However, men are culturally entitled to having more protein than women and children across cultures. In the Nigerian context, for instance, the majority of households are multidimensionally poor and can barely afford meat. Yet, even in this scarcity, men’s access to protein sources is prioritised over women’s, although the RDA is the same. But when we measure the impact of investing in women’s economic empowerment on nutrition, we centre the nutrition of children and the entire household, and ignore women’s nutrition. Although the effort to empower women is a step forward, it seems like baptizing patriarchy to mimic gender equality.

Therefore, the theme for the 2026 International Women’s Day (IWD) is a call to action for the world to redirect the focus of women’s empowerment efforts towards women themselves. It simply asks: what will you give to gain gender equality in all aspects of women’s lives? In Nigeria, as in many parts of the world, women continue to navigate spaces that diminish rather than develop them. Even in homes, the spaces that should be the safest, many women endure abuse that rarely makes headlines. Do you remember the tragic story of gospel singer Osinachi Nwachukwu, a case that became a national moment of grief and outrage? Yet for every Osinachi whose story reached the public, there are thousands more whose pain is absorbed in silence, covered by long sleeves, masked by forced smiles, and buried under the weight of social expectation.

Abuse does not always arrive as a blow. Sometimes it comes as words. As control. As isolation. The message is always the same: you are not enough, and you are lucky to be here. When a woman is raised to believe that marriage is a privilege rather than a partnership, that lie becomes her cage. This is not just a personal crisis. It is a social one. Because children are always watching. A boy who grows up watching his father dominate may grow up believing control is love. A girl who watches her mother endure may grow up believing pain is normal. Trauma becomes culture. Silence becomes inheritance. So, what can we give to gain women’s safety within their homes? The answer lies in equipping society, especially men, with the right knowledge on navigating equality in gendered partnerships, both inside and outside the home.

Let’s take a look at how CODE is approaching this. To mark IWD 2026, Community Park and CODE jointly organised a wellness event that centred on women’s hormonal health, an event well attended by both men and women. Through expert discussions and lived experiences shared during the event, CODE used its resources to give the public knowledge on women’s health, to gain understanding and support for women going through various hormonal issues such as menopause, polycystic ovarian syndrome (PCOS), premenstrual syndrome (PMS), and fibroids. Also, through CODE’s partnership with the Malala Fund, it has worked to keep girls in schools across underserved communities in Nigeria, especially in the Northern region, through positive mentorship. Education is the single most transformative investment in a girl’s life. It creates the kind of woman who knows her value not because someone told her, but because she has built the evidence herself.

At CODE, we advocate for gender balance. Our organisational structures, hiring frameworks, and leadership pathways are intentionally designed to promote equality and equity. Women at CODE are not just beneficiaries of our work; they lead it. We engage men and boys as partners, not bystanders, because true gender equality can only be achieved by including men in these conversations, enabling them to unlearn harmful patriarchal beliefs and relearn values that allow them to view women with respect and as equal partners. When communities understand that empowered women have more agency, economic independence, and self-reliance, enabling them to raise healthier families and build stronger economies, the conversation shifts from concession to conviction. Therefore, the question must shift: not “what is the world giving women so that the world can gain,” but “what is the world giving women so that women can gain.”

Welcome!

The Digital Mobilization Lab (DML) Fellowship 2026 – Cohort 2 is a 12-week youth-focused civic engagement program by Connected Development (CODE). The fellowship runs from March to May 2026 and is designed for young Nigerians ready to engage in governance, digital advocacy, and community mobilization.

Applicants must be 18–30 years old and available throughout the fellowship period. Priority will be given to women, persons with disabilities (PWD), and applicants from underserved communities.

Please complete this form honestly. Only shortlisted applicants will be contacted.

Click Apply Here

By Abdulmalik Yahya

I used to describe education as a pathway to development. It sounded measured, policy-friendly, and safe. But in communities where girls disappear from classrooms before they turn sixteen, development feels too small a word for what is at stake. Education, especially for girls, is about power. It is about who is seen, who is heard, and who is allowed to imagine a future without apology.

Governments across the world have endorsed frameworks such as Sustainable Development Goal 4 on quality education, SDG 5 on gender equality, and SDG 10 on reduced inequality. Progress on paper appears encouraging. Gender gaps in primary enrolment have narrowed in many regions and more girls are in school today than two decades ago.

But it is common knowledge that statistics do not reveal the full reality.

Women still account for the majority of the world’s illiterate adults. In fragile and conflict-affected settings, progress remains uncertain because millions of girls still fail to complete secondary education. The COVID-19 pandemic exposed this weakness when schools closed, and girls carried heavier domestic responsibilities. Many were pushed into early marriage or early motherhood and when schools reopened, not all of them returned.

It is not out of place to say that the crisis in girls’ education is not due to a lack of solutions. We know what improves access and retention. It is a power issue. Poverty, harmful norms, weak accountability, and political neglect determine whose education is treated as urgent and whose can wait. Cultural attitudes toward gender roles shape educational decisions in ways that policy alone cannot reverse. Girls’ education in some parts of the country is still weighed against expectations of early marriage, domestic responsibility, or concerns about safety and reputation. Families may value schooling in principle, yet prioritise sons when resources are limited. Changing these patterns requires sustained dialogue with traditional and religious leaders, engagement with parents, and visible examples of educated women contributing meaningfully to their communities.

This reality is clear in Nigeria. I remember going on an outreach to a secondary school in Yola, Adamawa State, where the headteacher quietly told me that about half of the girls who enrolled three years earlier were no longer there. One had been married at fifteen, another had stopped coming because her family could no longer afford basic supplies, and a few had simply “stopped coming,” as the teacher put it, absorbed into domestic work and responsibilities that leave little room for ambition.

I stood at the back of that classroom to count the girls who remained, and they were fewer than a dozen. I kept wondering not only where the others were, but who had decided that their education could wait. The country has one of the largest populations of out-of-school children in the world, estimated at more than 18.3 million by UNICEF Nigeria on the Out Of School Children (OOSC) fact sheet in 2022, with girls accounting for over 50 per cent of those not attending school at the basic education level. 

Girls carry the heavier burden of exclusion in many northern and rural communities. In parts of the North East and North West, fewer than half of school-age girls attend primary school, and many drop out before moving to secondary school because of cost, insecurity, domestic labour, or early marriage.

Schools have become places of fear in some conflict-affected communities. Improving access to education in such places requires coordinated security arrangements, safe school initiatives, and community-based protection mechanisms that allow parents to trust the journey to and from school. Flexible learning models such as temporary learning centres and accelerated education programmes can help girls who have missed years of schooling reintegrate. Recruiting and training female teachers and mentors with access to safe toilets, or basic learning materials even where classrooms exist will also reassure families and strengthen retention. Policy commitments without these layered protections cannot translate into real attendance, which makes parents hesitate before sending their daughters out each morning. 

Nigeria has established the right to free basic education in law and allocates annual budgets for it, but the challenge is implementation and oversight. The perception at the grassroots level is not that government has done nothing, but that promises rarely reach the classroom, parents often speak of projects announced but never completed, teachers posted but never arriving, and budgets approved but never visible. The gap between policy declarations and lived reality fuels skepticism because the question for many families is not whether education is important, but whether the system can be trusted to deliver it, whether communities can track and question those decisions, and whether gender responsive realities shape planning or remain an afterthought.

When we examine girls’ education from a social justice perspective, the questions we ask shift. Instead of simply inquiring about how many girls are enrolled, we begin to consider which girls remain excluded. We also ask who determines how educational resources are distributed and who ultimately benefits from public spending.

Girls from poor and marginalised communities are too often excluded not only by circumstance but by structure. Budgets are prepared without meaningful community input. Projects are implemented without transparency. Gender needs are treated as secondary. Classrooms may be constructed without considering distance, safety, or sanitation. Yet these are the very factors that determine whether a girl can attend and remain in school.

Justice requires participation, accountability, and that those most affected by decisions have real influence over them.

This understanding shapes how I see the work we do at Connected Development through the Girls’ Education Project supported by the Malala Fund. We work to shift power closer to communities and approach girls’ education as citizenship, not charity. The principle is simple. When citizens understand education budgets, track spending, and engage decision makers with evidence, systems become more responsive to girls’ needs.

Parents in one of the communities in Bauchi State where we worked discovered that funds had been allocated for school improvements that never reached the classroom. Using the Follow The Money model and sustained community engagement, the project was revisited and basic facilities, including a girls’ toilet, were completed. Attendance improved because the school environment became safer and more dignified for girls. 

In Bauchi, Ningi, Alkaleri, and Zaki Local Government area where GEP operates, parents, traditional leaders, youth, and civil society actors monitor allocations and follow up on implementation. Budget figures become real commitments tied to classrooms, teachers, and facilities. Dialogue challenges harmful norms and reinforces the value of girls’ education as a shared responsibility. Girls are recognised as rights holders with agency.

This is corrective justice in practice. It redistributes civic power, strengthens transparency, and embeds accountability at the community level, turning education governance into a partnership between citizens and the state.

If we are serious about justice, then three shifts are necessary. Education budgets must be transparent and publicly accessible; gender-responsive planning must be standard practice, not an afterthought; and communities must be empowered to monitor and question how resources are used. Without these shifts, policy promises will continue to fall short.

The global consensus on girls’ education is strong, and the economic case is clear, but justice does not happen because policies are signed. It happens when public commitments translate into safe, functional, and inclusive classrooms.

Girls’ schooling remains the frontline of equality because it sits at the intersection of rights, resources, and representation. When a girl receives a quality education, she gains agency, and her family gains resilience. Her community gains leadership, and her society gains a more equitable future.

Girls’ education sits at the intersection of how resources are allocated, whose dignity is affirmed, and who shapes decisions. Investing in that is not simply a development strategy, but a deliberate intervention in how power is distributed and a statement about whose future matters.

The question is no longer whether girls’ education matters. The question is whether we are willing to confront the structures that keep girls at the margins. Until we do, equality remains a promise on paper, and education remains the clearest way to make social justice visible.

By Gbemi Oluyemi

In a world where health crises do not respect borders, the difference between a resilient society and a collapsing one often comes down to a single word: accountability. According to the World Health Organization (WHO), effective outbreak response depends not only on medical tools, but on systems that ensure resources reach where they are needed most. When a pandemic strikes or a local outbreak begins to spread, the world needs more than doctors, vaccines, and hospitals. It needs systems that work. It needs confidence that money set aside for health security actually reaches the frontline, where lives are saved or lost. This is the quiet battleground of global health, and Nigeria’s experience makes this reality impossible to ignore.

The COVID-19 pandemic made this painfully clear. Reports by the WHO and the World Bank documented how hospitals ran out of oxygen, laboratories struggled to confirm cases, and surveillance systems failed to detect outbreaks early in many countries. Communities were left exposed not because solutions did not exist, but because systems were not prepared to deploy them. One of the most overlooked reasons for this failure was not science or technology, but accountability. Health funds were announced, allocated, and celebrated, yet their journey from budget documents to real protection for people often remained invisible.

To understand why this matters, it helps to simplify the language of global health. Terms like health security or epidemic preparedness can sound distant or technical, but they describe something deeply human. The WHO and the Global Health Security Agenda describe health security as the collective ability to prevent, detect, and respond to disease threats before they spiral into crises. Epidemic preparedness means having functioning laboratories, trained health workers, early warning systems, and emergency funds ready before an outbreak begins, not after it is already out of control.

The problem is that across the world, including in Nigeria, there is a silent leak. Global health financing analyses by the World Bank and the Organization for Economic Co-operation and Development (OECD) have shown that while billions of dollars are pledged to health every year, significant portions are lost to delayed disbursement, inefficiency, or weak oversight. When money meant for laboratories, surveillance, or emergency response is not fully utilised, the consequence is not abstract. People die because systems are too weak to catch threats in time.

Nigeria’s experience brings this reality into sharp focus. As Africa’s most populous country and a major regional hub, Nigeria’s health security is inseparable from global health security. According to Nigeria’s federal budget documents and the Nigeria Centre for Disease Control (NCDC), the country has made important commitments to domestic health financing, including funds earmarked for epidemic preparedness and response. In 2023, Nigeria allocated tens of millions of dollars to the NCDC Gateway Fund, a domestic resource designed to strengthen disease detection, laboratory capacity, and rapid response.

Yet allocation alone does not equal protection. Civil society budget reviews and NCDC situation reports have shown that without timely and publicly accessible information on how and when funds are disbursed, frontline health workers and communities are left guessing. In practice, this has meant delayed procurement of laboratory equipment, unpaid surveillance staff, and community alerts ignored because diagnostic systems were under-resourced. During the 2022 Lassa fever surge, NCDC reports highlighted how delays in confirming cases linked to overstretched laboratories contributed to higher fatality rates in affected states. The lesson is stark: when health funding lacks transparency, outbreaks spread faster, containment fails earlier, and the risks do not remain local.

This is why health funding accountability is not a technical issue reserved for policy experts. Global health bodies, including the WHO, have consistently emphasised that accountability is central to preparedness and response. It is a matter of survival and the foundation of trust between governments and the people they serve.

This reality is what gave rise to the Global Health Advocacy Indicator (GHAI). According to its concept framework, GHAI asks a simple but powerful question: Can citizens see where health security funds go, and can they demand answers when those funds fail to deliver results? This question matters far beyond Nigeria. It speaks to every country where opaque budgets weaken preparedness and erode public trust. GHAI shifts attention from promises made to actions taken, from announcements to outcomes.

In Nigeria, Connected Development (CODE) has translated this principle into action. Through its #TrackBHCPF (Basic Health Care Provision Fund) initiative, CODE tracks health funds linked to epidemic preparedness, maps disbursements, and compares spending against stated objectives, as documented in its public reports and field findings. Just as importantly, the initiative equips citizens, journalists, and community advocates with the tools to understand budgets, ask informed questions, and engage decision-makers directly.

This work goes beyond monitoring. As shown in CODE’s project briefs, it builds bridges between village clinics and national finance institutions, between grassroots advocates and global health partners. It treats accountability not as paperwork, but as infrastructure, something that must be built, maintained, and defended. The capstone project tracking BHCPF–NCDC Gateway Funds reflects this approach, strengthening transparency so existing resources work harder and faster.

What makes this work especially relevant is its reach beyond Nigeria. Evidence from transparency and accountability initiatives across the Global South, including studies cited by the World Bank, shows that when citizens can follow the money, systems respond better. Transparency reduces waste, improves service delivery, and saves lives, not because more money suddenly appears, but because leakage is reduced and priorities become clearer.

The broader implication is unavoidable. Health funding accountability is not a Nigerian problem; it is one of the most critical bottlenecks in global health security. Global preparedness reviews have repeatedly warned that when accountability is weak, early warning systems fail, supply chains break down, and emergency responses come too late. Accountability does not weaken governments; it strengthens them by ensuring that investments deliver real protection.

The next outbreak is not a question of if, but when. As global health experts continue to warn, the world cannot afford to face it with the same blind spots. Health funding must be visible. Decisions must be explainable. Systems must answer to the people whose lives depend on them.

Health funding accountability is not just about money. It is about preparedness, trust, and justice. In Nigeria, as everywhere else, the path to a safer world begins with making every health naira count.

By CHINEDU EMMANUEL ODAH

A few days ago, I discussed tax compliance with a friend who runs a display shop in Mararaba Market, Karu Local Government Area of Nasarawa State, in Nigeria’s North-Central region. As we talked, other shop owners joined the conversation, phone sellers, tailors, and traders hustling to survive one day at a time. Different businesses, same worry.

People are not just afraid of paying taxes; they are afraid of being forgotten after paying. For many small business owners, taxes feel like another demand from a system that rarely shows up when it matters most. This shared concern explains why many Nigerians are anxious about the new tax system that took effect on January 1, 2026.

For many Nigerians, taxation is not just about deductions from income; it is about memory. Roads that were never repaired. Hospitals that never improved. Budgets that never translated into better lives. Emergency services are meant for everyone, but are accessed by only a few. Basic amenities meant to be shared, yet unevenly distributed. For many, scepticism is not rebellion; it is lived experience speaking.

From our work at Connected Development (CODE), one thing is clear here, that Nigeria’s challenge is rarely the absence of laws or reforms. The real problem is the weak link between public contribution and public accountability.

For me, this issue is personal. In my professional journey, I have seen how access to information and citizen participation can change outcomes. When people understand systems, budgets, contracts, or public funds, they move from frustration to engagement. The same lesson applies to taxation.

One of the biggest fears is that the new tax system simply means taking more money from people who are already struggling. But from my professional view as an accountant, the intention of this reform is different. It is designed to reduce pressure on low-income earners while ensuring that those who earn more contribute their fair share. For many average Nigerians, deductions are meant to be gradual, not punitive.

Still, one hard truth remains: good policy intentions alone do not rebuild trust. Trust grows when people can see results.

So, why does Compliance matter, even when trust is low? From our experience with the Follow The Money initiative, one lesson stands out: what cannot be traced cannot be challenged.

Let me explain it simply. When businesses and individuals operate completely outside the tax system, public money becomes harder to track. Records are weak, oversight is limited, and misuse becomes easier to hide. In simple put, compliance creates visibility, visibility creates data, and data strengthens our ability to ask informed questions.

Paying tax is not an endorsement of government performance. It is a claim to citizenship, documentation, and voice. You cannot meaningfully ask, “Where is our money?” if, on paper, you are not part of the system funding it.

Truth be told, public scepticism is rooted in real experiences. In many states in Nigeria, for example, education budgets existed on paper while classrooms lacked basic learning conditions, and pupils quietly dropped out of school. Many communities did not know what funds were approved, when they were released, or who was responsible for implementation. Similar patterns appear across sectors, health, water, and social services, where citizens are meant to benefit but lack the information needed to ask questions.

Distrust does not come from a refusal to contribute. It comes from watching public systems operate without explanation. Yet, these same experiences show that when spending becomes visible, when communities are informed, and when government is pushed to explain how money is used, engagement changes. Compliance moves from blind obligation to a conscious expectation of value.

At CODE, we have tracked public funds meant for schools, health centres, water projects, and livelihoods. Time and again, we have seen how citizen engagement helps close the gap between allocation and real impact.

Tax compliance should not stop at payment. It should continue with civic engagement, asking how funds are allocated, tracking implementation, and demanding transparency from those in power. A tax system without accountability deepens frustration, and accountability cannot survive without citizen participation. This is why movements like #FollowTheMoney matter.

Taxes are part of a social contract. Like many reforms before it, the new tax system will only matter if Nigerians stay engaged beyond compliance. Paying tax should strengthen our collective voice and not silence it. When we contribute, stay informed, and organise together, taxation becomes a pathway to justice, not just a revenue tool.

At the end, the real question is not whether Nigerians should pay taxes. The question is whether we will finally use our collective contributions to demand better.

Organization: Connected Development (CODE)
Location: Abuja, Nigeria
Employment Type: Full-time
Application Deadline: January 27th, 2025.

About Connected Development (CODE)

Connected Development (CODE) is a leading African civil society organization, founded in 2012, that empowers marginalized communities through technology, open data, and social accountability to demand transparency and better governance from their governments

As part of our growth and expanding program portfolio, CODE is seeking a highly motivated and detail-oriented programs officer to support the design, implementation, monitoring, and reporting of our projects and initiatives.

Role Summary

The Programs Officer will support the effective delivery of CODE’s programs by providing programmatic, administrative, research, and financial support across multiple projects. The role requires strong coordination skills, analytical thinking, reporting ability, and a deep interest in governance, development, and accountability work.

Key Responsibilities

The Programs Officer will:

• Research contextual and operational factors that may impact the success of CODE’s projects
  
• Work closely with the programs and research teams to document project requirements and provide informed input
  
• Monitor project objectives, activities, and milestones, and prepare regular progress reports
  
• Develop work plans and action plans, and track progress toward project goals
  
• Support the development of promotional and program-related materials
  
• Manage project documentation, relational databases, and reporting systems
  
• Monitor project expenditures and assist in budget tracking and financial reporting
  
• Support fundraising efforts by identifying funding opportunities and contributing to proposal development
  
• Prepare operational, narrative, and statistical reports to support decision-making
  
• Support or lead the planning and coordination of program-related meetings, trainings, conferences, and convenings
  
• Represent CODE at meetings, trainings, and conferences when required
  
• Draft reports, briefs, speeches, grants, and other written materials related to CODE projects
  
• Provide programmatic, administrative, and financial support to additional CODE projects as assigned
  
• Perform other related duties necessary to support CODE’s mission
  

Required Qualifications & Skills

• Bachelor’s degree in Social Sciences, Development Studies, Public Policy, Project Management, or a related field (Master’s degree is an advantage)
  
• At least 2–4 years experience supporting development or civic programs
  
• Strong research, monitoring, and reporting skills
  
• Experience with budgeting, expenditure tracking, and donor reporting is an advantage
  
• Excellent written and verbal communication skills
  
• Strong organizational and multitasking abilities
  
• Ability to work independently and collaboratively in a fast-paced environment
  
• Commitment to CODE’s mission of transparency, accountability, and citizen engagement
  

Why Join CODE

• Opportunity to work on impactful governance and accountability projects
  
• Exposure to national and international development partners
  
• Professional growth in program management, research, and advocacy
  
• A mission-driven, collaborative work environment
  

How to Apply

Interested candidates should complete the online application form and upload the required documents.

👉 Apply here: