By Oyewole O. Sarumi
The Script Nobody Wants to Tear Up
It is Christmas Eve 2023. The villages of Bokkos and Barkin Ladi in Plateau State were turned into killing fields. Over 200 Nigerians were slaughtered in their homes, houses reduced to smouldering rubble, survivors herded into internally displaced persons camps.
The Nigerian media rolled out a familiar script: farmer-herder clash, ancient tribal hatreds, a religious war between Christians and Muslims. International outlets dutifully amplified the narrative. The world moved on.
Now, the exception is that a few weeks after the blood dried, something peculiar happened. The herdsmen did not bring their cattle back to the burnt land to graze. Instead, heavy diesel excavators arrived. Foreign contractors, protected by armed local escorts, drove into the ruins. They were not planting yams or maize.
They were drilling for spodumene, among the highest-grade lithium ore in the world, as well as tin, columbite, and tantalite.
For those of us who have spent decades watching Nigeria’s economic architecture buckle and bend, the scene was not altogether surprising. It was, in fact, the most Nigerian scene imaginable: violence as a business instrument, religion as a political costume, and international capital quietly collecting its proceeds long after the cameras had moved on.
This article, from the onset, does not dismiss the real suffering of Christians and Muslims who live and die in Nigeria’s embattled Middle Belt. Their pain is not in dispute, and I empathise with them.
However, what this article interrogates, rigorously and with data, is the dominant narrative that frames these killings as primarily religious in character. That framing, now weaponised by American evangelical politics, amplified by the Trump administration’s Country of Particular Concern designation, and climaxing in the Christmas Day 2025 drone strikes on Sokoto, is not only analytically insufficient. It is dangerously misleading. And it serves powerful interests that have nothing to do with the welfare of Nigerian Christians or Muslims.
The more accurate frame is this: Nigeria’s northern violence is, at its structural core, an economic and political crisis. It is a crisis of land, minerals, governance failure, and international extraction.
Religion is the accelerant, not the engine. Recognising the difference is not a semantic exercise. It is the precondition for any serious response.
“The men with the machetes and the AK-47s are just the demolition crew. They clear the human beings off the land. Then the global mining syndicates walk in to extract the minerals.”
I. The Minerals Beneath the Massacres: A Geography of Extraction
Let us begin where forensic analysis always begins, with geography. Take the map of active mining licences issued by Nigeria’s Mining Cadastre Office (MCO) in Abuja, and place it directly over the map of the worst massacres in Plateau, Nasarawa, and Kaduna States over the last decade.
The overlap is not coincidental. It is almost perfectly precise.
The bloodiest zones of the Middle Belt, Riyom, Mangul, Bokkos, Barkin Ladi sit directly on top of one of the most significant solid minerals belts in West Africa. Nigeria’s Geological Survey Agency has mapped lithium deposits across thirteen states, with concentrations in Nasarawa, Plateau, Kaduna, Kwara, Ekiti, Kogi, and Cross River. Lithium, of course, is the defining mineral of the twenty-first century green energy transition. It powers the batteries in BYD and Tesla electric vehicles, Apple iPhones, Microsoft data servers, and the entire edifice of the global clean energy economy. Its price has exploded in line with demand, growing at approximately 20 percent annually in recent years, according to peer-reviewed research published in Frontiers in Geochemistry.
Nigeria’s lithium deposits span at least 13 states. The Mining Cadastre Office’s active licence zones map with alarming precision onto the most violent communities in Plateau, Nasarawa, and Kaduna States.
By Nigerian law, any multinational company seeking to mine lithium must negotiate directly with indigenous communities, pay substantial compensation, and sign binding community development agreements.
This is an expensive and time-consuming process that eats into profit margins. But there is a faster route. If an armed militia burns the village to the ground and residents flee to IDP camps, the government declares a security red zone, and effective access to the land is suspended for community occupants.
The illegal miners simply drive in. They pay zero compensation. They sign no agreements. They extract tonnes of raw ore at near-zero cost.
This is not a conspiracy theory. It is a business model. And Nigerian officials have said as much on national television. The Minister of Solid Minerals, Dele Alake, stood before the nation and acknowledged that “powerful Nigerians” are sponsoring armed bandits to protect illegal mining operations. He pointedly did not name names.
This article will go further.
II. The Architecture of Extraction: Local Elites, Foreign Syndicates, and the Supply Chain of Blood
The structure of Nigeria’s illegal minerals economy has a clear architecture. At the top sit local politicians, retired military generals, and traditional rulers who form front companies to hold mining licences issued in Abuja.
They secure the paper through connections and corruption, and they then contract the dirty work, the clearing of communities, the intimidation of residents, the maintenance of insecurity, to armed groups operating on the ground.
In the middle sits a rapidly growing Chinese syndicate presence.
This is no longer a matter of allegation. In May 2024, a joint team of the Nigeria Customs Service, soldiers, and police raided a remote market in Kishi, Oyo State, over three days and arrested 32 people, including two Chinese nationals.
According to community leader Jimoh Bioku, quoted by the Associated Press, Chinese nationals had been searching for lithium in remote bush sites and then “engaged people to dig for them,” turning the local market into “a transit point” for illicit minerals.
By that year, the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission (EFCC) and military forces had arrested dozens of Chinese nationals in Nasarawa, Kwara, and Plateau States, confiscating truckloads of stolen unrefined lithium.
By mid-2025, Nigeria’s Mining Marshals, a para-military unit now 2,670 officers strong, had arrested more than 327 illegal miners, recovered 98 mine sites, and secured convictions that sent Chinese nationals to Nigerian prisons. Yet the extraction continues.
These are not independent artisanal miners scratching at the earth with hand tools. They are highly organised, well-funded corporate extraction teams. China controls over 70 percent of the world’s lithium refining capacity and must feed its massive battery factories, companies like CATL and BYD, whose global market dominance depends on a reliable supply of raw ore.
When Chinese syndicates arrive in Nigeria, they do not bring armies. They bring cash. They hire local youth, often the same youth whose farms have been destroyed, whose parents have been killed, to dig for 3,000 naira a day. They buy the raw lithium ore from local militias for a fraction of its international value. They pack it into 30-ton trucks.
Now consider the logistics.
A 30-ton truck loaded with stolen minerals is not invisible. To travel from Plateau State to the ports at Lagos, one must cover roughly 1,000 kilometres of Nigerian highway, passing through dozens of police and military checkpoints.
Operation Safe Haven is the special military task force specifically deployed to secure Plateau State. How does a massive convoy of stolen ore pass through all of these checkpoints? The answer is straightforward and well-documented: the cartel pays the toll. The military commanders receive their cut.
The mobile police receive theirs. The local government chairmen receive theirs. The security forces do not stop the trucks. They escort them.
At Apapa Port in Lagos, the arrangement continues. Nigerian law requires massive royalties on lithium exports and mandates local refining before export. The syndicates do not want to build refineries. They want to extract and run. So a customs officer is bought.
He logs the highly valuable lithium or columbite in the export database as “lead slag,” “zinc,” or “raw earth.” The bill of lading is falsified. The containers are loaded onto Maersk or MSC shipping vessels. The stolen wealth of Plateau State leaves the shores of Africa. The Nigerian treasury collects zero royalties. Local governments collect zero taxes.
“Chinese companies such as Canmax Technology, Jiuling Lithium, Avatar New Energy Nigeria, and Asba have invested over $1.3 billion in lithium processing in Nigeria since September 2023.” — Minister Dele Alake at the 2025 Chinese Mining Conference, Tianjin
III. The American Loophole: How Wall Street Launders Blood Minerals
When the ships reach Shanghai and Shenzhen, the raw ore is dumped into massive chemical refineries. It is melted down, purified, and processed. The moment it melts, its geographic origin is chemically erased. The blood is washed away in the fire. What emerges from the refinery is battery-grade lithium, clean, certifiable, and ready for global sale.
This brings us to the buyers, the trillion-dollar American technology companies. Elon Musk needs lithium to build Tesla batteries. Apple needs it for iPhones. Microsoft needs it for servers. The obvious question is this: how can an American corporation legally purchase minerals extracted at gunpoint from a burning village in Nigeria?
The answer lies in a legislative loophole that deserves far more scrutiny than it has received. In 2010, the United States Congress passed the Dodd-Frank Wall Street Reform and Consumer Protection Act. Section 1502 of this law was specifically designed to prevent the trade of conflict minerals; it forces publicly listed American companies to prove to the Securities and Exchange Commission (SEC) that their supply chains do not fund armed militias. In principle, it is a robust piece of ethical commerce legislation. In practice, it has a fatal geographic flaw.
The Dodd-Frank Act explicitly defines “conflict minerals” as those originating in the Democratic Republic of the Congo or its adjoining countries. Nigeria does not share a border with the Congo.
Therefore, under the precise language of United States financial law, lithium extracted by armed bandits from the ruins of Bokkos or Barkin Ladi is classified as perfectly legal. A Silicon Valley technology company can purchase thousands of tons of refined lithium from a Chinese middleman, incorporate it into an electric vehicle battery, file its paperwork with the SEC, and stamp the product “conflict-free.”
Section 1502 of Dodd-Frank defines conflict minerals as originating only in the DRC or adjoining countries. Nigeria is excluded. Minerals extracted by armed militias in Plateau State are legally “conflict-free” under US law.
The implications are staggering. The green energy revolution in America, subsidised by tax incentives, celebrated as the planet-saving frontier, is, in part, built on the ecological and human destruction of West African communities. An American consumer purchases a Tesla, believing they are saving the climate. They do not know that the battery was made possible by the clearing of an indigenous community in Nigeria’s Middle Belt. Wall Street looks the other way because the law invites it to.
This is not colonialism by royal charter. It is colonialism by corporate loophole. The mechanism has been updated; the outcome is the same.
IV. The Political Economy of Perpetual Crisis: Why Peace Is Bad for Business
Let us now turn to the most uncomfortable dimension of this analysis: the financial incentives that the Nigerian political class has to maintain, rather than resolve, the violence in the north.
In Nigeria, governors receive what is euphemistically called a “security vote”, a monthly cash allocation designed to fund responses to local security crises. The security vote is a constitutional black hole: it cannot be audited by the Auditor-General, it is exempt from legislative oversight, and no receipts are required.
Governors can withdraw hundreds of millions of naira in untraceable cash. The logic is simple and brutal: if Plateau State is at peace, the security vote shrinks. If Plateau State is burning, it expands. In the worst years of the Middle Belt crisis, state governors were accessing billions of naira annually in emergency security allocations.
Furthermore, every major massacre generates a federal emergency response. Humanitarian agencies mobilise. International donors provide relief funding. Federal government intervention budgets are activated.
The security agencies on the ground, many of whose commanders are being paid by the very cartels they are supposed to be dismantling, receive expanded operational budgets.
If the military actually wiped out the bandits, the emergency funding would stop. The security votes would dry up. Contracts would evaporate. There is zero financial incentive for the political and military elite to end the conflict. Peace is bad for business in this system.”
Researchers at the Accord African Centre for the Constructive Resolution of Disputes, writing on farmer-herder conflicts in southern Kaduna, note that “many reports and commentaries suggest the involvement of some political elites from the north who fuel the clashes for political and business interests.” T
his is not fringe commentary. It appears in peer-reviewed academic literature. The political economy of sustained insecurity is well-documented. It simply receives far less column space than the religious narrative, because the religious narrative is emotionally arresting and politically useful to far more powerful actors.
The food dimension compounds the economic damage. The Middle Belt, Plateau, Benue, Kaduna, and Nasarawa, is the food basket of Nigeria. It grows the yams, maize, potatoes, and tomatoes that feed Lagos, Abuja, Port Harcourt, and the coastal cities.
When farmers of Bokkos and Mangu are chased into IDP camps, the crops go unplanted, the harvest rots, and food supply to the southern markets collapses. The food inflation that Lagos residents experience is not simply a consequence of naira devaluation or fuel subsidy removal. It is also the direct economic tax of the lithium cartel’s operations in the north.
The syndicate extracts clean energy materials for the West and leaves starvation and toxic waste in Nigerian soil.
V. The CPC Designation and the Christmas Strikes: Geopolitics as Theological Warfare
It is against this complex backdrop that the Trump administration’s response to Nigeria must be evaluated and found wanting.
In October 2025, President Donald Trump designated Nigeria a “Country of Particular Concern” (CPC) under the International Religious Freedom Act, citing the alleged persecution of Christians.
The designation was championed by Republican congressman Riley Moore, who claimed that more than 7,000 Christians had been killed in Nigeria in the first seven months of 2025 alone, an average of 35 per day. Trump threatened military intervention if Nigeria could not stop “the slaughtering of Christians.”
Then, on Christmas Day 2025, he made good on the threat. AFRICOM, under Trump’s direction, launched drone strikes in Sokoto State, targeting what the Pentagon described as ISIS camps. Trump announced on Truth Social that the strikes were directed at “ISIS Terrorist Scum in Northwest Nigeria, who have been targeting and viciously killing, primarily, innocent Christians.” Defence Secretary Pete Hegseth posted a Christmas message to the effect that “ISIS found out tonight.”
Let us interrogate this with the data that exists. According to the Armed Conflict Location and Event Data (ACLED) project, the most comprehensive independent database of African conflict events, of more than 20,400 civilians killed in Nigeria between January 2020 and September 2025, 317 deaths were from attacks specifically targeting Christians.
A significant number, to be sure. But 417 deaths were from attacks specifically targeting Muslims. The vast majority of the victims had no recorded religious targeting at all. They were simply Nigerians killed in violence.
ACLED data: Of 20,400+ civilian deaths in Nigeria between January 2020 and September 2025, 317 were in attacks targeting Christians and 417 in attacks targeting Muslims. The majority had no religious targeting recorded.
The town of Jabo in Sokoto State, reportedly hit by the Christmas strikes, was described by CNN after the attacks as a community with “no known history of ISIS, Lakurawa, or any other terrorist groups operating in the area.” Its parliamentary representative, Bashar Isah Jabo, called it “a peaceful community.” Resident Suleiman Kagara told reporters, “We see Christians as our brothers. We don’t have religious conflicts.” The rubble from a US missile landed just metres from the community’s only hospital.
Council on Foreign Relations analyst Ebenezer Obadare, writing in the CFR’s formal analysis of the strikes, noted that Sokoto State is predominantly Muslim and that the violence in Nigeria’s northwest is “mainly driven by criminal bandit groups,” with some growing IS-affiliated elements, but “not really specifically in Sokoto.” Nigeria’s own Foreign Minister Yusuf Tuggar told CNN flatly that the strikes “have nothing to do with a particular religion.”
The Biden administration had actually removed Nigeria from the CPC list in 2021, with Secretary Antony Blinken’s State Department assessing that the criteria of “systematic, ongoing, and egregious violations of religious freedom” were not met.
The United States Commission on International Religious Freedom had condemned that decision, but the underlying empirical point, that the violence in Nigeria is multi-causal, multi-directional, and not reducible to Christian persecution, was well-supported by the available data.
“Trump’s binary framing of the issue as attacks targeting Christians does not resonate with the reality on the ground.” — Oluwole Ojewale, Dakar-based African security analyst, speaking to CNN
Anthea Butler, a religious scholar at the University of Pennsylvania, offered perhaps the most forensic diagnosis of what was happening in American evangelical politics around Nigeria: the narrative of Christian persecution serves a “saviour narrative” that resonates deeply with a particular American religious and political constituency. It is “a thing,” as she put it.
When you tell that audience that Christians are being massacred, it activates an emotional and theological response that is almost immune to empirical counter-evidence. That immunisation is useful, for fundraising, for political mobilisation, and for justifying military postures in resource-rich regions of the global South.
It is worth pausing on that last point. Nigeria is, let us not forget, the largest oil producer in Africa. Trump has been explicit, as he was with Venezuela, that he considers resource-rich nations legitimate targets for what he frames as moral interventionism.
The convergence of evangelically charged rhetoric about persecuted Christians, a CPC designation that opens the door to sanctions and military action, and a country sitting atop massive reserves of oil, lithium, tin, and columbite is not, for the serious analyst, a coincidence.
VI. What the Data Actually Says About the Farmer-Herder Conflict
The academic literature on Nigeria’s farmer-herder conflict has reached a robust consensus that cuts sharply against the religious genocide narrative. Study after study, from peer-reviewed journals to think tank policy briefs, identifies economics, climate change, land scarcity, and governance failure as the primary drivers.
Research published in the VoxDev development economics journal identifies competition over scarce land and water resources as a foundational driver of the conflict. The study observes that as climate change extends Nigeria’s dry seasons, nomadic herders are pushed further south onto agricultural land for longer periods.
The annual period preceding the planting season has become a flashpoint of violence, not because of theology but because of ecology and scarcity. The paper’s lead researchers, McGuirk and Nunn, whose work was published in 2025, show that climate-induced migration patterns map precisely onto conflict escalation.
A 2025 study published in the International Journal of Research and Innovation in Applied Science states plainly: “The primary driver of these disputes continues to be economic survival, especially with reference to land access.”
The same study notes that “the effect of gold mining, corporate mining and other mining activities restrict access to land use” and directly exacerbate herder-farmer tensions.
Peer-reviewed research in ScienceDirect’s World Development journal from 2024 examined the Benue-Nasarawa borderland specifically and found that the conflict escalates in direct proportion to the acquisition and privatisation of wetlands by agro-industrial projects.
Academic consensus:
The primary drivers of Nigeria’s farmer-herder conflict are land scarcity, climate change, governance failure, and mineral extraction competition — not religious ideology.
The 2025 ACCORD study of southern Kaduna, which covered four local government areas with a combined population of nearly one million people, found that while religion constitutes what it called a “potent aspect” of the conflict, it functions primarily as a force that “frustrates an unbiased and effective implementation of government policies” rather than as a primary cause.
Religious leaders on both sides, the study found, often “instigate sentiments by justifying violence to promote religious hegemony”, meaning that religious framing is weaponised after the fact by community leaders seeking to consolidate their own authority, not as the initiating cause of the violence itself.
The historical record provides important context as well. The burti system, the pre-colonial arrangement under which specific migration routes for herders were negotiated with farmers and traditional authorities, worked with reasonable effectiveness for centuries. It did not collapse because of religious hostility. It collapsed in the 1970s when population growth led farmers to encroach on cattle migration paths, and when the colonial-era tsetse fly control programmes opened previously uninhabitable southern lands to cattle movement.
The British administration that maintained the burti was gone. The Nigerian state that replaced it had neither the capacity nor the political will to sustain it. What followed was not a religious war. It was a governance vacuum.
VII. The Forty-Year View: Deindustrialisation, Governance Collapse, and the Roots of Northern Violence
Those of us who have spent more than four decades analysing Nigeria’s economic trajectory understand that the crisis of the north cannot be understood in isolation from the broader story of Nigeria’s deindustrialisation and governance collapse since independence.
Nigeria in the 1960s and 1970s had a functioning industrial base in the north. The Kano textile mills employed tens of thousands. Groundnut production made the north a globally significant agricultural exporter. The middle classes of Kaduna and Jos were growing.
Then came the oil boom, and with it, the Dutch Disease that hollowed out the non-oil economy. Manufacturing shrank from over 10 percent of GDP in the late 1970s to below 10 percent through the 1980s and ’2090s, a trajectory that has persisted. The north, historically reliant on agriculture and light manufacturing, was hit hardest.
When structural adjustment programmes imposed by the IMF and World Bank in the 1980s and 1990s dismantled subsidies on agricultural inputs, collapsed extension services, and removed protective trade barriers, the northern Nigerian farmer was exposed to global market forces without the institutional buffers that existed in competing nations.
Land that had sustained multi-generational farming communities became economically marginal. Young men with no factory jobs, no viable farms, and no educational pathway became the recruitment pool for every armed group from Boko Haram to bandits to the mining militia.
The proliferation of small arms and light weapons across the Sahel, accelerated catastrophically by the collapse of Libya in 2011 and the subsequent dispersal of Gaddafi’s arsenals, placed AK-47s in the hands of communities that previously resolved land disputes with wooden staffs.
Nigeria’s 4,047-kilometre porous border with Benin, Niger, Chad, and Cameroon makes arms control almost impossible. What the international press calls a religious war is, in structural terms, the convergence of deindustrialisation, climate stress, arms proliferation, governance vacuum, and mineral extraction greed.
VIII. What Serious Leadership Must Do: A Policy Framework for Structural Response
If the diagnosis is correct, and the data strongly suggest it is, then the prescriptions that flow from the religious genocide narrative are not only insufficient, they are actively counterproductive.
Drone strikes on Sokoto do not address lithium cartels in Plateau State. CPC designations do not resolve climate-induced pastoral migration. Evangelical moral pressure does not rebuild the governance institutions that collapsed when structural adjustment gutted the Nigerian state.
What serious leadership, in Nigeria, across Africa, and in the international community, must pursue is a fundamentally different strategic framework. Several elements are non-negotiable.
First, Nigeria must dramatically strengthen the Mining Cadastre Office and enforce the community development agreement requirements that the law already mandates.
The Tinubu administration’s 2024 policy requiring all mining licence holders to establish local processing plants before extracting ore is a step in the right direction. But as the Kangimi plant in Kaduna State demonstrates, inaugurating a plant and delivering its promised jobs and infrastructure are very different things.
As of March 2025, a facility that promised 1,500 direct jobs had employed seventeen young people, mostly as security guards. Policy announcements without enforcement are performance without substance.
Second, the Dodd-Frank loophole must be closed. American technology companies should be required to audit their lithium supply chains regardless of the country of origin.
The arbitrary restriction of the conflict minerals definition to the DRC and adjoining countries has no principled basis. It exists because it is convenient for corporate interests.
Advocacy by Nigerian civil society, African Union institutions, and international human rights organisations should be directed at the legislative amendment.
As of mid-2025, six lithium processing plants were operational or near completion in Nigeria. Chinese companies, including Canmax, Jiuling, Avatar New Energy, and Asba had committed over $1.3 billion. The question is whether communities see any of the benefits.
Third, Nigeria must establish an independent mineral revenue tracking authority with real-time public reporting of extraction volumes, royalty payments, and community development disbursements.
The opacity that currently allows billions in mineral wealth to leave the country unrecorded is not an accident of bureaucratic inefficiency. It is a feature of a system designed by those who benefit from it.
Fourth, the farmer-herder conflict requires a dedicated land administration reform programme, including the revival and formalisation of transit corridors for pastoralist movement. The burti system worked because it was negotiated, enforced, and respected by all parties. Its modern equivalent does not need to look identical, but it needs to exist and have institutional teeth.
Fifth, and perhaps most importantly, the international framing of Nigeria’s crisis must change. The United States, the United Kingdom, and the European Union, in their engagements with Nigeria, must move beyond evangelical lobbying-driven policy and engage with the actual structural analysis. Sending drones into Sokoto while Chinese companies extract lithium from Plateau State through a military escort system is not a coherent anti-terrorism strategy. It is a theatre that serves domestic American political needs while doing nothing for Nigerians on the ground.
Conclusion: Colonialism Did Not End. It Updated Its Technology.
Let me be direct about what this article has argued, and what it has not.
It has not been argued that religious tensions in Nigeria are imaginary. They are real, historically deep, and politically exploited. It has not been argued that Christians in Nigeria do not suffer violence. They do, as do Muslims, as do communities with no particular religious identity in the path of armed groups.
What it has argued, with data and with the weight of four decades of watching this country’s economy operate, is that the dominant international narrative, that Nigeria’s northern crisis is fundamentally a religious genocide of Christians, is analytically false, politically motivated, and strategically dangerous. It is false because the primary drivers of the violence are economic and ecological, not theological.
It is politically motivated because the religious narrative serves the domestic agenda of American evangelical conservatism, the financial interests of international mining capital, and the security-vote interests of Nigerian political elites. And it is strategically dangerous because it produces prescriptions, CPC designations, and drone strikes, evangelical sanctions that address none of the structural causes of the violence.
The excavators that arrived in Bokkos after the massacre are the most important data point in this entire analysis. It is not the religious identities of the killers and the killed. It is not the theological frameworks invoked by political actors in Washington or Abuja.
The excavators. When you want to understand a killing, you ask who benefits. In Nigeria’s Middle Belt, the beneficiaries are mining cartels, corrupt military commanders, governors extracting security votes, and global technology companies buying clean lithium for clean energy products. The victims are the farmers of the food basket and the poor youth recruited to dig up the ore that finances their own displacement.
Colonialism did not end when the British left, but it updated its technology. Where once there were royal charters and trading companies, there are now mining licences and shipping containers and corporate due diligence loopholes. Where once there were district officers, there are now security vote budgets and armed proxy militias. The mechanism is modern.
The logic is ancient. Nigeria’s leadership class, its civil society, and its international partners must be honest enough to name it for what it is, and brave enough to dismantle it.
“The next time you read a headline about a farmer-herder clash in a resource-rich state, do not look for the cows. Look for the excavators. Look for the shipping containers.”- K. Parker
About the Author
Prof. Sarumi, a digital transformation architect and leadership strategist with over 40 years of cross-sector experience across Nigeria the African continent, writes from Lagos.