Armed Forces Remembrance Day: Remembering The Dead, Forgetting The Living

EVERY January 15, Nigeria pauses—at least symbolically—to honour the men and women who paid the ultimate price in defence of our nation. Wreaths are laid, trumpets are sounded, and the flame of the unknown soldier flickers as a reminder of sacrifices etched permanently into our national memory.

But once the ceremonies end, once the cameras switch off and the dignitaries disperse, an uncomfortable truth remains: Nigeria is far more committed to remembering the dead than caring for the living heroes still standing among us.

Armed Forces Remembrance Day, in its ideal form, is supposed to be a moment of solemn gratitude and collective reflection. But in reality, it has become a yearly ritual often devoid of meaningful action. We have mastered the art of speeches, tributes, and military parades—yet we have failed woefully in our duty to the families left behind, the wounded veterans struggling through life, and the serving officers facing impossible conditions while still expected to defend a nation that underappreciates them.

This is not just hypocrisy; it is a national failure.

Across the country, widows of fallen soldiers continue to battle poverty, delayed gratuities, and bureaucratic chokeholds that can stretch for years. Some are tossed around between military pension boards like files without names. Many resort to petty trading or menial labour simply to feed their children—children who, despite their fathers’ sacrifices, have no guaranteed access to quality education or welfare support.

For a country that claims to value sacrifice, how do we justify this?
Veterans, especially those who fought in peacekeeping missions or in the counter-insurgency operations across the North-East, remain some of the most neglected demographics in Nigeria. It is a cruel irony that men who once bore arms to protect civilians now struggle to afford basic healthcare. Many live with untreated injuries, PTSD, and trauma that society neither acknowledges nor understands. Some are homeless. Others, too proud to beg, retreat into quiet suffering.

And while all these realities exist, every January we gather to “honour” them with beautifully choreographed ceremonies that change absolutely nothing in their lives.

The Armed Forces Remembrance Day emblem, which should be a national symbol of support, has slowly become more of a political accessory—worn by public officials who do not even bother to honour their obligations to serving soldiers or veterans. How many of these leaders ensure that military barracks in their states have clean water, decent schools, functioning hospitals, or habitable accommodation? How many have called for a transparent audit of the Defence budget to ensure funds reach the soldiers on the frontlines? How many have fought to end the pension delays that torment the families of dead servicemen?

The gulf between national rhetoric and national action is wide—and shameful.
Our soldiers continue to fight on multiple fronts: insurgency, banditry, oil theft, kidnapping, communal crises. Yet, they do so with some of the worst welfare conditions among nations with similar security burdens.

It is not uncommon to hear soldiers complain quietly about outdated equipment, insufficient allowances, poor insurance coverage, and long periods away from their families without adequate psychological support.
Even the barracks, which should be sanctuaries of safety and discipline, are crumbling in many parts of the country—some without electricity for days, others with leaking roofs, broken toilets, and decaying infrastructure.

If we truly value the Armed Forces, why do we allow the institutions meant to support them to collapse?

The tragedy in all this is that Nigeria can do better. The welfare of its Armed Forces does not require miracles—just sincerity, political will, and a commitment to prioritise human lives over ceremonies.

First, we must overhaul the military pension and gratuity system. Payments should not take years, and widows should not become professional visitors at pension offices. There must be a unified, transparent, and technology-driven process that ensures automatic processing of benefits within months—not decades.

Second, veterans deserve comprehensive healthcare—physical and mental. A dedicated Veterans’ Health Fund, backed by legislation, would ensure that no ex-soldier is left to die in silence from preventable ailments or psychological trauma.

Third, serving personnel must receive improved accommodation, insurance, equipment, and welfare packages. The soldier on the battlefield is the backbone of national security; when he is neglected, the nation becomes vulnerable.

Fourth, federal and state governments must institutionalise educational scholarships for the children of fallen heroes—ensuring that no child of a soldier who died for Nigeria is denied the opportunity to dream.

Finally, Armed Forces Remembrance Day must evolve beyond symbolism. It should be a national accountability day—where reports on military welfare, spending, veterans’ affairs, and institutional reforms are presented to the public. A day where government is compelled to show what has been done, not just what is being remembered.

A nation that forgets its living heroes has already begun to forget its own conscience. Nigeria must choose whether Armed Forces Remembrance Day will remain a ceremonial ritual or become a turning point toward meaningful change.

As we lay wreaths this year, may we also lay to rest the culture of forgetting the living. Because true remembrance is not measured by how loudly we honour the dead, but by how sincerely we care for those still living in the shadow of sacrifice.