On the searing afternoon of February 1, 1971, the red earth of the University of Ibadan was stained by innocent blood. That day, Adekunle Ademuyiwa Adepeju, a second-year Agricultural Science student, became the first Nigerian undergraduate to be killed by police on a university campus.
The students had gathered in protest. Their demands were simple—dignity, better food, humane conditions, and fair treatment, particularly at Nnamdi Azikiwe Hall (Zik Hall). But as their chants rose, so too did the fear of those in authority. The Vice-Chancellor, hoping to quell the unrest, called in the police.
But the police did not bring calm.
They brought chaos.
Not peace, but bullets.
Not understanding, but violence.
As students scattered in panic, some fell. Kunle was not armed. He wasn’t even leading the protest. He was trying to assist a fellow student who had already been shot. Then a bullet, stray but deadly, struck him. A bullet from a country that had promised to protect him.
His death shook the campus into mourning. But sorrow soon gave way to righteous fury.
Refusing to let his death go unanswered, his friends carried Kunle’s coffin through the campus—a solemn procession of pain. A visible call for justice. A declaration that his life mattered. He had not died of illness or war, but by the very system tasked with nurturing and protecting him.
News spread quickly. In Lagos, students responded with fury. Protests erupted nationwide. For four days, tension gripped the country. Reuters reported students setting police posts ablaze and stripping officers of their uniforms. But again, the police responded—not with dialogue, but with more bullets.
They didn’t just kill Kunle.
They declared war on a generation.
Kunle became a symbol. A martyr. A painful reminder. His death marked a turning point. February 1st began to be observed as a lecture-free day in many universities. The University of Ibadan renamed its Students’ Union Building in his memory. Some saw this as justice. But justice without change is merely delay.
Kunle would have turned 76 this year. Perhaps a professor. Perhaps a farmer. Perhaps a father, sitting beneath a tree, telling stories of his youth.
But today, May 20, 2025, 54 years later, history repeats itself.
In the same city of Ibadan, under the same sky, a young student on his way to write his WAEC examination was shot dead—again, by a stray police bullet.
Another mother will bury her child.
Another classroom will have an empty seat.
Another dream has been violently cut short.
How many more?
How many students must fall before the guns fall silent?
How long will uniforms carry bullets instead of safety?
How many mothers must grieve before the nation listens?
We remember Adekunle Adepeju, not just as a name from history, but as a mirror held up to our present.
And we will not stop.
We will not be silent.
We will not rest.
Until the last gun is lowered.
Until justice is not a protest, but a policy.
Until the killing ends.
Source: HistoryLovers