The First Recorded Victim of Police Brutality and the Birth of Student Martyrdom in Nigeria

The First Recorded Victim of Police Brutality and the Birth of Student Martyrdom in Nigeria

On a dry and unforgiving Monday, February 1, 1971, the red soil of the University of Ibadan was soaked with blood for the first time. That day, Adekunle Ademuyiwa Adepeju, a quiet, flute-loving second-year student in the Department of Agricultural Economics, became the first Nigerian undergraduate ever killed by police on a university campus.

He was not a criminal. He was not holding a weapon. He wasn’t even leading the protest.

He was simply helping a fellow student who had been injured.

But a bullet, fired by those who were sent to “restore order” struck Kunle in the head. He died instantly. The scene of his death, in front of Queen Elizabeth II Hall, near the students’ bus stop, would become sacred in memory, a symbol of Nigeria’s first documented case of campus police brutality.

BACKGROUND

In late January 1971, students of the University of Ibadan, particularly residents of Nnamdi Azikiwe Hall (Zik Hall), began protesting the deplorable state of living and feeding conditions on campus. Their primary grievance was the poor quality of food served in the school cafeterias, meals they felt were not only unhealthy but unfit for human consumption.

At the center of the students’ frustration was a certain female catering manager, accused of inefficiency, poor hygiene practices, and an arrogant disregard for students’ concerns. Multiple petitions were sent to the university administration, led at the time by Vice-Chancellor Professor Adeoye Lambo, asking for her removal.

But the authorities were slow to act. In response to the growing discontent, student protests escalated — initially peaceful, but emotionally charged. On Saturday, January 30, 1971, students took to the streets of the campus to show their frustration.

Rather than open channels for negotiation, the university administration chose to invite the Nigeria Police Force to quell what they termed a “threat to public order.”

On that fateful Monday morning, heavily armed policemen stormed the University of Ibadan campus. Eyewitnesses would later describe their entry as a military-style operation: tear gas, batons, shouting officers, and cocked rifles.

The students, still protesting but unarmed, scattered in panic. Chaos replaced protest. Shots rang out.

In the confusion, Kunle Adepeju, who was not actively involved in the demonstration, moved to assist another injured student. That single act of compassion cost him his life.

A bullet, fired without discretion, struck him in the head.

He dropped immediately, his white shirt was soaked in his own blood. Fellow students covered his lifeless body with a white bedsheet and placed it near the Queen’s Hall bus stop. The sight was harrowing. The university community froze.

What had begun as a protest for food had become a tragedy of national proportions.

News of Kunle’s death spread rapidly beyond the university gates. Nigerian students, from Ibadan to Lagos, erupted in rage and disbelief. The protests escalated into a four-day national student uprising.

According to Reuters reports from that period, student demonstrators in Lagos and Ibadan burned down police posts, dragged officers into the streets. This forced lots of officers to strip off their uniforms to avoid being identified.

But the government did not back down. In fact, they matched fire with fire. More security agents were deployed. More students were brutalized. The protests were forcibly crushed.

The state made no formal apology. No officer was held accountable. And no justice was served…

Those who knew Kunle Adepeju described him as gentle, reserved, and talented. He often walked the campus with a wooden flute in his hand. He was not a firebrand activist. He was not one for shouting slogans. He simply wanted a better life, like every Nigerian youth.

But history chose him. Or perhaps, fate did.

His killing would mark the first time the Nigerian state turned its guns on unarmed students within an institution meant to protect them.

And from that point on, the relationship between students and the state was never the same.

In the years that followed, Adekunle Adepeju became more than a name. He became a symbol of Nigerian student resistance, of the cost of silence, and of the deep scars of police brutality.

To immortalize him, the University of Ibadan named its Students’ Union Building after him, the Kunle Adepeju Memorial Building, complete with a statue in his honor. His name remains etched in the memory of every generation of Nigerian students.

Since his death, many Nigerian universities, especially UI, have observed February 1st as a lecture-free day, set aside to honor his sacrifice.

Forty-nine years later, the same cycle repeats.

In October 2020, during the historic End SARS protests, another generation of Nigerian youth took to the streets, not for food this time, but to protest the unchecked killings and abuses by the police unit known as SARS. Once again, their chants were met with bullets. Once again, young lives were lost. Once again, candles were lit, this time at Lekki Toll Gate.

The names have changed. But the story remains the same.

We do not only mourn. We mourn Adekunle Adepeju. But more importantly, we indict. We indict a system that continues to treat Nigerian youth as threats instead of assets.

We reflect on how easily life is lost in a country where compassion is rare and trigger fingers are quick. We resist because silence makes us complicit.

We demand a future where no student is ever made a martyr again.

This is not just a remembrance, this is resistance.