Schools Do Not Just Teach Dutch, They Build Belgium

Few questions in Belgium touch history, identity and democracy as deeply as language. That is precisely why they deserve more light than heat.

The recent proposal by the Flemish Government to further restrict access to Dutch-language education in Brussels, by reserving a greater proportion of school places exclusively for Dutch-speaking families, stems from a legitimate concern. Many Flemish parents living in Brussels increasingly struggle to secure places for their children in Dutch-language schools. They have every reason to expect that schools established and funded by the Flemish Community should continue to serve the community they were created to support.

Those concerns deserve to be heard respectfully, not dismissed. The Dutch language did not attain its rightful place in Belgium by accident. It was the product of decades of political struggle, cultural perseverance and democratic reform. Any serious observer of Belgian history understands why many Flemings instinctively resist anything that appears to weaken the Dutch-speaking character of their educational institutions.

Acknowledging that reality, however, should not prevent us from asking a more important question. Is restricting access the wisest way to strengthen Dutch-language education in Brussels? I believe the answer is no. In fact, the very popularity of Dutch-language schools should be seen as one of the Flemish Community’s greatest public policy successes.

Parents who speak French at home increasingly choose Dutch-language education. So do many international families; diplomats, European civil servants, employees of multinational companies and countless other expatriates. This is not an abstract observation. They are not compelled to do so. They choose it because they recognise the quality of the education, its discipline, and the opportunities that multilingual learning creates for their children.

Permit me a personal reflection.

Over the years, I have viewed this question from several vantage points: first as a Nigerian-qualified teacher, later as a Belgian municipal policymaker entrusted for a time with responsibility for education, then as a parent whose children passed through the Flemish education system, and now as a grandfather watching a new generation intentionally grow up bilingually in Dutch and English. Those experiences have convinced me that multilingual education is one of Belgium’s quiet success stories.

Around two decades ago, some naturalised Belgian friends of mine decided to relocate to the United Kingdom, convinced that an English-language education would better prepare their children for the future. Others of us stayed, and our children continued through the Flemish education system. Looking back, the difference has been striking.

Those educated in Dutch did not lose English. For many, it remained the language of the home. Instead, they gained Dutch to native or near-native proficiency, acquired functional French because it is a compulsory part of the curriculum, and, in many cases, developed a working knowledge of German as well. They entered adulthood equipped not with one linguistic identity, but with several.

Some families who moved abroad have since reflected that, while their children received an excellent education, they missed the distinctive multilingual advantage that Belgium offers. In today’s international labour market, that additional linguistic competence has become a genuine competitive asset.

Today, as I watch my own grandson being intentionally raised in both Dutch(his mum) and English (his dad), I see that same multilingual inheritance continuing into another generation. It reminds me that integration is not merely about learning a language. It is about gradually belonging to a society without losing the richness of one’s origins.

Languages do not become weaker because more people choose to learn them. They become stronger because more people choose to live through them. That experience has only reinforced my conviction that every family who voluntarily chooses Dutch-language education should be seen not as diminishing the Dutch language, but as strengthening its future. The growing demand for Dutch-language schools is not evidence of failure; it is evidence of success.

Brussels occupies a unique place in Belgium. It is the capital of Flanders and of Belgium. It is also the administrative capital of Europe and one of the world’s most multilingual cities. No other Belgian city carries quite the same responsibility of bringing different linguistic and cultural communities together.

That uniqueness requires policies that do more than protect identities. They must also build shared futures. Schools remain one of the few public institutions where children from different backgrounds can grow together before society teaches them to separate into political or linguistic camps. Every French-speaking child who learns Dutch fluently strengthens the place of Dutch in Brussels. Every international family that chooses Dutch-language education demonstrates confidence in Flemish institutions. Every multilingual graduate represents an investment in Belgium’s social cohesion and economic competitiveness.

Restricting access risks reducing precisely the constituency that has chosen to embrace the Dutch language. The real challenge, therefore, is not excessive demand. It is insufficient capacity. Whenever public demand exceeds available supply, governments face a choice. They can ration opportunity. Or they can create more opportunity. History generally judges the second option more kindly. If Dutch-language schools have become victims of their own success, then the appropriate response is to invest in more classrooms, more teachers, more school infrastructure and stronger early-childhood language support, not to narrow the circle of those who may benefit.

There is also an economic dimension that deserves greater attention. Brussels’ labour market increasingly rewards multilingualism. Employers across public administration, European institutions, healthcare, education and business consistently seek professionals who are comfortable working in Dutch, French and English.

Dutch-language education has quietly become one of Brussels’ most successful engines of multilingual competence. Why would Belgium intentionally reduce access to one of its greatest competitive advantages? Protecting Dutch and promoting multilingualism are not competing objectives. They reinforce one another. A balanced policy could therefore pursue both goals simultaneously.

Guarantee meaningful access for Dutch-speaking families. Expand Dutch-language educational capacity. Strengthen Dutch immersion from early childhood. Improve Dutch teaching within French-language schools. Encourage multilingual excellence as one of Brussels’ defining strengths rather than treating linguistic diversity as a zero-sum competition.

Such an approach protects the legitimate interests of Flemish families without sending the unintended message that Dutch is a language to be guarded from others rather than shared with them.

As someone who has spent much of his public life believing that good policy enlarges opportunity rather than redistributes scarcity, I find myself returning to one simple conviction. Belgium’s linguistic diversity should not become a permanent contest over who belongs. It should become a shared project of ensuring that more citizens belong fully to one another. The objective of language policy should never simply be deciding who gets into our schools. It should be ensuring that everyone who leaves them leaves better equipped to understand their neighbours, contribute to their communities and strengthen the country they share.

Success should invite expansion, not restriction, because schools do more than teach languages. They cultivate citizens, build communities, and shape belonging across generations.

NJIKOTA: From The Memory of Separation to The Courage of Nation-Building

Being Keynote Address by Collins Nweke for Ikenga Day 2026 of The AfrikaFora

Distinguished guests, brothers and sisters, Ndigbo, friends of The AfrikaFora,

There could hardly be a more fitting theme for Ikenga Day 2026 than Njikota or Nchikota: the idea that we are stronger when we come together; that individual strength acquires greater meaning when joined with the strength of others. Njikota is more than cooperation. It is a philosophy of collective agency. And perhaps there is no better moment to interrogate what that philosophy should mean for Ndigbo today.

There is, I sense, a quiet but discernible yearning across parts of the South-East for a restoration of the fraternal bond that once enabled a people confronted by existential danger to act almost as one. That memory inevitably takes us back to Biafra.

Whatever our different interpretations of that tragic period, we should understand why its memory remains powerful. Biafra was not merely a territorial proposition. For many, it became an expression of collective survival, shared injury, courage and belonging. Under extraordinary circumstances, people discovered the enormous power of standing together. But history does not only ask us to remember. History asks us what we will do with memory.

And that is where I want to offer a different reading of Njikota. What if the great challenge before this generation is not to recreate the Njikota that enabled separation, but to summon a new Njikota capable of transforming the Nigerian federation? What if the same instinct to act together can become an instinct to build together?

Nigeria is unquestionably troubled. The grievances of the South-East cannot simply be wished away. Questions of representation, federalism, equity, security, infrastructure and belonging remain legitimate. A durable Nigerian union cannot be built by demanding silence from those who feel excluded. But neither should legitimate grievance imprison us permanently within the politics of grievance.

There must come a point when memory becomes strategy. And perhaps history itself has already begun pointing us in that direction. There is a remarkable symbolism in contemporary Nigeria that we should not overlook. The man who once led Biafra in an attempt to leave Nigeria would, decades later, offer himself for election as President of Nigeria. And today, the widow of Chukwuemeka Odumegwu-Ojukwu serves as the Minister of Foreign Affairs of the Federal Republic of Nigeria.

Think about that journey for a moment. From leading a secessionist republic to seeking to lead the federation. And today, the widow of the man who led Biafra, Her Excellency Bianca Ojumegwu-Ojukwu, serves as Nigeria’s Foreign Minister.

If history teaches through symbolism, then surely there is a lesson here. It tells us that remembering Biafra need not mean remaining trapped inside Biafra. Perhaps a foundation has already been laid upon which this generation; and particularly the generation after us; can construct a different understanding of Njikota.

But there must be reciprocity. Nigeria cannot demand that Ndigbo continually enlarge their understanding of belonging while the Nigerian state refuses to interrogate those things that continue to make some Ndigbo question that belonging. The conversation must therefore be honest. There remain grievances, some demonstrably structural, others matters of perception. But perceptions in nation-building matter.

There is the longstanding imbalance in the number of states in the South-East and the representation and federal resources that flow from it. There are recurring concerns about equitable representation in federal institutions and the commanding heights of national security and governance. There are questions about infrastructure and federal presence. There remains the unresolved emotional inheritance of the Civil War and the feeling among many younger Ndigbo that they are still being asked to carry the burden of a conflict they did not fight.

A mature federation does not dismiss such sentiments simply because it disagrees with some of them. It listens. It investigates. Where injustice is real, it corrects it. Where the grievance rests upon misperception, it produces evidence and builds trust. And where old wounds remain open, it seeks reconciliation rather than demanding collective amnesia.

Belonging cannot be legislated into existence; it must also be experienced. This is why the new Njikota must impose obligations on both sides. Ndi Igbo must resist allowing the memory of exclusion to become a permanent philosophy of withdrawal. But Nigeria must resist creating the conditions that make withdrawal attractive.

That, for me, is the bargain.

We should move from Njikota as solidarity for separation towards Njikota as solidarity for transformation. And Nigeria itself must become an enabler of that transformation. For the ultimate answer to separatist sentiment is not repression. Neither is it rhetoric about national unity. The most powerful answer is to build a federation so just, so inclusive and so respectful of its constituent peoples that separation progressively loses its emotional appeal. Then Njikota acquires an even larger meaning.

Our history contains another powerful tradition that deserves equal attention: the ability to build beyond our immediate geography. The Igbo trader who establishes a business hundreds of kilometres from his ancestral home; the professional who builds institutions across Nigeria; the entrepreneur whose supply chains cross ethnic and religious boundaries; the families that have lived for generations in Lagos, Kano, Abuja, Port Harcourt and elsewhere. These too are genuinely organic expressions of Igbo identity. They tell us something important: Our genius has never been isolation. Our genius has been connection.

Perhaps, therefore, Njikota must now travel beyond the boundaries within which we have sometimes confined it. And here, I believe, we must begin close to home. The political map tells us that the South-East consists of five states. But peoples, cultures, kinships and histories do not always fit neatly within administrative boundaries. Igbo communities and cultural affinities extend beyond the constitutional boundaries of today’s South-East. Rivers do not erase kinship. State creation does not abolish ancestry. Administrative boundaries need not become psychological walls.

So perhaps the first task of a contemporary Njikota is reconnection among ourselves: rediscovering relationships weakened by state boundaries, political classifications and decades of competing narratives about who belongs where. But there is a second circle of Njikota. We must also remember that before Biafra, there was an Eastern Nigeria in which Igbo, Ijaw, Efik, Ibibio, Ogoni and other peoples shared political space, economic relationships, institutions and, inevitably, disagreements. The Civil War and the decades that followed altered many of those relationships. Some wounds remain. Some suspicions remain. Some historical interpretations remain contested.

Njikota should give us the courage to revisit that fraternity too. Not to romanticise the old Eastern Region. Not to pretend that differences did not exist. But to ask whether peoples who share geography, commerce, history and so many developmental interests can rediscover the habit of acting together. This is where Njikota begins to acquire strategic meaning.

Imagine an Igbo renaissance that begins by reconnecting Ndigbo across artificial administrative boundaries, then rebuilds bridges with our historic neighbours across the old Eastern Region, and from there deliberately reaches towards the rest of Nigeria. That gives us concentric circles of Njikota:

Njikota among Ndigbo.
Njikota across our historic Eastern neighbourhood.
Njikota with the rest of Nigeria.

Each circle strengthens rather than diminishes the next. For there is no contradiction between being deeply Igbo and profoundly Nigerian. There should equally be no contradiction between recovering Eastern fraternity and strengthening Nigerian nationhood. Indeed, perhaps Nigeria itself should learn something from this. Nigeria will not become stronger by flattening its identities. It will become stronger when those identities develop the confidence to cooperate across their boundaries. That would be Njikota as statecraft.

It would mean moving from “How do we leave Nigeria?” to the more difficult question: “How do we help remake Nigeria into a country in which nobody needs to contemplate leaving?” This is not surrender. It is not forgetting history. And it certainly does not mean accepting injustice. Indeed, reconciliation without justice is fragile. But there is a difference between remembering Biafra and remaining politically trapped inside Biafra. Our ancestors taught us that Igwebuike: there is strength in numbers. But they did not prescribe the boundaries within which those numbers must be assembled. The great opportunity before us is therefore not merely to recover the bond. It is to enlarge the circle.

For Ndigbo, I believe that moment is now. Because perhaps the next great Igbo political project should not be about leaving Nigeria. Perhaps it should be about helping Nigeria finally become the federation it has always promised to be.

The generation that fought the Civil War demonstrated extraordinary courage in circumstances we should pray never to experience again. Our generation requires another kind of courage: The courage to build bridges across old trenches.

Perhaps the greatest tribute we can pay those who suffered, fought and died is not to recreate the circumstances that produced that tragedy, but to help create a Nigeria in which such a tragedy can never happen again.

The Ikenga represents strength, achievement, enterprise and the power of human agency. Let Ikenga Day 2026 therefore mark a subtle but important intellectual shift.

Before I close, permit me to bring Njikota from the realm of ideas into this very room.

Because what The AfrikaFora has been doing, year after year, is itself an exercise in Njikota: convening people, perspectives and generations; creating a space where difficult questions can be asked without fear, where differences need not become divisions, and where our shared heritage can become a platform for imagining a better future.

For this, I particularly commend the Founder and CEO of The AfrikaFora, Madam Winnifred Uloaku Gaillard. As Founding Patron of The AfrikaFora, I know firsthand something of the personal sacrifice, persistence and quiet labour that go into making these conversations possible year after year. Convening is easy to admire from the audience. It is considerably harder from behind the curtain. Nnukwu-Ada Uloaku, your commitment to keeping this platform alive and relevant deserves our gratitude and applause.

I also salute our new Grand Patron, Professor (Chief) Ben Etiaba, for stepping up to the plate and accepting the responsibility of helping to guide this important institution into its next chapter. Nnamdi Azikiwe University, Awka, may have recently appointed you a Visiting Associate Professor, an honour on which we warmly congratulate you. But here among us, permit me to insist that a Chief remains a Chief! Chief Ben Etiaba, congratulations once again. I wish you wisdom, strength and every success in your role as Grand Patron of The AfrikaFora.

And perhaps there is something beautifully appropriate about this transition itself: a Founder who continues to convene, a Founding Patron who makes way, a new Grand Patron who steps forward, and a community that continues the journey.

That, too, is Njikota.

No individual owns the mission. Each generation takes its turn, adds its strength, and passes the responsibility forward. So, at the end of Ikenga Day 2026, let us carry that spirit beyond this gathering. Let us recover the solidarity of our past without reproducing the divisions of our past. Let us transform memory into agency, grievance into reform, and regional solidarity into national coalition. Let us redefine Njikota for our time.

From Njikota for separation to Njikota for reconstruction. From togetherness against Nigeria to togetherness to remake Nigeria. Not the abandonment of Igbo identity, but the deployment of its finest values in the service of a more just federation.

Because perhaps the Nigerian idea will not ultimately be saved by asking its peoples to become less Yoruba, less Hausa, less Ijaw, less Tiv or less Igbo. Perhaps it will be saved when each brings the finest values of their civilisation to the common table.

For Ndigbo, one of those gifts is Njikota. And this may be our moment to offer it to Nigeria.

Dalụ nụ.

Chukwu gozie unu.
Chukwu gozie Alaigbo.
Chukwu gozie Nigeria.

A Decade in the Making – A New Chapter Begins

About ten years ago, I began my relationship with the Chartered Institute of Public Management of Nigeria (CIPMN), a journey that culminated in my admission as a Professional Fellow of the Institute, designating me as Fellow Chartered Public Manager (FCPM) in July 2022. This is the highest professional attainment for public management practitioners.

Today, that relationship enters an exciting new phase.

I am delighted to announce that GlobalVillage Consult and the Chartered Institute of Public Management of Nigeria have formally signed a Memorandum of Understanding to collaborate on the development and delivery of an innovative executive education programme in Economic Diplomacy. This is a byproduct of my seminal book 📕 Economic Diplomacy of the Diaspora.

The flagship initiative, the Masterclass in Economic Diplomacy for Public Managers, is built on a simple but increasingly important conviction:

In today’s world, every public manager must also think like an economic diplomat.

Whether at the federal, state or local government level, attracting investment, building strategic partnerships, engaging the diaspora, promoting exports and positioning communities for prosperity are no longer peripheral responsibilities. They are becoming central to effective public leadership.

I am grateful to the leadership of the Institute, particularly the Registrar / Chief Executive Officer, Mr. Gabriel Opene FCPM, for the confidence reposed in this initiative and for embracing the vision of building professional capacity in this emerging field.

For me personally, this partnership represents more than the launch of another training programme leading to the award of Certified Public Manager in Economic Diplomacy (CPMED). It is another step in a journey that has been shaped by scholarship, public service, international practice and the conviction that ideas can become institutions.

The work begins now.

I look forward to working with the Institute and our future academic, professional and international partners to help equip a new generation of public managers with the competencies needed to lead in an increasingly interconnected global economy.

The journey continues.

Kola-nuts for the Architects of Our Lives

The greatest tributes are often spoken too late. We wait until mentors have gone before finding the words we should have said while they could still hear them. Our highest accolades, our most eloquent speeches and our deepest expressions of gratitude are too often reserved for memorial services, delivered in quiet rooms where the subject can no longer receive them. We build monuments to the departed, yet frequently overlook the living architects who quietly carved out the contours of our minds.

Recently, I decided to break that pattern.

A Homecoming Built on Legacy

In more ways than one, this summer homecoming from Europe with my wife, Tonia, has become a moving study in gratitude. Beyond the professional obligations and familiar landscapes, our journey was anchored by a deeply personal devotion: spending precious time with Tonia’s 103-year-old mother.

We speak with her on the telephone every day, sometimes more than once. Yet there is something profoundly different about physical presence. Four weeks before travelling, we told her we would be spending part of our summer holidays with her. She paused, sighed gently and replied:

“That is wonderful. I hope I am still here when you arrive.”

It was not the first time she had spoken those words. Increasingly, her conversations drift towards the horizon. “The time is drawing near,” she tells us, often followed by her wishes for how she would like to be laid to rest. Each time, we gently reassure her that her life will not simply be mourned but celebrated. There will be no funeral, we tell her, but a festival in honour of a remarkable life.

Listening to her, I have come to realise that there is a rare, almost sacred privilege in living long enough, with one’s faculties still intact, to anticipate one’s own passing. To stand at the summit of a century of life and calmly prepare one’s final exit. It invites those around her to reflect on the beauty of a life well lived and the solemn responsibility of preserving what she has built. That reflection stayed with me.

The Unplanned Reunion in Igbuzo

Against that backdrop of family, memory and stewardship, Tonia and I found ourselves standing outside another modest bungalow, this one in Isieke, close to my ancestral home in Igbuzo. Inside was a man who had profoundly altered the trajectory of my life decades earlier: my former guest English Language teacher and Vice Principal at St. Thomas’s College, Mr. Louis Onwordi.

I had come bearing a gift: a freshly published hardcover copy of my book, Economic Diplomacy of the Diaspora. Yet it was not the book that mattered most. It was the handwritten inscription inside it:

“A short time at St. Thomas’s College; a lifelong imprint on a fifteen-year-old student. Thank you, my revered Teacher and Vice Principal, Mr. Louis Onwordi, for your innovative approach to learning and for shaping my enduring passion for the written and spoken word. Please accept this book as a tribute to your early and profound influence.”

As I read those words aloud, I watched decades of quiet service register in his eyes. He was visibly moved. For a brief moment, time dissolved. There was no retired educator and accomplished author. There was simply a teacher and his fifteen-year-old student, reunited by the enduring thread of gratitude.

Unseen Threads of Providence

Our conversation soon uncovered another remarkable layer of shared history. Years after my time at St. Thomas’s College, long before Tonia and I got married, she had been a young intern at a school where Mr. Onwordi’s late wife taught. She shared an apartment in Umuodafe Quarters with two fellow interns in the same building where Mrs. Onwordi lived with her children. With characteristic generosity, Mrs. Onwordi embraced the three young women, becoming both mentor at school and elder sister at home. Mr. Onwordi who was on transfer then in Kano had never known this story until that afternoon.

As these memories unfolded, it felt as though Providence itself had quietly woven our families together long before either of us recognised the pattern. The reunion became more than a courtesy visit; it became the rediscovery of a shared inheritance.

The Visionary in the Classroom

As we reminisced, my thoughts returned to my days at St. Thomas’s College. Mr. Onwordi’s stay at the school was relatively brief, yet his influence proved enduring. He was one of those rare educators who quietly introduced the future before the rest of society had recognised it. Great teachers do more than teach the curriculum. They shape how their students think about life itself.

At a time when boarding schools often prized rigid discipline above student wellbeing, he introduced reforms that were revolutionary in both their simplicity and humanity.

He extended our lunch break by a full hour and introduced a compulsory midday siesta, believing that rested minds learn better than exhausted ones.

He also created what he called the “Social Moment”, a designated period between dinner and evening prep-class when students could laugh, converse and simply enjoy one another’s company before returning to their books.

These were not merely adjustments to a timetable. They were educational innovations rooted in empathy, balance and foresight.

Long before neuroscience confirmed it, he instinctively understood that tired minds struggle to create, and uninspired hearts struggle to learn.

For a fifteen-year-old discovering the power of language, watching a teacher innovate with such quiet confidence left an indelible mark. He did not simply teach us English. He taught us curiosity. He taught us confidence. He taught us that leadership begins with understanding people.

The Invisible Architects

As I drove away from his home, it struck me that this visit was about far more than one retired teacher in Igbuzo. Every accomplished life rests upon invisible shoulders. Very few of us are self-made. Someone opened a door. Someone corrected an essay. Someone encouraged a hesitant voice. Someone recognised a gift before we recognised it ourselves.Yet we rarely return to say thank you.

We celebrate the published author, the successful entrepreneur, the respected public servant or policy expert, while forgetting the foundational hands that first moulded the clay. To honour those who built us while they are still living is more than good manners. It is a moral responsibility. For the mentor, it offers the quiet satisfaction of knowing that seeds planted decades earlier have borne fruit.

For the student, it is an act of humility. It reminds us that success is never an individual achievement alone. Perhaps the greatest leaders are not those who accumulate followers, but those who quietly produce leaders in others. That is what great teachers do every day.

The Kola-nuts We Owe

As Tonia and I returned to the car, she held my hand, smiled gently and whispered,

“That was compelling. I liked it. Well done.” Her words captured what I had been struggling to express.

Mr. Louis Onwordi may now enjoy the quiet dignity of retirement in Igbuzo as one of its respected Onowu title holders, a trusted confidant of my late father, Obi (Eze) Adigwe Nweke, but his influence continues to walk into rooms he will never enter. It echoes through my speeches, my television analyses and every page I write. Presenting him with my book was not merely the gift of a publication. It was the repayment of a debt.

Legacy is not simply what we leave behind when we die. It is the living imprint we leave in the lives of others while we are still here to witness it. Let us not wait for eulogies to speak our deepest truths. If there is a teacher, mentor or guide who changed your life, find them. Write the note. Make the journey. Say the words. Give them their flowers while they can still smell their fragrance.

And if your culture, like mine, teaches that the kola-nut is the highest symbol of honour and gratitude, then take them that kola-nut of appreciation while their hands can still break it. There are few greater privileges in life than thanking the architects of our lives before the final curtain falls.

BOOK LAUNCH OF THE CITY HE NEVER RETURNED TO By Ibekwe Paul Chukwuemeka

Keynote address delivered by Collins Nweke,
Global Affairs Analyst & Author, Economic Diplomacy of the Diaspora

Ladies and Gentlemen

Distinguished Guests
Members of the Literary Community
Friends of Nigeria
Fellow Africans
And lovers of ideas

Good evening.

It is both an honour and a profound responsibility to stand before you today to launch what I consider one of the most important Nigerian novels of recent years particularly out here in Belgium and Europe.

The City He Never Returned To is not simply a novel.

It is a mirror. It is a ledger. It is a conversation.

And perhaps most importantly, it is an invitation.

An invitation to revisit a chapter of our collective history that remains unfinished.

An invitation to imagine what healing might look like if we summoned sufficient courage to pursue it.

An invitation to move beyond remembrance toward repair.

Before I speak about this book, permit me a brief personal reflection.

I come to this conversation not merely as a reader, analyst, or keynote speaker. In more ways than one, I am a war child. When the Nigerian Civil War broke out, I was still a toddler. Like many children of that generation, my memories are not arranged as historical facts or political arguments. They survive instead as fragments: the anxiety in adult voices, the sudden silences when certain subjects arose, the cautious way people spoke about the future, and the lingering awareness that something profound had happened to our country and to the people around us.

As I grew older, I came to understand that while some people experienced the war on the battlefield, many of us experienced it in memory, in inheritance, and in its long shadows. We inherited stories. We inherited grief. We inherited caution. We inherited questions that were never fully answered.

That is why this novel resonates with me so deeply. I am not a distant observer looking back at history through the comfort of archives. I am part of a generation shaped by the afterlife of that history. A generation that grew up among survivors. A generation that learned that wars do not always end when the guns fall silent. Sometimes they continue quietly, in memory, in institutions, in relationships, and in the stories nations tell themselves about who belongs and who does not.

Perhaps that is why I find the central proposition of this book so compelling. It is not content merely to remember. It dares to ask what comes after memory. It dares to ask how a nation heals. It dares to ask how survival can become repair, and how repair can become renewal.

The author, Ibekwe Paul Chukwuemeka, tells us in his Author’s Note that this novel began not with a plot, but with a question:

“How does a nation live with a past that refuses to become past?”

That question sits at the heart of this remarkable work.

For many Nigerians, particularly those whose families carry memories of the civil war, the past has never truly become past.

It survives in silences. It survives in inherited fears. It survives in caution, in suspicion, in stories told under the mango trees, at the ogwa in the village square, around dining tables and family gatherings. It survives in memories that official history often struggles to accommodate.

What makes this novel extraordinary is that it refuses to become trapped in grievance. Instead, it dares to ask a more difficult question:

What comes after survival?

The Emeka Ibekwe’s answer is both bold and original.

He calls it “speculative repair.”

In his own words and I quote:

“What if we treated this national healing not as a mysterious affair of the heart, but as the most complex—and most worthy—engineering project of our lifetime?” Unquote

That single sentence may well become one of the defining intellectual contributions of this book.

Because throughout history, societies have often spoken about reconciliation as an emotional process.

But this novel challenges us to think differently. It suggests that healing is also institutional. That memory requires archives. That justice requires documentation. That reconciliation requires accountability. And that nation-building requires deliberate design.

As someone whose professional and intellectual life has increasingly focused on economic diplomacy, governance, and institutional development, I find this idea deeply compelling.

Nations do not become stronger because they forget. They become stronger because they learn how to remember responsibly. That is why one of the central symbols in this novel is not a weapon. Not a politician. Not even a battlefield.

It is a ledger.

The ledger carried by Okechukwu Nwankwo, whose character or persona is recognisable in the Okey be anyi of our different families.

A simple book of records. A record of assets. A record of losses. A record of names. A record of existence itself.

At one point in the novel, Okechukwu says:

“If we lose the record of what we have, we lose the proof of who we are.”

That statement speaks not only to one family. It speaks to nations. Because nations, too, require ledgers. Ledgers of truth. Ledgers of memory. Ledgers of accountability.

Without them, history becomes vulnerable to manipulation. And societies become vulnerable to repetition.

One of the most moving passages in the book appears in the dedication where the author writes:

“The opposite of war is not just peace, but the difficult, daily work of building something worthy of the survivors.”

Allow me to repeat that:

“The opposite of war is not just peace, but the difficult, daily work of building something worthy of the survivors.”

That is a profound political statement. And perhaps an even deeper moral one. Because too often we celebrate the end of conflict while neglecting the harder work that follows. The work of rebuilding trust. The work of rebuilding institutions. The work of rebuilding relationships. The work of rebuilding shared futures.

The Emeka (the author) reminds us that survival alone is not enough.

A nation owes its survivors something more. It owes them dignity. It owes them recognition. It owes them inclusion. And it owes future generations a better inheritance.

What particularly impressed me about this novel is that it refuses easy binaries.

It does not seek to inflame. It seeks to understand. It does not seek victory. It seeks healing.

It does not seek separation. It seeks a stronger basis for coexistence.

In the Introduction, the author writes:

“You cannot repair what you will not first acknowledge.”

This is true of families. It is true of institutions. And it is true of nations.

Across the world, societies that have successfully confronted difficult histories have not done so by pretending those histories never happened.

They have done so by acknowledging them honestly. Germany did not become stronger by forgetting. South Africa did not become stronger by denying. Rwanda did not become stronger by silence.

Every society that has healed has first found the courage to look directly at its wounds.

Nigeria is no exception.

Yet the beauty of this novel is that it does not stop at diagnosis. Many books tell us what is broken. Few attempt to imagine what repair might look like.

This one does.

And that is why I believe The City He Never Returned To belongs to an emerging tradition of literature that does more than remember history.

It seeks to shape the future.

As a first-generation Nigerian migrant who has spent decades living in Europe while remaining emotionally, intellectually, and professionally connected to Nigeria, I found another aspect of this book deeply resonant.

The author writes from Brussels. He writes from distance. Yet he writes with intimacy.

He demonstrates that distance need not diminish belonging. Indeed, sometimes distance sharpens perspective. Sometimes it allows us to see patterns that proximity obscures. Sometimes it allows us to imagine possibilities that entrenched positions dismiss.

The diaspora has often been described as a source of remittances. This novel reminds us that the diaspora is also a source of ideas. A source of memory. A source of imagination. And sometimes, a source of national self-reflection.

Ladies and Gentlemen,

At its core, this book is an act of hope. Not naïve hope. Not sentimental hope. But disciplined hope. The kind of hope that understands pain. The kind of hope that acknowledges loss. The kind of hope that recognises injustice. Yet still chooses to believe in the possibility of a shared future.

The author closes his introduction with these words:

“The discussion begins not in the halls of power, but in the imagination.”

How true. Every institution was once an idea. Every policy was once a conversation. Every reform was once an act of imagination. And every better future begins with someone daring to imagine it.

Tonight, Ibekwe Paul Chukwuemeka (simply Emeka to us his friends) has done precisely that.

He has given us more than a novel. He has given us a framework for conversation. A vocabulary for healing. A language of repair. And a challenge. The challenge is whether we are prepared to engage honestly with the questions he raises.

Whether we are prepared to move from memory to understanding. From understanding to empathy. From empathy to repair. And from repair to renewal.

I congratulate the author for this remarkable achievement.

I commend Akajiofo Press for bringing this important work into the public domain. And I encourage every reader not merely to read this book, but to study it, and to wrestle with it.

Discuss it. Debate it. Question it.

Because the future it imagines ultimately belongs not to the author alone, but to all of us.

Ladies and Gentlemen,

It is with great pleasure that I formally present and celebrate the launch of The City He Never Returned To.

May it travel widely. May it provoke thought. May it inspire dialogue.

And may it contribute, in its own important way, to building a Nigeria, and indeed an Africa, worthy of those who survived, and worthy of those yet to come.

Thank you.

God bless Nigeria. God bless Africa.

And God bless the power of literature to help us imagine a better future.

Brussels, Saturday 20 June 2026

A Trilogy on Why Governance and Economic Statecraft Matter

For decades, governance and economic diplomacy were treated as separate disciplines. Governments governed. Diplomats attracted investment. Development agencies pursued growth.

That distinction is rapidly disappearing.

In this three-part Proshare essay series, I explore why the future of economic development, particularly in Nigeria, will increasingly be shaped not only by national governments but by states and their leaders.

Part One: From Gateway to Factory Floor argues that investment competition has become fundamentally subnational. Increasingly, investors are asking not whether to invest in Nigeria, but where in Nigeria to invest.

Part Two: Why Sub-National Economic Diplomacy Will Define Nigeria’s Next Investment examines why states must become active participants in economic diplomacy, competing not merely with one another but with provinces and regions across Asia, Europe, and Latin America for capital, talent, technology, and partnerships.

Part Three: The Governor as Chief Economic Diplomat: A New Leadership Model for Nigerian States proposes a new leadership paradigm, one in which governors are measured not only by infrastructure commissioned, but by investment attracted, jobs created, exports expanded, and global partnerships secured.

Drawing on nearly three decades of experience in municipal governance and my work in international trade and investment promotion through the Nigeria Belgium Luxembourg Business Forum, the trilogy offers a practitioner’s perspective on a simple but increasingly important proposition.

Encouragingly, these ideas are already beginning to find institutional expression. Following the publication of the series, the Chartered Institute of Public Management of Nigeria has approved a pioneering Master Class in Economic Diplomacy for Public Managers, leading to the designation Certified Public Manager in Economic Diplomacy (CPMED). The initiative reflects a growing recognition that public managers must increasingly think beyond administration alone and embrace investment promotion, trade facilitation, partnership building, diaspora engagement, and global competitiveness as integral elements of modern governance.

Governance and economic statecraft are no longer separate disciplines. The most successful states of the future will be those whose leaders understand how to connect local opportunity with global possibility.

I am pleased to share the complete trilogy and look forward to the conversations and practical reforms it may inspire.

Youth, Future, and the African Rebirth

Being a Speech Delivered by Collins Nweke as Guest of Honour and Founding Patron of The AfrikaFora, at Nzuko Africa 2026, Paris, France on 30 May 2026

Your Excellency, Founder & CEO The AfrikaFora, Madam Winifred Uloaku Gaillard

Incoming Grand Patron The AfrikaFora, Chief Ben C. Etiaba

Distinguished guests

Members of the African Diaspora

Young leaders

Ladies and Gentlemen

It is both a privilege and a deeply personal honour to stand before you today at Nzuko Africa 2026.

When I was invited to speak on the theme “Youth, Future, and the African Rebirth,” I at once recognised that this is not merely a conference theme. It is perhaps the defining question of our generation. And true to character, The AfrikaFora has located it within the context of Nzuko Africa 2026 in celebration of Africa Day.

The future of Africa will not be decided in conference halls alone.

It will be decided by the quality of our youth.

It will be determined by the courage of our ideas.

And it will be shaped by whether we choose hope over cynicism, action over complaint, and vision over nostalgia.

Because every generation inherits an Africa. But only a few generations are called upon to reinvent Africa.

I believe ours is one of them. And in more ways than one, The AfrikaFora epitomises it.

Africa’s Greatest Resource Is Not Under the Ground

For decades, the world has described Africa through the language of resources.

They speak of our oil. Our gas. Our minerals. Our fertile land. Our strategic location.

But I have come to believe that Africa’s greatest resource is not beneath the soil.

It is above it. It is the African youth.

The young woman in Lagos building a technology startup.

The young researcher in Nairobi developing solutions to local challenges.

The young entrepreneur in Abidjan.

The young creative in Johannesburg.

The young engineer in Kigali.

The young diaspora professional in Paris, Brussels, London, New York, Toronto, or Dubai.

Africa’s future is not hidden in its mines.

It is walking on its streets, from Kinshasa to Kigali.

It is sitting in our universities.

It is logging onto digital platforms.

It is waiting for an opportunity.

The question before us is simple:

Will we invest in this generation enough to allow it to flourish?

The Rebirth We Seek

When we speak of African rebirth, we must be clear about what we mean.

A rebirth is not a return to the past.

It is the creation of something new.

Africa does not need romantic nostalgia.

Nor does it need imported identities.

Africa needs confidence.

Confidence to innovate.

Confidence to trade.

Confidence to compete.

Confidence to collaborate.

Confidence to lead.

The African rebirth must therefore be economic, intellectual, technological, cultural, and institutional.

It must be a rebirth built not merely on political slogans but on measurable opportunities.

Because no young person can eat rhetoric.

No graduate can build a future on promises alone.

And no continent can prosper without creating pathways for its youth to participatemeaningfully in the economy.

African Youth & Economic Diplomacy

As many of you know, this year I begin a global tour around my recently published book, Economic Diplomacy of the Diaspora.

In every city I visit, from Europe to Africa and beyond, one question inevitably emerges:

“What role should young Africans play in shaping Africa’s future?”

The answer lies at the very heart of the book.

The central argument of Economic Diplomacy of the Diaspora is simple:

Diaspora communities are not merely remittance senders.

They are bridges.

Bridges of knowledge.

Bridges of capital.

Bridges of innovation.

Bridges of culture.

Bridges of opportunity.

And when those bridges are deliberately connected to Africa’s development aspirations, extraordinary things become possible.

But there is an important evolution of that idea.

The future of diaspora engagement is not my generation.

It is yours.

The next phase of Africa’s economic diplomacy will be led by digitally connected, globally educated, technologically fluent young Africans.

Young people who understand both Africa and the world.

Young people who can move comfortably between Lagos and London, Kigali and Brussels, Accra and Toronto, Nairobi and Silicon Valley.

Young people who can transform identity into influence and influence into development.

The African rebirth will not happen despite its youth.

It will happen because of its youth.

A New Social Contract

But let me speak frankly.

Young Africans cannot carry the burden of Africa’s future alone.

Governments have responsibilities.

Institutions have responsibilities.

The private sector has responsibilities.

The Diaspora has responsibilities.

And elders have responsibilities.

Every generation owes the next generation more than advice.

It owes them opportunity.

We cannot continue asking young people to believe in a future that we ourselves have failed to prepare.

The African rebirth requires a new social contract.

One that prioritises education.

Rewards innovation.

Encourages entrepreneurship.

Protects merit.

Strengthens institutions.

And creates an environment where talent can thrive regardless of ethnicity, religion, gender, social background, or geography.

The Power of Passing the Baton

Today is particularly emotional for me. As Founding Patron of The AfrikaFora, I have had the privilege of watching an idea become a movement.

I have seen commitment transform into community.

I have seen vision become impact. And today, I formally step aside from that role.

But let me be clear. Stepping aside is not stepping out.

It is renewal.

It is continuity.

It is faith in the future.

No institution survives if it depends on one individual.

Strong institutions endure because leadership is transferred with grace, trust, and purpose.

That is why I am delighted that the baton passes into the capable hands of our new Grand Patron, Chief Ben C. Etiaba.

Chief Etiaba has demonstrated repeatedly, in different spheres of service and leadership, an exceptional ability to receive a baton and carry it forward with dignity, wisdom, and results.

I have every confidence that under his stewardship, The AfrikaFora will not merely continue.

It will grow.

It will flourish.

And it will reach heights beyond what we originally imagined.

That is how progress works.

Each generation builds a bridge and invites the next generation to extend it.

A Message to Young Africans

To the young people listening today:

Do not wait for permission to dream.

Do not wait for perfect conditions.

Do not wait for governments to solve every problem.

Africa’s future belongs to those willing to build it.

Be ambitious enough to compete globally.

Be proud enough to remain connected to Africa.

Be innovative enough to create solutions.

And be courageous enough to challenge systems that no longer serve the common good.

The future is not something that happens to you.

The future is something you create.

Conclusion: Africa’s Finest Century

Ladies and Gentlemen,

I remain optimistic.

Not because Africa’s challenges are small.

But because Africa’s possibilities are enormous.

I have travelled widely.

I have worked across diplomacy, governance, business, media, and civil society.

And everywhere I go, I encounter evidence that Africa’s moment is not behind us.

It is ahead of us.

The rebirth of Africa will not be delivered by destiny.

People will deliver it.

By visionaries.

By innovators.

By entrepreneurs.

By scholars.

By patriots.

By diaspora communities.

And above all, by young Africans who refuse to accept that the future must resemble the past.

Let us therefore leave this gathering committed to one shared mission:

To build an Africa where talent matters more than circumstance.

Where opportunity matters more than privilege.

Where institutions outlive personalities.

Where leadership creates successors.

And where every young African can confidently say:

“The future is not somewhere else. The future is here. And I am part of building it.”

That is the Africa worth believing in.

That is the Africa worth building.

And that is the Africa whose rebirth has already begun.

Thank you.

God bless Africa.
God bless the African Diaspora.
And God bless the generation that will complete Africa’s rebirth.

Collins Nweke is Founding Patron, The AfrikaFora and Author, Economic Diplomacy of the Diaspora

AKU LUO UNO

Reimagining Diaspora Wealth as Strategic Capital for Homeland Development

Abstract for a keynote speech at the Imo Community Europe 2026 Annual Convention in Freiburg, Germany on Saturday 2 May 2026

by Collins Nweke

The Igbo philosophical construct aku luo uno, literally translated as “may wealth reach home” has long served as a moral compass guiding the relationship between individual success and communal responsibility. Historically, it affirmed a simple but powerful proposition: prosperity achieves its fullest meaning when it is reinvested in one’s place of origin. In contemporary times, however, the meaning of aku luo uno demands both preservation and reinterpretation.

This presentation situates aku luo uno within the broader framework of diaspora economic diplomacy, arguing that what was once a cultural expectation must now evolve into a structured development strategy. The modern Igbo diaspora is no longer defined solely by remittances or symbolic homecoming projects, but by its capacity to mobilise capital, knowledge, networks, and institutional influence across borders.

Drawing from the central thesis of Economic Diplomacy of the Diaspora (Nweke, Collins, 2026) the presentation advances three interconnected arguments.

First, that diaspora wealth must be understood not merely in financial terms, but as a composite of economic, intellectual, and relational capital.

Second, that the effectiveness of aku luo uno depends on moving from fragmented individual efforts to coordinated, scalable interventions, through investment platforms, policy engagement, and partnerships with credible institutions.

Third, that sustainable impact requires a shift from consumption-driven remittances to production-oriented investments capable of generating jobs, infrastructure, and long-term value within Imo and Southeast Nigeria.

The discussion will also confront the tensions embedded in the philosophy: the pressure of expectation on diaspora individuals, the risks of poorly structured investments, and the governance gaps that often undermine trust. In doing so, it seeks to move the conversation from obligation to strategy, from sentiment to systems.

Ultimately, aku luo uno is reframed not as a nostalgic ideal, but as a forward-looking doctrine, one that positions the diaspora as a decisive actor in shaping the economic future of its homeland. The question is no longer whether wealth should return home, but how it can do so in ways that are intelligent, impactful, and enduring.

Collins Nweke

Ostend, Belgium | www.collinsnweke.eu | admin@collinsnweke.eu

———————————————————————————-

THE SPEECH 🎤

Aku Luo Uno: When Wealth Finds Its Way Home

Distinguished leaders of the Imo Community Europe,

Your Excellencies, honoured guests,

Ndi Imo, umunne’m,

There are certain phrases in our Igbo language that do not merely communicate. They command.

They carry memory, expectation, and judgment all at once.

Aku luo uno is one of them.

It is not just a proverb. It is not even just a philosophy.

It is a quiet but firm question that follows every Igbo person, wherever they go in the world:

When your wealth has grown… will it remember the road home?

For generations, our people have understood success in a way that is both deeply personal and profoundly communal. A man may build towers abroad, earn titles, command influence. But there is a simple test that awaits him at home. Not harsh, not loud, but unmistakably clear:

Who have you lifted? What have you built? What remains of you here?

And so we grew up hearing and believing that if a person is known all over the world but not known in his hometown, then he is, in truth, not yet known.

That is the moral architecture of aku luo uno.

But today, standing here in Europe, we must ask ourselves an honest question:

What does aku luo uno mean in our time? What imperatives of our time does aku luo uno denote?

Because the world has changed. And so must our understanding.

From Obligation to Strategy

In the past, aku luo uno often expressed itself in visible, immediate ways.

A house built in the village.

Support for extended family.

Community projects: wells, town halls, scholarships.

These were noble. They still are.

But today, they are no longer sufficient.

Because the scale of the challenge at home has changed. And the capacity of the diaspora has also changed.

We are no longer a scattered people sending money home.

We are professionals, entrepreneurs, policymakers, researchers, investors, innovators.

We sit in boardrooms, universities, institutions, and governments across Europe and beyond.

Which means this:

Our wealth is no longer only what we earn. It is what we know, who we know, and what we can influence.

So aku luo uno must evolve, from a moral obligation into a strategic instrument.

What Does It Mean for Wealth to Truly “Come Home”?

Let me suggest three shifts.

First: From Money to Capital

When we say aku, we often think of money.

But money alone does not transform societies.

Capital is broader.

It includes:

Knowledge
Skills
Networks
Access
Credibility

If you bring money home without systems, it disappears.

If you bring knowledge and structure, it multiplies.

So the real question is not: How much have you sent home?

But: What have you built that can outlive you?

Second: From Individual Effort to Collective Impact

One of our strengths as Igbo people is individual enterprise.

But one of our limitations is fragmentation.

Too many of us are doing small, disconnected things.

Building in isolation. Investing without coordination.

Meanwhile, the problems we seek to solve: industrialisation, healthcare, education, infrastructure,… are not small problems. They require scale.

So aku luo uno in our time must become collective.

Not just:

my project

But:

our platform

Not just:

my success story

But:

our shared transformation

We must begin to think in terms of:

Diaspora investment clusters
Structured partnerships with credible institutions
Long-term projects, not one-off interventions

Because scattered drops of water cannot build a river. As we talk of aku luo uno, let us remember also that: anyu kosia mamili onu, ogba ofufu. Do I need to explain further? Mba nu!

Third: From Consumption to Production

Let us be candid with ourselves.

A significant portion of what we send home is consumed.

Celebrations. Buildings that do not produce value.

Short-term relief without long-term impact.

But no society develops through consumption.

Development comes from production:

Businesses that create jobs
Systems that generate value
Investments that compound over time

So when wealth returns home, it must not only be seen. It must be felt economically.

It must employ people.

It must create opportunity.

It must shift the structure of the local economy.

That is when aku has truly luo uno.

The Difficult Truths We Must Confront

But let us not romanticise this journey.

There are real tensions.

Many in the diaspora have invested and lost:

to poor governance, weak institutions, corruption, inefficiency, broken trust… It is a long list!

Others feel overwhelmed by expectations:

as though success abroad automatically makes them responsible for everything at home.

And some have simply withdrawn:

choosing distance over disappointment.

These are not trivial concerns. They are real. They have affected real Ndigbo. They still affect Umu Imo…

But here is the truth:

No society develops in perfect conditions.

Society develops because people decide to build despite imperfection.

The answer is not withdrawal.

The answer is structure, collaboration, and smarter engagement.

A New Interpretation of Aku Luo Uno

So perhaps it is time to reinterpret the proverb.

Maybe aku luo uno should no longer be understood as:

“Bring your wealth home.”

But rather:

“Let your wealth find intelligent pathways home.”

Pathways that are:

Structured
Scalable
Sustainable

Pathways that transform not just families, but communities.

Not just communities, but systems.

Conclusion: The Road Home Is Still Calling

Ndi Imo, umunne m,

No matter how far we travel, there is something about home that does not travel with us.

It waits.

And in that waiting, there is a quiet expectation. Not of charity. But of contribution.

The question before us is not whether we have succeeded abroad.

Many of us have.

The question is:

Will that success remain personal…

or will it become purposeful?

Because in the end, aku luo uno is not about geography.

It is about legacy.

It is about ensuring that when our story is told,

it is not only said that we went far…

But that something meaningful followed us back home.

Thank you. Dâlu nú Umu Imo.
Jisinu Ike Ndigbo!

Zero-Tariff China Access can be a Strategic Opening for Nigeria if Matched with Domestic Reform

In a Worker’s Day 2026 interview, incidentally the same day that Zero-Tariff China Access for Africa took effect, South African Broadcasting Service radio, had me on to discuss the implications of the new trade regime for Nigeria.

Zero-Tariff China Access essentially means that a wide range of African exports can now enter China duty-free. For Nigeria, this is both an opportunity and a test of readiness.

On the opportunity side, it potentially opens up the world’s second-largest consumer market to Nigerian products like agricultural goods, solid minerals, leather, textiles, and even some manufactured items. If properly leveraged, Nigeria could diversify away from oil and earn more non-oil export revenue, which is critical for economic stability.

However, and this is the critical point, zero tariffs do not automatically translate into increased exports. Nigeria’s challenge has never really been market access. It has been production capacity, quality standards, and export logistics. China is a highly competitive market with strict phytosanitary and industrial standards. Many Nigerian producers are not yet positioned to meet those consistently.

There is also a structural concern: without a deliberate export strategy, Nigeria risks deepening its role as a raw material supplier, rather than moving up the value chain. So instead of exporting processed cocoa, for example, we may continue exporting raw cocoa while importing finished goods at a higher value.

So, in summary, Zero-Tariff China Access is a strategic opening, but it will only benefit Nigeria if it is matched with domestic reforms: improving infrastructure, supporting exporters, ensuring standards compliance, and aligning trade policy with industrial policy.

If Nigeria gets that alignment right, this could be transformative. If not, it risks becoming another missed opportunity, I told Innocent Samosa, Business Reporter at SABS Radio here

https://omny.fm/shows/business-africa/china-grants-africa-zero-tariff-access-to-all-africa-countries

The New Mobility Consensus: A Challenge for the Greens in a Post-Bulldozer Brussels

The political landscape of Brussels is undergoing a transformation that few would have predicted a year ago. This is more so for those of us who have long championed sustainable mobility. With Boris Dilliès, the newly elected Minister-President, now framing cycling not as a competitor to the automobile but as a benefactor to it, we are witnessing a significant recalibration of urban discourse.

For the seasoned observer, this shift invites a dual reading. Is it a cynical political flip-flop, a calculated attempt to neutralise opposition? Or is it a genuine evolution toward political realism? That is the pragmatic recognition that in a dense, complex city like Brussels, the “car-versus-bike” culture war has become a net negative for governance.

Whatever the reading, Dilliès’ rhetorical pivot is astute. By thanking cyclists for “making space for drivers,” he has effectively dismantled the adversarial binary that paralysed the previous administration. For those of us who are keen cyclists and have spent years fighting for protected lanes, this is, in many ways, a victory of normalisation. Cycling is no longer a niche, ideological pursuit. It is now recognised as a systemic necessity.

However, this “Dilliès Consensus” leaves the traditional progressive and Green forces in a precarious, if not uncomfortable, position.

The Dilemma for the Greens

For parties that have made pro-cycling infrastructure their raison d’être, having an opponent adopt your language and arguably, your policy trajectory, is disarming. It creates a “success trap.” When your primary political antagonist starts implementing the very measures you campaigned on, the traditional mechanisms of opposition begin to rust. If you continue to attack, you risk appearing dogmatic or obstructionist. If you remain silent, you lose your distinctive brand.

The Green movement in Brussels now faces a fundamental strategic inflection point. If the Minister-President is truly committed to this path, the “activist” phase of policy-making for the Greens has reached its end. The Greens must now transition from being the architects of resistance to the guardians of implementation.

A Strategy for the New Era: Three Pillars for the Greens

To remain relevant and influential in the new, “pragmatic” Brussels, the Green movement must evolve its positioning:

1. Move from “Why” to “How”: The ideological debate on the necessity of cycling is largely won. The new battleground is delivery. The Greens should shift their focus to rigorous oversight, holding the government accountable to the technical quality, safety standards, and timelines of new infrastructure. If Dilliès is serious about his pragmatism, he will welcome this oversight. If he is not, the Greens become the essential “quality control” for the city.

2. Redefine “Pragmatism” to include Equity: Dilliès’ pragmatism focuses on traffic flow and commuter efficiency. The Greens should expand the definition of pragmatism to include social and spatial justice. A truly pragmatic city is not just one that moves traffic efficiently. It is one that ensures that mobility is inclusive of those who cannot afford a car and those who live in the most congested, polluted neighbourhoods. This provides a distinct, “value-add” dimension to the discourse that the current government’s efficiency-based narrative may overlook.

3. Claim the “Systemic Architect” Role: Rather than fighting over individual lanes, the Greens should position themselves as the designers of the next systemic leap: intermodal hubs, regional connectivity, and the integration of micro-mobility with public transport. By focusing on the system rather than the symptom, you reclaim the role of visionaries.

Ultimately, the normalization of cycling in Brussels is an achievement the Greens should claim, regardless of which party carries the banner. True political maturity lies in recognising that our ideas are stronger when they transcend party lines.

For the Greens, this is not a moment for mourning the loss of a battle. It is an invitation to elevate the war. The goal was never to win a partisan victory. The goal was to build a livable city. If the current administration is willing to help lay the bricks, the task of the Greens is not to tear the wall down, but to ensure it is built to last. It is time for a new kind of opposition: one defined not by obstruction, but by a relentless commitment to the public good.