Open the Archives, Free the Nation          

Beneath the Surface Dakuku Peterside

On a humid July morning in 2025, without ceremony or warning, the U.S. National Archives uploaded what might be one of the most significant document releases in recent American history: over 230,000 pages of FBI files on Martin Luther King Jr. It was the kind of quiet bureaucratic event that rarely makes headlines—no red carpets, no televised address, just PDFs and folder names sitting in an online repository, waiting to be read. But what those pages contained was anything but quiet. They were loud with surveillance, filled with the echoes of wiretaps, hotel recordings, unfiltered intelligence reports, and state-sanctioned paranoia. They spoke volumes about an era when a government, fearing the moral clarity of a preacher, used its most secretive powers to try to undermine him.

The files had been sealed since 1977 under court order, initially set for release in 2027, but the Trump administration’s decision to declassify them early accelerated the reckoning. Some viewed it as a bold move for government transparency, while others saw it as a calculated distraction during a period of intense political scrutiny. Either way, what was undeniable was that America had just opened a door to itself—one it had held shut for nearly fifty years. And as the pages began to circulate, so too did the conversations: not just about the past, but about the present. About what democracies owe their people when it comes to truth. About how states choose between secrecy and disclosure. It was more than a document dump. It was a mirror.

Internal memos detailed surveillance operations that followed King from pulpit to bedroom. Intelligence cables revealed requests to foreign partners to track his movements abroad. Files connected to James Earl Ray, King’s convicted assassin, offered insight into the investigation that followed the tragedy in Memphis, but also highlighted the FBI’s obsession with preserving its narrative. The revelations were not so much about what King did, but about what was done to him.

Among the most jarring discoveries were the deeply personal materials—bugged conversations with Coretta Scott King, salacious allegations of infidelity, and psychological profiles drawn up to destabilise his credibility. These were not just records of political dissent. They were attempts at character assassination, conducted not by rogue actors but by the most powerful law enforcement agency in the country. The King family, given early access, pleaded for the public to engage the material with empathy. Their message was clear: transparency must never come at the cost of dignity.

The FBI’s campaign against King was part of the wider COINTELPRO program, which from 1956 to 1971 targeted over 2,000 individuals and organisations deemed “subversive.” This included civil rights leaders, feminists, Native American activists, and even musicians like John Lennon. Within King’s circle alone, there were more than 50 wiretap authorisations and at least 16 FBI informants. A 1964 memo from J. Edgar Hoover directed agents to “neutralise King as a leader,” culminating in the infamous “suicide letter”—a blackmail threat sent to King in hopes of silencing him before he could accept the Nobel Peace Prize.

What complicated matters further was how the release occurred. It wasn’t the result of a scheduled review or the conclusion of a decades-long archival process. It was triggered by a stroke of executive authority—an order signed by President Donald Trump mandating the early release of records on the JFK, RFK, and MLK assassinations. Some argued it was a victory for openness. Others saw it as a weaponised form of disclosure, designed to redirect political heat elsewhere. But regardless of intent, it raised the perennial question: when and how should democratic governments open their archives?

In theory, most democracies have systems in place to ensure this is the case. The United States applies a 25-year rule for declassification, which is reviewed by agencies and coordinated through the National Declassification Centre. Since 2009, over 1.4 billion pages have been reviewed, with about 550 million fully declassified. Canada maintains a 30-year rule; the UK reduced its rule from 30 to 20 years in 2013. Germany went even further with the Stasi Records Act, which opened over 111 miles of secret police files to citizens, over 3 million of whom have requested access to see what the regime knew about them.

And yet, even flawed declassification processes serve a purpose. They offer a delayed form of accountability. They create a paper trail that future generations can follow. And when handled with care—redacted where necessary, contextualised where possible—they help societies confront their truths, however painful.

Which brings us, inevitably, to Nigeria. If the U.S. files on Martin Luther King Jr. raised uncomfortable questions, Nigeria’s sealed past practically screams for release. The Nigerian Civil War, one of the bloodiest conflicts in post-colonial Africa, still lacks a complete, declassified official record. Details about the federal government’s strategies, the humanitarian blockade in Biafra, and the role of foreign powers remain locked in dusty archives or ignored. Scholars rely on oral histories, fragmented documents, and foreign records to piece together a narrative that Nigeria itself refuses to own fully. The death toll is estimated between 1 million and 3 million, with starvation accounting for most of the deaths.

Then there are the assassinations—Dele Giwa, killed by a letter bomb in 1986; Bola Ige, gunned down in 2001; A.K. Dikibo, Marshal Harry, and so many others whose deaths remain cloaked in mystery. Giwa’s assassination was the first and only of its kind in Nigerian history. Ige’s murder, despite 20 arrests, led to no convictions. Nigerians still speak in hushed tones about the circumstances surrounding MKO Abiola and Yar’adua’s death in detention and the eerie end of Sani Abacha’s rule. The sudden death of President Yar’Adua, and the vacuum it created, was one of the most consequential events of recent political history—yet the official record is riddled with omissions.

Nigeria has endured six successful coups and multiple failed attempts. Each brought new governments, new constitutions, and new secrets. Each left behind documents—memos, security assessments, intelligence briefings—that could provide clarity on how power was seized, and decisions were made. Yet, these materials remain classified if they haven’t already been destroyed.

More recently, the period between 2013 and 2020 saw mass kidnappings that shook the nation’s conscience—from Chibok to Dapchi to countless unnamed communities. Over 270 girls were abducted from Chibok, and 110 from Dapchi. Reports suggest that internal government memos and military communications exist detailing response timelines and missed intelligence warnings, but these have never been made public. Amnesty International reported in 2021 that classified reports on troop movement and delayed response exist but are protected under Nigeria’s Official Secrets Act.

Likewise, records related to stolen funds, offshore accounts, and asset recovery remain obscured, depriving citizens of any genuine accountability. Since 1999, Nigeria has recovered more than $3.2 billion in stolen assets; however, no comprehensive public audit has been published.

What Nigeria lacks is not information—it is access to information. There is no clear statutory timeline for declassification, no independent body to review sensitive documents, and no digital infrastructure to democratise information. The National Archives Act of 1992 is outdated, and the Official Secrets Act of 1962 continues to be used to criminalise disclosure. Civil society organisations, such as SERAP, have pushed for reform, but their voices are often drowned out by institutional inertia or political self-interest.

It doesn’t have to be this way. Nigeria could establish a framework modelled on international best practices: a 25- or 30-year rule for routine declassification, an independent review authority, and a requirement for annotated releases that provide context. It could consult historians, victims’ families, and civil rights advocates to determine priority files. It could digitise materials, make them accessible online, and ensure that the nation’s memory is not held hostage by the few.

There is a kind of silence that feels oppressive—not the absence of noise, but the withholding of memory. That’s what sealed archives do. The Martin Luther King Jr. files didn’t just tell us about the past—they reminded us how fragile the line is between national security and state overreach, between justice and institutional fear. They demonstrated how even democracies can lose their way when they begin to view dissent as a threat rather than a catalyst for growth and change.

But what happened in July 2025 also showed something else—that even flawed transparency is better than none. Releasing the truth, even if it is decades late and imperfectly presented, allows society to breathe a little easier. It gives the next generation a chance to make sense of the world they’ve inherited. And most of all, it honours those who suffered in silence by allowing their stories to be known.

Nigeria is still on the other side of that release. Its archives remain mostly closed; its secrets still tucked away behind outdated laws and political fears. But it doesn’t have to stay that way. The decision to open the past is not a technical one—it is a moral one. It’s about whether a nation believes its people deserve to know what shaped them. Whether healing is more important than control. Whether history belongs to the state or to those who lived through it.

The King files were not perfect. They hurt, they exposed, they reopened old wounds. But they also taught. They provoked. They reminded. Nigeria’s files—on war, on death, on betrayal and resilience—are waiting to do the same. And when the door finally opens, the country will not collapse under the weight of its truth. It will finally begin to rise on it.