Translation. Region: Russian Federation –
Source: United Nations – United Nations –
An important disclaimer is at the bottom of this article.
38-year-old Kemi, as her family calls her, decided to consult with her family and called home.
"I talked to my husband," she recalls, "and he said, 'Why are you asking? Go! Agree!'"
His enthusiasm encouraged Kemi, but she wasn't sure he could manage at home alone with two children, aged seven and ten.
After listening to her concerns, her husband disarmed her with a counter-question: "Do you know our children's last name? It's my last name. I'll take care of them."
Attention to detail
By 2020, Kemi was already an indispensable figure in many ways within the Nigerian Prison Service. A leaky roof, a crack in a wall, a new prison block project—it all came down to her. In Lagos State, she oversaw five facilities housing nearly 9,000 inmates.
The work required meticulous attention to detail, but this was precisely the trait characteristic of the determined Kemi, a geologist by training. She knew: no glass windows or ceramic sinks that could be broken and the shards used as weapons. Bars—the strongest, letting in enough light, but impossible to crawl through.
"We seek a balance between respect for human dignity and safety," says Kemi, emphasizing that even in a prison cell, the toilet must provide privacy. "We use stalls where the feet are visible, but everything else is covered up to the neck—so we can tell if a person is attempting suicide."
"Competence has no gender"
Security and respect for human dignity—this is the balance the UN required to implement its projects in the Democratic Republic of Congo. "Competence has no gender," Kemi emphasizes.
In Kinshasa, the capital of the DRC, Kemi was to participate in prison system reform, which included rethinking the architecture and design of prisons.
Reform begins with drawings
The peacekeeping mission's leadership urged the DRC authorities to implement international standards—the Mandela Rules and the UN Bangkok Rules—which call for humane and gender-sensitive treatment of prisoners, but the proposals met with resistance.
"They didn't understand why a prison needed a library, a gym, or a workshop," Kemi recalls. Then she changed her approach: she explained that a gym meant healthy prisoners, and a library meant books instead of escape plans.
The arguments, though not immediately effective, were effective. The UN team drew up a plan for the construction of new buildings and a list of existing ones, indicating which needed to be renovated and which needed to be closed.
Kemi insisted on building separate women's prisons. "Setting up a women's block in a men's prison isn't enough," she insisted, arguing that this paved the way for sexual violence. If complete separation couldn't be achieved, fences and separate corridors were necessary.
© MONUSCO
Olukemi Ibikunle organizes a sewing workshop for female prisoners in eastern DRC.
Breaking stereotypes
While working in the DRC, Kemi repeatedly encountered sexism: some short girl demanding to see receipts, checking the strength of rebar, asking questions about the sand content in cement?!
Speaking her native dialect and Nigerian English didn't help much. She learned technical terms in French and learned how to combat inflated budgets. "This is clearly too much," she said bluntly. "We'll have to cut the budget."
Contractors called Kinshasa with complaints, but were always told: "Discuss it with Kemi."
Time of Troubles
In 2023, Kemi worked in Kabare, South Kivu province, overseeing the construction of a maximum-security prison with a budget of $850,000. The facility housed dangerous prisoners associated with armed groups.
By that time, the UN mission had already withdrawn its peacekeepers from South Kivu, leaving only a team of prison guards. When the militants approached the outskirts of the city, Kemi found herself alone.
The evacuation was chaotic. "We left through land corridors, without UN logistics, everyone found their own way," she recalls.
Lake Kivu was under M23 control, and the waterway was closed. She managed to escape the danger zone with a backpack, along with two fellow human rights activists, just hours before the city fell.
Her worried husband texted her on WhatsApp: "Where are you? Is everything okay?" She replied evasively: "Everything is fine." Only now does she admit it was scary: "We who managed to escape are now like one family."
At the Rwandan border, her documents aroused suspicion. "You're from the police," they told her. Kemi said she was from the prison service. "It's the same thing," the border guards insisted.
They detained her, then called somewhere, checked something for a long time – and finally let her through.
She now works in the city of Beni, North Kivu, which the DRC government retains control over. The project in Kabara is on hold.
UN Photo/E. Schneider
UN Deputy Secretary-General Amina Mohammed presents Olukemi Ibikunle with the Pathfinder Award.
"Pioneer"
This week, Kemi was named the recipient of the UN Trailblazer Award, given to women who are "changing the face of justice" and contributing to prison reform. She received the award on Wednesday at UN Headquarters in New York, where she has already become a local celebrity. On her way to the interview, a UN security guard, himself originally from Nigeria, recognized her and approached her to congratulate her.
Uvira: Fuel from waste
Kemi's most vivid memories aren't of the war, but of projects that transform everyday life. One of them is especially dear to her: a biogas system launched in 2021 at the Uvira prison. Human waste is converted into gas for cooking. Forests are no longer cut down for firewood. The sewage system functions without interruption. "And there's no more smell," she emphasizes.
Guards and prisoners were trained to operate the new system. After the UN peacekeeping mission left, the water supply stopped, so a well was drilled. In 2024, Kemi drove eight hours to check on site: everything was working. The prison staff said, "This is the best thing you've done for us."
Women from Bukavu
Kemi has another vivid memory of a prison in Bukavu, where 80 women and over 1,400 men were held. Every morning, the male prisoners received their legal rations, while the women received nothing. Prison officials explained this by saying that the women received food parcels from their families, and also received some donations from charities. Why else would they spend money from the prison budget?
The kitchen was a sad sight: soot on the walls, broken stoves, and the women cooking on a single coal burner. Kemi wasn't happy about this: she scooped up two thousand dollars from the meager prison budget, bought the cookware, hired technicians, and stood by, overseeing the work until the kitchen came back to life.
The main obstacle was bureaucracy. Kemi argued with the prison warden that food was owed to all prisoners, not just men. For two weeks in a row, she arrived at seven in the morning and oversaw the food distribution—until fairness became the norm: women received food equally with men.
If the prisoners couldn't thank her out loud, they did so silently—with a short, silent thumbs-up every time she entered the yard.
© MONUSCO
The price of separation
During her business trips, Kemi never forgets about her family – she communicates with her husband and children on the phone.
“We talk on WhatsApp,” she says. “The kids always call on the way to school. When I flew here [to New York – ed.], there was Wi-Fi on the plane, so I could talk to them there too.”
When Kemi first left Nigeria for Congo, her seven-year-old son feigned indifference: "Leaving tomorrow? Okay, see you later." Her eldest daughter hugged her and asked her to stay "just five more minutes."
After the chaos of the evacuation from the DRC, the boy—now a teenager—cries every time his mother leaves: "Don't go. You don't have to work. Daddy will take care of us."
In response, she assures: "It's not just about the money. I'm doing this for myself—and for all of us."
This Wednesday, in New York City, Kemi took the stage to accept the Trailblazer Award. A few celebratory minutes—applause, a photo op, congratulations… And then she'll return to her work routine: drawing up plans, filling out forms, morning checks—and the long, hard fight to prove that the world doesn't end behind prison walls.
Please note: This information is raw content obtained directly from the source. It represents an accurate account of the source's assertions and does not necessarily reflect the position of MIL-OSI or its clients.
