Ultimately, the book deserves to be read, not as a definitive account of Nigerian labour history but as a situated intervention that is shaped by time, struggles, and convictions. Its strength lies in its ability to stir difficult questions about what matters. It is a viable tool for scholars, activists, and policymakers, who can take the lessons and study the tensions entailed. And perhaps that is its greatest strength. In this sense, Organise, Don’t Agonise, as a memoir, succeeds most in its unsettling state.
To be released at Abuja on 7 January, the memoir of Comrade Hassan A. Sunmonu titled, Organise Don’t Agonise, is a compelling read. Reviewing the memoir proved a Herculean task than one would have thought from the outset. This is because the book is not merely a collection of the experiences of a prominent labour leader in Africa, but also a political text deeply situated in the heart of Nigeria’s complex quest for power, institutional fragility, and resistance. A closed contact with the book reveals an uncommon truth about what essence means.
The book is not just a collection of memories and experiences, it is also a collection of arguments and efforts to advance a global view of organisation, leadership, and national responsibility. This is what the author achieved from the standpoint of a seasoned leader who navigates the uneasy intersection among the workforce, the state, and waves of international politics. Reading this book, therefore, is informed more by a need to interrogate its distinctive ideas, silences, and the enduring relevance it speaks to.
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One central idea of the book is its insistence that organisation is the moral and political antidote to despair. This notion is not by chance. It reflects the experiences of a generation of labour leaders who emerged in a time when institutional coherence was all that mattered. These were leaders who saw how movements could rise or collapse over issues of discipline, hierarchy, and clarity of purpose.
Throughout the text, there is a consistent sway of emotions and a display of spontaneity that suggest what the outside world might describe as performative activism. The author’s approach is modernist. The conviction that progress is achieved through planning, structure, and ideological clarity, rather than mass or public sentiment, only gives the book intellectual weight and, at the same time, places it in a critical position when discussing the tensions in contemporary worldviews of political mobilisation.
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A significant contribution of the book is its ability to demystify labour leadership. The author disassociates the labour movement from perceived romanticism and paints a picture of recurring negotiation between core principles and pragmatism, solidarity and ambition, courage and caution. The reader is repeatedly reminded, in a calm manner, that leadership within organised labour is neither heroic nor pure. It is a space that has never been free of factions, egos, betrayal, and state manipulation. The idea is to dispel the fallacy of presenting labour leaders as unblemished defenders of the oppressed, absolved of all sins. Here, the author paints a picture of the burden involved without mincing words.
Yet, there exists a need to question this narrative. In all senses, the author’s narrative appears relevant. While he is right about internal rivalries and political sabotage, there is noticeably less mention of self-critique. For example, there is little mention of the justification of decision-making processes. Even when explanations are given, they are rarely justified or subjected to retrospective doubt. The author’s leadership was deemed a necessary response to critical conditions, rather than a decision that required deeper ethical interrogation. This is a weakness from an academic standpoint, particularly as the memoir seeks to instruct future generations on labour leadership. The expectation would be that such a collection of experiences demonstrates, unapologetically, the capacity to self-question, particularly in critical moments when power is exercised in the name of justice.
In style, the prose is functional and deliberate, mirroring the author’s philosophy. There is no attempt to indulge in the usual literary flourish, and at the same time, emotional moments are handled with restraint. An academic reader will be drawn to his work by this approach, thereby enhancing its credibility. On the other hand, the general audience may occasionally feel austere. And that itself is a statement, as the book does not seek sympathy but understanding.
Very interesting and compelling is how the author situates the Nigerian labour struggles within a global perspective. The author’s experience with international labour organisations, development institutions, and ideological debates around neoliberalism, socialism, and Pan-Africanism is a remarkable feat that places the memoir beyond national boundaries. These interactions reveal the intentionality of a labour leader towards the global dynamics of exploitation and underdevelopment.
However, it is essential not to forget how constraining the book’s ideological commitments are. The author’s firm belief in a particular model of labour organisation closes the doors to alternatives. Popular examples such as the Informal Labour Movement, youth-driven movements, and non-unionised forms of resistance are significantly absent in his narrative. The text’s narrative promotes organised labour as the primary vehicle for collective struggle.
Even though the assumptions are historically grounded, they are, however, limiting and incomplete, particularly when faced with the complexities that define the modern labour movement, such as precarity, fragmentation, and digital economies. In desert words, the book fails to admit the possibility that the organisational forms of movement it advocates may no longer be sufficient in today’s world. From the #EndSARS movement in Nigeria to the Zapatista Army of National Liberation in Mexico, the spaces of collective struggles have widened.
Politically, Organise, Don’t Agonise contains an unflinching recall of state-sponsored hostility towards independent labour groups. Military administrations and succeeding civilian governments are jointly portrayed as being overly emotionally sensitive to labour independence. They feel threatened by possible autonomy and, as such, often resort to practices like co-option, intimidation, or outright repression. The author’s experiences reinforce the broader hypothesis within the Nigerian political terrain, which holds that the state and its elements remain tolerant of dissent only when dissent is weak. This insight remains painfully relevant.
Categorically, the book’s reluctant engagement with the failures of organised labour as a long-term political force remains a significant concern and a limitation. Even when moments of victory, such as successful strikes and wage negotiations, takes centre stage in the memoir, the broader question of labour’s declining influence is addressed more cautiously. The reader has no choice but to make calculated guesses and inferences, rather than understand the structural reasons why organised labour struggles to translate its consistent need-based mobilisation into a well-sustained political transformation. As a text of public intellection, the book could have benefited from a more explicit narration in this regard.
In reading Organise, Don’t Agonise, I am convinced that it is not written to persuade the indifferent, but to caution the committed. The book speaks to those who believe in collective action but still underestimate how taxing it is to sustain. It warns readers against confusion, impatience, and ideological drift and, at the same time, exposes the limits of labour politics when rooted in past organisational certainties.
Empathetically, the book’s moral language deserves close attention. The generous use of words like faith, integrity, and personal discipline serves as guiding principles and an anchor for the author’s idea of leadership, providing the book with a self-styled ethical compass throughout. The reader can sense and feel the sincerity here. However, overemphasising individual moral values in most cases clouds the true nature of the system they belong to. Corrupt practices, compromise, and failure are often misjudged and attributed to individual decisions, rather than institutional design. By this, we risk underestimating how systems shape human behaviour, even among well-meaning actors.
In style, the prose is functional and deliberate, mirroring the author’s philosophy. There is no attempt to indulge in the usual literary flourish, and at the same time, emotional moments are handled with restraint. An academic reader will be drawn to his work by this approach, thereby enhancing its credibility. On the other hand, the general audience may occasionally feel austere. And that itself is a statement, as the book does not seek sympathy but understanding.
In reading Organise, Don’t Agonise, I am convinced that it is not written to persuade the indifferent, but to caution the committed. The book speaks to those who believe in collective action but still underestimate how taxing it is to sustain. It warns readers against confusion, impatience, and ideological drift and, at the same time, exposes the limits of labour politics when rooted in past organisational certainties.
Ultimately, the book deserves to be read, not as a definitive account of Nigerian labour history but as a situated intervention that is shaped by time, struggles, and convictions. Its strength lies in its ability to stir difficult questions about what matters. It is a viable tool for scholars, activists, and policymakers, who can take the lessons and study the tensions entailed. And perhaps that is its greatest strength. In this sense, Organise, Don’t Agonise, as a memoir, succeeds most in its unsettling state. It provokes readers to reflect on what it takes to build institutions in hostile environments; it allows readers to understand how taxing it is to lead without illusions, and what it means to act without surrendering to despair.
Whether one agrees with all it entails in the chapters or not, this is a serious book that rewards critical engagement and deserves a significant place in conversations about labour, power, and the unfinished project of Nigerian democracy.
Toyin Falola, a professor of History, University Distinguished Teaching Professor, and Jacob and Frances Sanger Mossiker Chair in the Humanities at The University of Texas at Austin, is the Bobapitan of Ibadanland.
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