Summer Okibe is an Energy and Development Lawyer, Climate Justice Advocate, and Doctoral Researcher at the University of Victoria, Canada. She currently works with the Government of Alberta as an Energy Policy Analyst and previously served as a Just Energy Transition Analyst with the UNDP.
She is the Founder of Aderayah Academy, a solar-powered, tuition-free school currently under development in Enugu. Through this initiative, she champions clean energy as a tool for justice, inspiring inclusive and sustainable development across Africa. In this interview, Summer discusses the intersection of law, technology, and justice, examining the tensions between global climate commitments and national realities, the need for equitable AI and energy governance, and how Indigenous knowledge and youth innovation can shape a fair and forward-looking energy transition for Africa.
You’ve worked across multiple systems in legal, academia, and policy. What tensions do you notice between global climate commitments and the realities of national implementation?
One of the most striking tensions I’ve noticed lies between the aspirations of global climate commitments and the on-the-ground realities of national implementation. Global frameworks tend to focus on the expressiveness of goals; are the targets ambitious enough, are the frameworks truly normative, especially in the context of the Paris Agreement? But when you look at how these commitments play out in national contexts, like Nigeria, the story changes.
While the Paris Agreement outlines universal commitments, translating those into domestic action often clashes with weak institutions, limited capacity, competing development priorities, and legacy systems still built around fossil fuels. A good example is Nigeria’s Climate Change Act of 2021, which establishes the National Climate Council and a carbon budget framework. But can you guess the real challenge? Implementation, or more precisely, implementing it in a meaningful way.
Another major tension is between justice and ambition. Global frameworks emphasise decarbonization and mitigation, but many governments are still struggling with adaptation, loss and damage, and broader development needs. It raises the question: are we simply chasing ambition, or are we also fighting for justice?
The global targets and models are often discussed at international or national levels, but the real impact and the real solutions unfold in local communities, villages, watersheds, indigenous territories, and agro-pastoral systems. Bridging that gap between global ambition and local realities is the real challenge.
So how do we make it work? In practice, this requires legal, institutional, and cultural adaptation, and unfortunately, these areas are often under-resourced.
In your experience, how can the law evolve to keep pace with emerging technologies such as artificial intelligence and renewable-energy systems without reinforcing inequality?
To be honest, keeping pace with emerging technologies, whether it’s AI, digital platforms, or renewable energy systems, requires anticipatory regulation. I’ve noticed that regulation is usually reactive, not proactive. But laws must be built with foresight, with an understanding of how technologies shift power, access, and rights.
For example, as grid-scale renewables proliferate and AI becomes central to energy optimisation, the law needs to ask key questions: Who owns the data? Who benefits from optimisation? Who controls the algorithms? If the law simply allows technology deployment without oversight, do you know what we risk? We risk reinforcing existing inequities.
And this can be quite subtle, for instance, when urban elites dominate renewable projects while remote rural communities are left behind. That’s why technology law must be paired with distributive justice. Take renewable or clean energy law: they should include mandates for community participation, local ownership models, and inclusive access.
This is actually the topic I’ll be speaking on at theNigerian Bar Association Young Lawyers Forum webinar on Sunday, November 2nd, 2025 — exploring how the clean energy sector can be opened up and how people can engage with it diligently and responsibly. In Nigeria, for example, many communities are off-grid or what I call energy poor. So if we deploy renewables without addressing access and ownership, we’ll only widen the gap. Equity has to be built in, through quotas or incentives for community-based ownership of solar and wind projects, and through legal mechanisms that empower local cooperatives.
We also need to recognise that technologies evolve much faster than statutes. Updating laws, even constitutions, can take years. So our legal systems should include sunset clauses, periodic review mandates, regulatory sandboxes, and the inclusion of affected communities in oversight. In Africa, where institutional capacity can be limited, this might mean enabling regulatory bodies to collaborate across jurisdictions and promote what I call peer learning. I actually apply this concept frequently in my work in Canada, facilitating cross-border conversations that enable regulators to learn from one another.
When it comes to AI and energy systems, the law must also prevent what I call data colonialism, where algorithms operating in Africa are owned and controlled abroad. We must ensure that the benefits of technological progress flow to local actors. That way, the law becomes not just a tool for enabling innovation, but a tool for shaping and steering it equitably.
Your doctoral work focuses on integrating Indigenous perspectives into climate governance. What shifts in legal thinking are needed to ensure those voices move from consultation to real decision-making power?
Many legal frameworks recognise Indigenous rights or include mandates for consultation, such as the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP), for example. I actually wrote a children’s storybook in Canada, The Rights of Indigenous Peoples Explained, to make UNDRIP accessible to younger audiences. It’s been incredible to see the impact: over a thousand copies sold in the first year, and we’re projecting nearly two thousand copies next year.
UNDRIP is one of the key global instruments that emphasises Indigenous peoples’ rights. But there’s a recurring problem with how “consultation” is practised. Too often, it means we consult you, but you don’t make the decisions. That has to change. Legal thinking must shift from simply recognising Indigenous rights to embedding Indigenous governance. Imagine if, in countries like Nigeria, we shared jurisdiction and established enforceable duties for both state and non-state actors to include Indigenous institutions as decision-makers, not just consultees. That would accelerate progress dramatically.
It’s not enough for Indigenous voices to remain at the margins. The law has to ensure Indigenous institutions sit at the centre of climate governance, on national climate councils, in climate finance allocation committees (which are especially important, since that’s where funding decisions for community projects are made), and in monitoring and evaluation frameworks. In other words, the legal mandate for Indigenous representation cannot be treated as optional consultation. It must be a requirement.
When we think about legal reform, we also need to recognise Indigenous knowledge systems as intimate and equivalent to scientific knowledge. Laws and policies should require that Indigenous epistemologies shape the design, indicators, and monitoring of climate policies. For example, adaptation laws could mandate that Indigenous land-use systems are formally integrated into floodplain management plans, ecosystem restoration strategies, or renewable energy siting decisions.
If these shifts happen, Indigenous communities will move from the periphery of climate governance to the heart of decision-making, which is exactly what so many of us have been advocating for.
Many climate frameworks emphasise transition, but less on justice. How can institutions make fairness measurable within energy transition policies?
I believe that justice must be measurable for it to be meaningful. Institutions can embed measurable fairness into energy transition policies in several ways.
First, we need to develop clear metrics for justice. What does that mean? It could include the percentage of renewable energy projects located in underserved communities, the share of clean energy investments managed by local actors, the number of jobs created for historically marginalised groups, or the quantified land-use impacts on Indigenous territories.
When we do this, fairness becomes visible, and we are, in a sense, converting justice into data. If we know how many renewable projects reach rural communities, how many jobs have been created, and how many women or youth have been employed, then we can actually measure equity in the transition.
Legal and policy frameworks must then require institutions to report on these justice metrics. For instance, national energy transition plans should include a dedicated Justice Chapter with annual reporting, community-based monitoring, independent audits, and even public dashboards where people can easily track progress. That level of transparency allows for comparison, accountability, and corrective action. To sum it up, transition policies must include legal mechanisms that guarantee defined benefits for those who are most vulnerable or historically excluded, benefits like access to clean energy, training opportunities, and ownership rights.
We must also ensure there are pathways to remedy any negative impacts. Take the Ogoni example: decades of environmental degradation and pollution have left communities suffering. Where was the compensation, the relocation support, or the access to local clean energy? Those benefits never came.
In countries like Nigeria, where energy poverty, extractive legacies, and inequality remain pervasive, embedding measurable justice into transition policies is not optional; it’s essential. Only then can the energy transition be truly fair, inclusive, and forward-looking.
In short, include everyone. Do not exclude anyone.
You often blend scholarship with field-based action. How do you determine when academic knowledge should give way to community-led solutions?
In my work and research, the decision to shift from scholarship to community-led solutions really comes down to relevance, ownership, and impact readiness. When community actors already hold deep knowledge and mechanisms for action, academic research becomes more supportive than directive.
If a community identifies a clear challenge and already possesses the local knowledge and structures to address it, the role of scholarship, in my view, is to enable that process. For example, an Indigenous farmers’ group may already have resilient, agroecological practices. In that case, academic work becomes valuable when it helps to document, scale, or integrate those practices into policy frameworks, not when it replaces or delays them.
Once a research question shifts from understanding to implementation, it’s time to step back. If the community is ready to act, prolonging the academic phase can actually slow progress. That’s why I often ask researchers in the field, “Are we here to help implement, or are we unintentionally delaying their work?”
Transitioning to community-led solutions means stepping back and allowing local leadership to thrive, while scholars provide technical assistance, facilitate access to funding, or support monitoring and evaluation. Especially in contexts like Nigeria, where the climate crisis is accelerating, waiting for a “perfect” research outcome is less useful than enabling community-led implementation with iterative, learning-based monitoring. I would say the academic community must support, not overshadow, local agency. The moment the community takes the helm, scholarship transforms into service and that’s where real impact begins.
There is a growing debate about the ethics of climate funding and carbon markets. What legal safeguards do you believe are essential to prevent exploitation or greenwashing?
Ethics in climate finance and carbon markets demand robust legal safeguards. I actually spoke about this at the UN ECOSOC in April this year, and I remember emphasizing that all climate finance or carbon market mechanisms must require full disclosure of actors, financial flows, contractual terms, and expected outcomes. Without transparency, greenwashing thrives.
One key safeguard is the principle of FPIC — Free, Prior, and Informed Consent. This is especially critical for Indigenous and land-affected communities. Any project or offset initiative must obtain FPIC, meaning communities must be fully informed, must give their consent freely, and must do so before any project begins.
Too often, what is labelled as “consultation” ends up being tokenistic. UNDRIP, the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, makes it clear that FPIC is about more than just being informed; it’s about having decision-making power. Communities should have the right to say no, even after consultations, if a project poses harm or risks to their livelihoods. Carbon offset projects must also legally prove that their emission reductions are additional, meaning they wouldn’t have occurred without the project and that they are permanent. Laws should forbid double-counting and require strong monitoring, reporting, and verification (MRV) frameworks that include community-led audits.
Climate funding instruments must never undermine human rights, labour rights, or sustainable development goals. Legal frameworks should prohibit the use of carbon offsets as a license for polluters to continue emissions elsewhere. Moreover, laws should embed non-regression clauses, meaning standards cannot be rolled back and hold corporations and financiers accountable for any adverse social or environmental impacts.
In contexts like Nigeria and across much of Africa, where regulatory capacity is limited and communities have historically been vulnerable to exploitation, embedding these safeguards in law is absolutely essential. It’s the only way to ensure that climate finance genuinely benefits people and ecosystems, rather than repeating old patterns of inequity under a new, “green” label.
As someone bridging African and global spaces, how do you think narratives about Africa’s energy future can be reframed to centre agency rather than aid?
Too often, the prevailing narrative casts Africa as a passive recipient of aid or a site of climate burden, rather than as a powerhouse of solutions and agency. But the reality is that Africa possesses enormous renewable energy potential, vast green mineral wealth, and a young, entrepreneurial population that’s ready to lead. For instance, the African Union has committed to delivering over 1,000 African-led solutions by 2030. That’s the kind of story we need to amplify, one that centers African ownership, innovation, and leadership. Instead of focusing on aid-funded, externally driven projects, we should be highlighting African-owned enterprises, local innovators, regional investments, and South–South partnerships. That shift alone would go a long way in reframing the narrative.
From community microgrids in Nigeria to fintech-enabled energy access in Kenya, Africa’s energy future should emphasise local ingenuity, not dependency. One of the challenges, though, is that we still depend too much on international organisations and foreign funding. That’s not sustainable, and it’s not empowering. Personally, this realisation has shaped how I approach my own work. When I was planning to build a school, people kept suggesting that I apply for international grants. But at this stage in my life, I’m intentionally limiting my reliance on external funding. Why? Because dependency often means delay and loss of control. I want projects that are driven by local ownership and African leadership.
That’s why the school project, Aderayah Academy, is designed to be solar-powered, reflecting a clean-energy future that is both African-led and community-centred. Ultimately, reframing Africa’s energy narrative means asking new questions: Who controls the energy? How is it deployed? Who truly benefits? When those answers begin with African actors, then we move from stories of aid to stories of agency and that’s the future I believe in.
You’ve received multiple fellowships and scholarships supporting your studies. How do you decide which opportunities align with your long-term vision, rather than simply advancing your academic profile?
Research can be intense, it’s brain-draining, stressful, and demanding, so when I consider scholarships or fellowships, I don’t just look at prestige. For me, the decision really comes down to alignment, impact, reciprocity, and sustainability.
Alignment means asking whether the opportunity truly fits my long-term vision. Does it advance my work on Indigenous-led climate governance, justice, or African agency? Or is it just a detour that adds credentials without substance? I also consider practicality; for example, if a program requires extensive travel that I know I can’t meaningfully implement or integrate into my work, I simply won’t apply.
Impact is about depth, not titles. I always ask: Will this fellowship give me access to networks, resources, fieldwork support, or policy influence? I remember one fellowship that hosted a global conference where past and current recipients could connect. Meeting people from all over the world, exchanging ideas, and building a shared network on platforms like LinkedIn, that kind of environment has a long-term ripple effect. Those are the opportunities that expand not just your profile, but your capacity to create change.
Then there’s reciprocity. I always ask myself, Does this opportunity allow me to give back? Giving back has always been part of who I am, long before I moved abroad. I prefer scholarships that provide some flexibility, so the funds can also support projects that benefit communities, not just cover tuition. For me, value lies as much in what I can contribute as in what I receive.
Finally, sustainability. I think about whether the impact will endure beyond the fellowship period. Will the work continue to influence practice once the award is over? I remember one of my master’s scholarships where the research outcome was so meaningful that they printed and distributed copies across British Columbia. That experience reminded me that the true measure of a fellowship isn’t the certificate, it’s whether the work continues to make a difference after it ends.
So that’s how I decide. Every opportunity I pursue has to align with purpose, amplify impact, create reciprocity, and build something that lasts.
In your work and writing, you often connect justice to everyday choices. What practices or habits have helped you sustain purpose and balance amid the demands of research and advocacy?
I’ll start with what I do and what I would like to do.
Each week, I try to set aside time to reflect on what really matters and to reset my priorities. I actually changed my research topic three or four times during my PhD because I kept feeling a disconnect; it just didn’t align with the kind of impact I wanted my work to have. And honestly, that’s okay. The beauty of a PhD is that you can evolve. If you have supportive supervisors, they’ll stand by you as your vision becomes clearer.
That process of reflection helps me ensure my work stays anchored in justice, not just academic output. I never want to be in a place where I’m writing papers for the sake of publication, rather than for a purpose.
Another thing that keeps me grounded is community. I’m part of a close circle that includes lawyers, scholars, community leaders, and founders, people who challenge and support one another. We hold each other accountable, share our burdens, and celebrate our milestones together. I don’t take that network for granted. Some of my closest friendships have lasted more than twenty years, and they’re a huge source of balance for me.
On a more personal level, I also try to stay active. I take long walks, sometimes for an hour and occasionally I skip or exercise lightly. It may sound simple, but movement clears my head. When I started working on climate justice projects, including supporting one of Canada’s first youth climate cases, I realised how emotionally demanding this field can be. Walking became my way of processing that weight. Lately, I’ve been so busy with energy policy work that I haven’t been as consistent with that routine, but I’m hoping to return to it soon.
Looking ahead, something I’d love to do more regularly is return to the field in Nigeria, to reconnect directly with Indigenous and marginalised communities, to listen to their stories and struggles. That keeps me connected to the why of my work. Since I can’t always be there physically, I make it a habit to read field reports and articles from others who are doing on-the-ground work. It’s my way of staying rooted in the lived realities behind the research.
Looking at Africa’s future energy landscape, what role do you think youth-driven innovation and legal reform will play in ensuring that the continent’s energy transition remains both fair and forward-looking?
Youth-driven innovation and legal reform, to me, are the twin engines of a just and forward-looking African energy transition.
Youth brings creativity, entrepreneurial energy, digital literacy, and urgency. They are the ones developing off-grid solar startups, fintech solutions for energy payments, drone-based ecosystem monitoring, and community-owned mini-grids. These innovations have the potential to leapfrog legacy energy systems and accelerate Africa’s transition.
But innovation alone isn’t enough. Without proper legal and regulatory frameworks, these advances risk being stifled, captured by elites, or deployed in inequitable ways. Legal reform must enable community ownership, lower barriers for startups, and ensure fair access to both grid and off-grid systems while protecting data rights and intellectual property. Justice also needs to be embedded in the allocation of benefits. Youth-led innovations provide the how, legal frameworks provide the structure, and societal justice ensures that the benefits are distributed fairly.
In Nigeria and across Africa, when youth-driven technologies are supported by laws that guarantee community ownership, transparency, and equitable access, the energy transition becomes truly revolutionary, not just in achieving low-carbon targets but in fairness, opportunity, and empowerment.
