Femi Akintunde-Johnson

It helps, always, to begin with a small but weighty caution: let him who struts about today in the flamboyance of power take heed, lest he become the footnote in tomorrow’s foot-washing ceremony of public ridicule. In Nigeria, where the past often returns in agbada to laugh at the present, nothing is as permanent as the consequences of temporary power mishandled. There was a day not so long ago – January 2020 to be precise – when the then governor of Rivers State, Mr Ezenwo Nyesom Wike, offered the nation a vivid illustration of what happens when hubris goes on a microphone binge. It was the kind of performance that provokes equal parts amusement, pity and indignation. A viral video did the rounds – three minutes long, tightly edited but damning enough – that showed Governor Wike in full verbal combat with an audience of traditional rulers. The royal fathers, dressed in their full ceremonial regalia, were reduced to furniture under the governor’s barrage. You could almost see their crowns shrinking with each syllable.

The supposed subject of the meeting was a routine administrative concern: the proliferation of self-declared chiefs and the misuse of traditional insignia. But Wike, never one to squander a stage, transformed the moment into a personal theatre of disdain and domination. With arms gesturing wildly and voice raised high on official impunity, he scolded, scorned and shredded. “It is not for you to take staff of office and go and keep it in your bedroom or shrine,” he spat. “It is for when you are coming out for official function.” A fair point, if it had stopped there. But Wike didn’t just serve the medicine – he flogged the patient and insulted his ancestors. He proposed a new law to restrict the title of “Royal Highness” to only government-recognised monarchs, and as a few chiefs dared to clap (perhaps in reluctant approval, perhaps to encourage him to descend from his high horse), the governor turned on them: “Stop clapping. You are being selfish. Stop shaking your head, that’s sycophancy.” In other words, breathe at your own peril.

Then came the climax – an unfortunate man, decked in elaborate attire and seated in the front row, caught the governor’s attention for simply nodding. Maybe it was agreement, maybe exhaustion, or maybe just an involuntary neck twitch from years of carrying ceremonial beads. Whatever the cause, Wike pounced: “You… stop shaking your head. You are one of those causing problems. They gave you chieftaincy… you are a young boy… you don’t even know what to do with it. And then when I’m speaking you are shaking your head like this… All fake! Fake!! You just go and wear something that is bigger than you.” At that moment, the state camera crew decided to play Nollywood apprentice, zooming in on the man’s face – a tragic portrait of restrained fury, public embarrassment and traditional helplessness.

It wasn’t the first time Wike had treated elders like schoolchildren caught smoking behind the shrine, and many suspected it wouldn’t be the last. This style – part attack dog, part megaphone – has trailed him from his days as Chief of Staff under Rotimi Amaechi, and grown more potent with the paraphernalia of gubernatorial power. (Fast forward to his current status as the Minister for the Federal Capital Authority – and his courtly serenade of regular media parleys, and vituperations against opponents within his own political circuit, echoes his unrelenting propensity for the grandiose). Predictably, reactions flooded in. Dakuku Peterside, his former opponent and then head of NIMASA, called the episode “irresponsible and shameful,” reminding Nigerians of other times Wike had threatened or derided royal fathers, including King Theophilus Princewill, the Amayanabo of Kalabari.

  In response, the Rivers State Commissioner for Information tried to spin the volcanic eruption into a “frank and honest conversation.” That, in Nigerian political grammar, is what we call washing pepper with kerosene. When those close to power begin to normalise contempt, call insult honesty and rebrand humiliation as candour, the rot has moved from the edges to the bone marrow. There are many ways to enforce protocol, but very few of them require detonating the dignity of elders like expired fireworks.

 And yet, this is not new terrain for Rivers State. The annals of that region, and its sister Bayelsa, bear the muddy footprints of earlier emperors in khaki. One must go back to 1973, when the state was barely five years old, and its governor, Lieutenant Commander Alfred Diete-Spiff, was yet to turn 25. As a young military ruler, full of hormones and hubris, he marked his 31st birthday by exacting crude vengeance on a journalist from the Nigerian Observer who had the temerity to report on a teachers’ strike. The journalist, Minere Amakiri, had his head publicly shaved with a broken bottle – by order of the governor’s aide, Ralph Iwowari. Of course, no apology followed. No consequence either. That was the era when youthful indiscretion wore medals.

Today, that same Diete-Spiff sits as a traditional ruler – the Amanayabo of  Twon-Brass. Just imagine, if the cosmic drama had played differently, and Diete-Spiff, now a royal father himself, had been in that room in January 2020, nodding respectfully while Governor Wike blazed through his fiery homily. What a glorious circle of karmic comedy that would have been. But alas, fate has a more measured sense of humour. Still, the lesson remains: power has a way of turning its wielders into historical parodies if they are not careful. And time, like a patient griot, records every whisper, every insult, every nod denied.

Wike may have intended to sanitise the institution of traditional rulership. Fair enough. But when the message is delivered with venom, the medicine is rejected by even the willing. There’s a reason why leaders of true stature wield authority like a staff – not a machete. The ability to correct without desecrating, to discipline without humiliating, separates statesmen from strongmen. Sadly, Nigeria has too few of the former, and far too many of the latter.

So this is not really about Wike. It is about every public official who wakes each morning assuming his office confers immortality. It is about those who believe public service is a licence to belittle. It is for those who believe that history is too forgetful or the people too docile. The truth, however, is starker. Power expires. Office ends. Regalia is packed away. What remains is memory – and memory, especially in Nigeria, is increasingly digitised, documented, and damning.

Let today’s swaggering overlords take note. Their words will outlive their tenure. Their attitude will trail their legacy like a shadow. No statesman is ever fondly remembered for being loud, vindictive or imperious. If they cannot lead with grace, let them at least fall silent with dignity. Because the day will come when their names are spoken not with reverence, but with a sigh. And by then, there will be no audience left to clap, or nod.

ReplyReply allForwardAdd reaction

https://meet.google.com/call?authuser=1&hl=en&mc=KAIwAZoBEzoRcGludG9fOTRzbHRta2xiZ3OiATsaAhAAMgJQADoCEAFKBAgBEAFaAggAagIIAXICCAF6AggCiAEBkgECEAGaAQQYASAAogECEADiAQIIALIBBxgDIAAqATHCAQIgAdgBAQ&origin=https%3A%2F%2Fmail.google.com&iilm=1751077136069

Displaying

​