By Agbeze Ireke Kalu Onuma, AI-KO
“Think’st thou that duty shall have dread to speak when power to flattery bows? To plainness honor’s bound when majesty falls to folly.” — William Shakespeare, King Lear
When Shakespeare posed this piercing question in King Lear, he captured the eternal tension between truth and power—the peril of a society where duty is silenced by fear, and honor must disguise itself to survive. Twenty-five years into Nigeria’s Fourth Republic, that same tension defines our national condition. A profound and unsettling question hangs over the Nigerian project, casting a long shadow on any celebration of this democratic milestone: what values, truly, are we living with—and living for?
This is not a philosophical inquiry but a desperate audit of our national soul, compelled by a trajectory that feels less like a forward march and more like a circular trek into familiar disappointments. From the dawn of this era under Olusegun Obasanjo—promising a clean break from military rule yet marred by its own power struggles and third-term ambitions—to the present day, the citizenry has been consistently blindsided. Not by the unexpected, but by the relentless repetition of a political script that prizes power over people and rhetoric over results. We find ourselves in a bewildering state of suspension, unable to declare with certainty whether…
This sense of national vertigo has reached a fever pitch under the current administration of President Bola Tinubu. While conventional wisdom counsels patience for a government only two years into its tenure, its opening act has been one of overwhelming sound and fury—what Nigerians aptly call “gragra”: a performative, frantic energy that dazzles in motion but falters in meaning. The Tinubu government, in the eyes of many, has not simply continued the dismal legacy of its predecessors but has refined it into something darker—a cynical alchemy that amplifies the worst traits of the past.
Where Muhammadu Buhari’s administration was condemned for a corrosive trinity of corruption, tribalism, and a disengaged incompetence bordering on absenteeism, the present leadership seems to have taken those failings as a foundation. Each flaw has been magnified, and to this grim inheritance, new shades of opacity and opportunism have been added. The result is a deepening crisis of confidence and survival—a republic where power bows ever lower to flattery, and duty, stripped of honor, dares not speak.
It is this alarming acceleration of decline—this transformation of old vices into new, more potent threats—that compels us to confront the central question anew: if our democracy endures only in form but not in spirit, then what, indeed, are the principles that still bind us as a nation?
It feels like we are all witnessing a grand, slow-motion betrayal, and the most insulting part is that those in power operate as if we are blind to their actions. The recent decision by President Bola Ahmed Tinubu to bestow a high national honor—Commander of the Order of the Niger (CON)—on Professor Mahmood Yakubu, the outgoing Chairman of the Independent National Electoral Commission (INEC), felt to millions of Nigerians like a deliberate slap in the face. Yet, that act of insult was only a prelude to a more severe violation.
The subsequent nomination of Professor Joash Amupitan as Yakubu’s successor is a dagger aimed directly at the heart of our democracy. While Amupitan was not officially listed as lead counsel for Tinubu or the APC at the Presidential Election Petition Tribunal as has been made and circulated on social media, his elevation to INEC Chair by the very administration whose electoral legitimacy remains contested has sparked widespread concern. This was not a routine appointment; it was a declaration of values. One man who oversaw an electoral process widely considered flawed was honored; another, perceived to be aligned with the ruling party, was installed to oversee the next one.
To elevate these figures in such a politically charged context is to spit in the face of every citizen who waited for hours to vote, every young person who believed in a new dawn, and every Nigerian who still clings to the fragile hope that their vote matters. These acts are not isolated missteps; they are symbols of a government that has lost its moral compass—a government that systematically rewards loyalty to a small political clique over genuine service to the nation.
This brazen culture of political payback—this tendency to shower accolades and power on the undeserving while the country suffers—is the very heart of the rot. It is not only about who gets appointed, but what those appointments signal: that institutional integrity is expendable, and public trust is a casualty of partisan consolidation. It is this specific, boiling anger—this shared frustration of millions watching our nation’s institutions being systematically captured—that fuels this analysis.
This sense of betrayal echoes the timeless warning from William Shakespeare’s King Lear. The play tells the story of a king whose downfall begins when he banishes the one person brave enough to speak plain truth to him, choosing instead to surround himself with flattering sycophants who tell him only what he wants to hear. From this tragedy comes a piercing line: “Think’st thou that duty shall have dread to speak when power to flattery bows? To plainness honor’s bound when majesty falls to folly.” In simple terms, it means that when our leaders are swarmed by yes-men and begin to make foolish, self-serving decisions, it becomes the sacred duty of every honorable citizen to speak the raw, unvarnished truth. The honoring of Yakubu is a classic case of “power bowing to flattery,” and it makes our “plainness” not just a right, but a necessity.
A particularly dangerous dimension of this folly has been the administration’s use of divisive rhetoric and policy actions that function as a dog whistle, energizing a narrow, hyper-nationalist base. From the very outset, President Tinubu’s declaration that “It’s my turn” and “Emi lo kan” (It is my turn) resonated beyond a simple claim to the presidency; for his core supporters, it was a tribal and political manifesto. This rhetoric has been reinforced by key appointments and policies that are perceived, whether intended or not, as disproportionately favoring his ethnic Yoruba base and long-standing political loyalists from Lagos. This aggressive, winner-takes-all style has primed a segment of the population, making them receptive to an “us versus them” narrative where any criticism of the government is framed as an attack on their ethnic identity or political standing.
This priming has created the perfect environment for the unleashing of a far-right, predominantly Yoruba-controlled media machine. This ecosystem, comprising online platforms, radio stations, and social media influencers, operates with a chilling efficiency. Its purpose is not to inform or hold power accountable, but to act as a political shock troop. When policies like the painful fuel subsidy removal are criticized, this machine does not defend the policy on its merits. Instead, it swiftly labels critics as “ungrateful,” “enemies of progress,” or, most insidiously, as “haters of the Yoruba people.” They create a fortress of sycophancy around the president, attacking any voice of “plainness” as treason. This media machine systematically shuts down national debate, replacing it with ethnic solidarity and toxic loyalty. They are the modern, amplified embodiment of the flatterers Shakespeare warned us about, creating an echo chamber where the president is shielded from the true consequences of his actions and the genuine suffering of the broader nation.
Nowhere is this ugly new normal more visible than on the streets of Lagos, the president’s political heartland. Here, the rhetoric has moved beyond mere words and has been weaponized into a tool of intimidation and governance.
Take the tragic death of singer Mohbad, directly not political, did spark national outrage and expose systemic failures in Lagos’s justice and governance structures. While there is no verified evidence of political alignment between Naira Marley and the establishment, the slow and opaque response from authorities, coupled with politicized online narratives, reflects a broader culture of deflection and impunity.
The death of Ilerioluwa Oladimeji Aloba, popularly known as Mohbad, on September 12, 2023, was a watershed moment in Nigeria’s cultural and civic consciousness. The 27-year-old singer had long voiced concerns about threats and bullying from his former record label, Marlian Music, owned by Azeez Fashola (Naira Marley). In October 2022, Mohbad posted a video showing bruises allegedly sustained during a confrontation with the label’s management. He later terminated his contract, citing violent physical attacks, threats to his life, and non-fulfillment of contractual terms.
In the months leading up to his death, Mohbad publicly alleged that his former label was sabotaging his career, limiting his access to gigs, and withholding royalties. His friend, Bella Shmurda, revealed that Mohbad had even contemplated suicide due to the pressure. These revelations painted a grim picture of the music industry’s darker underbelly—one where artists are vulnerable to exploitation and intimidation.
Following his death, public outrage erupted. Over 200,000 Nigerians signed a petition to ban Marlian Records. Protests swept through Lagos, with citizens demanding justice and transparency. The Lagos State Government promised a coroner’s inquest and ordered an autopsy. However, the process was marred by confusion and delays. The autopsy, reportedly conducted in the U.S., was later denied by the named lab, and eight months after exhumation, the cause of death remained undetermined due to decomposition.
This sluggish response fueled public skepticism. Many felt the government’s actions were performative rather than purposeful. The Lagos State House of Assembly received protest letters and promised to investigate, but tangible outcomes have been elusive. Meanwhile, online discourse became increasingly politicized. Some pro-government voices accused opposition parties—particularly the Labour Party—of “hijacking” the tragedy for political gain. This bizarre framing shifted focus away from justice and toward partisan deflection.
While there is no verified evidence that Naira Marley is politically aligned with the ruling establishment, the perception of protection and selective accountability persists. His arrest, alongside associate Sam Larry, led to brief detention but no convictions. The lack of resolution reinforces a troubling message: those with influence can evade consequences, even in the face of public outcry.
This case is emblematic of a broader phenomenon in Lagos and Nigeria at large. The weaponization of rhetoric, the politicization of grief, and the slow march of justice reflect a system where power often shields rather than scrutinizes. When citizens see that even in death, justice can be delayed or denied, it erodes trust in institutions and deepens societal divides.
Mohbad’s legacy now transcends music. His story has become a symbol of the urgent need for reform—of the music industry, of law enforcement, and of governance itself. The question remains: will Nigeria confront these truths, or continue to bury them beneath the noise?
Under the current administration, there has been a documented rise in intimidation tactics against dissenting voices, suppression of free speech, and a troubling tolerance for hate speech—especially in Lagos and other urban centers. Civil society organizations and political observers have raised alarms about the shrinking civic space and the emboldening of pro-government actors.
In Nigeria’s evolving political landscape, the right to dissent is increasingly under siege. While democracy promises freedom of expression and protection for minority voices, recent trends suggest a disturbing reversal. Citizens who criticize government policies—whether through sermons, social media, or peaceful protest—now face a growing risk of harassment, threats, and public vilification.
This culture of intimidation is not abstract. In 2024, a National Youth Service Corps (NYSC) member faced threats and disciplinary action after posting a TikTok video criticizing the president’s economic policies. The backlash was swift and severe, with calls for capital punishment from prominent voices within the pro-government media sphere. Although the presidency later distanced itself from these remarks, the damage was done: the message was clear—criticism would be punished, not debated.
Civil society organizations have condemned this pattern. In a joint statement titled “The Tinubu Administration’s Assault on the Civic Space”, multiple CSOs warned that Nigeria’s security agencies were being weaponized to suppress dissent and intimidate labor groups and activists. They described the government’s actions as a “calculated response to growing discontent,” fueled by corruption, economic hardship, and public frustration.
What’s especially troubling is the normalization of hate speech and divisive rhetoric. Online platforms have become battlegrounds where pro-government influencers routinely target critics with ethnic slurs, threats, and coordinated trolling. The lack of enforcement against these actors—despite Nigeria’s cybercrime laws—suggests a tacit endorsement. When prominent figures label dissenters as “traitors” or “enemies of progress,” and the state remains silent, it emboldens others to follow suit.
This silence is not just passive—it’s strategic. By refusing to condemn hate speech and intimidation, the government creates a chilling effect. Religious leaders, journalists, and everyday citizens begin to self-censor, fearing backlash. The civic space shrinks, and democracy suffers.
Even when officials are removed for misconduct—as in the case of the suspended Minister of Humanitarian Affairs over ₦585 million in misappropriated funds —the broader culture of impunity remains. Accountability is selective, and criticism is often met with deflection rather than dialogue.
The implications are significant. When citizens cannot speak freely, when dissent is met with threats, and when hate speech is allowed to flourish unchecked, the very foundation of democracy is at risk. Nigeria must confront this reality. It must protect its critics, enforce its laws, and reject the politics of fear.
Until then, the silence from the top will continue to echo as permission—and the voices of the vulnerable will grow quieter, not because they have nothing to say, but because they no longer feel safe saying it.
The Tinubu administration’s perceived indifference and vague rhetoric around justice and accountability have created an atmosphere where impunity thrives—especially in Lagos. This emboldens perpetrators of land grabs, thuggery and hate speech, as state silence is often interpreted as tacit approval.
In today’s Lagos, the erosion of public trust isn’t just a consequence of isolated injustices—it’s the result of a broader political climate that seems to reward silence over accountability. Under President Bola Tinubu’s administration, many observers have noted a troubling shift: a body language of detachment, where the state’s response to systemic abuses feels more performative than principled.
Take the issue of land grabbing. While Tinubu recently condemned such acts during his visit to Benue State, his remarks were widely criticized for trivializing the violence as mere “land disputes”. This framing, critics argue, dangerously downplays the scale and intent of these conflicts, which often involve armed displacement and ethnic targeting. If such language is used to describe mass killings and forced evictions, what message does it send to those orchestrating quieter, urban versions of the same injustice?
In Lagos, this ambiguity has consequences. The city has long struggled with illegal property seizures, where thugs, forged documents, and complicit officials are used to dispossess families. Yet, despite the frequency of these cases, there’s been little visible effort from the federal government to enforce accountability or strengthen protections for vulnerable landowners. The perpetrators—often politically connected—operate with confidence, knowing that the system is unlikely to challenge them.
This climate of impunity extends beyond land. Hate speech and divisive rhetoric have become more normalized in public discourse, often amplified by social media and political surrogates. Ethnic profiling, religious scapegoating, and inflammatory language are now common features of political debates. What’s most alarming is the lack of meaningful pushback from the presidency. In previous administrations, such behavior would have drawn swift condemnation. Today, it’s met with silence—or worse, deflection.
The result is a chilling message to the public: that power shields you from consequence. That if you are aligned with the right interests, you can rewrite the rules, seize what you want, and weaponize identity without fear of reprisal. For ordinary Lagosians, this is more than a political concern—it’s a daily reality. It affects where they live, how they speak, and whether they feel safe in their own communities.
To reverse this trend, leadership, under Tinubu, must do more than issue vague calls for unity. It must confront injustice with clarity, enforce laws without bias, and reject hate in all its forms. Until then, the silence from the top will continue to echo as permission—and the city’s most vulnerable will pay the price.
The administration’s penchant for opaque and shady deals is perhaps most audaciously displayed in the controversial Lagos-Calabar Coastal Highway project. Touted as a landmark infrastructure achievement, the project reeks of a classic “highway to fraud.” The 700-kilometer highway is estimated to cost a staggering N15 trillion (approximately $11-13 billion), which translates to an astronomical $15.7–$17.9 million per kilometer . To grasp the brazenness of this figure, one need only compare it to the pan-African Cairo-Cape Town Highway, a 10,228 km transcontinental project whose cost is a mere $156,000 per kilometer. The Tinubu administration speaks from two sides of its mouth—extolling the project’s economic benefits while refusing to provide a coherent, transparent breakdown of its mind-boggling cost, leaving citizens to wonder what exactly they are paying for.
This financial opacity is compounded by a deeply flawed procurement process. The contract was awarded to Hitech Construction Company Limited without any competitive bidding, raising grave concerns about transparency and due process . This is especially troubling given the widely known close relationship between Hitech’s owners, the Chagoury brothers, and President Tinubu. The government’s attempt to justify the no-bid award through an “Engineering, Procurement, Construction, and Financing (EPC+F)” model does little to assuage fears that this is less about national development and more about enriching a privileged inner circle. The bulldozers have already moved in, demolishing businesses and homes, including the landmark Beach Resort valued at over $200 million, with compensation offers that victims describe as paltry and insulting. This is not nation-building; it is state-sponsored capture on a monumental scale.
The culture of corruption and dubious dealings has thoroughly infected the highest echelons of the cabinet, with the Minister of the Federal Capital Territory and the scandal surrounding the Minister of Innovation, Science, and Technology, Geoffrey Nnaji, serving as prime examples. The Nnaji case is a masterclass in impunity. The University of Nigeria, Nsukka (UNN) and the National Youth Service Corps (NYSC) have officially disowned the academic and service certificates the minister presented for his Senate screening. In a damning letter, the UNN stated that while Nnaji was admitted in 1981, he did not complete his program and could not have graduated in 1985 as he claimed. Instead of immediate dismissal and prosecution for forgery—a serious criminal offence—the minister was merely allowed to resign quietly. The African Democratic Congress (ADC) rightly condemned this, stating that President Tinubu, by his inaction, has “created the unfortunate impression that he is sympathetic to such misconduct”. When the minister in charge of innovation and technology is an alleged forger, it sends a devastating message that dishonesty is not a barrier to high office, but a prerequisite.
On the other hand, the recent, widely-viewed appearance of Works Minister David Umahi on ARISE TV, where he notoriously failed to provide a simple cost per kilometer for the Lagos-Calabar Coastal Highway, perfectly encapsulates the very “folly” and “flattery” Shakespeare condemned. This incident is not an isolated one but part of a broader pattern of governance where opacity is defended with arrogance, and the public’s demand for truth is met with contempt. The confrontation between ARISE TV anchor Rufai Oseni and Minister Umahi laid bare the government’s strained relationship with transparency, as Oseni’s focused questions on the highway’s cost and financing were met not with clarity but with defensive dismissals. The minister accused the journalist of lacking the technical expertise to understand the project, and his demeanor turned deeply condescending, culminating in the retort, “You are too small for me to report to! Who are you?!! Keep quiet!”
This was more than a clash of personalities; it was a symbolic moment where a public servant explicitly belittled a citizen’s quest for accountability. While Umahi argued that cost per kilometer is a technically flawed metric because “every kilometre differs in cost from another,” and pointed to the project’s loan being oversubscribed by international banks as validation, this technical deflection rings hollow to a public weary of grand projects with murky financial details. As one social media commentator noted, if the cost per kilometer is an invalid question, it raises a more fundamental one: “How, then, did they arrive at the total cost of the project, which served as the basis for Federal Executive Council approval?”
This ongoing controversy has now been significantly amplified by the intervention of Oyo State Governor Seyi Makinde, who directly challenged the Minister’s evasiveness. In a viral video from a public event, Makinde asserted there was no need for Minister Umahi to be “dancing around the cost” of the project. He provided a compelling, data-driven counter-argument, explaining that if the cost varies per kilometer, the logical and transparent response is simply to provide the average cost. To illustrate this point, he detailed the costs of several road projects in his own state, including the 65-kilometer Moniya-Iseyin road built for N10 billion and the 76-kilometer Iseyin-Ogbomoso road, which cost N43 billion and included two bridges. By offering this clear comparison, Makinde framed transparent budgeting not as an impossible technical challenge, but as a normal and manageable function of accountable governance, suggesting it is a key reason for his state’s own development progress.
Governor Makinde’s remarks served as a direct rebuttal to the Minister’s heated exchange with journalist Rufai Oseni, where Oseni’s request for a kilometer-by-kilometer cost analysis was dismissed as “elementary” and nonsensical. The confrontation grew intensely personal when Umahi, asserting his authority as a “professor” in engineering, commanded the journalist to “Keep quiet and stop saying what you don’t know.” This clash transcends a mere political disagreement and strikes at the heart of democratic accountability, pitting the public’s unequivocal right to ask clear questions about massive public expenditure against a government’s tendency to retreat behind a veil of technical justifications. While the Minister maintains that a simple average is misleading for a project of such complexity and scale, still in its design phase, this stance does little to quell the growing perception that obfuscation, not plainness, is the order of the day.
The Umahi interview is a microcosm of a larger governance ethos that prioritizes political expediency and sycophancy over plain-speaking and merit. Similar concerns of opaque dealings surround the resolution of the long-disputed OPL 245 oil block, the Malabu scandal. While the government argues it is putting a dormant asset to use, the move has raised “concerns of possible shady negotiations to benefit government officials and their cronies,” particularly given previous deals involving the President’s nephew. The minister’s denial that the President would benefit personally does little to assuage fears of a system where power bows to flattery and backroom deals.
The events unfolding in Nigeria offer a real-world tableau for the themes Shakespeare explored in King Lear. Just as King Lear’s tragedy begins when he gives away his authority to those who flatter him, delivering his kingdom into chaos, so too does a government that invests power in those who prize loyalty over truth undermine its own authority and sow the seeds of public distrust and national strife. The play warns that speeches and words are not always reliable; Goneril and Regan’s elaborate, empty declarations of love are the flattery that deceives Lear, just as technical jargon and deflections are used in place of plain, factual answers to the public. Cordelia’s honest, simple speech is initially rejected, just as journalists and citizens demanding straightforward accountability are told to “keep quiet.” The quote we began with, “To plainness honor’s bound,” is spoken by the character of Kent, who risks banishment to speak plain truth to a king who is falling to folly. He embodies the play’s argument that true honor and duty lie in courageous truth-telling, especially when those in power are surrounded by sycophants. In the modern context, the “plainness” Shakespeare extols is represented by the persistent questions of journalists and citizens, while the “flattery” is the culture of yes-men and the obfuscation that insulates power from accountability.
The confrontation with Minister Umahi, now compounded by Governor Makinde’s critique, is more than a viral moment; it is a powerful illustration of a government’s refusal to be held to account. When combined with other actions—the shielding of allegedly fraudulent ministers, the opaque handling of national assets—it reveals an administration that, in its refusal to embrace transparent “plainness,” risks the very “folly” that Shakespeare warned could lead a kingdom to ruin.
If the honoring of Mahmood Yakubu was a slap in the face, President Tinubu’s nomination of Professor Joash Amupitan as the new Chairman of the Independent National Electoral Commission (INEC) is a dagger to the heart of democracy itself. This move demonstrates with chilling clarity that state capture is complete. We have not simply lost our values; we are witnessing their systematic execution. We have not only lost our freedom; the very architecture of our future choice is being welded shut by those in power.
The facts are deeply troubling in their implication. Professor Joash Ojo Amupitan, SAN, though not officially listed among the legal representatives for Tinubu or the APC at the Presidential Election Petition Tribunal, is widely perceived by critics as politically aligned with the administration. His nomination to lead the very institution charged with overseeing electoral integrity—INEC—has raised serious concerns. The symbolism alone is potent: a legal scholar now elevated to the most powerful electoral office in the land by the same president whose election remains contested in the public imagination. This is seen by many as the ultimate “Reward of Sycophants.” It is a transaction so brazen it stuns the conscience: you are elevated not for neutrality, but for perceived loyalty. The flatterer who stood by power is now installed as the arbiter of future legitimacy.
This act is the fullest, most terrifying expression of Shakespeare’s warning. “Think’st thou that duty shall have dread to speak when power to flattery bows?” The administration’s answer is a resounding “Yes.” It dares the public to speak, confident that all institutional levers are now being seized. When “power to flattery bows,” it does not just silence critics; it appoints its own sympathizers to be the judge. Civil society groups, like the Coalition of Civil Society Organizations in Nigeria (COCSON), have immediately recognized the existential threat, stating that this nomination “could erode public trust in electoral impartiality” forever. But their “plainness” is likely to be met with the same dismissive arrogance that greeted every previous question. President Tinubu’s description of Amupitan as “apolitical and a man of integrity” is a line straight from the playbook of Lear’s flattering daughters, a hollow declaration that insults the intelligence of the entire nation and reveals a belief that truth is whatever power has the audacity to proclaim.
This is more than cronyism; it is the final merger of the ruling party and the state. The referee is now the team captain. The trusted academic becomes the chief electoral umpire under the banner of the very power he is expected to regulate. With this move, the government signals that it no longer sees any distinction between the interests of the APC and the institutions of Nigeria itself. The “Renewed Hope” of a nation has been shrunk to the renewed control of a party. When a nominee with perceived partisan leanings is placed to oversee the next election, democracy is not just under threat; it is being meticulously dismantled, and the public is invited to watch, helpless and enraged, as the final bricks are laid.
The appointment of Amupitan is not an isolated act of patronage, but the culmination of a calculated strategy to achieve what political scientists term “state capture”—a situation where powerful actors systematically coordinate to subvert, co-opt, and ultimately control a country’s core institutions for their own benefit. The South African experience under former President Jacob Zuma provides a stark parallel, where a network of corrupt procurement and the systematic undermining of accountability institutions inflicted “substantial collateral damage on the country’s fragile economy and society.” The Tinubu administration is following this same playbook, and the capture of INEC represents its most audacious chapter yet. It ensures that the entity meant to hold power accountable is now a direct subsidiary of the ruling party.
The symbolism of this appointment is designed to be understood on two destructive levels: for the elite, it signals that absolute loyalty—even in defending the indefensible—is now the sole currency for ascension. There is no longer a need for the pretense of impartiality. For the citizenry, it is a deliberate message of disempowerment, communicating that your vote is an administrative formality, the outcome of which is pre-determined by legal and institutional engineering. This is the psychological essence of political enslavement—the systematic destruction of agency and hope.
The legal and moral perversion here is deep. The perception of his alignment with the administration—and now his elevation to INEC Chair—creates a chilling narrative. The PEPC was the very institution that validated an electoral process millions of Nigerians believe was flawed. By placing a perceived sympathizer of that process in charge of designing the next one, the administration constructs a perfect, self-validating loop. Future elections risk being architected not for transparency, but for legal defensibility. The goal shifts from earning the people’s mandate to insulating victory from judicial challenge, using the expertise of those who understand how to navigate and neutralize dissent.
This consolidation of party and state finalizes Nigeria’s slide into a de facto one-party system. The national aspiration encapsulated by “Renewed Hope” has been overtaken by a party’s ambition for “Renewed Control.” Installing a legal figure associated—rightly or wrongly—with a contested victory to preside over subsequent polls does not merely endanger democracy; it methodically deconstructs it. The populace is thereby reduced to spectators, compelled to witness the completion of their own political incarceration.
What remains is not a democracy, but a performance of one—a ritual of ballots cast in a theater where the ending has already been written. The appointment of Amupitan, regardless of his academic credentials or personal integrity, is perceived as part of a broader strategy to institutionalize partisan dominance. It is not the individual alone, but the context of his elevation that speaks volumes. In a healthy democracy, perception matters as much as process. And here, the perception is devastating: that the electoral umpire is no longer neutral, but an extension of the ruling party’s will.
This is a crisis of governance. And a crisis of legitimacy. Unless reversed, it will echo through every future election, every civic protest, and every attempt to reclaim the democratic promise. The question is no longer whether democracy is under threat. It is whether it still exists at all.
This corrosive system of rewarding sycophants and empowering an ethnic-chauvinist media was launched on a wave of immense, national promise. When President Tinubu took office in May 2023, his campaign slogan, “Renewed Hope,” felt like a lifeline for some Nigerians, regardless of tribe or religion. After years of crippling insecurity, economic stagnation, and a deep sense of national despair, citizens were desperate for a unifying, reform-driven government that would rebuild our crumbling institutions. But two years on, that national hope has been Balkanized. The chasm between the grand, inclusive promises and the grim, divisive reality has widened into an abyss, revealing a pattern of governance that mixes audacious ambition with a painful disconnect from the people’s daily suffering.
Nowhere is this disconnect more painfully felt than in the economic realities of everyday life, realities that the partisan media machine cannot wish away. The administration’s very first major decision—the removal of the fuel subsidy—was hailed in international financial circles as a “bold” and necessary reform. But for the factory worker in Kano, the teacher in Port Harcourt, and the parent trying to feed a family in Lagos, it was an economic earthquake. Without any safety nets to cushion the fall, the price of everything exploded. The cost of transportation tripled. The price of a bag of rice became a luxury item. Then, the government’s decision to float the Naira, while intended to unify exchange rates, vaporized the purchasing power of salaries and savings. In the Shakespearean sense, this is majesty falling to folly—where rigid economic theories are pursued with a cold, clinical heart, completely blind to the human catastrophe they trigger, while loyalist media attack the victims of these policies for daring to complain.
Nigeria’s deepening crisis—marked by soaring debt, economic hardship, and contradictory policies—is not the result of misfortune or miscalculation. It is the predictable consequence of a political culture that elevates loyalty over competence and rewards propaganda more than performance. Bola Tinubu’s assumed “Renewed Hope” mantra resonates with a hollow emptiness in nation desperate for change. Years of insecurity, corruption, and economic stagnation has left Nigerians exhausted, and many who initially clung to his promise like a lifeline are now below borderline in poverty and desperation. Two years on, that hope has soured into widespread disillusionment. The administration’s approach—steeped in ethnic favoritism, media manipulation, and economic detachment—has fractured the national psyche and intensified the suffering of millions.
One of the earliest and most jarring moves was the removal of the fuel subsidy in June 2023. Lauded by international financial institutions as a bold reform, it proved catastrophic for everyday Nigerians. Transport fares tripled overnight; a ₦300 commute in Lagos suddenly cost ₦900. Food prices exploded—a 50kg bag of rice that sold for ₦35,000 in 2022 now exceeds ₦80,000. Electricity tariffs [With still very poor or no electricity supply across large swathe of the country] and cooking gas prices surged, yet wages remained frozen. Another so-called reform, the floating of the Naira, was intended to unify exchange rates. Instead, it triggered a currency collapse. The Naira plummeted from ₦460 to the dollar in May 2023 to over ₦1,500 by late 2025. Salaries lost their purchasing power, savings vanished, and the middle class began to sink into poverty.
Despite pledges of fiscal discipline, Nigeria’s debt has ballooned under Tinubu’s watch. From ₦87.4 trillion in May 2023, it soared to ₦152.4 trillion by June 2025—a staggering 74% increase. External debt climbed to $99.66 billion, with $18.04 billion owed to the World Bank alone. Domestic debt reached ₦80.55 trillion, dominated by government bonds and Central Bank overdrafts. Debt servicing costs exploded from ₦3.52 trillion in 2022 to ₦13.12 trillion in 2024, draining resources that could have built schools, hospitals, or roads. Yet this borrowing spree has not funded transformative infrastructure. Instead, it sustains a bloated government and fuels elite consumption. The spoils go to loyalists—appointments, contracts, and control over the media.
Meanwhile, policy contradictions abound. The Central Bank raises interest rates to combat inflation, but businesses are suffocated by 24% treasury bill rates that make credit unaffordable. Power supply remains erratic, forcing factories to rely on diesel priced at ₦1,200 per litre. Customs tariffs and import bans shift unpredictably, leaving entrepreneurs in limbo. Foreign investors hesitate, local businesses shut down, and yet the government continues to trumpet reforms that exist more in rhetoric than reality.
The media landscape offers little reprieve. Ethnically biased and politically aligned outlets shield the administration from scrutiny. Critics are branded “unpatriotic” or “tribal bigots,” while the truth is buried beneath layers of spin. This is the final reward for sycophants: access, protection, and patronage. Meanwhile, ordinary Nigerians grapple with hunger, unemployment, and despair.
This is not only a failure of policy—it is a failure of moral leadership. A government that prizes loyalty over competence and spin over substance cannot deliver the future Nigerians deserve. Until accountability replaces sycophancy, “Renewed Hope” will remain not a promise fulfilled, but a bitter irony.
The honoring of Mahmood Yakubu is the ultimate symbol of this sick system. It demonstrates a governance model that is centralized, operates on patronage, and values political loyalty above merit, competence, or even the basic appearance of integrity. It reinforces a culture where cronyism is the real currency, utterly undermining the institutions meant to sustain our democracy. The National Assembly, dominated by the ruling party, has largely failed as a check on this executive arrogance, leaving citizens with no one in the corridors of power to speak for them. In this climate, civil society and the independent media become the last line of defense, even as they are relentlessly targeted by the orchestrated vitriol of the partisan media machine. Shakespeare’s warning is for us: when truth-tellers are silenced and sycophants are rewarded with national honors, then speaking out becomes a moral and civic duty.
All of this unfolds to the relentless soundtrack of violence and fear. The administration inherited a security nightmare—a persistent insurgency in the North-East, violent banditry and kidnappings in the North-West, separatist tensions in the South West and South-East, and rampant crime nationwide. While there are occasional official claims of progress, the reality for millions is that the danger persists and often feels closer to home. The failure is frequently attributed to poor coordination between security agencies, chronic underfunding, and the corrosive effect of corruption within the very system tasked with keeping us safe. This unending insecurity has shattered our social cohesion, fueling the very ethnic and regional tensions the government’s “renewed hope” slogan promised to heal, and which its partisan supporters now exploit.
For those Nigerians who still cling to the democratic hope of voting out President Tinubu in 2027, the cold, hard reality of power now stares back at them. The odds are not just stacked; the very system has been meticulously reconfigured to ensure a predetermined outcome. As highlighted by analyst Yushau Shuaib, the key gatekeepers of the 2027 election are now aligned in a manner that reflects both political and regional consolidation. This is not speculation; it is the anatomy of a state apparatus increasingly centralized and coordinated. The Inspector-General of Police, the Chairman of the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission (EFCC), the Chief of Army Staff, and the Chairman of the Independent National Electoral Commission (INEC) all currently hail from regions with close political and cultural ties to the presidency.
The significance of the INEC appointment is particularly striking. In Professor Joash Amupitan, the government has installed a Yoruba man from the northern region of Kogi State—a choice that offers geographic diversity on paper while reinforcing political alignment in practice. His academic credentials are well-established, and his nomination by the president places him at the helm of Nigeria’s most critical democratic institution. This configuration—where the electoral commission is led by a figure perceived to be politically aligned with the ruling party—raises serious concerns about the neutrality of future elections. When the police, the anti-graft agency, the military, and the electoral commission are all led by individuals seen as part of a unified power structure, the concept of an independent state apparatus becomes increasingly tenuous.
The evidence of this institutional alignment is already visible. The EFCC, under Chairman Ola Olukoyede, has faced accusations from opposition parties such as the African Democratic Congress (ADC) of selectively targeting their members—including former governors—with revived investigations. The ADC has described these actions as “politically motivated,” alleging that the Commission now operates like an extension of the ruling party. Meanwhile, the leadership of the Police Force has expressed ambivalence toward enforcing electoral regulations, with the Inspector-General publicly questioning the relevance of campaign oversight in the digital age. This stance creates a permissive environment for early political maneuvering by the ruling party, while leaving enforcement mechanisms available for selective application against opponents.
In the face of this consolidated architecture—where the incumbent candidate, the electoral umpire, the heads of law enforcement and the anti-graft agency, and the military leadership appear to form a politically aligned bloc—the frustration of millions of Nigerians morphs into a profound sense of powerlessness. The phrase, “it is bad weather, just sit back and like it, until it blows over,” captures this devastating resignation. When every lever of state power is aligned against the will of the people, the act of voting feels less like a civic duty and more like a ritual of acquiescence. The “folly” Shakespeare warned against is no longer just a series of misguided policies; it has been institutionalized. The “flattery” is no longer mere sycophancy; it is the hardwired obedience of a captured state. For democracy to be renewed, as I have argued, it will require a courage far beyond what is currently being mustered, to challenge not just a government, but an entire system engineered to perpetuate itself.
The consequences of this advanced state capture are already manifesting across the Nigerian landscape, leaving a trail of economic distress, institutional decay, and social despair. We see it in the continued flight of both capital and human talent, as investors and skilled professionals lose the last vestiges of confidence in a system where the rules are rigged and the future is predetermined by a closed circle of power. This economic stagnation is directly fueled by the perception that merit has been wholly supplanted by patronage, and that national policy is no longer designed for the public good but for the consolidation of a party’s control. The value of the national currency and the resilience of the economy are inextricably linked to confidence, and that confidence is shattered when the fundamental mechanism of political accountability—the election—is rendered a hollow ritual.
INEC, as the nation’s electoral umpire, is meant to stand above partisan interests, serving as a bulwark against political manipulation. Placing Amupitan—whose nomination comes directly from the presidency without due bipartisan consultations across interest groups—at its helm sends a destabilizing message across the institutional landscape. It suggests that proximity to power, rather than demonstrable independence, is now the primary qualification for overseeing democratic processes.
This development does more than raise eyebrows; it recalibrates expectations within the public sector. It signals to judges, civil servants, and security officials that neutrality is no longer a virtue—it’s a liability. The reward system appears skewed toward those who align themselves with the ruling party’s objectives, regardless of public perception or institutional integrity. In such an environment, the incentive to uphold democratic norms erodes, replaced by a race to demonstrate loyalty. The result is a quiet but accelerating collapse of ethical standards across governance, where institutions once designed to check power now risk becoming its instruments.
This perception reverberates far beyond INEC. The judiciary, civil service, and security agencies—already viewed by many Nigerians as compromised—are watching closely. They see that the ultimate reward is not reserved for professionalism or constitutional fidelity, but for political allegiance. This creates a devastating incentive structure: one that accelerates ethical decay across governance. When the electoral umpire is seen as partisan, it demoralizes honest public servants and emboldens those who prioritize personal gain over public duty. The result is a self-reinforcing cycle in which the state’s capacity to serve its citizens is systematically hollowed out.
The most tangible consequence is a deepening sense of public cynicism and political alienation. Citizens begin to view elections not as instruments of change, but as elaborate rituals with predetermined outcomes. The idea of civic engagement—of participating in a system that listens and responds—starts to feel futile. This is not an erosion of trust; it is its deliberate demolition. In its place grows a vacuum where despair, anger, and apathy fester.
Such disillusionment is dangerous. It weakens democratic resilience and opens the door to instability, extremism, and disengagement. When people no longer believe in the legitimacy of institutions, they stop defending them. And when institutions lose defenders, they become tools of domination rather than guardians of liberty.
The capture of INEC is not an isolated concern—it is a signal flare warning of broader institutional decay. It tells every agency that neutrality is no longer valued, and that the path to power lies in submission to political interests. This trajectory will undermine future elections and corrode the very foundations of governance itself.
Yet, even as the architecture of capture is welded into place, forms of resistance remain, demanding a strategy that is both resilient and multifaceted. The first and most crucial front is the relentless documentation and publicity of these acts. Civil society organizations, investigative journalists, and citizen journalists must continue to shine a light on every appointment, every transaction, and every policy, framing them not as isolated missteps but as interconnected components of a grander scheme to subvert democracy. This narrative battle is essential to break through the administration’s attempts to normalize the abnormal. Legal challenges, while operating within a potentially compromised system, must still be pursued to create a formal, public record of opposition and to test the remnants of judicial independence, forcing the captured institutions to openly reveal their bias.
Beyond the courtrooms and headlines, resistance must take root in the fertile ground of civic mobilization. This involves strengthening community-based organizations, professional associations, and labor unions that operate outside the direct control of the state. These groups can organize peaceful protests, teach-ins, and advocacy campaigns focused on specific, tangible issues—from the cost of living to electoral transparency—thereby rebuilding a sense of collective agency from the ground up. The labor movement, in particular, retains a potent, though often latent, power to disrupt the machinery of the state and the economy, forcing a conversation on its own terms.
Finally, there is the power of creative and intellectual dissent. Artists, musicians, playwrights, and writers MUST translate this complex capture into powerful, visceral stories and symbols that resonate with the public in ways political rhetoric cannot. They can keep the flame of collective memory alive, reminding people of what has been taken and what is possible. The international community, while its leverage is often overstated, can be engaged to apply targeted diplomatic and economic pressure on key individuals involved in the capture, rather than on the nation as a whole. The path forward is undoubtedly arduous, pitting the organized power of the state against the dispersed power of a disillusioned citizenry. Yet, history suggests that even the most formidable structures of control are vulnerable to the persistent, courageous, and strategic refusal of the people to accept their own political irrelevance. The struggle now is to move from helpless rage to organized, intelligent, and unyielding resistance.
The essence of Shakespeare’s quote is about one thing: moral courage. The courage to refuse to be silent, even when a coordinated media machine tries to shout you down. The courage to call out a dishonorable act for what it is, even when it comes from the highest office in the land. President Tinubu’s administration, two years in, stands at a crossroads. It can confront its failures with humility, reverse course, dismantle the architecture of sycophancy, and start serving the people instead of a privileged few. Or, it can continue down this path of self-justification, where electoral officials are honored for presiding over a disputed election, critics are tarred as ethnic bigots, and the people’s suffering is met with indifference. For when power bows to flattery, democracy sickens and dies. But when truth challenges folly, as difficult and dangerous as it may be, renewal becomes possible. Our hope for Nigeria now rests not with the government, but with the courage of ordinary people who are finally finding their voice and daring to declare, “Enough is enough.”
We began with the words of a playwright and end with the tragedy of a nation. William Shakespeare’s timeless question from King Lear—“Think’st thou that duty shall have dread to speak when power to flattery bows?”—has found its chilling answer in the halls of Nigerian power. The answer is a deafening yes, echoed in the silence of an illegal bulldozed business and homes, in the evasive jargon of a minister on live television, and in the hollow ring of a national honor bestowed upon the architect of a disputed election.
We are now left, however, not with a question, but with a stark, unbearable truth. The betrayal is no longer slow-motion; it is complete, crystallized in the chilling symmetry of a captured past and a pre-emptively captured future. President Bola Ahmed Tinubu’s administration, flying the tattered banner of “Renewed Hope,” has conducted a masterclass in the mechanics of state capture. We have chronicled its grim syllabus: an economic policy that weaponizes poverty, a security apparatus that presides over chaos, a media machine that trades in ethnic venom, and a culture of impunity that celebrates the corrupt and intimidates the truthful. The honoring of Mahmood Yakubu’s, I repeat was the slap; the appointment of Joash Amupitan, to lead INEC is the dagger—a final, audacious stroke. This is not a reward for sycophants; it is the coronation of the capture itself. The flatterer who successfully defended folly has been crowned the arbiter of all future majesty.
The tangible consequences of this final merger are already upon us: a currency of hope devalued into despair, institutions hollowed out into loyalist shells, and a national spirit being methodically crushed under the weight of a predetermined political destiny. The message is designed to be understood by all—that your vote is a formality, your voice an echo in a sealed chamber, and your agency a relic of a bygone era. This is the psychological essence of modern political enslavement, crafted not with chains, but with legal briefs and judicial appointments.
Yet, to witness this machinery in its final form is also to understand the precise nature of the enemy and the grounds upon which resistance must be built. This is not a government that has lost its way; it is a project that has found its ruthless clarity. It no longer seeks to win your consent but to render it irrelevant. Therefore, our response cannot be one of mere disappointment, but of unwavering, strategic defiance. The battle now shifts from winning elections at the ballot box—a field they are systematically closing—to the relentless reclamation of our voice and our narrative in every sphere of society.
Our hope for renewal, therefore, cannot be tied to the grandeur of a power that has proven itself morally bankrupt. It must be rooted in the stubborn, unyielding courage that Shakespeare called “plainness.” Let this moment, then, become our indelible line in the sand. Let the brazenness of this appointment fuel not just our anger, but our resolve. Let every peaceful protest, every piece of investigative journalism, every legal challenge, every work of art that screams dissent, and every community organization built from the ground up become a brick in our own counter-structure—a structure of truth, memory, and unyielding demand for what is right.
They may be welding shut the architecture of our choice, but they cannot commandeer the human spirit. They have invited us to watch helplessly as they lay the final bricks of our political prison. Our enduring, unforgettable task is to refuse to be its captive audience, and to build, with relentless courage, the tools of its eventual demolition. The play is not over. The final act is ours to write. Let history record that we saw the dagger coming, and we did not flinch.
