COUNTERPOINT By Femi Akintunde-Johnson
There is something almost folkloric about the Rivers State saga – like a village square duel fought not with machetes but with microphones, court orders and press statements. A tragicomedy that would be entertaining if it were not so ruinous. The Nguni stick-fighting between former governor and current FCT minister, Nyesom Wike, and his erstwhile godson, Governor Siminalayi Fubara, has dragged on so long that even neutrality is fatigued.
Now we are told there is peace – again. After President Bola Tinubu’s latest intervention, both men reportedly left the Presidential Villa in the same vehicle, a symbolic gesture meant to calm frayed nerves in Port Harcourt. Wike declared this would be the “last time” the President would intervene. Fubara, inspecting the 50-kilometre Port Harcourt Ring Road, praised “My Oga”, crediting the minister’s original vision for the project.
Nigeria, ever romantic, may interpret this as reconciliation. But Rivers people, I suspect, are entitled to ask: reconciliation for whom?
This is the second major presidential mediation in a crisis that began almost immediately after Fubara assumed office in May 2023. It has featured a fractured House of Assembly, impeachment threats, parallel political camps, and a climate of administrative paralysis. At one point, the President declared a state of emergency, suspending executive authority before restoring civil rule six months later. If governance were electricity, Rivers would have experienced repeated blackouts.
Why is this brouhaha so intractable? Because it is not ideological. It is not about policy direction, fiscal prudence, environmental reform or developmental philosophy. It is about control – raw, undiluted political control. Godfatherism is a resilient Nigerian export. When succession plans go awry, we witness this peculiar dance: loyalty demanded, autonomy asserted, and institutions weaponised in the crossfire.
In such contests, the constitution becomes elastic. Legislators switch allegiances with gymnastic agility. Court orders sprout like mushrooms after rainfall. Public statements drip with barely disguised condescension. And ordinary citizens are left reading communiqués as though following the scoreline of a wrestling match. But governance is not a wrestling federation.
The President’s role is another puzzle. Why does he appear unable – or unwilling – to permanently rein in these traducers? The presidency is not merely a father figure; it is the apex constitutional authority in a federal structure. If mediation must occur once, perhaps it is understandable. Twice begins to look like institutional frailty. Three times risks normalising indiscipline.
We are told the President has been “very kind” to the people of Rivers State. Kindness is admirable. But governance requires more than paternal benevolence. It requires enforcement of rules, clarity of boundaries, and consequences for persistent destabilisation. A federation cannot afford to look like it negotiates compliance with its own constitution.
Who, then, is in the right? That question may itself be misplaced. In political quarrels of this nature, rightness is often a casualty long before peace is declared. The godfather insists on loyalty and continuity. The godson insists on autonomy and constitutional mandate. Both may claim legitimacy; neither can claim innocence from the chaos that followed.
The “right thing” in this crisis should have been obvious from the outset: respect for institutional independence, functional separation of powers, and the prioritisation of public welfare over personal pride. Instead, Rivers State became a laboratory for internecine patricide – a slow-burning feud in which the father figure and the political heir wrestled so vigorously that governance itself lay comatose.
And what of ordinary Rivers people? They voted. They campaigned. They defended their preferences in markets, on social media and in neighbourhood arguments. They invested emotional energy and hard-earned resources in a democratic process. What have they received in return? Months – indeed years – of tension, uncertainty and stalled political focus. Infrastructure may continue in patches, contracts may be signed, but the larger environment of trust has suffered.
Democracy is not merely about projects; it is about stability and predictability. Investors read headlines. Civil servants absorb tension. Communities internalise division. When political gladiators engage in endless ego slugfests, the damage extends beyond newspaper columns.
Who bears the political consequences of this collapse of normalcy? Ideally, the electorate. But electoral memory in Nigeria can be as short as the lifespan of a campaign jingle. Political actors gamble – sometimes correctly – that voters will move on, distracted by fresh alliances and colourful rallies. Yet history is less forgetful than ballots.
History will likely recall this period not for the kilometres of ring road constructed or the speeches delivered in Abuja, but for the spectacle of local power drunkenness. It will ask why two experienced politicians – one a former governor turned federal minister, the other a sitting governor entrusted with a mandate – allowed personal mistrust to metastasise into institutional breakdown.
It will note that a President had to intervene repeatedly in what should have been resolvable within party structures and constitutional frameworks. It will question whether Nigeria’s political class has matured beyond patronage politics or merely rebranded it.
The recent optics – leaving the Villa in the same vehicle, mutual praise at project sites – are welcome. Symbolism matters in politics. But symbolism is not substance. Peace that depends on proximity to the President’s office is fragile peace. True reconciliation must translate into durable cooperation within Rivers State’s institutions: a functional legislature, a secure executive mandate, and the absence of impeachment theatrics as bargaining chips.
One must also ask: if this is truly the “final” intervention, what mechanisms ensure that? What sanctions deter relapse? What assurances protect the state from another descent into brinkmanship? Or shall we gather again in a few months for yet another parley and another carefully choreographed exit from Aso Rock?
The irony is that both men have formidable political capital. Wike commands influence and federal visibility. Fubara holds executive authority and public mandate. Combined, such assets could transform Rivers into a model of subnational dynamism. Divided, they convert it into a cautionary tale.
There is also a broader lesson here. Nigerian democracy cannot continue to hinge on personal chemistry between powerful men. Institutions must be stronger than egos. Political succession must be governed by law, not by unwritten oaths of perpetual loyalty. Otherwise, every transition risks becoming a sequel in the same tedious franchise: “Godfather Strikes Back.”
For Rivers people, recouping emotional and political investments will take time. Trust, once bruised, does not rebound at the speed of a press conference. Citizens will judge not by praise exchanged in public but by the quiet restoration of order: budgets passed without drama, policies implemented without sabotage, and a House of Assembly focused on lawmaking rather than loyalty tests.
As for consequences, history is a patient auditor. It records not just victories but vulnerabilities. When future analysts revisit this era, they may ask whether this episode marked the maturing of Nigeria’s federal politics – or merely exposed its lingering adolescence.
For now, we are told there is truce. One hopes it is more than a ceasefire in a protracted family feud. Rivers State deserves governance, not gladiators. And Nigeria, frankly, deserves a political class that understands that power, like palm wine, is best consumed in moderation. Too much of it – and the village wakes up with a headache.
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