By Philemon Adjekuko
There is a familiar theatre that returns with each election season in Nigeria. The costumes change, the slogans get repainted, but the script remains stubbornly the same. Faces that once wore power like a tailored agbada suddenly rediscover outrage. Voices that once defended silence now thunder in protest. And the public is expected to forget. Again.
During campaigns, they lean close to the people. They speak softly about sacrifice, about service, about a country that can still be stitched back together. They promise to carry the burden. They promise to listen. They promise to be different. But power, once attained, has a way of exposing the truth behind those promises. The language changes. The urgency fades. The suffering becomes statistics. Excuses begin to flow with the ease of a well-rehearsed speech.
Then comes the second act. They lose power. Suddenly, they remember the people again.
They stand outside the gates they once guarded and shout about injustice. They point fingers at incompetence as though they were never participants in the same long decay. They gather crowds, sometimes rented, sometimes desperate, and sometimes hopeful enough to believe again. Buses roll in carrying the sons and daughters of the poor, paid just enough to shout slogans that will be forgotten by sunset once they collect their small pay.
It would almost be comical if it were not so cruel. Because the question lingers: were we not here before? Did these same voices not ask for patience when they held the reins? Did they not tell us that the rot was inherited, that repair would take time? Yet while patience was preached, comfort was consumed. While citizens adjusted to hardship, those in charge adjusted their lifestyles upward.
Now, out of power, they perform humility.
They blend into the crowd, speaking as though they have always stood there. They speak of hunger as if it were new to them. They speak of struggle as if they did not once design the conditions that made it inevitable. They present themselves as alternatives, as though memory in this country is short and selective. It is not.
There is also another disturbing transformation that deserves attention. The journalist who once wrote with fire, who once held power to account with sharp, unflinching words, suddenly crosses over. A new title is handed to them. Spokesperson. Special adviser. And just like that, the pen changes direction. The same voice that once demanded answers now fabricate them. The critic becomes the shield. The watchdog becomes something else entirely.
You begin to wonder where conviction ends and opportunity begins.
Trust becomes a difficult thing to hold. Because if those who claim to fight for the people can so easily change posture when proximity to power is offered, then what exactly are we dealing with? Is it ideology? Is it belief? Or is it simply positioning, a waiting room for relevance?
Meanwhile, the country drifts through a dangerous season. Insecurity spreads, but we are told to endure. Economic pressure tightens, but we are told to be patient. Each crisis is framed as temporary, manageable, under control. Yet the ground tells a different story. Tension building, and chaos running deep.
What we are seeing now may feel scaring, but it may only be the beginning. History has a way of warning those who care to listen. People can be stretched, misled, and manipulated for only so long. There comes a point when the quiet acceptance fractures and catches everyone off guard.
There is a saying about a goat pushed to the wall. It does not negotiate in that moment. It does not calculate. It reacts.
Those who continue to treat the Nigerian people as toys pushed back and forth like a game would do well to reflect on that. Because when the line is finally crossed, the response may not resemble anything they have prepared for.
This is not a threat. It is an observation. And perhaps a warning.
Adjekuko, a public affairs analyst, wrote from Abuja. He can be contacted at padjekuko@yahoo.com.
