By Sly Edaghese
Teaser
Rivers State is not collapsing by accident. It is being offered as a sacrifice. Two men, driven by fear of irrelevance and hunger for protection, have chosen spectacle over stewardship—setting fire to a whole people’s future just to prove who kneels better before power.
There comes a point when a political tragedy degenerates into farce, and the farce mutates into a curse. Rivers State has crossed that point. What is unfolding there is not governance, not even conflict—it is ritual madness, a grotesque contest in which two men are willing to burn an entire state just to be noticed by one man sitting far away in Abuja.
This is not ambition.
This is desperation wearing designer jacket.
At the center of this inferno stand two performers who have mistaken power for immortality and loyalty for slavery. One is a former god. The other is a former servant. Both are now reduced to naked dancers in a marketplace, grinding their teeth and tearing flesh to entertain Jagaban.
The first is Nyesom Wike—once feared, once untouchable, now frantic. A man whose political identity has collapsed into noise, threats, and recycled bravado. His ministerial appointment was never a validation of statesmanship; it was a severance package for betrayal. Tinubu did not elevate Wike because he admired him—he tolerated him because he was useful. And usefulness, in politics, is key, but it has an expiry date.
Wike governed Rivers State not as a public trust but as a private estate. He did not build institutions; he built dependencies. He did not groom leaders; he bred loyalists. Before leaving office, he salted the land with his men—lawmakers, commissioners, council chairmen—so that even in absence, Rivers State would still answer to his shadow. His obsession was simple and sick: if I cannot rule it, no one else must.
Enter Siminalayi Fubara—a man selected, not tested; installed, not trusted by the people but trusted by his maker. Fubara was meant to be an invisible power in a visible office—a breathing signature, a ceremonial governor whose only real duty was obedience.
But power has a way of awakening even the most timid occupant.
Fubara wanted to act like a governor. That single desire triggered a full-scale political assassination attempt—not with bullets, but with institutions twisted into weapons. A state of emergency was declared with obscene haste. The governor was suspended like a naughty schoolboy. His budget was butchered. His local government elections were annulled and replaced with a pre-arranged outcome favorable to his tormentor. Lawmakers who defected and lost their seats by constitutional law were resurrected like political zombies and crowned legitimate.
This was not law.
This was organized humiliation.
And when degradation alone failed, Wike went further—dragging Fubara into a room to sign an agreement that belonged more to a slave plantation than a democratic republic.
One clause alone exposed the rot:
👉 Fubara must never seek a second term.
In plain language: you may warm the chair, but you will never own it.
Then came the most revealing act of all—Wike leaked the agreement himself. A man so intoxicated by dominance that he thought publicizing oppression would strengthen his grip.
That leak was not strategy; it was confession. It told Nigerians that this was never about peace, order, or party discipline—it was about absolute control over another human being.
But history has a cruel sense of humor.
While Wike strutted like a victorious warlord and his loyal lawmakers sharpened new knives, Fubara did something dangerous: he adapted. He studied power where it truly resides. He learned Tinubu’s language—the language of survival, alignment, and betrayal without apology. Then he did what Nigerian politics rewards most:
He crossed over.
Not quietly. Not shamefully. But theatrically. He defected to the APC, raised a party card numbered 001 and crowned himself leader of the party in Rivers State. He pledged to deliver the same Rivers people to Tinubu just as Wike also has pledged.
That moment was not boldness.
It was cold-blooded realism.
And in one stroke, Wike’s myth collapsed.
The once-feared enforcer became a shouting relic—touring local governments like a prophet nobody believes anymore, issuing warnings that land on deaf ears, reminding Nigerians of favors that no longer matter. He threatened APC officials, cursed betrayal, and swore eternal vengeance. But vengeance without access is just noise.
Today, the humiliation is complete.
Fubara enters rooms Wike waits outside.
Presidential aides shake hands with the new alignment.
The old king rants in press conferences, sounding increasingly like a man arguing with a locked door.
And yet, the darkest truth remains: neither of these men cares about Rivers State.
One is fighting to remain relevant.
The other is fighting to remain protected.
The people—the markets, the schools, the roads, the civil servants—are expendable extras in a drama scripted far above their heads.
Some say Tinubu designed this blood sport—unable to discard Wike outright, he simply unleashed his creation against him. Whether genius or negligence, the effect is the same: Rivers State is being eaten alive by ambition.
This is what happens when politics loses shame.
This is what happens when loyalty replaces competence.
This is what happens when leaders treat states like bargaining chips and citizens like ashes.
Two monkeys are burning the village—not to save it, not to rule it—but to prove who can scream loudest while it burns.
And Jagaban watches, hands folded.
But when the fire dies down, when the music stops, when the applause fades, there will be nothing left to govern—only ruins, regret, and two exhausted dancers staring at the ashes, finally realizing that power does not clap forever.
Sly Edaghese sent in this piece from Wisconsin, USA.
