By TAYO MABEWEJE
In the grand theatre of Nigerian politics, where actors rise and fall like waves on a tempestuous sea, Governor Siminalayi Fubara strode onto the stage, not as a self-made hero but as a carefully groomed understudy.
Handpicked, dressed in borrowed robes, and handed the script of governance, he had one job—to play his role with wisdom. Instead, he tore up the script, mistook the murmurs of sycophants for the voice of destiny, and embarked on a reckless solo performance. The audience—history—watched in stunned silence.
Fubara’s ascent to power was the stuff of political fairy tales, but even in fairy tales, wisdom is the currency of survival. Like a man who inherits a thriving farm but insists on uprooting every tree to plant his own seedlings, he chose to rebel against the very foundation that secured his rise.
The Rivers State House of Assembly, a robust tree with deep political roots, refused to be felled. But rather than pruning and nurturing alliances, he picked up the axe. And so began his undoing.
When 27 lawmakers crossed the political aisle, Fubara, rather than outmaneuvering them with wit, responded with the grace of a bull in a china shop. He demolished the Assembly complex as if wrecking the building could erase the lawmakers’ legitimacy. He convened a four-man legislature, mistaking a puppet show for governance. He mistook silence for consent, forgetting that the walls of power have ears and that patience is the true weapon of political warriors.
Surrounded by flatterers who mistook chaos for courage, he was led deeper into the political wilderness. They clapped as he burned bridges, assuring him that smoke was the sign of victory. They cheered as he dismissed seasoned power brokers, forgetting that in Nigerian politics, loyalty is not gifted—it is negotiated. They convinced him that sheer defiance could stand where strategy was needed.
Then came the Supreme Court’s ruling—the gavel of reality crashing down. The judges peeled away the illusions, exposing Fubara’s actions as “brigandage and dictatorship.”
His supposed enemies returned, not as ghosts but as resurrected lawmakers, wielding the very power he had sought to snuff out. His budget, his decisions, and his government now dangled like a puppet on a string, controlled by the very Assembly he tried to silence.
To compound his troubles, the court also nullified his local government elections, proving that even in a kingdom of illusions, the law remains king. And as the final stroke, the Central Bank was ordered to halt funds to Rivers State until a legitimate budget was approved. A governor once flush with power now finds himself leading an administration on a financial ventilator.
Fubara’s tale is not one of betrayal by enemies but of self-inflicted wounds. He mistook thunder for applause, rebellion for independence, and flattery for wisdom. He had the opportunity to be a statesman, to grow into his role, to balance loyalty with ambition, but he threw it all away for the fleeting pleasure of defiance. Now, he stands as a cautionary tale in the book of Nigerian politics—a man who reached for the crown but lost his grip on reality.
In the end, politics is a chess game, not a boxing ring. Fubara entered the arena swinging, but the game was never about strength; it was about moves. And he, unfortunately, played his hand too soon, too loudly, and all wrong.
