by Mohammed Bello Doka
When a man is fighting his party, his governor, the ruling party, and the party chairman all at once, is he still powerful—or already politically injured and just bleeding loudly in public?
Welcome to Sarcastic Sunday with Mohammed Bello Doka, where we examine Nigeria’s political gymnastics sarcastically, because doing otherwise will choke us to death. Here, we ask the questions polite analysts are too careful to ask, and we laugh—not because it is funny, but because crying has become exhausting.
Once upon a recent time, Nyesom Wike was not just a politician; he was a political weather system. Governors shook. Party leaders recalculated. Enemies whispered. Allies trembled. Rivers State was his fortress, his factory, his proof of relevance. Today, the same man appears to be standing alone at the centre of multiple political wars, shouting in all directions—and discovering that power is loudest when it is slipping away.
Let us count carefully. Wike is at war with his former party, the PDP, a party he openly defied, embarrassed, and politically gutted—only to discover that parties, like abandoned spouses, eventually move on. He is at war with his own political son, Siminalayi Fubara, the governor he installed, nurtured, and expected to control. He is now at war with the APC leadership in Rivers State. And to complete the circle, he is at war—directly or indirectly—with the APC national leadership that has formally chosen Fubara over him.
Pause here and ask the uncomfortable question: when everyone around you has become your enemy, is it because you are principled—or because you are isolated?
Fubara’s defection to the APC did not merely change party colours; it changed ownership of power. In Nigerian politics, once a sitting governor crosses into the ruling party, gravity shifts instantly. Structures realign. Silence becomes louder than insults. And when the APC National Chairman, Nentawe Yilwatda, publicly recognised Fubara as the leader of the APC in Rivers State, ambiguity died a public death. That single declaration did what a thousand press statements could not: it told Wike, politely but firmly, that the party had chosen institutional power over historical muscle.
So what, exactly, is Wike fighting for now? A state he no longer controls? A party that no longer needs him? A ruling party that has chosen his rival? Or a presidency that values obedience over bravado?
This brings us, inevitably, to Bola Ahmed Tinubu—the quiet centre of the storm. Tinubu does not fight loud battles. He watches. He waits. He aligns with power that can deliver votes, stability, and hierarchy. He does not like strongmen who negotiate parity. He prefers loyalists who understand command. Across Nigeria, a familiar pattern has emerged: governors break from godfathers, not to become independent thinkers, but to become presidential men. Not free agents—Tinubu boys.
And here lies Wike’s dilemma. He is not a boy. He is a strongman. Loud. Independent. Confrontational. Useful during elections. Inconvenient during consolidation. In Tinubu’s political universe, strongmen do not retire gracefully; they are quietly bypassed.
So ask the germane questions Nigerians deserve to hear aloud:
When Rivers slipped from Wike’s grip, did his usefulness to the centre expire?
When Fubara became both governor and APC leader, did Wike become surplus to requirements?
When power moved upward to Abuja, did Wike fail to move with it?
And when a politician begins to fight everyone at once, is he still feared—or simply being ignored?
There is also the darker Nigerian question, the one whispered in corridors and written only in satire: when powerful men suddenly disappear from relevance, do they resign on “health grounds,” or does political irrelevance simply arrive disguised as illness?
No one is saying Wike is finished. Nigerian politics is not that neat. But it is fair—indeed necessary—to ask whether he is now exposed, isolated, and vulnerable in a system that punishes parallel power centres. In politics, abandonment is never announced. It is noticed—slowly, painfully, and too late.
So the question remains, sharper than ever: now that Wike is at war with his party, his governor, the ruling party, and its national leadership, is the president still watching—or has he already moved on?
Mohammed Bello Doka can be reached via [email protected]
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