On this Democracy Day, I had intended to rest my pen. I wanted to leave the fate written on the walls of history to speak for itself. I thought perhaps the sacrifices of those who fought for democracy were enough testimony. Yet, in the final hour, a thought stirred within me, compelling me to write a message to all of us who have come together to form this sovereign nation called Nigeria. My message is particularly for those who believe that the business of Nigeria lies in the hands of a powerful few. Perhaps they are influenced by what the German sociologist Robert Michels described as the "Iron Law of Oligarchy" ,the tendency for power to concentrate in the hands of a small elite. Looking at our politics, our institutions, and our economy, one may be tempted to believe that the destiny of Nigeria is determined only by those who occupy powerful offices and influential positions. But history tells a different story. Nigeria does not belong to any president, governor, politi...
By Abioye Tosin Lawrence
Author of “Voices from the Fire: My Journey Through a Hollow Empire”
.....the watchdogs are muzzled, the unionists are buried in bureaucracy
There’s a curious irony in the corridors of power: the loudest critics of government, those who once stood at the frontlines of journalism and unionism often become its most bitter internal adversaries when handed a seat at the table.
The transition from holding the megaphone to holding office rarely unfolds as a fairytale. It is, more often, a slow disillusionment—a crucible that burns away idealism, leaving behind either cynicism or a renewed, dangerous clarity.
Why do those who once fought institutions now find themselves fighting them from within?
The answer lies in the tragic architecture of power. Journalists are trained to question, to expose, to challenge. Unionists are forged in the fires of collective resistance. Both professions require a deep moral conviction—and a suspicion of authority. Yet, when absorbed into the machinery they once opposed, they confront a brutal reality: power is not a tool easily redirected. It is a beast that demands conformity or silence.
Many enter with dreams of reform. But institutions are not built to be reformed quickly; they are built to survive. And survival often means inertia, patronage, compromise. The activist becomes an administrator. The firebrand becomes a committee chair. They are now expected to defend the very systems they once condemned. Some do so gladly. Others choke on the hypocrisy.
This choking manifests in bitterness. Bitterness at colleagues who sold out long ago. Bitterness at being used as a symbol of “inclusion” or “diversity” without real influence. Bitterness at their own voices, now muted by protocol and political calculation. And worst of all—bitterness at the realization that proximity to power does not translate to power itself.
This is not unique to any nation, but in postcolonial societies—where institutions remain deeply colonial in their design—the betrayal feels more intimate. The watchdogs are muzzled. The unionists are buried in bureaucracy. Their fire is either extinguished or reignited in protest once again—this time from within.
And so, the cycle repeats. Some resign. Some rebel. Some rot in silence. But the few who speak out again—wounded, wiser, but still defiant—become something more dangerous: not mere critics, but living witnesses to the system’s true nature.
They remind us that power doesn’t just corrupt. It reveals?
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