In what appears to be Nigeria’s most dramatic “return on investment” complaint yet, a man on Thursday stormed the All Progressives Congress (APC) national secretariat in Abuja with a message as blunt as it was unsettling: reward me or kill me. The protest, captured in a now-viral video, shows the visibly distressed man holding a placard and demanding recognition for what he described as his personal sacrifices during the party’s 2023 campaign. According to him, loyalty was not just emotional, it was financial, physical, and, ultimately, total. In a country where political support often comes with expectations, some spoken, many implied the man’s outcry reads like a tragic audit of misplaced trust. His claim that he sold his house to fund campaign efforts has not been independently verified, but the symbolism is hard to ignore: a citizen liquidating stability in exchange for promised political dividends. Observers at the scene watched as the protester oscillated between anger and ...
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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