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 ...
Lost Microphone: The Old Guards Sat Back with Popcorn as the ‘Revolution’ Live-Streamed Its Own Collapse - Abioye Tosin Lawrence
_Presidential dreams launched on Facebook, collapse under comment section_
In a plot twist worthy of a Nollywood political thriller, the same youth who once blocked toll gates and screamed “Sòrò Sókè!” have now gone mute, not because they lost their voice, but because they misplaced the microphone somewhere between ego and electoral ambition.
Meanwhile, Nigeria’s old political elites, the grandmasters of patapata things, are lounging in their agbadas, sipping kunu, and watching from their recliners like seasoned Big Brother Naija viewers:
“Who will self-destruct next?”
“Ah! Sowore has clashed with Peter Obi again? E sweet me!”
Once upon a time, the streets echoed with chants. Today, they echo with press releases. Aisha joined a party. Sowore founded one. Another activist formed a WhatsApp group. Yet another built a manifesto so thick it could double as a bulletproof vest, but only for shooting ideas in the foot.
The youth were ready to lead, but forgot to pick a leader. They brought placards to a chess game. The elders, meanwhile, just adjusted their caps and whispered:
“Let them cook…”
And cook, they did, burning coalitions like Jollof rice on high heat.
Every week, a new “third force” emerges, usually with 5 members, 2 Twitter accounts, and zero polling units. Unity meetings end with walkouts. Strategy sessions turn into Instagram lives. Presidential dreams get launched on Facebook, and collapse under the comment section.
At this point, even the grandpa in the villa is saying,
“Ah, these ones will tire themselves out. Let’s just wait till they start calling each other cabals.”
And some already have.
2027 is approaching like a keke on a bumpy road. The old politicians already know the routes. They’ve got their delegates, and deals. The youth? They're still asking if PVC registration has reopened on X (formerly Twitter).
It’s a tragicomedy of potential:
So much fire, but no fireplace.
So many voices, but no microphone.
So much urgency, but no structure.
But hope isn’t dead. It’s just… buffering.
Until then, the elders will continue their spectator sport, tuning in every election season for Season 5 of:
“Protesters Without Plan: The Self-Sabotage Chronicles.”
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