“We do not inherit the earth from our ancestors; we borrow it from our children.” – Often attributed to a Native American proverb, though its precise origin remains unclear. This above saying carries a weight that cannot be ignored. Power, like the earth itself, is not something to be hoarded or owned forever. It is merely entrusted to each generation for safekeeping. But in Nigeria, power is rarely treated as a trust. Instead, it is clutched with desperation, fought over like a prized relic, and passed around like an inheritance that entitled heirs refuse to share. It is contested, wrestled over like a sacred staff in the hands of rival chiefs. Nowhere is this struggle more relentless than in Rivers State, where political battles are not just contests of ambition but echoes of a deeper historical pattern. In this place, the past is never truly past.
A crisis has now engulfed this oil-rich state, forcing President Bola Ahmed Tinubu to invoke Section 305 of the 1999 Constitution. The declaration of a state of emergency has suspended the governor, deputy, and lawmakers, replacing them with an appointed administrator for six months. The move has sent shockwaves through the nation, reviving memories of 2006 when President Olusegun Obasanjo removed Ayo Fayose from office in Ekiti under similar circumstances. At the time, many saw it as a display of unchecked power, the reflex of a man whose military instincts had never quite faded. A leader who still believed governance was about issuing orders and expecting absolute obedience.
But Tinubu is not Obasanjo. His political evolution is one of the most fascinating in Nigeria’s history. From his days as a senator in the doomed Third Republic to his exile during Abacha’s dictatorship, Tinubu built his legacy on the foundations of resistance. He was a NADECO chieftain, a pro-democracy crusader, a thorn in the side of military rule. He fought against tyranny with such fervor that one might have expected him to be democracy’s fiercest defender today. Yet here he stands, wielding the same emergency powers he once condemned. So the question must be asked: Is this the pragmatism of leadership, or are we witnessing history mocking us in real time?
To understand Rivers State, one must go beyond the calculations of politicians and into the soul of its people. This is not just another state. This is a region where history is carried in song, where culture and politics are inseparable, where power is never surrendered without a fight. The people of Rivers State—the Ijaw, Ikwerre, Ogoni, Kalabari, and others—have never been ones to sit back and accept their fate.
Isaac Adaka Boro, a young radical with a fire in his bones, knew this truth too well. In 1966, he led a twelve-day revolution, declaring the Niger Delta Republic in defiance of a system that treated his people as dispensable. The rebellion was crushed, but Boro’s spirit never died. Decades later, Ken Saro-Wiwa would rise, taking up a different fight—this time against the environmental destruction of Ogoni land. The government silenced him, too, hanging him as a warning to others. And even before these men, the Kalabari, Opobo, and Bonny Kingdoms resisted external domination, fiercely protecting their trade routes and political structures. This is the backdrop against which Siminalayi Fubara emerged as governor.
Like many before him, he was handpicked by a political godfather. Nyesom Wike, a man who understands politics like a fisherman understands the tides, placed him there. But Fubara, perhaps feeling the weight of his ancestors’ defiance, refused to remain a puppet. His approval of the demolition of the Rivers State House of Assembly complex, officially justified as a renovation following a fire was widely seen as a declaration of political independence, a clear signal that he would not be controlled. But in Nigeria, godfathers do not take disobedience lightly.
Ayo Fayose, who once found himself in a similar storm, saw what was coming. Like a veteran soldier cautioning a young recruit before battle, he warned Fubara. But power has a way of making men believe they can outmaneuver history. Perhaps Fubara thought his case was different.
At this point, Rivers people may need to visit Ekiti for past questions. Because if there’s one place that has seen this script before, it is Ekiti. Maybe there is even a crash course on “How to Survive Political Betrayal 101.” The only problem is, in Nigeria, political textbooks are updated every election cycle.
Legally, however, the situation raises unsettling questions. Section 305 of the Constitution allows for a state of emergency when there is war, public disorder, or a complete breakdown of governance. But crucially, it also requires the consent of the governor. In this case, Fubara did not provide that consent. If laws can be bent to serve political convenience, then what truly anchors democracy? If a governor’s mandate can be erased with the stroke of a pen, are we even practicing democracy, or are we just dressing up authoritarianism in fine English?
History has always warned us about the fragility of democracy. Aristotle observed that democracies are prone to decay into oligarchies when a small group seizes power under the pretext of safeguarding the system. Similarly, in The Republic, Plato argued that an excess of democracy can give rise to tyranny, as a leader consolidates power under the guise of restoring order. Are we watching this theory play out before us? Is Nigerian democracy merely a stage where actors change, but the script remains the same?
The paradox of the Niger Delta is that it is both powerful and powerless. Rivers State, home to vast oil wealth, should be among the richest places in Africa. Yet, like the tides of the Bonny River, its riches flow outward, leaving behind a landscape of poverty, neglect, and endless political conflict. This is why power struggles in Rivers are never just about politics. They are battles over who controls the tap of Nigeria’s economic lifeblood. The stakes here are not just about who sits in Government House. They are existential.
And the culture of Rivers people reflects this complexity. Their traditions are deeply tied to water, trade, and resilience. The masquerades of the Kalabari, the regatta festivals, the stories of the Ijaw—all speak of a people who have mastered both survival and celebration. They know that power, like the river, is in constant motion. They know that nothing remains still for long. It is perhaps why their politics is never dull. To be Rivers-born is to understand that the struggle is never-ending, but neither is the will to fight.
So we must ask: If today, a governor can be undone by political machinations, what does that mean for the future? If a state’s leadership can be swept away on a constitutional technicality, who really rules? Are our elected officials truly in charge, or are we merely watching an elaborate puppet show?
The words so often attributed to Native American wisdom return to us, demanding an answer: “We do not inherit the earth from our ancestors; we borrow it from our children.” If that is true, then what are we leaving behind for them? A democracy that can be erased overnight? A system where elections mean nothing if power is decided behind closed doors?
History is watching. The spirits of Boro, Saro-Wiwa, and all who fought for justice whisper their warnings. If we do not resist the erosion of democracy now, what will be left for those who come after us? Nigeria has seen this play before, yet we seem condemned to repeat it. And if we are merely borrowers of this system, then maybe it is time to decide whether we want to return it in better condition than we found it, or let it crumble in our hands like a biscuit soaked in too much tea.
