In the grand theatre of Nigerian politics, Nyesom Wike never misses his cue. His latest press conference, staged with all the theatrical pomp of a Roman emperor granting audience to trembling subjects, was no exception. Perched loftily above the journalists—who gazed up as if awaiting crumbs of imperial wisdom—Wike radiated Abuja-Emperor energy. If he’d been handed a sceptre and toga, nobody would have blinked.
According to His Imperial Magnificence, the entire Yerima brouhaha could have been avoided if only the former Navy chief had obeyed due process. And what is due process in Wike’s Abuja? Simple: high-value individuals must call His Majesty personally. That’s the whole process. No petitions. No files. No administrative chain. Just “Call me, my friend!” He even reeled off the roll call of elites who had dutifully kissed the ring.
We are still waiting for the version of the process designed for the masses. Perhaps smoke signals? A burnt offering? A QR code leading to a queue number in purgatory?
The truth is there is no due process—there is only Wike’s process. And Wike’s process runs on premium-grade political blackmail and the intoxicating belief that he alone is the custodian of justice, wisdom and thunderbolt. He dispenses favour in private and weaponises the secrecy in public. He intimidates in daylight and demands obedience at dusk. It is governance by ambush.
Wike’s operating model is straightforward: he is the judge, jury, bailiff, police, registrar, witness and executioner. And when he’s done steamrolling you, he casually suggests you “go to court.” He says this with the knowing smirk of a man who has already pre-corrupted the route from registry to appeal, and placed political landmines around every judge with a conscience. Your matter, as he well knows, is dead before it even files an affidavit.
He ruled Rivers State with this same iron fist dipped in palm oil, and despite exiting office, he still wrestles influence there like a retired wrestler who refuses to leave the ring. In Abuja, he has simply expanded the performance.
Nothing illustrates Wike’s worldview better than his legendary land allocation doctrine:
Cancel your Certificate of Occupancy, reallocate your land to his associates and family, then declare boldly, “Should I give it to my enemies?”
This is the Wike Constitution in one sentence—arbitrary power justified by vibes.
He demands everyone else follow due process while treating due process itself like an irritating street hawker blocking his convoy. He gaslights the public with a confidence only possible from someone who wears hypocrisy like perfume. Everything he accuses others of doing, he is already doing at an industrial scale. He is Machiavelli with a megaphone. A rogue with an administrative seal.
But Wike did not create this environment alone. His political swagger thrives because President Tinubu recognises a kindred spirit. He sees in Wike a reflection of his own Lagos-era style—strongman governance sprinkled with selective accountability and imperial favour.
And therein lies their combined political misfortune: two emperors cannot rule one Rome. Abuja may yet become the battlefield where both their excesses collide and cancel each other out.
When men proclaim themselves the law, history has a way of reminding them they are merely characters—loud, dramatic, overconfident characters—passing through a much bigger script.
Centre for Nigeria Progress 