In advanced democracies, they speak reverently of “checks and balances.” In Nigeria, we have “nods and allowances.”
Our constitutional architecture, on paper, is a thing of beauty. It is arranged like a well-laid dining table: Executive here, Legislature there, Judiciary presiding like a stern aunt. In practice, however, the aunt has joined the Executive for brunch, and the Legislature is asking if it may have seconds.
The doctrine of separation of powers has evolved into the doctrine of coordinated enthusiasm.
The Legislature: Now Showing Daily at the Executive Theatre
The National Assembly was designed to check the Executive. Instead, it now checks its calendar to ensure it does not clash with Executive priorities.
Motions are passed with the speed of a WhatsApp forward. Oversight hearings resemble thanksgiving services. Appropriation debates have become ceremonial readings of numbers that appear to have been calculated by vibes.
One almost misses the old days when lawmakers at least pretended to be difficult.
The Judiciary: Interpreter of Elastic Reality
The Judiciary, constitutionally the last hope of the common man, has developed impressive flexibility. Constitutional provisions now appear to be written in elastic ink.
Interlocutory injunctions sprout like mushrooms after rain. Political disputes are resolved with jurisprudential creativity that would impress even the authors of magical realism.
In theory, the courts restrain excess. In practice, they sometimes provide it with certified true copies.
The Executive: Tin Gods and Titanium Convoys
And then there is the Executive — a pantheon of tin gods with titanium egos.
Governance, for some, is a lifestyle brand. The convoy grows longer, the sirens louder, the entourage more biblical in proportion. If Moses had such logistics, he would have reached the Promised Land in 48 hours.
Infrastructure decays with admirable consistency. Roads resemble archaeological sites. Power supply operates on a rotational philosophy known only to the National Grid and divine providence. Hospitals improvise. Schools persevere. The people endure.
The population, poor and fatigued, has perfected the art of survival. Poverty has been weaponised so effectively that hope now requires pre-approval.
Neo-Colonialism: The Ironic Rescue Plan
Which brings us to an uncomfortable thought: perhaps external supervision is the new patriotism.
Once upon a time, we shouted about sovereignty. Now we may need donor countries to insist that convoys be shorter than the Ten Commandments.
Remember when funds looted under Sani Abacha were repatriated on the condition that they fund specific infrastructure projects? It was the rare moment when stolen money returned home with stricter parenting than it had originally enjoyed.
Perhaps that model should be extended.
Imagine this:
Repatriated funds tied to verifiable projects with international monitoring. Budgets benchmarked against global public financial management standards. Errant officials politely informed that foreign safe havens are closed for renovation. Security architecture audited externally — not because we enjoy it, but because we require adult supervision.
We already see hints of this. When the United States begins auditing elements of a nation’s security framework, it is less a compliment and more a performance review.
And then there is the possibility — whispered but not entirely absurd — that the International Criminal Court might become the de facto referee of certain criminal justice matters, because domestic capacity has been stretched beyond coherence.
It is an irony worthy of satire: the country that insisted on non-interference may now need structured interference to function.
Sovereignty, But With Conditions
Of course, this is not a call for recolonisation. It is a lament that internal guardrails have become decorative.
Sovereignty should mean competence. Independence should imply institutional maturity. Instead, we have cultivated a system where:
The Legislature applauds. The Judiciary rationalises. The Executive maximises. The People improvise.
If donor countries must now insist on shorter convoys, audited budgets, conditional funds, and internationally monitored justice mechanisms just to ensure that public money builds public goods, then perhaps the satire has written itself.
A republic should not require babysitters.
But when the tin gods grow louder, the convoys longer, and the potholes deeper, one begins to wonder whether external auditors might do what internal patriots have been too compromised, too exhausted, or too co-opted to accomplish.
And so we arrive at the paradox of modern Nigeria:
We are independent.
We are sovereign.
We are constitutional.
We are also supervised.
If this is what it takes to bring sanity, then perhaps the most radical act of patriotism is not waving the flag — but insisting that someone, somewhere, finally reads the Constitution out loud and means it.
Centre for Nigeria Progress 