The air inside the hall was thick with expectation. Learned silks in flowing robes, young wigs eager to impress, and the weight of tradition hung over the Nigerian Bar Association’s 2025 Conference. It was meant to be another gathering where speeches would be given, pleasantries exchanged, and resolutions filed away into dusty archives. But then, like a stone thrown into a still pond, Oby Ezekwesili rose, and the hall shifted.

Her words did not flatter. They struck with the urgency of a fire alarm in the middle of the night. She asked the lawyers, the guardians of the nation’s constitution, to look into the mirror. Not to admire the silk of their gowns or the polish of their titles, but to examine the log in their own eyes. For too long, she said, they had been arbiters who excused their own failings while pointing at the speck in others.

It was not a comfortable charge. Lawyers shifted in their seats. Some frowned. Some applauded. But the truth was laid bare: the Nigerian legal profession, once the conscience of society, has too often dropped the ball.

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Think of the 2023 elections, where brazen infractions were documented, yet the courts delivered rulings that raised more questions than answers. Or the endless adjournments that have turned justice into a waiting game, eroding faith in the very system lawyers swore to uphold. Think of the silence of many senior advocates when judicial corruption is whispered about, as though the temple of justice can stand while its pillars are rotting.

Ezekwesili’s charge was not merely to critique. It was a trumpet call. She asked them to confront the truth that Nigeria is where it is today because those who should have drawn the lines of accountability too often chose convenience over courage. Lawyers were once in the vanguard of change: the Gani Fawehinmis, the Alao-Aka-Bashors, the Akinola Agudases. Their names are etched in our collective memory because they fought when it was costly. But where is that spirit now?

The metaphor of the mirror is haunting. For what is a mirror if not a silent witness? It does not flatter or deceive. It simply reflects. The Nigerian Bar Association cannot continue as though it is an observer of the nation’s decline; it must admit that its silence, its compromises, its complicity have helped fertilize the soil of Nigeria’s failures.

And yet, in Ezekwesili’s provocation lies a possibility. To look into the mirror is not merely to mourn, but to begin again. To reclaim the nobility of the law not as a profession of prestige, but as a calling of service. To recover the conscience that once made lawyers the voice of the voiceless.

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This is not about throwing stones at others. It is about removing the log in one’s own eye. For until the Bar confronts itself, it cannot hope to help Nigeria see clearly.

The question then lingers beyond the echoes of that hall: when next the mirror is held up, will the Nigerian Bar Association be able to stand and say, “We did not look away”?

By Suyi Ayodele

Rome’s history offers timeless lessons for all nations to jealously guard their freedom. Consider one of its emperors, Caligula: Born Gaius Caesar Augustus Germanicus, he reigned from AD 37 to AD 41. Known as Little Boots, Caligula’s four-year reign epitomised tyranny.

Albert Camus captured his ruthlessness in his 1938 play “Caligula”, while Stephen Dando-Collins’ 2019 book, “Caligula: The Mad Emperor of Rome”, and Kate Zusmann’s article, “Roman Emperor Caligula: The Mad Tyrant of Rome”, give vivid portraits of his excesses.

Zusmann wrote: “Caligula’s reign lasted only four years, but his cruel and unpredictable behavior earned him a reputation as one of the most notorious emperors in Roman history… He engaged in construction projects to emphasize his power and divine status. He humiliated senators by forcing them into menial tasks or public spectacles.”

Though he initially presented himself as a noble leader, he soon became Rome’s worst emperor. He wielded taxation and reckless spending as weapons of control.

One account records: “Caligula squandered 2.7 billion sesterces in his first year and addressed the deficit by confiscating estates, levying fines, and even imposing the death penalty to seize wealth. He crippled the Roman Senate in the process.”

Freed from opposition, he built an extravagant bridge at Baiae and introduced crippling taxes on everything, taverns, artisans, slaves, food, litigation, weddings, even prostitutes and their pimps. Taxes doubled in just four years, leaving ordinary Romans broken and resentful.

Is this not eerily familiar? In some places in Nigeria today, task force agents harass even mourners transporting corpses. They must pay the State.

Caligula’s Rome is a warning. When opposition disappears, tyranny grows unchecked, and taxation becomes limitless. Nigeria is already on that path.

Read this report: “It was gathered that governors on the shopping list of the APC include the Enugu State governor, Peter Ndubuisi Mbah, Bayelsa State governor, Douye Diri, Plateau State governor, Caleb Muftwang and the Zamfara State governor, Alhaji Dauda Lawal.”

That was how the Nigerian Tribune concluded its lead story on page five of its Monday, August 25, 2025, edition, titled: “Tension grips PDP leaders as APC targets more govs.” Two riders followed: “South-East, South-South, North-Central govs on shopping list” and “Tinubu to receive another PDP gov on arrival.”

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An average student of Nigeria’s political history should be deeply troubled by this report. The concern is not just the well-known fact that Nigeria’s political elite rarely show fidelity to principles, loyalty, or decency, but rather the imminent danger this trend poses to the survival of democracy and to the ordinary masses.

We must ask ourselves: what awaits the common man if Nigeria slides into a one-party state? Can the current wielder of power – the architect of this emerging no-opposition order – truly manage such a system? If today, under the pretense of multiparty democracy, impunity has already reached its peak, what happens when there is no one left to challenge those in power?

History warns us that we are about to repeat our mistakes. Nigeria has a peculiar habit of forgetting her sordid past. Some call it resilience; I disagree. What we parade as resilience is actually a battered psyche. Nigerians have been beaten into submission by those who weaponized poverty. With crumbs thrown here and there, leaders get away with political robbery. We have been conquered.

The sages warned us that thunder must not be allowed to strike twice in the same place. Their reasoning was simple: if bad history repeats itself, its second coming will be catastrophic – so tragic that no one will have the words to describe it.

That Nigeria is gradually sliding into a one-party state should raise an alarm. Euphemism has no place here. A one-party Nigeria under President Bola Ahmed Tinubu is an invitation to disaster. The consequences will not stop with the opposition; even those within the president’s inner circle will eventually taste the venom. Tyrants spare no one—not even their favourites. We are headed down that perilous road.

Make no mistake: a one-party state will kill this democracy. It has happened before—not once, but twice. Some of us lived through it, others read about it. Nigeria lost two republics because those in power chose tyranny and crushed opposition.

The First Republic collapsed when the ruling Northern People’s Congress (NPC) attempted to monopolise political power. It formed alliances, coerced defections, and silenced dissent. Opposition leaders were detained on trumped-up charges. Resistance sparked the violent Operation Wetie in Western Nigeria in 1962. By January 15, 1966, the First Republic was dead.

What followed were the January and July 1966 coups, and then a 30-month civil war that consumed over two million lives. Yet we learnt nothing. When the chance came again in 1979, we squandered it.

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By mid-1982, the ruling National Party of Nigeria (NPN) had perfected its plan to decimate opposition. It swallowed the PRP in Kano and Kaduna, captured the NPP in old Anambra, and went after the Unity Party of Nigeria (UPN). Oyo and Bendel fell to its onslaught, while only Ondo resisted—and that resistance produced bloodshed. By December 1983, the Second Republic collapsed, swept away by the military coup of Major-General Muhammadu Buhari. For the next 16 years, Nigeria was under the jackboot.

Whichever way we spin it, the truth is clear: the destruction of opposition in both the First and Second Republics laid the foundation for their collapse.

Those who defend the current defections as freedom of association miss the point. We are not disputing that right. What we warn against is the danger of acquiescing while political and economic power concentrate in the hands of one man. As Aesop warned: “Those who voluntarily put power into the hands of a tyrant must not wonder if it be at last turned against themselves.”

Those who think they can collaborate with the ruling party, pledging loyalty in opposition but serving power in secret, should think again. When tyranny consumes a nation, no one is spared. As the proverb goes, when heaven falls, it falls on everyone; the rain has no enemy.

Caligula reigned until his own guards turned on him. Tyranny and rebellion are monozygotic twins. Let today’s plotters of a one-party Nigeria take note.

Steven Levitsky and Daniel Ziblatt, in “How Democracies Die” (2018), explain it best: democracies rarely collapse through external invasion. They are destroyed from within, through the slow erosion of norms and the ambitions of authoritarian leaders. Nigeria is walking that path again.

Chude Jideonwo and Adebola Williams, in How to Win Elections in Africa (2017), observe that political parties in Nigeria are not built on coherent ideology but on opportunism. The APC, they argue, never stood on any deep philosophy; it merely capitalized on the weaknesses of the PDP. That explains why even serving PDP governors are defecting in droves to join it. But what exactly is the attraction? To answer that, let us revisit one of our old moonlight tales.

Long ago, when animals behaved like humans, Ikún, the deaf squirrel, desired to live as long as mortals. It went to a diviner to seek the Oracle’s blessing.

The divination was swift and stern: for Ikún to live long, it must avoid anything sweet that came from the enemy.

Ikún protested. Why should it shun sweet things when everyone knew it delighted in them?

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The Oracle replied with finality: What is sweet kills faster than anything else.

Ikún left, troubled. It wondered who its enemy could be. The only one that came to mind was the groundnut farmer, whose produce it relished. Resolving to obey the warning, Ikún avoided the groundnut farm.

The farmer soon noticed that Ikún no longer raided his crops. Suspicious, he tried several tricks. He attempted to smoke Ikún out of its burrow, but failed—for as elders say, òrò burúkú kii ká ikún mó’lé (misfortune never meets the squirrel at home). He tried hunting it at night, but that too failed—for ikún kii jé l’óru (the squirrel never ventures out at night).

At last, the farmer set a trap, using ripe banana as bait. The fruit was carefully placed over the blade, waiting to spring at the slightest tug.

Not long after, Ikún wandered by and spotted the banana. Overjoyed, it rushed forward. Banana was a delicacy, and its sweetness irresistible. Ikún took a bite, wagged its tail, and forgot all about the Oracle’s warning. It bit again, wagged its tail, and then tried to carry the whole banana away.

In a flash, the trap snapped. Ikún was caught between the jaws of death. Too late, it realised the truth: the sweet gift from the enemy was a lure to destruction. With its dying breath, it remembered the Oracle’s words.

Our elders, who preserved this tale, summed it up in the saying: ikun ńjẹ ògèdè, ikún ńrè’dí; ikún ò mọ̀ pé ohun tó dùn mà únpa ènìyàn (the squirrel wags its tail while eating banana, not knowing that what is sweet is what kills a man).

And that, precisely, is what the defecting governors are doing today. The banana from the ruling APC is sweet, but beneath its sweetness lies a deadly trap.