By Lasisi Olagunju

For ten clean years (November 2015 to 7 October, 2025), Mahmud Yakubu was the chairman of Nigeria’s Independent National Electoral Commission (INEC). On 29 November, 2025, fifty three days after he left that impartial office, he became a beneficiary of the election he refereed; he was made an ambassador by the president.

Yakubu is not a stand-alone actor. From July 2017 to December 2021, Nentawe Goshwe Yilwatda was the Resident Electoral Commissioner in Benue State. On 24 October, 2024 he became a minister of the Federal Republic. The man’s blessing blossomed on 24 July, 2025 when he was appointed the National Chairman of the All Progressives Congress.

Yakubu and Yilwatda are teachers. They are getting their rewards here and now on earth; not in heaven. There should be many more like them inside and outside INEC. The electoral commission is now well and properly fixed inside the chambers of power.

We wait to see who will match their regiment: INEC and politicians of all hues, gunners and guns and the court mass into a mega-camp. Has this happened? Has it not? You still wonder why every governor, every senator, their mistresses and concubines and paramours take their tent into the IDP camp named APC? Samuel Butler was right: Self-preservation is the first law of nature.

“Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night, and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt.” It is no longer necessary for the ruling caste to scheme, manoeuvre and listen to the above counsel of Sun Tzu and his ‘The Art of War.’ Resistance is dead, opposition is buried, so why should the president’s battle plans be made again under the cover of darkness?

President Bola Tinubu does not pretend. Piss into the stream if you can; defecate into the pond. It is the lily-livered who asks toad and frog and their cousins to close their eyes before doing so. This is where we are.

But, this piece is not about those defecators. This is about the hollow men in Nigeria’s hallowed chambers. This is on our senatorial children of food; large, privileged boars in our Animal Farm.

Child of food is omo oúnje in Yoruba. When you take your seat at every dining table; when you become uncontrollable or overly excited at the sight of food, you are omo oúnje, and you get the label. And, you do not have to be a child to be so called. Adults who forget themselves when food appears are children.

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Senate president, Godswill Akpabio, read a letter to his colleagues last week, a dinner invitation from the First Lady to the Senate. The ‘overly excited’ Senate President concluded the reading on a note of self-revelation. He said: “This is like an invitation by a mother to her children. I wish you sumptuous meal and fruitful discussion…We all meet there on Friday.”

Our senators are children. Now we know.

I did not hear any of the other 108 senators say their president was wrong; that an arm of government paid and pampered to vet and check the acts and actions of the executive should not be found snoring in the kitchen of the Villa. They all love their status as nurslings; they flaunt it. Shame on the enemy who are jealous of the chummy, yummy relationship between Nigeria’s lawmakers and the president’s kitchen.

It is most likely that the First Lady rejoices at having almighty senators, big men and women of power, as her children. The Villa is a shrine; it exists to be worshipped by big men, small men; sycophantic sucklings. The air that keeps the bees there humming is flattery; its synonym is unctuous praise.

Flattery, my dictionary says, is “excessive and insincere praise, given especially to further one’s own interests.” That is the ‘gold’ coin which Akpabio offered the First Lady.

The author of ‘Maximes’ and ‘Memoirs’, François de la Rochefoucauld (1613 –1680) has a deprecating line: “Flattery is a counterfeit money which, but for vanity, would have no circulation.” No one should tell anyone that accepting and spending fake, adulatory notes have consequences. “He that loves to be flattered is worthy of the flatterer” (Timon in Shakespeare’s ‘Timon of Athens’, Act I, Scene 1).

Those who enjoy flattery deserve the consequences of sycophancy. That is what Timon says in the above quote, in bitterness and in regret.

Why would adults we invested with legislative powers look at themselves and say they are children of the president’s wife? And what are the implications for the recipient of the (un)solicited sycophancy?

One morning, a fox was walking through the woods looking for something to eat. He looked up and saw a crow sitting on a tree branch. He had seen many crows before, but this one caught his eye because she was holding a piece of cheese in her beak.

The fox immediately thought, “Perfect! That cheese will make a great breakfast.”

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He walked to the base of the tree and looked up at the crow. “Good morning, beautiful bird!” he called out.

The crow looked down at him with suspicion. She didn’t trust him, so she kept her beak tightly closed around the cheese and said nothing.

The fox continued, pretending to admire her. “What a lovely bird you are! Your feathers shine, your body is perfect, and your wings are wonderful. A bird as perfect as you must also have a beautiful voice. If you would just sing one song, I would gladly call you the Queen of all Birds.”

Hearing all these sweet compliments, the crow forgot her doubts, and even forgot the cheese she was holding. Wanting to prove she deserved the praise, she opened her beak to let out her loudest caw.

Of course, the cheese fell straight down—right into the waiting mouth of the fox.

“Thank you,” said the fox, smiling as he walked away. “Your voice is great; if only you added brains and caution to all your other qualifications, you would make a great queen.”

Aesop, ancestral teller of the original of the story above, did not forget to add that its moral is that people who listen to flattery often pay the price for it.

That story and the caution it conveys are for the First Lady, Senator Oluremi Tinubu, because of whose food Senator Godswill Akpabio pronounced her “mother” and all senators her “children” last week.

English philosopher and statesman, Francis Bacon, in ‘The Advancement of Learning’, wrote of a senator who once stood up in a full Roman debate and proposed that Tiberius, their emperor, be declared a god. The philosopher used this incident to illustrate what he called the lowest form of sycophancy. Even in that world of excessive praise, Roman senators never thought of calling themselves the children of the emperor. For a modern democratic legislature to refer to the spouse of the head of the executive as “mother” is worse than the flattery Bacon mocked.

What Akpabio blithely said is casual but deep. It collapses the constitutional separation of powers into a family drama where elected lawmakers become puny dependents seeking favour. If ancient Rome saw such gestures as the death of democracy and republican dignity, then the Nigerian Senate’s metaphor is an even clearer sign of institutional self-infantilisation.

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Akpabio and his Senate’s excessive fawing inadvertently situate their chamber in Jean Piaget’s immature stage of infantile thinking, one ruled by deference and emotional dependence.

Yet, an independent legislature is the reason we say democracy is better than all other forms of government, including military rule.

‘The American Mercury’ was an American magazine which was on the newsstand from 1924 to 1981. Its July 1937 edition contains an article with the headline: ‘Crooks in the Legislature.’ The magazine withheld the name of the author of the article “for obvious reasons” but said it published his story “as a factual record, believing it typical of most state legislatures.” From the eight-page article I picked this paragraph in celebration of the legislative content of our democracy: “Putting summary ahead of detail, I may say that ten percent of legislators come perilously close to being racketeers; twenty-five percent are primarily venal in their attitude toward such legislation as is capable of being turned to advantage; another twenty-five percent will accept money for their votes on bills which do not vitally affect the general public and in which they have no personal interest; another twenty-five percent, who do not accept money, are moved often by personal and group relationships, including retainers, business arrangements, political advantage, patronage demands, etc.; and about fifteen percent are, or think they are, above suspicion of judging legislation other than on its merits –although I never have met one who could take an utterly detached viewpoint even when unconscious of personal interest. Unadulterated altruism has yet to come within my purview. Paradoxically, some of the crookedest legislators in my state are among the ablest in their consideration of measures.” That was democracy and the parliament in the United States of 88 years ago. Take a look at what we have in 2025 Nigeria, you may add the US.

Senator Akpabio and other children of food are not alone in the kitchen with the one who holds the yam and the knife of this lavish feast. The press is the fourth estate of the realm; it routinely gets compelled (or it compels itself) to do what Akpabio did. The judiciary is the third leg of the dining table; it stands up for power and privileges and, for their songs of praise.

In ‘How Democracies Die’, Harvard political scientists, Steven Levitsky and Daniel Ziblatt, want to know if the American democracy is in danger. And, in every word, every sentence and every paragraph of that 2018 book are hints that suggest an affirmative answer to that question. They say: “This is how we tend to think of democracies dying: at the hands of men with guns…But (now) there is another way to break a democracy. It is less dramatic but equally destructive. Democracies may die at the hands, not of generals, but of elected leaders—presidents or prime ministers who subvert the very process that brought them to power.”

Lagbaja, the masked musician, sang at the beginning of this democracy that it must not die (democracy yi ko gbodo ku). But, if this democracy was a child, it would qualify as a foolish child. And a foolish child is as useless, lifeless as a dead child. There is a Yoruba proverb that explains it deeply: A child lacks wisdom, and they say the child must not die; what else kills faster than lack of wisdom? Dying is not the absence of life; it is the lack of useful existence.

Senators are children of the president. “Are we living in the age of stupid? The era of the idiot? The answer of course is yes, with examples of monstrous moronicism everywhere.” That is the verdict of film critic and Guardian Australia writer, Luke Buckmaster, four years ago. He thinks democracy has become a government of idiots, by idiots for idiots. “If this is already the era of the idiot, what comes next?” He asks, and the answer, according to him, is: “An Idiocracy.” Idiocracy is a pick on the title of Mike Judge’s 2006 dystopian comedy.

Do not hesitate to apply the above to my lot and to your lot. The ways and strays of this democracy remind me of the famous ending of T. S. Eliot’s ‘Hollow Men’, a 1925 poem about a state in paralysis: “This is the way the world ends / Not with a bang but a whimper.”

Democracy dies where the legislature celebrates its becoming the executive’s puny child, mother hen’s brood. That is what the “children” in our Red Chamber do. The rot is complete when you add to that tragedy the press paying to play with the Villa, and the judiciary upstanding in deference to the president’s personal anthem: ‘On Your Mandate We Shall Stand’.