By Israel Adebiyi

Growing up was a harvest of experiences. Some sweet, some embarrassing, some painful enough to leave permanent lessons. Childhood is that fragile season where curiosity often runs ahead of wisdom, and where a firm hand, when it comes early enough, can save a life from long detours. I was no exception.

One experience remains vivid. I was in Senior Secondary School Two when I decided, with the confidence only ignorance can give, that I was old enough to have a girlfriend. In my teenage mind, it was harmless. It felt grown. It felt like progress. Whispers travelled faster than I imagined, and before long, the matter reached my father.

He did not shout. He did not beat me. He did something far more dramatic. One evening, he called a family meeting. My mother was there. My sisters were seated. Then he announced calmly that I had come of age. According to him, any young man bold enough to be amorously involved was bold enough to fend for himself. He declared that I should begin arrangements to move out and start my own life.

The room froze. My chest tightened. Fear arrived before shame. That meeting ended without negotiation. Of course, I did not move out. That was not the point. The message was clear. Certain paths have consequences. Straying is easy. Returning is costly. My father was not wicked. He was protective. He understood that indulgence today could become regret tomorrow.

That lesson has followed me into adulthood. It taught me that leadership sometimes demands drama, firmness and a willingness to draw uncomfortable lines. And it is that lesson that keeps echoing as I watch the political theatre unfolding in Rivers State.

What is happening in Rivers is not just a political disagreement. It is a story of children straying from purpose and choosing indulgence over responsibility. It is a story of a landlord who refuses to vacate the house he built. And it is a story of a legislature that has abandoned governance to run errands for power.

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Nyesom Wike is widely regarded as the landlord of Rivers politics. This is not hyperbole. He built the structure. He controlled the machinery. He commanded loyalty with an authority that brooked no dissent. Even after leaving office, his presence remained heavy, his voice loud, his influence unmistakable. Rivers did not experience a transition. It experienced a relocation of power.

Siminalayi Fubara emerged as governor through Wike’s political design. He was not imposed, but he was chosen. Expectations were clear. Continuity was assumed. Loyalty was expected. Independence was optional.

But governance is not tenancy. A governor is not a caretaker. Once sworn in, the office confers authority that cannot be subcontracted. Trouble began the moment Fubara appeared to understand this. His sin was not rebellion. It was assertion. And in Rivers politics, assertion without permission is treason.

The Rivers State House of Assembly quickly revealed where it stood. Rather than act as an independent arm of government, it positioned itself as an extension of Wike’s will. Oversight turned into hostility. Resolutions became weapons. Impeachment threats surfaced almost immediately, not because of policy failure, but because of perceived disloyalty.

This is where the phrase children of perdition fits uncomfortably well. These lawmakers were elected to represent constituencies, not to serve as foot soldiers in a personal feud. Yet, time and again, they chose the landlord over the land. They abandoned reasoning for relevance. They traded legacy for favour.

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Aja to ba ma so nu, ki n gbo fere olode. A dog destined to get lost will not heed the master’s whistle. The warning signs were many. Public sympathy was clearly tilting towards stability. National embarrassment loomed. Yet the Assembly marched on, deaf to caution, convinced that borrowed power was permanent.

When the Assembly walked this dangerous path, and turned up the heat on the governor, pushing him into a corner in the name of political loyalty, self preservation took over. In the chaos that followed, the governor was accused of bringing down the House of Assembly complex, an episode that shocked the country and exposed how far the crisis had spiralled. Even then, the defiant actors refused to heed voices of reason. The situation deteriorated to the point where political management failed and a drastic solution became inevitable. President Bola Tinubu stepped in and declared a state of emergency, suspending normal democratic processes in Rivers State to prevent total breakdown. Months after that intervention and the eventual restoration of democratic governance, one would expect restraint and reflection. Instead, Rivers is back where it started. The same lawmakers are once again flexing muscles, reviving threats of impeachment and proving that the lesson of that national embarrassment was never learned.

Wike’s shadow looms over every move. His public statements, his influence over lawmakers, his continued grip on the political soul of Rivers have made it impossible to pretend that this is an internal legislative matter. This is a proxy war. And the House of Assembly has chosen its side.

The implications are dangerous. Democracy depends on institutions, not individuals. When a legislature surrenders its independence, it becomes an accomplice to instability. When impeachment is weaponised, it loses moral force. And when godfatherism replaces governance, elections become rituals without meaning.

The people of Rivers are the silent victims. Governance stalls while egos clash. Development pauses while loyalty tests continue. Investors grow wary. Civil servants become uncertain. The state drifts, not because it lacks leadership, but because leadership is being contested outside constitutional boundaries.

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History has not been kind to children who mistake indulgence for protection. Political godfathers eventually tire. Structures shift. Power relocates. When that happens, those who abandoned principle for favour are often left stranded.

Wike himself stands at a crossroads of legacy. He can be remembered as the builder who refused to let go, or the statesman who trusted the process he helped create. Control is intoxicating, but it is also corrosive. The landlord who insists on sleeping in every room eventually turns the house into a prison.

Governor Fubara also faces defining choices. He can retreat and accept ceremonial relevance, or he can insist, calmly and firmly, on the mandate given to him by the people. Either path carries risk, but only one preserves the sanctity of the office.

This is where leadership, like parenting, matters most. When children stray, silence is consent. When institutions fail, intervention becomes duty. Rivers State needs voices of reason. It needs elders who understand that this path leads nowhere. It needs institutions willing to say no.

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This is no longer just a Rivers problem. When a former governor can openly hold a sitting governor hostage through a compliant legislature, the message travels far beyond Port Harcourt. It tells other godfathers that mandates are negotiable. It tells lawmakers that loyalty to power matters more than loyalty to the people. It tells citizens that their votes are only valid until a landlord feels offended. That is how democracies quietly rot, not through coups, but through indulgence.
At this point, silence from the centre becomes dangerous. President Bola Tinubu cannot afford to look away. Rivers State is too strategic, too volatile and too symbolic to be left to political arsonists. Wike is not a rogue actor operating in the shadows. He is a senior member of the President’s cabinet, wielding enormous influence. Leadership demands that influence be checked when it becomes destructive. Friendship must not excuse indiscipline. Political debt must not override constitutional order.
Tinubu must act, not as a partisan, but as President. He must make it clear that no minister, no matter how powerful, has the licence to destabilise a state because of wounded pride. Wike must be whipped into line, not humoured, not appeased, not allowed to turn Rivers into a personal estate. The House of Assembly must be reminded that their legitimacy flows from the people, not from a political godfather in Abuja.
Nigeria cannot continue to reward political recklessness with silence. If this drama is allowed to run its course unchecked, it will set a precedent far more dangerous than any single impeachment. It will confirm that power in Nigeria is still inherited, not transferred. And that is a future no democracy survives.
Sometimes, like my father did years ago, authority must speak plainly and act firmly, not out of anger, but out of responsibility. Rivers State needs that intervention now. The country is watching. History is recording. And those who choose indulgence over order may soon discover that even landlords answer to a higher authority.

My father’s dramatic family meeting saved me from youthful foolishness. It forced reflection. It imposed boundaries. Rivers politics desperately needs such intervention. Not to punish ambition, but to protect the future.

Because when children of perdition are left unchecked, they do not just destroy themselves. They burn down the house they live in. And by the time the landlord realises the cost of indulgence, there may be nothing left to control.