By Israel Adebiyi

Power, in its rawest form, is a test of character. It exposes the nobility or the nakedness of a man’s soul. Few public figures in contemporary Nigeria embody this paradox more vividly than Nyesom Wike, the current Minister of the Federal Capital Territory and former Governor of Rivers State. For years, Wike has walked the corridors of power like a man possessed by his own echo, thunderous, dramatic, and unrepentantly confrontational. The recent viral video of his verbal clash with a young military officer in Abuja did not surprise many. It was merely the latest episode in a long-running drama that reveals the flaws of a man whose tongue often runs faster than his wisdom.

In Yoruba parlance, there is a saying: “Eni tí ọ̀rọ̀ rẹ̀ ju òye rẹ̀ lọ, àìníyàn ló ń dá.” – “He whose words outrun his wisdom is courting disgrace.” Wike’s public life has been a theatre of that truth. From Port Harcourt to Abuja, his words have been both his power and his undoing.

As Governor of Rivers State, Wike ruled with the swagger of an emperor and the vocabulary of a street fighter. He earned the moniker “Mr. Projects,” and indeed, his tenure was dotted with visible infrastructural strides. But beneath the shine of concrete lay the shadows of fear and intimidation. He hounded political opponents, mocked rivals, and often reduced governance to the vulgar display of verbal warfare. To disagree with him was to invite a tongue-lashing; to stand up to him was to be publicly shamed. The Yoruba have another proverb for such temperament: “Bí ọba bá nà á ní kó má fò, àgbàlagbà ló ní kó má jókòó” (“When the king flogs you and says you must not cry, only elders tell you to sit down.”) Power without empathy, after all, is tyranny in democratic clothing.

Traditional rulers were not spared his tongue, nor were clerics whose sermons did not flatter his politics. The pulpit, the palace, and the public square all felt the sting of his verbal excesses. It was as though Wike mistook aggression for authority. And in a political culture that too often confuses loudness for leadership, he found applause where rebuke was deserved. Yet, “Bí a bá ń pè orí burúkú ní ‘adé,’ ó máa ń rò pé òun ló ń jẹ́ ọba” (“When a fool is constantly hailed as king, he soon forgets his folly.”)

When President Bola Tinubu appointed him as FCT Minister, many wondered how a man with such combustible temperament would manage a city as complex and delicate as Abuja. The capital, after all, is not a political playground but the seat of the nation’s dignity. But Wike carried his Rivers temperament into the heart of power. In less than a year, Abuja has witnessed more demolitions than decorum, more decrees than dialogue. At every turn, he has spoken more like a conqueror than a public servant.

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The recent altercation with a 24-year-old military officer, caught on video, offered a perfect metaphor for his style. The scene was classic Wike – loud, animated, confrontational – but what made it unforgettable was the quiet defiance of the young soldier who stood his ground. The officer’s composure, his disciplined refusal to be cowed by political bluster, was the moral turning point. For once, Wike’s verbal missiles bounced off the shield of institutional dignity. It was as if the spirits of Nigeria’s fatigued citizens found expression in that soldier’s calm defiance – a reminder that power must bow before order, not the other way around.

The Yoruba say, “Àgbà tó ń sọ̀rọ̀ bí ọmọ kékeré, ọmọ kékeré á gbọ́ pé àwọn yóò jọ ṣeré” (“When an elder speaks like a child, the young will mistake him for a playmate.”) Wike’s behavior in that viral clip stripped the office of its dignity. His lack of restraint not only disrespected the uniform but desecrated the values of leadership itself. The soldier’s uniform represents sacrifice; his silence, discipline; and his stance, institutional integrity. That a federal minister would exchange words so loosely with a young officer is not just an issue of temperament – it is a failure of self-governance.

Temperament, indeed, is the hidden face of leadership. A man’s true power is not in how loudly he commands but in how calmly he corrects. Wike’s monthly media engagements – once an opportunity to engage citizens and showcase accountability – soon degenerated into televised outbursts. He berated journalists, mocked political opponents, and turned governance into a stage for self-advertisement. It is said that the Presidency, weary of the embarrassment, quietly halted the briefings. One can only imagine the relief of aides who no longer had to brace themselves for the next verbal explosion.

In another Yoruba saying, “Ìbínú kò jẹ́ kí ọba jẹ́ aláàánú” (“Anger does not allow a king to be merciful.”) Wike’s anger, too easily provoked and too publicly displayed, has long clouded his judgment. Yet the essence of power is not in the fear it inspires but in the respect it earns. The greatest leaders in history were not those who shouted the loudest but those who led with quiet conviction. The soft-spoken often outlast the loud-mouthed because, as the Yoruba remind us, “Oro buruku to bá jé títí, adùn ni yóò dá” (“Even bitter words, if spoken with patience, will end sweetly.”)

The Abuja episode also calls attention to the need for institutional supremacy over personal might. Nigeria’s enduring tragedy is that men often see themselves as greater than the offices they occupy. We build strong individuals but weak systems, and when those individuals fall, the institutions crumble with them. But as Yoruba wisdom teaches, “A kì í jẹ́ kí òpó ọmọ ènìyàn dàgbà ju àgọ́ lọ” (“We do not allow the child of a person to grow taller than the camp.”) No one, however powerful, should be above the rules of engagement.

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This is why the conduct of that young soldier deserves commendation. In choosing duty over deference, he reminded us that respect for the uniform is non-negotiable. Every insignia on that khaki represents years of sacrifice, discipline, and loyalty to the nation. To belittle it, no matter one’s rank, is to insult the Republic itself. The Yoruba have a proverb that aptly fits this: “Àṣọ àgbà ni ìyàwó ń wọ, kó mọ̀ pé a kì í rí tìkára ẹni tí ó tójú” (“A bride wearing her mother’s cloth must remember she didn’t weave it herself.”) The power Wike wields is not personal; it is borrowed authority. To wear the garment of public office with arrogance is to forget that the garment belongs to the people.

Equally troubling is the recurring use of armed might to pursue private or political objectives, from land enforcement to silencing dissent. When the coercive instruments of state become tools in the hands of temperamental men, democracy trembles. The military, police, and paramilitary institutions must never be drawn into the theatrics of power or personal vendettas. “Ogun tí a bá dá lórí èké, òtítọ́ ni yóò ṣẹgun” (“The war waged on falsehood will always be won by truth.”)

Nigeria must now return to the discipline of process. When institutions are respected, the law becomes sacred. When personalities dominate, the state becomes an extension of ego. Wike’s episode should not be dismissed as mere drama; it is a symptom of a larger sickness – the collapse of restraint among those entrusted with authority. The lesson is simple: when powerful men act without decorum, they shrink the dignity of governance and weaken the faith of citizens in democracy itself.

One hopes that Wike, if only for a moment, reflects on this encounter. True power is not in shouting down a soldier; it is in mastering one’s temper. Leadership demands silence as much as speech, grace as much as grit. “Bí ọba bá ń sunkún, àwòko kì í rẹ́rìn-ín” (“When a king weeps, the parrot does not laugh.”) There are moments when restraint is the greatest show of strength.

In the end, that young officer did more than defend a piece of land; he defended the idea that Nigeria must be governed by institutions, not personalities. He reminded the nation that authority must be exercised with humility, not hubris. The Yoruba have the final word: “Àgbà tó bá ní kó fi ọwọ́ kan ọ̀run, ẹni tí ń dí ọwọ́ rẹ̀ ni yóò bínú” (“When an elder tries to touch the sky, it is those holding his hand that will feel the strain.”) Wike’s latest outburst strained not only his image but the very institution he represents.

Perhaps it is time the minister learned that power is most dignified when it is quiet, and that the loudest drum often bursts first. For in the theatre of governance, words are not weapons; they are mirrors. And when the man in power looks into that mirror and sees only himself, he has already lost the people.