-By Abdul Mahmud
The war among Nigeria’s political elite has been renewed. It is not a war for ideas, nor one fought over the soul of our country. Rather, it is a petty battle over ego, and personalised struggle for who becomes the capo di tutti capi- the boss of bosses – of the State. It is also about control of access, of appointments, and the primitive accumulation and the appropriation of state resources, as it is about enthroning political narratives. As old alliances crumble and new rivalries emerge, what becomes clear is that our most powerful politicians are less interested in governance and more interested in the politics of dominance.
This war is not new. It has been fought before. Repeatedly. And among the same political class that switches parties with ease, trades insults with flair, and builds loyalty around personalities rather than principles. What is new, however, is the sheer frequency of the war and the utter contempt they now display for even the pretence of ideological disagreement.
Take Nyesom Wike and Rotimi Amaechi. Former friends and allies. Both from the same Ikwerre ethnic stock. Their villages, only separated by the brackish ponds that dot the landscape. They have become each other’s fiercest adversaries. Their dispute is now the stuff of public spectacle. What started as a political disagreement has festered into a deeply personal war. They call each other names in the press. They challenge each other’s legacies. They deploy proxies in the media and in government. Yet, behind the noise lies a more sobering reality: this fight is not about the people of Rivers State. It is not about policy. It is about power. It is about who controls the political structure of the state, who gets to anoint successors, and who determines “who gets what, when and how”, to quote the eminent scholar, Harold Lasswell, who framed politics as some primitive accumulation many aeons ago. A few weeks ago, the Wike-Amaechi feud resurfaced in the media. Unlike 2017, when their convoys clashed on the streets of Port Harcourt, this time the battle was fought with words, not fists. No bullets. Just barbs. It began with Amaechi’s declaration: “We’re all hungry. All of us. If you’re not hungry, I am.” Wike fired back. He accused Amaechi of mocking the sufferings of Nigerians. “He never spoke of hunger while he was minister. Two years after leaving the office, he suddenly discovers it. That’s not a concern. That’s hunger for power”. Then came the sting: “You’re insulting Nigerians by trivialising poverty. The only hunger you feel is from being out of power.” Amaechi’s reply was curt: “I don’t want to join issues with children”. In a theatrical twist, Wike took to the streets of Abuja, flanked by schoolchildren who cheered his public works- mocking, perhaps, the maturity of his rival, Amaechi. The Wike-Amaechi war exemplifies how elite disagreements in our country are rarely about governance. They are about the erosion of trust among powerful individuals who once traded favours, shared secrets, and benefitted from a common network. When those relationships sour, they do not simply walk away, they destroy each other in the open, using the levers of government and the media as weapons. Nonetheless, this must be said: there are no victors in this warfare, only theatrical performers draped in borrowed comical robes, stumbling through farce like Clarus and Gringory of yesteryear. Their antics, though staged with the pomp of statesmen, draw laughter laced with pity. For while they clown, the public bears the quiet shame of being forced to watch, knowing the jest is at their own expense.
A similar war broke out in Edo State a few years ago. Adams Oshiomhole and Godwin Obaseki were once political allies. Oshiomhole handpicked Obaseki as his successor, branding him a technocrat who could consolidate the achievements of his administration. But within one term, their relationship deteriorated. Obaseki began to assert independence. Oshiomhole, accustomed to loyalty, felt betrayed. The fallout culminated in a fierce political battle in 2020 that saw Obaseki defect from the All Progressives Congress (APC) to the Peoples Democratic Party (PDP), securing a second term against his former benefactor’s wishes. Last year, their hostilities were renewed. The two men backed opposing candidates for the 2024 Edo governorship election. Their political machinery, once united, operated as different war theatres, with a verbal arsenal deployed without caution. As usual, there were little public discourses about what these candidates stood for. The election, like the war between Oshiomhole and Obaseki, became a proxy battle over egos and retribution, not vision or policy.
Even in Lagos, the epicentre of elite political engineering, cracks have shown up themselves. At the recent commissioning of the Lagos-Calabar coastal highway, President Bola Tinubu, the dominant political godfather of Lagos, snubbed his longtime ally and protégé, Governor Babajide Sanwo-Olu. What might have appeared to the casual observer as a momentary oversight was, to insiders, a clear signal that the relationship between godfather and godson had gone south. Sanwo-Olu extended his hand; Tinubu ignored it. In our country’s politics, these gestures are never accidental. They are loaded with meaning. It was a cold public humiliation disguised as protocol. The reasons for the cold remain the subject of intense speculation. Some say it’s about Tinubu’s future political calculations. Others hint at unresolved tensions over the management and deployment of power. Whatever the reason, it underscores a pattern: political relationships in our country are rarely stable. They are transactional, conditional, and expendable. Only a few days ago, newspapers reported that Tinubu had forgiven Sanwo-olu for his sins. What were his sins in the first place? Nobody knows.
They are not alone in this theatre of elite war. I invite the reader to turn their gaze to Benue State, where Senator George Akume and Governor Hyacinth Alia are entrenched in a slow-burning war of attrition. Each maneuvering for dominance over the soul of the state. To the south, in Akwa Ibom, the echoes of past battles between Udom Emmanuel and Godswill Akpabio still linger. The current governor, Umo Eno, finds himself delicately poised between these two warring combatants. In a bid to survive the infernal tides, he has publicly aligned with the ruling party at the centre, while seeking sanctuary from political crossfires and shielding himself from the sharp edge of internal vendettas. And in Delta State, a cold war simmers just beneath the surface. There, former Governor Ifeanyi Okowa, incumbent Sheriff Oborevwori, and political godfather James Ibori circle each other in a triangular standoff. The smiles are strained, the handshakes stiff. Hostilities remain veiled for now. But like the harmattan bushfires, all it takes is a single spark.
These elite wars come at a steep cost. Governance is abandoned or hijacked. Institutions become politicised. Political parties become war camps. State resources are diverted to settle loyalists or fund propaganda. Worse, the people are dragged into disputes they barely understand. They are recruited as foot soldiers in wars that are never about them in the first place. But, at the heart of these elite war is the fundamental problem: the absence of ideological core to the politics of our country’s political elite. Unlike countries where political parties reflect social or economic philosophies, our country’s political parties are mere platforms for personal ambitions. They are vehicles for power, not values. Politicians decamp from one party to another not because of policy disagreements, but because their interests are no longer served where they are. This ideological emptiness is why elite war so often turns violent, personal, and protracted. There is no higher cause to appeal to. No shared philosophy to fall back on. Once trust breaks down, all that remains is the raw, naked struggle for power. The elite war is also sustained by the absence of consequences. In countries with strong institutions, political disagreements are managed through the formal mechanisms of debates and caucuses. In our country where state institutions are weak and compromised, the institutions are thrust into the heart of the war. The elite manipulate them at will, so when they fall out, there are no impartial referees but only loyal judges, partisan security agencies, and pliant lawmakers that play the roles of the palace jesters, group thinkers and echo chambers’ inhabitants.
The media are not spared. Far from standing above the fray as impartial observers, many have been drawn into the swirl of the elite war. Rather than offering sober analysis and critical scrutiny, they are conscripted as foot soldiers in the war of powerful men. Journalists become partisans, trading objectivity for allegiance. Editorials, once sacred spaces of reasoned reflections, are auctioned to the highest bidder. The press, meant to be the fourth estate in a democracy, becomes the bugle in the battlefield of ambition, echoing the voices of its paymasters. In the process, public trust withers. Journalism, whose noble duty is to shine light on power, becomes not only compromised, co-opted, and complicit; but a shadow of itself.
The political, governance and public arenas become chaotic and lawless.
What, then, is the way forward?
Our country needs a new elite consensus. A shift to issue-based politics. A commitment to governance that outlives personal loyalty. This cannot happen overnight, but it must begin. The country is in crisis on multiple fronts- economic collapse, insecurity, unemployment, mass migration. These problems require political maturity, not endless elite wars. More importantly, our citizens must also resist being drawn into elite wars. They must ask harder questions. Whose interest does the wars serve? What values are at stake? What does this mean for service delivery? They must stop romanticising political gladiators and combatants of needless wars. The tendency to see powerful men as saviours, even after repeated betrayal, emboldens the culture of impunity. Politicians must be judged by what they deliver, not whom they fight.
Ultimately, elite wars are not harmless rivalries. They deepen polarisation. They stall progress. They distract from urgent reforms. They are the symptoms of a broken political culture that prioritises loyalty over legacy, revenge over reconciliation. The renewed war among our country’s elite is not just a political drama. It is a warning sign. A sign that our democracy remains fragile. That the politics of the strongman still prevails. That until values replace vengeance at the centre of our political life, our country will continue to be governed not by principles, but by grudges.
Those who still have ears, hear. And let them not only hear, but understand. For in the rising din of political vanity and elite wars, truth speaks in whispers. Wisdom calls from the margins. The times are urgent, the stakes high. Silence is no longer innocence. In a country where power drowns out reason, and noises pass for leadership, discernment becomes a civic duty. Let the discerning rise above the clatter, and let our citizens remember: the future belongs not to those who shout the loudest, but to those who listen, truly listen to the heartbeats of our country in distress.
Those who have ears, hear! Now.
