The haunting lament of David in “2 Samuel 1:27” still echoes through history: “How are the mighty fallen, and the weapons of war perished!” It was a cry of grief over the deaths of Saul and Jonathan, men who once wielded power but were ultimately undone by the tides of battle. That ancient lament finds a curious resonance in the political drama of Rivers State today, as Governor Siminalayi Fubara’s recent speech revealed the path he has chosen in navigating the storm that engulfed his administration.
In his address, Fubara admitted that he accepted the six-month emergency rule imposed on Rivers State by President Bola Ahmed Tinubu. He further said he resisted the temptation to challenge the constitutionality of the declaration, choosing instead to cooperate with Abuja in the name of peace. His words brimmed with gratitude to the President, loyalty pledges, and conciliatory gestures toward his estranged political godfather, Nyesom Wike. For all intents and purposes, the Governor presented himself as a man who has yielded to the tide of political necessity.
This posture mirrors the age-old idiom: “If you can’t beat them, join them.” The phrase is not a declaration of victory but a sober recognition of the limits of resistance. It suggests that, when confronted with forces too strong to resist, wisdom may lie not in prolonged confrontation but in accommodation, if only to survive and fight another day. Fubara’s speech was, in essence, a public acknowledgment that his resistance had reached its limits.
But herein lies the lament. “How are the mighty fallen!” A sitting governor, the chief security officer of his state, reduced to announcing peace terms that betrays more of submission than of triumph. The emergency rule, unprecedented in Rivers politics, weakened democratic structures and shifted the levers of power away from the Government House. That Fubara chose not to test its legality in the courts but rather to praise its executors tells us more about the fragility of his position than about the magnanimity of the federal authority.
Nigeria’s political history is replete with similar episodes where state leaders were compelled to swallow their pride in the face of federal pressure. In the Second Republic, governors like Balarabe Musa of Kaduna State and Abubakar Rimi of Kano fought fierce battles with the federal government and their political parties, only to pay heavy prices, Musa through impeachment and Rimi through political isolation. The lesson then, as now, was that survival in Nigeria’s political ecosystem often depends less on constitutional right than on the balance of power.
The Rivers crisis bears resemblance to the old feud between governors and their godfathers in Nigerian politics. The bitter struggle between former Lagos State Governor Lateef Jakande and his party hierarchy in the early 1980s, or the clash between then Anambra’s Governor Chris Ngige and political godfather Chris Uba in the early 2000s, show that political loyalty in Nigeria is rarely permanent. In each of these cases, the “mighty” governors who attempted to assert independence from their benefactors often found themselves politically weakened.
Fubara’s case, however, goes beyond a personal rift. The imposition of emergency rule created a unique context in which his authority was suspended, institutions sidelined, and the state practically managed by the center. In such circumstances, “joining them” was less a matter of choice than of necessity. Yet, the optics are damning: a sitting governor appearing to kneel in gratitude for the restoration of powers that were his by constitutional right.
Political survival has always demanded compromise, but compromise often comes at a cost. Fubara’s loyalty pledges, to the President, to Wike, to the National Assembly, are not just political niceties. They are markers of submission, reminders to the Rivers people that their Governor now governs under the shadow of those who mediated his crisis.
History teaches us that such compromises can either buy time for consolidation or sow the seeds of long-term weakness. When former President Olusegun Obasanjo faced the impeachment threat from the National Assembly in 2002, he chose compromise, aligning with legislators who once threatened him. That maneuver bought him survival and eventually strengthened his grip on power. Conversely, when Governor Rashidi Ladoja of Oyo State clashed with his godfather Lamidi Adedibu in 2006, his compromises proved futile, and he was eventually impeached before being reinstated by the courts.
For Fubara, it is yet unclear which of these paths his own compromise will lead to. His promise to “bury the hatchet” with Wike and to show “eternal gratitude” to the President may have ended open hostilities, but the real test lies in whether Rivers people will perceive this peace as genuine reconciliation or as capitulation.
To his credit, the Governor reminded his people that “the costliest peace is cheaper than the cheapest war.” That statement rings true in a state where political violence has too often defined the landscape. Yet, peace without independence is fragile. When power is restored not as a right but as a gift from above, the autonomy of the people is inevitably diminished.
David’s lament in 2 Samuel was not merely about the death of warriors; it was about the loss of strength and the extinguishing of symbols of power. So too in Rivers, the lament is not only about the weakening of one man’s authority but about the larger implications for democratic governance. If a sitting governor can be so easily brought to heel under emergency rule, what does that say about the balance of federalism in Nigeria?
Nigeria’s federalism has always been a delicate dance between the center and the states. When the center overreaches, states become little more than administrative outposts. The Rivers episode is a cautionary tale that echoes the era of military rule, when governors were at best administrators serving at the pleasure of the Head of State. It also raises a critical question: has Nigeria truly moved beyond the days when the center could suspend democratic processes in a state with little more than a proclamation?
For Rivers people, the crisis should inspire deeper reflection. While reconciliation may have restored calm, the danger lies in allowing a precedent where the state’s democratic will can be overridden by external forces.
In the end, Fubara’s speech reads less like the confident declaration of a leader in control and more like the concession of one hemmed in by larger forces. It is a sober reminder that in politics, as in life, even the mighty can fall, and when they do, their weapons of war, be they institutions, alliances, or popular support, perish with them.
The biblical lament reminds us that power is fleeting. Saul, once a mighty warrior, fell on Mount Gilboa, undone by forces greater than him. Fubara, though not slain in battle, has seen his political independence mortally wounded. What remains is a Governor walking the delicate line between survival and surrender, between keeping office and losing authority.
