By Francis Dufugha
Once a jewel in Nigeria’s democratic crown, Rivers State now lies battered and bruised, a shadow of its former self. Once flowing with the promise of progress, our dear state has become a river of mockery, where democracy is now a plaything in the hands of political puppeteers.
Since the gavel of emergency rule fell in April under the weight of President Bola Ahmed Tinubu’s decree, the heart of our oil-rich state has beat irregularly—a heart drowning in a flood of political madness. The soul of democracy, which ought to breathe life into governance, is now gasping for air under the boots of self-imposed warlords.
Like a circus with no ringmaster, the streets have turned into arenas of choreographed protests. Women clad in black, white, and now red—like actors in a tragic opera—have taken to the streets in what appears to be paid parades. Their voices are loud, yet their hearts silent, manipulated by invisible hands pulling the strings of desperation. One cannot help but ask: Who wrote this script, and who directs the show?
It is said, “He who carries ant-infested firewood invites lizards for a feast.” Rivers has not only carried the firewood but has danced in its flames. The result? The lizards have arrived—political opportunists, moneybags, and power-drunken actors feeding fat on our collective pain.
Democracy is supposed to be the voice of the people, but here it has been muzzled, its face slapped with the palm of manipulation. Protest is a democratic right, yes, but when protest becomes a product sold in the market of political desperation, what we have is not freedom—it is farce.
Money has become the new megaphone, speaking louder than truth. It whispers into the ears of those desperate for survival and shouts over the voices of reason. We know the signs. We see the smirks of those who cash in on chaos, laughing all the way to the bank while the rest of us are forced to water the roots of power with our tears.
What crime have Rivers people committed? Is it our hope? Our patience? Our unwavering belief in the promise of democracy? We voted. We believed. But now we are being dragged into a theatre of the absurd—turned into unwilling actors in a drama written by selfish scripts and directed by greedy ambitions.
When elephants fight, it is the grass that suffers, and in this case, the grass wears the face of the ordinary Rivers man and woman. Those in the corridors of power, once hailed as messiahs during campaign season, have become monarchs of mayhem—turning the ballot box into a coffin where the people’s will is buried.
This is not governance; this is political cannibalism, where ambition devours principle, and leadership has lost its moral compass. The soul of Rivers State is bleeding, and the bandage of rhetoric cannot stop the hemorrhage. What we need is not drama, not division, not distraction—but direction.
How did we come to this? How did a land once fertile with hope become scorched by crisis? How did voices raised in unity become scattered in confusion?
Rivers State is not a battlefield. It is not a pawn. It is a home—a home that deserves peace, not performance; justice, not jungle politics; leaders, not looters.
Let this be a wake-up call. Let those who still hold the torch of truth light the way. Let our elders speak, our youths rise, our women mobilize—not as tools of manipulation but as true custodians of democracy.
Until then, we are left with a bitter truth: Rivers State is no longer the river that nourishes, but the river that mocks. A river of promise turned into a pool of political pollution.
But rivers flow. And maybe, just maybe, this river can still find its course again.
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