For the last three weeks, the media has been buzzing with the unfortunate news of two elephantine politicians: the tenacious, piercing, and ...
For the last three weeks, the media has been buzzing with the unfortunate news of two elephantine politicians: the tenacious, piercing, and acerbic Natasha Akpoti—the jewel of the Nigerian melodramatic Senate—and Godswill Akpabio, the old, wittiest, morally flexible, and self-proclaimed cleverest senator. Many consider him a sexually potent lion whose strength, influence, and political acumen dominate the entire Nigerian Red Chamber. As a Senate lion accused of sexually assaulting a fellow senator, the jewel, news-hunting journalists have covered the story with all the professional skill required of their craft.
However, as someone with an inherent distaste for politics, I initially didn’t know what to say or how to react. I chose to remain silent, wandering in a wilderness of confusion, trying to piece the puzzle together.
Who is truly to blame in this political drama? As law students, debate and argument are integral parts of our training. Any topic that emerges in our political landscape is open to discussion. On this, I must speak.
One thing I do know about Nigerian politics is that it is an unethical game. Search through all the known professions—law, medicine, engineering, journalism, film, wrestling, boxing, etc.—they all have ethical codes governing them. Politics, however, is the only profession bereft of ethics. Often, ethical practitioners (note, I am not necessarily implying that the lion himself is devoid of ethics) find themselves struggling within its murky waters.
Many, particularly feminists, consider Natasha a victim of patriarchal dominance—a woman whose only crime was wearing a veil, possessing a feminine face, and bearing the name "woman" in a chamber presided over by "Ox" and "Ogre."
Thus, they say: Natasha is a victim. This is a sentiment echoed by every sane, gender-balanced advocate in Nigeria. However, one must pause and ask: In this suffocating and oppressive system, who is not a victim? Indeed, Natasha is a victim, but besides her, we are all victims—victims of this failed system called democracy. We are victims of deceptive, mealy-mouthed rulers. But for years, who has cared to acknowledge the suffering of most Nigerians? Who is willing to listen to the loud cries of these gagged victims, heavy with pain and anguish? None. Absolutely none of the so-called democrats.
Today, the news revolves around Natasha, an elected senator suspended by the same president she accused of harassment. The story of how she was silenced, fiercely harangued, and stripped of her constitutional rights to representation is all over the media.
But the story extends beyond her. Many Natashas exist among us—women whose eyes blaze with hopelessness and despondency. They, too, are victims, but they lack the privilege of fluency in English to articulate their grievances against a subjugating system. They lack the courage, audacity, and boldness to brief the media about their ordeals. Unlike Natasha, they lack the means and political connections to approach international forums in New York with their teary eyes. They are forever silenced beneath the blanket of suppression, subjugation, and harassment. They too, besides Natasha, are victims of a system that promised them heaven but delivered hell.
True, Natasha stirred the male-dominated beehive and became a victim for defying their unwritten code of sexual conduct. She should have submitted when the system demanded her obedience. But she refused, and there are consequences for defying an entrenched system.
But how do we categorize another woman, deep in the forests of Zamfara, who cannot be protected by the system? A village girl forced into marriage by Dogo Gide and his men? These girls, unlike Natasha, lack the privilege of social status, age, and education, yet they are cruelly defiled. They are denied schooling due to insecurity and other societal threats. Are they not victims of a system meant to shield them?
Similarly, besides Natasha, there is the bold NYSC girl, Ushie Rita, who believed her constitutional right to protest and express dissent was protected by the supreme law of the land. She was taught in school that freedom of speech is a guiding principle of governance. As a good citizen who knew her rights, she exercised them—only to become another victim. A victim of maltreatment, harassment, humiliation, and assault by the system. Besides Natasha, she too is a victim of a failed democracy that rejects freedom of speech.
Examine the system, and you will find silenced voices whispering in anguish, innocent souls lying in coffins, and aimless youths wandering with their futures bleakly pegged to hope.
I deliberately glossed over Fubara of Lagos for a reason. He may be a victim of constitutional misapplication, but suspensions in this system are nothing new. Many teachers and innocent workers have been ‘suspended’ as well. Their only crime? Being victims of systemic cruelty and economic deception.
It started with Dadiyata. Today, it is Isma’il Auwal. What was Isma’il’s crime? Expressing himself in a country where journalism is viewed as a threat to power. His fault was being assertive and courageous enough to challenge the system. Where is he now? He, too, is a victim. Besides Natasha, who operates within the circle of power, there are countless victims crushed by a system that fears “opinion,” “personal expression,” and “political dissent.”
Noam Chomsky once said: “A society that does not question authority is destined for tyranny.” But what happens when the system no longer tolerates questions? Dadiyata is on my mind. Isma’il, too, and a host of other advocates uncomfortable with the system. Where are they now? Employed or imprisoned?
Moreover, what about students in universities studying four-year courses that extend to six years? Are they not victims of a system that devalues education? A system that once nurtured today’s leaders now forces students into a life of struggle, juggling tuition fees, hustling between school and the marketplace. The dreams of students are withering. The system does not like dreamers; it does not nurture dreams—it only fosters thuggery.
Likewise, a boy who loses his mother to a curable disease is nothing but a victim of a neglected healthcare system. A girl who loses her father in an accident due to poor road infrastructure is a victim of a government that prioritizes cosmetic airport projects over essential road reconstruction.
Some may argue that this perspective is too broad and does not fit the conventional definition of “victimhood.” But then, what is the social contract between the electorate and the government about?
Nigeria is a country inhabited by victims—from underpaid teachers to poorly trained students, from the uneducated villager to the unattended patient, from the struggling market trader to the silenced journalist. They are all marginalized and victimized by a system that has proven inoperative and unproductive.
Thus, besides Natasha, many are victims—the writer, the reader, and the publisher. We are all victims of political deception, impunity, and corruption. The fight for a better Nigeria is not Natasha’s alone. It is not Isma’il’s or Ushie Rita’s alone. It is for all, by all, and with all the victims.
You may dislike Natasha’s boldness or be awestruck by her elegance and linguistic prowess. But one thing remains true: we are all victims, besides her. We cry about insecurity and tremble before the monsters of destruction. But unlike Natasha, we are not members of the Senate. We are a congregation of victimized people, drowning in systemic abuse, marginalization, suppression, and anguish.
So, as a Nigerian, if you feel threatened, insecure, and despondent—just like Natasha—remember: you are a victim. And the only way to freedom is to resist the sting of this thorny system.
Akilu Saadu is a law student and writes from Zaria. He can be reached via email at akilusaadu212@gmail.com.
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