Abacha Lives, But It Won’t Be for Long

There is a story often told in African villages. A village once had many drums. Each drum had its own sound. Some were loud. Some were soft. Some were fast. Some were slow. Together, they made music. It was not always perfect, but it was alive. One day, the Chief said: “Let us have one […]

There is a story often told in African villages.

A village once had many drums.

Each drum had its own sound.

Some were loud. Some were soft. Some were fast. Some were slow.

Together, they made music.

It was not always perfect, but it was alive.

One day, the Chief said:

“Let us have one drum, so we can all beat as one.”

At first, it sounded like unity.

But slowly, the music died.

That is how democracy begins to fade — not with a loud bang, but with a quiet agreement to sound the same.

Today in Nigeria, we are watching something similar happen.

Governors and political leaders are leaving their parties and joining the ruling party — one after the other, like travellers moving toward the same destination.

Some call it strategy.

Some call it survival.

But the people must ask:

What happens when everyone stands on one side?

Across Africa, our writers have always warned us about moments like this.

From Kenya came Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o, the storyteller who turned power into satire and truth into parable in Wizard of the Crow — a world where rulers grow so large that they begin to swallow the very people they claim to lead.

From Nigeria came Chinua Achebe, the quiet observer of power and its failures, who in A Man of the People showed how a society can slowly surrender its voice — not in one moment, but in many small silences.

From Ghana came Ayi Kwei Armah, who in The Beautyful Ones Are Not Yet Born wrote of decay — not sudden, but gradual — a rot that spreads when people choose comfort over courage.

These were not just stories.

They were warnings.

In Wizard of the Crow, power grows so large that it begins to swallow everything — not just through force, but through pressure, fear, and the promise of safety.

People stop resisting, not because they agree, but because standing alone becomes dangerous.

And when everyone moves closer to power, truth begins to move further away.

Chinua Achebe warned in A Man of the People that the problem is not just bad leadership, but a society that slowly accepts it:

“The trouble with Nigeria is simply and squarely a failure of leadership.”

But leadership does not fail alone.

It fails when people are made to feel they have no choice.

We have seen this before.

Under Sani Abacha, Nigeria moved toward a strange kind of unity.

Political parties did not compete.

They agreed.

Five parties, one man.

It was called democracy, but it felt like silence.

There were plans to make him president for life.

And for a moment, it seemed possible — because opposition had disappeared.

It was during this dark chapter that the late Chief Bola Ige gave a description that has echoed through our political history. He called those parties:

“the five leprous fingers of a decaying political hand.”

A nation with many voices had been reduced to one chorus.

A democracy with many choices had been narrowed to a single path.

And what was presented as unity was, in truth, a quiet surrender.

The same warning echoes again.

Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o showed us that when power becomes too big, it becomes afraid — afraid of questions, afraid of difference, afraid of truth.

So it gathers everyone close, not to strengthen them, but to control them.

Ayi Kwei Armah reminded us that systems do not collapse in one day.

They decay slowly.

Not all at once.

Just enough to survive.

Just enough to belong.

Until one day, there is nothing left to resist with.

And now, the signs are becoming harder to ignore.

It is no longer just about politicians moving.

It is about a growing culture of silence and submission.

A culture where speaking up is seen as trouble.

Where standing firm is seen as rebellion.

It is so bad that, in a shocking moment that should trouble every conscience, a lawyer in Abuja — an officer of the court, trained to defend justice and uphold the dignity of the law — was reportedly ordered to kneel in open court for contempt.

To kneel.

Not to argue.

Not to be heard.

But to bow.

This is not just about one courtroom or one judge.

It is about what that moment represents.

When the law begins to humiliate those who serve it,

When dignity is replaced with fear,

When obedience is demanded instead of justice,

Then something has gone deeply wrong.

A courtroom is meant to be a temple of justice — a place where even the weakest can stand tall under the protection of the law.

If those who speak for the law are forced to kneel,

what hope remains for those who have no voice at all?

This is why this moment matters.

Because when governors leave their parties, it may look like politics.

But when opposition begins to disappear, it becomes something deeper.

It becomes a question of freedom.

But here is the truth many people forget:

The people are not governors.

The people are not politicians.

The people are the owners of power.

No governor can carry the people’s voice with him when he defects.

No politician can transfer the will of millions like a piece of property.

That power remains where it has always been — with the people.

Even in the darkest times, people have resisted.

They have spoken.

They have voted.

They have refused to be silent.

Because silence is how the drums truly die.

This is not a message of fear.

It is a message of memory.

Africa has seen what happens when power grows too strong and too alone.

It begins by gathering support.

It continues by weakening opposition.

And if no one resists, it ends by silencing everyone.

So when you see leaders moving, do not think the story is over.

The real story is still being written — by you.

You still have your voice.

You still have your vote.

You still have your right to question.

Because democracy is not about leaders agreeing.

It is about the people refusing to lose their voice.

And so we return to the village of drums.

If only one drum remains,

If only one sound is heard,

It may look like peace.

But it is not music.

And it is not freedom.

The question now is simple:

Will Nigerians keep the drums beating — or allow the silence to win?

Shaibu is Senior Special Assistant on Public Communication to Atiku Abubakar.