The birth of tragedy

There is a lot to learn from the story of Sim Fubara, governor of Rivers State. He was in a high and low recently. And there is much to pity, and much to mourn. 

When the APC threw open its governorship  race on the primary platform, he declared he wanted to run. He and his followers. It was his right. He grabbed it with gusto.

We saw later that right was not enough. You can be right morally, and it may not be enough. You may be right constitutionally, and it may not be enough. You may be right democratically, and it may not cut it. Above all, you have to be right politically. That was where he fell short. It is not whether you have the right. It is whether you are right in the circumstance.

To be right, you must have might in politics. Not the might of muscles, or of raw force, or of guns and thugs. But the might of influence. That was the problem with Fubara and his quest for power.

Some writers and television pundits may speak about unfairness in the way he has been treated. They say his former boss and mentor Nyesom Wike has been a bully. They say his shadow oppressed him in every move as the chief executive of the state. They say he asked for billions, and Fubara said no and squealed to the world.

Wike has denied. No one has put any evidence in the public space. But, somehow, we tend to believe the underdog. He is like a lapdog of the street. The underdog becomes superior by perception. He instrumentalises the might of public opinion as a weapon.

Fubara took that strength, and he thought he could win. He wanted the fight. He wanted the swagger. He even laced it with colourful rhetoric. From him we learned that a “jungle has matured.”

He amassed a crowd. First, a throng of followers turned him into an aluta sort of governor. They lifted him up in a mobile rally and he descended into a sort of mosh pit. He was like a student leader. His governor’s aura was canned into a populist cant. Like a rant, a defiant lyricism to the theatre seasoned the tale with a line, Wike, dey your dey o, make we dey our dey. Its internet virility was instant.

A man who never knew the flattery of a crowd. A man who crunched only figures. A man who never knew a stranger’s hello when he walked in his neighbourhood. Who probably never had a call from his local government chairman or village king. It was a giddy high to become a source of songs, rallies, dances and gungho flatteries. He was afflicted by what Greek poets call the tragic flaw. It is called hubris.

In that moment, he made himself king. He defied the constitution by implementing a budget outside the law. But they cheered him on. He had a four-man cabinet unsigned by the law chamber. They crowd signed on. An iconic law chamber burned. No charge.

The birth of tragedy

There is a lot to learn from the story of Sim Fubara, governor of Rivers State. He was in a high and low recently. And there is much to pity, and much to mourn. When the APC threw open its governorship  race on the primary platform, he declared he wanted to run. He and his followers. It was his right. He grabbed it with gusto.

We saw later that right was not enough. You can be right morally, and it may not be enough. You may be right constitutionally, and it may not be enough. You may be right democratically, and it may not cut it. Above all, you have to be right politically. That was where he fell short. It is not whether you have the right. It is whether you are right in the circumstance.

To be right, you must have might in politics. Not the might of muscles, or of raw force, or of guns and thugs. But the might of influence. That was the problem with Fubara and his quest for power.

Some writers and television pundits may speak about unfairness in the way he has been treated. They say his former boss and mentor Nyesom Wike has been a bully. They say his shadow oppressed him in every move as the chief executive of the state. They say he asked for billions, and Fubara said no and squealed to the world.

Wike has denied. No one has put any evidence in the public space. But, somehow, we tend to believe the underdog. He is like a lapdog of the street. The underdog becomes superior by perception. He instrumentalises the might of public opinion as a weapon.

Fubara took that strength, and he thought he could win. He wanted the fight. He wanted the swagger. He even laced it with colourful rhetoric. From him we learned that a “jungle has matured.”

He amassed a crowd. First, a throng of followers turned him into an aluta sort of governor. They lifted him up in a mobile rally and he descended into a sort of mosh pit. He was like a student leader. His governor’s aura was canned into a populist cant. Like a rant, a defiant lyricism to the theatre seasoned the tale with a line, Wike, dey your dey o, make we dey our dey. Its internet virility was instant.

A man who never knew the flattery of a crowd. A man who crunched only figures. A man who never knew a stranger’s hello when he walked in his neighbourhood. Who probably never had a call from his local government chairman or village king. It was a giddy high to become a source of songs, rallies, dances and gungho flatteries. He was afflicted by what Greek poets call the tragic flaw. It is called hubris.

In that moment, he made himself king. He defied the constitution by implementing a budget outside the law. But they cheered him on. He had a four-man cabinet unsigned by the law chamber. They crowd signed on. An iconic law chamber burned. No charge.