NIGERIA has long been an arena where the loud-mouthed perform for the gullible, but rarely has the spectacle of political cowardice been so swiftly, so thoroughly, and so nakedly laid bare as in the tragicomic tenure of Nyesom Ezenwo Wike as Minister of the Federal Capital Territory.
When President Bola Ahmed Tinubu pulled Wike out of the political wilderness and handed him the keys to the nation’s capital, the former Rivers State Governor strutted into Abuja with his characteristic, chest-thumping bluster. Dressed in the armor of reckless hubris, Wike reeled off his usual bombastic threats, declaring to anyone who would listen that the era of cattle roaming the streets of the nation’s seat of power was over.
He barked at the clouds, promising to banish herds from the urban landscape, restore sanity to the metropolis, and bring imperial order to the Federal Capital Territory.
Yet, only months later, the loudmouth has been rendered mute, the lion reduced to a purring housecat, and the self-styled strongman stripped stark naked before the entire nation.
Today, the cows do not merely walk the streets of Abuja—they own them. They graze nonchalantly on the manicured medians of Maitama, saunter past the diplomatic enclave, obstruct traffic at Berger Bridge, and leave their dung outside the very gates of power.
And where is the lion of Rumuepirikom? He has recoiled into his shell, swallowed his own vomited promises, and vanished into the bottomless pit of political capitulation. The vanity-dripping emperor has been soundly vanquished, his ego bruised, his pride wounded, and his empty head crushed under the weight of his own perfidy.
The reason for this humiliating retreat is no secret to any discerning observer of Nigerian power dynamics. When Wike issued his initial, unthinking twitches against open grazing, he foolishly believed he was dealing with harmless, marginalized citizens whom he could bully from the safety of a podium and a press crew.
He quickly learned, however, that the cattle roaming the expressways of Abuja do not belong to humble, nomadic wanderers seeking grass for their herds. They are the prized assets of a deeply entrenched, rapacious Fulani oligarchy—the real owners of the Nigerian state—whose shadow interests extend directly into the high halls of political power and whose armed shock troops terrorize the country’s hinterlands with total impunity.
The moment the minister realized that enforcing a ban on open grazing meant confronting these powerful oligarchs and their formidable political networks, his infamous courage dissolved into cold, calculating dread.
The fear of offending the feudal barons who pull the strings of national security paralyzed his administration. Rather than stand his ground as a public officer sworn to uphold order without fear or favor, Wike capitulated entirely to the dictates of predatory elites, choosing personal political survival over civic duty.
To cover his retreat from the cattle barons, Wike resorted to the classic playbook of the political coward: find a weaker victim to bully. Having proved himself utterly impotent before the Fulani oligarchs, the minister turned his full, unbridled wrath upon the most vulnerable, hardworking citizens of the territory—the Keke NAPEP (tricycle) operators and commercial motorcycle (okada) riders struggling to eke out a living in a punishing macro-economy.
With a vengeful, spiteful fury, Wike deployed the full apparatus of the FCT Task Force to impound, crush, and chase tricycles and bikes off the roads. The very administration that claims it lacks the “multi-agency coordination” or operational capacity to clear a herd of cows blocking an expressway suddenly found unlimited manpower, high-grade security assets, and intense administrative zeal to confiscate the meager tools of poor citizens trying to feed their families.
This stark duplicity exposes the dark, sordid underbelly of Wike’s administration. A tricycle navigating a suburban street to transport low-income workers is instantly labeled an intolerable security hazard, an urban eyesore, and an unacceptable violation of the Abuja Master Plan.
But a hundred heads of cattle stopping traffic on a major highway, destroying public infrastructure, and turning a 21st-century capital into a primeval pasture are treated with gentle, stoic diplomacy. The latter is wrapped in bureaucratic excuses about “socio-political sensitivities,” complex inter-ministerial reviews, and broader considerations of national security.
Wike’s recent public admissions are the ultimate proof of his moral bankruptcy. Standing before cameras during his media chats, he meekly offered an apology for his failure, framing the presence of cattle as a sensitive issue requiring multi-agency collaboration, dialogue, and caution.
How convenient! The same minister who prides himself on ruthless execution, who bulldozes private structures without a second thought, and who speaks to state actors with contemptuous condescension, suddenly becomes a patient, mild-mannered diplomat when facing the cattle oligarchy.
He tells the public that governance cannot be run like a private business, pleading for time while his administration coordinates with the Ministry of Livestock Development and Miyetti Allah to find dedicated grazing reserves outside the central district.
Yet no such diplomacy, no such patience, no such consultation, and no such structured alternatives were ever extended to the bike and Keke riders whose livelihoods were wiped out overnight without a single alternative provided. For the poor and powerless, Wike brings the iron fist of state violence; for the oligarchs and their herds, he offers submissive consultations and groveling public apologies.
This deliberate double standard reveals two distinct systems of justice operating within the same territory. Under Wike, Abuja has become a city where law enforcement is strictly calibrated by class power. If you are a struggling rider operating on the margins of survival, the law is absolute, unyielding, and brutal. But if your livestock carries the mark of high-level political patronage, the law steps back, pleads for understanding, and accommodates your defiance.
By surrendering the streets of the nation’s capital to cattle while relentlessly persecuting informal transit operators, Wike has not only exposed his own managerial shallow-mindedness, but he has also disgraced the high office he occupies.
He has demonstrated that his famed toughness is nothing more than a carefully curated theatrical performance—a weapon reserved exclusively for those who lack the power to fight back. When the history of this era is written, it will record that a minister arrived in Abuja making grand promises to restore order, only to be chased into hiding by cows.
It will record that while the Fulani oligarchs walked their herds through the center of power with total immunity, the minister spent his energy hunting down tricycle drivers to salvage his bruised vanity.
Dr. Oto’ Drama sees through the smoke, the mirrors, and the loud-mouthed rhetoric. Nyesom Wike stands stripped of his false heroism, exposed to all as a stooge of the status quo—unscrupulous in his actions, deceitful in his excuses, and utterly vanquished by the very forces he claimed he would conquer.
The cows remain on the roads, the oligarchs remain in control, and the minister remains firmly in their shadow.
Dr. Drama contributed this piece via Nigeriandrama@gmail.com
