Everything Has Been Knocked Down: Peter Obi’s Cry for Nigeria’s Fading Democracy
The air in the Ladi Kwali Hall of the Abuja Continental Hotel was thick with anticipation. The chandeliers cast a golden glow over the audience—a blend of statesmen, scholars, and concerned citizens—each eager to hear the words of a man who had become the voice of a restless nation.
Peter Obi stepped onto the stage, his measured stride betraying the storm he carried within. He had come to honor a friend, former Imo State Governor Emeka Ihedioha, but he knew that tonight was about more than a birthday. Tonight was about truth. About courage. About the slow, agonizing collapse of the democracy Nigeria once dreamt of.
He took a breath, his eyes scanning the room before he spoke. And when he did, his voice was clear, unwavering.
"Everything has been knocked down."
A hush fell over the hall. Some nodded in silent agreement. Others shifted uncomfortably. The weight of his words settled over the gathering like an impending storm.
He spoke of 1999, of a nation that had once dared to hope. A foundation had been laid, painstakingly built upon, reaching for a future bright with promise. And then—like a house set upon by a reckless storm—it had all come crashing down.
"Nothing works anymore," he declared, his voice tinged with the quiet fury of a man who had seen the best of what could be, only to watch it reduced to rubble.
He recalled his own ascent to power, a time when the courts still held their integrity, when justice was not for sale to the highest bidder.
"I became a governor through the courts when Obasanjo and Atiku were in government. I did not pay one naira. I sat in my house, and the court declared me winner."
The room stirred. A democracy that had once functioned—even if imperfectly—now seemed like a relic of a forgotten age. Today, the game had changed. Today, the house was rigged, the dice loaded, the referees bought.
And then, the dagger. The piercing moment when Obi turned his gaze toward the unfolding crisis in Rivers State.
He spoke of Governor Siminalayi Fubara, of the suspension of elected officials, of a state of emergency that smelled more like a political execution.
"When I was being impeached, the president sent people to intervene on my behalf. They pleaded. They negotiated. They cared. Today, the president is the one leading the impeachment. That is the difference. That is how much we have lost."
A ripple of murmurs spread through the audience. The parallels were chilling. The message, undeniable.
He told of a time when even in the storm of political battles, there was still a line—thin, fragile, but present—that those in power would not cross.
"Obasanjo called me when I was impeached and asked, 'Peter, are you safe?' When I won my case in court, Yar’Adua called me in London and said, 'Congratulations.' I told him, 'I cannot return home; they will come for me.' He asked me to name my flight, and when I landed, military men received me, took me straight to him."
His voice lowered, but the intensity only deepened.
"Today, if I were in the same situation, the president would not ask me to come back. He would tell me not to return at all."
The silence in the hall was deafening. It was a silence thick with realization, with anger, with a question that no one dared speak aloud: How did we get here?
Obi’s words were not just an indictment; they were a warning.
"It has collapsed," he said simply. "It has failed."
The weight of the truth bore down on every soul in that room.
But Obi was not one to end on despair.
"Let’s not just talk about it," he urged. "Let’s talk about how we will rebuild."
A flicker of hope. A challenge. A call to action.
And as he stepped down from the stage, the murmurs turned to voices, the voices into debates, and the debates into something even more powerful—resolve.
The fight for Nigeria’s democracy was not over. It was only just beginning.
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