In the grand theatre of Nigerian politics, Rivers State has long been a boisterous stage. But in recent times, it has become a chaotic lesson in how not to govern.
At the heart of this saga lies Governor Siminalayi Fubara, a quiet bureaucrat-turned-reluctant-rebel, whose journey from handpicked successor to embattled incumbent exposes the perils of ambition without structure, rebellion without strategy, and gratitude without sincerity.
His rise, his fall, and the humiliating path to potential reinstatement reveal not just a personal tragedy, but a broader crisis for Nigerian federalism and democratic integrity. It is a masterclass in the worst ways to wear power, and a reminder that political loyalty, once broken, rarely heals.
Fubara didn’t claw his way to the top. He wasn’t the loudest, the most charismatic, or even the most visible. He was chosen. His elevation to the governorship was not a reward for political audacity but a product of calculated succession.
As then-Governor Nyesom Wike prepared to exit the seat after eight eventful years, he faced a dilemma common to Nigerian powerbrokers: How to preserve influence beyond office. The solution? Install a loyalist. Fubara, then a senior civil servant, was quiet, dependable, and non-threatening. Precisely the kind of man who could be trusted not to rock the boat.
Thus, Fubara became the beneficiary of a political structure he neither built nor fully understood. He didn’t run on his own name; he ran on Wike’s legacy. He didn’t fight for the ticket; it was handed to him. He didn’t rally a movement; he inherited one.
And so, from day one, he owed everything, not to the people of Rivers, not even to his party, but to Wike. That was the deal, whether written or implied.
Yet, no sooner had the ceremonial oaths been taken than the unthinkable began. Governor Fubara started to act like an actual governor. He demanded accountability. He questioned appointees loyal to his predecessor. He began moving files that hinted at administrative independence.
For a system built on loyalty rather than performance, this was political heresy.
The response was swift. Commissioners resigned en masse. Lawmakers defected in droves. The same House of Assembly that cheered his inauguration turned against him, attempting to impeach him within months. Overnight, Fubara became a governor with a crown but no kingdom.
Fubara was defiant, if clumsy. He declared the defectors’ seats vacant, physically secured the Assembly complex, and attempted to assert control. He appointed a rival Speaker and began governing with a handful of loyalists. It was audacious, but it was also naive. But without political muscle or federal backing, his pushback barely registered. Within weeks, Rivers State had become a national theatre of political absurdity.
While Fubara may have claimed moral authority, he lacked political capital. The engine that got him to power had turned against him, and he had no spare parts.
By the end of that year, the crisis had reached national proportions. Fearing that the instability might spill into violence or economic sabotage, especially in a key oil-producing state, the Presidency stepped in.
A peace accord was drafted and signed in Abuja under the president’s watchful gaze. But what was presented as reconciliation was, in truth, a document so one-sided, so bizarre, and so humiliating for a sitting governor that it seemed plucked from colonial archives. The so-called resolution wasn’t a peace treaty; it was a public kneeling. And Fubara bowed. Fubara was to reinstate the defected lawmakers, halt investigations into the previous administration, re-absorb the commissioners, who had walked out on him, and, most tellingly, consult his political godfather on key decisions.
Some called it maturity. Others saw cowardice. But one thing was clear: the man in Government House wasn’t in charge. He had been forced to trade his authority for survival.
Fubara had lost effective control. He was governor in name only. Even his executive actions were under scrutiny, and many of his appointees feared dismissal by forces outside his office.
The crisis took another turn with a series of suspensions, of loyalists, of local council chairmen, of even judiciary workers suspected of partisanship. But for every suspension Fubara ordered, a higher power seemed to reverse it.
Not long after, with tensions refusing to die down, the Federal Government declared a state of emergency in Rivers State. The official excuse was worsening insecurity, but everyone knew the real target.
Fubara was suspended. So was his deputy. The legislature was put on hold. A retired naval officer was installed to temporarily manage the state’s affairs. For all intents and purposes, Rivers had been placed under federal supervision.
In that moment, the illusion shattered completely. The governor, once the highest authority in the state, became a political bystander.
Worse still, reports soon emerged of efforts to reinstate the same lawmakers he had once battled; this time under even more humiliating conditions. He would not just welcome them back; he would beg them. He would accept their dominance of the legislative agenda. He would rule under their terms.
It was the final act in a long, painful unravelling. He had morphed from chief executive to chief embarrassment.
At this point, the questions began to shift. No longer was it just about whether Wike was overbearing or if Fubara had a right to independence. A deeper, moral question surfaced: Why accept ungodly terms to become governor, only to pretend to fight for integrity later?
Fubara had choices. He could have refused the nomination. He could have negotiated better terms. He could have walked away before the oath. But he chose power, on someone else’s terms.
And if you accept the throne that way, is it not hypocrisy to cry foul after the fact?
In truth, Fubara’s rebellion, however justified in theory, came too late and with too little preparation. He wanted to lead like a lion, but he entered office like a lamb. And politics, especially Nigerian politics, is rarely kind to converts.
Now, let’s turn to the other man in this story.
Nyesom Wike is many things, loud, brash, unyielding. He is not the poster boy for humility. But he is, undeniably, a political force. He built the Rivers political machine brick by brick. He fought wars, political and legal, to maintain stability and relevance for his state. When his term ended, he didn’t disappear; he repositioned.
To him, Fubara’s actions weren’t principled; they were treacherous. He had given the man everything. And now, the same man was throwing stones at the house that sheltered him.
Wike’s defence is simple: I made you. You promised loyalty. You broke it. You must face the consequences.
Whether one agrees or not, it is a rational position in a political culture built on loyalty. Wike did not install Fubara for entertainment. He did it to secure his legacy and extend influence. When that plan crumbled, he fought back the only way Nigerian political godfathers know how: with total war.
Was he overbearing? Perhaps. But he was also operating by the rules of the game, a brutal game, yes, but one both men willingly joined.
Lost in the drama, however, is the silent victim: Democracy.
When governors are installed by godfathers, rather than elected on merit, they become ornamental. When lawmakers defect and sabotage the system at will, representation becomes a joke. When presidents declare emergency rule without due process, federalism becomes fiction.
Rivers State, once a model of infrastructural transformation and political intensity, became a cautionary tale. Governance stopped. Budgets stalled. Institutions fractured. All because two men, one who gave power and one who couldn’t handle it, fell out over loyalty.
Fubara’s story is not about evil mentors and innocent protégés. It’s about power without preparation. It’s about ambition without gratitude. And most of all, it’s about how not to be a governor.
If you must climb to power using someone else’s ladder, you either stick to the rules, or build your own before you kick it away. Fubara kicked too early and fell.
And Wike? He remains what he has always been: A man who doesn’t forgive betrayal, even though some say he too had betrayed others.
In the end, neither man wins. But for Rivers people, the price of this power struggle is too high, and the scars may take years to heal.