David Oladimeji
When a man discovers that life’s wealth is never meant for him, he turns to chance. He gambles with his fate, laying his dreams on the spinning wheel of fortune, hoping that luck will whisper where life has been silent. In that restless search, despair becomes both companion and enemy.
In a land where ambition is the bloodline of politics, the tides shifted quietly but with certainty. Governors of the southern states gathered, almost without exception, behind the Lion of Lagos. Only one lingered in hesitation, a shadow against the bright sun of triumph.
From the north came murmurs of allegiance, almost ritualistic, as if the wind itself had ordered them to bend. Three governors alone remained detached, but the majority had already aligned, recognizing that the currents of power had changed direction, and resistance would be spent effort.
The nation’s political skeleton, every party machinery, every local structure, tilted. Over two-thirds bowed to the rising force of Tinubu. What little hope the opposition clung to dissolved in the heat of inevitability, evaporating like morning dew under a merciless sun.
El-Rufai retreated to Europe, carrying notebooks and dreams of doctoral glory. The classrooms became his refuge, the libraries his battlefield. Outside, the politics of a nation continued without him. His ambition waited for a moment that would not come.
Amaechi returned to the law, the courtroom’s familiar echo replacing the cacophony of political campaign halls. Legal briefs, motions, and statutes replaced rallies and speeches. Once a lion among men, he now prowled only the corridors of courts.
Atiku disappeared into the desert of Dubai, where the city’s glass towers glinted like hope unfulfilled. There, he buried himself in study, as if education could rewrite the past, or perhaps shield him from the storm that had swept across Nigeria.
Peter Obi, once the nation’s restless dreamer, now looked at every politician with a familial smile. Brothers, cousins, distant kin — lines blurred, and the fire of opposition cooled into polite conversation. He wandered through alliances that were no longer adversarial, no longer urgent.
Meanwhile, in dim alleys and closed rooms, the opposition whispered desperate prayers. They wished for coups, for unnatural ends, for the world to twist in a way that might restore their lost ground. But their pleas were caught in the air, unheeded, returning only as echoes of futility.
They imagined drums of doom pounding across the land, nuclear clouds hovering, storms swallowing cities whole. In their minds, disaster became a form of hope, a final stage where the rules might bend to their favor. Reality, however, refused to comply.
Even those who had once called themselves strategists found themselves paralyzed by the hurricane. Each step forward was met with resistance too vast to overcome. They sought cracks in walls that had no weaknesses, doors that refused to open.
The world of political commentary became a theater of despair. Analysts, pundits, and ordinary citizens watched the defeated scramble, the hopeful collapse, the ambitions that evaporated before the nation’s eye. And yet, the Lion of Lagos moved steadily, silently, unstoppable.
Social media became a mirror of national emotion — laughter and lament intertwined. Memes, viral posts, and shared frustrations captured the contradictions: admiration for cleverness, ridicule for failure, fear for what might come next. The digital square reflected a society caught between awe and exasperation.
For the opposition, each misstep became a public spectacle. Plans that once seemed cunning now appeared absurd. Statements meant to inspire now rang hollow. The harder they tried, the more they fell — a repetition that mocked their every effort.
2027 loomed, but its promise was gone. The horizon that once shimmered with possibility for the opposition now lay empty. The ruling coalition began quietly plotting 2031, polishing the crown that time and circumstance had handed to them.
By the time the opposition might hope to rise again, the world would have shifted. Nigeria, ever restless, would have transformed — cities bustling, industries growing, and institutions settling into patterns that left little space for the old political dramas.
Yet, in the quiet corners of markets, classrooms, and street corners, the old wisdom lingered. Mothers whispered it to children, elders repeated it in councils: “It is better to be born a thief than to be born a mumu.” Survival, cunning, and insight mattered more than innocence in the theater of power.
The proverb, harsh yet true, became a mantra for reflection. Cleverness ensured existence; naivety ensured loss. And in the streets, where politics met daily life, this wisdom was lived, not merely spoken.
Across the nation, the aftermath of the storm left traces. People debated, laughed, feared, and celebrated. But all agreed on one truth: the hurricane had passed, and the world had not returned to what it had been. It was a land changed, not just by politics, but by perception.
And so life continued, in classrooms, courts, offices, and alleys. Ambition never died; it merely learned new rules. Hope persisted, but in measured doses. And somewhere, in the quiet confidence of the victorious, the Lion of Lagos walked untroubled, knowing the path behind him was littered with those who had misjudged the storm.