Community Reporters

Governor Fubara and Membership of APC Reconciliation Committee: Who will reconcile the reconciler?

By Kingdom Chieche Nwafor

The recent inauguration of the All Progressives Congress (APC) Committee on Strategy, Conflict Resolution and Mobilisation by President Bola Ahmed Tinubu is, on the surface, a commendable attempt to impose internal discipline and unity ahead of the 2027 general elections. However, buried within the long list of eminent party leaders and governors is a politically ironic inclusion that raises more questions than answers: the membership of Rivers State Governor, Siminalayi Fubara.

The irony is stark. Governor Fubara, who is himself embroiled in one of the most publicised and destabilising political crises in Rivers State, has now been appointed to reconcile others within the APC. This development compels a fundamental question: who will reconcile Governor Fubara with the political stakeholders in his own state?

A Reconciler in Need of Reconciliation

Conflict resolution is not merely about occupying a seat on a committee; it is about moral authority, political balance, and demonstrated capacity to build consensus. In Rivers State today, governance is deeply entangled with factional battles, broken alliances, legislative paralysis, and a cold war between former allies. The state has become a theatre of political estrangement rather than inclusion.

Against this backdrop, Governor Fubara’s appointment to a national reconciliation committee appears premature at best and contradictory at worst. One would expect that a leader tasked with reconciling others should first demonstrate reconciliation at home. Rivers State remains divided, and the political wounds are still fresh and bleeding.

APC’s Strategic Gamble or Political Optics?

President Tinubu’s broader message at the APC NEC meeting—calling for tolerance, accommodation, and resilience—was statesmanlike and timely. The APC indeed needs cohesion to survive the internal fractures threatening its electoral future. However, reconciliation efforts must be seen to be credible.

By appointing a governor currently struggling with internal party harmony and state-level political cohesion, the APC risks turning a serious reconciliation initiative into a symbolic gesture rather than a functional mechanism. It raises the suspicion that political optics, balance of power, and elite appeasement may have outweighed practical conflict-resolution considerations.

Rivers State as the Unresolved Test Case

Rivers State should ideally be a pilot case for reconciliation within the APC framework. If reconciliation cannot be achieved in a state governed by a member of the very committee designed to resolve conflicts, then the committee’s effectiveness nationwide becomes questionable.

The pressing concern is not whether Governor Fubara deserves a seat at the national table—he does—but whether the APC is willing to confront the contradictions that his inclusion exposes. Political leadership demands introspection. One cannot pour from an empty cup.

The Way Forward

For the APC reconciliation committee to succeed, it must avoid selective blindness. Reconciliation must begin at home, not end at Abuja or Lagos. Governor Fubara’s role on the committee should come with an unspoken but urgent responsibility: to initiate genuine dialogue, de-escalation, and political healing in Rivers State.

Only then can his voice carry the weight required to reconcile others.

Until Rivers State finds peace within itself, the question will linger—uncomfortably but legitimately:

Who will reconcile the reconciler?

Malami’s Sudden Discovery of the Rule of Law: When Power Changes Hands, Conscience Awakens

By Kingdom Chieche Nwafor

Abubakar Malami, SAN’s latest press release reads like a tragic irony dressed in legal jargon. A man who presided over one of the most aggressive eras of executive impunity in Nigeria now seeks refuge in constitutionalism, human rights, and the doctrine of recusal. This is not justice speaking; it is power lamenting its loss.

For eight solid years as Attorney-General of the Federation, Malami was not a bystander to injustice—he was its chief legal architect and enabler. Court orders were routinely disobeyed, citizens were detained endlessly without trial, selective prosecutions flourished, and “trial by media” became state policy. Voices that cried for constitutional protections were either ignored or crushed under the weight of executive arrogance. Today, the same Malami suddenly remembers Sections 35 and 36 of the Constitution he helped hollow out.

His appeal to Chapter 9 of the Salami Report is particularly revealing. Malami argues that a “reasonable apprehension of bias” exists because the EFCC Chairman once served as Secretary to a commission established under his supervision. But Malami forgets—or pretends to forget—that under his watch, Nigeria prosecuted, detained, and vilified political opponents without regard for perceived bias, conflict of interest, or due process. The standard he now invokes was never applied when he wielded power.

This is why the public finds it difficult to sympathise.

The claim of a “personal vendetta masquerading as law enforcement” might deserve legal examination in a neutral vacuum. But Nigeria does not exist in a vacuum; it exists in memory. Nigerians remember how state power was weaponised during Malami’s tenure—how lawful policy decisions were criminalised selectively, how lawful court orders were ignored conveniently, and how human rights were treated as inconveniences rather than guarantees.

To now posture as a victim of the same system he supervised is not moral awakening—it is poetic justice.

This moment is not about whether Malami deserves rights. He does. Rights are universal, not conditional. But what Nigerians are witnessing is something deeper: the law of karma in a system where power rotates but consequences eventually arrive. Nigeria’s “breakfast” is indeed turn by turn.

Malami is not crying because the system is unjust; he is crying because the system he once controlled no longer favours him.

If there is any lesson here, it is this: institutions weakened to persecute enemies will eventually consume their architects. The rule of law is not a fire extinguisher to be deployed only when one’s own house is burning. It is a covenant that must be respected consistently—or it will return, mercilessly, to demand its due.

Nigeria is watching. History is recording. And for once, the script has flipped.

Nigeria Football Federation and the Culture of Deception: Who Are We Really Fooling?

By Kingdom Chieche Nwafor

The recent Punch Newspaper report titled “Nigeria hope of going to World 2026 Cup Still Alive” is not just misleading—it is insulting to the intelligence of Nigerians. The story claims that Nigeria’s World Cup qualification hopes may be revived through a petition filed by the Nigeria Football Federation (NFF) against DR Congo over the alleged use of ineligible players in their one-legged qualifying match played in Morocco in November 2025.

According to the NFF, some DR Congo players did not renounce their former citizenship before switching allegiance, an act they claim violates the Congolese constitution, which frowns on dual citizenship. On this shaky foundation, the NFF is asking Nigerians to believe that qualification could come not from goals scored on the pitch, but from legal arguments off it. Who exactly are we trying to fool?

FIFA, the only body empowered to determine player eligibility, has already cleared these players based on the rules and documentation available to it. Football is governed by FIFA statutes, not by the internal constitutional arrangements of sovereign states. If FIFA approved these players, what business does Nigeria have attempting to override that decision using another country’s domestic laws?

More troubling is the hypocrisy. Nigeria, a country where constitutional breaches are routinely justified under so-called “doctrines of necessity,” suddenly wants to play the role of constitutional police. When it suits us, we excuse our own violations; when we fail on the field, we weaponize another country’s constitution. This is not sportsmanship—it is desperation dressed as legality.

Let us be honest: if DR Congo chose to interpret or even bend its own constitution in the interest of its national team, that decision is theirs to defend before their citizens, not Nigeria’s. International football does not operate on selective morality. You cannot lose on the pitch and then seek justice in technicalities you have never respected at home.

This petition reeks of what Nigerians have come to recognize too well—cover-up. The NFF is attempting to divert attention from its own atrocities: years of poor administration, lack of long-term planning, constant coaching instability, and blatant incompetence. Rather than accept responsibility for failing the Super Eagles, the same old men at the helm are selling false hope to an already frustrated nation.

This is where the cruelty lies. Over 200 million Nigerians, battered by economic hardship and political failure, still cling to sports as one of the last unifying forces. To toy with that hope—by promoting the illusion of World Cup qualification through petitions—is emotional blackmail of the highest order.

Nations qualify for the World Cup by merit, not manipulation. Great footballing countries build systems; failed administrators file petitions. Nigeria’s football problem has never been DR Congo, FIFA, or ineligible players—it has always been the Nigeria Football Federation itself.

Until Nigerian sports are cleansed of deception, excuse-making, and recycled leadership, every World Cup campaign will end the same way: failure on the pitch, followed by lies off it. The real question remains unanswered—who are we really fooling?