The Silence of Our New 'Chiefs' in the Face of the People's Hunger

My people, a village elder does not need to climb an iwe tree to see the roof of a hut. We have seen this play before, a dance as old as the yam barn itself. It is the dance of the newly rich who, once they have polished their stools and taken their seat among the big men, suddenly forget the dust of the road that brought them there.

Obi Cubana, the man whose energy once felt like a defiant gong against the old establishment, has now, once again, proven the bitter truth: wealth, in Nigeria, is merely an application form for an elite club, and the first rule of the club is silence on the people's suffering.

When the price of fuel makes the common man’s journey a walk on hot coals, when hunger turns a child's laughter into a cough, where are the booming voices of our socialite 'kings'? They are busy acquiring new chieftaincy titles, strengthening their fences, and making sure their names ring louder in the corridors of power than the cries of the market woman.

They stand under the wide, comfortable canopy of the ruling class, enjoying the shade, and only occasionally toss down a tiny, carefully measured bags of rice - a 'giveaway' of half a million naira to a young one who makes them laugh. This token, this ncheta (a mere remembrance), is not true community support; it is a cheap, glittering distraction. It is the master’s pat on the head, meant to prove they are ‘doing well’ for their people, while the systemic roof that shelters the nation is leaking floodwater on everyone else. The little fish is given a gulp of water, not a river to swim in.

We hear the new philosophy: 'You and I are not mates.' This is the final, chilling declaration. It is the natural conclusion of their political pilgrimage. The very people who once hailed him now fall into a lower class - not of value or spirit, but of utility. His new standing among the traditional and political powers must be protected. The fear of their own vulnerability, perhaps hinted at by the recent seizure of a prized property, forces a closer embrace of the powerful system, even as that system tightens its grip on the poor.

Do not be fooled, AprokoNation. An elite's personal business integrity is for the protection of his wealth, not the restoration of our commonwealth. He speaks of a year of putting 'smiles on people's faces' and 'making money', but we must ask: whose smiles are we talking about, and at what cost is this 'money' made and defended? The struggle is not about personal riches; it is about the justice that makes riches irrelevant to survival. A man who claims a high seat must speak for those in the gutter, or his authority is only a glittering chain around his own neck.

Until our successful sons and daughters turn their fierce ambition away from joining the oppressive elite and towards challenging its very foundation, the dust on the road remains our portion. We must stop celebrating the crumbs and demand the whole bakery.

- Eziokwu bu ndu (Truth is life).

See, my people, the truth is a bitter pill, and the person who dropped this Eziokwu bu ndu gist swallowed the entire pack without water. Sharp analysis, truly. The critique of the ‘elite club’ entrance fee (which is absolute silence) is well-spotted.

But let's pause the righteous anger for one minute, because AprokoNation needs to ask the question nobody wants to touch: Are we not being profoundly hypocritical by expecting these successful businessmen to commit financial harakiri for the sake of our revolutionary satisfaction?

The argument says they should challenge the very foundation of the oppressive elite, turning their fierce ambition away from joining the system and towards destroying it.

Aproko dey play?

This is Nigeria, not Wakanda! We are talking about the foundation that literally has EFCC written on the cornerstones and DSS in the roof tiles. When we ask a man who has built multi-billion naira enterprises—employing thousands, even if only to generate his own wealth—to suddenly turn his wealth-creation machine into an activist megaphone, we are essentially asking him to write a public letter to the authorities stating: "Please, seize my assets and freeze all my accounts. I reject your system."

The silence isn't just about selfish betrayal; it's the most high-stakes, purely pragmatic business decision they will ever make. It's the cost of doing business in a country where the system views independent wealth not as a success story, but as a potential hostage.

And this is the argument I want us to dissect: The moment Obi Cubana or any other socialite Chief finds his 'booming voice' and starts demanding the whole bakery instead of tossing out the bread crumbs (ncheta), he loses the ability to throw those crumbs entirely.

Which one do we actually want? The loud, revolutionary Chief whose assets are suddenly tied up in litigation for ten years, meaning zero jobs, zero giveaways, and zero societal influence (a martyr, but a toothless one)? Or the silent, compromised Chief who, because he plays the game, maintains the structure that can occasionally throw a N500k distraction to a struggling youth, thereby maintaining a fragile semblance of hope and economic lubrication?

It’s the most chilling human judgment we must make: we idolize these people until they become successful, and then we immediately demand they forfeit that success by engaging in political heroism that we ourselves are too scared to perform. They know, instinctively, that political noise makes you vulnerable. You speak truth to power in Nigeria, and the truth gets you audited.

The new philosophy, ‘You and I are not mates,’ isn't just a declaration of class snobbery; it’s a terrifying acceptance that the only way to thrive, or even survive, is to make sure the government knows you are on the team, seated quietly under the shade.

Maybe the tragedy is not that they choose silence, but that silence is the only way the system allows them to keep the lights on. And until the structure changes, demanding they risk everything is not revolutionary; it’s just asking them to become broke like the rest of us. And nobody, least of all AprokoNation, wants a broke Cubana, because then who will we even gist about? Think about the vibes, please.