When Daniel Bwala recently appeared in a televised exchange with journalist Mehdi Hasan on Aljazeera, many Nigerians watched with a mixture of fascination and discomfort. It was not merely a debate. It was something more revealing. It was a public portrait of a deeper crisis in Nigeria’s political culture. It was the tragedy of activism.
A few years ago, Bwala spoke from the opposition benches. His voice carried the outrage that often accompanies political activism. He criticised the government with confidence. He positioned himself as someone speaking truth to power. Today, he serves as the media aide to President Tinubu. Politics allows such movements. People change positions. Alliances shift. That is not unusual. What made the exchange with Hasan striking was something else.
It was the spectacle of a man trying to escape the shadow of his own words.
Again and again Bwala was confronted with statements he had made in the past. Statements that sharply criticised the same government he now defends. Each time he retreated into a familiar refuge. “Context matters”, he said. The circumstances were different. The statements must be understood within a broader setting. But the problem with his defence was painfully obvious. Context cannot erase conviction. When context becomes the permanent shelter of argument, it begins to look less like explanation and more like evasion. In that moment Bwala resembled a bat caught in sudden light. Disoriented. Bedraggled. Flapping. Searching for a place to hide. The audience greeted his performance with derision.
The exchange would have passed as an ordinary media confrontation if it did not illuminate something larger about Nigeria’s new culture of activism. What we witnessed was not simply the embarrassment of a presidential spokesperson. It was a glimpse into the changing meaning of activism itself. In the past activism in Nigeria was rooted in sacrifice. It was a dangerous work, and a dangerous thing to venture into activism. Activists confronted military regimes. They faced prison, exile and constant surveillance by spooks. They organised protests knowing that the state could respond with violence. Their voices were not pathways to power. They were acts of defiance against power. Today the landscape has changed. Activism has become the stage of compulsive self-exhibition. Television panels, social media platforms, viral clips and endless commentary have created a new theatre of performative activism. In this theatre, a new class of public critics has emerged. They are sharp, articulate and permanently visible. Their voices dominate timelines and studio discussions. Criticisms have become their principal craft, and outrage a form of political currency. The more forceful the condemnation of those in power, the greater the public attention it attracts. A scathing remark travels quickly across digital platforms. A carefully worded rebuke becomes a viral moment. Fame is manufactured in real time, and the speed of that fame often depends on how loudly one speaks against the government of the day.
But beneath much of this spectacle lies a quieter and more calculating ambition. Many of these critics are not merely challenging power. They are positioning themselves before it. Visibility becomes the signal to power. To be noticed is the first step. To be acknowledged by those in power is the next. In time the critic hopes to move from the margins of commentary to the inner circle of influence. What begins as public dissent gradually turns into an audition for relevance within the very establishment that is being criticised. The table of power, once described as the object of resistance, slowly becomes the destination. And when the invitation eventually arrives, the critic often discovers that the distance between condemnation and loyalty is shorter than it once appeared. In this sense Bwala is not an exception. He is a symbol. He represents a pattern that has become familiar in Nigerian public life. The critic becomes the adviser. The activist becomes the spokesperson. The fierce opponent becomes the loyal defender.
The transformation happens quickly.
Yesterday’s firebrand becomes today’s courtier, and power’s kept man. Power understands this psychology very well. Power rarely defeats its critics by argument alone. It defeats them by absorption. It offers recognition, proximity, and access. Slowly the critic discovers that it is easier to sit near power than to stand against it. The temptation is ancient. It is the temptation of the mess of porridge. The phrase comes from the biblical story of Esau who traded his birthright for a bowl of food. It is a story about the ease with which long term principles can be exchanged for immediate rewards. The bargain always appears small in the moment; but its consequences are immense. Political power understands this bargain. It knows that not every critic possesses a deep moral anchor. Some critics are merely waiting for the right invitation. When the invitation arrives the transformation begins. The language changes. The tone softens. The old speeches begin to disappear into the shadows of “context”. This is the tragedy of contemporary activism in Nigeria. It is not merely that activists eventually join governments. That in itself is not wrong. Democracies often require critics to enter institutions and attempt reform from within.
The tragedy lies in the absence of moral continuity.
A genuine activist carries the same moral compass into power. The principles remain constant even when the environment changes. The critic who becomes an official should still recognise the truths he once defended. But the new Nigerian activism often lacks this foundation. It is activism without philosophical roots. It is activism driven by visibility rather than conviction. The result is predictable. When the opportunity arrives, the transition into power requires a complete rewriting of previous positions. Words that once sounded like principles suddenly become inconveniences. This is precisely why the encounter between Bwala and Mehdi Hasan resonated across Nigerian social media. Hasan did not defeat Bwala simply by asking difficult questions. He exposed the fragile natture of opportunistic activism. Each old clip became a mirror reflecting the distance between past conviction and present loyalty. It was uncomfortable to watch because it forced Nigerians to confront the troubling questions. How many of our public critics truly believe what they say? Or are many of them simply rehearsing for their eventual entry into the corridors of power?
The truth is that many more Bwalas will emerge from the same political ecosystem. Nigeria’s media environment rewards loud criticisms. Political power rewards those who are willing to abandon criticisms at the right moment. The two forces feed each other in a quiet cycle. The activist builds fame by attacking the government. The government later recruits the activist to defend it. And the public watches the transformation with a mixture of amusement and disappointment. The deeper danger is that this cycle gradually destroys public trust. Citizens begin to suspect that every critic is merely negotiating a future appointment. Every passionate speech begins to sound like a job application.
When activism loses credibility, democracy itself becomes weaker. A country without trusted critics becomes vulnerable to unchecked power. This is why the tragedy of Daniel Bwala matters beyond the fate of one individual. It reflects a wider moral crisis in Nigeria’s political culture. A culture where visibility replaces principle. A culture where proximity to power becomes the ultimate measure of success. True activism requires something more difficult. It requires a moral anchor strong enough to resist the seduction of the table of power, and the courage to remain consistent even when consistency closes the door to opportunity. Such activists still exist. But they are increasingly rare. Until Nigeria rediscovers the value of principled dissent, the spectacle will continue. New voices will rise. They will speak loudly against power. They will gather followers and applause. And one by one many of them will eventually take their seats at the very table they once condemned.
