The United Nations environmental summit in Turkey raises a question that climate diplomacy has spent decades desperately avoiding: How much hypocrisy can an institution tolerate before its own existence becomes a political joke?
Turkey is hardly an innocent geographical backdrop. Under Recep Tayyip Erdoğan, the country has become increasingly authoritarian, concentrating power, marginalising dissent and treating democratic accountability as an inconvenient administrative detail. Its environmental record, meanwhile, has been marked by relentless development pressures, controversial mining projects, deforestation, ecological destruction and the persistent prioritisation of economic expansion over environmental protection.
And yet, here we are, preparing another grand international gathering where political leaders, corporate representatives, diplomats and environmental bureaucrats will presumably exchange carefully polished declarations about humanity's responsibility to protect the planet. The irony is not merely embarrassing. It is structural.
For decades, COP has developed into an extraordinary diplomatic ritual. Governments arrive with ambitious speeches, negotiate painfully diluted commitments, celebrate incremental progress and return home to confront the political inconvenience of actually implementing what they promised. Meanwhile, emissions continue, fossil fuel interests prosper, forests disappear and vulnerable communities are left holding the bill for a catastrophe they did remarkably little to create.
The summit becomes a theatre of environmental responsibility, while the real business of environmental irresponsibility continues outside its conference rooms.
Turkey's hosting should therefore become more than another diplomatic controversy. It should expose the fundamental contradiction of the entire COP process: Can a global institution genuinely defend the environment while allowing political prestige, economic interests and authoritarian convenience to dictate the conditions under which environmental responsibility is discussed?
The answer cannot simply be that every country is imperfect, or that diplomacy requires compromise. Of course it does. International cooperation cannot be conducted exclusively among environmental saints. But there is a difference between engaging imperfect governments and allowing the international legitimacy of the United Nations to become a decorative accessory for political regimes.
The UN does not need environmentally perfect hosts. It needs environmental credibility, institutional independence and the courage to confront governments whose policies undermine the very objectives they publicly endorse. Otherwise, these gatherings risk becoming travelling circuses of green rhetoric, where the expensive machinery of international diplomacy produces little more than photographs, promises and the occasional triumphant announcement about progress nobody can confidently measure.
The tragedy is that COP remains necessary. Climate change does not care about political ideology, national borders or diplomatic sensitivities. The planet cannot negotiate with atmospheric concentrations of carbon dioxide. Nor can collapsing ecosystems wait for another interminable argument about economic competitiveness. But necessity should not become an excuse for institutional complacency.
If COP wants to survive as something more than an annual exhibition of political hypocrisy, it must become brutally honest about its failures. Environmental commitments must be measurable, consequences must matter, fossil fuel lobbying must be confronted, and governments must stop confusing participation with achievement.
Turkey's summit could become another exercise in diplomatic self-congratulation. Or it could become an uncomfortable reminder that environmental diplomacy has reached a crossroads. Perhaps the most dangerous threat to COP is not the absence of another summit, but the growing suspicion that its existence has become more important than the survival of the planet it supposedly protects. That would be the ultimate environmental disaster: not the end of climate diplomacy, but its successful transformation into a magnificent international institution for talking about a world it has failed to save.
Democracy does not necessarily die when somebody storms a parliament. Sometimes it dies while everybody is applauding an election victory, convinced that the other half of the country has finally been defeated. The tragedy is that the ballot box can remain perfectly functional while the democratic soul quietly disappears.
There is something profoundly disturbing about the contemporary democratic spectacle. Elections are celebrated as victories for freedom, interpreted as defeats for civilisation, or treated as declarations of war against everything the opposing electorate represents. The winners arrive with the arrogance of historical destiny; the losers retreat into the language of catastrophe. Somewhere between the two, democracy itself becomes an unfortunate casualty of political entertainment.
The problem is not that democracies disagree. Disagreement is their oxygen. The problem is that disagreement has become increasingly existential. Political opponents are no longer simply wrong, misguided or incompetent. They are dangerous, illegitimate, corrupt, traitorous, or supposedly determined to destroy the country. Consequently, an election is no longer a mechanism for managing competing political preferences. It becomes a battlefield on which half the population believes the survival of the nation is at stake. And that is precisely where democratic fragility begins.
The traditional image of democratic collapse involves tanks, generals, emergency proclamations and the dramatic suspension of constitutions. It is an appealing image because it provides a clearly identifiable villain and a convenient moment when everything went terribly wrong. Modern democratic erosion is considerably more sophisticated, less cinematic and infinitely more dangerous.
Institutions can remain standing while their foundations are systematically undermined. Courts continue operating, elections continue taking place, legislatures continue debating, and constitutions continue gathering dust in respectable offices. Meanwhile, political leaders increasingly treat institutional restraints as personal inconveniences, independent officials as enemies, public administration as partisan property and accountability as an act of hostility. The machinery survives. Its democratic purpose deteriorates.
This is not exclusively an American problem, although the United States offers an exceptionally revealing laboratory. Across Europe and elsewhere, political movements have discovered the extraordinary advantages of presenting themselves as the exclusive representatives of the authentic people. Whoever opposes them is therefore not merely an alternative political constituency but an obstacle to the popular will.
The implication is brutally simple: if we represent the people, our opponents must somehow represent something less legitimate. Democracy becomes majoritarian absolutism, dressed in patriotic language. Yet the responsibility cannot conveniently be assigned only to populists, conservatives, liberals, nationalists or whichever political tribe currently irritates us most. The democratic disease flourishes when every political camp begins excusing its own excesses while condemning identical behaviour from the other side. Selective outrage is not democratic vigilance. It is partisan hypocrisy wearing constitutional clothing.
Nor should electoral victories be confused with institutional health. Winning an election demonstrates that a political coalition secured sufficient votes under the prevailing rules. It does not establish that its programme is wise, its leadership trustworthy, or its interpretation of the national interest universally legitimate. Democracy requires something more difficult than winning: accepting that victory does not confer ownership of the state.
The opposition must remain legitimate. Courts must remain independent. Journalists must remain free to investigate. Civil servants must remain capable of serving the public rather than political masters. Electoral losers must retain meaningful rights, and electoral winners must encounter meaningful limits. These are not irritating obstacles to democratic leadership. They are the very architecture that distinguishes democratic government from organised domination. Ultimately, the greatest danger is not that half the country occasionally loses an election. It is that half the country increasingly believes losing an election means losing its country.
When that conviction becomes permanent, political compromise begins resembling surrender, institutional restraint becomes sabotage, and constitutional loyalty becomes conditional upon electoral success. Democracy cannot survive indefinitely as a permanent referendum on the existence of its opponents. The ballot box is supposed to settle political arguments temporarily, not authorise permanent warfare against fellow citizens.
A democracy does not need everybody to agree. It needs everybody to accept that disagreement is not treason, victory is not ownership, and the state belongs to neither the government nor its enemies. Otherwise, the elections will continue, the flags will continue waving, the speeches will continue celebrating freedom, and democracy will slowly become the ceremonial name of something considerably less democratic.
And when that happens, the most dangerous political question will no longer be who wins the next election. It will be whether there is anything left worth winning.
Millions of young people, separated by oceans, languages, borders and political systems, suddenly discover that their anger speaks the same language. A hashtag becomes a gathering place, a smartphone becomes a political weapon, and a photograph of police brutality can travel further in ten minutes than an official government explanation can travel in ten days. Welcome to the global awakening. Unfortunately, somebody forgot to explain what happens the morning after the revolution goes viral.
Across continents, Generation Z is discovering the streets. From democratic discontent and economic inequality to corruption, climate injustice, authoritarianism and the arrogance of political elites, young people are increasingly refusing to accept the inherited arrangement. They are angry, politically conscious and, above all, unwilling to pretend that a broken system deserves their patience. Their protests are not isolated explosions of youthful frustration. They are symptoms of a deeper international crisis of political legitimacy. But there is a dangerous illusion developing around this awakening: the belief that visibility equals victory. It does not.
Social media has transformed political mobilisation. It allows young activists to organise rapidly, expose abuses, document repression and build solidarity across national boundaries. A protest in one country can inspire another before its government has finished preparing its statement of condemnation. Digital communication has broken the traditional monopoly of political institutions over information. The young no longer need permission from newspapers, television networks or party headquarters to make their voices heard. That is the revolutionary achievement.
The problem is that political power has also evolved. Governments, corporations and established political parties have learned to live with digital outrage. They know how to manage it, exploit it, distract from it and, when necessary, wait for it to disappear. They can tolerate millions of angry posts because anger, however justified, does not automatically become legislation, institutional reform or redistribution of power.
In fact, outrage has become remarkably convenient for the establishment. It creates the appearance of political participation without necessarily disturbing the machinery of government. Politicians issue carefully manufactured statements, promise investigations, announce consultations and occasionally sacrifice a minister whose political usefulness has expired. A few apologies, a commission of inquiry and an impressive collection of television interviews later, business resumes as usual. The protesters return home. The system remains in office.
This is where Gen Z faces its greatest political challenge. It is one thing to bring thousands into the streets; it is another to build an organisation capable of remaining there politically when the cameras disappear. Demonstrations can destabilise governments, but they cannot independently administer public services, rewrite labour legislation, reform judicial systems or construct durable democratic institutions. Anger can open the door. It cannot govern the house.
There is also a troubling contradiction within the digital generation itself. Activism increasingly rewards speed, emotional intensity and spectacular confrontation. Nuance is less attractive than indignation, compromise is frequently mistaken for betrayal, and political discussion can deteriorate into competing performances of moral superiority. Everyone wants to be heard. Far fewer appear interested in the tedious business of negotiating, organising and building coalitions.
Yet democracy is tedious by necessity. It requires patience, arguments, alliances, electoral participation, independent institutions and the willingness to accept imperfect victories while continuing to fight for better ones.
The answer is not to abandon digital activism but to take it beyond the screen. Youth movements need permanent organisations, independent funding, local community networks, legal support, policy expertise and credible political representation. They must develop demands that can be measured, monitored and enforced. They must learn to negotiate without surrendering their principles and participate in institutions without becoming prisoners of the political establishment they set out to challenge.
And perhaps most importantly, they must understand that solidarity cannot be manufactured through hashtags alone. International movements need to recognise their differences, respect local realities and resist the temptation to impose one universal political formula on societies with very different histories and struggles.
The older political generation should stop patronising young activists with speeches about inexperience. Experience is not automatically wisdom, particularly when decades of experience have produced inequality, environmental destruction, corruption and declining public trust. But Gen Z should also resist the romantic temptation to believe that being younger automatically makes its politics more democratic, inclusive or effective.
Every generation has its revolutionaries. Every revolution eventually encounters the accountants, administrators, lobbyists and professional survivors of the old order.
The real measure of this global awakening will not be the number of demonstrations, trending hashtags or spectacular photographs circulating online. It will be whether young people can turn their collective anger into lasting political influence, whether they can change laws, challenge economic monopolies, defend democratic institutions and make governments answerable to the citizens they supposedly represent.
Otherwise, the global awakening risks becoming another spectacular digital event, consumed by the same platforms that profit from keeping everyone permanently outraged. The revolution has already found its audience. It has found its cameras, its slogans and its international language.
Now it needs an organisation, a political programme and the courage to stay in the fight long after the algorithm has moved on. Because a revolution that trends for a week but changes nothing is not a revolution. It is entertainment for the powerful.
When history becomes a political weapon, borders stop separating countries and start imprisoning their people. Welcome to the Thailand–Cambodia border, where history is not merely remembered. It is repeatedly excavated, polished, weaponised and presented to the public as an emergency requiring permanent political attention.
The tragedy is that neither country is particularly short of real problems. Yet nationalism has an extraordinary capacity to make an imaginary historical victory appear more urgent than contemporary economic hardship, institutional corruption or political incompetence.
The Thai–Cambodian dispute is not simply a disagreement over geography. It is a demonstration of how history, when manipulated by political opportunists, can become an instrument of national paralysis.
The roots of this confrontation lie partly in the colonial cartography of French Indochina and the territorial arrangements inherited from the early twentieth century. Maps drawn under colonial administration became political ammunition for governments that inherited neither the colonial mentality nor the wisdom to leave its mistakes behind. The dispute surrounding the ancient Preah Vihear temple became the most visible symbol of this historical collision, despite the International Court of Justice ruling in 1962 that the temple belonged to Cambodia. But apparently, international law is considerably less exciting than a nationalist television broadcast.
For decades, competing interpretations of historical maps, sovereignty and territorial ownership have allowed politicians to transform geographical ambiguity into national humiliation. Each side has its own historical narrative, its own collection of grievances and its own domestic audience prepared to applaud anyone promising not to surrender an inch of national soil. The inconvenient question is whether the soil itself matters more than the political careers being cultivated around it. The answer is becoming increasingly uncomfortable.
The military confrontations of 2025 demonstrated how quickly a localised dispute could become a devastating regional crisis. Deaths, displacement, economic disruption and the destruction of trust were not abstract diplomatic inconveniences. They were the consequences of political failure. Yet even after ceasefire arrangements, the underlying confrontation has remained unresolved, with diplomatic relations deteriorating and negotiations struggling to regain momentum.
The maritime dimension makes the situation even more revealing. The overlapping claims in the Gulf of Thailand involve potentially valuable oil and gas resources. Here, historical nationalism meets commercial appetite. Sovereignty becomes a convenient banner behind which economic interests can march without having to explain themselves too carefully.
And what does ASEAN do? It demonstrates, once again, the limitations of a regional organisation whose commitment to non-interference can become an extraordinary excuse for institutional helplessness. Regional solidarity is wonderful in conference declarations. It becomes considerably less impressive when two member states threaten each other across a militarised frontier.
There is also an uncomfortable political symmetry. Neither Bangkok nor Phnom Penh can afford to appear weak. Nationalist sentiment has become a domestic political resource, and compromise risks being portrayed as betrayal. Governments that might otherwise negotiate rationally find themselves prisoners of the emotional machinery they have helped construct.
This is the real weaponisation of history: creating a political environment in which reason becomes treason and diplomacy looks suspiciously like surrender.
Meanwhile, ordinary people pay the bill. Border communities lose livelihoods, businesses lose customers, families lose security and generations grow up learning to distrust neighbours who share geography, commerce, culture and centuries of interconnected history. Nationalist politicians talk about defending civilisation while making everyday coexistence increasingly difficult.
There is something particularly ridiculous about two neighbouring countries treating an unresolved colonial boundary as though their entire national identities depend upon winning an argument over a line on a map. Modern states should possess something more sophisticated than inherited imperial paperwork and military posturing as the foundations of their foreign policy.
The solution is not mysterious. Resume meaningful bilateral negotiations, restore diplomatic communication, reactivate technical border-demarcation mechanisms, involve credible international legal processes and establish safeguards against military escalation. ASEAN must also demonstrate that regional cooperation means more than exchanging polite statements after another round of violence.
Neither country needs to abandon its historical memory. But both must stop confusing memory with ownership and patriotism with permanent confrontation. History should inform diplomacy, not dictate its imprisonment.
The Thai–Cambodian border will remain geographically where it is. The question is whether Bangkok and Phnom Penh can finally develop the political maturity to understand that national dignity is not measured in square kilometres, military deployments or the volume of patriotic shouting. A border is supposed to separate territories, not imprison the future.
And when politicians need yesterday's grievances to justify tomorrow's failures, it is not history that refuses to rest. It is political ambition that refuses to let it.
We leave traces Of ourselves behind, Pieces of our souls, Pieces of our lives; Everyone that has Ever lived and Everyone that Ever will live, Will all live and Die on this delicate Blue globe in the Black nothingness Of space.
I consider it all, And run a hand Over my stubbled Chin and drink A chilled wine, As ‘Solitary Man’ By Neil Diamond Crackles from An old record Player next to A bookshelf in My dusty Drawing Room.
I consider All my lost loves And future loves, And understand That our human Connections make Possible the absurdity Of existence as I finger A copy of ‘The Myth Of Sisyphus’ by Camus, And take another gulp Of white wine as I look through a Window observing The city below under A dying sun.
******************************* With a digital painting from Nikos Laios
Global Britain discovers geography, economics and the inconvenient reality of Europe. Britain's post-Brexit political theatre is entering its most revealing act: the quiet, increasingly desperate search for a European key to unlock a British economy that was promised the entire world. The November 2026 manoeuvres towards renewed agricultural and food-trade arrangements with the European Union, alongside the increasingly uncomfortable debate over participation in the emerging Made in Europe framework, are not simply technical adjustments. They are admissions. The empire of slogans has collided with the invoice of reality. And the invoice, unlike the Brexit referendum campaign, does not accept patriotic rhetoric as payment.
For years, Global Britain was sold as an intoxicating cocktail of imperial nostalgia, deregulation fantasies and diplomatic self-congratulation. Britain would become a nimble commercial predator, liberated from Brussels, rediscovering its maritime destiny while signing magnificent trade agreements across the planet. The European Union, supposedly a bureaucratic prison, would become yesterday's inconvenience. Westminster's political magicians promised sovereignty without sacrifice, prosperity without friction and international influence without the tedious necessity of belonging to anything. What followed was considerably less imperial.
Sovereignty, apparently, does not manufacture economic growth. Flags do not shorten customs queues. Parliamentary declarations do not make agricultural inspections disappear. And the ability to regulate oneself becomes rather less thrilling when exporters must comply with somebody else's regulations to access the largest nearby market.
Britain has discovered the fundamental distinction between political independence and economic interdependence. The former can be proclaimed from a podium; the latter is dictated by geography, supply chains, investment decisions and millions of ordinary transactions. The European Union did not need to punish Britain. It merely needed to remain the European Union.
The November reset is therefore less a diplomatic triumph than a confession disguised as commercial housekeeping. The proposed sanitary and phytosanitary agreement would remove much of the paperwork and inspection machinery imposed on food exports after Brexit, while requiring Britain to align dynamically with European standards. Its projected economic benefits are substantial, but the political symbolism is even greater: London is negotiating to dismantle barriers it enthusiastically erected.
And there lies the delicious irony. Brexit promised to liberate British business from European bureaucracy. Now British business is lobbying its own government to restore the regulatory arrangements that made European trade comparatively straightforward. The revolution has become a restoration project.
The Made in Europe question exposes an even deeper insecurity. Britain wants access to European industrial opportunities without being treated as an outsider, particularly as the continent develops strategies to protect strategic industries, manufacturing and clean technology. London understands perfectly well that exclusion from these arrangements could damage British manufacturing. It also understands that privileged access requires concessions, alignment and possibly financial contributions. This is not sovereignty disappearing. It is sovereignty meeting its economic limitations.
The more uncomfortable question is why Britain needed six years of unnecessary friction, expensive paperwork and political embarrassment to rediscover something obvious: neighbouring economies cannot prosper by pretending their proximity is irrelevant.
The United States, meanwhile, offers no permanent economic safety net. American administrations change, commercial priorities shift and strategic alliances increasingly resemble transactional arrangements. Betting Britain's economic future on Washington's goodwill while antagonising its nearest major trading partner was never a masterstroke. It was geopolitical wishful thinking dressed in a Union Jack.
Yet the political establishment remains terrified of speaking plainly. Rejoining the European Union is still treated by some as ideological treason, while closer alignment is packaged in euphemisms, carefully calibrated announcements and diplomatic language designed to prevent an encounter with the Brexit fundamentalists.
The Conservatives and Reform can scream betrayal until their vocal cords surrender. Their argument nevertheless faces an elementary question: betrayal of whom, exactly? British farmers? British manufacturers? British consumers? British workers whose livelihoods depend on functioning trade? A country does not demonstrate independence by making itself poorer.
Nor does regulatory alignment automatically mean surrendering democratic control. Britain can negotiate standards, shape agreements and determine its institutional relationship with Europe. But it cannot demand the economic benefits of integration while insisting that every shared rule constitutes tyranny. That is not sovereignty. That is childish entitlement with a diplomatic passport.
The real danger is that Westminster will settle for cosmetic reconciliation: enough cooperation to reduce immediate economic pain, insufficient courage to confront the structural damage Brexit inflicted. Britain could spend another decade negotiating exemptions, special arrangements and increasingly elaborate administrative bridges across a divide it created itself.
The November summit should therefore become something more consequential than a shopping list of agricultural concessions, electricity arrangements and mobility schemes. It should force an honest national conversation about Britain's European future.
Global Britain is not necessarily dead. But its imperial costume has fallen apart, revealing a considerably smaller country beneath it. The tragedy of Brexit was never simply leaving Europe. It was believing that geography, economics and political reality could be defeated by nostalgia. Britain is crawling back towards Brussels because reality has finally stopped accepting excuses. And reality, unlike Brexit mythology, has never been particularly interested in British exceptionalism.
Aderemi Oseni, the man contesting the Oyo South senatorial seat, has arrived in the city with a big bang. The way Remi Oseni is spending in politics makes the late MKO Abiola’s wealth look trifling.
After the era of Ahmadu Bello, Nnamdi Azikiwe, and Obafemi Awolowo, the trio who guided Nigeria to independence in 1960, money became the only way to win elections in Nigeria. Alhaji Tafawa Balewa, the first and the only Prime Minister was not rich, yet he became the nation’s prime minister. He had character. Sam Mbakwe first civilian governor of Imo State, was well educated but hardly could be called rich, yet he became the governor of Imo State. His stellar performance has not been equalled. Called the weeping governor because tears easily dropped from his eyes at the sight of human misery, Mbakwe returned to the University of Lagos after his tenure to take a PhD where he reportedly sat in the same class with his son.
Chief Emmanuel Oladipo Alayande, the longest serving principal of Ibadan Grammar School, Ibadan would seem to be the first of the old pack to be a victim of money politics. He was the anointed candidate of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, the leader of Unity Party of Nigeria (UPN) for the governorship of Oyo. But the ebullient and rich youth in the UPN opposed their leader and insisted on a primary. Awolowo succumbed to their suggestion and asked for a primary. Chief Bola Ige, a lawyer and former student of Alayande, won the primary.
When the press asked Chief Alayande why he lost, he told them hilariously: “ah those youths are very rich, I don’t have their kind of money.” Alayande said money helped Bola Ige’s victory. Among the disciples of Awolowo, mammon entered and determined the outcome. Alayande has produced many great Nigerians but was adjudged by the UPN members not to merit the governorship of Oyo State. The man who reportedly scuttled the late Chief Alayande’s political ambition, Alhaji Busari Adelakun, had no formal education and was reputed to be a thug.
Chief Alayande was disciplined and of impeccable character but was not deemed qualified to rule by a system that is based not on merit and competence but on cash. After one term in office, Chief Bola Ige himself was thrown out of power, not because he was not competent or not doing well, but by the same power of money from the nation’s capital in Abuja. A few years later, still in politics and the serving attorney general of the federation, he was murdered by the same money system in Ibadan, where he had earlier won the party primaries and governorship by the power of cash.
Ibadan, the political capital of the old Western Region where Awolowo demonstrated good politics and a great heart for service to the people, where by those policies the Yoruba leapt to the top and achieved such visibility in the world, is experiencing another leap in money politics. Aderemi Abass Oseni, the man contesting the Oyo South senatorial seat, has arrived in the city with a big bang. The way Remi Oseni is spending in politics makes the late MKO Abiola’s wealth look trifling.
Abiola won his presidency by the power of his money. Issues were not involved, Nigerians have grown to have little patience for issues but a large appetite for cash. When I think of the opponents of Remi Oseni in the current contest, I pity them - they just don’t have a jot of a chance. Odidiomo, the nickname of Remi Oseni’s major contender from Seyi Makinde’s Allied Peoples Movement (APM) is formidable but he can’t win. With Nigerians’ love for money, even if Seyi Makinde will open the Oyo State treasury for him, he will still stand no chance. In my opinion, Remi may be richer than Oyo State. Adedeji Dhikirullahi Stanley, commonly known as Odidiomo, APM senatorial candidate for Oyo South, is massively built but I don’t think that huge frame will deliver him. He said he had built four billion naira projects in the state and would be unveiling them one by one.
He said they were projects that would outlast the great grand children of his constituents, but the one I saw in the Ward 9 of his constituency in Kudeti was just a locally constructed bridge over a canal. The old one caved in a few months ago and the replacement is showing the same weakness as the old one. Odidiomo did not build the bridge, I think he just gave money to the locals who are more interested in their pockets than the welfare of the constituents, like their political bosses, to build the bridge. That bridge will not see the next rain fall.
Odidiomo is huge, but he has an elephant to contend with in his bid for the Senate. Remi has a tiny frame but his pocket is very deep. At a meeting of landlords in Ward 9 over the theft of the cables of their transformer, this writer suggested Remi Oseni as a person they can reach out to to bail the community out from the theft. The community, I told them, could not dream of raising the over two million naira estimated to put the transformer back to work. Otherwise the community will be in darkness forever.
The IBEDC, the disco in Ibadan whose duty is both to secure and maintain the transformer will not do it. IBEDC gives an estimated bill to the community in contravention of appropriate law, which means the community pays more than it should. The community is not deemed to merit pre-paid meter; that is for the rich. The government is not bothered because the community is poor and has no voice. But the timing is auspicious.
Politicians are desperately throwing themselves on the mercy of every citizen as they face election to return to power. After this writer made a case at the Ward 9 landlords’ meeting in Kudeti, Ibadan, for Hon. Remi Oseni to intervene over the stolen transformer cables, a lady rose to make an even stronger case for the honourable. She put the question of Remi Oseni’s wealth more starkly. Remi Oseni, she said in deep Yoruba, has money that is begging to be spent. “When people ask him for a million he gives them two, when they ask him for three million, he gives them five. When they asked him for fifty solar poles, he gave them 150.”
Remi Oseni does not believe a politician should have to stay away from his audience when he campaigns. He walks among the audience and touches the crowd. He likes to touch people and look into their eyes. When he notices a need, he treats the need specially.
He got to a girl and asked if she was in school. She was not in school because she left when her parents died. He promised the girl a million naira immediately to continue her education. According to politicians who followed the promise up, the girl received the money in a bank detail she produced the week after the promise. Political associates of Remi Oseni think his attitude of walking through his audience is because he is a Christian and is used to that style of preaching by pastors.
The danger of that style was soon revealed. Remi Oseni went to Ayeye, a popular market in Ibadan, and interacted with the traders there. He has done that for a long time. He has given 50 million naira interest-free loan to traders in Agbeni market and other markets. He was walking among the traders when political thugs came and began to shoot sporadically. They riddled the security van of Remi Oseni with bullets and shot so much that all the traders ran in different directions. Obviously the gunmen came for Remi Oseni but he was saved by the whiskers.
Will Oseni continue that style? It is not known yet. But he did not turn up for a meeting in Ward 9 of Oke Odo, Ibadan where a large reception was arranged for him. Both politicians and landlords in Ward 9 had marshalled a litany of needs for him to attend to when suddenly at about 4 pm, news came that he would not be coming and that he had sent a representative. But very discerning people think that he didn’t come because of the previous Ayeye market attack by hoodlums.
Oke Odo is known to have produced the notorious “one million boys” hoodlums who were feared all over Ibadan. They ruled and reigned in their areas and their leader, nicknamed “Ebila” was called Kabiyesi, a greeting usually reserved for Yoruba kings. Ebila was killed in a direct confrontation with soldiers in May 2020. Yet his gang, though depleted, is still visible in the area. Moreso, a controversy over the N250,000 donated by the gubernatorial candidate of Oyo State and the son of Ibadan, Senator Sharafadeen Alli of APC was raging in the area. The threat of violence was very palpable in the atmosphere. So people think Remi Oseni did not come because he feared for his safety and security.
Yet the representative of Remi Oseni promised two and a half million naira to the landlords and Imams, one million naira to the thugs euphemistically called youths, one million naira to the traders and one million naira to Isese, the traditional worshipers. The youths insisted on getting their promise immediately and when they received it by bank transfer the whole area erupted with youthful jubilation. The representative of Remi Oseni did not espouse any manifesto of Oseni or of Oseni’s party, APC. Of course nobody came to hear any manifestos, the party itself had none, everybody came to take the money Oseni had to give.
That has become the pattern. If you have money, you rule. If you have access to the treasury, whether you are the dumbest ass, people will vote for you. A few asked where Oseni made his money. Meta AI gave a hint about his construction company, Steep Development Company, but there are rumours that in his early years he worked for an engineering company that took a contract from a company that belonged to Steve Ajudua, a man alleged to have a reputation of pioneering advanced free fraud in Nigeria. Steve Ajudua read law at the University of Benin but did not practice.
Nobody is certain about the source of his wealth, but Oseni is certainly a big spender, and his wealth and the way he throws it around will constitute a threat to Sarafadeen even if Sarafadeen eventually becomes governor. Sarafadeen has a reputation for stinginess, which his campaign team does not think they should work on. Remi Oseni also wanted to become governor but had to step down for Sarafadeen by the intervention of President Bola Tinubu. The immediate victim of Remi Oseni’s wealth is Odidiomo as they collide in the upcoming election; his eventual victim will be Sarafadeen Alli, who might emerge governor.
First Published in METRO
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Tunde Akande is both a journalist and pastor. He earned a Master's degree in Mass Communication from the University of Lagos.
From television studios to football terraces, from Cyprus to Greece, the grotesque political resurrection of Ilias Kasidiaris is becoming another uncomfortable demonstration that while history does not necessarily repeat itself, stupidity certainly has an excellent memory.
There is something profoundly rotten about a democracy that spends years explaining why a dangerous political movement must be confronted, only to invite its most recognisable representatives back into the living rooms of ordinary citizens as though they were merely controversial entertainers. And there is something even more depressing about a media establishment that apparently cannot distinguish between political journalism and the rehabilitation of political extremism.
Ilias Kasidiaris, the former Golden Dawn figure convicted of participating in a criminal organisation and imprisoned, is once again sucking up attention, visibility and political oxygen. His reappearance in the public conversation, whether through television exposure, political manoeuvring, football-related spectacles, or the circulation of his image beyond Greece, raises a question that should embarrass every serious journalist: Have the Greek media learned absolutely nothing? Apparently not.
Kasidiaris is not some misunderstood provincial politician whose career was interrupted by an unfortunate administrative oversight. He was one of the most recognisable faces of a movement whose political identity was inseparable from authoritarian nationalism, violent intimidation and the glorification of Nazi symbolism. Golden Dawn was not simply another party with over-enthusiastic supporters and a bad taste in uniforms. Its criminal character was established by the Greek judiciary. The murder of Pavlos Fyssas, the violence against immigrants, and the systematic intimidation carried out by its members were not imaginary political inconveniences; they were documented crimes. Yet here we are again, watching the familiar machinery of publicity warm up.
The Greek media have a peculiar talent for turning political danger into television entertainment. Give them an inflammatory personality, a provocative statement, an outrageous gesture, or a carefully manufactured confrontation, and suddenly the studio lights come on. The presenter smiles, the cameras roll, the audience gets its spectacle, and the extremist gets precisely what he came for: recognition, legitimacy, and an audience larger than he could ever assemble through ordinary political debate.
The business model is embarrassingly simple. Controversy produces clicks. Anger drives ratings. Extremism, properly packaged, becomes prime-time entertainment. And somewhere inside this commercial circus, democratic responsibility quietly slips out the back door.
The problem is not that journalists should refuse to cover Kasidiaris. Democracies cannot operate through censorship, convenient silence, or the suppression of uncomfortable political realities. The problem lies in the distinction between reporting on an extremist and providing him with an uncritical platform for political rehabilitation. Journalism should interrogate, expose, contextualise, and challenge. It should not function as an unpaid public-relations firm for men whose careers depend on exploiting democratic freedoms while holding democratic values in utter contempt.
There is also a staggering contradiction at the heart of the Greek public conversation. Politicians, commentators and respectable citizens repeatedly declare themselves shocked by the rise of the far right, yet the very same political culture keeps feeding these personalities the publicity that makes their resurrection possible. Then everyone acts surprised when the monster walks back into the room.
From Greece to Cyprus, the circulation of such figures and their political mythology should alarm anyone who understands how easily national grievances, economic frustrations, and social anxieties can be weaponised into combustible nationalist theatre. The far right does not need an entire society to turn fascist overnight. It simply requires enough people to become indifferent, enough institutions to grow complacent, and enough media outlets to decide that another provocative headline matters more than democratic vigilance.
Football offers another convenient stage. Stadiums, tribal loyalties, posture-heavy masculinity, and nationalist symbols provide an emotionally charged environment where political extremism can disguise itself as cultural identity or patriotic enthusiasm. Naturally, not every football supporter is an extremist. But pretending that political movements do not exploit football culture is just another exercise in wilful blindness.
This is precisely where the Greek media deserve the sharpest criticism. They know the history. They know the judicial verdicts. They know the images, the violence and the political consequences. They know perfectly well what kind of toxic language is being recycled. Their responsibility is therefore greater, not smaller.
History may repeat itself, but it rarely does so without a nudge. Somebody has to open the door. Somebody has to switch on the cameras. Somebody has to decide that a convicted extremist deserves another round of publicity because it might boost the ratings.
Democracy is not merely the right to appear on television; it is the responsibility to defend the political conditions that make television, journalism, and freedom of speech possible in the first place.
Kasidiaris may well want to launch another political career. That is a matter for democratic institutions and the law. But the Greek media need to ask themselves whether they intend to remain journalists or become the marketing department for democratic self-destruction.
Because when fascism returns wearing a familiar face, the most dangerous idiots are not necessarily the ones cheering in the audience. They are the respectable people behind the cameras who insist they are merely doing their jobs.
When a country begins to fracture, the world does not necessarily hear the sound. Sometimes it simply stops listening.
Sudan is not merely bleeding. It is disintegrating, and the international community has perfected the art of watching a catastrophe become background noise. While diplomats rehearse their carefully sterilised vocabulary of ceasefires and negotiations, a country of extraordinary historical significance is being transformed into a collection of armed territories, competing loyalties and increasingly permanent warlord fiefdoms.
The November defections within the Rapid Support Forces (RSF) are not simply another military embarrassment for Mohamed Hamdan Dagalo, better known as Hemedti. They expose something considerably more dangerous: the possibility that Sudan's war is escaping even the control of those who started it. Senior commanders abandoning the organisation, tribal loyalties shifting, and regional alliances becoming increasingly transactional suggest a militia whose internal cohesion is deteriorating faster than the international appetite for dealing with Sudan. Recent defections have exposed deep fractures within the RSF's tribal alliances and its family-centred command structure.
And here lies the tragedy. A collapsing central authority does not necessarily produce peace. It produces vacancies, and vacancies in Sudan are invitations to armed entrepreneurs.
The RSF was never a conventional army held together by national purpose or constitutional loyalty. It was an instrument of power built around patronage, money, tribal networks and violence. Its expansion depended on the ability to distribute spoils, reward commanders and maintain an uneasy coalition of armed interests. Now that battlefield losses, economic pressures and competition over resources are undermining that arrangement, the cracks are becoming political geography.
Sudan is consequently drifting towards something more insidious than a conventional partition. The country may retain its name, its flag and its diplomatic representation while losing the substance of national sovereignty. The Sudanese Armed Forces dominate the eastern and central territories, while the RSF consolidates its grip over much of Darfur and parts of Kordofan. Parallel administrations, competing financial arrangements and separate systems of territorial control are creating the foundations of an increasingly entrenched division. But maps are the least important casualties of this fragmentation. People are.
For millions of Sudanese, national unity has become an abstract luxury compared with the immediate realities of hunger, displacement, sexual violence, ethnic persecution and the daily struggle to survive. Entire communities are being uprooted, while the destruction of homes, livelihoods and local institutions makes eventual reconciliation increasingly difficult. A partition imposed through exhaustion and violence would not resolve these grievances. It would institutionalise them. And what exactly is the international community doing?
Issuing statements. Organising conferences. Expressing profound concern. Occasionally remembering Sudan when another atrocity becomes too grotesque to ignore.
The hypocrisy is particularly infuriating because this war is not sustained by Sudanese weapons alone. External supply networks, regional rivalries and foreign political calculations have repeatedly helped the belligerents preserve their capacity to fight. The international response continues to resemble a fire brigade negotiating access while somebody keeps pouring petrol into the building. Accusations concerning external support remain politically contested, but the broader reality of an internationalised conflict is impossible to dismiss.
The RSF's fragmentation should therefore not be mistaken for an opportunity to celebrate military collapse. A fractured militia can become several militias, each more local, more unpredictable and less accountable. Commanders who abandon Hemedti may simply discover another patron, another revenue stream or another population to terrorise. Defection is not democracy. Nor is the defeat of one armed organisation automatically the liberation of the people it has brutalised. Sudan deserves better than the cynical choice between competing military dictatorships.
It needs a civilian political settlement, humanitarian access without military manipulation, serious restrictions on external weapons supplies, accountability for atrocities and a reconstruction process that restores institutions rather than merely replacing uniforms at government buildings.
The danger is that the world will eventually accept partition as realism. That is how forgotten partitions become permanent: first as an emergency arrangement, then as an administrative convenience, finally as an irreversible political fact.
Sudan is not an inconvenient African problem waiting patiently for the next diplomatic calendar. It is a warning about what happens when armed power becomes more valuable than citizenship, when international interests outweigh human lives, and when exhaustion is mistaken for peace. The warlords may eventually divide Sudan between themselves.
The real question is whether the world will help the Sudanese people reclaim their country, or quietly congratulate itself for having stopped paying attention.
