The Nigerian Senate once again made international headlines on March 6th, 2025—not for passing a groundbreaking bill, resolving insecurity, or proposing a path out of economic despair, but for a sordid drama so outrageous it left the nation simultaneously laughing, cringing, and despairing.
In the red chamber that should be reserved for serious democratic business, a full-fledged altercation unfolded between Senate President Godswill Akpabio and Senator Natasha Akpoti-Uduaghan, transforming the Upper House into an emotionally charged theatre of personal vendettas, wounded pride, and (yet again) alleged sexual misconduct.
It began, quite ridiculously, over a chair. Natasha, who had returned to find her seat reassigned, refused to comply. Instead of moving, she dug in her heels like a defiant monarch whose throne had been usurped. Akpabio, armed with the rulebook and the authority of his office, refused to recognize her. From there, the drama snowballed into a screaming match, and then exploded into something far more sinister.
The bombshell? Natasha alleged that Akpabio had been deliberately silencing her ever since what she cryptically referred to as the “nightclub incident.” Then, like a seasoned performer in a courtroom soap opera, she declared: “You tried to sleep with me!”
The chamber erupted. The media went into a frenzy. And Nigerians, starved of governance but fed a steady diet of political spectacle, braced for what was clearly not the first time such allegations had been lobbed at the Senate President.
Because this isn’t Akpabio’s first rodeo.
Back in 2020, the then-acting Managing Director of the NDDC, Dr. Joy Nunieh, accused him of trying to cross similar lines—this time behind the closed doors of his ministerial office. She claimed she slapped him in self-defense, and then, like so many women before and after her, was swept aside by the machinery of silence. There was no investigation. No consequences. Just political reshuffling.
Now, the same accusations rise again—from a senator on the floor of the Senate. So the question must be asked: How many more women will it take before Nigerians stop treating these allegations as sideshows?
But in the midst of calling out Akpabio’s behavior, we must not fall into the trap of romanticizing Natasha’s resistance.
There is something disturbingly strategic about her outburst. If, as she claims, Akpabio made such an advance, and if that act was as inappropriate and coercive as she suggests—then why allow it to linger for this long without action? Why sit on such a serious accusation until it could be weaponized in a dramatic, politically advantageous moment?
Let us be clear: victims of harassment must be protected and heard. But justice demands action, not performance. Natasha is not an intern. She’s not powerless. She is a senator of the Federal Republic. She has access to legal channels, the media, and the moral platform to act. If the Senate President truly tried to exploit his power, she owed it not just to herself but to every woman navigating Nigeria’s male-dominated power structures to raise the alarm immediately—not when it’s politically convenient or emotionally combustible.
Instead, she allowed the rot to fester until it served her narrative, and now, amid the theatrics, the truth—whatever it may be—is buried under a pile of political calculations.
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And what of Akpabio?
The once-dignified image of a statesman is now shredded by repeated allegations of inappropriate conduct, vindictiveness, and chauvinism. How many more public offices will he ascend before the system decides character matters? How many taxpayer-funded offices have served as backdrops for his rumored flirtations? How many women has he embarrassed, stifled, or sidelined? If even a fraction of what is said about him is true, then the red chamber has become not a Senate, but a sanctum for unchecked power and sexual entitlement.
Let’s not kid ourselves—Akpabio didn’t invent this culture. He is merely its current poster boy.
Across party lines and positions, Nigerian politics is rife with men who view their office not as a tool for national service, but as a harem of influence—where women are evaluated not by policy contributions but by proximity to power. This is a space where patronage replaces performance, and where the presence of a woman in the Senate is treated not as a victory for inclusion, but a temptation to be managed.
That is the real tragedy.
So while Akpabio should absolutely be held accountable for the culture he embodies, the entire system that enables and normalizes this behavior must also be dismantled. That begins by stopping the normalization of silence, and rejecting the performative feminism that only emerges when it is politically convenient.
Natasha’s speech struck a chord, not because it was brave, but because it was late. It raised a necessary question: how many women are playing along in silence, waiting for their moment to strike back with the very information they should have used to clean up the system in the first place?
We must demand more from both women and men in power. Because while Akpabio may allegedly abuse power, Natasha may be guilty of selectively confronting it. And both forms of irresponsibility weaken our institutions and insult the Nigerian people.
Meanwhile, real issues—like fuel subsidies, economic collapse, youth unemployment, and banditry—remain unaddressed. But of course, there’s no time to govern when one is busy fighting turf wars, defending bruised egos, and airing dirty laundry on national television.
In the end, we are left with no heroes in this story, only performers.
Akpabio and Natasha have shown us what happens when personal grievance overtakes public duty. When the Senate becomes a stage and legislators become actors, the citizens become the forgotten audience—watching, suffering, waiting for the plot to finally change.
But if this is the new standard for political engagement, then let’s at least be honest: the Nigerian Senate is no longer a democratic institution. It’s a drama series. And the scriptwriters are all high on impunity.
The only question that remains is: how much more of our national dignity are we willing to trade for the entertainment of elite irresponsibility?
Because while the rest of the world legislates for progress, Nigeria’s lawmakers continue to chase microphones, grudges, and each other.
Welcome to Senate Circus. Season Two is already writing itself.
