Wike and the convenient theology of Karma

Then, as the fable goes, the python that was warmed in the bosom decided the bosom looked rather tasty.

While other ministers like Bolaji Abdulahi chose honor over opportunism—resigning rather than attacking their political benefactors—Wike saw an opportunity and grabbed it like an Ikwerre wrestler with both hands, a few teeth, and possibly a stepladder. He didn't just leave Amaechi's camp; he attempted to demolish it, set it on fire, and salt the earth where it stood. He was like the proverbial house rat that told the bush rat that there is fish in the basket. The man who owed his political existence to Amaechi turned around and tried to upend the very cart he'd ridden to prominence.

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And now, this same Wike—with the self-awareness of a brick and the irony detection capabilities of a stone—stands before Nigerians preaching about the spiritual laws of karma?

The sheer brazenness is almost admirable. Almost certainly.

Again, Wike's newfound spiritual sensitivity is particularly entertaining given his current predicament with Governor Siminalayi Fubara, his own handpicked successor. Watching Wike complain about being betrayed by Fubara is like watching a seasoned con artist cry about being scammed—you feel like applauding the poetic justice while simultaneously mourning the toll on innocent bystanders.

The royal rumble in Rivers State has turned governance into a spectator sport, with the people of Rivers State as unwilling audience members forced to watch their state's resources fund an ego wrestling match.

But here's where Wike's selective amnesia becomes truly spectacular: his complaint isn't just that Fubara betrayed him, but that this betrayal is somehow cosmically unjust, worthy of divine retribution. He's essentially arguing that he should be exempt from the very karma he's now weaponizing against others. It's the political equivalent of an arsonist complaining about fire safety violations.

The minister claims that governors supporting "betrayers" will face immediate rebellion from their successors—"not months like mine, but immediately!" One almost hears the petulance: "At least MY political son waited a few months before stabbing me! These other ungrateful children won't even give you that courtesy!" It's the complaint of a man who wants credit for being betrayed slightly less quickly than others might be.

To be fair—and one must occasionally be fair, even when satire beckons—Wike has delivered results. His work in Rivers State was transformative; his current efforts in Abuja show a man who understands infrastructure and gets things done. His candor is refreshing in a political landscape filled with mealy-mouthed platitudes, and yes, his dance steps at political events bring a certain joie de vivre to Nigerian politics that we didn't know we needed.

But none of this—not one bridge built, not one road paved, not one excellently executed azonto move—gives him the moral authority to lecture anyone about loyalty.

At least when Amaechi turned against Odili, the world understood why. The "K-leg" dance, the electoral robbery attempt, the systemic effort to deny him his mandate—these provided context, however messy. But Wike's betrayal of Amaechi? What grand injustice precipitated that spectacular display of ingratitude? What cosmic wrong demanded such earthly retribution? The silence is deafening.

Wike cannot accuse anyone of disloyalty without four fingers pointing back at him—and those fingers aren't just pointing, they're wagging, they're doing the Makossa, no, a Rumba Stylee and they're performing an entire interpretive dance about hypocrisy.

The tragedy in all of this isn't just Wike's breathtaking lack of self-awareness—Nigerian politics has long since built immunity to that particular pathogen. The tragedy is that real people in Rivers State are suffering while their former and current governors engage in this expensive, destructive proxy war. Governance has taken a back seat to vendetta; development has been sacrificed on the altar of ego.

So here we stand, witnesses to a master class in political projection, as a man who betrayed his benefactor now trembles with fury at being betrayed by his beneficiary. The gods of karma, if they exist, must be laughing—or perhaps they're taking notes for their next comedy special.

When karma comes calling—and oh, she always does—she won't need to consult the gods of the land. She'll simply review the tapes, check the receipts, and present you with an itemized bill for services rendered.

The spiritual laws of karma are indeed undefeated. Perhaps Minister Wike should have considered that before enrolling in such an enterprise in the times past.