The next step, Mr Governor

As I was saying, the demystification of governance or political power is a good thing; a very good thing. Democracy is an open form of government in which the ruler and the ruled are linked by a common bond of service. It does not admit of master-servant relations because one gives power; the other holds it in trust.

There are two obvious consequences where this is absent. One, the ruler is distanced from the ruled and tends to place himself over and above the people, thus ruling with a lethal combination of intimidation and, to borrow from Mr Governor, Babajide Sanwo-Olu, “executive arrogance.” And two, it negates the spirit of power sharing inherent in the concept of democracy being the government of people, by the people and for the people.

Demystifying power is much more complicated than a state governor ditching the title of excellency in favour of the very ordinary honorific to which all adult males are entitled: Mr. Still, his action at this time may be a step forward in chipping away at the granite of self-importance made possible by our culture and tradition. Mr Aper Aku chipped at it; Dr Babangida Aliyu chipped at it and Babajide Sanwo-Olu too has taken his axe to the granite. I hold my breath.

The action of the three men present us with a radical narrative in the concept of political power as an opportunity for service, not lordship. It is unlikely that we would wake up one morning to find that all our state governors have transformed themselves into simply Mr. We would most likely dismiss it as fake news. But things do change and a country such as ours hooked on miracles, should expect miracles always. These steps, small and perhaps insignificant as they are, give us the courage to question the arrogance of power and its place in our concept of governance.

Anyone who wants to demystify power must take into consideration something that has become a hardened tradition among the political class and consequently, has a strong hold on our national psyche. We have passed through two phases in our national development, namely, the colonial period and the long years of military rule. Both have inevitably left their detritus on our national psyche. Excellency, distinguished and honourable were titles inherited from the British colonialists and domesticated and given a new social weight and importance in the land. By their titles, we shall know them.

Of the two phases, the military phase of our tortuous journey into transforming this mere geographical entity into a nation is the more pernicious in the context of this narrative. It left us with the physical expression of political power – the ubiquitous presence of the gun as the unquestionable symbol of power and how powerful those who wield it are. The military governors moved in long motorcades attended by all manner of security personnel. It is the crass face of the institution, of course. Military means the power of the gun.

This level of power show was understandable because the military institution rests on naked show of power – with the gun, of course. It was important for state military governors to demonstrate this, if only to impress it upon the bloody civilians not to joke with the men with the legitimate professional right to the monopoly of violence.

It has been 20 years since the military left the scene, permitting the civilians to do what they would with democracy. It seems to me that nothing has changed in the power show by our men and women in public offices. Our political leaders at all levels now live and move in fortified cages of security. Their ear-piercing sirens announce their formidable presence attended by gun-totting security men and women as they move from point A to point B. A state governor visiting his friend down the road is a sight to behold – a long motorcade complete with state of the art jeeps and saloon cars and other exotic vehicles with a formidable cast of security men in full battle gear. No, it is not a war; just a casual visit to a friend down the road. Think of the sheer waste of human and material resources for no better reason than that the show must go on.

Government houses and offices are out of bound to the people, the ordinary people whose votes put the governors there in the first place. You just cannot pass through the intimidating phalanx of security men wielding various makes of guns because you need to see his excellency,  whose continued friendship you take for granted. But the level, as they say, don change.

I can think of a few things, if any worse, than the separation of the people from their rulers by the gun. The gun is not a harmless walking stick. It is a killer instrument. Getting rid of the visible presence of the gun around our political leaders is a necessary process towards the demystification of political power.

A ruler should not be so afraid of his people that he fences them out with security men armed to the teeth to protect him from them. I suppose this is not just about personal fear. It is about the first law in nature – staying alive. It would be foolish to argue that the security of our political office holders is not important or necessary. It is. Evil men lurk around. And because of them, the AK47 must announce its threatening presence wherever a ruler goes, within and outside his official residence.

The gun, here and elsewhere, has demonstrated its capacity to protect the ruler from all harm. But I have heard it said that the people rather than the gun are the real security cordon around a ruler. This can only happen on one condition: the ruler must earn the respect and the trust of his people. I doubt that a ruler who prides himself on “executive arrogance” can ever condescend to think of the people as his real protectors. He would rather rely on any number of AK47 and other killer instruments in the hands of security men and women.

We must fully and unconditionally protect our political leaders at all levels. But if we must engage in the narrative of demystifying political power, then we must borrow a leaf or two from how other countries protect their civilian leaders without so much show of power and the intimidation of the people. Ever seen uniformed policemen and soldiers attending to the security of the British prime minister, the queen, the German chancellor or the American president? The British prime minister moves with only one motor cycle outrider and a back up vehicle. The last time I was in Accra, Ghana, the country’s president had no more than one motor cycle outrider and one back up car. Yet, the security men detailed to protect them are there in full force, all fully armed. They are conspicuous by being invisible.

Those countries and others, including some third world countries such as Ghana with a history of military rule like ours, operate on the principle that the show of power is a hollow ritual of “executive arrogance.” I just hope that it should be possible for Sanwo-Olu to take another step in the demystification of power by ensuring that a) he cuts down the number of security men and women attending to him 24/7 and b) he opts for his security men and women to do their job in mufti and with concealed weapons. It seems to me that too much security presence makes a ruler afraid of his own shadow. Or, as we say in Agila, the foot steps of a cat sound to him like an army on the march.

If Mr Governor does a) and b) above, he would not be less protected than he is now. But he would lead the rest of their excellences in the demystification of power by example and turn “executive arrogance” into executive modesty and humility. It would be one small step for Lagos State but a huge stride for our dear, dear country.