[OPINION]
By Bagudu Mohammed
Social media has turned into a theater of ridicule this week, with screenshots of former Ekiti Governor Ayodele Fayose declaring he would never accept an appointment from President Bola Tinubu now being paraded beside news that he has been named Chairman of the Rural Electrification Agency.
He has not publicly rejected it, and the timing has made the moment deliciously awkward for his critics and supporters alike.
The embarrassment was so sharp that even Senator Shehu Sani tried to do some window-dressing, framing it as a “suitable” role for a grassroots politician who can reach rural communities. But that is not the real conversation. The real conversation is about why we keep doing this to ourselves.
We are human, and only almighty God enjoys the luxury of never changing. The problem is not that people change their minds. The problem is the theater of certainty that Nigerian politicians love, the loud, unprovoked, ego-driven declarations made when no one asked, when no gun was to their head.
It is pride dressed as principle. And every time it happens, it feeds the dangerous idea that politics is a place where truth is disposable, where conviction is a costume you wear for applause and discard when circumstances shift.
Psychologists call this “cognitive rigidity under ego threat,” the need to assert dominance and self-importance in the moment, even at the cost of future flexibility.
Harvard scholar Daniel Goleman, in his work on emotional intelligence, warns that leaders who speak from ego rather than self-awareness often trap themselves, because they mistake loudness for strength and permanence for integrity.
This is why the public is confused about what integrity even means in leadership. Integrity is not the absence of change. It is the presence of humility and the courage to admit that time, new facts, and new responsibilities can legitimately alter a position. Politics does not have to be noise. It does not have to be a contest to see who can sound most uncompromising.
The rush to make absolute pronouncements, to please a crowd or win a headline, has cost many leaders their moral credibility.
As the ancient Stoics taught and as modern behavioral research confirms, restraint in speech is a mark of wisdom. The girl who tells a suitor “I will never marry you because you are ugly” could have said “I am not interested” and kept her dignity intact. Interest is fluid.
It bends with new information, with readiness, with perspective. But an absolute closes the door and invites the whole village to become judges later, asking, “What has changed? You said never.”
Nigerians have seen this movie before, and the lead actors keep changing but the script remains. Nasir El-Rufai, who projects the image of a technocrat with steel principles, once told the world in Hausa, in a video now in the public record: “You became a minister at forty-three and after twenty years then you become a minister at sixty-three?
What of your children and younger brothers? Will they not become ministers? Is the position meant for you alone? I don’t like this. Let go of this topic. Thank God I was lucky that I became Minister of Abuja when I was forty-three.
Next year I will clock sixty-three. Then I will go back. So, nobody among my younger brothers and children is capable of becoming a minister? You fail when you fail to train those to succeed you.”
At another forum in Abuja he added, “I’m too old for this. I’m too old for demolition, get a young man with blood in his veins or a young woman… I never repeat class.” Then came the nomination, and then came the explanation about being begged to serve. The question is simple: why make the declaration at all if you knew life could ask something different of you?
Nigeria’s political history is littered with such reversals, and they are rarely done under duress. Nyesom Wike swore he was done with federal appointments after leaving Rivers State in 2023, only to accept the FCT Minister role months later, saying he wanted to “fix Abuja.”
Rotimi Amaechi said he was tired of politics, yet contested for the presidency under ADC in 2026. He also said that he would never accept the position of Vice President, let alone serve as Atiku Abubakar’s running mate.
Adams Oshiomhole retired from elections after being APC Chairman, then returned to win a Senate seat to “help Tinubu succeed.” Godswill Akpabio insisted he only wanted to represent his district, then became Senate President.
Femi Fani-Kayode called the APC a party of liars, then joined it for “national unity.” Dave Umahi said PDP was home, then defected citing marginalization, and later became Minister of Works. Ben Ayade defended PDP to the last, then crossed over with his entire structure.
Even Goodluck Jonathan, after reports of a one-term agreement in 2011, sought re-election in 2015, arguing that Nigerians asked him to.
And Bola Tinubu himself spent years as the ultimate kingmaker insisting he preferred to build others, until “Emi Lokan” rewrote the story. Political science calls this “strategic adaptability” or “office-seeking behavior,” where ambition, party dynamics, and the calculus of power often override prior rhetoric.
But when the reversal is preceded by moral grandstanding, the public feels betrayed, not enlightened.
Yet the most humbling examples are not in politics at all. They are in love, family, and ordinary life, where certainty collapses quietly. Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton divorced in 1974 convinced it was over, then remarried a year later. Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez walked away in 2004, lived entire other lives, then found their way back two decades later.
Steve Jobs denied his daughter Lisa, then spent his last years repairing that bond. C.S. Lewis buried his faith after his mother’s death, lived as an atheist, then through reflection became Christianity’s most eloquent modern voice. George Clooney said marriage was behind him, until Amal changed his mind.
Similarly, Oprah said she never wanted children, then mothered thousands through her school and mentorship. Michael Jordan retired in 1993, said he was done, then returned with “I’m back” and three more rings.
In our homes the pattern repeats: the husband who vowed never to forgive, the daughter who swore never to call her parents, the friends who said they could never do business together, the exes who learned to co-parent.
Life teaches what political science professor Jon Elster calls “adaptive preference formation”. We revise our desires when new realities arrive, and that is not weakness, it is growth.
All of this points to one stubborn truth: the future is not ours to lock down. People evolve, contexts shift, wounds heal, priorities mature.
To say “I will never” or “over my dead body” is to pretend we can see around the corner. Emotional intelligence demands that we hold convictions without welding the door shut.
As leadership scholar Ronald Heifetz argues, adaptive leadership requires the ability to distinguish between core values and tactical positions, and to change the latter without betraying the former. The wisest leaders speak with room for grace, because time, persuasion, and necessity may one day knock.
So the question remains, especially for those who want to lead: if we know that circumstances can change us, what is the point of making absolute, unnecessary declarations in the first place, then turning around to ask for trust as if words were never spoken?
The deeper trouble is that the same people who offer excuses for breaking their own public pledges still demand to be believed as symbols of fairness, truth, and consistency.
But trust is not built on perfection. It is built on modesty, on the quiet courage to say “for now” instead of “never,” on the wisdom to let tomorrow have its say. Because rigidity belongs to God, and humility belongs to man. And in the space between the two, that is where leadership, and life, actually happens.
Bagudu can be reached via bagudumohammed15197@gmail.com or 07034943575.
