Let us eat the eggs, not the chicken: An open epistle to President Bola Ahmed Tinubu
By Anthony Kila
Dear Mr. President
There is hidden wisdom in everyday language that often escapes the grand heights of power. “Let us eat the eggs, not the chicken,” is one such saying. It warns against cravings that sacrifice the future to enjoy the present; against impatience that ruins tomorrow’s sustenance just to feel full today. It isn’t an argument against enjoying life or achieving success. Instead, it advocates for restraint, foresight, and responsible management.
I write to you, Mr. President, as you very well know, not as an enemy, not as a partisan heckler, and certainly not as a romantic about politics. I write as a teacher and as a student of the commonwealth management who believes that leadership is not merely about winning battles but about choosing which weapons should never be used, even when victory seems assured.
At this moment in Nigeria’s political life, a striking phenomenon is unfolding. Over thirty state governors and their legislators have either switched to the ruling party or publicly declared allegiance to your presidency. In raw and simple political terms, this may appear as consolidation. To loyal supporters, it feels like validation. To party strategists, it is seen as a victory. Yet to the dispassionate observer—and to history, which is never sentimental—this seems less like organic consensus and more like institutional imbalance.
History is unkind to moments of excessive uniformity. Not because unity is bad, but because coerced or opportunistic unity hollows out meaning. A democracy where power faces no meaningful resistance begins to confuse applause with approval and silence with consent. Such a system may feel stable in the short term, but it becomes brittle in the long run.
Let us imagine, for a moment, an extreme hypothetical in your favour. Let us assume you are the best leader Nigeria has ever produced, and perhaps even the best the world has ever seen. Let us assume your policies are flawless, your intentions pure, your judgment impeccable, and your impact universally beneficial. Even then, Mr. President, over 80 per cent political support from elected leaders would still be troubling in any sane society. For politics is not theology. Leaders are not gods. And agreement, when it approaches unanimity, stops being evidence of excellence and starts becoming evidence of fear, convenience, or calculation.
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In truth, of course, your administration—like all human administrations—operates in a realm of imperfection. You have not eradicated malaria. You have not eliminated poverty. You have not abolished corruption, let alone baldness or obesity. You have not simplified life for the average Nigerian in the immediate sense. Your signature achievements, even as acknowledged by your most loyal supporters, are difficult and painful reforms—some necessary, some overdue, some courageous, but all requiring sacrifice. To your more charitable critics, these reforms are well-meaning but poorly executed; to your harsher critics, they favour markets abroad and theories discussed in Washington and Davos while leaving ordinary Nigerians with decreasing purchasing power and heavier daily burdens.
This is precisely the sort of context where debate and vigorous opposition are not just healthy but vital. Major reforms require discussion. Difficult transitions need clarification. Societies endure difficult times not by suppressing disagreement but by organising it and demanding its creative, responsible, and lawful expression.
This is why the current rush to your side raises uncomfortable questions. What motivates this sudden enthusiasm? Why now? Why in this way? It is difficult—perhaps even intellectually dishonest—to ignore the possibility that too many of those leaving are not driven by love for policy coherence or shared ideological beliefs, but by anxiety. Anxiety about relevance. Anxiety about access. Anxiety about survival. Please indulge me, Mr. President, in reminding you that politics motivated by survival instincts rarely leads to courage, and almost never results in statesmanship.
Let us be clear, for the record, that I fully recognise the right of individuals to change political parties. That right is fundamental to democracy. But democracy is not only about rights; it is also about character. And here the contrast is stark. Many of those now flocking to your camp do not resemble you.
You, Mr. President, are a study in something increasingly rare: loyal opposition. You stood outside power when it was uncomfortable. You resisted the temptation to conform easily. You endured times when even those benefiting from your political efforts were unkind, dismissive, or ungrateful. You did not abandon opposition because it was inconvenient; you refined it. That history forms part of your moral authority. It is also what makes the current spectacle particularly ironic.
Even this worry about individuals is minor compared to the bigger problem: the health of our democratic institutions. Democracies rely not just on good intentions but on established norms, precedents, and checks and balances. When opposition collapses—not simply through election losses but through widespread defection—democracy begins to lose its internal discipline. In such cases, power stops engaging with ideas and instead simply absorbs people.
This is where the discipline of custodial leadership becomes essential. Custodial leadership understands that power is borrowed, not owned. It asks questions that are unfashionable in moments of triumph: What am I weakening by strengthening myself? What precedents am I setting? What tools am I leaving behind, and who might use them next?
Even if we assume—again, generously—that you are motivated by noble intentions, acting under significant pressure, and that the current context appears to justify today’s consolidation, history does not grant exemptions for good motives. Consequences unfold with ruthless indifference to the past circumstances. Structures persist long after intentions are forgotten.
My deepest fear, Mr. President, is not about you. It is about the unknown leader who might succeed you. A foolish leader. A reckless leader. A cynical or even malevolent leader. That person could inherit the precedents being normalised today and use them not for reform, but for repression; not for stability, but for domination. What is manageable in the hands of a competent leader can become catastrophic in the hands of an unworthy one.
There is also an intellectual and civic cost to this wave of conformism, which is of personal concern. It impoverishes our ability to teach politics properly. How do we explain the role of opposition to future generations when opposition hardly exists? How do we teach ideology, civic ethics, and the moral duties of citizenship when politics becomes merely a scramble for proximity to power? How do we foster a sense of public good when personal survival becomes the primary organising principle?
Mr. President, I recognise that roads must be built, hospitals repaired, and elections won. These are significant achievements. However, they are not the ultimate test of leadership. The real challenge is institutional. Did you leave the institutions stronger? Did you preserve the conditions for disagreement, accountability, and renewal? Did democracy exit your tenure with its backbone intact?
Your true legacy will not be measured by how many governors praised you, but by the strength of the systems that can challenge your successors.
I therefore urge you—firmly but respectfully—to go beyond the immediate comfort of overwhelming support and work deliberately for the survival of a vibrant opposition. Not as a favour to your critics, but as an act of enlightened self-interest. This is what I call self-generosity. A leader confident enough to tolerate opposition appears strong. A victory achieved without opposition appears suspicious. A victory achieved against opposition appears noble and legitimate.
Mr. President, let us enjoy the eggs. Let us relish the fruits of electoral success, policy momentum, and political authority. But let us not kill the chicken. For when the chicken is gone, there will be no eggs tomorrow—and history, unlike party loyalists, does not applaud or understand. It judges.
I send you my warm greetings, which you know are informed and sincere.
Anthony Kila
