By Anthony
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There is a new theatre in Nigeria’s political drama: loud, flamboyant, intoxicating, and deeply revealing. It is the spectacle of grown men: men of means, men of influence, men who have built empires out of grit and audacity suddenly recasting themselves as “boys.” Not boys by age. Not boys by innocence. But “boys” by allegiance.
Welcome to the curious phenomenon now branded as the City Boys Movement, energised by Seyi Tinubu and amplified by cultural heavyweights like Obi Cubana and Cubana Chief Priest.
At first glance, it looks like a harmless convergence of influence, youth appeal, and political networking. But beneath the surface lies a deeper conversation, about identity, dignity, loyalty, and the dangerous elasticity of self-worth in the face of power.
Let’s be clear from the outset: no one is questioning the right of any Nigerian, Igbo or otherwise, to align politically with whoever they choose. Democracy thrives on freedom of association. Nobody is under compulsion to support Peter Obi simply because he is Igbo. In fact, it would be intellectually dishonest and politically immature to reduce national choices to ethnic obligations. The Igbo did not “send” Obi to contest; he stepped forward, as any Nigerian has the right to do.
But rights, while fundamental, do not erase responsibility. And this is where the discomfort begins.
Because what we are witnessing is not merely political alignment; it is the enthusiastic surrender of identity at the altar of proximity to power.
There is something unsettling about powerful men eagerly shrinking themselves into “boys” for validation. The language matters. Words shape perception, and perception shapes reality. When accomplished individuals: men who command respect in business and society, gleefully adopt a label that implies subservience, it raises questions.
What exactly is being traded?
Influence? Access? Protection? Contracts? Visibility?
Or is it something even more intangible, the intoxicating feeling of belonging to the inner circle of power?
Let us not pretend. Nigerian politics has always been transactional. Alliances are forged not just on ideology, but on interests: pecuniary, strategic, and sometimes purely survivalist. In that sense, the City Boys phenomenon is not new; it is merely a more flamboyant version of an old game.
And to be fair, President Bola Tinubu cannot be faulted for playing that game expertly. Politics is not a morality contest; it is a contest of strategy. It is about building coalitions, neutralising opposition, and consolidating influence. Anyone blaming Tinubu for attracting support misunderstands the nature of power.
If his critics were in his position, many would likely deploy even more aggressive tactics.
This is not sainthood. This is survival. And Tinubu wants to survive, just like any other.
For many observers, the discomfort is heightened by the optics: prominent Igbo figures visibly aligning with a political structure that did not command overwhelming support from their region.
But again, let’s be honest; politics is not a tribal oath.
The Igbo political space has never been monolithic. From the First Republic to the present, internal divisions, competing interests, and divergent visions have always existed. To expect unanimous loyalty to any candidate, Obi or otherwise, is unrealistic.
Yet, there is a difference between independent choice and performative allegiance.
The former commands respect. The latter invites scrutiny.
It is one thing to say, “I support Tinubu because I believe in his policies or political structure.” It is another to theatrically dissolve one’s identity into a chorus of “we are the boys,” as though dignity itself were negotiable.
And here lies the real issue, not support, but sycophancy.
Every political system has its loyalists. Loyalty, when rooted in conviction, is admirable. But when it morphs into unthinking adulation, it becomes dangerous, not just for the individual, but for the system itself.
Because sycophancy does not strengthen power; it corrupts it.
Even the most seasoned political actors understand this. And make no mistake, Tinubu understands it better than most. Power respects strength, not excessive submission. Influence is negotiated among equals, not extracted from those who willingly diminish themselves.
There is a silent truth many “boys” forget: today’s access can become tomorrow’s irrelevance. Political tides shift. Alliances expire. New power centers emerge. And when that happens, what remains of a man who has reduced himself to a slogan?
Social media has amplified this phenomenon, turning political alignment into performance art. It is no longer enough to support; one must display support, loudly, flamboyantly, repeatedly.
Photos, videos, slogans, gatherings, each carefully curated to signal closeness to power.
But proximity is not power.
And visibility is not influence.
In fact, the more aggressively one advertises proximity, the more it raises suspicion about the depth of actual relevance. True power often operates quietly, without the need for constant validation.
This is why the “boys” narrative feels less like strength and more like spectacle.
It is also important to address those who sit on the sidelines, throwing stones. Many critics of this movement are not necessarily driven by principle, but by exclusion. If given the same access, some would eagerly join the very ranks they condemn.
Let us not romanticise opposition.
Nigerian politics is not populated by saints and sinners; it is populated by actors navigating a complex web of interests. Moral outrage, while sometimes justified, is often selective.
So yes, those blaming Tinubu entirely are missing the point. He is playing the game. The real question is: why are others so eager to play it in ways that diminish them?
The challenge before the “boys from the East” is not about who they support, but how they support.
Can one align politically without surrendering dignity? Can one build bridges without burning self-respect? Can one engage power without becoming absorbed by it?
These are the questions that matter.
Because history does not remember who shouted the loudest in praise of power. It remembers those who stood with clarity, who navigated influence without losing identity, who engaged politics without becoming caricatures of themselves.
Nigeria needs bridge-builders. It needs individuals who can transcend ethnic boundaries and engage across political divides. In that sense, cross-regional alliances are not just acceptable; they are necessary.
But bridges must be built on solid ground. Not on the fragile foundation of sycophancy. Not on the shrinking of self. Not on the eager adoption of labels that undermine maturity and agency.
Let men be men, even in politics. Let support be thoughtful, not theatrical. Let alliances be strategic, not servile.
The story of the “boys from the East” is not just about a political movement. It is a mirror, reflecting the enduring tension between power and identity, between ambition and dignity, between survival and self-worth. And perhaps, that is the real lesson.
In the pursuit of access, influence, and relevance, one must never forget the most important possession of all:
The self.
Because once that is traded, no proximity to power can truly compensate for the loss.
