In The Mud, The Tilapia Hides: A Reflection On Governor Fubara’s Choice For Peace

By Amieyeofori Ibim

In the quiet tension of June 29th, 2025, under the weight of months of political acrimony and expectations, Governor Siminalayi Fubara stood before his people—not behind a podium of power, but amidst the very movement that has shaped his rise. He was not armed with oratory to impress. Instead, he brought truth. He brought peace. He brought pain. And yet, in that moment, he also brought something far rarer in Nigerian politics: humility.

“I called for this meeting to address you formally,” he began, “for you to have the first-hand information. It’s not the one you are reading in the paper, it’s not the one you are seeing on social media… you are now hearing from me.”

He was not merely addressing supporters. He was stripping himself of political varnish and speaking, raw and resolute, to family. To kindred spirits who had marched, shouted, and stood firm with him in the storm. And now, he asked them for one more thing—perhaps the hardest thing of all: to make peace.

To many watching, the word “peace” tastes bitter in the mouth. It is easy to interpret it as compromise, as surrender, as a yielding of the soul. But the Governor, standing still amidst a crowd that has known fire, explained:

“We have fought… and in my own assessment, and in the assessment of anyone here who is genuine in this struggle, you will know that we have done what we need to do. At this point… the only solution is peace.”

These words were not escape routes. They were a map of survival. The terrain had changed. The battle was shifting. And like the native Tilapia—the Atabala fish of his people—he advised: “If you want to grow up to my own size, hide your head inside the mud.”

What metaphor could be more fitting? In the mud lies not weakness, but strategy. In silence, there is strength. And in retreat, sometimes, there is rebirth.

Fubara’s address was not void of acknowledgment. He did not rewrite history to cast himself as saint and others as sinners. He recognized the pivotal role played by Chief Nyesom Wike—the very man at the heart of this saga. With candor, he said:

“Nobody can take away the role the FCT Minister, Chief Nyesom Ezenwo Wike, played… nobody can wish away the risk he took… Yes, at a point we had our differences, and if today there’s need for us to settle, please, anyone who genuinely believes in me should understand that it’s the right thing to do.”

That is not flattery. That is fact, spoken without fear.

But let it not be misunderstood—this was not a Governor seeking personal comfort. It was a leader grappling with what every statesman must eventually confront: that power is only worth holding if it can translate into progress for the people.

“In the midst of this crisis… look at the projects we’ve initiated. Many have been abandoned. We know the progress we would have recorded… So, there’s need for this peace — that’s the truth.” These are not the words of a man walking away from the fire. These are the words of a man trying to keep his people from burning.

And yet, he does not pretend that the road ahead is easy. “The sacrifice that we are going to make for us to achieve this total peace is going to be heavy, and I want everybody to prepare for it,” he uttered.

Indeed, the cost of peace is often paid in silence, in misunderstood intentions, and in moments where loyalty is questioned. But here, we must offer both caution and encouragement to the Governor.

Sir, do not betray the organic support you have enjoyed. Do not silence the voices that lifted you when others mocked you. Do not trade away the purity of this movement—the disbanded Simplified Movement and others —for the illusion of calm. For peace to endure, it must be planted on justice, watered by memory, and guarded by loyalty.

Yes, reconcile. Yes, rebuild. But remember those who bled political wounds for your survival. The young dreamers who saw in you a new kind of politics. The elderly mothers who danced for your name in the villages. The students, artisans, civil servants, and ordinary citizens who lifted you—not because they were paid—but because they believed.

“I can’t abandon you people,” the Governor said. “This is the time for me to prove to you that I care for you, and I make my commitment here that whichever way it goes, I will not abandon anybody.”

Hold fast to those words, Governor. Etch them into your governance. Let your actions affirm them, daily.

And to the Simplified family—those who feel disoriented, even betrayed—take heart. The mission has not changed. The vision has not faded. The voice of your Governor has not gone hoarse. It is simply whispering where it once thundered—because this, too, is a season.

Remain resolute. Be patient, but not passive. Be watchful, but not weary.

Peace is not the end of struggle; it is its evolution. Let us walk with our leader, but let us also walk with our eyes open.

For as the Tilapia hides its head in the mud, so too does it wait—for the storms to fall, for the river to calm, and for its time to swim again. _Amieyeofori Ibim is former Editor of The Tide Newspapers, political analyst and public affairs commentator.