Natasha vs Akpabio: How National Assembly became theatre of shame

By Luminous Jannamike

The National Assembly, once envisioned as the hallowed cornerstone of Nigeria’s democracy, has descended into a circus of disgrace. Allegations of sexual harassment, tear gas, and paid protesters have stripped the institution of its dignity.

This week, the streets of Abuja witnessed a spectacle that has left Nigerians questioning the integrity of their lawmakers: hired crowds clashing in a Nollywood-style drama, ignited by a bitter feud between Senator Natasha Akpoti-Uduaghan and Senate President Godswill Akpabio.

The chaos erupted after Akpoti-Uduaghan accused Akpabio of sexual harassment, first on national television and then in an open plenary session—an unprecedented moment in Nigeria’s democratic history since 1999. What followed was not a sober investigation or a dignified response but a shameful display of sponsored protests, tear gas canisters lobbed at demonstrators, and a legislative body more concerned with technicalities than truth.

Veteran journalist Reuben Abati, co-host of Arise TV’s The Morning Show, did not mince words when he called it ‘a pivotal moment’ that exposed the National Assembly to global ridicule.

Abati thundered on air, “It was a pivotal moment for the Senate of the Federal Republic of Nigeria and, by extension, the whole of the National Assembly. For the first time since our return to democracy in 1999, we have the chairman of the National Assembly, the third-highest-ranking official in the country, being accused in open plenary of sexual harassment. What makes it even sadder is that this was done in the presence of a UK parliamentary delegation led by Kate Osamor, the MP for Edmonton.”

The optics were damning. As British parliamentarians watched in disbelief, the Senate floor became a battleground of egos, with Akpoti-Uduaghan’s petition dismissed by the Ethics Committee as ‘Dead on Arrival’ due to procedural flaws and a parallel court case.

Outside, the streets of Abuja turned into a marketplace of loyalty, where poverty was weaponised to fuel rival protests. Women clad in coordinated outfits waved designer banners—one group chanting in support of Akpabio, another backing Akpoti-Uduaghan.

Viral videos laid bare the farce. In one clip circulating on social media, a female interviewer confronted a protester supporting Akpabio. “Why are you supporting Senator Akpabio?” the voice behind the camera asked.

The woman hesitated before replying, “Yes, I didn’t see anything wrong with what they are saying. But I don’t know much about the details.”

Pressed further by the interviewer, “You don’t know the whole story. Do you support Senator Natasha?” the Akpabio supporter admitted, “I don’t really know the whole story.”

The interviewer persisted: “So, why did you come out here today?” The response was telling: “I came out today because they said we should come and protest that Akpabio should remain as our Senate President.”

Her words, devoid of conviction, revealed the hollow core of the demonstration – she was there not out of principle, but because she was instructed to attend.

Other clips captured similar absurdity: a protester in the Akpabio camp lamented, “Akpabio, don’t disappoint us. They’ve given us only water,” while another woman confessed, “We were paid 5,000 naira to come here.”

Abati’s outrage cut through the noise. He remarked, “We watched the spectacle, the Nollywood-style engagement of sponsored protesters in Nigeria—one party carrying placards and banners supporting one side, the other side supporting the opposite. It’s very bad optics, and the fact that the National Assembly is bringing us this embarrassment should be condemned by every Nigerian.”

The allegations themselves are grave. Akpoti-Uduaghan, representing Kogi Central, claimed Akpabio made inappropriate advances, a charge he vehemently denied, citing his upbringing by a single mother as evidence of his respect for women. Yet, the Senate’s response has been less about seeking truth and more about dodging accountability.

Senators debated arcane rules—Order 40, Sub 4, and others—arguing that Akpoti-Uduaghan’s petition was invalid because she signed it herself and first aired her grievances on Arise TV rather than on the Senate floor.

“Perhaps the floor of the Senate should have been the place to start the petition, rather than in the media,” Abati noted, acknowledging her tactical misstep but refusing to let the institution off the hook.

Meanwhile, the protests revealed a deeper rot: a nation where poverty has turned the masses into pawns. For as little as N5,000 — barely enough to prepare a decent pot of soup — hundreds of women flooded the streets, their placards as hollow as their motivations.

“Which one concerns them? Someone made an allegation of sexual harassment, and women are coming out to protest in support of the accused. It doesn’t make any sense,” asked Grace Ojo, a petty trader who witnessed the chaos near the National Assembly gate.

The tear-gassing of protesters only deepened the disgrace. As rival camps clashed, security forces unleashed canisters, scattering the crowds and leaving a cloud of shame hanging over the Assembly.

“What kind of nonsense is this? If any person has money, he can bring anybody to come and protest. They’ve made a mockery of protest in Nigeria,” fumed Godson Okeke, a civil servant whose office at the Federal Secretariat Complex in Abuja is near the National Assembly gate.

Abati echoed this sentiment, urging lawmakers to focus on their duty rather than theatrics.

“This is a matter of urgent national interest to the extent that the representatives of the Nigerian people have exposed that institution to ridicule.

“Nigerians want to know what the truth is. Is Natasha Akpoti-Uduaghan a witness of truth? Is Akpabio himself a witness of truth? The Senators should refrain from blackmailing one another and the kind of personal attacks that have been going on,” he said.

The irony is stark. An institution tasked with making laws has become a law unto itself, dodging accountability while the poor are bought to prop up its farce.

Amina Yusuf, a rights activist and gender advocate in Abuja, lamented, “Poverty is being weaponised in Nigeria, and the poor people are part of our problem. The masses are easily bought. You can mess up in the church, pay 5,000 naira, and they’ll line up to support you.”

As the dust settles, the National Assembly stands at a crossroads. Will it rise above this disgrace to address the substance of Akpoti-Uduaghan’s claims, or will it hide behind rules and hired crowds?

For now, the answer seems clear: Nigeria’s lawmakers have turned their chamber into a theatre of shame, and the world is watching.

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