The Nigerian Appointment That Lived for Six Hours: A Study in Governance by Typing Error
The Nigerian Appointment That Lived for Six Hours: A Study in Governance by Typing Error
By Jerry Adesewo
In Nigeria, appointments are no longer events. They are experiences—brief, confusing, and often reversed before the congratulatory messages finish loading. A name is announced. Celebration erupts. Aunties forward messages. Tailors are called. And then—before the ink dries—the appointment is withdrawn “with immediate effect.”
‘Immediate effect,’ of course, is the most consistent thing about the process.
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We have perfected a peculiar art: appoint in the morning, withdraw tonight, and explain never. Governance now operates like a group chat where someone sends a message, deletes it quickly, and pretends nothing happened—except everyone already took screenshots.
The reasons given are always deliciously vague.
“Administrative oversight.”
“Procedural inconsistency.”
“Following further review.”
Further review by whom? At what hour? Using which constitution? No one knows. And that is the point.
Speculation then steps in, as it always does, wearing a better suit than the official explanation. Perhaps the appointee declined, realising too late that the job came with invisible landmines, unpaid allowances, and a lifetime of defending things they didn’t design. Or perhaps another interested party coughed politely from the shadows and reminded someone somewhere that the slot had already been promised—verbally, spiritually, or politically.
Sometimes, the withdrawal smells like an intra-party allergy. A faction sneezes. The appointment catches a cold. By evening, it is pronounced dead.
Other times, it is geography. Someone notices—too late—that the appointee is from the wrong place, worships in the wrong direction, or does not tick the necessary invisible boxes. In Nigeria, appointments are not always about competence; they are about comfort. And discomfort is quickly corrected.
There is also the possibility of social media backlash. A few angry posts, a resurrected old tweet, or a WhatsApp audio note beginning with “My brother, let me tell you something…” can undo an appointment faster than any official memo. In this era, governance fears outrage more than illegality.
Then there is the most Nigerian possibility of all: the appointment was genuine—until someone realised there was money attached. Suddenly, interest spikes. Phone calls multiply. Names are “reconsidered.” The slot develops amnesia.
What makes this ritual especially fascinating is its confidence. Withdrawals are announced with the same authority as appointments, as though instability itself were a policy. No apology. No clarification. Just the calm assertion that this is normal and we should move on.
And we do. Until the next one.
At this rate, CVs should include a new section: “Former Appointee (for 6 hours).”
Perhaps the most amusing part is the silence afterward. No explanation. No acknowledgement of the emotional whiplash inflicted on the appointee, their family, and their tailor. The state simply resets and waits for the next announcement like nothing happened.
But let me be clear: if the President and his men ever try this stunt with me—announce me in the morning and un-announce me before dinner—I will not complain on WhatsApp. I will not issue a statement. I will not beg for clarification.
I will march straight to the Court of Emperor Donaldueke Ahmed Trumplolaye, where justice is loud, explanations are optional, and reversals come with consequences.
Because in that court, once you appoint someone, you had better mean it. Or at least withdraw it properly—with reasons, remorse, and maybe transport fare.
Have a blessed weekend