Bow and Go Republic: Where Ambassadors Are Cleared by Courtesy
By Jerry Adesewo
If democracy were a discipline, ambassadorial screening would be its oral examination—probing, inconvenient, and necessary. In Nigeria, however, it has been domesticated into a gentler ritual known as bow and go: arrive, smile, bow, exit—qualified by posture, not proof. It is efficient, elegant, and almost entirely empty.
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The Senate chamber has perfected this choreography. Screening is no longer about questions but recognition; not competence, but comfort. Nominees are waved through on familiarity, political lineage, or the collective impatience to adjourn. Accountability, once the point of the exercise, now feels like an interruption—an awkward pause in an otherwise smooth performance.
Welcome to the Bow and Go Republic—where procedure survives, but purpose has quietly excused itself.
In theory, ambassadorial screening exists to test temperament, loyalty to the state, knowledge of foreign policy, and the capacity for restraint. Ambassadors are not influencers; they are custodians of tone. They do not argue; they negotiate. They do not posture; they listen. In practice, however, the Nigerian version treats these ideals as optional extras. The process has been reduced to a courtesy call that confers legitimacy by mere presence.
The clearance of Reno Omokri illustrates the problem in sharp relief. Long defined by combative rhetoric, digital vituperation, and open hostility toward the now President, and state institutions, he emerged from the Senate newly certified as diplomatic material. There were no searching questions about temperament. No inquiry into the discipline required of an envoy. No reflection on whether a public record of provocation aligns with the demands of international representation.
This is not an argument against dissent. Democracies thrive on disagreement. But diplomacy thrives on restraint. The transition from partisan combat to international representation is not impossible—but it requires interrogation, reflection, and reassurance. Instead, Omokri received the same ceremonial nod as everyone else. Bow. Go. Represent.
The problem here is not the individual nominee; it is the institutional amnesia that accompanies nomination. In a polity where tweets outlive tenures and screenshots serve as historical records, the Senate briefly forgot how memory works. Yesterday’s firebrand is today’s diplomat—not through demonstrated evolution, but through procedural courtesy.
Then there is the Senate’s most elegant fast-track: former First Ladies. In the unwritten manual of Nigerian governance, marital proximity to power doubles as credential. These nominees do not merely bow and go—they glide. Smiles replace scrutiny. Reverence substitutes for review. To ask questions would appear impolite, almost un-African. After all, how does one interrogate someone who once waved from bulletproof convoys?
But ribbon-cutting, goodwill messages, and pet projects are not apprenticeships in foreign policy. Hosting luncheons does not translate automatically into navigating bilateral tensions or multilateral negotiations. To assume otherwise is to confuse symbolism with substance. Worse still, it cheapens gender equity by presenting exemption as empowerment. Many Nigerian women have earned diplomatic roles through expertise and experience; fast-tracking by association does them no favours.
There is no doubting however that these are brilliant and successful women, but why deny Nigerians the opportunity to see them defend their nominations. This new calling is completely different from whatever they have done before now.
The Bow and Go Republic also thrives on selective seriousness. The same Senate that can grill private citizens, junior appointees, and civil servants with forensic zeal suddenly discovers its gallantry when faced with politically connected nominees. Questions become discourteous. Scrutiny becomes suspicion. Oversight is recast as hostility. And so the chamber opts for harmony over honesty.
The consequences are not abstract. Nigeria’s image abroad is a delicate instrument. Ambassadors shape narratives, manage crises, and represent national interests in rooms where tone matters as much as content. When envoys are appointed without rigorous vetting, the nation risks exporting confusion, controversy, or indiscipline—wrapped neatly in diplomatic immunity.
There is also a deeper democratic cost. Rituals matter in governance because they signal values. When screening becomes endorsement and oversight becomes hospitality, citizens receive a clear message: proximity beats preparation; loyalty outranks literacy; courtesy trumps competence. Over time, this message corrodes trust, breeding cynicism where confidence should exist.
Perhaps the solution is honesty. Let us rename the exercise Ambassadorial Blessing Ceremony. It would spare the public the pretense. The bows would remain. The smiles would endure. The gavel would fall. And democracy, having served its purpose as decoration, would be escorted quietly out of the room.
Better still, the Senate could reclaim the seriousness of its mandate. Screening need not be hostile to be hard. Questions can be firm without being rude. Scrutiny can coexist with dignity. A democracy confident in itself does not fear questions; it invites them.
Until that day, the Bow and Go Republic marches on—efficient, elegant, and empty. Ambassadors will continue to be cleared by courtesy, and the nation will continue to wonder when performance replaced purpose, and why the shortest ritual in our democracy carries the longest consequences.