On the Frontline With Boma
There is a popular saying that dogs that bark do not bite. Like most folk wisdom, it carries layers of meaning—some comic, some tragic, others profoundly instructive. Each time I hear the phrase “barking dogs,” my mind does not go first to politics or power. It travels backward, through the dusty paths of memory, into the heart of my village childhood, where a certain dog—Ikari Obiri, popularly called Bingo reigned loudly, noisily, and ultimately meaninglessly.
Bingo was not an ordinary village dog. At least, not in our young eyes. He was large, muscular, and intimidating in posture. To children, he looked like a beast capable of swallowing a man whole. Yet this fearsome appearance concealed a pitiful reality. Bingo was notorious not for bravery, loyalty, or protection but for an embarrassing habit that stripped him of dignity and respect. He suffered from rabies and wandered from door to door in search of little children’s poo, which he devoured greedily before retiring to rest at the stall of his owner, Mama Iyowuna.
Ordinarily, a dog of Bingo’s size should have commanded fear. He should have scared mischief makers, warded off thieves, and guarded the community. Instead, Bingo barked endlessly—at shadows, at passers-by, at nothing in particular—yet never acted. His bark was loud, persistent, and hollow. Over time, the villagers stopped fearing him. Children mocked him. Even goats stood their ground. The predator became prey.
To us children, Bingo’s presence inspired not terror but mischief. Armed with little canes, we pursued him whenever he came near, especially after one of his offensive meals. We chased him not because he was dangerous, but because he was harmless. His bark had lost its authority. He had overused it, abused it, and emptied it of meaning. Eventually, Bingo’s story ended as tragically as it was predictably—humiliated, sick, and finally gone.
Years later, as an adult navigating the complexities of Nigerian politics, I thought I had buried Bingo in the graveyard of memory. Until recently.
At the 2026 State Banquet, Governor Siminalayi Fubara, addressing his supporters amid rising political tensions in Rivers State, urged them to ignore the war songs of critics—those he described as determined to snatch his crown. He dismissed their rants as mere barking, saying, in effect, that they bark because they do not understand.
The metaphor landed. And immediately, Bingo came rushing back.
Politics, like village life, thrives on symbolism. Words matter. Metaphors linger. And when leaders speak, they often unknowingly summon images far larger than their immediate intent. As the governor spoke of barking dogs, I could not help but interrogate the deeper meaning of that imagery in the context of Rivers State’s renewed hostilities.
Bingo barked because he did not understand. He did not understand that eating human waste was degrading. He did not understand that his constant barking without action was eroding his authority. He did not understand that his habits were slowly inviting humiliation, rejection, and ultimately death. If Bingo had possessed self-awareness, perhaps he would have paused, rethought his conduct, and saved himself.
And here lies the instructive power of the Bingo analogy.
In the theatre of Rivers State politics today, many voices bark loudly. Threats are issued. Songs of war are sung. Allegiances shift overnight. Power blocs posture aggressively. Yet beneath the noise, one must ask: What is the substance? What do these political actors truly want?
Is it absolute control of the state’s resources?
Is it total domination of political structures?
Is it the enslavement of the will of the people?
Or is it simply the desperation of those who have tasted power and cannot imagine life without it?
Like Bingo, some politicians have mistaken noise for strength. They bark endlessly—on radio, on social media, through proxies and sponsored commentators yet offer no vision, no solutions, no restraint. They bark not to protect the people, but to intimidate them. They bark not to serve, but to control.
And just like Bingo, excessive barking carries consequences.
Rivers State is not a playground for political ego wars. It is a complex society of hardworking people—civil servants, traders, students, artisans, professionals—who desire stability, development, and dignity. The people are tired of being used as pawns in elite chess games. They are weary of crises manufactured to settle scores. Every political conflict disrupts livelihoods, delays governance, and deepens mistrust.
History teaches us that those who fan the embers of war often imagine themselves immune to the flames. Yet fire has no loyalty. It consumes without discrimination.
Bingo never imagined that his habits would lead to his extinction. He barked because he could. He ate what he pleased. He roamed without restraint. Until one day, there was nothing left to bark at—and no one left to fear him.
This is where the metaphor becomes most instructive for Rivers State. Political actors who believe they can endlessly provoke tension without consequence are engaging in dangerous self-deception. Power is transient. Influence is fragile. Public patience is not infinite.
The governor’s call for restraint, in this sense, is timely. However, restraint must not be selective. It must apply to all sides. True leadership is not merely dismissing critics as barking dogs; it is understanding why the barking exists in the first place. Sometimes, barking is the language of exclusion. Sometimes, it is the cry of those shut out of dialogue. And sometimes, yes, it is the noise of ambition gone feral.
Yet even then, leadership demands calm, dialogue, and institutional strength—not retaliatory barking.
The tragedy of Bingo was not just his behavior; it was the absence of correction. No one restrained him. No one rehabilitated him. He was allowed to deteriorate until decay became destiny.
Rivers State must not follow that path.
Political disagreements are inevitable in a democracy. But when disagreements degenerate into sustained hostility, propaganda warfare, and open threats, the state itself becomes the casualty. Investors retreat. Development stalls. Youth lose hope. Trust erodes.
One must therefore ask: What kind of people deliberately push their state to the brink for personal gain? What legacy do they hope to leave behind? Is it one of leadership, or one of chaos?
The Bingo story warns us that overindulgence—whether in barking, power, or conflict can lead to downfall. It reminds us that dignity is preserved through restraint, not noise. Authority is sustained through purpose, not intimidation.
As Rivers State navigates this sensitive political moment, all actors—government, opposition, elders, and influencers must choose wisely. The people are watching. History is recording. And metaphors, once spoken, take on lives of their own.
Bingo’s bark echoes still—not as a symbol of strength, but as a cautionary tale.
May Rivers State learn from the village dog who barked himself into irrelevance.
On the Frontline With Boma is published by The Port Harcourt Telegraph Newspaper authored by the Managing Editor
