Years ago, Nigerian television screens lit up with the uproarious antics of “Fuji House of Commotion,” a sitcom that masterfully blended humor with the raw undercurrents of familial power struggles. The show, set in a polygamous household helmed by the patriarch Chief Fuji, chronicled the endless squabbles, secret alliances, and absurd coup attempts among his wives and children. Each episode was a microcosm of ambition, betrayal, and the relentless jostling for control—a mirror held up to the everyday chaos of Nigerian life. The title itself was a cheeky metaphor: “commotion” masquerading as “emotion,” where love was secondary to the hunger for dominance. Today, as Nigeria’s political stage replicates this script with uncanny precision, the Lagos State House of Assembly has become its latest set. The recent storming of the legislative complex by the Department of State Security (DSS)—sealing the offices of Speaker Mojisola Meranda and her deputy—reads like a surreal episode ripped straight from the sitcom’s playbook. Here, too, we see a patriarch (the ousted Speaker Mudashiru Obasa), a sudden “coup” executed in his absence, and a cast of political wives (party loyalists) and children (lawmakers) scrambling to rewrite the rules of the house. But unlike the sitcom’s harmless theatrics, this drama carries grave consequences: a chilling abuse of power, the weaponization of state institutions, and the erosion of democracy itself.
Much like Chief Fuji’s wives scheming to control the family treasury, Lagos lawmakers have turned their hallowed chambers into a battleground for supremacy. Obasa’s impeachment in absentia—a plot twist worthy of prime-time comedy—mirrors the sitcom’s absurdity, where characters often plot against one another in secret midnight meetings. President Bola Tinubu’s labeling of the impeachment as a “coup” only amplifies the farce, evoking memories of the show’s exaggerated declarations of war over trivial domestic disputes. Yet, the arrival of armed DSS operatives to seal the Assembly elevates this political slapstick into something darker, more sinister. In Fuji House, chaos was resolved with laughter and a reset by the next episode; in Lagos, the stakes are existential. The sealing of legislative offices is not mere theatrics—it is a brazen act of institutional sabotage, a literal locking away of democracy’s voice. As Meranda arrived at the Assembly under the gaze of gun-toting security agents, the scene echoed the sitcom’s climactic moments when outsiders—police or meddling relatives—burst in to “restore order,” only to deepen the dysfunction.
This essay examines how the Lagos Assembly saga, much like Fuji House of Commotion, exposes the destructive absurdity of power struggles in Nigerian governance. It argues that the abuse of state machinery—turning DSS operatives into political pawns—is not just a violation of democratic norms but a grotesque parody of justice. By dissecting the parallels between fictional farce and political reality, we uncover how the unchecked hunger for control corrupts institutions, destabilizes governance, and reduces the sacred halls of democracy to a stage for tragicomedy.
In Fuji House of Commotion, no family dispute was complete without the intrusion of meddling in-laws or nosy neighbors barging in to “restore order.” The DSS’s invasion of the Lagos Assembly mirrors this trope. On February 17, 2025, armed security personnel descended on the legislative complex, sealing offices and frisking bystanders—a scene reminiscent of the sitcom’s exaggerated “police raids” staged to resolve petty domestic feuds. But while Chief Fuji’s household returned to its chaotic normalcy by the next episode, the Lagos Assembly’s ordeal is no laughing matter. The legislature, a constitutional pillar meant to check executive excesses, was reduced to a puppet stage. By deploying DSS operatives—an arm of the executive—to physically bar lawmakers from their duties, Nigeria’s power players have exposed democracy’s fragility. This is not governance; it is governance-as-theatre, where brute force replaces debate, and constitutional mandates are trampled like discarded scripts.
The timing of this farce is telling. The DSS’s raid followed the controversial ouster of Speaker Mudashiru Obasa, impeached in absentia on January 13, 2025, while he was abroad—a plot twist dripping with Fuji House absurdity. In the sitcom, Chief Fuji’s wives often conspired during his unexplained absences, declaring themselves “acting heads” of the household. Similarly, Obasa’s removal, labeled a “coup” by President Bola Tinubu, reeks of backroom deals and political sabotage. The divided reactions within the APC’s Governance Advisory Council (GAC) mirror the sitcom’s fractured family alliances: some members condemned the move, others cheered, and the public was left to parse the chaos.
The pursuit of control in Fuji House, was comically petty—a fight over the remote control or the last piece of meat. But in Lagos, the stakes are existential. The DSS’s actions transcend political skirmishing; they represent a systemic abuse of power with generational consequences. When state institutions are weaponized to silence dissent, democracy morphs into a dystopian parody. The sealing of legislative offices is not merely an overreach—it is a symbolic lockdown of the people’s voice. Citizens now question whether their representatives are public servants or pawns in a game of thrones.
The parallels to Fuji House are unnerving. Just as Chief Fuji’s children weaponized gossip to discredit rivals, Nigerian politicians deploy state machinery to crush opponents. The DSS, tasked with national security, has been repurposed as a political enforcer—akin to the sitcom’s comic “security men” hired by a jealous wife to intimidate her rivals. This erosion of institutional integrity breeds public cynicism. Why vote if elected officials can be unseated by fiat? Why trust democracy if its guardians—courts, legislatures, security agencies—are reduced to partisan actors?
In the sitcom, every crisis climaxed with a hastily convened family meeting where Chief Fuji, clutching a bottle of schnapps, “settled” disputes with arbitrary decrees. Nigeria’s judiciary now faces a similar test. Mudashiru Obasa’s lawsuit challenging his impeachment is a litmus test for the rule of law. His case hinges on constitutional technicalities: Was the Assembly legally convened during recess? Did the impeachment violate standing orders? These questions are as dense as the sitcom’s ludicrous family bylaws, but their resolution will shape Nigeria’s democratic trajectory.
If the courts dismiss Obasa’s suit on technicalities or delay justice, they risk becoming complicit in the farce—a “family elder” rubber-stamping illegality. Conversely, a bold ruling could reaffirm judicial independence and restore faith in democracy. The judiciary must channel the spirit of Fuji House’s rare moments of clarity, where truth triumphed over theatrics. As the sitcom’s fans know, even Chief Fuji occasionally dropped his bluster to utter profound truths. Nigeria’s judges must now do the same.
In Fuji House of Commotion, the audience laughed at the characters’ folly but secretly recognized their own families in the chaos. Similarly, Nigerians must confront their complicity in democracy’s erosion. Passive spectatorship enables impunity. The media and civil society, like the sitcom’s gossiping neighbors, play a pivotal role. Objective reporting and advocacy can shift the narrative from entertainment to accountability. When Premium Times exposed the DSS’s raid or Sahara Reporters detailed Obasa’s legal filings, they mirrored the sitcom’s nosy aunties—annoying to power brokers but vital for transparency.
The public, too, must transition from couch commentators to active citizens. The Lagos saga is a call to action: attend town halls, demand legislative transparency, and reject the normalization of political farce. As Fuji House taught us, silence only emboldens the loudest schemers.
In Fuji House of Commotion, every season ended with temporary truces—a birthday party or wedding papering over unresolved tensions. But democracy cannot survive on temporary fixes. The Lagos crisis demands more than a reset; it requires systemic rewiring. Nigerians must reclaim their institutions from actors who treat governance like a slapstick series.
The storming of the Lagos Assembly is not just an attack on a legislature—it is an assault on the collective dignity of a nation. If Nigeria’s democracy is to escape the fate of Chief Fuji’s household—perpetually chaotic, never progressing—it must prioritize justice over jest, substance over spectacle. The rule of law, not political godfathers, must be the ultimate “showrunner.” Until then, the Lagos House of Chaos will remain a tragic spin-off of a democracy still searching for its happy ending.
©️AI-KO
Political Analyst & Cultural Critic
February 18, 2025
iagbeze@msn.com
