Once upon a time, the market square was the heart that pumped life into the land.
It was more than a place to buy pepper, crayfish, and palm oil.
It was the parliament of the people,
It was where truth had a seat,
Was not afraid to look power in the eye,
where wisdom wore no crown,
and where power removed its shoes before entering.
Under the big iroko tree, voices rose like talking drums.
Farmers came with calloused hands, fishermen with salt on their skin,
women with baskets, elders with walking sticks —
and they all weighed each other's words like fresh tomatoes on a scale.
It was here that Kings were forced to explain themselves,
explain their decisions -- for fear of the peoples disapproval
because they knew the people’s frown was heavier than the palace’s smile.
In those days, the market square washed the pride off leaders like rain washing dust from cassava leaves.
The market square was where arrogance came to drink humility.
But today… the market square has married the King.
And the marriage is not exactly a fairy tale.
It is a sad story.
No one dares question the King anymore.
The drumming has stopped.
The people’s questions have been replaced by the King’s announcements.
The sacred place of many voices has become the royal kitchen.
And the “market women” — our lawmakers — now wear the apron of the King’s most loyal,
submissive wife.
This, my friends, is today’s National Assembly of Nigeria
which was meant to be the people’s watchdog,
but now sleeps at the foot of the throne,
wagging its tail each time the King drops a bone.
The once sacred market square of our democracy,
now lives in the palace quarters,
forever cooking whatever neal the King -- the Executive -- desires.
When the King says, “I want pepper soup,”
the "First Wife"
The National Assembly,
smiles and rushes off with the money he gave her.
She buys the goat, the pepper, the spices,
comes back to grind,
cook it exactly how His Majesty requested ---
no questions, no tasting to see if it’s poisoned
just kneeling to serve, saying, "Yes my lord."
If the King says, “I want jollof rice,”
she nods, even if the rice is weevils infested,
even if the nation's stomach groans at the thought.
If the King says, “Approve my borrowing from the devil,”
she sings, “The ayes have it!”
And just like a traditional wife whose bride price has been fully paid,
Her joy is not in feeding her people,
who brought her from her father's house in the first place
but in pleasing the one man she married - the Executive,
The King.
Our so-called “honourable” wives -- senators and reps ---
do not even taste the soup to check if it is poisoned before they serve it.
They just carry it with both hands, bow low,
and serve the King, chanting in chorus,
"On your mandate we shall stand"
even if the pot is boiling with poverty and bad policies.
This is the sorry state of our democracy.
A market square that was built to argue, to debate,
to check the greed of the palace ,
has become a bedroom where loyalty
is measured by obedience to the King's whim,
not by service to the people.
And just as the National Assembly lies quietly under the Executive's roof,
so too do State Houses of Assembly snore beside their governors
Ah! They are younger wives in the polygamous palace.
Each one is another loyal wife,
They smile sweetly at their governors,
fetch bath water for them,
and dance whenever “His Excellency” lifts a finger.
They clap when they’re told to clap.
They keep silent when something smells bad.
They sing praise songs to governors who see the public treasury,
as their personal bride price
And just like village wives warned never to challenge their husband,
they say, “Where you go, we go.”
In the old days, the market square was the people's mirror.
It kept the King from becoming a god.
Today that mirror has cracked
Instead, they’ve given the King a mirror of gold — one that hides all his blemishes
while the people’s reflection has been thrown away like stale garri.
Once, the square humbled the proud; now it photographs them at banquets.
Once, it kept them under check; now it kneels to zip their agbada.
And the saddest thing?
Even the people cheer when the “first wife” kneels to feed her husband.
We celebrate her obedience instead of demanding her loyalty to us.
We have turned our parliament into a palace dining room —
not where ideas are debated, but where the King’s wishes are plated.
But history will not be fooled.
Every wise people in history protected their meeting place ..
the Athenians had the Agora,
the Igbo their village square,
the Ijaw their moonlight councils.
These were not built for decoration,
but to remind the palace who truly holds the crown
To restore our market square is not to build a new chamber
with marble microphones and imported chairs.
It is to return her voice.
It is telling the First Wife:
“Yes, you have married the King,
but your father’s people are still your first responsibility.”
Her marriage to the King does not erase her vow to the people.
Because when the market square forgets her people,
the King becomes a small god,
uncontrollable,
the palace grows deaf to truth,
and the people are left outside the gate
looking in, like beggars watching a wedding feast.
When the market square loses its voice,
power no longer listens
it only announcess
When the drum of the people stops beating,
the King starts dancing to his own tune.
And in that silence,
laws are made without sense,
loans are taken without plan,
and the nation becomes a play staged for the benefit of the actors,
while the real audience has already gone home in hunger.
So let the market square return to the people.
Let the drums beat again.
Let the First Wife open her mouth not just to say “Yes, my lord,”
but to speak for the people.
Only then will the palace remember that the King is only a servant of the land -- and not its owner
EBIKABOWEI KEDIKUMO - writes from Ayakoromo Town, Delta State
