When Daniel ambushed Bwala

If Nigerian politics were a Nollywood film, Bwala would be the character who begins the story as the village’s loudest rebel, spends the middle act denouncing the king, and ends the movie as the palace spokesman explaining that the king had actually been misunderstood all along.

I will always remember Daniel Bwala’s recent appearance on Aljazera English. Even from snippets of it, I felt pity for him. Serious pity. I will remember his shellacking because it was sad. I will also remember it because I doubt if Bwala has any takeaways from the unfortunate television moment.

His social media posts since the disaster befell him suggest he sees himself as a victim of a hostile show host. He says he was ambushed. For me, it was a case of Daniel ambushing Bwala, a victim of his own past.

If Nigerian politics were an Olympic sport, Bwala would already have several gold medals in the high jump of political reinvention. He is the star boy of the unpredictable theatre of Nigerian politics, where yesterday’s critic can become today’s court poet and tomorrow’s political orphan.

Few characters have mastered the art of ideological gymnastics quite like Bwala. To understand Bwala is to understand Nigeria’s peculiar political ecosystem, one where the line between opposition and government is as thin as tissue paper, and about as durable during a heavy rainstorm.

Bwala was known not merely as a lawyer but as one of those television political analysts who appear on talk shows with the confidence of a man who has already rehearsed his outrage in the mirror. He built a reputation as a sharp-tongued commentator, frequently appearing on Nigerian television stations to dissect politics with the air of a professor grading a particularly disappointing examination. His legal background and rhetorical flair made him a regular voice in political debates and public affairs commentary. Then came the great political migration.

In 2022, Bwala left the ruling party, the All Progressives Congress (APC), citing objections to the party’s Muslim–Muslim presidential ticket. He defected to the opposition People’s Democratic Party (PDP), where he quickly emerged as one of the most vocal defenders of presidential candidate Atiku Abubakar during the 2023 election campaign.

During the campaign, Bwala attacked APC candidate Bola Tinubu with the passion of a man who seemed determined to personally escort him out of Aso Rock before he even arrived. Television studios became arenas where Bwala delivered political punches with the enthusiasm of a late-night boxing commentator.

If words were stones, Tinubu would have needed a helmet. But Nigerian politics is a land where stones often become stepping stones.

After the election, which Tinubu won, Bwala did something that Nigerians have learnt to interpret as a form of political yoga: he pivoted. He visited the president he had once criticised and openly expressed admiration for Tinubu’s leadership, saying the president had shared his vision for leading Nigeria out of its problems.

For many Nigerians, this moment produced the political equivalent of a collective neck sprain from double takes.

Eventually, the story reached its logical conclusion: Tinubu appointed Bwala as Special Adviser on Media and Public Communications. Thus, the man who once explained to Nigerians why Tinubu should not be president now had the job of explaining to Nigerians why Tinubu must be president. Only in Nigeria can a man argue both sides of a case and still end up as the judge’s assistant.

Political loyalty in Nigeria is a fascinating thing. In most countries, it resembles marriage. In Nigeria, it resembles commercial bus transportation in which passengers jump off when the vehicle slows down and hop into another moving in a slightly more promising direction.

Bwala’s journey from critic to adviser therefore fits perfectly into the broader Nigerian tradition of political recalibration. Critics call it opportunism; supporters call it pragmatism.

Of course, Bwala’s critics have been particularly unforgiving. Senator Ali Ndume once dismissed him as a figure with “no political relevance”, accusing him of merely attacking opponents to gain attention. That remark may have been harsh, but in Nigerian politics, harshness is often mistaken for honesty.

To be fair, Bwala is hardly the first politician to discover that political enemies sometimes become colleagues once the landlord in Aso Rock changes. Nigeria’s political history is full of ideological pilgrims who traveled from opposition to government with remarkable speed.

The difference with Bwala is that his journey happened in the age of the internet, an unforgiving archive where past statements remain preserved like embarrassing family photographs. The materials from the archives were displayed for Bwala and they were too ‘x-rated’ to own up to.

Somewhere on YouTube, a younger Bwala is probably still explaining why Tinubu’s policies were disastrous. Meanwhile, the present Bwala is explaining why they are visionary.

If time travel were possible, Nigerian politics would collapse instantly because politicians would spend all their time arguing with their own past interviews.

Bwala’s story also reveals something deeper about Nigeria’s political culture: the growing importance of media warriors. Modern Nigerian politics is no longer fought only in campaign rallies; it is fought on television panels, Twitter threads, and combative interviews.

In this battlefield, the spokesman is often as important as the policymaker. Bwala fits neatly into this role. His job is to translate complex government policies into narratives that ordinary Nigerians can understand or at least tolerate long enough to switch the channel. I admit it is not an easy job.

Defending government policy in Nigeria is like being the public relations officer for the weather. When things go wrong, everyone blames you. Bwala seems comfortable in the role.

Since politics is the only profession where yesterday’s insults can become tomorrow’s job qualifications, the most fascinating thing about Bwala is not his political migration, but the sheer confidence with which he executes it.

Many politicians defect quietly, hoping Nigerians will forget their past statements. Bwala does not appear interested in subtlety. He debates, argues, explains, and occasionally re-explains with the enthusiasm of a man who believes consistency is overrated and survival is underrated. And maybe that is the secret.

My final take: If Nigerian politics were a Nollywood film, Bwala would be the character who begins the story as the village’s loudest rebel, spends the middle act denouncing the king, and ends the movie as the palace spokesman explaining that the king had actually been misunderstood all along.

This is not strange in Nigeria, a democracy where political ideology is often treated the way football fans treat clubs: passionately defended until the transfer window opens. Then everyone pretends nothing happened. Will history remember him as a master strategist, a skilled communicator, or simply one of Nigeria’s most flexible political figures remains to be seen? 

Your guess is as good as mine.