Former President Goodluck Jonathan recently stirred the national conscience with a subtle yet piercing critique of Nigeria’s current leadership. Though he mentioned no names, his pointed remark about the rise of “Yahoo Boys” in public office echoed like thunder. And Nigerians—well-versed in political subtext—knew exactly who and what he meant.

As a psychologist, I interpret Jonathan’s words not merely as political commentary, but as a symbolic diagnosis—a psychological profile of a ruling elite that increasingly mirrors the logic of deception, manipulation, and impunity. What we are witnessing is the emergence of National Yahoo Operatives: public officials who operate through fraudulent optics, administrative gaslighting, and systemic betrayal.

These are no longer leaders in the true sense. They are managers of illusion, presiding over a nation where trust has withered and hope has been beaten into silence.

Jonathan’s restraint made his message louder. His silence on names gave space for public naming. In his diplomacy was a warning: Accountability is missing. The moral compass is broken. Justice is hemorrhaging.

When the system fails, the spirits rise
The Nigerian state is slipping into a kind of spiritual exhaustion. The sudden and unjust declaration of a state of emergency in Rivers State—despite the absence of unrest—was more than a legal anomaly. It was a psychological assault on a people already grappling with institutional betrayal.

Governor Sim Fubara’s visible commitment to both federal and judicial order was met not with cooperation, but with resistance from invisible hands—hands guided not by the Constitution, but by conspiracy and selfish political control.

But this is not just about Rivers. It is a national condition:

The Presidency now operates behind layers of silence, secrecy, and heavily scripted benevolence. The National Assembly has become a symphony of praise, no longer a house of the people. The Judiciary, once considered the temple of last hope, now echoes with delay, evasion, and technical silencing. Even the Supreme Court, now led by a historic female figure, feels distant from the anguish of ordinary Nigerians—speaking more in procedural riddles than moral clarity.

Jonathan’s words rang not as political opinion, but as lamentation. A funeral bell for ethical leadership.

When leaders mirror fraudsters, what option remains?
What happens when: Justice pirouettes around truth? Institutions reward deceit? Protests are met with force, and courage is branded as crime? And integrity is silenced while lies are amplified?

The people—robbed of legal remedy—turn to what cannot be bribed, co-opted, or detained. They turn to the spirits. They turn to ancestral power.

Egbesu is watching. Amadioha is listening. Ani is waiting. Esu is restless. Ogun has not forgotten. Kuri and Jam Maraki stir in the North.

Across Nigeria’s deeply rooted spiritual traditions, divine justice is not superstition. It is memory. It is power. It is medicine.

Among the Ijaw, Egbesu is no myth. He is the god of justice and war—a spiritual force invoked in times of deep injustice.

In Igboland, Amadioha thunders when moral order is violated.

To the Ani, the very soil keeps the record. Earth sees. Earth remembers.

Among the Esan, Osu responds where human law refuses to act.

In Edo cosmology, Esu, the divine messenger and trickster, exposes lies and delivers consequences.

The Yoruba know Ogun—god of iron and truth—as the enforcer of justice.

In the Hausa-Fulani tradition, Kuri and Jam Maraki are spiritual watchers who whisper from the unseen world, provoking moral discomfort among the corrupt.

These are not fables. These are the people’s last court—a court immune to legal gymnastics, wealth, or intimidation.

Let the invisible rise where the visible has failed
Let these deities walk among the corridors of deception—in courtrooms where verdicts are arranged, in parlors where power is bartered, in guesthouses where silence is purchased, aboard yachts that sail while schools collapse, on golf courses paved with stolen hope, and in convoys that bulldoze over truth.

Let Egbesu accompany them into their gyms and luxury lounges.

Let Amadioha sit quietly at their banquets and spas.

Let Ani mark their steps as they walk foreign lands with stolen dignity.

Let Esu pass through every whisper, every deceit, every cover-up.

Let Ogun ride in the backseat of every motorcade, unmoved by bulletproof steel.

Let Osu linger at their thresholds, patient and waiting.

Let Kuri and Jam Maraki stir in their dreams, speaking in a language of unease.

Let the deities rest on the walls of exclusive clubs, mansions by the sea, presidential suites, and underground bunkers.

Let them drift through perfumed banquet halls, chandeliers hanging over stolen wealth, and quiet meetings where betrayal is refined.

Let the gods move in silence through bedrooms, poolside chairs, airports, chambers, and nightclubs.

Let them appear in mirrors, in shadows, in the soft rustle of curtains at dawn.

Let even the perfume of stolen luxury no longer mask the scent of coming judgment.

Let the circle be complete

And not only them.

Let the spirits extend their reach to those who benefit: The wives and husbands who enjoy the spoils in silence. The sons and daughters who inherit without asking questions. The friends turned protectors, the advisors, the lawyers, the pastors, the chefs, the drivers, and the speechwriters. The aides who lie by profession, the influencers who spread false narratives, and the media experts who polish wickedness into palatable slogans. Let them all feel the heat of ancestral awareness.

Let the spirits haunt those who applaud in public but cry in private. Let the conflicted ones—who know the truth but prefer comfort over courage—feel their sleep torn by whispers of what they refused to speak. Let no room be too dark. Let no disguise be too clever. Let no passport, no jet, no accent, no foreign investment shield them. Let this be the spiritual pursuit of justice—not in rage, but in precision. Not in noise, but in haunting clarity.

When protest is criminalized, the deities become the protesters
If you dare raise your voice—peacefully—they will send centralized police, soldiers, and intelligence agents after you. They will declare you dangerous, destabilizing. They will ban you, surveil you, and break you.

But here is what they forget:
You can send soldiers after people—but not after spirits. You can arrest protesters—but not ancestral justice. You can block hashtags—but not thunder. You can shut down the streets—but not the shrines.

Let them try to summon a court against Egbesu. Let them draft a law against Amadioha. Let them order the arrest of Ogun or file a petition against Ani. They cannot.

This is a psychological uprising
You can: Arrest the truth-teller. Delay the judgment. Rewrite the law. Buy the silence.

But you cannot: Bribe ancestral memory. Banish spiritual consequences. Silence the dream of a people who cry out from the soul.

This is not madness. This is not superstition. This is the immune response of a culture betrayed.

If man’s courts fail, let the spirits judge
To the youth whose bellies are empty but whose voices are full. To the elders who speak in proverbs and silence. To the mothers who weep by night but bless by dawn — Rise—not with machetes, but with memory. Not with bullets, but with belief. Not with vengeance, but with invocations.

A psychologist’s reflection on spiritual resistance
As a psychologist, I may not personally believe in divine intervention, but I fully acknowledge Nigerians’ strong religious and spiritual convictions. Invoking the deities is not just symbolic—it has real psychological impact. When curses are spoken or ancestral justice is called upon, it creates moral pressure. It makes the corrupt feel watched, judged, and unsettled. And in a nation where earthly justice is often denied, that fear alone can stir change. Nigeria’s collective spiritual conscience may be its last remaining force for reform.

If we are now ruled by the logic of Yahoo Boys… If the courts lean toward the powerful instead of the people… If even the highest judicial bench speaks in riddles while injustice walks free… Then let us say it plainly: Our last court is no longer of man. It is the court of the spirits. And in that court: There is no adjournment. No plea bargain. No delay tactics. Only truth.