By Kachi Okezie, Esq.
There is a particular kind of anger that settles in the chest of an ordinary Nigerian when the news breaks that those elected to serve them have once again chosen to treat public duty as a casual errand.
On Friday, August 28, 2026, the House of Representatives, through the Clerk, Sidi Ibrahim, acting on the instructions of Speaker Tajudeen Abbas, dissolved all its Ad Hoc Committees. The reason was as simple as it was shameful: they had failed to submit their reports within the time allowed by the House’s own Standing Orders. Order 18, Rule 11, Paragraph 5 is not a suggestion. It exists precisely because committees in this country have a habit of being inaugurated with fanfare, holding a few press briefings, traveling, and then vanishing into silence. This time, the House said enough! But the “enough” came only after months of inactivity, and it came at a cost that the average citizen will pay for a long time.
Let us be clear about what was lost that day. These were not ceremonial groups. The committees dissolved were looking into the very things that keep Nigerians awake at night. There was the committee on power sector reform from 2006 to 2024, tasked with probing over thirteen billion dollars that were said to have been spent on electricity while factories remained closed and students still read with lamps.
There was the committee on oil spill clean-up funds, meant to find out whether money released for Ogoni and Niger Delta remediation ever reached the people whose water and land have been poisoned. There was the committee on procurement compliance in public institutions, another on retention funds owed to contractors, and yet another on the lease of federal government assets, the kind of quiet deals where public property disappears into private hands. They were investigating drug trafficking and abuse, the failure of CCTV in the Federal Capital Territory, and the state of skills acquisition programs that were supposed to give young people a trade.
In short, there were committees looking into power, money, security and the future of work. And now, because reports were not filed, because deadlines were ignored, because two-week extensions were granted and still squandered, all of it has been shut down. The chairmen have been told to hand over whatever documents they have to the Clerk for safekeeping, as if putting papers in a drawer will somehow bring back the years wasted.
The immediate defence will be that rules were followed. The House cited its Standing Orders. Only two committees had even bothered to ask for extensions, and those too had expired. On paper, this is discipline. In reality, it is an admission of crass failure. An institution that cannot compel its own members to finish an assignment cannot credibly claim to oversee the executive, the ministries, the agencies that waste billions every year. If the legislature cannot meet a deadline, why should an MDA? If a committee chairman can sit for months without producing a single page of findings and face no consequence beyond a mere dissolution letter, what incentive is there for seriousness? This is how impunity is normalised, not with a loud proclamation, but with a quiet circular that tells the public that nothing will come of the promises made.
And yet the cost is not abstract. Every day that the power probe is delayed is another day that a small business owner in Ketu pays for diesel. Every week that the oil spill committee is in limbo is another week that a fisherman in the Niger Delta watches his nets come up empty. Every month that the procurement committee does nothing is another month that a contract is inflated and a hospital remains without drugs. The money spent on hearings, on trips, on consultants for these committees is public money. When no report emerges, that money is gone, and with it the hope that someone, somewhere, is watching. This is why the news has brought despair.
Nigerians did not elect 360 people to go to Abuja to collect salaries and allowances that are reportedly among the highest in the world only to treat oversight like a side gig. They were sent there to ask hard questions, to follow the money and to report back. When they don’t, the contract between the voter and the representative is broken.
But despair is a luxury we cannot afford, because the antidote is already in our hands. The next general election is not far away, and elections are the only place where citizens get to issue performance reviews with real consequences. Poor governance must have a price and that price must be paid at the ballot. We must stop voting for names, for party logos, for “it is our turn,” or for the man who shared bags of rice during Sallah. We must start voting for proven records. Before 2027, every voter should be able to answer three questions about their representative: What committee did you serve on? What did you do there? What did you deliver for this constituency? If your Rep chaired the power committee and produced nothing, that is a record. If your Rep was on the oil spill committee and never pushed for a public hearing in your community, that is a record. If your Rep’s name appears on a list of dissolved ad hocs with no report to show for it, that is a record. And records must have consequences.
This will require work and it will require courage. It means organising town halls and not clapping for speeches. It means demanding to see the reports that were submitted to the Clerk and using the Freedom of Information Act to pry them loose if they are buried. It means supporting the journalists and civil society groups that track bills, motions, and committee attendance and amplifying their findings instead of dismissing them as “politics.” It means refusing to accept the old excuse that “all politicians are the same.” They are not. Some show up. Some read the documents. Some ask the uncomfortable questions. Those are the ones who should be returned. The rest should be retired.
The lesson of August 28 is not just that committees failed. It is that impunity thrives where voters are silent. The House dissolved those committees because the rules forced its hand, not necessarily because the culture has changed. The culture will only change when legislators know that their seat is not automatic, that a second term is earned, and that a constituency can and will fire them. That is the power of the PVC. It is not a talisman. It is a hiring and firing tool. In 2027, we must use it like one.
We must also demand a different kind of candidate. Nigeria does not need more career politicians who see the House as a place to rest after business or to protect business interests. We need teachers who understand policy, engineers who understand power, accountants who understand budgets, young people who understand technology, women who understand the cost of living because they live it. We need people who are serious minded, who see public office as duty and not as a reward. The Ad Hoc Committee system itself is supposed to be for specific, time-bound assignments. Let us apply that same logic to the job of a legislator. You get four years. If you do not produce, you do not get another four.
This is not about hatred for any party or any region. It is about love for a country that is tired of being taken for granted. The dissolved committees are a mirror. They show us an institution that sets up probes to calm public anger and then forgets them. They show us lawmakers who are quick to take the oath and slow to do the work. They show us a system that will continue to waste time and money until the people inside it fear the people outside it. That fear is not violence. It is accountability. It is the knowledge that in a democracy, the voter is the final boss.
So let the dissolution be a turning point, not just another headline. Let it be the moment we decided that never again will we send someone to Abuja and then go to sleep for four years. Let it be the moment we started keeping lists, asking questions, and voting with memory. The power sector probe may be dead for now, but the power to change who sits in the House is very much alive. The oil spill report may be in a drawer, but the report card we will issue in 2027 is in our hands.
Nigeria does not lack laws. It lacks consequences. From August 28, let us begin to supply them. Vote out the indifferent. Vote out the unserious. Vote out those who treat your mandate with levity. And vote in those who understand that to represent is to work, to report and to be answerable. That is how poor governance finally learns that it has a cost.
The views expressed by contributors are strictly personal and not of Law & Society Magazine.
