Femi-Akintunde Johnnson There was a time when governments, however reluctantly, understood that criticism came with the territory of leadership. They might dislike it. They might contest it. They might even dismiss it. But they generally recognised that occupying public office meant living under the relentless searchlight of public scrutiny. Today, however, something rather troubling appears to be taking root in our political culture. Increasingly, the first instinct is no longer to answer criticism; it is to interrogate the critic. The recent exchanges following the visit of members of the Catholic Bishops’ Conference of Nigeria to President Bola Tinubu at the Presidential Villa provide yet another illustration. Archbishop Emeritus John Cardinal Onaiyekan expressed concerns about the country’s economic hardship, worsening insecurity and what he considered an excessive preoccupation with the next election cycle. The reactions came swiftly and predictably. Rather than engaging substantially with the issues he raised, much of the public conversation drifted towards whether the respected cleric was politically neutral, whether he had supported a particular candidate in the last election, and whether his intervention had crossed some invisible line separating pastoral concern from political commentary. Former Governor Rotimi Amaechi insisted that religious leaders have every moral obligation to speak truth to power. FCT Minister Nyesom Wike countered that the Cardinal had long abandoned impartiality and therefore lacked the moral authority to play national umpire. Both positions have found enthusiastic supporters, and perhaps both contain elements worthy of consideration. But somewhere amid the verbal fireworks, we seem to have lost sight of a more fundamental question: since when did the perceived political preference of the messenger become sufficient grounds for ignoring the message? This is no longer about Cardinal Onaiyekan. It is about us. We have become a nation increasingly uncomfortable with criticism. Worse still, we have developed an unfortunate habit of treating every dissenting voice as evidence of hidden agendas. A journalist uncovers uncomfortable facts; we ask who is sponsoring him. A university lecturer critiques government policy; we immediately search for his party affiliation. A labour leader protests economic hardship; he is accused of nursing political ambitions. A judge delivers an unpopular judgment; conspiracy theories spring to life before the ink has dried. Even religious leaders, once regarded as part of the nation’s moral compass, now find themselves subjected to forensic examinations of their electoral preferences before their opinions can be entertained. It is an unhealthy evolution. No serious democracy demands that only politically neutral citizens reserve the right to criticise those in power. Such a standard would silence almost everyone. Every citizen carries convictions, biases and preferences shaped by upbringing, experience, faith, profession and ideology. That does not automatically invalidate every observation they make. A person may hold political opinions and still speak profound truths. Equally, one may wear the garment of neutrality while peddling falsehood with impressive eloquence. Public office does not confer infallibility, neither does political preference extinguish common sense. To be fair, there is a legitimate caution in the argument advanced by those who believe influential public figures should exercise restraint. Religious leaders, in particular, occupy positions of enormous moral influence. Their words carry unusual weight and should therefore be measured, responsible and evidence-based. They should resist becoming unofficial spokespersons for partisan interests. On that score, every cleric, imam, pastor and traditional ruler must continually guard the credibility of the office they occupy. But that responsibility cuts both ways. Governments, too, must cultivate the emotional maturity to distinguish criticism from hostility. Every uncomfortable observation is not an attempt at destabilisation. Every expression of concern is not an opposition manifesto in disguise. Every critical sermon is not an undeclared campaign speech. Sometimes, criticism is simply what it claims to be: criticism. History offers little comfort to administrations that surrounded themselves exclusively with agreeable voices. Leaders who hear only applause soon lose the capacity to recognise genuine distress. A government that dismisses every warning as political mischief may eventually discover, rather painfully, that reality pays scant regard to carefully curated briefings and flattering memoranda. Perhaps that is why wise leaders have always encouraged frank conversations, even when those conversations sting. The ancient courts had jesters whose humour concealed uncomfortable truths.
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