By Lanre Alfred
I have often said that the most dangerous wars are not fought in the deserts of Sambisa or the swamps of the Niger Delta; they are planned over champagne glasses in Maitama lounges, perfected in the conspiratorial corners of Abuja cocktail parties and waged in polished boardrooms.
Power in Nigeria is never left unchallenged, and if you imagine that enemies disappear because you survived one storm, then you are already courting disaster.
Which is why I find myself deeply unsettled by what I hear whispered in hushed tones about Bayo Ojulari, the Managing Director of the Nigerian National Petroleum Company Limited (NNPCL). He believes, so I hear, that the storm around him has passed. He assumes that because he has not been dragged into yet another public scandal in recent weeks, the vultures have abandoned their hunt.
Nothing could be further from the truth. If anything, the vultures are circling closer, hungrier, and deadlier than before.
And I say this with the conviction of one who has lived long enough in high society’s theatre of intrigue to know that the fiercest daggers are not wielded by enemies at the gate but by friends at the table.
The storm around Ojulari is not over, it has only gone underground. The cabal that once sought his head has not retired to the shadows in defeat; they have regrouped, reorganised, and this time, their playbook is sharper.
The story making the rounds in select Abuja drawing rooms is chilling. A high-ranking member of Ojulari’s own management team, yes, a man who sits across from him in meetings, who addresses him as “sir” with practiced deference, has now become the lead conspirator. This individual, from what I am told, has positioned himself as the mole, the inside man, feeding external traducers with information, documents, and ammunition that could destabilise Ojulari’s tenure.
This is the cruel irony of power: the most dangerous enemy is always the one who knows your schedule, your weaknesses, your blind spots. I do not envy Ojulari. Imagine sitting in a boardroom, trading jokes with a man who has already drafted your obituary in the corridors of influence.
But Abuja is Abuja. Here, betrayal is not a character flaw; it is a survival tactic. And if Ojulari is not yet fully awake to this reality, then the next ambush may very well end his career.
Unlike the first round of attacks, which were noisy and visible, this fresh batch of assaults is being fine-tuned to be surgical. I have heard whispers of dossiers, files thick with allegations, some perhaps exaggerated, others entirely fabricated.
These dossiers, according to insiders, are being prepared to be leaked to the media and the power brokers who matter, those who have the ears of President Bola Tinubu.
And make no mistake, Abuja thrives on perception. In this city, a rumour repeated often enough acquires the texture of fact. A rumour in Asokoro can become a headline in Lagos within 24 hours. By the time Ojulari hears the story, it may already be too late.
Pundits are quick to say this is the cabal fighting back. And they are right. Nigeria’s oil and gas industry has never been a playground for the fainthearted. The entrenched interests who feel sidelined by Ojulari’s policies are not the type to lick their wounds quietly. They are used to getting their way; they are used to cutting deals in the dark. For them, Ojulari is an inconvenient roadblock, a man whose tenure threatens the delicate balance of influence that has lined pockets for decades.
So, of course, they want him out. And, of course, they will not stop until they achieve it. But the intrigue takes a darker twist when you consider the speculation that if Ojulari has soiled his hands even slightly; by signing off on a questionable contract, overlooking a misstep, or failing to cover his tracks, the cabal will weaponise that evidence against him. In other words, if he has given them a nail, they will build a coffin around it.
What unsettles me most is not the cabal, it is the fact that the betrayal is internal. Abuja society is full of stories like this. I recall a certain parastatal head who, believing he had defeated his enemies, threw a lavish party at the Hilton, only to discover months later that the man leading the charge to remove him was the “loyal subordinate” who toasted him at the event. History is full of such tragedies.
The lesson is simple: the enemy within is always deadlier than the enemy outside. Outside enemies may threaten, but inside enemies are deadlier.
If I were in Ojulari’s shoes, I would not sleep with both eyes shut. I would first tighten my house, conduct loyalty checks, and identify the moles. It is not paranoia, it is survival. Every empire has fallen because the emperor trusted the wrong man at the wrong time.
Second, Ojulari must embrace transparency like a shield. The moment a fresh rumour or narrative is launched, he must counter it with facts. Delay is fatal. In Abuja’s gossip economy, silence is rarely golden; it is a death sentence.
Third, and perhaps most importantly, he must reposition himself as indispensable to President Bola Ahmed Tinubu’s larger economic reforms. Because in this city, relevance trumps innocence. If Tinubu sees him as integral to his oil and gas vision, the cabal’s darts may bruise but they will not bury him.
Permit me, at this juncture, a detour into the cocktail circuit, because that is where much of this war is being plotted. I was recently at a dinner in Maitama where a senator leaned over his wine glass and said, “Ojulari does not know what is coming.” The table chuckled knowingly. This is how Abuja operates; wars are fought with official memos and in coded jokes at private dinners.
In Wuse II lounges, among the city’s nouveau riche, the talk is already that Ojulari is a marked man. Some believe he will not last the year; others insist Tinubu will protect him because “Baba does not like to be seen as succumbing to blackmail.” But the fact that his fate is a topic of casual conversation at high-society gatherings tells you everything; you are only safe in Abuja when nobody is talking about you.
Ojulari’s case is a reminder of how fragile power is in Nigeria. Today, you are celebrated with front-page photographs and glowing press releases. Tomorrow, you are the subject of a leaked dossier, your name smeared in WhatsApp groups, your allies deserting you one by one.
I remember the story of a certain former minister, a man once hailed as the “star boy” of his administration. One day, he was the darling of the President; the next, he was left out in the cold, betrayed by those he thought loyal. Abuja does not do permanent friends, it only does permanent interests.
And so, I return to my refrain: the storm is not over. It has only gone quiet, and quiet storms are the deadliest. Bayo Ojulari must not be lulled into a false sense of security. The enemy is not at the gate, the enemy is in his team. And unless he sharpens his instincts, fortifies his alliances, and stays two steps ahead, he may yet be unceremoniously booted out of office.
