Satirical Dispatches from the Yacht Class
There are countries that stumble. And then, there is Nigeria, where we stumble, sing, and livestream it for applause. A place where every national tragedy is followed not by reform, but by ribbon-cutting. Where the poor are fed slogans, the rich toast their failures in gold-rimmed glasses, and governance is a reality show with no final episode.
This is not a nation. It is a never-ending skit.
Dancing While Nigeria Drowns is a 12-part series of satirical dispatches from inside this absurdity—daily reports from the banquet halls of betrayal, the red carpets of incompetence, the pulpits of profit, and the WhatsApp groups of digital prophets. It is Nigeria, told not through the filtered lenses of politeness or patriotism, but through the unforgiving clarity of satire.
These are not essays. They are surgical strikes.
Not columns, but curses disguised as comedy.
Not predictions, but post-mortems.
Each installment exposes a different madness: the post-election yacht parties of the ruling elite, the agbada diplomacy where fashion trumps policy, the economic sorcery that starves the masses while billionaires multiply on paper. You’ll see the PVC turned into a Permanent Voter’s Curse. You’ll enter the influencer republic, where outrage is bought and truth is filtered for aesthetics. You’ll visit Abuja, where lies are made in bulk and shipped nationwide under the label “manifesto.”
This series is not for the comfortable. It is for the disturbed, the disillusioned, the dangerous citizens who still believe that satire can be rebellion. That laughter, properly weaponized, can pierce through propaganda.
Twelve days. Twelve doses of unfiltered fire.
Welcome to the diary of a drowning nation—with a DJ still playing.
Let the satire begin.
The Yacht Party You Voted For—Part 1
Election night in Nigeria doesn’t conclude with solemnity or national reflection. It concludes on a yacht.
Not in the metaphorical sense. A real yacht. Moored discreetly in the blue-guarded waters of Banana Island or floating quietly somewhere between Lagos and selective memory. Here, beneath crystal chandeliers and behind velvet ropes, the true winners of democracy gather—not to count ballots, but to uncork bottles.
The air smells of Dior perfume and imported privilege. A saxophonist plays highlife on command, serenading men whose only political ideology is access. Models imported from Brazil and Johannesburg, hired by the hour and dressed by the euro, drift through the party like ornamental lobbyists. Their smiles are part of the decor; their contracts as confidential as the election results.
The Governor-in-Waiting leans back in his chair, his agbada cascading like a declaration of excess. He’s not adjusting it out of discomfort—it is simply swollen with foreign currency sewn into the lining like contraband righteousness. Beside him, the Chief Strategist—who just last month posted threads on Twitter about “good governance” and “the voice of the people”—is now whispering policy proposals into the ear of a model whose primary political interest is champagne and proximity to power.
This is not governance. This is choreography. A choreography of conquest, decadence, and the carefully curated illusion of divine selection.
Outside, the country wheezes under generator fumes and deferred dreams. A woman who exchanged her vote for ₦5,000 and a half-used bag of rice crouches before her stall, trying to stretch a cup of garri into a miracle. A first-class graduate, once seduced by hashtags and hope, now refreshes his inbox like it’s a shrine, praying for job offers that never come.
But back on the yacht? The only emergency is the temperature of the Moët.
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“Victory,” says a senator-elect, swirling Cognac with the dexterity of someone who’s been stealing for decades, “is evidence that God is on our side.” The room nods, solemnly, like a coven of well-fed prophets. Their gospel is graft. Their altar is opulence.
A DJ begins to play Afrobeats as a troop of influencers arrive, each filtered to perfection and paid to pretend. They take selfies with men they will not remember and dance with names they cannot pronounce. Somewhere between the shrimp cocktail and the offshore account discussion, a billion-naira contract is awarded with a handshake and a wink.
This is not a victory party. This is a televised betrayal, sponsored by your belief in ballots.
Meanwhile, journalists hover near the buffet, holding cameras and dignity with equal shakiness. They will file reports later that night describing a “peaceful transition” and “celebration of democracy,” carefully cropping out the half-naked model draped over the Speaker-elect. Their reward? A warm malt, a meat pie, and an envelope that smells suspiciously like silence.
The poor—ever patient, ever patriotic—gather in front of flickering televisions, cheering names that have emptied their pockets and colonized their futures. They wave flags with hands that haven’t held employment in years. When the power cuts—as it always does—they use torchlights to applaud politicians who promised them uninterrupted electricity.
But let us return to the yacht.
Here, morality has left the group chat. The same man who cried during his acceptance speech now presses his crotch against a beauty queen while whispering about road infrastructure. The woman who screamed “accountability” on the campaign stage now giggles through a deal to smuggle her third child into an Ivy League college—with your tax money.
The only policy here is pleasure. The only legislative agenda is leisure.
And you, dear voter, are not on the guest list. You are the cost.
Your vote did not elect a servant. It sponsored a spectacle. You are not the constituency—they are. You are the camouflage. Your poverty justifies their philanthropy. Your suffering funds their sanctimony.
So the next time you hear fireworks after an election, remember, they are not celebrating you. They are celebrating your gullibility. You are not at the party. You are the reason for the party.
They are not dancing for democracy. They are dancing because, once again, you believed them.
And the yacht sails on.
Professor MarkAnthony Ujunwa Nze is a distinguished Nigerian-born investigative journalist, public intellectual, and global governance analyst, whose work spans critical intersections of media, law, and policy. His expertise extends across strategic management, leadership, and international business law, where he brings a nuanced understanding of institutional dynamics, cross-border legal frameworks, and executive decision-making in complex global environments.
Currently based in New York, Professor Nze serves as a full tenured professor at the New York Centre for Advanced Research. There, he spearheads interdisciplinary research at the forefront of governance innovation, corporate strategy, and geopolitical risk. Widely respected for his intellectual rigor and principled advocacy, he remains a vital voice in shaping ethical leadership and sustainable governance across emerging and established democracies.