By Sam Otuonye

There are moments in history when a simple sentence captures the spirit of an entire political struggle. In Nigeria, one such sentence was: “If you Tarka me, I Dabo you.” Today, as the United States and Iran wrestle over the Strait of Hormuz, that old Nigerian political expression has acquired a new international meaning: ‘if you hit me, I will hit you back.’

But history teaches that such a contest can become dangerous when the people involved are not ordinary individuals but powerful governments, armies and nations.

The present confrontation between United States President Donald Trump and Iran is, in many ways, a classic case of action and retaliation. Washington wants Iran to yield. Tehran wants Washington to pay a price for every pressure put on it. And in the middle of the struggle is a narrow stretch of water through which a huge part of the world’s energy supply passes.

The Nigerian story goes back to1974, during the military administration of General Yakubu Gowon.

There was a Joseph Sarwuan Tarka, a prominent politician from the Middle Belt, a powerful member of Gowon’s government who had served as Federal Commissioner for Transport and later Federal Commissioner for Communications. He was one of the most influential political figures from what was then Benue-Plateau State.

Then came a Godwin Daboh, a businessman and fellow Tiv from Benue. In 1974, Daboh publicly accused Tarka of corruption and impropriety. He went as far as swearing an affidavit containing allegations against the powerful Federal Commissioner. The controversy became a major national political story.

Tarka fought back.
The confrontation became so bitter that it produced the famous political expression: “If you Tarka me, I will Dabo you.” In simple language, it meant: ‘if you attack me, I will retaliate.’

Under mounting public and political pressure, Tarka resigned from the federal cabinet in August 1974. The controversy did not end there. It became one of the memorable political battles of that era and eventually entered Nigeria’s political vocabulary as a metaphor for retaliation.

Tarka returned to politics during the Second Republic. He was elected Senator for Benue East in 1979 and became Chairman of the Senate Committee on Finance and Appropriation.

The Strait of Hormuz is not merely another waterway. It is a narrow maritime passage between Iran and Oman, linking the Persian Gulf with the Gulf of Oman and the Arabian Sea. At its narrowest point, it is only about 20 miles wide. Yet through this narrow passage moves an extraordinary volume of the world’s energy supplies.

This explains why Hormuz is everybody’s business. If the Strait is seriously blocked, the consequences do not stop in Tehran, Washington or the Gulf. They travel to Beijing, New Delhi, Tokyo, Seoul, London, Lagos and every economy that depends on affordable energy.

Oil prices rise. Transport becomes expensive. Electricity costs rise. Food becomes more expensive. Inflation returns. Businesses suffer. Poor countries suffer even more.

That is why Hormuz is sometimes described as the world’s energy artery.

President Trump has demonstrated a willingness to use military power against Iran. But the present crisis shows the limits of military power.

The United States and Iran have been involved in a prolonged conflict since the U.S.-Israeli strikes on Iran began on February 28, 2026. The fighting has centred not only on Iran’s nuclear and military capabilities but increasingly on control of the Strait of Hormuz.

Washington can destroy military installations. It can attack infrastructure. It can impose sanctions. It can deploy warships. But destroying Iran is a different matter.

Iran can retaliate against American interests and Gulf infrastructure. It can threaten shipping. It can disrupt energy supplies. And because Hormuz is so important to the world economy, every additional military escalation carries a global economic price.This is the dilemma now confronting Trump.

This is where the phrase “If you Tarka me, I Dabo you” becomes relevant.

Iran has effectively demonstrated that it has a weapon that cannot easily be bombed away: Geography.

The Strait lies beside Iranian territory. Iran does not need to defeat the United States in a conventional war to impose enormous economic costs. It only needs to make the movement of ships sufficiently difficult, dangerous or expensive.

Trump therefore faces an uncomfortable choice. He can continue escalating and risk a wider war, higher energy prices and greater pressure on the global economy.

Or he can negotiate, even if negotiation requires concessions that may look politically uncomfortable.

Diplomacy often means accepting something less than everything one wants in order to prevent something worse.

That appears to be the calculation behind the current discussions. It is expected that a deal between Iran and Oman would soon ensure commercial shipping to proceed, with U.S. measures tied to Iran’s compliance.

Trump may therefore be discovering the oldest lesson in international politics: military superiority does not automatically produce political victory.

The strongest man in the room may still need the cooperation of the man controlling the doorway.

Nigeria should understand this lesson.
For Nigeria, the Hormuz crisis should not be treated as a distant Middle Eastern quarrel.

Nigeria is an oil-producing country, but Nigerians remain heavily exposed to international energy prices. Any prolonged disruption in Hormuz can affect crude prices, shipping costs, foreign exchange, inflation, petroleum products and government revenue.

The crisis should therefore remind that oil security is also national security.
Nigeria must develop strategic fuel reserves, improve domestic refining, strengthen alternative energy sources and reduce its vulnerability to shocks in international oil markets.

When two individuals fight, they hurt each other. But when two governments fight, millions of innocent people pay the bill.

That is why the world should hope that Washington and Tehran do not allow “If you Tarka me, I Dabo you” to become the governing principle of international diplomacy.

Because in the Strait of Hormuz, there is no room for a fight in which everybody wins.

There is only room for restraint, negotiation and a settlement that keeps the world’s energy artery open.

Sam Otuonye, anipr
Journalist/Public Affairs Analyst, writes through samotuonye22@gmail.com

By Lemmy Ughegbe, Ph.D

When governments speak of infrastructure, the public naturally thinks of roads, bridges, railways, airports, seaports and power stations. These remain indispensable, moving people, transporting goods and connecting communities. Every serious government invests in them because they drive economic growth and improve the quality of life.

Yet the twenty first century has quietly introduced another form of infrastructure, every bit as important, even though it cannot be seen. It does not span rivers like a bridge or tower above cities like a power plant. It exists largely in digital form, yet it now shapes almost every interaction between citizens, businesses and government. It is trusted digital identity, fast becoming one of the defining infrastructures of modern nations.

Estonia has built one of the world’s most advanced digital societies on a trusted identity system that lets citizens vote, access healthcare, register businesses and pay taxes almost entirely online. India’s Aadhaar programme has given over a billion people a secure digital identity, expanding financial inclusion and improving welfare delivery. Singapore’s Singpass has transformed access to public and private services through a single trusted credential. Rwanda has shown that developing countries too can use identity systems to strengthen governance and financial inclusion.

These countries differ in geography, population and politics. But they share one lesson. In a digital economy, trust has become infrastructure.

A century ago, nations measured progress by the roads they built, the ports they developed and the factories they established. Those investments powered industrialisation. Today, governments must still build physical infrastructure, but they must also invest in its digital counterpart, without which modern economies cannot function efficiently.

Digital infrastructure is often misunderstood as simply faster internet or better telecommunications. Those matter, but they are not the whole picture. Increasingly, countries are investing in what is now called Digital Public Infrastructure, built on three interconnected pillars: trusted digital identity, secure digital payments and reliable data exchange. Together, these systems let governments deliver services more efficiently, businesses operate with greater confidence and citizens participate more fully in the digital economy.

At the centre of this framework lies trusted identity.

Every electronic payment depends on knowing who is sending and receiving money. Every online government service requires confidence that the applicant is who they claim to be. Banks must verify customers, universities authenticate students, healthcare providers protect medical records, and employers confirm identities. Courts, immigration authorities, tax agencies and electoral bodies all depend on reliable verification. Identity is no longer simply proof of who we are; it is the currency of trust on which the digital age depends.

This is why Nigeria’s recent reforms in identity management deserve attention beyond legal and policy circles. On 26 June 2026, President Bola Tinubu signed the National Identity Management Commission Act 2026 into law, repealing the 2007 Act that had governed the sector for nearly two decades. The new law designates the National Identification Number as Nigeria’s sole recognised means of identification under a “One Person, One Identity” policy, and names NIMC as the Root Certification Authority for the country’s public key infrastructure. It also reconstitutes the commission’s board to include the police, the DSS, the EFCC, the Central Bank and INEC, reflecting a deliberate push for inter agency coordination. Enrolment in the National Identity Database has already passed 136 million.

This is more than the modernisation of one institution. It reflects an appreciation that identity verification is becoming essential national infrastructure, positioning Nigeria to compete more effectively in an increasingly digital global economy.

The significance extends beyond technology. A trusted identity framework strengthens governance itself. Governments make better decisions when they hold accurate information about the people they serve, social intervention programmes reach genuine beneficiaries rather than fictitious identities, tax administration improves, financial inclusion widens, and businesses spend less time verifying customers and more time creating value.

For ordinary Nigerians, the benefits are just as tangible. A reliable credential means easier access to banking, healthcare, pensions, education, passports and driver’s licences. It reduces the frustration of repeated verification and lowers the risk of identity theft and fraud, simplifies business registration for entrepreneurs, and opens doors for young people entering a workforce that increasingly requires secure verification.

None of this diminishes the importance of roads, electricity or railways. It recognises instead that the infrastructure needs of modern nations have expanded. A road connects communities physically, just as a trusted identity system connects them virtually, electricity powers machines as trust powers confidence, and railways move goods as digital identity moves services securely across institutions.

One form of infrastructure does not replace the other. Together, they support the modern state.
Infrastructure alone does not guarantee progress. Trust must be earned. Citizens must remain confident that their personal information is protected, that identity systems are administered professionally, and that technological advancement never comes at the expense of privacy or accountability. Strong legal safeguards, effective oversight and transparent governance matter as much as technological innovation.
The new Act’s alignment with the Nigeria Data Protection Act, and its stiffer penalties for identity fraud, including a minimum five year sentence for unauthorised database access, are welcome steps in that direction. Consolidating identity infrastructure within a single, accountable institution also brings real advantages. It closes the gaps that once let fraudsters exploit fragmented databases, gives government one authoritative source of truth instead of several competing ones, and makes oversight simpler because responsibility cannot be diffused across multiple agencies. A single, well governed system is easier to secure, audit and improve than a patchwork of disconnected ones ever was. The task now is to match that structural advantage with equally disciplined implementation.

That is perhaps the greatest lesson from countries that have successfully embraced digital identity. Their achievements rested not solely on technology, but on institutions that inspired confidence, respected citizens’ rights and continuously improved service delivery.

Nigeria must pursue the same path. Sustained investment, institutional professionalism and public engagement will determine whether the promise of digital identity is fully realised.

The nations that lead the twenty first century will not be distinguished only by the roads they build or the power they generate, but also by the trust they create. In an increasingly digital world, trusted identity has become one of the foundations on which governments serve citizens, businesses create opportunity and economies compete globally. Nigeria has begun laying that foundation. The challenge now is to build on it with consistency, integrity and an unwavering commitment to public confidence.

Dr Lemmy Ughegbe, FIMC, CMC
Email: lemmyughegbeofficial@gmail.com
WhatsApp ONLY: +2348069716645

By Lemmy Ughegbe, Ph.D

The rule of law is often threatened by corruption, abuse of power and impunity. Far less attention is paid to another, equally dangerous enemy: administrative incompetence.

The two rarely appear together in public discourse. Yet history shows that many institutional failures are not caused by the absence of laws. They are caused by the failure of those entrusted with administering them.

The recent controversy surrounding the alleged fake Presidential Foreign Intervention Promotion Council (PFIPC) has once again brought that uncomfortable truth into sharp focus.

As the House of Representatives continued its investigation into how an organisation allegedly operated within the corridors of government without lawful foundation, one moment stood out.

The Head of the Civil Service of the Federation, Mrs Didi Esther Walson-Jack, appeared before the investigative panel and accepted responsibility for the failure of the civil service to exercise due diligence.

In a public sector where officials often deny, deflect or blame others, such an admission was refreshing. It demonstrated a willingness to acknowledge institutional failure rather than conceal it.

For that, Mrs Walson-Jack deserves commendation. Public accountability begins with honesty. But accountability does not end with an apology. Indeed, that is where the more difficult conversation begins.

The rule of law is not defeated only when laws are deliberately broken. It is equally defeated when those responsible for administering the law lack the competence, diligence or systems necessary to make those laws effective.

Every government depends upon an administrative machinery that verifies documents, authenticates institutions, maintains accurate records and detects irregularities before they become national embarrassments.

When those systems fail, the consequences extend far beyond administrative inconvenience. Public confidence suffers. Institutional credibility declines. The authority of government itself is diminished.

The PFIPC controversy should therefore not be viewed merely as another political scandal. It should be understood as a profound administrative failure.

One cannot help but ask uncomfortable questions.

How does an organisation allegedly lacking lawful authority interact with multiple public institutions without fundamental questions being asked? Who verified its legal status? Who processed its correspondence? Who recognised its existence? Who failed to detect what should ordinarily have been obvious?

These are not merely questions about individuals. They are questions about systems.

Good governance depends as much on competent administration as it does on sound legislation. A country may enact excellent laws. It may establish impressive institutions. It may even possess an independent judiciary.

Yet if those responsible for implementing government decisions lack professional competence, administrative vigilance or effective internal controls, the rule of law becomes little more than an aspiration.

This is why modern democracies invest heavily in the professionalism of their civil services. Civil servants are not merely record keepers. They are custodians of institutional integrity. Their diligence often determines whether governments succeed or fail.

The admission by Mrs Walson-Jack also raises another question that should concern every Nigerian. Does accepting responsibility automatically discharge accountability?

The answer must surely be no. An apology is important. Indeed, it is often the first step towards restoring public confidence. But it cannot be the final step. Leadership carries responsibilities that extend beyond personal innocence. It includes responsibility for institutional performance.

Across the world, senior public officials have resigned or been removed following major institutional failures, not always because they personally committed wrongdoing, but because leadership ultimately bears responsibility for the effectiveness of the institutions under its supervision.

That principle is neither vindictive nor political. It is one of the foundations of public accountability.

The pattern repeats across climates and continents. In Nigeria itself, a minister facing forgery allegations resigned last year after sailing through presidential, legislative and security vetting undetected, a resignation that was commendable but that also exposed a vetting architecture broken long before he arrived. In South Africa, a Special Investigating Unit probe into the Department of Home Affairs found officials turning document verification into a profit-making scheme, prompting mass dismissals and a systemic overhaul rather than a search for a single culprit. In Britain, a Home Secretary resigned over the Windrush scandal not because she personally falsified anything, but because her department had failed to tell her the truth and she still carried responsibility for what it had done in her name. In South Korea, a prime minister resigned after a ferry disaster exposed regulatory failures that long predated his tenure, insisting that leadership could not simply point to the negligence of those below.

None of these officials was personally accused of wrongdoing. Each resigned, or was pushed to resign, because leadership was held responsible for the administrative machinery operating beneath it. That is the standard by which the PFIPC episode should also be judged.

Whether Mrs Walson-Jack should remain in office is not a question for newspaper columnists to determine. That responsibility belongs to the appointing authority, after a full assessment of the facts.

What should concern Nigerians, however, is the principle that emerges from this episode. If institutional failure attracts no consequences beyond expressions of regret, then accountability risks becoming symbolic rather than meaningful.

At the same time, accountability should never become a substitute for fairness. Public officials should not be sacrificed merely to satisfy public anger. Responsibility must be determined through evidence, due process and objective assessment rather than emotion or political expediency.

The objective should not be punishment for its own sake. It should be institutional renewal. This episode should therefore become a catalyst for comprehensive reform.

Government must strengthen verification procedures. Improve inter-agency coordination. Modernise official records. Deploy digital authentication systems. Conduct regular institutional audits. And build a civil service where professional scepticism is encouraged rather than discouraged.

Competence should become as important as integrity. The rule of law depends upon both.

Ultimately, the greatest threat to democracy is not always dramatic. Sometimes it wears the quiet face of administrative failure. A signature not verified. A document not scrutinised. A procedure not followed. A question not asked. That is how institutions gradually lose credibility.

The lesson from this episode is therefore larger than one agency, one investigation or one public official. Nigeria cannot build a society governed by the rule of law upon a foundation weakened by administrative incompetence.

The law may define what is right. But only competent administration can make what is right become reality.

Lemmy Ughegbe, Ph.D, FIMC, CMC

Email: lemmyughegbeofficial@gmail.com

WhatsApp ONLY: +2348069716645