There is something almost quaint—indeed, something medieval—about the way we continue to venerate the word “representation.” We utter it with reverence, as though merely shouting “my people!” is enough to sanctify any tantrum, any tomfoolery, any descent into the depths of legislative lunacy.
Consider the case of Senator Natasha Akpoti-Uduaghan, the latest troubadour of this democratic superstition. Her acolytes—those wide-eyed apostles of performative politics—insist she must be restored to her seat, not because she is wise, remorseful or measured, or even mildly competent, but because “Kogi Central must be represented.” What they forget—or are congenitally incapable of grasping—is that representation without responsibility is not democracy; it is farce. Politics without character is one of the blunders of the modern world, according to Mahatma Ghandi.
It is not enough to occupy a seat. A senator must earn it daily—through discipline, decorum, and dedication to the people who entrusted her with it. A senator more concerned about where she sits than how she serves is not representing her people—she is misrepresenting them.
Let us examine, if your stomach permits, the record: a six-month suspension—not for some noble dissent in the spirit of Mandela or Martin Luther King, but for a tiresome string of chamber disruptions, abusive remarks, and a penchant for what one might charitably call melodrama. Add to this her gallivanting across the international stage, shedding crocodile tears, and solemnly declaring that Nigeria is some gendered gulag fit for trial at The Hague.
If this is representation, then I am Napoleon Bonaparte.
Let us not be deceived. This is not democratic heroism. It is political burlesque—the same sort of spectacle one finds in a travelling circus, albeit with less dignity and far worse costumes. And when this behavior earns the lightest of reprimands—a modest and justified suspension—these same defenders of “the people’s voice” clutch their pearls and feign fainting fits. “But she represents a constituency!” they wail, as though election were a license to desecrate the very institution one swore to uphold.
Turn such a person loose—unchecked and unmoored—and you don’t have a senator. You have a loose cannon with a lanyard.
In saner democracies, lawmakers are dispatched to the political wilderness for far less:
• Lynn Beyak, in the frosty dominions of Canada, was suspended twice—first for racist letters, then again for refusing anti-racism training. No pay, no seat. Suspended on each occasion for the rest of the legislative session.
• Patrick Brazeau, another Canadian, was removed for an imaginative portfolio of misdeeds. He was suspended and barred from the Senate for over three years.
• Lidia Thorpe, Australia’s firebrand, was suspended for an entire session after hurling insults, paper, and dignity across the chamber floor.
• Even Nigeria is no stranger to disciplining misrepresentation. The late Senator Arthur Nzeribe—flamboyant as a flamingo—was suspended indefinitely in 2002. In practice, he was gone for nine months. Did the nation collapse? Did democracy perish? Certainly not.
Because institutions—if they are to mean anything—must discipline those who treat governance as theatre. If you are not adding value to the Senate, you are adding noise. If you are not serving your people in need, you are misrepresenting them indeed.
Let us dispatch this sentimental myth that a warm, well-dressed body in a red seat equals representation. The true test of a legislator is not volume, but value. Not attendance, but conduct. If your senator spends more time on talk shows than in serious deliberation… if she weeps in New York and London but cannot bring herself to show courtesy to her colleagues… if she values camera angles over committee work—then what you have is not a senator, but a diva with a constituency.
Representation, in its noblest form, is a burden—a heavy, thankless labour performed with restraint and purpose. It requires discipline, not drama; sacrifice, not selfies. It means sitting wherever you must sit—not for comfort, but for country and your constituency.
And when a senator fails even the minimum threshold of public decorum, the most merciful thing the chamber can do—for her, for her constituents, and for itself—is to send her home. Temporarily or permanently.
No institution—legislative, military, or civil—can survive in chaos. In the civil service, you are recruited on the principle of federal character so you represent a state. Yet misbehave, and you are dismissed—and no one cries about quotas. The military doesn’t coddle insubordination on the basis of where the soldier hails from or because he filled a state quota. Why, then, should the Senate?
Let us silence the hullabaloo. Democracy must mean that no one—not even the loudest incompetent person—sits above the rules.
And so we arrive at a simple, unvarnished truth: a Senate seat is not a stage. Misbehavior dressed up as activism is not representation. It is—pure and simple—a very public embarrassment. To remain in the Senate, you must be “senatorial” – you must look the part.
