OPINION
By Ali Elias
This article is a direct response to a question posed to me by a Chinese friend: Is the United States’ action in Venezuela wrong or right?
My answer is immediate: right and wrong are relative, not absolute—even in international relations. Context, consequences, and prior failures matter.
To understand US action in Venezuela, one must first look inward—at Nigeria.
Although Nigeria formally practises democracy, the will of the citizens has rarely been meaningfully exercised. Elections are held every four years, citizens vote, yet their choices are often not reflected in who ultimately governs the country. What exists, therefore, is democracy in form but not in substance. Political outcomes—at the level of the presidency, governorships, and local governments—are fraudulently shaped through manipulation of the electoral process and the complicity of institutions meant to safeguard it, all under the influence of the political class.
This democratic distortion became markedly more troubling after the 2019 and 2023 general elections. Imposition grew increasingly brazen, with the electoral umpire (INEC) and the judiciary widely perceived as complicit in legitimising disputed outcomes. But for the restraint and maturity shown by opposition figures and sections of civil society, the country might have descended into widespread anarchy and unrest.
Because those in power are widely seen as not deriving their authority from the mandate of the people, they often behave as though they are not accountable to the citizenry. Governance increasingly reflects personal discretion rather than constitutional obligation. The constitution exists eloquently on paper, but is neglected as a binding framework in practice. The president governs largely by preference rather than constitutional discipline, and taking cues from the executive, the federal legislature, state houses of assembly, and the local government follow suit in character
Some analysts describe this phenomenon as state capture. Yet what Nigeria appears to suffer is something even more corrosive: citizen capture—a condition in which institutions no longer serve the people, but exist to manage, neutralise, bypass them or exploit them: A slave-master relationship
The consequences are stark. Nigeria is burdened by unprecedented levels of corruption, public hopelessness, and civic resignation. The rule of law—once described as the hope of the common man—has steadily eroded. The ideal that the law is no respecter of persons has given way to a lived reality in which justice appears transactional, selective, and available mainly to the powerful.
For instance, the constitution provides that an elected representative who defects from the party on which he or she was elected forfeits the seat. In practice, this provision is rarely enforced. Defections occur routinely and without consequence. Presently, several governors elected on the platform of the Peoples Democratic Party (PDP) have defected to the All Progressives Congress (APC) without sanction. Many such defections, it has been alleged, occurred under political pressure. Challenging these actions in court is widely viewed as futile, given the lack of consistent judicial remedies in similar cases.
Similarly, individuals charged with serious corruption, suspected of corrupt practices, or even previously convicted have seen their cases discontinued or politically neutralised once aligned with the ruling party. As one observer cynically remarked, Nigeria’s democracy has mutated into a system of government of the gangsters, by the gangsters, for the gangsters. To perpetuate their hold on power, these actors are said to patronise criminal elements—both within and beyond the country’s borders.
It is within this context that Nigeria’s persistent insecurity must be examined. Many citizens increasingly ask whether elite political calculations, identity politics, and the erosion of accountability have fed into a terrorism crisis that has pushed the country dangerously close to the conditions of a failed state. Whether or not one accepts all such claims, their persistence reflects a profound collapse of public trust.
Executive overreach has also become disturbingly familiar. The removal of Governor Siminalayi Fubara of Rivers State, without adherence to established constitutional procedures and the installation of an interim administrator, reinforced fears that constitutional order has become negotiable. His reinstatement months later—following intense political negotiations—deepened public suspicion that legality is subordinate to elite consensus, particularly as preparations for the 2027 general election gather momentum. Some even claim that he may have been coerced into joining the ruling party as part of his conditions for reinstatement.
This raises fundamental questions. Where, under such conditions, does human freedom reside—the freedom to make choices about one’s political destiny and be bound by them? Where is the democratic ideal of government of the people, by the people, for the people? Where are citizens’ rights and the rule of law? Can democracy exist without accountability? And can a state still be described as constitutional when its constitution appears more symbolic than binding?
Can this condition be reversed by the ordinary Nigerian citizen? Many would argue that the answer is no—unless through a profound and disruptive rupture, the kind societies often describe as revolution. Yet history shows that when domestic remedies fail, people begin to reassess the moral boundaries of external assistance. Is it wrong, after all, for a neighbour to help extinguish a fire next door—especially when the flames threaten to spread?
The global community has largely watched Nigeria’s democratic decline without decisive engagement. The United Nations, in particular, has often appeared hesitant, prompting questions about whether the organisation acts only after instability “fruitfies” into chaos. When presidents trample on the will of their own citizens, such acts amount to a civic coup—an assault on rights and freedoms. And when even one individual is unlawfully deprived of liberty, humanity itself is diminished.
This is the true thrust of this article: If a state persistently denies its people freedom, on what moral basis can it object when external actors challenge that denial? Power, history teaches, abhors a vacuum. When international institutions hesitate, other powers will step in to fill the void.
It is in this light that many interpret events in Venezuela. Beyond oil and geopolitics, some see external action as an attempt—however imperfect—to restore citizens’ rights. The visible reactions of ordinary Venezuelans underscore a painful truth: people value freedom and dignity more than abstract sovereignty.
Similarly, many Nigerians do not reject sovereignty; they reject abandonment and enslavement. When decisive action appears to succeed where domestic authority has failed—particularly against terror or lawlessness—public reactions reflect desperation rather than disloyalty. Silence from leadership, opacity in governance, and institutional inertia only deepen suspicion and fuel speculation.
When the United Nations fails to act, it creates a vacuum in the world order. History suggests that such vacuums do not remain empty. The United States, by virtue of its power and global posture, often steps into that space—rightly or wrongly. The question, therefore, is not simply whether America is virtuous, but whether leaders who abuse power can continue to hide behind sovereignty. The lesson from Nigeria and Venezuela is the same: sovereignty loses its moral shield when it is consistently used to suppress the will and freedoms of the people. The world is watching, and the old doctrine of absolute non-interference may be giving way to a harsher reality—where legitimacy is increasingly measured by accountability.