What happens when a government loses its voice? A nation begins to govern itself with rumours.
There was a time in Nigeria when Ministers of Information were not invisible figures in Abuja. The office carried weight. The occupants were national voices. Their presence shaped public discourse and their faces were familiar to ordinary citizens. You did not need to search for them. You did not need to ask around. You simply knew.
There was a time in Nigeria’s history when the voice of the Minister of Information carried weight, real weight. It wasn’t just a title; it was a presence. Ministers of Information were not silent bureaucrats tucked in the folds of government. They were national characters, cultural fixtures, and sometimes, larger-than-life figures whose words travelled from the conference rooms of Abuja into sitting rooms across the country.
It was an era when you didn’t need Google to remember who spoke for the Federal Republic. Their names carried authority. Their personalities commanded attention. They didn’t hide behind press statements; they faced the country.
From Dapo Sarumi with his unmistakable charisma to Jerry Gana the man who could turn a briefing into a national broadcast event to Uche Chukwumerije , the closest thing Nigeria ever had to a Goebbels-level information marshal. to John Nnia Nwodo Jr. Smooth, smart, and confident in Abdulsalami’s transitional era, Chukwuemeka Chikelu. Urbane, articulate, and impossible to forget to Frank Nweke Jr. Youthful, energetic, and arguably the most media-savvy of his generation. It was a delight to watch him talk and dissect issues. John Ogar Odey to Dora Akunyili, to Labaran Maku to Patricia Akwashiki and of course, Lai Mohammed, the lightning rod of the Buhari years.. These were names that travelled across the country with speed. They explained policy. They defended government. They faced criticism. They stood in front of the nation during difficult moments and spoke with confidence.
Agree with them or not, those people showed up. They explained policy. They defended decisions. They took fire from critics and returned fire with facts sometimes with propaganda, sometimes with poetry, but always with presence. They were visible in the storm, not hiding in the calm.Like them all not they were in your faces like traffic lights.
When national tension rose, you expected them to address you. When crises erupted, they didn’t disappear. They spoke rightly or wrongly, convincingly or controversially but they spoke. You knew who was talking. You heard the voice that represented the government. And you could argue with it.
Jerry Gana in particular became a fixture of Nigerian public life. His briefings were events on their own. Uche Chukwumerije took control of the airwaves during the turbulent years after June 12 and spoke with an authority that made him impossible to ignore. John Nnia Nwodo Jr and Chukwuemeka Chikelu brought intellect and polish to the job during their time. And Frank Nweke Jr modernised government communication in ways that made him unforgettable.
Agree with them or not, every one of these people showed up. They communicated. They explained. They were visible. And they were accountable in the sense that you knew exactly who carried the voice of the Federal Government at any given time.
There was a time in this country when the Ministry of Information was a cathedral of power. A time when the nation paused when Jerry Gana spoke. A time when Uche Chukwumerije could command the airwaves with a single briefing and no one dared compete for the microphone. Even in the military era, when hierarchy was steel and discipline was oxygen, Information Ministers stood tall. They were not decorative. They were not background noise. They shaped narratives and defended national direction.
Presidential spokesmen back then? They were glorified couriers. They delivered statements, carried files, and stood behind the Head of State like quiet shadows. Apart from David Attah under Abacha, many Nigerians cannot remember the names of those men today. That is how invisible and disciplined the office was meant to be.
But something shifted with the return of democracy. A new species emerged in Aso Rock. The presidential spokesman evolved into a daily broadcaster, a permanent fixture on our screens, issuing statements at the speed of breaking news. From Reuben Abati to Femi Adesina and Garba Shehu, the microphones never cooled. They became more visible than the Ministers of Information who were supposed to speak for the government as an institution, not for one man.
And so the balance broke.
What was once a clear division of labour has now become an unrestrained overlap. The Chief Press Secretary speaks for the President. The Information Minister speaks for the Government. That is how it is designed. That is how countries with structure operate.
But here, the roles have collapsed into one loud centre and several quiet corners.
Information Ministers and Commissioners are now struggling for oxygen. They are present in name but absent in the national conversation because the media advisers have overrun the space. The men who should be gatekeepers of government messaging have become spectators in their own ministry. Meanwhile, the presidential media office has turned into a megaphone factory.
Even in the old days, when Wada Nas served as Minister for Special Duties, he complemented the Information Ministry without swallowing it. Same with Tom Ikimi and Col Anthony Ukpo. There was respect. There was balance. There was order. No one man turned himself into the full orchestra.
Today, however, Bayo Onanuga has stepped into that space with a boldness that can only be described as a midfield takeover. He has unilaterally assumed the traditional powers of the Information Minister, and he is doing it without hesitation and without apology. He has become the face of government communication on nearly every matter, whether institutional or presidential, leaving the Ministry of Information as a silent spectator in the arena it was born to dominate.
And that is the tragedy of modern Nigeria. The offices still exist, the titles still glitter, the ministries still have budgets, but the centre of gravity has moved. Not by law. Not by reform. Simply by the force of loudness.
The result is a government that speaks with too many voices from one office and too few from the office that should be speaking.
Nigeria now has ministers of information whose existence many citizens find out by accident perhaps during a cabinet list, or after a random headline buried deep in a newspaper. Ask the ordinary Nigerian.
Who is Tinubu’s Minister of Information?
Ask the average Nigerian today to name the Minister of Information You will watch confusion sweep the person’s face like NEPA has just taken light.
What happened?
How did we move from the Ganas and Chukwumerijes men who dominated airwaves to an era where the Minister of Information could sit beside you on a flight and you wouldn’t know?
This is not a criticism of personality. It is a symptom of a larger problem. A government that rarely communicates with its citizens during the most difficult period in recent national history. A time of hunger. A time of anxiety. A time when clarity is essential. Yet the one office created to link government and people has become quiet and the Presidential spokesman loud.
This tells a story, a story of governments that no longer feel the need to face their citizens. A story of leadership that avoids accountability conversations. A story of political communication so fractured that Nigerians now get national explanations from leaked memos, unnamed sources, and social media speculators.
A functional nation does not operate like this.
Information is the lifeline of democracy. When people don’t know what their government is doing, fear replaces clarity, frustration replaces trust, and conspiracy replaces truth.
Nigeria is now operating inside that dangerous gap an information vacuum filled with anger, hunger, and guesswork.
And the tragedy is that it was not like this before. .
There was a time when the 9pm news meant something. You sat and waited, knowing someone would speak whether to convince you, confuse you, or annoy you, but at least speak.
Today, we navigate some of the hardest moments in our national life with no official voice stepping forward. Just silence.
From ministers who were household names… to ministers we have to Google to confirm they exist.
The country is dealing with rising costs, insecurity and daily uncertainty. Yet the information arm of government seems content to whisper when it should speak with courage. Silence in moments like this creates confusion. It leaves room for rumour and speculation to take over the national space. It deepens distrust and widens the distance between government and citizens.
There is a growing feeling among citizens that the government no longer sees them or hears them, and silence from the one office meant to bridge that gap only makes the distance wider.
You waited to hear someone speak on behalf of the nation. You might disagree. You might argue. But at least you heard something. You heard a voice claiming responsibility for the direction of the country.
Today we find ourselves in a different time entirely. Public communication has thinned out. The traditional role of the Minister of Information has almost disappeared. It is hard to understand how a nation in crisis can choose silence at the very moment when communication is most needed.
People are carrying heavy burdens today and they need a voice that acknowledges their fears, yet the silence from the ministry makes the country feel strangely leaderless.
Last month, 25 schoolgirls were abducted in Kebbi. Eight days later, the government announced their rescue yet offered no details. In that silence, the absence of the Information Minister spoke louder than words ever could.
In times like this, even a simple explanation can calm a restless nation, but the absence of that voice has left many Nigerians feeling abandoned in their own country.
This is the story of how the public voice of government faded away.
Nigeria deserves a leadership that speaks clearly and regularly. A government that explains decisions. A system that respects citizens enough to address them directly.It is held together by communication strong enough to reassure people that someone is listening and someone is accountable.
Nigeria deserves better.
A government that speaks.
Because a country is not only governed by policies.
And right now, Nigeria is running dangerously low on both.
Until that voice returns the gap between government and the people will continue to widen.
The post Where did our ministers who once faced the people go?, by Stephanie Shaakaa appeared first on Vanguard News.
