Psychological Advice to Retired Vice Admiral Ibok-Ete Ibas: A Call for Ethical Departure, Emotional Insight, and National Restoration

From a Concerned Psychologist

On Behalf of the People, Peace, and the Psychological Health of the Nation

Dear Retired Vice Admiral Ibok-Ete Ibas,

This is not a political reprimand. This is a heartfelt plea, born from the raw desperation and unfiltered agony I have seen etched across the faces of Rivers State’s most vulnerable citizens. It is written in the voice of a psychologist who understands that the greatest leaders are those who can hear the quietest cries—even when they are drowned out by the sound of their own authority.

The Emotional Landscape You’ve Entered: Fear, Resistance, and Psychological Fatigue

You may perceive the resistance in Rivers State as political opposition or orchestrated agitation. But to the trained psychological eye, this is far more than political maneuvering. It is a collective outpouring of grief, desperation, and unending sorrow. It is a community’s frantic struggle against a force they believe has come to strip away their humanity, autonomy, and dignity.

In the last 48 hours, the scenes unfolding in Rivers State are not only heartbreaking—they are profoundly traumatic. You are witnessing the psychological breakdown of a people who feel cornered, unheard, and powerless.

Mothers clutching their children, tears streaming down their faces as they kneel on the ground, eyes lifted to the sky—pleading for mercy.

Elders, frail but determined, lying on the scorching earth, arms outstretched, calling on you to leave. Their voices cracked with age, their bodies too weary to continue, but their spirits unbroken.

Youths who have abandoned anger, resorting instead to prayer, tears, and exhaustion. Their faces drenched with grief, their hands clasped in unity, their hearts shattered by rejection.

They are not rioters. They are not armed insurgents. They are citizens in mourning. They kneel, they cry, they whisper the same words over and over:

“Go.”

“Leave.”

“Mercy.”

These words are not born of hatred, but of desperation. They want to be heard. They want to be respected. They want to be free from the weight of imposed authority. And at times, they can say nothing at all, only sob uncontrollably, their voices failing where their spirits still fight. This is not protest. This is psychological collapse.

What You Symbolize Psychologically: Not a Leader, but a Reminder of Pain

Even if your intentions are honorable—even if your directives are meant to bring order—your very title reminds the people of the darkest chapters of their history. To them, you are not a servant of peace, but an instrument of imposition. Your uniformed past stands in direct opposition to their desperate hunger for civilian governance.

You must ask yourself:

“What is the emotional weight of my presence in Rivers State? What does my face symbolize to the child who sees their parents cry in terror? What does my appointment represent to an elder who has known nothing but broken promises and betrayal?”

You are not merely a man appointed by the President. You have become a psychological trigger, reopening wounds that had barely begun to heal. Your very presence conjures memories of conquest, force, and subjugation. You have become the embodiment of an old trauma, an unhealed wound that bleeds anew with every day you remain.

Your Presence as an Unintentional Psychological Aggressor

To the people of Rivers State, your authority feels not like guidance but domination. To them, you are not a protector, but a figure of occupation. Every directive you give—regardless of intent—carries the undertones of coercion and suppression.

But they are not fighting you with violence. They are fighting you with grief, prayer, and sacrifice. They have chosen the most innocent of weapons—tears, appeals, and vulnerability. And that makes their resistance more powerful than any army.

You may not have intended to be their oppressor. But right now, that is how they see you. And that perception alone is a psychological reality you cannot ignore. You are a man of honor, but you are now seen as an agent of suffering.

Civil Society is Speaking—Will You Listen?

The call is growing louder. As reported by The Nigeria Lawyer, civil society organizations like the NBA, NLC, TUC, and various advocacy groups are speaking out against this unconstitutional act. They are demanding that democracy be defended, that the people’s right to constitutional governance be upheld.

Their stance is not driven by political alignment—it is driven by principle and human rights. They understand that an appointed Sole Administrator, in place of elected leadership, undermines the very fabric of democracy.

If you remain, you are not just opposing the people of Rivers State—you are opposing the fundamental values that make Nigeria a republic. The people have turned to civil society not for power, but for protection. They are appealing to the conscience of the nation. Will you ignore them, even as their voices grow hoarse from pleading?

Your Exit Can Become a Path to Healing—If You Act Now

If you truly wish to serve, now is the time to leave. Not out of shame, but out of honor. Not out of cowardice, but out of courage. Not out of weakness, but out of wisdom.

Imagine the psychological healing that would occur if you stood before the cameras and said:

“I came to serve, but I must not serve where I am not wanted. I respect your cries, your prayers, your tears. I shall return to my state and leave you to rebuild your own.”

That single act would transform you from a figure of imposition into a hero of conscience. It would show that even the most decorated military man can bow before the will of the people. It would give the people something they have not felt in a long time—hope.

Your Legacy Is at Stake—Honor or Infamy

Your life story is rich with service, steeped in the discipline of leadership, the rigor of training, and the honor of a decorated career. Born on September 27, 1960, in Nko, Cross River State, Nigeria, you began your journey with resilience and ambition. You rose through the ranks of the Nigerian Navy with unwavering dedication, holding high offices and executing your duties with distinction.

From the hallowed grounds of the Nigerian Defence Academy to your commissioning as an officer in 1983, you built a career defined by loyalty, strength, and perseverance. You served the nation for nearly 42 years, from June 1979 until your retirement in January 2021—a rare and commendable record of unbroken service. You climbed through the naval hierarchy until you held one of the most coveted positions in the armed forces—Vice Admiral and Chief of Naval Staff of the Nigerian Navy.

But your commitment did not end there. Even after retirement, your leadership qualities earned you the esteemed role of Nigeria’s High Commissioner to the Republic of Ghana. You became not just a man of military distinction but a diplomat—a bridge-builder, a statesman. Your knowledge and experience made you a member and fellow of several prestigious professional bodies, including the Certified Institute of Shipping, Nigerian Institute of Management (Chartered), International Institute of Professional Security, and the US Naval Institute.

You are widely traveled, having drawn wisdom from institutions across the globe. Your leisure activities reflect a man of contemplation and intellect—reading, watching documentaries, playing golf. Your personal life is equally rich, surrounded by the love of your family. You are a man of family values, a figure of guidance and support.

But today, that legacy is on the line. All the decades of dedication, all the accolades, all the titles—you stand to lose them all, not through failure of competence, but through failure of conscience.

The streets of Rivers State are not filled with rebellion—they are filled with agony and prayer. And if you continue to occupy this role, even as their cries grow louder, your name will become tied to tragedy. If violence erupts, your forces—soldiers, police, paramilitary—will be forced to act under your command. And if harm befalls the innocent, if blood is spilled, your honor will be buried under the weight of unnecessary suffering.

You must understand the psychological burden you are placing not only on the people but also on the men and women under your authority. You are asking them to act against their own communities, to enforce a power structure that the people have rejected. When they are ordered to disperse a crowd of praying mothers, to detain crying youths, or to strike down elders lying helplessly on the ground, they too are victims of this untenable situation. They too will carry the trauma of being instruments of suppression.

If violence breaks out, your forces will be caught between duty and morality. They will be haunted by the memory of following orders that went against their humanity. And you, as their leader, will be held responsible.

Imagine the Painful Conversation You May One Day Have to Have With Your Grandchild

You are a husband. A father. A grandfather. A man who cherishes the beauty of reading, the serenity of golf, the intellectual stimulation of documentaries. But how will you explain to your grandchild, one day, why you stayed despite knowing the pain you were causing?

Imagine the innocence of a child’s question:

“Grandpa, why did the people cry for you to leave? Why did they kneel and pray and beg for mercy? Why did you stay even when they were hurting?”

How will you answer when that child—your blood, your joy, your legacy—looks at you with wide, unblinking eyes, waiting for an explanation? What words will you find to justify ignoring their tears, their prayers, their pleas for compassion?

Your legacy is not just your titles. It is not just your medals or accolades. It is the story you leave behind, the memory others carry of your character and actions. And right now, that memory is being etched in tears and desperation.

The Pain of Regret Is Far Greater Than the Pain of Resignation

Imagine waking up one day, years from now, with the weight of what might have been. Imagine reading the history books and seeing your name attached not to greatness, but to oppression. Imagine hearing your name spoken not with admiration, but with bitterness and sorrow.

Right now, you have the power to change that narrative. You have the opportunity to walk away as a man who chose peace over pride, who chose honor over infamy. You can be remembered as the leader who listened, who cared, who valued the humanity of the people over the authority of the position.

Your accomplishments are vast. Your career is storied. But all of it is at risk of being overshadowed by this single moment of crisis. If you remain, if you refuse to hear the voices of those you are meant to serve, the burden of regret will become your only legacy.

But if you leave—if you speak to the nation, to President Tinubu, to the people of Rivers State—and choose to walk away out of conscience and compassion, you will be remembered as a man who rose above political gamesmanship and chose humanity. You will be celebrated, not condemned. Respected, not scorned.

Your Exit Can Become a Path to Healing—If You Act Now

You have a choice. You have the power. Not just the power to command, but the power to heal. The power to walk away with dignity, before violence becomes the defining mark of your tenure.

Imagine standing before the cameras, not as a defeated man, but as a man of honor, compassion, and empathy. Imagine saying:

“I came to serve, but I must not serve where I am not wanted. I respect your cries, your prayers, your tears. I shall return to my state and leave you to rebuild your own.”

That single act of humility and integrity would restore hope, foster healing, and renew faith in the possibility of reconciliation. You would be remembered not as the man who imposed power, but as the man who chose peace.

The People’s Pain Is Real: It Matters Not Who Sent You, They Reject Your Authority, Again, and Again

Perhaps you were recommended for this position by President Tinubu himself, or maybe the infamous Nyesom Wike—the man many call the root of all crisis in Rivers State. It matters little. What matters is that the people never called for you. They never invited you. They do not accept you.

To them, you are an imposition, regardless of who thought you were fit for the role.

The cries you are hearing are not political statements. They are expressions of helplessness from those who feel their will has been stolen. They call you not with respect, but with fear and desperation.

Final Thought: You Are Not a Villain—But You Must Not Remain a Symbol of Their Suffering

Admiral Ibok-Ete Ibas, you are not a villain. You are a man of service, a man whose life has been defined by loyalty, duty, and honor. But in this moment, your presence is not felt as leadership. It is felt as a wound. A wound that deepens with each day you remain.

This moment is sacred. It transcends politics, power, or authority. It touches the very soul of who you are, and the very soul of the people you now govern by force, not by choice.

You are a man who swore an oath to protect, to serve, and to uphold the values of honor and integrity. As a military man, you understand sacrifice. You understand courage. But courage is not only found on the battlefield. It is also found in moments of reflection, humility, and surrender to a higher moral calling.

The Voices That Call Out To You Are Sacred—Ancestral, Divine, and Profound

The people of Rivers State are not just Nigerians. They are the descendants of warriors, healers, priests, farmers, mothers, and fathers who have lived and died on that sacred soil for generations. Their tears are not just expressions of grief. They are offerings to their ancestors.

You hear their cries, but do you truly understand their meaning? They are calling upon the spirits of the land, the gods of their ancestors, to intercede where human authority has failed them.

They kneel on the earth, their hands trembling in prayer.

They lie prostrate on the ground, invoking the names of their forebears.

They chant words not only to you but to the universe itself, asking for justice, mercy, and deliverance.

To them, this struggle is not just political. It is spiritual. It is ancestral. And you stand not just as a man, but as a symbol. A symbol of oppression they plead to be freed from.

The Judgment of God, Ancestors, and History Awaits Your Decision

If you believe in anything beyond yourself, then you must acknowledge this truth: The cries of a people are not easily ignored by the Divine. Whether you call it God, the Universe, or the Spirits of the Ancestors, there is a force greater than all men—a force that watches, that judges, and that holds us accountable for our deeds.

You have seen war. You have seen sacrifice. But have you ever faced the judgment of a people’s collective pain?

The ancestors are watching. The gods are listening. The conscience of the world bears witness to your every action. What will you do when your name is spoken in the prayers of the wounded and the oppressed?

Military Honor Demands More Than Obedience—It Demands Integrity

You were trained to follow orders. To uphold authority. But true military honor is not blind obedience. It is the courage to do what is right, even when it defies the expectations of power.

You are a soldier of conscience. You were never meant to be a tyrant. Your uniform, your accolades, your titles—they are all built upon the foundation of integrity. Will you allow that foundation to crumble under the weight of this crisis?

Military service is sacred. It is bound by duty, but also by ethics. By compassion. By the knowledge that power without justice is tyranny.

The chains of command cannot hold the soul. Only your own conscience can. What does it tell you now?

Democratic Legitimacy Is Your Only Shield—Without It, You Are Exposed To Eternal Condemnation

You were appointed, not elected. And that truth haunts your every decision. No matter how well-intentioned your actions may be, they are marred by their illegitimacy. The people do not see you as a leader. They see you as an impostor.

Democracy is sacred. It is the voice of the people, the will of the governed. And when that voice is silenced, the soul of a nation is wounded.

Do not be the cause of that wound. Do not allow your name to be inscribed in the annals of history as the man who stood against the tide of freedom and justice.

Admiral Ibas, you can still leave with your honor intact. You can still walk away as a man who listened, who understood, who chose humility over pride.

Your legacy is not destroyed—unless you allow it to be. You can still be remembered as the man who valued conscience over command. Who chose the voice of the people over the edicts of power.

But if you stay, your legacy will not be one of honor. It will be one of infamy. You will be remembered not for your decades of service, but for the suffering you allowed to persist.

The Cry of the People Is More Than Noise—It Is a Sacred Call for Justice and Peace

The cries of Rivers State are not mere noise. They are the collective soul of a people crying for relief. They are the living prayers of the oppressed. The echoes of ancestors demanding that their descendants be treated with dignity. The invocations of divinity asking for a restoration of peace and justice.

You may not see their pain, but the gods do. The ancestors do. The very ground you stand upon trembles with their grief.

You Are Not a Villain, But You Are Becoming One—You Must Not Remain a Symbol of Their Suffering

The world is watching. Nigeria is watching. The ancestors are watching. History is watching. But more than that, the eyes of God are upon you. This is not just about resignation. It is about salvation. About releasing yourself from the chains of guilt that will surely bind you if you ignore this sacred plea.

If you walk away now, you will be remembered as the man who chose compassion over conflict. The man who heard the cries of the people and responded with dignity, humility, and grace.

If you stay, you will be remembered as the man who ignored their suffering. The man who allowed his legacy to be consumed by pride and obstinacy. The man who turned a deaf ear to the sacred cries of his own people.

What Will You Do? The Nation Waits. The World Watches. The Ancestors Judge. History Remembers.

Walk away now. Not as a man who was defeated, but as a man who chose to rise above. As a man who chose justice over imposition. Compassion over control. Conscience over command.

The decision is yours. And the consequences will echo for generations.

Will you leave as a man of honor, or remain as a man of infamy? The choice is yours.

This writer does not know any of the individuals involved; the focus is solely on upholding democracy, truth, and justice.

Oshodi Open Door Public Training (OOPDT), also known as Oshodi Open Door, is a public awareness initiative dedicated to promoting transparency, accountability, and integrity in Africa. Through educational articles and resources, OOPDT fosters informed discourse on governance, institutional reform, and psychological well-being. It also provides specialized Timely Response Solutions (TRS) training at minimal or no cost, ensuring swift and effective interventions for critical institutional and societal challenges. For more information, contact: jos5930458@aol.com.

Professor John Egbeazien Oshodi is an American psychologist, educator, and author specializing in forensic, legal, and clinical psychology, cross-cultural psychology, police and prison sciences, and community justice. Born in Uromi, Edo State, Nigeria, he is the son of a 37-year veteran of the Nigeria Police Force—an experience that shaped his enduring commitment to justice, security, and psychological reform.

A pioneer in the field, he introduced state-of-the-art forensic psychology to Nigeria in 2011 through the National Universities Commission and Nasarawa State University, where he served as Associate Professor in the Department of Psychology. His contributions extend beyond academia through the Oshodi Foundation and the Center for Psychological and Forensic Services, advancing mental health, behavioral reform, and institutional transformation.

Professor Oshodi has held faculty positions at Florida Memorial University, Florida International University, Broward College, where he also served as Assistant Professor and Interim Associate Dean, Nova Southeastern University, and Lynn University. He is currently a contributing faculty member at Walden University and a virtual professor with Weldios University and ISCOM University.

In the United States, he serves as a government consultant in forensic-clinical psychology, offering expertise in mental health, behavioral analysis, and institutional evaluation. He is also the founder of Psychoafricalysis, a theoretical framework that integrates African sociocultural dynamics into modern psychology.

A proud Black Republican, Professor Oshodi advocates for individual empowerment, ethical leadership, and institutional integrity. His work focuses on promoting functional governance and sustainable development across Africa.