The Minister, the Governor, and the Journalist: Umahi’s Conduct, Makinde’s Maturity, and Oseni’s Persistence as a Lesson in African Leadership Development -By Professor John Egbeazien Oshodi

An exploration of how temperament, ego, and emotional discipline define governance more than policy or position.

The Lagos–Calabar Coastal Highway controversy has given Nigeria an unexpected case study—not in civil engineering, but in emotional engineering. What began as a routine question about project costs has unfolded into a lesson in how leaders respond to public scrutiny and how character can either strengthen or undermine authority.

At the center of this unfolding story is Minister of Works David Umahi, who identifies as both a “professor in practice” and a pastor; Governor Seyi Makinde of Oyo State, a professional engineer whose calm response provided a contrast in restraint; and journalist Rufai Oseni of Arise TV, whose persistence embodied the public’s right to question power.

Their interaction became more than a television moment—it became a mirror of leadership behavior in Africa, revealing how quickly intellect can collapse under ego, and how temperament often defines credibility more than title or training.

In truth, Nigeria does not lack intelligence; it suffers from the absence of emotional discipline in high office. Leadership, like therapy, begins with self-awareness. When those who govern cannot manage the heat of inquiry, they lose the capacity to govern minds, not just budgets.

The lesson from that exchange is clear: policy can build roads, but only humility builds trust.

The Arise TV Moment: When Authority Lost Its Calm

The Arise Television interview began as a routine national discussion. Journalist Rufai Oseni asked what seemed a fair and civic-minded question: What is the cost per kilometre of the Lagos–Calabar Coastal Highway?

It should have been a straightforward opportunity for transparency. But almost immediately, the conversation changed tone. The Minister, visibly irritated, told the journalist to “keep quiet and stop saying what you don’t know.” He added, “I’m a professor in this field. You don’t understand anything.” And at another point, he said, “You are too small for me to report to the President… you have no knowledge of what you ask.”

Those words, spoken by a federal minister—and a pastor—carried more than anger; they carried disappointment. The Nigerian public expects strength, not hostility; confidence, not condescension. Power, when mixed with irritation, always sounds smaller than it is.

From a psychological view, this was not about facts but fragile pride. When Umahi began attacking the journalist, he was, in truth, attacking the Nigerian public whose question dared to hold him accountable. The tone said it all—How dare you? Do you know who I am? He did not say those words, but his manner carried them. It was authority mistaking inquiry for insult, power for wisdom, and service for superiority.

This is where leadership reveals its truest form: not in policy declarations, but in moments of pressure. How a leader handles challenge is a mirror of his emotional structure. Leadership is not tested by applause; it is tested by inquiry. And when the questions become uncomfortable, calm is not optional—it is a duty of office, a mark of maturity, and the highest expression of respect for the people one serves.

Makinde’s Intervention: When Clarity Replaced Contempt

In the days that followed the Arise TV exchange, Oyo State Governor Seyi Makinde stepped into the conversation with the steadiness of a professional who understood both the science of engineering and the psychology of public service. Speaking at an event, his tone was measured, his words deliberate.

“They asked a minister how much the coastal road is,” he said, “and you are dancing around and going to say that no, the next kilometre is different from the next kilometre. Then what is the average cost?”

He then provided clear examples from his own administration: “When we did the Oyo to Iseyin road, it was about ₦9.99 billion—about 34 or 35 kilometres—average cost about ₦238 million per kilometre. When we did Iseyin to Ogbomoso, that was 76 kilometres, about ₦43 billion—average cost about ₦500 million per kilometre. And we had two bridges, one over the Ogun River and another at the Ogbomoso end.”

Makinde’s approach was neither defensive nor confrontational. It was informative. In that moment, he reminded Nigerians that true leadership communicates, it does not compete. His calm turned what had been an argument into a tutorial in public accountability.

Umahi’s reaction, however, was to diminish him—calling Makinde an “electrician” and referring to him as his “junior.” That remark revealed not strength, but insecurity. From a psychological lens, it was an attempt at ego preservation—an instinctive effort to restore dominance after feeling intellectually or emotionally exposed.

Makinde’s silence in response was its own statement. He did not return insult for insult. He remained composed, letting reason and record speak for him. That is the quiet power of emotional maturity—the understanding that dignity is louder than defensiveness.

In the psychology of governance, this contrast matters deeply. Umahi’s words came from the anxiety of being questioned; Makinde’s came from the confidence of having answers. One reacted, the other reflected. And in that simple difference, Nigerians saw two portraits of power—one battling insecurity, the other guided by calm assurance.

The “Professor in Practice” Retreat and the Crisis of Image

When the tension of the Arise TV interview reached its peak, Rufai Oseni, in his usual calm but probing manner, asked a simple question: “Which university are you a professor in?” It was a reasonable query—one meant to clarify a public claim. Yet, in that instant, the tone of the conversation changed completely.

The question—innocent in phrasing but piercing in implication—touched a nerve. The Minister’s face tightened, his voice grew sharper. It was the moment the confident façade began to tremble. What should have been a factual clarification became a psychological confrontation between self-image and reality.

After the exchange drew public criticism, David Umahi later clarified that he was “a professor in practice,” not one appointed through any university. While the phrase may have been intended to express professional experience, it carried a different emotional weight. It sounded less like an explanation and more like a retreat—a way to preserve authority after it had been challenged in real time.

From a psychological perspective, that shift revealed a common vulnerability among those in high office: the anxiety of image. In African public life, titles often become armor against accountability. Many leaders confuse expertise with identity, believing that authority must always be accompanied by superiority. Yet no title—academic, professional, or political—can substitute for composure.

A true professional’s credibility rests not on credentials but on clarity. It is not the label that commands respect but the way one responds under questioning. Umahi’s defensiveness suggested that his sense of authority depended too heavily on perception. The moment his claim was examined, his composure faltered.

When leaders rely on self-declared titles, they risk turning credibility into performance. What should be quiet confidence becomes a public theater of validation. The real test of mastery is not in how loudly one asserts expertise, but in how calmly one shares understanding.

In the end, humility—not hierarchy—is what sustains trust. A leader’s strength lies not in the number of titles before his name, but in the steadiness with which he faces inquiry.

The Pastor Paradox: When Faith Fails the Test of Temperament

As a pastor, David Umahi carries more than a title; he carries a spiritual expectation. The public associates the pastoral calling with patience, empathy, and restraint—the quiet strengths that humanize power. Yet, on that national platform, those qualities seemed to vanish.

Not long ago, Umahi declared himself “a prophet,” saying that God had revealed to him that President Bola Tinubu would govern for eight years. Such a claim places him not only in the realm of governance but also in the moral space of divine representation. But divine representation carries weight—it demands that a leader’s tone reflect the humility he preaches.

That is why the spectacle troubled many. Here was a man who calls himself both pastor and prophet, yet he publicly told Arise TV journalist Rufai Oseni to “keep quiet” and accused him of “not knowing anything.” He then dismissed Governor Seyi Makinde—a professional engineer and sitting governor—as merely an “electrician” and his “junior.” What could have been a teaching moment for the nation became a moment of needless defensiveness.

How can a pastor, a self-declared prophet, respond with humiliation instead of explanation—with ridicule instead of reflection? The same mouth that claims divine foresight should not belittle men performing their civic and professional duties. When revelation coexists with ridicule, faith loses its witness and leadership loses its moral gravity.

Scripture reminds us: “Pride goes before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall” (Proverbs 16:18). This verse is not only a spiritual warning—it is a psychological truth. Pride narrows awareness. It silences empathy. It turns dialogue into dominance. When a leader cannot bear a question without anger, it is not intellect that fails—it is emotional balance.

The paradox here is not about religion itself, but about the gap between professed belief and practiced behavior. The man who claims divine insight must also demonstrate divine calm. The pulpit and the podium cannot speak in conflicting tongues—one proclaiming prophecy and the other projecting pride.

When faith begins to feed temperament instead of tempering it, credibility erodes. Leadership inspired by faith should bring light, not heat. A truly pastoral politician does not use divine authority to exalt himself above others, but to model humility before them.

Oga pastor, minister, and so-called prophet—perhaps it is time to ask God for forgiveness, and the public too. The same humility preached from the pulpit must guide words spoken in public life. And maybe, in quiet reflection, offer the same grace to the two men you spoke down to—the journalist who questioned you, and the governor who answered you with calm.

If a man calls himself both minister and prophet, the people should see steadiness, not scorn; calm, not contempt. For in the psychology of moral leadership, the greatest prophecy is not prediction, but poise.

The Psychology of Makinde’s Calm

In contrast, Governor Makinde displayed what psychologists call emotional regulation—the ability to maintain composure under provocation. He responded to conflict with evidence, not aggression.

Such restraint is not mere politeness; it is a leadership skill. Emotional balance under stress communicates confidence, maturity, and respect for citizens. Across Africa, where public discussions often turn combative, calm professionalism is revolutionary in itself.

Makinde’s tone carried quiet instruction for every leader: when challenged, do not compete with the question—complete it with clarity.

The Real Cost: Ego per Kilometre

Beyond the engineering figures, the greater cost of the Lagos–Calabar project is symbolic. Each time ego replaces explanation, the price of governance rises. The public pays twice—once through the budget, and again through disillusionment.

Umahi may be technically correct that costs differ from kilometre to kilometre, but the people deserved a simple average and a sincere explanation. Communication, not calculation, was what failed.

If a minister cannot answer questions with patience, what happens in the closed meetings where decisions are made without cameras? That is why the nation’s infrastructure crisis is not just physical—it is psychological.

A Nation’s Need for Emotional Development

He is not the only one. What Nigerians witnessed on Arise TV was not just a single outburst—it was a symptom of a deeper national condition. Across the political spectrum, from the State House to the Senate, from council chambers to cabinet meetings, many public figures still equate authority with aggression and mistake humility for weakness.

Nigeria, like many African nations, is still constructing not only highways and bridges, but also the emotional and institutional character of its leadership. The exchange between a minister, a governor, and a journalist merely exposed what lies beneath the surface: a governance culture still learning the psychology of self-regulation.

It is not unusual today to see members of the National Assembly interrupt one another with anger, or ministers lash out at journalists, or party leaders mistake shouting for strength. These are not isolated incidents—they are expressions of an emotional underdevelopment that runs through our institutions.

This is not about condemnation; it is about correction. The true work of governance must now include emotional education. Perhaps it is time for every public official—from the President’s cabinet to the Senate floor—to undergo periodic development in communication and emotional intelligence. Not as punishment, but as progress. Governments that invest in emotional training for leaders invest in national stability.

After all, nations do not collapse solely from poor budgets or weak infrastructure but from emotional immaturity at the top. A leader’s inability to manage frustration can become a government’s inability to manage crisis.

Even humor can teach us here: before another groundbreaking ceremony or another Senate shouting match, perhaps the Federal Executive Council and the National Assembly should hold a joint workshop titled “Composure and Clarity in Public Discourse.” The therapy Nigeria needs is not only medical—it is moral and mental.

If leadership is the mind of a nation, then the mind itself must be healed.

The Highway Within

In the end, the Lagos–Calabar Highway has become less a question of physical construction and more a reflection of the emotional and moral structures still under construction within our leadership culture. It is not simply about asphalt and bridges, but about the inner architecture of the self that sustains public responsibility.

A psychologist looking at this moment would see not just tension, but revelation—the way public power often exposes the private self. Beneath the polished language of authority, one can sense the struggle between confidence and defensiveness, and the difficulty many leaders face in translating technical competence into emotional steadiness. What unfolded before the nation was not mere disagreement; it was a glimpse into the unspoken pressures and vulnerabilities that accompany power.

And it is not just him. What Nigerians witnessed in that exchange mirrors a broader pattern across the continent: leaders who have mastered administration but have not been mentored in self-reflection; who command projects but not their passions; who can plan for roads and budgets but rarely pause to manage their own reactions. These are not flaws of intelligence—they are unfinished lessons in emotional growth, inherited from systems that reward control more than composure.

A nation can survive economic hardship, but it struggles under the weight of emotional disconnection. When authority becomes reactive instead of reflective, citizens lose not only confidence but a sense of psychological safety—the quiet belief that their leaders can face conflict without creating chaos. Humility, then, is not simply a virtue; it is a stabilizer of national well-being.

Roads and bridges depend on engineering precision, but governance rests on internal equilibrium. The deeper foundation of leadership is not in concrete but in conscience. Until our public servants begin to view emotional maturity as part of statecraft, we may continue to build impressive highways that lead nowhere in the human spirit.

Because the most important road to repair is not the one stretching between Lagos and Calabar—it is the one stretching between power and self-awareness, between position and patience, and ultimately, between leadership and the collective psyche of the people they are called to serve.

About the Author

Prof. John Egbeazien Oshodi is an American psychologist and educator specializing in forensic, legal, clinical, cross-cultural psychology, police, and prison science.

Born in Uromi, Edo State, Nigeria, and son of a 37-year veteran of the Nigeria Police Force, he has dedicated his career to linking psychology with justice, education, and governance. In 2011, he introduced advanced forensic psychology to Nigeria through the National Universities Commission and Nasarawa State University, where he served as Associate Professor of Psychology.

ADVERTISEMENT

He is currently contributing faculty in the Doctorate in Clinical and School Psychology at Nova Southeastern University; PhD Clinical Psychology, BS Psychology, and BS Tempo Criminal Justice programs at Walden University; Professor of Leadership Studies/Management and Social Sciences (Virtual Faculty) at at Weldios University ISCOM University, Benin Republic; and virtual faculty at ISCOM University. He also serves as President and Chief Psychologist at the Oshodi Foundation, Center for Psychological and Forensic Services, United States.

Prof. Oshodi is a Black Republican with interests in individual responsibility, community self-reliance, and institutional democracy. He is the founder of Psychoafricalysis (Psychoafricalytic Psychology), a culturally grounded framework centering African sociocultural realities, historical memory, and future-oriented identity. He has authored over 500 articles, multiple books, and numerous peer-reviewed journal articles spanning Africentric psychological theory, higher education reform, forensic and correctional psychology, African democracy, and decolonized therapeutic models.