By VITUS OZOKE, PhD

There is something almost theatrical—no, operatic—about watching a political class escape its own reality, even if only for a few polished, chandelier-lit days.

There they were: grinning, waving, basking. A procession of power dressed in agbadas and entitlement, gliding through London as if history had just personally forgiven them. Carriages rolled, boots clicked, trumpets sounded, and cameras adored them. Even King Charles III, ever the consummate host, was seen gently steadying Bola Ahmed Tinubu to prevent him from stumbling—an almost poetic act in a ceremony all about maintaining appearances. And in that moment, you could almost believe they belonged there. Almost. Because contrast is a ruthless storyteller.

On one side: a country where the roads are so smooth they look rehearsed. Not just paved, but finished—measured, documented, and maintained. Roads where every brick appears to have a supervisor, and every supervisor has a report, and every report is a public record. A place where asking, “How much did each kilometer cost?” is not an insult – it’s policy. It’s transparency.

On the other side: a nation where a single kilometer of road remains a mystery wrapped in contracts, buried under excuses, and guarded like state secrets. A place where simply asking for cost breakdowns is seen as an act of rebellion. Where transparency isn’t governance – it’s provocation.

And yet, here they were. Smiling. Smiling as they rode through a system that works – flawlessly, predictably, almost arrogantly so. Smiling as if competence were contagious. As if proximity to order could somehow wipe away the stains of dysfunction and deceit.

It would be funny If it weren’t so tragic. Because while that banquet table in Windsor stretches endlessly—silverware aligned with military precision, courses arriving like clockwork—back home in their country, tables also stretch. But they are empty. Or worse, symbolic. A plate here. A cup there. Meals reduced to negotiations with hunger.

The same delegation that marvels at polished floors governs a country where hospitals flicker with unreliable electricity. Where schools decay with quiet dignity. Where infrastructure isn’t maintained, but mourned.

And still, they grinned—ear to ear.

You called it beautiful – and yes, in some ways, it was. The choreography, the ceremony, the sheer weight of tradition — Britain handles pageantry like a finely tuned machine. But beauty without context is deception. Because what you were really witnessing wasn’t a celebration; it was an exposure.

Every polished carriage wheel was a mirror. Every uniformed guard was a question. Every inch of that immaculate road was an accusation. “How,” it all appeared to ask, “does a nation so rich in people and potential produce leaders so comfortable with so little working?”

And perhaps the cruelest irony of all: they believed it was about them. They thought the spectacle was in their honor. That the smiles were mutual. That the grandeur was an endorsement.

But no, what they witnessed was a working system showing itself off. Not to impress, but simply because that’s what it does every day, without fuss or fanfare. The ceremony wasn’t the exception; it was the norm.

And that is the lesson.

Not that London is “buzzing.” Not that green and white filled the streets. But that governance, when done properly, becomes invisible in its reliability – and dazzling in contrast.

The tragedy is not that the lesson was poorly delivered. The tragedy is that it was perfectly delivered… and completely missed. Because you cannot teach accountability to those who have learned to celebrate its absence.

•Dr. Vitus Ozoke is a lawyer, human rights activist, and public affairs analyst based in the United States. He writes on politics, governance, and the moral costs of leadership failure in Africa.

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