By Oluwatosin Emmanuel
Vampires in the Corridors of Power
They do not come at night with capes or coffins. They wear tailored suits, chant policy slogans, and sit behind polished desks. Their teeth are not fangs, yet they drain life all the same. In Nigeria, these are the vampires in the corridors of power; more dangerous than terrorists because they operate legally, silently, and continuously.
Terrorists strike and flee. Their violence is loud, condemnable, and visible. But the vampire in power stays. He signs papers. He approves budgets. He issues circulars. By morning, schools still stand, markets still open, offices still function, yet the people are weaker, poorer, and exhausted. The blood has been taken without a scream.
In one city, Musa ran a small printing shop. He paid his taxes faithfully. One day, a new “regulatory fee” arrived no explanation, no receipt, no law cited. Weeks later came another bill: “environmental compliance levy.” Then “security support charge.” None improved electricity. None improved security. Yet refusal meant sealing his shop. Slowly, Musa began to sell his machines, not to expand, but to survive. The vampire never met him, never threatened him directly. The paper did the biting.
In another state, a widow named Amina relied on a modest pension left by her late husband. Each month, deductions appeared “administrative charges,” “verification costs,” “processing fees.” Her pension shrank while officials drove newer vehicles. She was told to be patient, that reforms were ongoing. But reform that feeds on the poor is merely hunger dressed as policy.
These vampires are masters of unaccounted bills. They squeeze livelihoods through inflated electricity estimates, phantom water rates, endless permits, duplicated taxes, and compulsory “donations.” Traders bleed through daily levies. Farmers bleed through diverted subsidies. Civil servants bleed through delayed salaries while allowances are promptly paid at the top.
What makes them worse than terrorists is not just the damage, but the deception. Terrorists declare war. Vampires declare development. They hold press conferences, cut ribbons, and quote statistics, while hospitals lack drugs and roads crumble. They do not destroy institutions outright; they hollow them out, leaving shells that still look like governance.
The most tragic effect is psychological. When people realize that hard work no longer guarantees survival, morality weakens. Hustle replaces honor. Shortcuts become normal. The vampire culture spreads downward, breeding smaller vampires in offices, checkpoints, and service desks; each one taking a sip.
Yet history teaches that vampires fear light. Transparency weakens them. Accountability starves them. A society that insists on receipts, audits, citizen oversight, and moral leadership brings dawn into dark corridors. The fight is not only against guns in the forest, but against greed in offices.
Nigeria’s greatest security challenge is not always the noise of violence, but the quiet draining of hope. Until the vampires in power are exposed and restrained, the nation will keep waking up tired, wondering why life feels harder even on days without bad news.
And the truth remains: a country can survive terror attacks, but it cannot survive leaders who feed on their own people.
