Since March 2025, the prolonged legal and political struggle with Senator Natasha Akpoti-Uduaghan appears to have functioned as a persistent psychological burden for Senate President Godswill Akpabio. What began as a parliamentary conflict has possibly evolved into something more internal and enduring. The steady drumbeat of public accusations, Senate defiance, court rulings, and mounting global attention seems to be applying sustained pressure that may be taxing his emotional and cognitive reserves. With each new escalation—culminating in Senator Natasha’s recent attempt to re-enter the Senate chamber under a court order—the weight of the conflict appears to deepen. What began as a constitutional disagreement now resembles a potential psychological occupation.
And now, we begin to see why the gaffes. They’ve happened before, yes—but the current strain seems to be carving into deeper layers of apparent mental performance. This is not just political tension. It may be cognitive overload.
Apparent Cognitive Strain
Though only a professional psychological evaluation could confirm the extent of impact, observable public behavior suggests signs of growing cognitive fatigue. Two incidents in particular stand out with psychological significance.
While delivering a eulogy for the late President Muhammadu Buhari, Akpabio mistakenly inserted President Tinubu’s full name—”Asiwaju Bola Ahmed Tinubu.” This did not appear to be a mere slip of the tongue. It was a complete cognitive substitution: one president’s identity overtaking another’s during a formal, scripted ceremony. In psychological terms, this may reflect intrusive cognitive content. A mind preoccupied with ongoing stressors may struggle to compartmentalize ceremonial memory from present mental pressure. Senator Natasha’s persistent and unresolved challenge may have become so dominant in Akpabio’s internal landscape that it is now interfering with basic public performance.
What makes this even more telling is the timing. The eulogy came less than 24 hours after Senator Natasha was publicly blocked from entering the Senate—armed with a court ruling and flanked by full media presence. Many Nigerians perceived Akpabio’s appearance at the memorial as a possible attempt to shift the national narrative, to draw public attention away from the constitutional standoff that played out in front of cameras. But the effort appears to have backfired. Rather than distract, the gaffe reignited scrutiny. What was likely intended as a moment of statesmanlike composure turned into an apparent unraveling—raising questions about Akpabio’s mental bandwidth under pressure.
Yes, he has made public misstatements before—but this one appears qualitatively different. This wasn’t just forgetting a name. It was a fusion of identities, timelines, and symbolic authority—possibly pointing to a deeper cognitive entanglement. What was meant to restore control became, instead, a window into possible strain.
Similarly, his recent statement that “social media will break the country” may carry more than surface-level concern. While presented as a national warning, the comment possibly reflected personal distress. In contrast to traditional print media—often viewed as pliant or compromised—social media has continued to amplify the Natasha narrative. It is social media, not the press, that has held Akpabio’s name in constant circulation. His concern may not be that the country will fracture—but that his control over the narrative already has.
Once again, we see why the gaffes should not be dismissed. They may not be random. They may represent symptoms of something more emotionally complex, cognitively loaded, and psychologically unresolved.
Power and Pressure
In one of the most visible power plays of this saga, Senator Natasha—holding a court ruling—was physically denied entry into the Senate by police. This single moment revealed two underlying concerns: the apparent interpretive ambiguity of judicial language, and the apparent politicization of state security institutions. The ruling itself, vague in phrasing, is not an isolated occurrence. Many Nigerians have come to associate this type of legal fog with a judiciary that appears increasingly deferential to the powerful. In such a climate, rulings become tools, and enforcement becomes a weapon of the dominant institution.
Yet, beyond institutional implications lies the psychological effect. For Akpabio, each public denial of Senator Natasha’s entry may not resolve conflict—it may reactivate it. She remains present—even when physically absent. Her presence, even in denial, may continue to press inward against the gate of his leadership.
And now, the gaffes begin to appear less like slips and more like possible mental spillages—evidence of a mind under strain, returning to familiar names, but struggling to maintain order.
Her public statement—that “Akpabio is the worst Senate President in Nigerian history”—was more than political rhetoric. It was possibly psychological provocation. It went beneath critique and touched identity. In a political system where legacy is paramount, such a label can echo internally long after the microphones are turned off.
Now, we may better understand how even a eulogy—the safest of public moments—could unravel into an apparent collapse of reference and mental segmentation. It was not simply about memory. It may have been about mental preoccupation.
The Gaze
The weight of the public gaze adds another dimension. The BBC need not editorialize; its neutral coverage of the Natasha-Akpabio conflict alone lends global credibility to the unfolding drama. What might once have been dismissed as a localized constitutional scuffle now reads, on the international stage, as a test of judicial integrity and democratic conduct.
Simultaneously, social media continues its unrelenting function as amplifier, archivist, and adjudicator. Akpabio’s every move, comment, and silence is dissected, clipped, captioned, and circulated. The feedback loop is continuous. Even if he disengages from the screen, the conversation continues—within hashtags, on timelines, across borders.
In this context, the gaffes no longer appear as isolated mistakes. They seem to operate as artifacts—manifestations of internal dissonance slipping into public expression.
And Natasha’s piercing phrase—“worst Senate President”—now exists in the bloodstream of national discourse. Whether it is repeated or not, it is present. Whether he speaks it or not, it speaks around him.
Mounting Fatigue and the Visible Strain
The effects of prolonged psychological strain are rarely abstract. They often reveal themselves both physiologically and emotionally. In the case of Senate President Godswill Akpabio, what was once described publicly as “exhaustion” may now possibly reflect more than fleeting fatigue. Within the context of sustained political tension, mounting public scrutiny, and unresolved legal standoffs, the toll does not appear to be isolated. It may be gradually accumulating—and increasingly visible.
Chronic stress is well-documented to elevate cortisol, suppress immune function, and burden cardiovascular systems. These are not distant clinical theories—they are plausible realities for anyone navigating prolonged, high-stakes pressure. In recent weeks, especially following the nationally broadcast standoff in which Senator Natasha Akpoti-Uduaghan was blocked from entering the Senate despite a court order, the emotional weight may have intensified further. Such a moment—amplified across traditional and digital media—rarely evaporates. Instead, it may replay in the quiet hours, returning as interrupted sleep, recurring images, or even stress-induced dreams that elude psychological closure.
It is within this broader psychological terrain that Akpabio’s recent eulogy gaffe takes on added meaning. What was meant to be a solemn tribute to the late President Muhammadu Buhari was unexpectedly disrupted when Akpabio inserted the full name of a living leader—“Asiwaju Bola Ahmed Tinubu”—in place of the deceased. Some Nigerians saw this as more than a simple verbal stumble. For them, it appeared to suggest mounting mental fatigue, or perhaps a subconscious intrusion—where present conflicts override even the most ceremonial of moments.
The timing was especially striking. Just a day earlier, Natasha had been blocked at the Senate gate before a full media presence. Some viewed Akpabio’s high-profile participation in the memorial as a possible attempt to regain national composure or distract from the controversy. But if that was the intent, it may have backfired. Instead of drawing focus away, the gaffe reignited concern, casting further doubt on his state of mind. What should have reaffirmed composure became a moment of confusion. What was meant to honor the past was suddenly overtaken by the pressures of the present.
Restless Recess and the Cost of Control
As the Senate proceeds into its scheduled two-month recess, one might expect a moment of reprieve—an opportunity for Senate President Godswill Akpabio to recover focus, reconstitute leadership energy, and decompress from months of legal, political, and public confrontation. But true rest is not merely a matter of time away from the chamber. If the mind remains tethered to unresolved conflict—especially one as persistent and visible as the Natasha standoff—relief may prove elusive.
There is now a growing possibility of anticipatory anxiety—acontinuous mental rehearsal of what might come next: another legal ruling, a new media outburst, another confrontation that challenges authority. This quiet, persistent state of vigilance can impair decision-making, weaken concentration, and make even calm moments feel internally unstable. Outwardly, Akpabio may appear composed—even cheerful at times—but inwardly, that composure may be effortful. Public smiles may carry the subtle strain of a nervous system still alert to challenge.
Compounding this unease is the fact that Senator Natasha Akpoti-Uduaghan has not paused with the recess. In recent hours, she has again spoken forcefully—both through media platforms and direct statements—casting Akpabio’s actions as unconstitutional and corrosive to democratic development. Her critique is no longer confined to national discourse; it is traveling, echoing through international media and civic commentary. And her presence, though physically barred from the Senate, seems to have grown stronger through the confrontation.
For Akpabio, then, this recess may feel less like a retreat and more like a continuation of psychological siege. The doors of the chamber may have closed, but the conflict remains active in the public mind—and perhaps in his own. The court order still lingers. The headlines haven’t faded. The name “Natasha” remains central in every version of the unresolved story.
So while the Senate breaks, the pressure does not. And what was intended to be a period of rest may instead become an extension of strain. Akpabio may be on holiday. But his mind may still be in session—occupied, alert, and restless. Not in crisis, perhaps. But not truly at peace either.
Closing Reflection
Senator Natasha Akpoti-Uduaghan may be barred from the physical space of the Senate—but her presence appears deeply embedded elsewhere: in the mind of the man who presides over it. Akpabio’s slips, silences, and sharpened responses suggest that the conflict is no longer merely external. It may have become internalized—etched into his cognitive rhythm.
This is not a clinical judgment. It is a psychological reading. One that sees the recent gaffe not merely as error, but as possible intrusion—what clinicians sometimes refer to as cognitive leakage.
Until this matter is resolved—clearly, constitutionally, and transparently—it may no longer be accurate to say that Senator Natasha is locked out. It may be Akpabio who is locked within. Free yourself, sir, or it could get worse for you mentally, held in Natasha’s mental and emotional lock-up. So let it go, let her return to work for your own freedom.
This writer does not know any of the individuals involved; the focus is solely on upholding democracy, truth, and justice.
Psychologist John Egbeazien Oshodi
Professor John Egbeazien Oshodi is an American psychologist, educator, and author with deep expertise in forensic, legal, and clinical psychology, cross-cultural psychology, and police and prison science. Born in Uromi, Edo State, Nigeria, and the son of a 37-year veteran of the Nigeria Police Force, his early immersion in law enforcement laid the foundation for a lifelong commitment to justice, institutional transformation, and psychological empowerment.
In 2011, he introduced state-of-the-art forensic psychology to Nigeria through the National Universities Commission and Nasarawa State University, where he served as Associate Professor of Psychology. Over the decades, he has taught at Florida Memorial University, Florida International University, Broward College (as Assistant Professor and Interim Associate Dean), Nova Southeastern University, and Lynn University. He currently teaches at Walden University and holds virtual academic roles with Weldios University and ISCOM University.
In the U.S., Prof. Oshodi serves as a government consultant in forensic-clinical psychology and leads professional and research initiatives through the Oshodi Foundation, the Center for Psychological and Forensic Services. He is the originator of Psychoafricalysis, a culturally anchored psychological model that integrates African sociocultural realities, historical memory, and symbolic-spiritual consciousness—offering a transformative alternative to dominant Western psychological paradigms.
A proud Black Republican, Professor Oshodi is a strong advocate for ethical leadership, institutional accountability, and renewed bonds between Africa and its global diaspora—working across borders to inspire psychological resilience, systemic reform, and forward-looking public dialogue.
