Power is often imagined as force. It is seen as something loud and visible. A president signs a bill. A governor deploys security agents. A judge pronounces a sentence. Yet power, as the French philosopher, Michel Foucault, taught us, is far more subtle and far more pervasive. It does not only command. It shapes, trains, disciplines, produces habits of obedience and patterns of thought. It works quietly through institutions, rules and routines. It is everywhere.

For Foucault, modern power is disciplinary. It does not merely punish wrongdoing. It organises space, supervises conduct and guides behaviour. In schools, prisons, hospitals and barracks, discipline turns human beings into predictable actors. It creates what he called “docile bodies” that comply not only because they are afraid, but because they have internalised the rules. Discipline, in this sense, is a structure. It restrains excess and limits arbitrariness, while channeling authority into procedures.

But power, left unchecked, easily mutates into domination. This is where in my opinion that the German political thinker, Hannah Arendt offers clarity. Arendt distinguished power from violence. Power, she argued, arises when people act together in common purpose. It is sustained by legitimacy and consent. Violence, by contrast, appears when power is weak. It is a substitute for genuine authority. When rulers lose moral credibility, they fall back on coercion and naked violence. Discipline, therefore, protects both rulers and the ruled. It protects rulers by anchoring their authority in law and procedure. It protects the ruled by ensuring that power doesn’t become whimsical. A disciplined political order is one where institutions matter more than personalities. Where laws are stronger than private interests. Where public office is understood as a trust, not as a personal inheritance.

The critical question before us is simple. Does Nigeria have a disciplined political class?

The honest answer is no.

A disciplined political class would respect the constitution, party rules and internal democracy. It would accept judicial decisions even when inconvenient. It would refrain from using security agencies to settle political or personal scores. It would treat public funds as sacred. It would understand that the legitimacy of power depends on restraint. Instead, what we often witness is impunity. Defections without principle. Selective prosecutions. Legislative bodies that surrender oversight to the executive. Governors who treat local governments as departments of their offices. Public officers who weaponise the police and anti-corruption agencies against critics. These are not signs of discipline. They are symptoms of a political culture that confuses power with personal entitlement.

When discipline is absent, institutions do not merely weaken or stay useless. They are hollowed out from within. Their forms remain, but their spirit evaporates. Courts still sit, the legislature still convenes, agencies still issue statements, yet their decisions are shaped less by law than by proximity to power. In such an atmosphere, rules cease to function as restraints and become instruments in the hands of those who control them. What should operate as neutral procedures turn into selective weapons. The language of legality is preserved, but its purpose is inverted. Law no longer stands above political actors as an impersonal standard. It bends around them. It becomes elastic, stretched to shield allies and snap against opponents. This is not simply governance decay, it is a moral destruction of public life.

Authority also changes character in this environment. It no longer rests on legitimacy, competence or public trust. It becomes transactional. Offices are treated as assets to be traded for loyalty. Appointments reward obedience rather than merit. Oversight is exchanged for patronage. Citizens are not regarded as rights bearers within the constitutional order but as subjects to be tyrannised or subdued. Over time, constitutionalism gives way to convenience. Decisions are guided less by what the law permits than by what political survival requires. Emergency becomes routine. Exceptions become normal. And the state slowly shifts from being a framework of rules that binds everyone to being a flexible instrument that serves a few. That drift is subtle, but its consequences are profound. It erodes trust, weakens civic culture and prepares the ground for the habitual abuse of power.

This brings us to the debate on state police.

The proposal to establish state police through constitutional reordering is presented as a solution to insecurity. It is argued that decentralising policing will make security more responsive and locally accountable. On paper, the argument has merit. Federal systems often distribute police powers across levels of government. But theory cannot be separated from context. The real question is not whether state police can work in principle. The real question is whether an undisciplined political class can be trusted with such immense coercive authority.

Again, the answer must be no.

Policing is the most immediate expression of state power. In the Gramscian sense, the police are seen as the violent face of the state. It carries the authority to arrest, detain and use force. In the hands of disciplined leaders, it can protect citizens. In the hands of reckless politicians, it becomes an instrument of fear. Foucault reminds us that modern power operates through surveillance. The police embody that surveillance. They watch. They gather information. They regulate movement. If those who control them lack constitutional discipline, surveillance can easily turn into intimidation. Political opponents can be harassed. Journalists can be silenced. Elections can be influenced through subtle coercion. Arendt famously warned that once violence replaces legitimate authority, public trust collapses. If citizens begin to see state police not as guardians but as agents of governors, the moral foundation of the state will erode further. Power without legitimacy breeds resistance. And resistance invites more coercion. It is a vicious cycle.

Nigeria’s recent history offers cautionary tales. We have seen how federal security agencies are sometimes deployed in partisan struggles. We have seen how local vigilante groups, operating with informal state backing, can exceed legal limits. If this is our experience under a centralised structure, what guarantees exist that fifty or more sub-national commands will be immune from similar abuse?

Constitutional reordering cannot cure moral disorder. You cannot decentralise discipline where it does not exist. Structural reform without ethical reform merely multiplies the points of abuse. This is not an argument against federalism. It is an argument for political maturity. Before expanding coercive powers at the state level, we must first cultivate a disciplined political culture. Internal party democracy must be strengthened. Legislative oversight must be revived. Judicial independence must be secured. Security agencies must be insulated from executive pressure. Transparency and accountability must become non-negotiable. Only then can decentralisation serve liberty rather than threaten it.

Power must be disciplined because human beings are fallible. The framers of the constitution understood this. That is why they created checks and balances. That is why they divided authority. Discipline is not weakness. It is wisdom. If Nigeria’s political class has not yet learned to restrain itself within existing powers, granting it expanded policing authority is risky. An undisciplined elite cannot be trusted with instruments designed to limit violence. It will likely transform them into tools of domination. The path forward is clear. Build discipline before building new structures of force. Reform character before reforming constitutions. Strengthen legitimacy before expanding coercion. Power, as Foucault taught, shapes societies. Power, as Arendt warned, loses meaning when it leans on violence. The discipline of power is therefore not optional. It is the thin line between authority and abuse. Until that discipline takes root in Nigeria’s political class, the call for state police must be approached with caution, not enthusiasm.