There’s been a whole list of much-ado-about-nothing stories lately — from the arrest of vlogger Norman Mangusin, alias “Francis Leo Marcos,” over cyber complaints, fake identities, and even unauthorized police-uniform use. A social-media quarrel dressed up as law enforcement triumph: noise about degenerates that entertains more than it informs.
Then came the chorus of Filipino lawyers loudly claiming to defend Rodrigo Duterte before The Hague — though most had no role in the team’s strategic defense, serving instead as dakilang miron outside the ICC’s trial chambers.
And of course, Sara Duterte’s declaration that she may run in 2028 — treated like a surprise when it was a no-brainer all along.
Put together, these are all stories that entertain and, like magic, seem like tools for the art of misdirection. They pull us away from the real stories that have national relevance and impact.
But one other item, though, in this list of “distraction” stories — that pull us all away from the ghost projects, the corruption issues hogging the most powerful elected officials, the case itself against Duterte and his scot-free cohorts, or the ex-Marines delivering what bags to whom? — is one that feels more than just “nothing.”
I’m particularly intrigued by the arrogant, road-raging convoy — maybe or maybe not the governor of Bulacan — that supposedly stopped a vehicle carrying “not the President’s son” right in the middle of the North Luzon Expressway.
Malacañang denies that any presidential son was the victim of such a Wild, Wild West kind of stunt. If that’s true, then that’s the end of it. Except the story refuses to end.
Interior Secretary Jonvic Remulla himself said he called Gov. Daniel Fernando, citing persistent reports that when the governor travels on NLEX, multiple lanes get swallowed by his convoy. The LTO has ordered the Bulacan provincial government and a driver to explain allegations that a convoy boxed in an SUV, with armed men reportedly stepping out. As of the latest reports, Fernando has offered no clear public explanation.
And silence, in politics, is rarely neutral.
Because this is the same governor who, when repeatedly asked about alleged ghost flood-control projects, could only claim he knew nothing — as if anomalies simply evaporate when ignored.
Those issues had recently pushed veteran Bulacan journalist Orlan Mauricio, a correspondent of Manila Standard, to call for Ombudsman action over pending anti-graft complaints.
Mauricio was later declared persona non grata in the Capitol — a ban enforced with unusual zeal. Today, in a separate murder investigation involving a slain police officer, Mauricio and his son find themselves dragged into narratives they insist the official police report does not support. Whether coincidence or something darker, several friends in the National Press Club who know Mauricio fear this is a vengeful miscarriage of justice — the sort of outcome possible only where local power is believed to hold a strong grip even on institutions meant to check it. In this case, the Bulacan Police Provincial Office serving Gov. Fernando.
None of this proves the NLEX incident happened exactly as first reported. But it explains why, for many people, this story refuses to die. Public trust erodes not from one convoy or one controversy, but from patterns — unanswered questions, official silence, and the uneasy sense that power in some places runs too comfortably.
Maybe this is nothing. Then again, in Philippine politics, “nothing” has a habit of turning into something — once the truth finally speaks.
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