Marcos’s Shadow, Romualdez’s Shame: The Flood Fund Fiasco Exposed

Corruption’s Brutal Toll: From Power Plays to Mass Misery

By Louis ‘Barok‘ C. Biraogo — September 17, 2025

IMAGINE a game of musical chairs in a flooded palace: the elites twirl to the tune of power, grabbing seats of luxury while the rest of us wade through waist-deep misery, our homes submerged and our futures washed away. That’s the grotesque spectacle unfolding in Manila today, where Speaker Martin Romualdez—cousin to President Ferdinand “Bongbong” Marcos Jr.—is at the center of a flood control scandal that’s less about engineering failures and more about engineered theft. Billions meant to keep the poor from drowning in typhoon waters have instead lined the pockets of the powerful. And now, with Romualdez’s office furniture being carted out like yesterday’s trash, we’re supposed to applaud this as “accountability”? Please. This is business as usual in the Philippines, where corruption is our national pastime, and the poor pay the entrance fee with their lives.

The Speaker’s “Leave”: A Comical Escape Hatch from the Sinking Ship

Let’s start with Romualdez himself, the man who wields the gavel like a scepter in this dynastic farce. Reports swirl that he’s stepping down—or is it just taking a “leave of absence”?—amid allegations of siphoning flood control funds through ghost projects and shadowy budget insertions totaling P142.7 billion in the 2025 national budget. We’re talking substandard dams that crumble like cheap cookies, kickbacks to favored contractors who snag 20% of the pie, and insertions for pet projects in Bulacan that smell more like personal pork than public good. Romualdez denies it all, of course, calling the accusations “false and malicious,” but the public isn’t buying it. Protests rage, and even his relative-by-affinity, Rep. Toby Tiangco, is scoffing at the idea of a mere leave, pointing out that House rules don’t even allow for such a half-measure—it’s either resignation or nothing.

But here’s the cynical truth: this isn’t accountability; it’s damage control dressed in a suit. Removing Romualdez—or “temporarily sidelining” him—won’t cleanse the rot; it’ll just shuffle the deck for the next round of musical chairs. Why? Because in this system, the Speaker’s post is less about leadership and more about loyalty to the throne upstairs. Potential replacements like Deputy Speaker Faustino “Bojie” Dy III or Cebu Rep. Duke Frasco are already lining up, but let’s not kid ourselves—these aren’t reformers; they’re factional players ready to “clean the house” only to redecorate it in their own image. And amid rumors of a presidential nudge for resignation during that cozy family huddle with Marcos and his son Sandro, one can’t help but wonder: Is this justice, or just a calculated eviction to preserve the family brand? After all, Romualdez’s “sacrifices”—like spearheading the impeachment of Vice President Sara Duterte—have kept the administration’s coalition afloat. Kicking him out now? It’s not principle; it’s political calculus, ensuring the House doesn’t devolve into full-blown coup chaos while the real culprits scatter like rats from a flood.

The Presidential Puppet Master: When the House Becomes a Fan Club

Ah, but the real comedy lies in the unwritten rule that turns our Congress into Malacañang’s personal echo chamber: the Speaker, handpicked by the President. Sure, the Constitution says the House elects its own leader, but in practice, it’s the president’s nod that seals the deal—historical precedent from Quezon to Duterte be damned. Proponents crow about “efficiency and cohesion,” how it keeps the legislative train chugging without gridlock, passing budgets and priorities in lockstep. But let’s eviscerate that spin: this isn’t harmony; it’s a constitutional farce that rigs the system so the House functions as a presidential fan club, applauding every whim while checks and balances drown in irrelevance.

Consider the absurdity: If the Speaker owes his throne to the President, how can he possibly oversee the executive? In Romualdez’s case, as Marcos’s cousin, the lines blur into a nepotistic nightmare where family and state interests are one and the same. This practice doesn’t just erode separation of powers; it buries it under layers of patronage and dynasties. Lawmakers become pawns, not representatives, stifling internal democracy and breeding the very corruption we’re scandalized by. And now, with Marcos reportedly urging resignation, critics cry overreach—rightly so. If he can install a Speaker, why not uninstall one? It’s the ultimate power grab, turning potential reform into a sideshow of factional retaliation. No wonder legislative paralysis looms; bills on tax reforms and disaster response could stall while elites bicker. This isn’t governance; it’s a rigged game where the president’s influence ensures business as usual, and the rest of us foot the bill.

The President’s “Innocence”: A Masterclass in Calculated Distance

Now, to the elephant—or should I say, the Marcos—in the room: the President’s role in this corruption conspiracy. Defenders insist there’s no direct evidence linking Bongbong to the flood fund fiasco or budget shenanigans. He’s ordered an independent probe, supported the protests, even vowed that “no one—including allies—will be spared.” How noble! And practically speaking, presidents don’t micromanage every congressional insertion, right? Plus, pushing for Romualdez’s ouster shows decisive reformist zeal, not complicity—after all, why risk mid-term damage with 2028 elections on the horizon?

Oh, spare me the platitudes. This “case against involvement” is as flimsy as those substandard flood barriers. As Romualdez’s cousin and closest political ally, Marcos’s claim of ignorance strains credulity to the breaking point. Flood control was a “presidential priority,” with billions flowing through budgets he signs off on—how does one miss P142.7 billion in sneaky additions? The suspicious timing of that private meeting, complete with son Sandro in tow, screams damage control, not innocence. It’s calculated distance, a masterful sidestep where the President feigns outrage while the family dynasty dodges the spotlight. History whispers warnings: from his father’s era to the pork barrel scandals of yore, Philippine presidents have danced this tango before. If Marcos knew nothing, it’s negligence on a societal scale; if he did, it’s premeditated manslaughter, dooming the vulnerable to disasters while elites feast. Either way, his “reformist” posturing rings hollow when the system he presides over thrives on such rot. Skepticism isn’t speculation; it’s the only sane response to this web of dynastic deceit.

The Human Toll: When Stolen Billions Mean Drowned Relatives and Shattered Lives

But enough political theater—let’s cut to the gut-wrenching core, the human cost that makes this scandal not just infuriating, but morally outrageous. While Romualdez and Marcos play their games of thrones, picture this: In the slums of Navotas or the lowlands of Bulacan, a mother clutches her child’s body after a typhoon, her home reduced to rubble because “ghost” flood projects never materialized. That P355 million insertion? It was supposed to build barriers, but instead, it vanished into kickbacks, leaving families to wade through sewage-laced waters that claim lives and livelihoods. We’re talking preventable deaths—dozens in recent floods alone—drowned homes that displace thousands, and lost futures for the poor who can’t afford to rebuild.

This isn’t abstract graft; it’s a billion-peso betrayal translated into heartbreak. The 18% of Filipinos scraping below the poverty line rely on these funds for everything from 4Ps cash transfers to climate resilience. Stolen resources mean delayed subsidies, crumbling health services where diseases from floodwaters fester untreated, and education dreams deferred as kids scavenge instead of study. For the urban poor in flood-prone Manila, it’s a cycle of despair: malnutrition spikes, unemployment soars, and social unrest brews because when elites loot disaster aid, the vulnerable pay with their blood. Protests? They’re not just anger; they’re cries from those whose relatives died in vain, whose communities are sacrificial lambs to this national disease of corruption. In a country battered by climate change, this scandal isn’t theft—it’s premeditated manslaughter on a societal scale, widening the chasm between the palace’s luxury and the people’s suffering. How many more must drown before we admit the system is rigged against the poor?

Breaking the Cycle: Reforms That Bite, Not Band-Aids

Weary as I am of this endless loop, despair isn’t an option—it’s what the elites count on. Changing the Speaker is meaningless window-dressing without gutting the systemic rot.

First, end the presidential stranglehold on the House: Mandate transparent elections for Speaker, free from executive whispers, to restore legislative independence and shatter the fan-club facade.
Second, overhaul budgeting with ironclad transparency—real-time public audits, bans on last-minute insertions, and severe penalties for ghost projects, enforced by an truly independent anti-corruption body, not presidential puppets.
Third, tackle dynasties head-on: Enforce term limits and anti-nepotism laws to prevent family interests from hijacking state ones.
And finally, empower the poor directly—channel flood funds through community oversight boards, ensuring accountability from the ground up.

These aren’t platitudes; they’re scalpels to excise the cancer. Until we demand them, scandals like this will remain our national pastime, and the flooded palace will keep drowning us all. Time to flip the chairs, folks—before the music stops for good.