The political twilight of House Speaker Martin Romualdez has unfolded before the nation’s eyes. His years at the helm of the House of Representatives have ended, not because of factional maneuverings but because of accumulated sins that rendered him one of the most distrusted officials in the country. The scandal over flood-control funds—where billions were allegedly siphoned off in kickbacks—and the gathering storm expected to land in EDSA on Sunday are the breaking points of his resignation. His hold on power has crumbled as public sentiment hardens against him and the institution he embodied.
Romualdez, accompanied by House Majority Leader Rep. Sandro Marcos, went to Malacañang and held an emergency meeting with President Marcos amid swirling rumors of a change in the House speakership. In that meeting, according to a reliable source, the President initially suggested that Romualdez “take a leave,” but the Speaker reportedly replied that he was “tired.” Sandro added that Romualdez voluntarily offered to step down. Reports circulating online also indicated that items from his office were being moved out, fueling speculation about his decision.
This reflected a career weighed down by corruption, favoritism, and unbridled ambition. For years, Romualdez positioned himself as both the power broker of the House and the indispensable cousin of Malacañang. As every dynasty must meet its reckoning, Romualdez has now faced his. The corridors of the Batasan grew restless, and whispers of betrayal within his own ranks suggested that his downfall might come sooner than expected. The timing was ominous, signaling a broader wave of discontent that could engulf the political order.
On Sunday, a massive protest is expected to flood EDSA, reviving memories of 1986 and 2001, when millions of Filipinos took to the same historic road to demand change. Both uprisings began with mounting anger at corruption and abuse, which ended with the downfall of the most powerful men in the land. That history now looms heavily over the present crisis. Unlike the orchestrated rallies of the past decade, this one carries the raw energy of a people pushed to their limits. Romualdez is the first casualty because he has become the tipping point of national disgust.
Where did this anger begin? With broken promises. The Marcos-Romualdez tandem painted itself as a stabilizing force but presided over questionable budgets, opaque infrastructure projects, and an extravagance detached from the struggles of ordinary Filipinos. The flood-control controversy simply provided the smoking gun. Once evidence of padded projects spread online, citizens saw in Romualdez not just a politician but a symbol of systemic plunder. When those in power enrich themselves while the people drown—literally in floodwaters and metaphorically in hardship—the legitimacy of the entire system begins to collapse.
The protests now rising are fueled not only by corruption among congressmen submissive to Romualdez, but also by collective disillusionment with a government unable to reform itself. People are not blind to the fact that Romualdez is President Marcos Jr.’s cousin, and that his fall reflects the fragility of the president’s inner circle. Every leaked story of him bidding farewell feeds the narrative that the walls are closing in not on one man, but on an entire system.
Indeed, the whispers proved true: Romualdez’s replacement as House Speaker is Isabela Rep. Faustino “Bojie” Dy III, who reportedly garnered 253 votes—securing a landslide win. Dy, regarded as close to both Romualdez and Sandro Marcos, is considered their protégé. This is not genuine reform but merely a change of faces—one loyalist replacing another. Such a cosmetic gesture will not appease public anger; it will only deepen the perception that Congress is irredeemably corrupt and incapable of reform: still the same House, a powder keg of discontent.
Could this wave sweep into the gates of Malacañang? The possibility cannot be dismissed. The Marcos presidency remains tethered to Romualdez’s political machinery, and cracks in one will weaken the other. If EDSA fills with the sheer force of public rage, what starts as a speakership crisis—even with Romualdez already gone—could escalate into a legitimacy crisis for the presidency. Whether this becomes a prelude to another ouster remains to be seen, but what is clear is that Romualdez has already become the lightning rod for grievances against the entire regime.
This storm may not stop with Romualdez or at the gates of Malacañang, but may soon sweep through the Senate, which is not immune to the tremors. Speculation suggests that Senate President Tito Sotto’s grip is not ironclad, and that his ouster could be facilitated by the same outrage that toppled Romualdez. Though Sotto is perceived as more adept at navigating political tides, he cannot remain unscathed if the wave of change grows larger. Having projected himself as a stabilizer, he may soon discover that the rules of accountability could boomerang against him. Since Romualdez helped engineer the ouster of Senator Chiz Escudero, which paved the way for Sotto’s rise, the Senate cannot assume it will be spared when the public demands cleansing across institutions.
The lesson of this unfolding political drama is stark: corruption can no longer hide behind family ties, committee alliances, or old-school patronage. The public is no longer docile, and the streets are regaining their power as the ultimate check on impunity. Martin Romualdez may have confessed to being “tired,” but the nation is even more tired of leaders who unlawfully enrich themselves while millions languish in poverty. His fall came ahead of the mass action expected to sweep EDSA on Sunday, raising the specter that history could repeat itself as the people again decide that enough is enough. The Philippines may be on the brink of a People Power III, one that began with the downfall of a Speaker but could end with the collapse of an entire regime.
Whatever unfolds this coming week, the true measure of the EDSA mobilization will be whether it insists on concrete remedies: transparent investigations, independent audits of the flood-control contracts, impartial prosecutions where evidence exists, and structural reforms to curb patronage and strengthen oversight. Without institutional follow-through, replacing one man with another, no matter how dramatic, will remain cosmetic.
The gatherings on Sunday can be catharsis or the beginning of sustained civic engagement. Their lasting power will depend on the public’s ability to translate street fury into durable oversight, legal accountability, and clear demands that rebuild trust. For many Filipinos, EDSA remains a sacred symbol of people power, the street where the powerful were made to bow before the collective strength of the citizenry. What makes the present moment dangerous for those in power is that the grievances mirror those that led to EDSA in 1986 and EDSA Dos in 2001: corruption, abuse, and arrogance. History does not repeat itself exactly, but it rhymes—and the rhyme is unmistakably being heard again.
If history teaches us anything, it is that once people find their voice in the streets, institutions bend or break under pressure, and the forthcoming gatherings may prove decisive. They are not mere protests but potential turning points, where frustration can coalesce into a national movement. What begins as a rejection of one man’s corruption can rapidly swell into a broader demand for systemic change.
And so Romualdez was the first to fall, but he will not be the last. The anger surging at EDSA is not simply against one Speaker or one President; it is against a culture of impunity that has long mocked the people’s patience. Whether this culminates in the ouster of Marcos himself remains uncertain. But one thing is clear: the gathering storm will not dissipate easily, and those who underestimate its force do so at their own peril.
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