By Inah Boniface Ocholi

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The weight or power of words in a democracy is like the foundation of a house—if it is weak, the entire structure collapses. When a senator comes forward with allegations as serious as sexual harassment, it is not something to be tossed aside like yesterday’s newspaper. It is a cry for justice, a call for accountability. But what happens when those in power dismiss such claims as “tissues of lies”? It is like a doctor ignoring a patient’s pain, waving it away as mere imagination while the sickness festers beneath the surface.

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And so we ask: Why is the rule of law silent over sexual allegations when power is involved? Why does a senator’s plea for justice get mocked, while an Igala young man from the ghetto, accused of rape has been sleeping in Kirikiri prisons for years? What hope remains for the common man when justice becomes a matter of status, not truth?

Nigeria is at a point where truth is treated like an inconvenient guest—ignored when it arrives, silenced when it speaks, and ridiculed when it insists on being heard. Those who should be upholding justice are instead brushing allegations aside, as if integrity is a luxury and not the backbone of leadership. The late Chinua Achebe put it best when he said, “One of the truest tests of integrity is its blunt refusal to be compromised.” But in a country where political power often feels like a fortress, protected from scrutiny, integrity has become something leaders preach about but rarely practice.

It is troubling that a serious accusation was dismissed, not with an investigation, but with words that carry no weight. “She is just angry because she lost a position,” they say, as if losing political office suddenly makes a woman’s testimony unreliable. This is how truth dies—not with bullets or chains, but with mockery and silence. Wole Soyinka warned us long ago: “The man dies in all who keep silent in the face of tyranny.” When leaders refuse to take allegations seriously, when they turn justice into a game of power, they are not just failing one individual; they are betraying the very idea of democracy.

Power without accountability is like rain without clouds—it defies nature. Yet, in Nigeria, too many in leadership believe they owe no one an explanation. When accusations are made, the first response is not to investigate but to attack the accuser. It is an old trick, used by the guilty to escape the spotlight. But history has shown that truth has a way of resurfacing, no matter how hard it is buried. Martin Luther King Jr. reminded us that “The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards justice.” A lie may travel far, but truth has legs that never get tired.

Beyond politics, this dismissal exposes something deeper—the way Nigerian society treats women, especially those in power. When a woman speaks out, the first instinct is to question her motives, to search for hidden agendas, to remind her of her place. It is the same script, repeated for generations. A woman is not allowed to simply be right; she must have an ulterior motive. Yet, Wole Soyinka said, “You cannot enslave a mind that knows itself.” The more women rise to challenge injustice, the harder it becomes to silence them. The world is changing, and Nigeria cannot afford to be left behind, clinging to outdated ideas that only serve the powerful.

There is a reason history remembers societies that valued justice and forgets those that chose oppression. The United States did not sweep the Watergate scandal under the carpet; they investigated, and a president resigned. South Africa, after apartheid, did not pretend that the past did not happen; they sought truth and reconciliation. But in Nigeria, we have mastered the art of forgetting, of moving on without accountability. We ignore the cracks until the walls collapse, and then we act surprised.

The Holy Bible is clear about the duty of leaders: “When the righteous thrive, the people rejoice; when the wicked rule, the people groan.” (Proverbs 29:2). A leader who fears accountability is like a night watchman who refuses to carry a lamp—sooner or later, the darkness will consume him. Those in power should not be afraid of the truth. If they are innocent, let the facts clear their names. If they are guilty, let justice take its course. Either way, silence and dismissal should never be the answer.

The irony is chilling: a young man, without connections or title, accused of rape, rots in Kirikiri, awaiting justice that may never come. Yet when a senator—a public figure with documented evidence—speaks out, the system shrugs. It laughs. And justice, once again, is mocked in daylight.

Nigeria is standing at a crossroads. The choices we make today will shape the future. Will we continue to sweep truth under the rug, or will we demand better? Will we let power silence justice, or will we insist that no one is above accountability? The world is watching. History is taking notes. The next generation is learning. The great Wole Soyinka once said, “The greatest threat to freedom is the absence of criticism.” We must never stop demanding the truth because, in the end, democracy is only as strong as the truth it protects.

Inah Boniface Ocholi writes from Ayah, Igalamela/Odolu, LGA, Kogi State
08152094428

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By Inah Boniface Ocholi

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The chronicles of betrayal wear many garbs, but this one was embroidered with familiarity, stitched by hands that once swore allegiance to the Igala dream. Let the records be unsealed: it was not the hand of fate, nor the wiles of adversaries, nor the restive sleep of ancestors that shattered the Igala throne—it was the deliberate orchestration of sons who auctioned their own heritage beneath the dim lanterns of political expedience.

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The merchant’s name requires neither chanting nor applause. He is known in hushed tones as the Merchant of Ayija—a man whose political gallop seemed messianic, yet whose actual mission, when unraveled, reeked of betrayal more pungent than market-day deceit. The Igala Nation, once girded with ancestral dignity and political relevance, now limps through history, clinging to fractured loyalties and perfidious smiles.

Lugard House, once a reachable dream, has become a haunted citadel—its gates slammed shut, not by strangers, but by brothers. How did the East, cradle of intellectual warriors and seasoned statesmen, come to this? The answer, bitter as unripe locust beans, lies in the silent handshakes, the coded meetings, the hushed transfers. Not in 2023 did this tragedy begin—it gestated in the womb of ambition long before.

The late Prince Abubakar Audu, may his name be honoured, in an attempt to preserve political purity, demoted Dr. Yakubu Ugwolawo. A decision that, though calculated, unleashed a storm of vengeance. Dr. Ugwolawo, wounded but unyielding, allegedly delivered over 400 delegate votes to Yahaya Bello. The deed was subtle, but its consequence seismic. Bello, initially a distant runner-up, became the recipient of destiny manipulated—not earned.

Then Prince Audu departed. In his passing, the East lost more than a candidate—it lost its compass. A shadow deal inked by the late James Ocholi with Alhaji Bello—promising a return of power to the East post-2015—faded into political myth. Bello, having been gifted the throne, became its unrepentant custodian. And the Igala dream? It dissolved like salt in the monsoon.

In 2019, heroes arose. Late Prof. Sheidu Ogah. Vice Admiral Usman Jibrin. General Patrick Akpa. Titans, armed not with tribal arrogance, but with national intellect. All disqualified. Not by incompetence, but by orchestration. It was not the enemy outside, but the saboteur within.

It was then the Merchant of Ayija emerged, cloaked in populism but carrying the ledger of betrayal. For a reported N3.5 billion, the future was battered. The Merchant and his cohort—Edward Onoja, the greenhorn deputymarshalled Igala votes not for emancipation but for Bello’s second term. “Ene Omu ne Me,” they chorused, mocking unity, vandalizing the sacred.

This was not mere politicking—it was a metaphysical violation. A desecration of the ancestral altar. Political incest garbed in progressive rhetoric.

By 2023, the masquerade wore thin. The Merchant, now parading as redeemer, returned to the people he once betrayed. But the masquerade’s footsteps echoed with dishonesty. The third term he denied orchestrating was written all over his campaign script. INEC’s rejection was only ceremonial—the heavens had already withdrawn their endorsement. As one elder mused, “Rejection followed—not from the courts, but from the courts of divine justice.”

It wasn’t just a failed campaign—it was divine judgment. The East fell, not because the centre was not strong, but because its limbs were disjointed, its heart unfaithful. We erected thrones for traitors and hurled stones at patriots. And now, the altar is cracked, and the rain refuses to fall.

But not all is lost. Amid the ruins, a whisper rises—a movement of remembrance, of reckoning. A convocation must be called, not of politicians in flowing gowns, but of elders with cracked voices, youths with flaming consciences, clergy bearing scrolls of truth. There must be a national inquest, a tribal confession. Not to shame, but to cleanse. Not to revenge, but to restore.

The Igala Nation must admit: it is not enemies who buried our crown—it was our sons. And if the sons will not confess, the land will groan till the trees refuse to fruit.

Let the Merchant of Ayija know: the people now read between the lines. The masquerade’s feet have betrayed him. The ghost of 2015 is no longer silent. And those who shared the wine of betrayal will soon taste the dregs of accountability.

We require not political gladiators, but spiritual reformers. Men and women who understand that political destiny is sacred, that betrayal is not strategy but sacrilege. The land bleeds. The ancestors mutter. And history stands with ink-stained fingers, waiting to inscribe either our redemption or our ruin.

The time for palliative speeches is gone. What we need is truth, poured like libation. Let the calabash breakers come forward. Let the silence keepers speak. Let the elders who watched in complicity find the courage to confess. Only then shall the rain fall again. Only then shall the East rise—not on borrowed legs, but on ancestral strength.

As Dr. Paul Enenche once thundered, “When truth is buried, destiny is delayed. When truth is denied, destruction is near. But when truth is declared, restoration begins.” The Igala Nation stands at that forked path—between the ruins of betrayal and the road to rebirth.

Let those with ears, hear. Let the betrayers bow. Let truth march through Bassa, Idah, Dekina, and Ankpa. For it is truth—not politics—that shall save the land.

Inah Boniface Ocholi – Writes from Ayah, Igalamela/Odolu, LGA, Kogi State.
08152094428 (Whatsapp Only)

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By Abiodun KOMOLAFE

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On October 1, 1999, I wrote an article titled ‘The Ethical Imperative of Governance’ in one of Nigeria’s leading national newspapers.

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In the said article, I advocated for a deep sense of objective right and wrong in society, one that transcended Nigeria’s multicultural identity, as this shared moral foundation was essential for achieving our national objectives. Fast-forward to 2025, nearly three decades later, and the question remains: has anything changed? If so, what exactly has changed, and how do we measure the extent of this transformation?

In fairness to posterity, to ask how we got to wherever we are is to ask whether or not Nigeria should have been created in the first place. The amalgamation of the protectorates and territories, after all, was not put to a referendum, and there is no record of the people giving their consent to this amalgamation. It was largely driven by the British government’s cost-cutting measures, undertaken amidst the turmoil of a Europe on the brink of World War I.

The 1911 report of the Committee headed by Lord Haldane, akin to Nigeria’s Oronsaye Report, paved the way for cost rationalization, ultimately leading to the amalgamation. However, a critical question remains: did this amalgamation truly create a country, or merely a geographical expression? This conundrum is reminiscent of Giuseppe Garibaldi’s unification of 27 principalities, states and provinces into Italy. As Garibaldi excellently remarked, “We have created a geographical expression; now we must create the Italians.”

General Yakubu ‘Jack’ Gowon is arguably the only Nigerian leader who has come close to addressing the question of national unity. One of his notable achievements was the creation of the National Youth Service Corps (NYSC) in 1974.

While the NYSC has unified the Nigerian elite to some extent, its impact has been limited, more so as it has largely been serving interests that are not particularly productive. More importantly, it has failed to unite the Nigerian people. This failure is symptomatic of a broader issue – a country built on rent-seeking and a scramble for resources, which inevitably leads to the current state of disarray.

When Nigeria was governed by production-based constitutions, such as the 1963 Constitution, the country experienced flashpoints, but also enjoyed better focus on development and greater national cohesion. A similar trajectory can be observed in India, which has maintained stability despite experiencing flashpoints since its independence in 1947. India has avoided coups and has become the world’s 5th largest economy. Projections also suggest that India will become the world’s largest economy by 2050.

India’s experience offers a valuable lesson. By adhering to a constitutional framework similar to Nigeria’s 1960 and 1963 Constitutions, the country has successfully lifted hundreds of millions of people out of poverty. Meanwhile, Nigeria grapples with communal clashes, violence and land-grabbing. Nigerians are roasting Nigerians, thus rendering the country neither peaceful nor cohesive. This lack of cohesion underscores that sustainable development cannot be achieved through isolated ‘projects’. Instead, it will remain a case of ‘all motion without development.’

The National Assembly’s inability to promptly reform the internal security mechanism, adopting a community and state policing approach akin to countries like Australia, Canada, Brazil, and the USA, is striking. This inaction betrays a lack of interest in fostering national cohesion. Unfortunately, there is little indication that this will change soon. Apart from when the Super Eagles are playing, there is very little evidence of national cohesion. Dear fatherland continues to look like a ‘geographical expression’ rather than a state based on national identity, cohesion and a focused programme for national reconstruction.

In response to Nigeria’s struggles with national identity and underperformance, the establishment should revisit and upgrade the 1963 Republican Constitution, backing it with a referendum as a measure of self-preservation. At this critical juncture, the country must work towards a Nigerian equivalent of Italy’s 1971 ‘Historic Compromise.’

The Italian ‘Compromesso Storico’ breathed new life into Italy’s struggling state, addressing its disoriented public finances and stabilizing its sagging currency. This historic compromise reduced regional tensions and laid the groundwork for a unified effort against the Sicilian Mafia, ultimately paving the way for its downfall.

The conventional wisdom suggests that Lombardy, Italy’s most prosperous region, which, like our Niger Delta, is the goose that lays the golden eggs, would certainly have pulled out of Italy. This prompts a crucial question for Nigeria’s political establishment: can intellectual honesty and moral circumspection guide a comprehensive overhaul of the country’s perennial underdevelopment and lack of national cohesion?

Nigeria transitioned from military rule to democracy, but the journey was far from glorious. With this reality in mind, we must recognize that India’s independence in 1947 marked the beginning of a period where the country’s military structure prevented at least a dozen potential military coups. This contrasts with Nigeria’s experience under military rule, as well as Brazil’s, which was marked by brutality and viciousness.

However, it’s essential to consider the outcomes of military rule, as seen in South Korea’s remarkable transformation since 1958. The question remains: can military rule be beneficial if it leads to a forced advance, as in South Korea’s case?

To be concluded.

KOMOLAFE wrote from Ijebu-Jesa, Osun State, Nigeria (ijebujesa@yahoo.co.uk)

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