Reporting News and opinions
Gather round, petrol-pump poets and economic visionaries, because Governor Monday Okpebholo has unlocked a geopolitical cheat code that will leave Nobel Prize-winning economists weeping into their calculators.
Armed with high-resolution scanners, magnifying glasses, and a fresh grievance, politicians comb through the educational credentials of their opponents. They obsess over font kerning, faint seals, and misaligned margins, convinced that somewhere between a crooked signature and an unreadable stamp lies the ultimate prize: getting the Supreme Court to invalidate millions of votes before lunch.
Nyesom Wike is no longer merely a powerful Nigerian politician with an unusually large appetite for political combat. He has become a test of whether Nigeria’s democratic institutions are strong enough to restrain an individual who appears increasingly convinced that power itself is the ultimate justification.
Ah, Edo State, the ancient kingdom of Benin, where bronze casters once made art that still makes the British Museum sweat, and modern politicians make drama that makes Nollywood blush. If Nigerian politics is a never-ending telenovela, Edo is the season where everyone keeps switching wigs, parties, and loyalties faster than a market woman dodging rain. Let’s stroll through this glorious chaos, shall we?
There is a particular Nigerian genius for building things that mean nothing, and calling it a legacy. Rochas Okorocha, who governed Imo State from 2011 to 2019 as though the office were a stage and the electorate a captive audience, remains the finest living exhibit of this genius. Eight years after he last held power, and years after the last echo of "Rochas the Liberator" faded from campaign jingles, his name now surfaces mostly in courtrooms, in denial statements issued by aides nobody asked for comment, and in the occasional bronze figure still standing in Owerri, weathering slowly in the rain like the promises that built it.
