Reporting News and opinions
So far, so dazzling. We have been unchained from the desk, from the camera, from the petrol pump, and soon, apparently, from the steering wheel itself. Progress has been relentless, elegant, and profitable.
Nigeria’s judicial budget is a complex, contentious issue at the intersection of constitutional design, fiscal federalism, political power dynamics, and the practical realities of justice delivery. While the 1999 Constitution (as amended) enshrines judicial independence including financial autonomy the implementation reveals deep gaps between legal provisions and on-ground realities.
It issues pronouncements, launches programmes, commissions projects, publishes budgets, announces reforms and produces an endless supply of political speeches. Ministers hold press conferences. Governors commission flyovers. Presidents announce ambitious economic transformations. Political parties publish manifestos promising a better Nigeria.
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.
