Today is not just another birthday.
It is a date that gently taps history on the shoulder and asks it to remember properly.
Rt. Honourable James Abiodun Faleke marks another year today, and for Kogi State, birthdays like this come with footnotes.
In the aftermath of the 2015 gubernatorial election, when nature itself paused to observe Nigerian politics with bewilderment, you stood at the centre of one of the most astonishing civic miracles ever recorded. It was a season when biology was corrected by gazette, arithmetic was overruled by alignment, and democracy was politely asked to wait outside.
Many of us were already well advanced in years, old enough to have witnessed coups, annulments, and judicial gymnastics, but nothing prepared us for that moment when we learnt, conclusively, that justice can indeed suffer a miscarriage if the presidency so wishes.
Kogi taught Nigeria a permanent lesson that year:
You do not need to vote to win an election.
You do not need to be on the ballot.
Ballots, after all, are suggestions.
What truly matters is vertical alignment.
You, sir, were robed by votes, affirmed by process, and yet relieved of destiny by presidential pleasure. A governor elect who never governed. A mandate acknowledged by the people but reassigned by power.
Thus emerged another governor, by immaculate conception, delivered not by the electorate but by executive convenience. And the people were instructed to rejoice.
Then came the miracles in full procession.
Money flowed from Abuja like manna, bailout funds in multiples, Paris Club refunds in generous repetition, yet salaries developed an allergic reaction to payment. Workers learnt patience as a profession, retirees learnt eternity, and pensioners, tragically, learnt mortality.
Still, governance was declared excellent.
In Kogi, workers could go unpaid for months, and the state would be rewarded with more funds for being unpaid. Economics was reborn, suffering became qualification. Accountability became optional, even rude. When one is close to the sun, explanations become unnecessary.
The rod of iron descended gently but firmly.
Civil servants were sacked with elegant recklessness. Entire careers vanished by executive swipe. Hunger and death were rebranded as collateral damage in the noble war against so called ghost workers, ghosts being easier to fight than empty stomachs.
Elections became an inconvenience. Why stress the people when appointments were faster? Chairmen emerged by selection, not election, chosen for obedience, not competence. Numbers, after all, are dangerous things in Kogi, they provoke questions.
The House of Assembly was carefully assembled, honourable members whose most consistent legislative function was kneeling, sometimes literally, often metaphorically, to ask the governor what the House should think next. Separation of powers was replaced with unification of obedience.
Even chartered accountants were liberated from arithmetic. In Kogi, professional qualification no longer limited one’s freedom to be unaccountable. Mathematics itself bowed to executive convenience.
And then there was the mythology of closeness.
You did not need to know the president. A photograph was sufficient. Better still, a story. If you once contributed two or three Ankara brocades, neatly wrapped in a nylon bag, to a campaign, you could publicly declare the president your biological father. Facts were flexible. Loyalty was elastic. And governance adjusted accordingly.
Thus Kogi was ruled maximally, firmly, confidently, imperviously, under presidential indulgence, protected by silence and sustained by audacity.
Through it all, one name remained etched differently in history, James Abiodun Faleke, the man who won, yet was not allowed to rule.
Today, as you add another year, this satire softens its voice and salutes restraint. You bore that historic injustice with dignity. You chose calm over chaos, patience over provocation, and statesmanship over bitterness.
Not many could have done so. Not many would have survived it.
So, happy birthday to a man whose life reminds us that:
democracy can be paused,
justice can be persuaded,
suffering can coexist with abundance,
but also that truth, once given by the people, never expires.
Kogi survived that season.
History recorded it.
Satire remembers it.
And today, we remember you, with clarity, candour, and cake.
– Pastor Stanley Ajileye writes from Kogi state.
