Idah, the primeval nucleus of the Igala civilization, now sits like a dethroned monarch — proud in memory but impoverished in manifestation. Once the pulsating citadel of cultural and political reverence, it has been eclipsed by decades of elite dereliction, moral anemia, and parochial politicking. The paradox is piercing: despite birthing several governors and public luminaries, Idah remains infrastructurally anaemic, economically anaesthetized, and historically vandalized.
I dont hide truth if i see one especially in Igalaland. That an Egbira man, Governor Ahmed Usman Ododo, now pioneers infrastructural renewal in this sacred terrain is an irony too pungent to ignore. It is the outsider who now polishes the ancestral mirror the sons shattered. The truth hovers in the air like harmattan dust — Igala leaders became architects of their own marginalization, turning privilege into paralysis and heritage into hazard.
Across Nigeria, the abodes of monarchs are venerated — oases of administrative energy and civic reverence. In Sokoto, in Kano, in Benin, in Oyo, the palaces are not merely domiciles of tradition; they are epicentres of progress. But Idah, the ancestral citadel of the Igala nation, remains fossilized in neglect. Its streets bear the wrinkles of abandonment; its palace breathes in the agony of remembrance. No Museums, No Standard Library etc. The drums that once summoned courage now murmur elegies of betrayal.
The Igala political class has, over the years, mastered the art of performative governance — fluent in rhetoric, barren in result. They are orators of promise but custodians of decay. They accumulate wives, titles, and applause, yet their ancestral land languishes in infrastructural destitution. The proverb says, “A man who adorns himself in gold while his father’s roof leaks is a clown before the ancestors.” Such is the caricature of leadership Idah has endured.
Governor Ododo’s intervention in Idah, though commendable, is a mirror held to the face of Igala hypocrisy. His road constructions are not just developmental gestures — they are indictments. They echo the collective failure of the political aristocracy who substituted vision with vanity. The Egbira man has become a reluctant tutor to Igala elites on the pedagogy of responsibility.
One is forced to ask: how did we descend this low? How did a people renowned for valor and visionary governance transmute into a congregation of complacency? The elders lament, “When the yam begins to rot, the weevil first hides in the shadow of comfort.” Our rot began the day leadership became an inheritance of indulgence, not an enterprise of service.
Idah’s condition is not merely developmental; it is psychological. It reflects a community’s estrangement from its essence — a dislocation between identity and responsibility. The town that once commanded respect now courts ridicule. The Attah’s palace, symbolic of centuries of Igala sovereignty, is hemmed by dilapidated roads, forgotten projects, and official inertia. The very symbol of power now sits like a relic, surrounded by the ruins of its own significance.
Worse still, the Igala elite have mastered the politics of fragmentation — each man a lord in his private kingdom, each faction an island of self-worship. Division has become a hereditary disease. And as the proverb goes, “When brothers quarrel in the marketplace, strangers buy their kola.” Outsiders have now assumed the role of redeemers because insiders chose rivalry over responsibility.
Governor Ododo’s gesture should sting the conscience of every Igala politician. It should remind them that development is not a function of tribe but of temperament. He has, inadvertently, exposed the intellectual bankruptcy of those who should have been custodians of progress. Leadership is not an ethnic emblem; it is a moral enterprise.
For decades, Igala politicians have perfected a governance model of grandiloquence without groundwork. They preside over ceremonies of emptiness, commission projects that exist only on signboards, and recite progress reports that are footnoted by failure. Meanwhile, the ancestral city deteriorates — its youths migrate, its elders despair, and its soil erodes under the weight of governmental negligence.
Idah’s tragedy is multi-dimensional — cultural, political, and moral. The descendants of Ayegba are now spectators in the theatre of their own decline. The same soil that once raised defenders of dignity now breeds exiles of conscience. The ancestors must be watching in stunned silence, wondering how their progeny became so estranged from honour.
The Igala political class must awaken from this chronic lethargy. They must reconstruct their moral compass and rediscover the sanctity of communal service. Idah is not just a geographical location — it is a metaphor for identity. To let it decay is to desecrate the very altar of Igala existence.
Let Governor Ododo’s intervention be the spark of introspection, not a lullaby of gratitude. Let it remind Igala sons and daughters that heritage without responsibility is ornamental, not meaningful. Development must return home; progress must wear an Igala face again.
For too long, the children of the throne have become pilgrims of power in foreign temples. The time has come to return home — to rebuild, to reconcile, to restore. For as the elders say, “No matter how far the river travels, it must one day seek the sea.”
Idah’s redemption is possible — but only when her sons stop staring at the moon alone in thier own homes and start repairing the roof beneath it. Enene d’unyi nwu ali Ochu (Everyone is in his or her houses seeing the moon.) shouldnt heard amongs us anymore
– Inah Boniface Ocholi writes from Ayah – Igalamela/Odolu LGA, Kogi state.
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