The fall did not happen in a day. It came slowly, like a curve bending away from its peak, almost unnoticed until the ground was already close.
For decades, the Igala people stood at the center of political power in Kogi State. Their voice carried weight. Their presence shaped outcomes. Like a parabola rising with force, they climbed to a position many believed would last for generations. Today, that height feels distant. The curve has turned. The descent is real.
What changed is not a mystery, but it is a story many have avoided telling in full.
At the peak of their influence, unity was their greatest strength. There was a shared understanding, quiet but strong, that power was not just for individuals but for the collective good. Leadership was tied to responsibility. Elders spoke. The people listened. Decisions carried the weight of culture, memory, and consequence.
Then, slowly, the center began to loosen.
Personal ambition started to replace communal vision. Political actors who once stood as custodians of a shared destiny began to act like merchants of opportunity. Loyalty shifted from the people to private gain. Like traders in a crowded market, alliances were bought, sold, and broken with little regard for tomorrow.
The parabola had reached its highest point. The fall had begun.
In villages and towns across Igala land, the effects are visible. Once strong political structures now appear fragile. Voices that once spoke with confidence now carry uncertainty. Young people, watching closely, see a system that no longer reflects the values they were taught to respect.
And now, as another election approaches, something feels missing.
Posters are everywhere. Social media is filled with smiling faces, polished slogans, and carefully arranged photographs. But beyond the glow of phones and online noise, many communities remain untouched. The people have seen the images, but they have not felt anything. No message has entered the heart of the villages, the markets, and the farms where the real electorate lives.
Politics has become distant, almost like a stage performance, visible from afar but not present where it matters most.
This distance carries a cost.
When leaders fail to connect with the people in real ways, elections begin to lose their meaning. At the last moment, what should be a serious civic duty starts to look like a marketplace. Votes are no longer expressions of belief but tools for survival. The hungry electorate, long ignored, becomes easy to sway, choosing immediate relief over long term vision.
It is a painful reality, one that pushes the curve even lower.
This is not just a political problem. It is a deeper crisis of identity.
For the Igala people, politics was never separate from culture. Leadership was not only about power but about living in line with truth, discipline, and responsibility. When those values weaken, everything built on them begins to shake.
What has happened in recent years is a quiet disconnection from those roots.
Decisions are now made without the guiding voice of tradition. Elders, once central to the process, are no longer as influential. The language of service has been replaced with the language of survival, who wins, who loses, who benefits now.
This shift has cost the people more than elections. It has cost them direction.
Yet even in decline, memory remains. And memory has power.
The idea of a parabola is not only about falling. It is also about movement and the possibility of rising again. What has gone down is not gone forever. But rising again will not happen by chance. It requires clear intention.
There are signs that a new conversation is beginning. Among the youth, there is growing questioning. Among thinkers and writers, there is a call to return to truth, accountability, and shared purpose.
But hope alone is not enough.
The Igala political story now stands at a critical point. To continue this path is to deepen the decline. To change direction requires more than speeches. It requires leaders who understand that power is a public trust and who are willing to leave online spaces and walk into real communities.
It also requires a people ready to demand better, not just from leaders, but from themselves.
In many ways, this situation reflects a wider challenge across Nigeria, how to balance modern politics with moral and cultural grounding. The tension is real, and the consequences are serious.
But the Igala story is clear. The rise was visible. The peak was strong. The fall, though gradual, is now undeniable.
Like a farmer watching the sky for rain, the people are waiting, not for promises, but for something real they can believe in.
The parabola has dipped. That is clear. What is not yet clear is whether the next movement will continue downward or begin to rise again, shaped not by posters, but by presence, not by words, but by action.
History shows that both are possible.
The difference will depend on the choices made now.
– Inah Boniface Ocholi writes from Ayah – Igalamela/Odolu LGA, Kogi state.
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