Crushed dreams. Broken vows. A speed boat of destiny locked in the merciless confluence River of betrayal. That is the tragic portrait of Igala politics today. The grandeur of a people once revered for discipline and dignity now bleeds away in the gutters of dissension. Instead of unity, we see daggers; instead of healing, we see poison.
What ought to be a march toward collective greatness has become a circus of egos, where ambition strangles vision, and crumbs are traded for crowns. The political vessel of Igala is not merely drifting—it is trapped, immobilized, cracking under the frost of treachery.
Yet history whispers a cure. When Sir Ernest Shackleton’s Endurance was swallowed by Antarctic ice, he did not surrender to despair. He did not quarrel with fate. He redefined the mission. The dream of conquest became the duty of survival. Shackleton’s genius was not in avoiding calamity, but in commanding courage. He counted supplies. He calmed his crew. He prepared lifeboats even while the ship still stood. He preached unity where chaos threatened. And by iron will, he saved every man under his charge.
That strategy—cold, sharp, relentless—must be the mental medicine for Igala. The homeland’s ship is gripped by the ice of betrayal; the first command is survival, not vainglory. Count supplies: weigh what remains of integrity, of truth, of grassroots valor. Address the crew: remind the people that their destiny is greater than the crumbs flung from corrupt tables. Prepare lifeboats: build alternative structures, forge alliances untainted by godfathers, groom the young as heirs to the struggle not political thugs.
For dissension is a cruel disease, and despair a corrosive poison. The cure is Shackleton’s creed—unity, courage, preparation. Shackleton lost no man; Igala must lose no soul. Shackleton would not bow to ice; Igala must not bow to betrayal. Shackleton preserved morale as sacred; Igala must preserve hope as the breath of survival.
But truth burns: the enemy is not only outside—it festers within. Igala elites, smug in parlours, bartering tomorrow for today, are worse than visible adversaries. They fracture the political marrow, forcing common citizens to scavenge from the ruins. History’s pen will carve their names in shame unless they repent.
Mental medicine is not a whisper—it is a clarion. Reject crumbs. Demand bread. Refuse to leak the boots of false kings while your children remain barefoot. Tear away chains of thuggery and servitude. Bind wounds with truth. Unite under one banner, one cause, one destiny.
Igala is bleeding, but not dead. The frost is fierce, but the fire can return. Shackleton’s shadow stands as witness: in the darkest cold, leadership saves. The prescription is brutal but clear—truth, unity, courage. Without these, the patient collapses; with them, a nation rises from ice to flame.
History waits, pen in hand. Will Igala choose shackles—or Shackleton?
– Inah Boniface Ocholi writes from Ayah – Igalamela/Odolu LGA, Kogi state.
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