Ten years after his death, they still need him to win elections.
Prince Abubakar Audu may be gone, but his ghost remains the most loyal party member in Kogi politics — attending every campaign, signing every silent endorsement, haunting every false promise. The announcement of a ten-year memorial by the same political establishment that buried his dreams is not a tribute; it is a confession of failure.
Kogi State, once a crown of hope under his vision, has become a political mausoleum where memories are polished and ideals are buried deeper. Those who could not defend his dream while he breathed now kneel at his tomb with microphones and cameras, mouthing loyalty they cannot live. The newly inaugurated memorial committee — headed by the Deputy Governor and wrapped in the cloth of the All Progressives Congress — is not remembrance; it is redemption theatre. They are not honouring Audu; they are using him as deodorant for their political odour.
The truth is bitter, but history has a tongue of iron. Prince Abubakar Audu did not die only in 2015 — he was assassinated twice, first by death and later by the betrayal of his successors. What they now call “remembrance” is political necromancy — calling up his spirit to bless a system that has disowned his soul.
Even the timing of the ceremony exposes the irony. Ten years on, and Kogi still lives in the shadow of what Audu built. His roads, though cracked, still lead more purposefully than the visions of those who came after. His name, though whispered, still commands more trust than a dozen official slogans. The people still sing of his generosity, yet cry under the weight of current austerity. And those who inherited the house he built now hold a memorial as if remembrance could replace justice.
Let us call this what it is — a political performance in funeral clothing.
They speak of the Prince’s legacy with trembling reverence, but the trembling is not from affection; it is from guilt. They know that true honour cannot come from wreaths or white chairs, but from restitution. They know that the Prince’s dream was cut short — not just by death, but by the distortion of the political balance he represented.
To genuinely honour Abubakar Audu, the incumbent governor should not merely set up a committee — he should hand power back to the Igala people, the custodians of the legacy that gave Kogi its earliest political rhythm. Anything less is lip service dressed in cultural regalia. Audu’s vision was not for conquest but for balance; he believed in a state where each region could breathe political oxygen. Today, that oxygen has been replaced with smoke.
The political imbalance in Kogi is the unspoken scandal at every anniversary. While they decorate his memory, they erase his people. While they speak his name, they silence the region that produced him. The Igala, once the political compass of the state, now wander in a wilderness of exclusion. And so, the question must be asked: what meaning does a ten-year remembrance carry when the very people whose destiny Audu fought for remain politically dispossessed?
Kogi’s ruling circle must be told the truth without fear or favour — you cannot claim to love the man and hate his people. You cannot build a monument for Audu and still demolish the political structure he represented. The Prince stood for equity; his death should not become an excuse for eternal marginalization. If the current administration wishes to write its name in moral ink, let it do the one thing that would make Audu smile in his grave — restore power to the East, to Igala land, where the pulse of Kogi once beat proudly.
But instead of justice, they build committees. Instead of equity, they print banners.
They dance around his memory like mourners at a political carnival — clapping for ghosts while the living go hungry. What the people need is not another speech; they need correction. If remembrance must be meaningful, it must come with restitution. Every memorial without justice is hypocrisy wearing agbada.
Audu’s story was never a regional fable; it was a parable of leadership. He governed with audacity — the kind that made Kogi visible in national dialogue. His infrastructural footprints, though old, remain more enduring than the digital propaganda of newer governments. He had the flaws of mortals, but he had the heart of a builder. The tragedy is that those who inherited his blueprint traded it for politics of vengeance and consolidation. Now, in the name of remembrance, they summon his memory to sanctify their continuity.
The Deputy Governor’s committee may call it a “befitting anniversary,” but Kogites know the script — a new political romance is being drafted in the name of nostalgia. In a state where power has become a tribal hostage, nothing is ever innocent. The same actors who tore down Audu’s house are now trying to repaint its ruins. They remember his voice because their own lacks rhythm. They need his ghost to legitimize their survival.
Let the truth echo across the confluence: Abubakar Audu’s remembrance without Igala restoration is moral deceit.
You cannot celebrate a man whose people you politically suffocate. The east of Kogi has become a geographical spectator to the drama it once directed. Power has shifted westward like a stolen inheritance, and remembrance has become a sedative for a robbed generation. The Prince, if he could speak, would not ask for a ceremony; he would ask for correction.
One must ask: if Audu’s spirit still hovers over the confluence, what would he think of the state he once governed? Would he smile at the structures he started or mourn the ruins his successors have perfected? Would he applaud the ceremonies or weep for the people whose tears built them? The answers are obvious — in the mirror of Kogi politics, even ghosts shake their heads.
The current administration must understand that memory is not currency; it is covenant. To honour Audu is to correct the injustice that followed his death. Every Igala child who feels politically orphaned is part of that covenant. The conscience of governance demands that the wheel of leadership be rotated with justice, not held hostage by regional arrogance.
Let the governor who claims to love Audu prove it — not by speeches, but by sacrifice.
Let him show courage by returning the balance, the same way Audu once shared development. True loyalty is not in the number of memorials held, but in the equity sustained. Until power returns to the East, every tribute is a betrayal.
Kogi’s elite must stop treating history as a decorative piece. They cannot keep embalming the name of Abubakar Audu while dismembering the political soul he embodied. The Igala are not seeking pity; they are asking for the restoration of fairness. Injustice cannot be washed away by ceremonies; it must be corrected by courage.
Across the Confluence River, the people still whisper the Prince’s name — not as nostalgia but as protest. The farmers, traders, teachers, and youths who once believed in his promise now watch the state descend into political emptiness. They see new structures rising, but none strong enough to carry their hopes. They see new faces on posters, but none glowing with sincerity. So when they hear that a committee has been formed to celebrate ten years of his passing, they sigh. “Ten years,” they say, “and we are still counting tears.”
Audu’s death, though physical, birthed a moral ghost that still walks the streets of Kogi. And until justice is done to his people, that ghost will never rest. The political system that replaced him has mastered the art of replacing loyalty with loyalty shows. Every remembrance becomes a festival of hypocrisy. Every committee becomes a cushion for conscience.
The ruling class must be reminded: Kogi was not created for one tribe’s eternal coronation. It was designed as a confluence — a meeting of regions, not a monopoly of one. To keep power perpetually away from the East is to erase the very essence of balance Audu preached. The language of remembrance must therefore be rewritten in the grammar of restitution.
Let them hold their anniversary if they must — let the speeches echo, the drums roll, and the cameras flash. But when the dust settles, history will still ask: what justice did you do to the man’s people? Because every true memorial must be written in policy, not poetry.
Until then, this ten-year remembrance remains what it is — a political resurrection without resurrection, a convenient masquerade worn by those afraid of truth. The Prince they claim to celebrate is still waiting for justice in the confluence wind.
And when history opens its ledger, it will not record the speeches of the living but the silence of the wronged.
To genuinely honour Abubakar Audu, the government must not merely celebrate his memory — it must return his mandate. The Igala people are not asking for sympathy; they are asking for symmetry. Equity is the only garland fit for a prince.
– Inah Boniface Ocholi writes from Ayah – Igalamela/Odolu LGA, Kogi state.
08152094428 (SMS Only)
