Oil flows from Ibaji’s soil like a stubborn river that refuses to dry, yet the road leading to that same soil resembles a wounded path abandoned by time and mercy. This contradiction is not accidental; it is engineered neglect. In Ibaji Local Government, Kogi State, crude oil is extracted with modern precision while human movement is reduced to endurance. The land feeds the state, but the people stagger under dust, mud, and broken bridges. An Igala proverb says, “The river that feeds the town must not be crossed on broken stones.” Yet Ibaji crosses its own wealth daily on stones sharpened by indifference.
Power in Ibagi wears two carefully separated garments. One is ceremonial, draped in titles, public visits, handshakes, and photographs taken beside oil installations. The other is political, quieter but heavier, deciding contracts, allocations, and access behind closed doors. Ceremonial authority tastes the oil only as symbolism; political power consumes it as profit. Between both stands the ordinary Ibaji resident, asking a question that should trouble any serious democracy: how can a community that oils the engine of the state be denied a road to its own survival? Wisdom replies, “When the owner of the farm eats only the husk, strangers have taken the harvest.”
The access road to Ibaji is more than failed infrastructure; it is a confession. Roads speak when leaders choose silence. A good road announces inclusion; a bad one declares abandonment. Ibaji’s road is a political document written in potholes, signed with delays, and stamped with excuses. Each crater is a sentence of exclusion. Leaders arrive by air or escorted convoys, depart the same way, and proclaim development from a distance. But an Igala elder would caution, “He who points at the yam from afar will never know its size.” Governance cannot be practiced from above the dust it refuses to settle.
Nigeria has seen this pattern before, and repetition has not softened its cruelty. From extractive communities across the country, wealth has often behaved like a visitor who eats well and leaves destruction behind. Oil should have been Ibaji’s ladder; instead it has become its chain. The formula is familiar: extract first, pacify with titles, postpone infrastructure, and manage outrage with ceremonies. But as wisdom insists, “A title does not cook food; fire does.” Symbolism cannot replace access, and honour cannot substitute for asphalt.
There is also an unspoken political arrangement that deepens the injustice. Ibaji indigenes are often appointed into ceremonial headship, elevated in form but emptied of function, while the economic proceeds and political leverage of oil flow elsewhere. The real miners are not always those whose land is drilled, but those who control budgets, contracts, and policy corridors. Authority is divided like a calabash with a cracked base: honour is poured into Ibaji, profit leaks away. An Igala proverb warns, “When a man is given a stool without a voice, he is being prepared to watch others eat.” Titles without agency become instruments of silence.
This imbalance does not only impoverish roads; it corrodes trust. When a people see their sons crowned without power and their land mined without benefit, resentment does not shout, it ferments. Youth drift away, believing dignity lives elsewhere. Elders lose faith in promises repeated but never delivered. This is how instability is brewed, quietly and patiently. As Igala wisdom cautions, “The rope ignored today becomes the snake of tomorrow.” Neglect postponed is conflict rehearsed.
This is not a plea for charity, nor an argument against oil production. It is a demand for justice anchored in logic. Development must follow extraction as shadow follows body. Access roads are not favors; they are obligations. If the state can count barrels, it can count communities. If it can secure pipelines, it can secure people. “The child who fetches water must be allowed to drink,” the elders say. Anything less is exploitation dressed as governance.
Ibagi’s story is not isolated; it is a mirror Nigeria must look into without blinking. Resource wealth without local dignity is not development; it is delayed disaster. The question is no longer whether Ibagi deserves access, but how long a nation can profit from places it refuses to connect. History is slow, but it never forgets. And wisdom leaves the final warning: “When the road is lost, the traveler blames the darkness, but the elders blame poor planning.”
– Inah Boniface Ocholi writes from Ayah – Igalamela/Odolu LGA, Kogi state.
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