Politics in Imo has become a village market drama, with masquerades prancing, dibias whispering charms, and greedy chiefs sharing kola they never bought.
At the centre of this noisy square is a conspiracy, cooked hot and spicy, to deny Owerri zone the governorship in 2027. The plot is not hidden; it is carried on the heads of its architects like palm wine gourds, brazenly displayed for all to see.
And once again, Owerri zone is being pushed to the corner like the poor woman whose basket of tomatoes is kicked aside by a boastful neighbour.
For decades, Owerri has been the weeping child of Imo politics, mocked, consoled, and then cheated again. Even when the zone tasted power briefly through Emeka Ihedioha, it was like a market woman who sold her yams in the morning only to be robbed at dusk. That seven-month reign was stolen by judicial masquerades who danced into Owerri’s compound and carried away its bride. Since then, the zone has been forced to clap while Orlu and Okigwe feast on meat cooked from a pot to which Owerri contributed firewood.
Orlu, the self-acclaimed kingmakers, strut about like chiefs who believe the village stool is their birthright. They wear smiles as wide as the Niger, yet their hands are glued to the crown like a child clutching roasted corn. Their friendship with Owerri is the type offered by a python — warm and deceptive, until it coils tight. Orlu says, “your turn will come,” but their “turn” is like the moon they point at in the sky — always far, always tomorrow, never today.
Okigwe, sadly, has turned itself into Orlu’s errand boy, running around the market square shouting insults at Owerri just to earn a calabash of palm wine. Like a goat that follows the butcher home, they imagine servitude will buy them survival. What a shame! A zone that once raised Sam Mbakwe, the “weeping governor” who built legacies of steel, now stoops to blackmail Owerri, hoping to buy Orlu’s favour. History will laugh at such foolishness.
The most comical part of this conspiracy is that its leaders are not riffraffs but supposed elders — men who once swore by justice and equity. They now behave like greedy chiefs who, after eating all the kola, tell the youth to be patient for the next harvest. Their hypocrisy is so thick it can be sliced with a cutlass.
Owerri is not stretching out its hand like a beggar; it is banging the drum of justice. After decades of waiting, after being mocked as the crying child, Owerri demands its due. Orlu has feasted too long, Okigwe has had its share, and Owerri has been left with empty calabashes. Enough is enough.
The gang up is shameless. It is like market women conspiring to hide pepper just to hike prices. But every conspiracy, no matter how sweet, eventually unravels. Orlu’s masquerade may dance from morning till night, but when the drums stop, it must retire. And this time, Owerri will light its own torch and lead its own procession.
Okigwe’s gamble is dangerous. Aligning with Orlu against Owerri is like selling yam seeds during planting season — tomorrow’s hunger will remind them of today’s foolishness. Instead of joining Owerri to insist on equity, they have chosen to play the clown in Orlu’s festival. It is a betrayal that stinks like rotten fish.
Owerri may be mocked, but tears are prayers that rise faster than smoke from a village hearth. Every humiliation has become tinder for a fire that will one day burn bright. Those who think Owerri is weak mistake patience for weakness; but patience, when stretched, becomes a whip that lashes.
Justice is not a gift wrapped in Orlu’s wrapper; it is a debt owed to Owerri zone. And like every debt left unpaid, interest is piling up. The drums of 2027 are already beating, and when the masquerade of justice steps out, no conspiracy, no dibia, no greedy chief will stop it.
So let Orlu dance, let Okigwe throw stones, and let hypocrites beat their drums of deceit. When the dust settles in 2027, justice will mount the stool. And Owerri, denied for decades, will finally take its turn — not as a favour, but as a right long delayed.
The gang up is shameless. It is like market women conspiring to hide pepper just to hike prices. But every conspiracy, no matter how sweet, eventually unravels. Orlu’s masquerade may dance from morning till night, but when the drums stop, it must retire. And this time, Owerri will light its own torch and lead its own procession.
