Imo State’s inability to sustain political succession from one elected governor to another is not accidental. It is the consequence of recurring structural failures rooted in elite conspiracy, federal power realignments, internal party implosions, zoning sensitivities, and the perennial arrogance of incumbency. From Achike Udenwa to Ikedi Ohakim and Rochas Okorocha, each administration fell victim to a combination of these forces, leaving behind a state where power is never inherited, only contested.
Achike Udenwa’s experience remains the most instructive example of how federal might and elite scheming can dismantle a governor’s succession plan. Governing between 1999 and 2007 under the PDP, Udenwa assumed that the party’s national dominance would guarantee internal cohesion in Imo. Instead, his tenure coincided with one of the most vicious intra-party wars the state has ever witnessed.
The Imo PDP split into two irreconcilable blocs. On one side was Udenwa’s grassroots-driven Onongono Group, powered by loyalists such as Alex Obi and anchored on local structures. On the other was a formidable Abuja faction populated by heavyweight figures including Kema Chikwe, Ifeanyi Araraume, Hope Uzodimma, Tony Ezenna, and others with direct access to federal influence. This was not a clash of personalities alone; it was a struggle over who controlled the levers of power beyond Owerri.
The conflict worsened when Udenwa openly aligned with then Vice President Atiku Abubakar during his bitter feud with President Olusegun Obasanjo. That alignment proved politically fatal. Obasanjo, determined to weaken Atiku’s network nationwide, withdrew federal support from governors perceived as loyal to the vice president. In Imo, the effect was immediate and devastating.
Federal agencies, party organs, and influence channels tilted decisively toward the Kema Chikwe-led Abuja faction. Udenwa lost effective control of the PDP structure, security leverage, and strategic influence. His foot soldiers in the Onongono Group could mobilise locally, but they could not withstand a coordinated assault backed by the centre.
His preferred successor, Charles Ugwu, never gained political altitude. By the time succession became imminent, Udenwa was already a governor without power. Even his later recalculations failed to reverse the tide. The party had slipped beyond his grasp.
The eventual outcome was politically ironic. Ikedi Ohakim emerged governor, backed by forces aligned with the federal establishment, notably Maurice Iwu—his kinsman and then Chairman of the Independent National Electoral Commission (INEC). Another Udenwa ally, Martin Agbaso, briefly tasted victory, only for his election to be cancelled. The lesson was brutal and unmistakable: without federal alignment, succession in Imo is almost impossible.
Notably, Udenwa’s record in office did not rescue him. Infrastructure development, relative stability, and administrative competence counted for little in the face of elite conspiracy operating simultaneously at state and federal levels. In Imo politics, performance is secondary to power alignment.
Ikedi Ohakim’s tenure presents a different dimension of failure. Unlike Udenwa, he never reached the point of succession planning. His administration was consumed by political survival. From 2007 to 2011, Ohakim governed amid persistent hostility from elites and a rapidly deteriorating public image.
Ohakim has consistently maintained that his downfall was orchestrated. Central to his claim is the allegation that he was blackmailed with a scandal involving the alleged assault of a Catholic priest, Reverend Father Eustace Eke. In a deeply religious state like Imo, the allegation was politically lethal.
Whether the claims were factual or exaggerated mattered less than their impact. The narrative overwhelmed governance, drowned out policy achievements, and turned public opinion sharply against him. Political elites who had midwifed his emergence quickly distanced themselves, sensing vulnerability.
By the 2011 election, Ohakim stood isolated. Party loyalty evaporated, elite cover disappeared, and voter sympathy collapsed. His re-election bid failed decisively. With that loss, any discussion of succession became irrelevant. His experience reinforces a core principle: a governor rejected by the electorate cannot dictate continuity.
Rochas Okorocha’s rise in 2011 appeared to signal a break from Imo’s succession curse. Charismatic, populist, and financially powerful, he commanded party structures and grassroots loyalty. By his second term, he seemed politically unassailable.
Yet Okorocha committed the most consequential succession error in the state’s history. By attempting to impose his son-in-law, Uche Nwosu, as successor, he crossed from political strategy into dynastic ambition. That decision detonated his massive support base in the State overnight.
Imo’s political elites revolted almost unanimously. Party affiliation became secondary to a shared determination to stop what was widely perceived as an attempt to privatise public office. The revolt was elite-driven, strategic, and ruthless.
The zoning factor compounded the crisis. Okorocha hailed from Orlu zone; so did Nwosu. For many Imo voters, the prospect of Orlu retaining power through familial succession was unacceptable. What might have been tolerated as ambition became framed as entitlement.
This time, elite resistance aligned with popular sentiment. The electorate queued behind alternatives not necessarily out of conviction, but out of rejection. Crucially, Emeka Ihedioha emerged governor because Okorocha fatally miscalculated—splitting his base, provoking elite rebellion, and underestimating voter resentment. Okorocha’s formidable structure collapsed under internal rebellion and voter backlash, sealing his failure to produce a successor.
Hope Uzodimma’s current position must be assessed against this turbulent history. At present, the structural indicators are in his favour. He enjoys firm federal backing, controls the APC machinery in the state, and commands the support—or at least the compliance—of most major political elites.
Unlike Udenwa, Uzodimma is aligned with the centre. Unlike Ohakim, he has survived electoral tests. Unlike Okorocha, he has not openly flirted with dynastic politics. On the surface, the succession equation appears favourable.
However, Imo’s history cautions against certainty. Elite loyalty in the state is conditional and transactional. It endures only where interests are balanced, ambitions managed, and inclusion sustained. A wrong choice of successor could still provoke elite conspiracy, even if it emerges from within the ruling party.
The opposition remains weak and fragmented, with limited capacity to mobilise mass resistance. Yet voter apathy, now more pronounced than during the Udenwa and Okorocha eras, introduces a new risk. Disengaged electorates are unpredictable and often disruptive.
Ultimately, Uzodimma’s challenge is not opposition strength but elite psychology. Suppressed ambitions, if mishandled, can erupt. Succession in Imo has never been about coronation; it is about negotiation.
History is unforgiving to governors who confuse incumbency with ownership. Power in Imo is never transferred by decree. As 2027 approaches, the same forces that toppled past succession plans remain alive. Whether Uzodimma avoids their trap will depend not on power alone, but on restraint, balance, and political wisdom.
