There is an old story told in the spirit of Aesop about a great tree standing in the middle of a village. For many years, the tree gave shade to everyone who came beneath it. The rich rested under its branches. The poor rested there. Travellers slept beneath it. Children played around its roots. During the heat of the afternoon, the entire village depended upon its generous shade. But one day, a small group of villagers began to complain that the branches of the tree no longer reached their side of the village. They had waited for years, watching others enjoy the deepest shade while they remained in the heat. When they finally asked why, the elders replied, “Be patient; your turn will come.” But the seasons changed, generations passed, and the promise of “your turn” became an inheritance of waiting. The moral is simple but profound: when justice is continually postponed, patience can become another name for exclusion. A political community must therefore ask not only who has enjoyed the shade, but also who has been standing in the sun for too long. This is the philosophical question confronting Imo State today. It is the question that Isu Nation brings before the conscience of the state—not with hatred, not with bitterness, and certainly not with hostility towards any other community, but with the solemn voice of a people asking whether, after years of waiting, their own political hour has finally arrived.
Aristotle taught that justice consists not merely in treating everybody identically, but in giving people what is proportionately due to them. John Rawls, centuries later, challenged society to imagine a just political order from behind a “veil of ignorance”, where nobody knows beforehand whether he or she will be born into a powerful community or a disadvantaged one. These philosophical insights speak directly to the Isu question. If we did not know beforehand whether we would be born in Orlu, Orsu, Ideato, Owerri, Okigwe or Isu, would we design a political system in which some communities repeatedly enjoyed major opportunities while another community continued to wait? Would we consider such an arrangement equitable? Would we call it justice? Or would we recognise that, at some point, justice demands correction? Isu Nation is therefore not asking for privilege. Isu Nation is asking for recognition. We are not asking that competence be sacrificed for origin. We are asking that, among competent sons and daughters of Imo State, those from Isu Nation should no longer be perpetually overlooked when the highest political opportunities are being distributed.
Since the return of democratic governance in 1999, Isu Nation has participated fully in the political life of Imo State. Its people have voted, campaigned, organised, contributed, sacrificed and remained part of the democratic process. Yet a painful question continues to disturb the conscience of the people: when will it be Isu Nation’s turn? According to the longstanding grievance being expressed by Isu Nation, we have not been able to produce a Governor, Senator, Minister, Speaker of the State House of Assembly, Deputy Governor, Secretary to the State Government, or Attorney-General and Commissioner for Justice during this democratic period. Meanwhile, other constituent areas have experienced different forms of political representation and opportunity. Oru nation has had its moments. Orsu has had its opportunities. Ideato has had its opportunities as well. Other parts of the state continue to negotiate for their own political space. But Isu Nation (made up of four and half Local Government Areas) have continued to remain politically disregarded. And this is where the pain becomes deeper than the absence of an office. A community can survive without a position, but it becomes wounded when it repeatedly feels that it does not count.
Marginalisation does not always announce itself with hostility. Sometimes it arrives quietly. It can be found in the repeated postponement of a community’s turn, in the habitual assumption that someone else is more deserving, in the political arithmetic that always seems to produce the same beneficiaries. One omission may be accidental. Two omissions may be coincidence. But when a community waits through years and political generations, the question becomes unavoidable: at what point does waiting become injustice? This is why the Isu question deserves to be taken seriously. It is not a cry against another people. It is a cry for inclusion. It is not an attempt to take away what belongs to Oru, Orsu, Ideato, Owerri or Okigwe. Every community has legitimate aspirations. But justice cannot mean that the aspirations of one Clan must always be realised at the expense of another. Political equity requires that every constituent community should, at appropriate times and through competent representation, have the opportunity to participate meaningfully in the highest levels of governance.
It is within this larger moral and political context that Governor Hope Uzodimma occupies a particularly significant place in the present conversation. Governor Uzodimma has served as Governor of Imo State and has previously represented Orlu Senatorial District in the Senate. As he prepares for the next chapter of his political career, the possibility of a transition from the governorship creates a moment of enormous political significance. A person cannot simultaneously exercise the constitutional responsibilities of Governor and Senator. Therefore, if a transition occurs, there will necessarily be a question of who should occupy the governorship for the remaining constitutional period. That question cannot be treated merely as an administrative arrangement. It is a question of political justice.
Governor Uzodimma, therefore, Isu Nation speaks to you today—not as an enemy, but as a people appealing to your conscience. You have had your opportunity. You have served in the Senate. You have served as Governor. You have occupied spaces of enormous political influence. You now have an opportunity to do something that may become larger than any office you have ever occupied: you can open the political door for a people who have waited for too long. Governor, hand over power to a competent, credible and acceptable son or daughter of Isu Nation to complete your tenure. Hand over power to Isu. Let history record that, at a decisive moment, you remembered a community whose political aspirations had remained largely unfulfilled. Let your transition become more than a movement from one office to another. Let it become a movement from power to legacy—from political possession to political generosity.
There is a profound difference between a politician who acquires power and a statesman who knows what to do with power. The politician asks, “What position can I obtain?” The statesman asks, “What injustice can I correct while I have the opportunity?” The politician counts the offices he has occupied. The statesman counts the doors he has opened for others. Nelson Mandela’s political legacy was not simply that he became President; it was that he understood that political power could be used to heal a wounded society. Similarly, Governor Uzodimma has before him an opportunity to transform a routine political transition into a historic gesture of inclusion. He can say, in the language of statesmanship: “I have had my turn; let Isu Nation have its turn.” Such a decision would not diminish him. It would enlarge his place in history.
But the demand of Isu Nation goes beyond the immediate question of who completes a gubernatorial tenure. The deeper demand is for a new political covenant with Isu Nation. If, in the eventual political arrangement, the governorship is given to Owerri or Okigwe, and those zones settle their internal political differences, then Isu Nation should be seriously considered for the office of Deputy Governor and Secretary to the State Government. Isu Nation should also be given meaningful opportunities to produce a Minister, Speaker of the Imo State House of Assembly, Attorney-General and Commissioner for Justice, and other strategic offices at both state and federal levels. These demands are not demands for domination. They are demands for participation. They are not demands that another community should lose. They are demands that Isu should finally have a fair chance to win. We are not asking another community to disappear. We are asking that Isu should finally appear.
There is also a psychological dimension to political representation that political arithmetic sometimes fails to understand. When a community sees one of its sons or daughters occupying a major office, something changes within the collective consciousness of that community. Its children begin to believe that government belongs to them too. Its young people see possibilities where previously they saw barriers. Its elders feel that their sacrifices have not been forgotten. Political representation therefore becomes a language of recognition. Axel Honneth’s philosophy of recognition reminds us that individuals and communities require recognition in order to experience themselves as valued members of a social order. To be perpetually overlooked is not simply to lose an office; it can produce a deeper feeling of political invisibility. Isu Nation wants to be seen. Isu Nation wants to be recognised. Isu Nation wants to know that the state it has helped to build also recognises its own existence.
We must therefore be careful not to confuse political equity with ethnic hostility. Isu Nation does not stand against Oru, Isu does not stand against Orsu. Isu does not stand against Ideato. Isu does not stand against Owerri or Okigwe. The sons and daughters of all these Clans are equally citizens of Imo State. The issue is not who deserves to exist politically. The issue is whether political opportunity can be fairly shared. If Owerri has a legitimate aspiration, let Owerri speak. If Okigwe has a legitimate aspiration, let Okigwe speak. If Orlu has a legitimate claim, let Orlu speak. If Orsu and Ideato have aspirations, let them speak. But let Isu speak too. Democracy becomes morally empty when everyone is permitted to speak except the people who have waited longest.
Gov. Uzodimma, history sometimes places a person at a crossroads without announcing that the moment will later become historic. Perhaps this is such a moment. You have an opportunity to determine whether the next chapter of your political history will be remembered only for the offices you occupied or also for the political doors you opened. You can leave behind the familiar story of political succession, or you can create a new story—a story in which a community that has waited for decades is finally invited into the centre of state power. You can make people say that when Governor Uzodimma had the power to choose, he remembered Isu Nation. You can make this moment a bridge between communities rather than another chapter in the history of political exclusion.
The appeal, therefore, is simple but profound: Gov. Hope Uzodimma, hand over power to a competent Isu Nation person to complete your tenure. Let Isu have its turn. And beyond that transition, let the political architecture of the state consciously make room for Isu Nation. Let Isu be considered for the Senate. Let Isu be considered for the Ministerial position. Let Isu be considered for the Speakership. Let Isu be considered for Deputy Governor. Let Isu be considered for Secretary to the State Government. Let Isu be considered for Attorney-General and Commissioner for Justice. Let competent sons and daughters of Isu be allowed to compete, serve and demonstrate their capacity. We are not asking for a gift. We are asking for a chance.
There comes a time in the life of every society when an old political arrangement must be examined against the moral demands of a new generation. Imo State cannot continue to speak endlessly about unity while some communities feel that they are permanently standing outside the circle of opportunity. Equity must not remain a beautiful word in political speeches. Justice must not be something we demand only when our own community is affected. Recognition must not be selective. If political equity is good for one community, it must be good for Isu Nation. If rotation is desirable, it must eventually reach Isu. If inclusion is a virtue, Isu must be included. Equity that never reaches the forgotten is not equity; it is merely rhetoric.
Governor Uzodimma, before you enter the next chapter of your political journey, remember the people who have waited. Remember the community that has participated without demanding domination. Remember those who have supported the democratic process while wondering when their own political morning would come. You have the opportunity to make the dawn arrive.
Do not let this moment pass into history as merely another political transition.
Let it become a moment of reconciliation.
Let it become a moment of recognition.
Let it become a moment when political power was used not merely to reward the powerful but to restore dignity to the waiting.
Let Isu have its turn.
Let equity begin at home.
The time has come.
The time for political equity has come.
The time for recognition has come.
The time for Isu Nation has come.
Governor Hope Uzodimma, hand over power to Isu Nation.
Let equity begin at home.
