In the heart of Umuofia, where the great iroko trees stretched toward the heavens and the ancestors whispered their wisdom in the wind, a storm brewed within the Noble Progressive Party.
Once the pride of the people, a movement that had risen on the back of noble ideals and the promise of prosperity, the party had become something else — something foul. It had turned into a den of merchants, a house where political influence was auctioned to the highest bidder.
Obi Kalou Mansah Biyou, the former Majority Leader and a man who had seen many seasons in the party, stood before the elders and lamented. The party, he said, had been turned into a “money-making machine.”
His words were heavy, but they were not new. Others had spoken before him. The voices of the wise had echoed through the valleys of Umuofia, warning that a party that sells its soul for gold will one day find itself abandoned by the gods. Yet, those in power had laughed, feasting at the table of greed, their bellies swollen with ill-gotten wealth.
For years, voices had risen against the delegate system. It was a system that once carried the promise of democracy but had been captured by men with deep pockets and shallow morals.
Elections within the party were no longer contests of vision and competence; they had become a battle of coin purses. The one who gave the most, who filled the bowls of the delegates until they overflowed, won the day. It did not matter if he was a fool, a thief, or an empty vessel.
And so, the people grew weary. Apathy settled over them like the harmattan dust, suffocating the fire of their passion.
They watched as men who had once walked barefoot through the streets of Umuofia became overnight millionaires.
These men, who had sworn to serve, now rode in chariots gilded in gold, their fingers heavy with rings, their necks burdened with beads of wealth.
They built great houses on the hills, where the common man could not tread. They became patrons of churches, philanthropists who gave with one hand and stole with the other.
Obi Kalou Mansah Biyou had spoken of monetization, but he had not asked the real questions—the questions that gnawed at the bones of truth.
🍾Who were the men distributing these bags of gold to the delegates?
🤐Why had the long arms of justice been shortened, unable to reach them?
🤫Where had their sudden wealth come from?
The answer was known, yet unspoken. These men were not merchants. They were not inheritors of old wealth. They were not men whose hands had tilled the soil or whose minds had birthed great innovations. They were servants of the people, entrusted with the wealth of the land, but instead of guarding it, they plundered it.
They sat in the councils of Umuofia, where great decisions were made. They controlled the coffers of the kingdom. They directed the flow of contracts, of debts, of single-source procurements. They ensured that the gold moved in one direction—upwards. If they did not pay tribute to the lords above them, they were cast aside.
And so, Umuofia became a land where the rulers grew fat while the people grew lean. The wealth of the land was mortgaged for deals that made no sense—transactions where millions disappeared like spirits in the night. Roads remained broken. Schools crumbled. Hospitals had no medicine. But the ministers and their allies built great empires in silence.
The serial callers and social media enforcers were fed crumbs from the master’s table, their loyalty purchased to attack dissenters and enforce silence. They became the gatekeepers of deception, shouting down truth while those who plundered the land feasted in peace.
The gods must have wept when the Generation Fund was lost to corruption. The elders groaned when the “Peace Drive Skills” scandal unfolded. The people watched in despair as men of no wisdom, men with no skill, were placed in charge of the great assets of the land. Kleptocracy had become the new order.
Yet, in the midst of this decay, these men still spoke to the people with honeyed tongues. They had become motivational speakers, telling tales of how hard work and determination had brought them wealth.
They stood in churches, offering generous tithes, their sins washed away by the songs of the choir. They smiled in public, but behind closed doors, they laughed at the foolishness of the people who still believed in justice.
Now, when the dust of the election had settled, when defeat had knocked on the doors of the Noble Progressive Party, the lamentations had begun. But where were these voices when the plunder was happening? Where were these voices when men raised the alarm, warning that a house built on theft cannot stand?
It is not enough to cry after the battle is lost. The time for truth is before the ruin, not after. The time for justice is when the crime is being committed, not when the spoils have been spent.
The people of Umuofia must not be deceived. This is not just about a delegate system. This is about a system that rewards theft and punishes honesty. It is about a culture that allows men to steal in the name of governance and rewards them with power. It is about a nation where leaders are chosen not for their wisdom, but for the weight of their gold.
Let no one be fooled by the new lamentations of those who stood by as the party was sold piece by piece. If they truly seek reform, let them start by answering the real questions.
Let them name the men who grew rich overnight. Let them expose the contracts that made no sense. Let them call out the gods of greed that they once worshipped.
For if they do not, if the people allow this cycle to continue, then Umuofia will remain what it has become—a kingdom of thieves, ruled by merchants of deception, while the true children of the land wander in poverty, waiting for a justice that never comes.
The time to act is now. The people must rise, not with swords, but with truth. They must demand transparency, accountability, and an end to the grand deception. They must remind those in power that the land does not belong to them, but to the people who have entrusted them with its future.
If Umuofia does not wake up, then the next lamentation will not be about an election loss—it will be about the loss of an entire nation.
The author of this piece is Professor Stephen Asare commonly referred to as Kwaku Azar. He is US-based Ghanaian legal scholar and a fellow at the Centre for Democratic Development (CDD- Ghana).
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