Some governors take office with an agenda; others, with an anthem. In Edo State, Senator Monday Okpebholo has found both, though the anthem seems louder. It’s looking more and more definite: every new public appearance comes with a soundtrack of praise singers chanting his name like a campaign jingle that never ends.
They call him Apako, the light of Edo, the king of the South-South, even “the first son of Jesus Christ.” Videos from rallies and visits sound the voices of his praise chanters as they follow behind him, punctuating every gesture. Sometimes, he smiles faintly, basking in it; sometimes, he raises a hand, half in greeting, half in permission.
But it is not just the praise singing that has raised eyebrows. At an October swearing-in ceremony, Okpebholo reportedly ordered his new commissioners to prove loyalty to President Bola Tinubu by wearing branded Asiwaju caps. The state party chairman, Jarrett Tenebe, took it further: any commissioner who disobeys, he warned, would face suspension. “No Asiwaju cap, no Exco,” he said plainly.
Critics say this kind of ritualised loyalty turns governance into a spectacle in which symbolism trumps service. Supporters argue it is party discipline, not theatrics. Yet, with Nigerians tired of sycophancy, the optics are hard to ignore: a governor who governs with a choir, dressed in matching caps and echoing one man’s name.
Okpebholo, a businessman-turned-politician, is barely a year into office. His tenure began with a court summons over conflicting birth records and now finds rhythm in political choreography. His defenders call it cultural exuberance; his opponents call it misplaced worship.
Still, there’s something almost operatic about it all: the chants, the colours, the cap decree. Power in Nigeria often loves performance, so it is not surprising that Edo has become its stage once again. But here’s the question observers are asking: when the music stops, will governance begin?
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