In this piece, Wahab Oba interrogates the implications of reopening the 2018 Offa robbery case within Kwara State’s current political and security climate. By situating present developments against both local realities and historical parallels, he offers a forceful critique of leadership priorities, urging a return to restraint, empathy, and people-centered governance.
By any reasonable measure, the decision by Governor AbdulRahman AbdulRazaq of Kwara state to reopen the painful chapter of the 2018 Offa robbery raises far more questions than it answers. At a time when governance demands focus, empathy, and strategic clarity, AbdulRazaq appears to be drifting into a troubling preoccupation, one that increasingly bears the imprint of political vendetta rather than any sincere pursuit of justice.
The Offa robbery remains one of the darkest moments in Kwara state’s history. Lives were brutally cut short, families shattered, and an entire community left traumatised. It was a national tragedy. Yet, after years of investigation and due judicial process, those identified as perpetrators were arrested, prosecuted, and convicted. That chapter, by all reasonable standards, had closed, unless credible new evidence has emerged. For now, none is apparent in the charges before the court.
Why then this resurrection?
The renewed legal assault on former Senate President, Dr Bukola Saraki and former Governor Abdulfatah Ahmed does not read as a search for truth; it reads as a return to old political battles. Its timing is too convenient to ignore. The governor stands increasingly embattled, confronting internal fractures within his party, a growing succession crisis, and visible estrangement from key political actors who once formed the backbone of his ascent. Allegations that pre-election understandings with elements of the national leadership have been abandoned have only deepened this perception of political isolation.
In such moments, leaders are tested. Some turn to reform. Others turn to diversion. What we are witnessing suggests an administration under visible strain, defensive, unsettled, and increasingly isolated. The past the governor once dismissed now appears to be catching up with him, not as history, but as consequence. Meanwhile, those he reportedly sidelined are no longer reacting; they are quietly reorganising, steadily reshaping the political terrain in ways that leave the governor with a shrinking base and diminishing leverage.
But even this political drama pales in comparison to the reality confronting ordinary Kwarans.
Across the state, insecurity is no longer an emerging threat, it is a lived experience. And recent events have stripped away any illusion of control. In Oniko, a small village in Moro Local Government Area, residents were forced to raise an astonishing N20 million to secure the release of four kidnapped victims despite losing a soul. That is not just a ransom; it is an indictment. It is a measure of how far citizens have been left to fend for themselves.
In Kemanji village in Kaiama Local Government Area, the same local government where close to 300 souls were massacred and residents still live in agony, a violent attack claimed the lives of four servicemen, with numerous residents feared dead. In Ora Ayegbaju, in Obbo-Ile within Ekiti Local Government Area, families are still counting their losses after yet another wave of violence. These are not isolated tragedies, they are warning signals of a state steadily losing its grip on security.
Yet, at a time when communities are burying their dead, negotiating for the lives of their loved ones, and watching their villages unravel, AbdulRazaq is locked in an unforced political battle with Saraki and other perceived adversaries. This is not just a misplacement of priority. It is a failure of responsibility.
Farmers are abandoning their lands. Markets are thinning out. Food insecurity is tightening its hold. Across rural Kwara, fear has replaced productivity. In urban centres, economic hardship deepens daily. The cost of living continues its relentless rise, small businesses are collapsing under pressure, and unemployment fuels quiet desperation among the youth.
Even government policies that should inspire hope have delivered mixed consequences. The urban renewal drive in Ilorin, though ambitious in design, has displaced traders, disrupted livelihoods, and weakened fragile informal economic systems without immediate relief for those affected. For many, development has come not as progress, but as displacement.
The contrast is stark and damning: a government absorbed in prosecuting perceived enemies while real enemies, poverty, insecurity, and economic decline, tighten their grip on the people.
History warns us about moments like this.
The Roman emperor Nero, confronted with crisis, chose persecution over reform. As Rome burned, literally and politically, he turned his energy toward silencing perceived enemies. His legacy was not one of strength, but of excess and failure.
King John of England followed a similar path, wielding power vindictively, alienating allies, and eroding trust. His reign collapsed under the weight of its own arbitrariness, giving rise to the Magna Carta, a historic constraint on power born from abuse.
The lesson is clear and unforgiving: when leaders begin to weaponise institutions against opponents, they do not demonstrate strength, they expose weakness. Justice becomes selective. Governance becomes personal. Power becomes insecure. Kwara must not descend into that pattern.
The governor’s recent actions do not project confidence; they project anxiety; they suggest a struggle to retain power; they do not inspire trust; they deepen suspicion at a time when public confidence is already fragile.
Leadership is not measured by the ability to pursue adversaries. It is measured by the discipline to govern with fairness, focus on urgent realities, and act in the enduring interest of the people.
Revisiting Offa in this manner does not serve justice, it diminishes justice and shows weakness. It does not honour the victims, it reopens their wounds. More obviously, it does not strengthen the state, it risks dragging it into avoidable political tension and national embarrassment.
Kwara stands at a decisive moment. The people deserve leadership that confronts insecurity with urgency, addresses economic hardship with sincerity, and governs with restraint rather than resentment.
History is watching. And it is rarely kind to leaders who confuse power with purpose. In the end, power is fleeting, but the damage done in its misuse is often permanent.
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