Power, like the Yorùbá talking drum, has two faces. Its melody changes depending on which side confronts you. To those who wield it, power tastes like honey — sweet, intoxicating, reassuring. To those excluded from it, power is as bitter as àmbèrè, the intensely bitter seed prescribed as medicine for diabetes. Even after tasting sweetness, the bitterness of àmbèrè lingers stubbornly on the tongue. So it is with power: its aftertaste never lies.
Power is at once beautiful and ugly. It elevates and humiliates, empowers and destroys. It is formidable yet slippery; alluring yet dangerous. It is neither permanent nor benevolent by default. Power is not gifted — it is seized, negotiated, earned, defended, and sometimes lost. It is transient, not eternal.
In essence, power is the capacity to influence outcomes and control resources. It is marked by authority, legitimacy, coercive ability, responsibility, and accountability. When restrained by conscience and institutions, it serves the common good; when unchecked, it degenerates into abuse and tyranny.
This reflection is anchored on the oft-quoted assertion that “power is not served à la carte,” a statement widely attributed to Asiwaju Bola Ahmed Tinubu. The phrase captures a hard political truth: power is not handed out on demand. It is not begged for; it is worked for — through strategy, structure, sacrifice, struggle, organisation, and endurance.
Nigeria’s political history illustrates this truth vividly.
During the First Republic, Chief Obafemi Awolowo of Ikenne, in present-day Ogun State, emerged as the first Premier of the Western Region. He was succeeded by Chief S. L. Akintola of Ogbómọ̀ṣọ́. Power at the time was largely contested within elite political circles, shaped by ideology, leadership capacity, and regional alliances.
The Second Republic ushered in the era of the old Ọ̀yọ́ State, comprising today’s Ọ̀yọ́ and Ọ̀ṣun States. Chief Bola Ige of Esa-Oke served as Governor, with Chief S. M. Afolabi of Ìré as Deputy Governor. It was during this period that a defining political rupture occurred — one that fundamentally altered the political consciousness of Ọ̀yọ́ State and marked the emergence of what is now described as “identity politics.”
“Identity politics” refers to the mobilisation of political interests and demands around shared social identities — ethnicity, region, religion, culture, or gender — based on the conviction that groups with common identities share lived experiences, grievances, and aspirations that require collective representation.
At that historical juncture, the rallying cry “ọmọ wa ni ẹ jẹ́ ó ṣe é” — “let our son do it” — echoed forcefully from the Ìbàdàn axis of the old Ọ̀yọ́ State. It was reportedly provoked by a statement attributed to Chief Bola Ige, allegedly suggesting that Ìbàdàn lacked competent hands to govern the state, reducing the city’s people to àpátà work — butchery. Whether factual or apocryphal, the statement was widely perceived as derogatory, demeaning, and incendiary. Ìbàdàn people did not take it lightly.
The reaction was swift, emotional, and historic. “Ọmọ wa ni ẹ jẹ́ ó ṣe é” became a political anthem, igniting a movement that reshaped Ọ̀yọ́ politics. The outcome was the emergence of Dr. Victor Omololu Olunloyo — an illustrious Ìbàdàn chief and one of Nigeria’s finest mathematicians — as Executive Governor of Ọ̀yọ́ State.
Although Dr. Olunloyo’s tenure was cut short after barely six months by the military coup of December 31, 1983, led by Muhammadu Buhari and Tunde Idiagbon, the seed of a new political consciousness had been firmly planted. That seed — identity-driven political awareness — has continued to germinate, and its fruits are evident today.
Is “identity politics” inherently wrong? Not entirely. It has its strengths and its dangers. On the positive side, it gives marginalised groups a collective voice and visibility in governance. On the negative side, it can fracture society by elevating sectional identity above shared civic values and common interests. Like power itself, “identity politics” is a double-edged sword.
The Third Republic attempted an ideological reorientation under General Ibrahim Badamosi Babangida’s military government, encapsulated in the doctrine of “a little to the right and a little to the left.” This framework reflected the ideological distinction between capitalism and socialism. The Social Democratic Party (SDP) leaned toward social democracy — centre-left, welfarist, and progressive — vwhile the National Republican Convention (NRC) tilted toward capitalism — centre-right, conservative, and market-oriented.
Interestingly, that era witnessed ideological cross-pollination. Capitalists found homes in socialist-leaning parties and vice versa. Chief Moshood Kashimawo Olawale Abiola, a consummate capitalist, contested under the SDP platform. Had this ideological experiment been allowed to mature, Nigeria’s political evolution might have taken a more principled and developmental trajectory.
Then came the tragedy of June 12 — the annulment of what remains Nigeria’s freest, fairest, and most credible election. The annulment plunged the nation into crisis, leading to an interim government and yet another military takeover, while the true winner was denied his mandate. History, once again, was violently interrupted.
Today, history appears to be repeating itself in Ọ̀yọ́ State. The very conditions that birthed “ọmọ wa ni ẹ jẹ́ ó ṣe é” have resurfaced. Ironically, those who once resisted domination are now accused of perpetuating it. Lord Acton’s timeless warning rings loudly: “Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.”
Marginalisation, exclusion, and neglect of other regions have once again taken centre stage in Ọ̀yọ́ politics. If it was legitimate yesterday for a marginalised region to demand fairness, justice, equity, equality, and inclusivity, it cannot be illegitimate today for Òkèògùn, Ìbàràpá, Ọ̀yọ̀, and Ògbómọ̀ṣọ́ to raise similar concerns.
Now we hear, again, that “power is not served à la carte.” Indeed, it is not. But the side of the talking drum facing the dominated sounds very different from the one facing the dominator. Power relations inevitably shape perceptions.
During the struggle for Ìbàdàn’s ascendancy, other regions stood in solidarity, enabling a necessary balance in Ọ̀yọ́ politics. I often recount — without exaggeration — that the election which brought Chief Omololu Olunloyo to power nearly cost me my life due to my political involvement in Òkehò, Òkèògùn, Kajola Local Government Area. People across the length and breadth of Ọ̀yọ́ invested their time, talent, treasure and security because they believed in change.
Since 1999, Nigeria has enjoyed 27 years of uninterrupted democratic governance. Within this period, Ìbàdàn has produced the Executive Governor of Ọ̀yọ́ State for no fewer than 22 years. Apart from a brief interlude of about five years when providence smiled on Ògbómọ̀ṣọ́, other regions have remained largely excluded.
The path forward is clear. For stability, justice, and sustainable unity, power must rotate. Ìbàdàn, having benefited immensely from the system, should now rise to the moral height of supporting rotation to other regions. We, the people of Òkèògùn, humbly but firmly insist that this rotation should begin with us.
Ọ̀yọ́ stands at a defining crossroads: to extinguish the fire of agitation through justice, or to allow the snake to remain on the roof of the common house we all inhabit. Yet, the wisdom of the Ọ̀yọ́ people is legendary, captured aptly in the saying: “Ajíṣebí Ọ̀yọ́ là ń rí; Ọ̀yọ́ ò ṣe bí baba ẹnìkọ́ọ̀kan.” Ọ̀yọ́ leads; Ọ̀yọ́ does not act in vain. We are, by heritage and history, Aṣíwájú.
The moment to lead again — this time with fairness, balance, and foresight — is now.
Pst. Favour Adéwọyin,
National Secretary,
Ẹgbẹ́ Àjọṣepọ̀ Fún Ìtẹsiwájú Gbogbo Wa.
