There is an intoxicating fragrance to absolute political dominance. When a leader commands the loyalty of crowds, the reverence of traditional institutions, and the machinery of state, it is easy to believe that the future is already written. But in the unpredictable theater of Nigerian politics, ink dries fast, and pages turn overnight
To understand the peril of absolute certainty, one must look back at Ogun State in the early months of 2003.
Chief Olusegun Osoba—affectionately known as “Akinrogun”—was not merely a governor; he was a political institution. A legendary journalist who had stared down military dictatorships, Osoba wore his populist credentials like a crown. In the build-up to the 2003 general elections, the Alliance for Democracy (AD) machinery in the Southwest felt untouchable. The party was the custodian of the sacred progressive legacy of Chief Obafemi Awolowo. To the Osoba camp, defeat was an abstract concept reserved for lesser mortals.
That supreme self-assurance became their blind spot.
While the incumbent camp rested comfortably on past glories, a quiet, methodical storm was brewing. Otunba Gbenga Daniel (OGD) and the Peoples Democratic Party (PDP) moved through the creeks, towns, and villages of Ogun State, organizing, listening, and consolidating. They did not attack the myth of Osoba frontally; instead, they eroded its foundation, courting youth groups, market women, and disgruntled power brokers who felt alienated by the establishment’s rigid hierarchy.
Osoba’s inner circle laughed off the rumblings. “Ogun is AD,” they echoed with dismissive smiles.
Then came the ballot. The 2003 election swept across the Southwest like a political tsunami, decimating the AD stronghold and leaving only now President Bola Tinubu standing in Lagos. Osoba was swept out of office in a shock result that stunned even the victors. It was a brutal masterclass in a timeless truth: in politics, the moment you believe you are too big to fail is the exact moment failure begins its quiet entry.
Fast forward to the contemporary political landscape, and the ghost of 2003 still walks the corridors of power.
Today, conversations about heavy-hitting strategists often center on figures like Senator Solomon Olamilekan Adeola, popularly known as Yayi. With a formidable political footprint that controversially transitioned from Lagos to Ogun West, Yayi commands immense influence, a massive war chest, and a reputation as a master chess player of modern Nigerian politics.
Yet, looking at dominant figures through the lens of history reveals a recurring temptation: the trap of over-mobilization and the illusion of invincibility.
When a political machine grows excessively large, it frequently sows the seeds of its own resistance. The sheer display of might can inadvertently breed silent coalitions among aggrieved rivals, unite fragmented opposition, and alienate a populace weary of perceived heavy-handedness. History shows that voters do not merely vote for a candidate; sometimes, they vote to humble an aura of arrogance.
The parallels between Osoba’s era and today’s high-stakes power plays serve as a stark reminder for any politician charting a path of total dominance. Power in Nigeria is remarkably fluid. Incumbency and popularity carry expiration dates unless they are continuously renewed by humility, agility, and a relentless refusal to take the grassroots for granted.
Chief Osoba’s humbling in 2003 left a permanent scar on the canvas of Southwest politics—a testament to the fact that yesterday’s goodwill can never buy tomorrow’s ballot.
For today’s political titans, the warning is etched clearly on the walls of history: respect the electorate, never underestimate the quiet underdog, and remember that empires fall not when they are weak, but when they become too proud to bend.
Otunba Femi Davies – A true son of Egbaland