There he comes.
Agbada billowing like a campaign banner caught in the Harmattan wind. His followers drumming announce his arrival long before his ideas do. Don’t mind Kùnrùn-bẹ̀tẹ̀, kùnrùn-bẹ̀tẹ̀! The crowd erupts, not because they have heard anything profound, but because noise has always mistaken itself for substance.
Meet Baba Alagbada.
Do not be deceived by the flowing fabric. It carries more confidence than competence. Beneath every fold lies another promise waiting to be forgotten after election day.
He is no different from the politician in the National assembly. The only difference is that his constituency appears smaller.
He has mastered the ancient art of saying plenty while meaning little. His manifesto is decorated with beautiful grammar, ambitious timelines, and projects that conveniently require more time than his tenure can ever provide.
By the time anyone remembers to ask for accountability, he is already preparing a handover speech filled with “challenges beyond my control.”
Campaign season is his harvest.
He begins room-to-room visits as tradition demands, shaking hands he never knew existed until nomination forms were released.
Reading rooms suddenly become campaign arenas. Night tutorials become political rallies. Every corridor is a constituency. Every hostel staircase is a podium.
He smiles for photographs, remembers everyone’s nickname, and suddenly develops a deep concern for student welfare.
The agbada grows wider. So do the promises.
He boasts of experience, yet his portfolio is stitched together with committee memberships that produced nothing more than attendance registers and group photographs. His résumé is loud; his record whispers.
Behind the majestic agbada are claims still waiting for proof.
Behind the applause are questions still waiting for answers.
And when the drums finally go silent, one often discovers that the biggest thing about Baba Alagbada was never his vision.
It was the size of his agbada.
To be continued…
Credit: Image generated with AI
