Sometimes, one cannot help but ask a difficult question: has politics, over the last four decades, actually brought meaningful development to Igala land?
Since the advent of the present democratic era, our people have participated actively in politics and produced elected representatives at virtually every level of government. Yet, alongside the expansion of political participation, we have witnessed a troubling decline in infrastructure, public services, industries and, increasingly, community security.
There is therefore a temptation to conclude that, rather than moving forward, we are losing ground.
But it was not always like this.
There was a time when public office was largely understood as a call to service. Leadership was measured by what was built, maintained and left behind. Communities could point to tangible achievements and say: this was done for us, and it still serves us.
A PEOPLE WITH A DEVELOPMENT CONSCIOUSNESS
Long before independence, traditional Igala society understood development as a responsibility. Under the Igala Native Authority, headed by the Ata Igala, attention was given to education, infrastructure, agriculture and administration.
Following the Second World War and the economic difficulties of the period popularly remembered locally as the V-Day recession, it is remarkable that Igala communities still witnessed developments that may appear almost unbelievable today.
In the 1950s, people in Idah had access to tap water. The Public Works Department (PWD) constructed and maintained feeder roads. Earth-moving equipment, including the rollers popularly called Ogbaniko because of their ability to move backwards, became familiar sights.
The divisional headquarters received basic infrastructure, and maintenance was regarded as part of development.
There were even road overseers—middle-level officials responsible for monitoring and maintaining roads—whose title was eventually corrupted in local usage to Bashia.
That seemingly small detail carries a big lesson: development was understood not simply as building, but as maintaining what had been built.
EDUCATION AS A FOUNDATION
Perhaps nowhere was this development consciousness more evident than in education.
The Igala Native Authority established boarding primary schools at Ofugo, Ayangba and Bassa in the 1950s. These became important institutions for developing the next generation.
Many prominent Igala sons, including Dr. Steven Achema, Alhaji Nuhu Audu, Dr. Yusufu Awodi and Chief Sylvester Onoja, among many others, were products of the Native Authority boarding school at Ofugo.
Across Igala land, NA Schools were established and maintained, while Mission schools further expanded access to education.
In the 1970s, the Divisional Development Associations in Idah, Ankpa and Dekina also established community secondary schools across Igala land.
Government, traditional institutions, communities, development associations and missions were therefore all contributing to one objective: educating the people as an investment in the future.
That raises an uncomfortable question:
What happened to that sense of collective responsibility?
AGRICULTURE AND THE VALUE CHAIN THAT WE LOST
Agriculture was another area in which the Igala Native Authority demonstrated a remarkable understanding of development.
The Native Authority established palm plantations and oil mills at Acharu, Aloma and Ayangba, creating what would today be described as an agricultural value chain.
The plantations supplied the raw materials, while the mills provided the means of processing them. Together, they generated employment, economic activity and revenue for the Native Authority.
These were not simply farms and processing facilities. They represented an early attempt to move agriculture beyond subsistence production into organised commercial enterprise and local value addition.
The plantations and mills remained productive during the Colonial era and beyond. Yet, like so many other institutions that once symbolised development, they steadily declined.
Today, the plantations are largely shadows of themselves, while the mills have become moribund. Repeated attempts to revive them have so far yielded little meaningful result.
This is more than the story of abandoned plantations and obsolete machinery.
It is the story of a value chain that once worked—and was subsequently allowed to disappear.
AADP: WHEN AGRICULTURE WAS AN ENGINE OF DEVELOPMENT
The Ayangba Agricultural Development Project (AADP), a World Bank-funded agricultural development initiative, was one of the most significant development interventions in Igala land.
AADP brought agricultural extension services, expertise and improved farming practices closer to rural communities. It created employment for thousands of people and developed a large network of agricultural officers, extension workers, technicians, administrators and field personnel.
For an overwhelmingly agrarian society, its impact went far beyond employment. It connected farmers to knowledge, improved practices and organised agricultural support.
At its height, AADP was not merely an agricultural project; it was an ecosystem of rural development.
It also opened up numerous feeder roads across Igala land. Many of these roads became, and in some communities remain, the only access routes linking rural settlements to larger towns and markets.
Decades later, some of those roads have remained essentially as they were—without meaningful rehabilitation.
This is another striking illustration of our development dilemma: a project created infrastructure that successive generations have struggled to maintain.
Then AADP itself declined and disappeared, becoming almost a fairy-tale memory for generations that did not experience it.
Its irony is even more striking. The infrastructure left behind by AADP eventually provided the take-off facilities for what became Kogi State University at Anyigba.
The infrastructure built to develop our farms became part of the foundation for developing our minds.
But where is the institution now developing the farms?
Where is the modern equivalent of AADP that will take agricultural science, extension services, mechanisation, improved inputs, market opportunities and rural infrastructure to our communities?
Where are the modern equivalents of the palm plantations and oil mills at Acharu, Aloma and Ayangba?
We inherited the memory, but we did not adequately recreate the institutions.
That is the larger tragedy.
ROADS: WHAT WE INHERITED AND FAILED TO SUSTAIN
The history of our roads provides perhaps one of the clearest illustrations of this decline.
The Ankpa–Abejukolo road was constructed when we were part of Benue State, while the Ankpa–Otukpo road was constructed when we were under Kwara State.
These roads were once important arteries connecting communities and facilitating commerce and movement across the region.
Today, after several decades, both have deteriorated badly and, in several sections, become almost impassable.
The irony is difficult to ignore.
Our predecessors, working with the resources and technology available to them at the time, built roads that served generations. Yet many of the roads inherited by subsequent governments have not received the sustained rehabilitation required to keep them functional.
AADP similarly opened numerous feeder roads into rural Igala communities. For some villages, those roads remain their principal—and sometimes only—connection to the outside world.
After decades, many remain virtually unchanged.
What does it say about our development culture when roads built generations ago remain our major routes, yet we struggle to maintain or replace them?
Development should be cumulative.
A road built yesterday should not still be the best road we have tomorrow.
INDUSTRY, RECREATION AND CONTINUITY
The era of Governor Aper Aku in Benue State provides another important example.
Hotels were established across the then Local Government Areas of Benue State to provide accommodation, recreation and social interaction. In Igala areas, facilities included Ankpa Hotel, Dekina Hotel, Bassa Hotel and Idah Hotel.
They became landmarks and centres of social life before being handed over to the respective Local Government Authorities.
Today, many have become shadows of what they once were—dilapidated, abandoned, or moribund.
The lesson goes beyond hotels.
A society develops when each generation builds upon what it inherits.
If one generation builds ten, the next should preserve those ten and add another ten.
Instead, too often, we inherit, neglect, abandon—and start again from zero.
THE IDAH SANITARY WARE INDUSTRY
Perhaps even more painful is the story of the Benue Sanitary Ware Industry at Idah, established during the administration of Governor Aper Aku.
Located strategically near the River Niger, the industry had access to its principal raw material—sand from the shores of the Niger at Idah.
At full capacity, it was reputed to have the potential to become one of the largest and highest-quality sanitary ware manufacturers in West Africa.
Think about that.
An industrial facility of such potential was located in Igala land, with its principal raw material virtually at its doorstep.
It could have created employment, developed technical skills, stimulated ancillary businesses, and generated an industrial ecosystem around Idah.
Instead, the facility is now deserted, with much of what represented industrial promise reportedly vandalised.
Another opportunity was lost.
Another inherited asset not sustained.
Another reminder that development is not only about what government builds; it is about whether succeeding generations preserve, improve and expand it.
DEVELOPMENT BEYOND POLITICS
The Igala Native Authority even constructed an aerodrome at Idah, where light aircraft reportedly landed at Ego-Efa during the era of Ata Ameh Oboni and beyond. Igala land was on the aviation map of Nigeria. The Idah air strip facilitated the airlifting of Nigerian troops during the Civil war. This facility has become more of a historical site in our time.
The post-independence period also produced significant infrastructure. The road linking Idah through Anyigba to Ankpa was once an important artery across Igala land, with companies such as Oni and Sons playing roles in infrastructure development.
The message from these examples is clear:
Development requires vision, continuity, maintenance, investment, and accountability.
Yet today, many parts of Igala land present a very different picture.
Major towns struggle without reliable public water. The waterworks in Ankpa, Dekina, and Idah have remained moribund for decades. Electricity supply remains unreliable in many communities, while roads continue to deteriorate.
Healthcare remains a serious concern. Adequate tertiary health services are lacking across much of Igala land, while even basic diagnostic services remain inaccessible in some communities.
Our local government institutions have also lost much of their former vitality. Workers are poorly motivated, while some administrative buildings constructed in the 1950s and 1960s have seen little meaningful renewal.
THE LOSS OF SECURITY AND SOCIAL COHESION
There is another dimension of this decline that perhaps deserves even greater attention: our sense of security.
Crime was once a relatively minimal social malady in many Igala communities. Criminals were often known within their communities, and traditional and normative sanctions played an important role in maintaining social order.
People could sleep with their doors open and, in the words commonly used by our elders, sleep with both eyes closed.
That social reality has changed dramatically.
Kidnapping for ransom and other serious social vices have become increasingly common in parts of Igala land. Many people now live with anxiety about travelling, farming, returning home late, or simply sleeping peacefully in their own communities.
Incessant communal conflicts and farmer-herder clashes have further deepened insecurity and disrupted livelihoods.
This is not merely a law-and-order issue.
It affects agriculture, commerce, education, investment, community life, and the confidence of our people in their future.
A society can not truly claim development when its people are afraid to sleep peacefully, travel freely to their farms, or conduct their legitimate economic activities without fear.
Development is not only roads, buildings, and industries. It is also the ability of ordinary people to live with dignity, security, and confidence in tomorrow.
SO, WHAT HAPPENED TO US?
The question is not simply whether we have governments or whether elections are held.
The deeper question is:
What has politics and democratic governance delivered to the ordinary Igala man and woman over these decades?
Politics should be a means of organising society for the common good, not an end in itself.
This is why the conversation should go beyond partisan arguments. The issue is leadership, accountability, continuity, and our collective expectations of government.
Perhaps we have become too comfortable celebrating politics itself instead of demanding measurable development from politics.
Perhaps we have become so politically divided that we defend those in power instead of asking what they have delivered.
Perhaps we have stopped asking the right questions:
Where are the roads?
Where is the water?
Where is the electricity?
Where are the functional hospitals?
Where are the industries and jobs?
Where are the properly equipped schools?
Where are the agricultural development institutions?
Where are the recreational facilities?
Where is the maintenance culture?
And where is the security that allows our people to live without fear?
These are not partisan questions.
They are questions of development and collective survival.
THE OTHER SIDE OF THE STORY: HAVE WE BECOME OUR OWN OBSTACLE?
But there is another uncomfortable question we must ask ourselves: Have we, as a people, sometimes become our own obstacle to development?
It is easy to blame government, but we must also confront our disunity, mutual suspicion and the tendency to pull one another down. For petty personal, political or communal reasons, we sometimes turn against our own people instead of asking how their success can benefit the larger community.
We have become so prejudiced that we sometimes value familiarity over competence and loyalty over excellence. In some instances, mediocrity appears more comfortable to us than excellence because the success of another person is perceived as a threat rather than an opportunity for collective advancement.
Yet, no society develops without a strong spirit of collaboration. Progressive societies identify their best minds, support them, give them room to contribute, and hold them accountable when necessary. They do not destroy excellence because of envy, prejudice or personal rivalry.
We must therefore learn to distinguish between disagreement and hatred, criticism and sabotage, political competition and communal destruction.
We cannot demand unity from government while remaining divided among ourselves. We can not complain about underdevelopment while undermining those trying to create progress.
If we genuinely want a different future for Igala land, we must learn to identify our best, support competence and put capable people forward—not merely because they are our friends, relatives or political allies, but because they can contribute to the common good.
Ultimately, development is not only about what government builds around us. It is also about what we are willing to build together.
LOOKING BACK TO MOVE FORWARD
We should not romanticise the past. The past had its limitations, and not everything was better.
But history can teach us something.
Our traditional institutions, communities, development associations, missions, and early administrators understood that development must have visible consequences in the lives of the people.
They built schools when resources were scarce. They provided water when technology was limited. They built roads and maintained them. Communities established secondary schools. Palm plantations and oil mills created agricultural value chains. AADP institutionalised agricultural development and opened feeder roads into rural communities. Industries were established. Recreational facilities were provided.
Today, with larger budgets, better technology, greater human capacity, and a more educated population, we must honestly ask ourselves whether we are doing enough with the opportunities available to us.
The greatest danger is not merely that our infrastructure is decaying.
It is that we may gradually become comfortable with the decay.
The more fundamental danger is that we may have begun to confuse political activity with development.
Elections come and go. Politicians make promises. Governments change. But the real measure of politics should ultimately be found in the lives of the people: the roads they travel, the water they drink, the schools their children attend, the hospitals they can access, the jobs they can find, the farms they can cultivate and the security they enjoy.
Our forebears left us something.
What are we leaving behind?
Perhaps that is the question we should all be asking.
HOW HAVE WE FARED?
And even more importantly:
WHAT MUST WE DO DIFFERENTLY SO THAT THE NEXT GENERATION OF IGALA PEOPLE INHERITS SOMETHING BETTER THAN WE FOUND?
The answers may not be comfortable.
But perhaps it is time we stopped looking for comfortable answers—and started asking the uncomfortable questions.
Jonathan Jibrin
Centre For Igala Historical Research and Documentation.
