By Chinedu Agu
In the heart of Igbo folklore lies a tale as old as wisdom itself; a man whose hut caught fire in the dead of night.
As flames devoured his home, his neighbours shouted, pleading with him to fetch water or salvage what he could. But his eyes, gleaming with misplaced zeal, fixed on the fat rats darting from the blaze. “Let me catch these rats first,” he declared, brandishing a stick and chasing shadows. By the time he returned, triumphant with just a rat in hand, his roof had collapsed, his treasures turned to ash, and the rats had long vanished into the night. The villagers laughed, but their laughter was laced with sorrow, for they recognized foolishness cloaked in action.
Today, that parable is no longer confined to fireside tales. It has become the lived reality of Imo State. The man in the story is no longer a hapless villager; he is a governor. The burning hut is Imo; our home, our pride, our heritage. And the rats? They are the hollow, ceremonial distractions that consume his attention — like the recent, comical spectacle at Abuja’s Nnamdi Azikiwe International Airport, where the governor was photographed waving at President Bola Ahmed Tinubu’s departing plane.
He was in Abuja not for a high-stakes meeting to secure federal support for Imo’s crumbling infrastructure. Not for a summit to attract investment to a bleeding state. But to stand at the departure gate, a cheerleader in a customary well-tailored white apparel and red cap, grinning for the cameras while Imo churns and burns.
This is not leadership. It is a performance.
And while the Governor plays to the gallery in Abuja, the fires of neglect, injustice, and despair rage unchecked across Imo’s 27 local government areas.
Read Also: Tears From Enugu: A lawyer’s heartbreaking diary from a state that works to a state in ruins
Nowhere is this inferno more devastating than in Imo’s justice sector. Once a beacon of hope, a sanctuary where the common man could seek redress, the Imo judiciary has been reduced to a hollowed-out shell. Since November 2024, Imo Judiciary has operated without a constitutionally recognised Acting Chief Judge. In a state bursting at it seams with the finest of legal minds, the Governor has not found a qualified lawyer to appoint an Attorney-General since that seat became controversially vacant in May 2025. This is a deliberate assault on the justice sector.
The consequences are dire. For the first time in living memory, Imo has no vacation courts; a shocking abdication of judicial responsibility. Across the state, citizens languish in police cells, their pleas for justice silenced by a system that has shut its doors. Bail applications gather dust. Fundamental rights, enshrined in Chapter IV of the Constitution, are treated as luxuries, not guarantees.
A Senior Advocate of Nigeria in Owerri, speaking to the media recently, laid bare the gravity of this crisis: “In my 41 years at the bar, I have never witnessed this state completely shut down its courts during vacation without provisions for urgent matters. Lives are at stake, and Imo’s judiciary is comatose.”
His words should have jolted the Governor into action. Instead, they were drowned out by the roar of jet engines in Abuja, as the Governor waved at a plane carrying promises Imo will never see.
The collapse of justice is but one flame in the inferno consuming Imo. The state is besieged by crises that demand urgent, focused leadership, yet the Governor’s gaze remains fixed on fleeting distractions and departing plane.
Arbitrary arrests and indefinite detentions have become the hallmark of life in Imo as I pen this piece.
From Owerri to Orlu, citizens live under the shadow of state-sanctioned intimidation. The right to liberty, guaranteed under Section 35 of the Constitution, is now a privilege dispensed at the discretion of security operatives. Families whisper of loved ones whisked away in the dead of night, with no charge, no trial, and no hope.
The notorious Tiger Base in Owerri has become a synonym for terror. Young men dread its name, knowing it as a place where extortion, torture, and inhuman treatment thrive. Reports from human rights groups, including Amnesty International, document cases of suspects held without trial, subjected to brutal interrogations that violate every tenet of decency. In 2024 alone, over 200 complaints of unlawful detention were lodged against Tiger Base, yet no investigation has been launched. The Governor’s silence is deafening. I am not sure what is discussed at State Security Council meetings.
Orlu, Okigwe, and Ohaji/Egbema remain battlegrounds where violence festers unchecked. Armed groups roam freely, displacing families and shuttering businesses. It’s no longer news that over 5,000 residents have fled their homes since 2023 in Orlu, according to local NGOs.
Farmers abandon their fields, traders lock their shops, and children grow up knowing fear as a constant companion. Yet, the state government offers little beyond platitudes, leaving communities to fend for themselves.
Bulldozers have become instruments of despair. Homes and businesses are razed without adequate notice, compensation, or adherence to the constitutional right to a fair hearing.
Imo roads are a metaphor for its governance—broken, neglected, and deadly: Akwakuma junction to Egbeada; Akwakuma junction to Hardel junction; Worldbank Roundabout to Hospital junction; Worldbank Roundabout to Umuguma; Worldbank roads; Yar’ Adua drive from Worldbank; Orji Flyover stretching across Amakohia Flyover to Egbeada Housing Road [just to mention but a few] are all in very scary states.
The tragedy of Imo’s decline is stark when viewed against the progress of its neighbours.
In Abia, Governor Alex Otti has launched a relentless campaign to revive Aba, transforming its streets from swamps of decay into hubs of commerce. Aba, once derided as a sleazy backwater, has today risen into a transformed city — a transformation that now mocks and shames Owerri, the Imo capital. And what more shall I say of Umuahia? As the popular saying goes, “Ebe Aba dị otu a, kedu ka Umuahia ga-adị?” — if Aba shines this bright, how radiant then is Umuahia! Step into that city, and you will behold transformative governance at work.
In Enugu, Governor Peter Mbah has strengthened institutions while also leading in infrastructural developments. I have previously said a lot about this city and you just need to take a trip to that place and see things for yourself.
Ebonyi’s Governor, Francis Nwifuru, is confronting insecurity head-on while steadily laying the foundations of institutional and infrastructural development.
Anambra’s Charles Soludo is channeling resources into technology to spur economic growth, even as he tackles insecurity with remarkable zeal. And yet, as an aside, it should trouble every Imolite that Imo, which sometimes ranks just behind Anambra in receiving the highest federal allocation in the Southeast, has so little to show for it.
These leaders are not perfect, but they are present, rooted in their states, not chasing clout in Abuja. None would abandon their people to wave at a plane while their house burns.
Imo’s neighbours — Abia, Anambra, Ebonyi, and Enugu — remind us of what leadership looks like: focus, accountability, and a commitment to the gritty work of governance.
Meanwhile, the Governor seems content to play the courtier, seeking validation in the corridors of Aso Rock rather than the streets of Owerri.
He who chases rats while his house burns will return to find nothing but ashes.
The Governor’s actions—or lack thereof—signal his priorities, and they are not with Imo. The judiciary lies in ruins, its independence shattered. Citizens rot in detention, their rights trampled. Communities cower under violence, abandoned by a government that should protect them. Families watch bulldozers crush their dreams, with no recourse or remedy.
This is not an accident. It is a failure of leadership—a deliberate choice to prioritize optics over outcomes, political dominance over people’s welfare.
History will not record Imo’s plight as a natural disaster; it will record it as the consequence of a Governor who chose to wave at planes while his state burned and churned.
Governance is not found in the departure lounges of Abuja’s airports. It is in the trenches of justice, where judges are free to uphold the law. It is in the streets of Orlu, where families yearn for safety. It is on the roads of Okigwe, where commuters deserve safety.
Until Imo has such leadership, the flames will continue to spread, and the rats—those fleeting, meaningless distractions—will always slip away.
The question is: will we stand by, laughing bitterly like the villagers in the parable, or will we demand that the Governor return to the burning house and save what is left of Imo? The choice is ours, but time is not.
Chinedu Agu is a Solicitor and Notary Public, past secretary of NBA Owerri, and can be reached on [email protected] | 08032568512.
Friday, 5 September 2025.
The views expressed by contributors are strictly personal and not of Law & Society Magazine
