Their commission was to be the hands that lifted kings to the throne and the whispers that buried them. Men feared them. Women lowered their voices and gazes when their names passed like wind through the market.

It was not that their king, Oba Adegbola, was a tyrant. No. His crime was that he ascended the throne as a rich trader and used the throne to expand his trade. The kingmakers watched their young royal father establish trading points beyond the borders of his kingdom. He brought his fellow traders into Ketenfe and made them chiefs and royal advisors. Oba Adegbola began to rule not just with the narrow counsel of the seven, but with the advice of his business partners. This whittled down the influence of the seven kingmakers, leaving them dangerously restless.

“Who is a king,” said Balogun, the leader of the conspirators “if not the clay we mold?”

“What is a crown,” replied Apena, his eyes spewing angry fire, “if we decide to use it to drink hot pap, its beads be damned?”

They laughed. The kind of laughter that cracks like dry wood and leaves a bitter smell. They poured more fuel on the fire of their conspiracy.

They met at night, when honourable men were in bed. They poured libations not to the ancestors, but to their own ambition. They wove stories of madness around the king—said he spoke to unseen spirits, that he had offended the gods, that his reign was making the ancestors angry

But a lie, no matter how finely dressed will limp, no matter how fast it runs, truth will outrun it.

They sent evil whispers into the town, expecting them to grow teeth but their shame responded with a a wide toothless smile. The stories remained wild until they became jokes at ‘opon ayo’ and palm wine joints.

Still, the seven boasted.

“We will remove him,” said Agbaakin, swinging his staff and then hitting the dusty floor with it, with all the violence in his heart. “Before the next full moon, he will be a distant memory.”

“Kings come and go,” said Aworo. “But we,” he tapped his chest, “we are forever.” He had forgotten that forever is a dangerous word.

The day came when they gathered in full regalia, beads heavy with arrogance, voices sharp with rehearsed rage. They stood before Oba Adegbola and pronounced him unfit. They expected him to tremble, to plead, to bow before the invisible knife they held.

But the king smiled.

Not the smile of a defeated man. No. The calm smile of one who had already seen the end of a story.

“Have you finished?” he asked.

They blinked. They could not believe the king’s confidence.

The palace was suddenly full—farmers, hunters, traders, mothers with children strapped to their backs. The people had come. Not summoned by gong, but drawn by something deeper than command.

“Did you say I am no longer king,” Adegbola continued, his voice ominously steady. “Then tell me, who will you crown?”

The seven exchanged glances. They had planned the fall, not this landing.

“Anyone,” Balogun said quickly. “A better man who understands the order of things.”

“And who will choose this ‘better man’?” the king asked.

“We do!” they chorused.

The people stirred. A murmur rose, not loud, but heavy.

An old woman stepped forward, her back bent from toil and age. She looked Balogun straight in the eye and asked, “And who chose you?”

Silence.

The seven felt it then, the ground shifting beneath their shaking feet. They tried to speak, to reclaim the moment, but their words scattered like frightened birds.

Oba Adegbola raised his hand, and the crowd quieted.

“You were given power,” he said, not with anger, but with something colder. “Not to own the throne, but to protect it. You mistook the path for the destination. You thought nobody will ever ask questions about your diabolical hold on Ketenfe, your evil noose around the people’s neck.” The king then passed a verdict swift like a blade.

The seven kingmakers were stripped, not just of clothes, but of titles, of voice, of farmlands and hurled into exile. They were led out at dusk, before the sky could decide between light and darkness. As they crossed the boundary between reverred men and yesterday’s men, the birds still sang, the iroko tree behind them stood still, as it always had, unmoved by their rise and fall.

They learnt too late that power is like a borrowed ‘agbada’, it must be worn and handled with care because one day, one can be asked to return it—naked.”

That fall you just read? It is not trapped in a dusty Yoruba town. It walks among us, wearing agbada, clutching microphones, issuing press statements that sound like thunder but land like drizzle.

Nigeria’s opposition parties today look eerily like those seven kingmakers: loud in confidence, thin in strategy, and strangely surprised when the ground not only shifts but threatens to swallow their starched pride.

Here are seven things they got wrong.

1. Noise is not influence

Like Balogun and his men, the opposition has mastered the art of talking at Nigerians, not with them. Press conferences, social media storms, fiery interviews—plenty sound, very little resonance. But politics, like the marketplace, rewards those who listen. While they shouted “we will unseat them,” the people quietly asked, “and then what?” Silence should not have followed. How about specific strategies on how to employ more doctors and nurses and teachers? How about what opposition will do differently to stop kidnapping and retrieve our national pride and flag from terrorists? How about a genuine road map to food security and food export? Why is every press conference not about that? Imagine one press conference, one far reaching solution to one problem. Imagine how the halls of change would have filled and overflowed.

2. Planning for the fall, not the future.

Those kingmakers had plans to dethrone, not how to replace. Nigeria’s opposition has often behaved the same way—united only by a shared desire to remove the ruling party, but deeply divided on what comes after. Remove who? Replace him with who? Nigerians are too exhausted from trusting Sade Adu’s ‘Smooth Operators’. They have learned to distrust empty transition illusions. We got here somehow, didn’t we?

3. Past rapes birthed present lessons

Coalitions stitched in hotel rooms, alliances sealed over handshakes and hyped by headlines, yet the ordinary voter, like the old woman in the courtyard, keeps asking, “Who chose you?” When people feel excluded, they disengage or worse, they resist quietly by avoiding the ballot box altogether, accepting their painful fate.

4. Victims don’t forget

The Yoruba say the person who defecated may forget but the one who cleared the faeces never forgets.

Nigerians remember. Opposition figures who once held power cannot pretend to be strangers to the system they now condemn. Past records, old speeches, previous failures, these linger like stubborn harmattan dust on our furniture. You cannot shout “change” when your own footprints are still fresh in yesterday’s sand.

5. An opposition divided against itself…

Before the kingmakers even reached the palace, they were already suspicious of one another. That same disease runs deep in our polity. Internal wrangling, factional splits, ego battles disguised as ideology. Too many opposition leaders wanting to become President and Vice President at the same time have smothered genuine ideology, if ever there was one. Tickets are contested more fiercely than policies. Court cases replace strategies to build national spread. By the time they face the ruling party at the polls, they are already wounded from self-inflicted cuts.

6. Opposition that disappear or dissolve into ruling party after election day.

“We are forever,” the kingmakers had said. Nigerian opposition parties sometimes act with that same illusion. They assume relevance is automatic, that discontent will always deliver votes to their doorstep. But politics is a shifting river. Parties rise, fracture, merge, disappear. Voters are not loyal to ever changing logos. Nigerians are tired of following leaders who disappear at crossroads, leaving them stranded.

7. The quiet verdict of a tired people.

The kingmakers expected applause; they met silence, then resistance. In Nigeria, the verdict is often quiet—low turnout, unexpected losses, apathy that speaks louder than protest. When citizens begin to see all sides as variations of the same story, they withdraw belief and without belief, no opposition can stand.

There is a lesson sitting quietly beneath all this noise.

Power, as the Ketenfe failed palace coup reminds us, is a borrowed cloth. The ruling party wears it today. The opposition hopes to wear it tomorrow. But the owners are neither of them. The owners are the people—watching, remembering, waiting.

Until Nigeria’s opposition learns to listen before speaking, to build before boasting, to unite before contesting, they will remain like those seven men, bewildered, exiled not by decree, but by overconfidence and unpreparedness.

It is not enough to want to dethrone the king, you must know everything the king knows and most importantly, the people must follow you all the way to the palace and stay with you until the crown is retrieved. It is either all that or you cross that boundary into the forest of yesterday’s men.

*Egbemode (egbemode3@gmail.com)

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The post Forest of yesterday’s men, By Funke Egbemode appeared first on Frontpageng.

Christmas is more than carols, candles, and tradition. It is God stepping into human reality — and a call for believers to step into the world with purpose. Have we, in modern Christianity, forgotten this?

Every December, Christians gather to celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ. Yet, in our festivities, we often chase shadows — missing the powerful substance behind the season. The early Greek Christians understood the Incarnation as God embracing human realities, yet modern Christianity sometimes behaves as though spirituality must remain detached from social and political life.

In today’s Church, oversaturated with a sugary prosperity gospel, many believers shy away from politics.

“Let politicians handle politics,” some say.

“After all, politics is too dirty.”

This faulty thinking has deep roots.

“Salt is not made for the salt-bowl, but for the soup.” — Rev. Ade Adegbola

In the 1960s, Reverend Ade Adegbola wrote a piercing Christmas meditation titled, “Salt Is for the Soup.” His argument remains prophetic:

The Word becoming flesh is not the Christian tragedy.

The real tragedy is the salt losing its savour.

Christians have become salt that refuses to enter the soup.

Salt that refuses to influence governance, policy, leadership, nationhood.

Adegbola’s question echoes with urgency: “After what God has done at Christmas, has any Christian the right to doubt that our faith concerns political questions, culture, and economic development?”

God entered flesh — yet believers hesitate to enter public life.

Christmas was born in a world charged with political energy and prophetic expectation.

“Behold, a King shall reign in righteousness.” (Isaiah)

“Why do the nations rage?” (Psalm 2 — the Psalm appointed for Christmas)

Isaiah 11, Psalm 72, and Isaiah 61 all reveal the Messiah as a ruler with national implications.

The title Messiah itself is political.

No wonder, then, that the mission of NACLFON resonates deeply with the season. At a leadership meeting, the National President, Professor Peter Abraham, spoke with clarity: “This is God’s assignment. This is not a formation; it is a divine instruction.”

A respected Archbishop, Venerable Godson reinforced this with Bishop Benson Idahosa’s timeless line: “If your faith says Yes, God cannot say No.”

The Order Of Divine Faith (Psalm 32:8)

I will instruct thee

I will teach thee

I will guide thee

God instructs before He explains.

Faith obeys before it understands.

Too often, Christians slip—silently and unknowingly—from faith into divination:

“Lord, show me first, then I will obey.”

Faith says:

“Believing is seeing.”

Faithlessness says:

“Seeing is believing.”

At critical moments like this, when Nigeria faces both internal and external enemies, the nation needs Christian leaders like Joseph and Daniel—leaders whose intelligence is matched with divine discernment.

We must stop celebrating a shallow Christmas—one devoid of responsibility.

We have presented Christianity “in tablet form”:

Prosperity without principles.

Blessings without nation-building.

Heaven-focused theology with slum-neglecting attitudes.

This is not the Christianity of Christ’s birth.

Psalm 90:12 is not a birthday verse.

It is not meant for annual celebrations of personalities.

It is a wisdom instruction urging us to number our days correctly — not yearly, but daily.

If any birthday deserves reflection on responsibility, it is Christmas — and we often get it wrong.

Where NACLFON Now Must Lead

The December 2025 NACLFON National Summit is a historical moment to bring Christmas theology back to national relevance.

What NACLFON Must Do Now

Produce responsible, faith-based analysis for the nation.

Occupy media and public spaces with constructive Christian perspectives.

Reveal how Christmas speaks directly to Nigeria’s political, cultural, and economic realities.

Model the incarnation by stepping into society, not retreating from it.

“If God stepped into human history, why should Christians step out of national responsibility?”

Jesus became flesh to redeem humanity — but redemption must have earthly consequences. Christianity is not an escape from society; it is an empowerment to transform society.

Christmas demands incarnation.

Not withdrawal.

Not fear.

Not silence.

But engagement, influence, and savour.

Because salt belongs in the soup.

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The post Salt for the soup: Rethinking Christmas, politics and Christian responsibilities appeared first on Frontpageng.

So, yesterday evening, I stopped by a filling station on Murtala Mohammed Express Way to buy fuel to my car. I alighted and stood by the dispensing machine as the attendant performed his duty.

Then, a car pulled up and on the line at the other side to be attended to by the same attendant serving me. I looked at the direction and saw a man came out from the driver side. There was no other occupant in the car. I recognised him and immediately greeted him: “Good evening, Your Excellency”. He responded with his usual conviviality and rare disarming smile: “Good evening, sir”, he responded to my pleasantry and walked towards me as I moved in his direction. He was smartly dressed and probably going to a sport club or a resort too. He gestured to have a handshake and I responded courteously. Wada was Governor of my home state of Kogi from 2012-2016, just before the years of the locust. May affliction not arise again.

We had a brief chat. “I am from Kogi State, Ogidi, in Ijumu Local Government”, I civilly and briefly made him an interlocutor. “Haaa… I know your place. I have been there. Very great people. They are wonderful”.

It was the third time I have heard such compliment about Yorubas of Kogi West. The first was from Dr. Tunde Adegbola, the inimitable culture architect and ‘inventor’ of the ‘modern’ Yoruba language keyboard, the Director of African Languages Technology Initiative (Alt-I), who has become a notable consultant to Google, Microsoft and so many other entities on translation of many African languages.

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In 2004 when I met Dr. Adegbola at the Nigeria Community Radio Coalition conference and I introduced myself, he was excited by the way I pronounced my surname. So he asked me the part of Nigeria I came from. As I mentioned my paternal place, he responded with speed, “I have never seen a stupid man from that space. You guys are a special breed and you deserved to be studied specially”.

I was particularly gratified that Nigeria also has her own stories of modesty. So, it is not only in Malaysia that we have people of power fly commercial airlines and chose seats in the economy class, some former governors in Nigeria also drive themselves to filling stations and elsewhere, and they take their turns to refuel their cars or pay for their groceries.

The second time I would get a similar honour was in 2011 when I was taken to the Vice President, HE Namadi Sambo. I was being considered as his Special Adviser on Communication. Baba Tanko Yakasai, veteran socialist and rare politician, right from the First Republic, who took me there without knowing where I ‘came from’, even though we had interacted for about 20 years, heard me mention the part of Kogi I hailed from, and said, “Haa… you are a blessed people”. Of course, as in the case of Adegbola and Wada, I thanked him very sincerely and continued my chat with HE Sambo.

Not everyone’s smile and laughter is freely and sincerely offered but Wada offers ready-made, honest and free smiles, and anyone who knows him would attest to my assertion. But nothing distinguishes Wada like his modesty. An astonishing former pilot in the glorious days of Nigeria Airways, Wada is rarified in good spiritedness, very princely, avuncular and humane, very much like his younger brother, the world-renowned gynaecologist and fertility expert and founder/CEO of Nisa Premier Hospital, Ibrahim Wada.

The last time I saw a former Governor displayed such modesty as Governor Wada, it was HE Adeniyi Adebayo, a former Governor of Ekiti State and it was in Asokoro at a supermarket. After we exchanged pleasantries, I found that he drove himself there, got the items he wanted, paid for them and drove off without watching his back. Not every former governor or political office holder can move freely because they did not humanise their tenure, rather they inflicted pains on the people whose condition they swore to make better.

I was delighted to see Governor Wada, 74, though he did not look like a septuagenarian. I was particularly gratified that Nigeria also has her own stories of modesty. So, it is not only in Malaysia that we have people of power fly commercial airlines and chose seats in the economy class, some former governors in Nigeria also drive themselves to filling stations and elsewhere, and they take their turns to refuel their cars or pay for their groceries.

Dear friends, have a great week.

The post EXTRA: Idris Ichala Wada, still unassuming, By Omoniyi Ibietan appeared first on Frontpageng.