A Wrong Dice On The Right Board

By Benard Nweke

Somewhere in the heart of the city of Bongo, Ambassador Nwike stood behind the podium in the town hall addressing his constituents, his greying temples and tailored suits exuding the air of a man in control. To the public, he was a charismatic leader who had swept into office promising a renaissance for the struggling town.

Of course, some loved him, some hated him. The former maintained the political table manner,  “those who dine with the lord don’t talk”.  But to those who lived beneath the surface of his speeches, he was a man whose ambition outpaced his integrity—a leader whose promises had turned into shackles even his safety guards shiver.

Nwike's rise had been meteoric. A former corporate lawyer with a gift for rhetoric,  coupled with an acrobatic live band performance.  He had campaigned on the mantra, “Dey For Who Dey For You— You Rub My Back, I Rub Your Back”. His pledges of economic renewal, infrastructure development, and community investment, especially the oil refinery, had resonated with Bongo's weary residents, who had watched their once-thriving industrial hub crumble into disrepair over decades.

His political journey had succeeded to the point that he dribbled every rival to the top.

But from the moment he took office, cracks began to show. His “hallelui boys” became shadows. 

Nwike’s first act as mayor was to push through a bold redevelopment plan like a glittering new commercial complex in the heart of Oyigbo town. The project promised thousands of job opportunities for residents' graduates, another for unlettered constituents, and a boost for local businesses. What he failed to mention was the sweetheart deal he’d struck with the developers—a multinational conglomerate demanding massive tax breaks and exemptions from local labour laws. The result was predictable because temporary construction jobs, followed by long-term vacancies in retail spaces too expensive for Bongo's business owners to rent. The "revitalized" towns became a sterile monument to misplaced priorities, a place where chain stores closed as quickly as they opened because of high taxes. 

However, the city’s budget grew tighter. To fund his vision, the Ambassador slashed funding for social services. The public library’s hours were cut to three days a week. The parks department, once a source of community pride, was gutted. Garbage collection became sporadic, leaving overflowing dumpsters on every corner of the major cities. 

“It’s temporary,” Nwike assured at a press conference when reporters questioned the growing discontent in the process. “The short-term sacrifices we’re making now will pave the way for long-term prosperity, especially for posterity”

But as days into weeks, weeks into months, months into years, that prosperity never materialized for the tiniest.

Ojiugo, a widow, had voted for Nwike. She worked two jobs—one at a diner, the other cleaning offices in the very commercial complex Nwike had championed. When the city slashed funding for after-school programs, Ojiugo's first child, Naza, started skipping school to take care of her younger siblings as a well-groomed girl child.

“He talks so nice on TV,” Ojiugo said bitterly to her sister one evening. “But he’s never been in my neighbourhood. He doesn’t know what it’s like to have to choose between paying rent and buying groceries.”

Living next to the Government House, was a retired factory worker Alex Bushman watched as his once-quiet street turned into a pothole-riddled thoroughfare. With no funds to maintain the roads, the city had stopped enforcing weight limits on heavy trucks, allowing them to rumble past Alex’s house at all hours.

“My roof’s cracked from the vibrations,” he complained to his neighbour. “I wrote to the authorities three times. You know what they sent me? A pamphlet about their new app to report issues. I don’t even own a smartphone. How do I know if the app is outdated?”

It became disturbing enough as Nwike's term progressed, chicks of corruption grew wings. Investigative reports began digging into his ties to the developers and contractors he favoured at the detriment of his people. A whistleblower revealed that the bidding process for city contracts had been rigged, with millions funnelled into companies owned by Nwike’s campaign volunteers,  especially his youth leader who orchestrated ballot box snatching at the polls.

A few weeks later, the local news was dominated by scandals. Yet Nwike remained defiant, dismissing the allegations as politically motivated attacks meted on his personality. His loyalists rallied around him, pointing to the shiny new developments as proof of his success. But for many in Bongo, the scandals were the final betrayal.

The breaking point came during a brutal winter storm. Bongo’s ageing power grid, neglected for years, failed under the weight of ice and snow. Entire neighbourhoods were left without heat for days. The town hall was slow to respond, with Nwike himself vacationing in a tropical resort when the storm hit.

When he finally returned, he held a press conference, standing in front of generators hastily delivered to town hall. “We’re doing everything we can,” he said, his voice calm and polished. “These are unprecedented conditions.” But Bongo hissed in disapproval.

For Bongo’s residents, his words were hollow. Volunteers, not city officials, had organized warming shelters. Churches and community centres took in the elderly and vulnerable while the cities floundered. The storm became a symbol of everything wrong with Nwike’s administration: the neglect, the mismanagement, the disconnect from reality.

By the time Nwike’s term ended, Bongo was a shadow of its former self. His supporters pointed to the sleek skyline downtown as proof of progress, but most saw it for what it was—a façade/charade. 

Ojiugo eventually moved her family to a neighbouring town, tired of waiting for change that never came. Alex’s street was still full of potholes, and he had joined a grassroots organization pushing for accountability in local government. 

Nwike, meanwhile, announced he would not seek re-election, citing a desire to “spend more time with family.” Privately, he was preparing for a lucrative consulting gig with one of the very developers who had profited from his policies.

As Bongo struggled to rebuild, its residents carried the scars of Nwike’s leadership. The trust they had placed in him, the hope they had for a brighter future, had been squandered. And while the city would endure, it would take years to recover from the damage done by one man’s ambition. Funny enough, he still wanted more powers.