By Jude Eze
Growing up, there was a non-fiction ballad story often told in our village. It goes that in the heydays of history in our land, there was a masquerade (Igele, which is one of the revered masked spirits in Obollo land) that fell in the marketplace during an Omabe festive outing. In our culture, like in many other native African settings, a fallen masquerade loses its mystique; the illusion is broken, and the man beneath the mask is exposed. Yet, in defiance of shame, the same masquerade returned the next market day, dancing even harder, as though the people had forgotten. But the elders, watching quietly, shook their heads and said, “A masquerade that has been unmasked dances only for itself.”
That story captures, with unsettling accuracy, the current unfolding political theatre in Enugu. The height of shamelessness today is not merely among the political elite, but more disturbingly among sections of the followership. How else does one explain the audacity surrounding Uche Nnaji, popularly known as Nwakibie, who, after resigning his appointment as a Minister of the Federal Republic under the weight of allegations he failed to convincingly dispel, now re-emerges to position himself for the governorship of Enugu State?
He may have presumed that we have forgotten so soon what transpired about nine months ago. No, we have not. Philosophers have long warned us about the danger of collective amnesia. Spanish philosopher and essayist George Santayana said: “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” But in the case of the present Enugu political situation, it is not just forgetfulness; it is a troubling willingness by some people to ignore.
During his stint in office, Mr. Nnaji was scarcely present in the business of governance. Instead, he appeared more invested in self-promotion, branding himself as the arrowhead of opposition politics in the state and projecting a premature governorship ambition for 2027. His media engagements were less about national service and more about sustained criticism of the sitting Governor, Peter Ndubuisi Mbah.
To amplify this narrative, he ostensibly hired an army of social media bandits to churn out millions of sycophantic posts, telling an uninterested public that Uche is the man to beat. Those digital loyalists portrayed him, on the fringes of the internet, as the inevitable political force of the future.
Sometime in July last year, when internal crises within the national headquarters of the PDP reached fever pitch and almost cascaded into distracting governance in states, Governor Mbah turned to consultation and consensus-building over his possible defection to the APC. What did Nnaji do? He mounted the podium at a rally in Nsukka and declared, with theatrical venom, that Governor Mbah was party-less and confused. His urchins flooded Facebook with premature victory chants.
But reality has a way of asserting itself. And so came Premium Times. Their diligent investigation exposed what many suspected: Uche Nnaji forged his degree certificate. Quietly, with his tail between his legs, he resigned and vanished into socio-political limbo. But after Easter, we are seeing his inglorious resurgence.
This leads us to a second illustrative story. In the 6th century, during the evangelisation of Anglo-Saxon England by missionaries, a notorious debtor was spotted dancing in the town square barely a week after a court declared him bankrupt. When asked how he dared show his face, he laughed: “Easter has come. All debts are forgiven.” The missionaries were not amused. They reminded him that resurrection does not rewrite receipts.
That debtor, in this instance, is Uche Nnaji.
Now, like that village debtor, he has resurfaced—immediately after Easter. Perhaps he believes Christ’s resurrection washed away his forgery. Maybe he thinks Nigerians have the memory of mayflies.
His political machinery is humming once again, as though time itself had erased the questions that forced his resignation.
It is either he believes in the convenient forgetfulness of the electorate or he has misread the symbolism of Easter, a season of renewal, as political absolution. Easter, in its deepest meaning, is not about escaping consequences; it is about transformation. And transformation begins with truth. A lie that dresses for Easter will still be naked by Pentecost.
Last week, as his deafening whirlwind began again, one analyst quipped: “If Uche Nnaji is the main character in Enugu opposition, then Peter Mbah should start drafting his second-term inaugural speech.” Because Nnaji’s ineligibility is a household tale.
This issue transcends one individual. It speaks to a broader crisis of values. Now, here’s the marvel: some young men and women—possibly those who cannot see beyond their empty palms—are singing his praises. They are marketing a man with the albatross of forgery for the sacred office of governor. If that is not shamelessness, then the word has lost its meaning.
There’s an old Igbo proverb: “Onye e kweghi ka a kpọọ ya ọkụ, agaghị ekwe ka e ree ya ntu.” It loosely translates into English to mean that “He who refuses to be called a fool will not allow himself to be sold a lie.” But what happens when a man, freshly disgraced, returns to sell that same lie, and some people queue to buy?
Lest we forget: Uche Nnaji came a distant third in the 2023 election, when Ndi Enugu did not yet know his infamous secret. Now that they do, his lieutenants should spare us our sanity. They should stop scandalising us with sycophantic articles laundering a pig in the pen. Friedrich Nietzsche warned: “He who fights the monster should see to it that he himself does not become a monster.”
The electorate is not mere spectators in this unfolding drama; they are its ultimate judges. And no amount of political choreography can restore the mystique of a masquerade once infamously unmasked.
Jude Eze, a public affairs analyst can be reached via ezejudeogechi@gmail.com
