In the tragic pages of Weep Not, Child, Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o tells the story of youthful dreams caught in the web of colonial betrayal, societal unrest, and personal disillusionment. It is a narrative of broken promises, false hope, and the agonising realisation that the world is far more brutal than it first appears.
If ever there was a modern Nigerian parallel to this timeless African tragedy, it would be the political misadventure of Asue Ighodalo—a man whose ambition was inflated by praise singers, deceived by a crumbling godfather, and ultimately buried under the weight of a futile legal fantasy.
Weep Not, Asue Ighodalo! For what you are experiencing is not failure; it is awakening. You were a man of numbers, boards, and balance sheets until someone whispered to you in Government House that you could be a king. They said you were a technocrat. They said you were “the future.” They promised delegates. They promised structure. They promised that with Governor Obaseki behind you, the PDP ticket—and then the state—was yours for the taking.
You believed them. That was your first fundamental mistake.
Like Njoroge in Ngũgĩ’s novel, you had dreams—innocent, idealistic, but disconnected from the harsh political realities of Edo State. You ignored the fact that you were being imposed on a political party that was already fractured, fatigued, and functionally split. You were parachuted into a war you neither started nor understood. You mistook Governor Obaseki’s fading influence for political capital. And you didn’t notice when the same man who held your hand on the nomination form slyly let it go on the steps of the courtroom.
Now, the cheers have gone silent. The ‘Asue 4 Governor’ banners are gone from the streets. The WhatsApp groups are dry. Your “structure” has scattered. And Obaseki—the man who led you into this political ambush—is nursing his own bruises, lobbying Abuja to cut a deal for himself.
So, Weep Not, Asue Ighodalo! The court case you filed was never going to yield fruits. Not when the PDP itself disowned your emergence in broad daylight. Not when the primary that gave you a ticket was so tattered that it collapsed under the mildest judicial scrutiny. Even your cheerleaders began singing a new tune halfway. The same voices that shouted “Our Candidate!” in February were privately telling reporters by June that you should “withdraw for party unity.”
You are a man of reason, Sir. You built a reputation in the corporate world for being deliberate, meticulous, and methodical. What happened to that man? What happened was politics—a space where truth is elastic, alliances are temporary, and ambition without grassroots is suicide.
The good news is that it’s not too late to wake up. You were misled, but you’re not destroyed. You were used, but you’re not useless. Politics spat you out—but your boardroom is still waiting. There’s no shame in returning to what you do best. The shame would be in staying lost in a wilderness designed by people who never planned to journey with you till the end.
Like Njoroge, you must come to terms with the brutal end of a hopeful beginning. But unlike Njoroge, you can still chart a new path—one not paved with deceitful endorsements or hollow declarations, but with the quiet, firm steps of a man who has learned his lessons.
Weep Not, Asue Ighodalo! Dust off the ashes of 2024. Fold the campaign posters. Close the brief. Tell your remaining loyalists to rest. Then walk away—not in defeat, but in dignity.
Because some dreams are not denied. They are simply deferred to where they truly belong. In your case, perhaps that place is a virtual boardroom—not Osadebe Avenue.
