By: Abdulfatai Tomori
obiograph@gmail.com
The year was 1961. Independence was still fresh in the air, but the weight of Nigeria’s fractured political identity loomed large over every decision. In Offa, the stakes were high as the community confronted a pivotal question: Should they remain aligned with their Northerner influences, which defined their current political landscape, or should they venture westward, back to their roots, in pursuit of progressive aspirations? The decision they faced would reverberate far beyond the borders of Offa, ultimately shaping the future of the town and its surrounding communities for many years to come.
However, Offa was (and is) not merely an ordinary town; it was a place imbued with deep pride and cultural significance. The residents, renowned for their resilience, had forged a close-knit community bound together by shared values and rich traditions. More importantly, Offa played a pivotal role in the region, acting as a “big brother” to the neighboring communities. Yet, the 1961 Northern Regional Election introduced a profound rift, drawing a stark line through the heart of the town and challenging long-standing loyalties.
At the centre of the storm were two powerful political visions. On one side were the loyalists of the Northern People’s Congress (NPC), staunchly aligned with the Hausa-Fulani aristocracy. For them, the future of Offa and its surrounding communities lay in its connection to the north. They saw the NPC as the key to unlocking political favour and economic resources, a bridge to a golden era where Offa’s interests would be safeguarded by its proximity to power. Their leaders spoke in calm, measured tones, painting a picture of stability and unity. Whispers of prosperity rippled through the town like the Harmattan wind—promises of inclusion, influence, and harmony with the broader northern bloc.
But on the other side stood the fiery supporters of the Action Group (AG). To them, the north’s feudal dominance was a relic of the past. Their hearts beat for the West—a land of progress, modernity, and opportunity. Led by charismatic leaders who spoke with fiery conviction, they envisioned Offa as part of a thriving Western Region. Lagos, Ibadan, and the Southwest beckoned with promises of empowerment, innovation, and economic growth. “We must go west!” they cried, their voices echoing through the streets. For the AG supporters, breaking away from the North wasn’t just about politics—it was about reclaiming a future that seemed increasingly out of reach under NPC control.
And so, Offa found itself in a state of turmoil. The usually quiet town erupted into heated debates, impassioned rallies, and whispered conspiracies. Families were divided by loyalty, lifelong friends turned into fierce adversaries, and the streets buzzed with rumours. The political tension was thick, almost suffocating, as though the very air carried the weight of history being written in real time.
The stakes were made even higher by the context of the times. Nigeria was still in its infancy as an independent nation, its regions bound together by fragile threads of shared governance. But beneath the façade of unity lay a deep undercurrent of tribal and regional divisions. The country’s structure—a federation split into Northern, Western, And Eastern Regions—had sown seeds of rivalry long before independence. Each region clung fiercely to its identity, competing for influence in a nation whose soul seemed constantly at war with itself.
The NPC, under the leadership of the late Sardauna of Sokoto, the unwavering Sir Ahmadu Bello, believed that the north’s supremacy was an unassailable fact. Backed by colonial legacies that had tilted power in their favour, the NPC wielded its influence with quiet certainty. It wasn’t just a political party—it was the north’s guardian, a defender of heritage and tradition. To NPC supporters in Offa, their loyalty was a matter of survival. Could Offa afford to turn its back on the dominant force in the region, risking alienation and isolation?
For the Action Group (AG), the call of progress was irresistible—a beacon that shone brighter than the fear of alienation. “We cannot let the past hold us back,” declared their leaders, their impassioned voices slicing through the charged air at crowded rallies. “We must choose a future of hope and opportunity!” To the AG supporters, the north’s promises of stability felt like chains, binding them to a stagnant, outdated system. The AG’s vision, in contrast, was a roadmap to liberation—a promise of modernization, industrial growth, and self-determination.
As the election day loomed, Offa’s streets became a stage for mounting tension and unfolding drama. Campaign posters plastered walls, and debates erupted in marketplaces, family courtyards, and roadside gatherings. Every handshake, every whisper of allegiance, every fiery speech carried the weight of history. Questions lingered in the hearts of the townsfolk: Who held the key to Offa’s future? Would they tether their destiny to the north’s entrenched power, or would they chart a bold new course toward the progressive ideals of the west?
Beyond Offa, winds of change were flowing through the Southwest, fuelled by the political genius of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, AG’s national leader. The party symbolized hope for a new Nigeria—one built on education, industrialization, and the rejection of colonial-era feudalism. Everything from Lagos to Ibadan, Abeokuta, Ondo, Akure, and Osogbo in Osun Division was humming with the energy of urbanisation, with even the smallest communities promising a better life. For AG loyalists, this wasn’t just a political contest; it was a fight for dignity, identity, and the chance to stand tall as proud citizens of a modern nation.
The 1956 elections must have truly awakened the NPC’s political interest in Offa. The fierce competition they faced from the Action Group (AG) during those elections was seen as a serious threat to their hold on the District. Doubts began to creep in regarding the loyalty of the Offa District Council to the Regional Government, and the fear of increasing southern influence in the area prompted the NPC-controlled government to seek someone who could effectively “capture” the district for them.
One such individual whom NPC contacted in early 1958 was Sanni Ilesanmi Giwa, a businessman whose sway went well beyond the Offa boundary. Sanni Giwa was not just a business man, he was a respected community and religious leader. He was also a politician, he had been a former Special Member of the Northern House of Assembly. His appointment as a key figure in the NPC’s campaign was a masterstroke—a symbol of the party’s adaptability and its ability to appeal to both the conservative elite and the emerging business class.
But Giwa’s inclusion was only part of a larger strategy. The NPC, recognizing the growing complexity of Offa’s political landscape, brought in heavyweights like George Ademola Ogunniyi and Yahaya Balogun. Ogunniyi? Yes, the father of Hon. Seun Ogunniyi (Adato), who currently represents the Ojomu/Balogun Offa State Constituency in the Kwara State House of Assembly. Ogunniyi’s role as Organizing Secretary and Balogun’s position as Deputy Organizing Secretary fortified the party’s hold on the machinery of local governance. With these figures in place, the NPC sought to tighten its grip, ensuring that Offa would remain a reliable part of its political structure.
The stakes were further heightened by the bold—and controversial—decision to cede part of the Asa District Council to Offa. Asa, an NPC stronghold, was critical to the party’s control in the area. Yet, in a calculated gamble, the NPC folded portions of Asa into Offa’s political framework, hoping to consolidate their influence in the increasingly contested town. The move was daring, a signal of the party’s willingness to take risks to secure its future.
Yet, despite these manoeuvres, the NPC faced a formidable challenge. Offa was no longer the insular town it had once been. The AG’s message of progress and modernization had begun to resonate, particularly among the younger, more progressive electorate. The AG’s vision promised a break from the past, an escape from the hierarchical structures that had long defined the area. For many in Offa, this was a vision worth fighting for.
The NPC, aware of the shifting sands, worked tirelessly to counter the AG’s growing influence. Behind the scenes, there were attempts to lure AG members to defect, promises made in private conversations, and alliances forged in the shadows. Campaigns became more than just public spectacles—they were psychological battles, where every handshake carried an unspoken challenge, every smile a veiled threat.
As the days crept closer to the election, Offa became a town on edge. Suspicion hung thick in the air, and ambition was palpable in every corner. The AG, energized by its growing momentum, refused to back down, matching the NPC’s strategies with equal resolve. The people of Offa, caught in the middle of this unfolding drama, found themselves at a crossroads. Their choice would not only determine the fate of their town but also ripple across the Northern Region, shaping the trajectory of Nigerian politics in ways they could scarcely imagine.
The stage was set. Offa, once a quiet town, now stood as a symbol of the larger struggle between two competing visions of Nigeria’s future. The air crackled with anticipation, every day bringing the town closer to the inevitable clash that would define its destiny.
Meanwhile, the AG’s influence was spreading like wildfire, fuelled by the support of a younger, progressive electorate eager to break free from old hierarchies. The political atmosphere in Offa was electric, with every move by the NPC countered by the AG’s growing momentum. The stage was set for an epic showdown as the 1961 elections approached. The battleground was drawn sharply, and the AG, fueled by its vision of progress, chose Josiah Sunday Olawoyin—a trusted representative with deep ties to the community.
Now, let me fill you in on a little background: Olawoyin was the incumbent representative, having won his seat in the Northern Region House of Assembly in 1956 to represent the Offa District Council. However, throughout his term, there seemed to be no major improvements in the socio-political status of Offa in terms of government patronage. Why? Chief Olawoyin was an opposition. An opposition leader for that matter!
It wasn’t until the end of his tenure that Olawoyin facilitated the establishment of Owode Market and a Motor Park, thanks to a £26,000 loan from Barclay’s Bank. He also constructed public latrines and provided newspapers and transistor radios, ensuring his constituents had access to vital information. Yet, when it came to lucrative appointments, the preference still leaned towards the scions of the Hausa-Fulani ruling oligarchy from Ilorin, leaving many in Offa feeling overlooked.
On the other side, the NPC put forth Emmanuel Afolayan, a candidate from Ipee whose selection sparked both hope and controversy. The party’s leadership believed Afolayan could unite the smaller towns around Offa, consolidating their hold on the area. But in Offa itself, skepticism brewed. Afolayan’s detractors were quick to mock him, branding him “Aditi Ipee,” the Deaf Man from Ipee—a jab aimed at undermining his credibility. The nickname wasn’t just an insult; it was a reflection of the deep-seated tensions between Offa and its neighbouring communities.
Offa, once a tranquil outpost on the northern edge, had transformed into a cauldron of political rivalry. The NPC’s gamble on Afolayan was fraught with risks. While his candidacy was a bid to shore up alliances in the area, Offa’s people were not easily swayed. Their loyalties were torn between two contrasting visions: the stability promised by the north and the progressive opportunities championed by the AG.
In the background, Nigeria’s larger political struggles cast a long shadow over Offa’s election. The rivalry between the north and the west wasn’t just about political power—it was a battle for identity, for resources, and for control of the nation’s future. Offa, with its strategic location and history of independence, had become the microcosm of this national struggle.
As election day drew closer, the stakes in Offa reached a fever pitch. The AG, buoyed by its rising momentum, carried the hopes of those who yearned for change and empowerment. The NPC, desperate to retain its grip, leaned heavily on tradition and alliances. For the people of Offa, the decision was more than a vote—it was a declaration of who they were and what they believed the future should hold.
Would Offa remain tied to the north’s entrenched power structures, or would it embrace the bold promise of a unified, progressive west? The answer, etched into the annals of history, would not only determine Offa’s destiny but echo through Nigeria’s turbulent political landscape for years to come.
The rising tension in Offa during this period was underscored by a vibrant cultural undercurrent that infused traditional practices with new, politically charged significance. A town once celebrated for its peaceful and colourful cultural festivals was now transformed into a stage where age-old traditions were reshaped into tools of political resistance and agitation.
Did I mention that the Egungun (masquerades) were involved? Indeed, they were!
Traditionally revered as spiritual entities and symbols of cultural identity, the Egungun were drawn into the unfolding political drama in Offa, their roles evolving in response to the shifting dynamics. Chief among them was Alapansanpa, a fearsome masquerade whose imposing presence had long been a source of communal pride and reverence. However, in the hands of the Action Group (AG), Alapansanpa became more than just a cultural figure—it transformed into a strategic weapon.
Repurposed for political ends, Alapansanpa emerged as a force of disruption and defiance. Its intimidating presence was deployed to challenge the Northern People’s Congress (NPC) in their strongholds, unsettling their supporters and amplifying the AG’s resistance. Alapansanpa’s appearances at rallies and gatherings were both a declaration of defiance and a symbolic assertion of political might. For AG loyalists, it embodied their resolve; for NPC supporters, it served as an unyielding reminder of opposition.
The annual Egungun festival, coinciding with the election, became a flashpoint for these tensions. Traditionally a time of unity and cultural celebration, the festival morphed into a chaotic battleground where the lines between cultural heritage and political confrontation blurred. Alapansanpa, the once-revered cultural icon, led the charge into NPC-dominated neighborhoods, sowing fear and further dividing the community.
What should have been a period of joy and shared tradition instead deepened the political rift in Offa. The festival, once a beacon of communal harmony, became a stark reflection of the town’s polarized landscape.
Alapansanpa, with its dual identity as both a cultural symbol and a political instrument, exemplified the transformation of tradition into a medium for political struggle.
Offa, ensnared in the volatile crossroads of culture and politics, witnessed its cherished traditions being repurposed to serve the politically charged atmosphere of the time. The events of this era left an indelible mark on the town, providing both a cautionary tale and a vivid testament to the powerful role of culture in shaping and amplifying political narratives.
The Egungun festival, once a joyful celebration of heritage and cultural pride, became an unexpected and volatile catalyst in Offa’s escalating political tensions. While the politicization of traditional festivals was not unique to the twentieth century, the colonial period saw these practices weaponized in increasingly unsettling ways.
Politicians from both the AG and the NPC mastered the manipulation of these sacred rituals, transforming them into battlegrounds for political supremacy.
In this fraught environment, what was once a time to venerate ancestors and strengthen communal bonds became a spectacle of political maneuvering. The sacred and the secular blurred dangerously, as age-old traditions became entangled in the relentless pursuit of power. The Egungun, with its spiritual significance and cultural gravitas, was no longer just a symbol of heritage but a potent instrument of political rivalry, embodying the deep divisions that had come to define Offa’s sociopolitical landscape.
These festivals, which often turned a blind eye to excesses, became ripe for exploitation by both traditional authorities and modern politicians. Both groups, while publicly denouncing hooliganism, were perceived to be complicit in politicizing these cultural events. Their half-hearted attempts at control lent credence to the notion that the disorder served their political agendas. As a result, rival Egungun factions clashed violently, transforming revered traditions into weapons of political confrontation.
The colonial police, overwhelmed by the escalating unrest, launched a series of crackdowns in the months leading up to the elections. Numerous arrests were made, targeting both instigators of violence and individuals accused of disrupting public order. However, these efforts did little to quell the unrest. The disturbances, while ostensibly political, often carried an undercurrent of personal animosities. Long-standing grudges and unresolved rivalries found a convenient outlet in the politically charged atmosphere, with allegiances to the AG or the NPC serving as justifications for confrontations.
As tensions reached a fever pitch, the streets of Offa became literal battlegrounds. What had been simmering for months exploded into open confrontation, engulfing the town in violence. Even the colonial police, whose duty was to maintain order and neutrality, found themselves caught in the crossfire. In many sad instances, thugs attempted to harm officers trying to restore peace, using rough tactics and violence against them. Their presence became symbolic of an authority struggling to contain a situation spiraling rapidly out of control.
Civilians bore the brunt of the unrest, particularly from Egungun attacks that transcended their cultural origins to become weapons of political intimidation. Alapansanpa’s followers, emboldened by the political backing of the AG, unleashed chaos in NPC-dominated areas, leaving trails of destruction in their wake. Lives were lost, properties destroyed, and the psychological scars of this period etched themselves deeply into the town’s collective memory.
The chaos reached its zenith with a wave of arrests, as authorities sought to restore a semblance of order in the wake of the turmoil. Among those detained in 1959 were several prominent figures whose influence in Offa’s cultural and political spheres underscored the deep entanglement of tradition and politics.
Chief Mustapha Opoola Gbadamosi, the Shawo of Offa, found himself among the accused, along with others such as Mr. Emmanuel Olatunde Olaniyi, Mr. Mustapha Oladodo, Mr. Oseni Ajide, and Mr. Lamidi Abefe of Ile Gedegbe. Their involvement reflected the far-reaching impact of the unrest, which had pulled respected leaders into its orbit.
Also implicated were individuals like Mr. Lasisi Olatunji of Ile Oba and Mr. Mustapha Lambe, alongside Adegoke Ajobo, who would later ascend to the title of Chief Elemoso-Ijehu of Offa in 2008.
Another notable figure, Mr. Tiamiyu Mobolaji Oluwalambe Dada—a trusted driver to Chief Olawoyin who eventually rose to become Chief Ola of Offa in 2007—was among those fined for their roles. Particularly significant was the arrest of Mr. Abimbola Olanipekun, the orchestrator behind the Alapansanpa masquerade, whose symbolic role in the unrest highlighted the transformation of cultural practices into tools of political agitation.
These arrests, while intended to quell the violence, did little to heal the rift within the community. The fines imposed on the detainees were small measures in the face of the deep divisions and loss that the unrest had wrought. By then, the damage to Offa’s social fabric was already profound, leaving behind a legacy of mistrust and unease.
While the politicization of the Egungun festival was not a twentieth-century creation, it certainly assumed terrifying proportions during the colonial period. Modern politicians belonging to the AG and NPC in Offa perfected the art of using traditional religious festivals to fight political battles. The fact that these traditional festivals often condoned many excesses made them particularly amenable to manipulation by both traditional political authorities and modern politicians. Traditional authorities and modern politicians only paid lip service to the campaign against hooliganism, thus giving credence to the belief that they were the ones increasingly politicizing the traditional festivals. Consequently, rival Egungun factions often found themselves embroiled in violent clashes, further entrenching the political divide in Offa.
Another striking dimension of the unrest was the role of the talking drum, an instrument deeply embedded in Yoruba cultural heritage, which took on a new and politically charged significance. In the hands of the Action Group (AG), the drum became more than a tool of cultural expression—it was a strategic weapon in their campaign of influence and resistance.
The rhythmic beats of the talking drum echoed across Offa, transforming ordinary streets into stages of political discourse. Its intricate language, understood by the initiated, carried messages that transcended mere sound. The drum rhythms were not just music; they were carefully curated codes, rallying cries, and declarations of intent. For AG supporters, the drumbeats inspired unity and defiance, amplifying their resistance to NPC dominance.
The talking drum was particularly effective in mobilizing the youth, whose energy and enthusiasm were harnessed to spread the AG’s message far and wide. The drummers, skilled in their craft, infused traditional proverbs and political slogans into their rhythms, turning every beat into a statement that resonated deeply within the hearts of Offa’s people.
The talking drum, renowned for its versatility, was deeply woven into the fabric of Yoruba society as one of the most powerful tools of traditional communication. Its ability to warn, praise, announce, and celebrate made it indispensable in times of both peace and conflict. In Offa, amidst the political unrest, this instrument became more than a medium of cultural expression; it became a potent voice in the hands of the Action Group (AG), delivering messages that resonated with urgency and purpose.
In this charged atmosphere, Ojurabesa Amuda Onilu, a highly skilled talking-drummer from Ile Akinsola, rose to prominence as the AG’s secret weapon. Revered as the “drummer boy” of the Action Group, Amuda Onilu’s mastery of the drum transformed him into a key figure in the party’s campaign. His craft transcended rhythm; it was an art of communication, where every beat carried carefully encoded meanings that reached deep into the hearts of Offa’s people.
Amuda Onilu’s drumming became a form of political oratory, skillfully blending traditional proverbs, political slogans, and rallying cries into his performances. His drumbeats did not just entertain—they mobilized, galvanized, and challenged. In AG strongholds, his rhythms stirred the spirits of supporters, fostering unity and encouraging defiance against the NPC. Meanwhile, in NPC territories, the same drumbeats served as an unsettling presence, a subtle yet powerful assertion of resistance.
The AG’s strategic use of Amuda Onilu and his talking drum demonstrated the profound adaptability of Yoruba traditions. What was once a tool for communal bonding was reimagined as an instrument of political mobilization and influence. Amuda’s beats, laden with cultural nuance, became a powerful tool for amplifying the AG’s voice, transforming Offa’s streets into echo chambers of resistance.
However, this creative repurposing of cultural heritage came at a cost. Just as the Alapansanpa masquerade had done, the talking drum—once a unifying symbol of Yoruba identity—was weaponized, exacerbating divisions within the community. The lines between tradition and political strategy blurred, leaving Offa’s cultural icons entangled in the strife of modern political conflict.
Amuda Onilu’s legacy endures in Offa’s collective memory, a testament to the power of tradition as both a source of inspiration and a tool of influence. His drumbeats, though long silenced, continue to echo in the town’s history as a poignant reminder of how culture and politics can intersect, shaping the destiny of a community.
Through his drumbeats, Amuda Onilu delivered powerful political messages, turning his performances into rallying cries for the AG’s cause. Each beat was a call to action, each rhythm a statement of defiance. His songs captivated and galvanized his audience, transforming the traditional drum into a tool of political resistance that stirred the town’s spirit and solidified his place as a symbol of the AG’s struggle.
One of his most popular songs was:
‘Alaburo somusomu
E ku o ni ile wa’
(“People with the heavy turban should leave our land for us”).
This song was a direct challenge to the NPC’s presence and influence, particularly targeting the northern elite who were seen as encroaching on Offa’s autonomy. The message was clear and unambiguous, and as the beats of the talking-drum carried the lyrics through the town, the song became an anthem of defiance for the AG’s supporters.
Amuda Onilu’s drumming was strategic and theatrical. When the AG supporters approached the homes of their political opponents, he would adjust the rhythm and tone of his drum, crafting a taunting song that mocked the NPC. The beats would shift to a more mocking cadence, the rhythm punctuated by lyrics that highlighted the perceived weaknesses of the opposition, drawing attention to their political affiliations and making a pointed commentary on their allegiances. This was not merely music—it was a weaponized cultural expression, designed to destabilize the confidence of the NPC’s supporters while rallying the AG’s base.
‘Ile won naa nu ni
Ile won naa nu ni
Ile aberewo, bi Ile Ekute
Ile won naa nu ni’
(“See their house, See their house, A ‘bend and enter’ house, like that of a Mice, See their house”).
The lyrics, while satirical and humorous, carried a deeper political sting. The imagery of a “bend and enter” house likened to a mouse’s den evoked ridicule, portraying the NPC as weak and unworthy of leadership. It was a psychological attack designed to diminish the NPC’s credibility and rally the AG’s supporters in a shared sense of superiority and purpose.
Ojurabesa was known for his exceptional skill and deep understanding of the traditional talking drum. Even many who stood in opposition couldn’t help but appreciate the mastery with which he wielded his drumstick. Drumming was in his blood, a vocation passed down through generations, but Ojurabesa distinguished himself with his unparalleled dexterity. He was not just a drummer but a consummate professional who carved a niche for himself through his craft.
As Ojurabesa drummed and sang, AG supporters would join in, pointing at their opponents’ homes and chanting the lyrics with fervor. This spectacle not only humiliated the opposition but also solidified the unity and morale of the AG camp. Onilu’s brilliance as a drummer lay in his ability to blend the cultural significance of the talking-drum with the urgency of the political moment, turning his performances into powerful expressions of resistance. His drumbeats became more than just sound; they were a rallying cry, a call to arms in the cultural and political battlefield of Offa.
According to oral accounts, Ojurabesa’s drumming was a critical element of the AG’s campaign strategy. His drumbeats were more than just music—they were a rallying cry, a form of communication, and an emblem of defiance that captured the spirit of the times. In those days, the streets of Offa were alive with the sound of his drum, each beat carrying the weight of a people’s aspirations and frustrations. It was a period when culture and politics were inseparable, and figures like Ojurabesa Amuda Onilu played a pivotal role in shaping the narrative of resistance and self-determination that defined the era.
In response to Ojurabesa’s growing influence, the Northern People’s Congress (NPC) enlisted Ojo Onilu, another masterful drummer, with a mission to “make Amuda eat the humble pie.” Ojo Onilu, confident and assured, did not boast without cause. He was truly the “Ojo Onilu Ola,” as he often claimed, a title that reflected his supreme confidence in his art. His unique drumming skills swayed public opinion and rallied the NPC’s supporters, making him a formidable figure in the political landscape of Offa.
Ojo Onilu’s reputation was built on his ability to not only play the drum but also to evoke powerful emotions and messages through his rhythms. He was a master at manipulating sound to convey a range of political sentiments—from mocking the opposition to rallying the NPC’s base. His drumming was a weapon, a method of reinforcing the NPC’s power and challenging the influence of the AG and its supporters.
The rivalry between Ojurabesa and Ojo Onilu added an intense layer to the already charged political atmosphere in Offa. Their musical duel turned the political campaigns into a form of sonic warfare, where the songs, chants, and rhythms transcended mere entertainment. These drumming battles became tools of ideological struggle, amplifying the fierce rivalry between the Action Group (AG) and the Northern People’s Congress (NPC). The streets of Offa transformed into dynamic stages where the power of the drum became a pivotal weapon in the political drama unfolding in the town.
By and large, the regional election in Offa, conducted on May 4, 1961, culminated in a significant victory for the Northern People’s Congress (NPC), with Afolayan from Ipee defeating Mr. J. S. Olawoyin from Offa. Despite Mr. Olawoyin’s considerable popularity among the Action Group (AG) supporters, his defeat underscored a prevailing sentiment that traditional cultural symbols, particularly the drum, wielded greater influence over Offa’s political landscape than the electoral process itself.
Allegations of election rigging further exacerbated feelings of political injustice, leading to a simmering tension within the community. As anticipated, the election results were met with strong opposition from Mr. Olawoyin and his AG supporters, who vociferously claimed that the election had been manipulated to favor the NPC. This rejection of the results highlighted the deep-seated divisions and ongoing political strife within the town, reflecting a broader struggle for power and representation. However, for NPC supporters, their victory was seen as a testament to their growing popularity, and they celebrated it with great enthusiasm. In the aftermath of the election, the common slang among NPC party supporters was:
“Ti e ba n gbo gbi, Ope l’owo,”
Meaning:
“If you hear a loud sound, it was the palm tree that fell.”
Oh! Did I tell you that Ope (Palm Tree) was the symbol of the AG. Yes, indeed. To the AG party, Ope represented more than just a tree—it embodied their strength, resilience, and unwavering hope for a better future. So, whenever the NPC supporters chanted those words, they weren’t just speaking in jest; they were invoking the fall of the palm tree as a powerful metaphor. It was a playful yet pointed way of declaring that if you heard a loud noise, it signified that the Ope—the very symbol of the AG—had fallen. In simpler terms, it was their way of saying, unequivocally, that the AG had been defeated.
However, while governmental manipulations may have played a part in the AG’s loss in the Offa elections of 1961, several other factors also contributed significantly to the NPC’s success in the area. The result of the election may not necessarily reflect the NPC party’s popularity in Offa or the entire division.
First, the NPC’s Regional Government was resolutely focused on establishing a stronghold in Offa, and this determined effort helped galvanize support for the party. Their persistence in securing political dominance in the area was both strategic and well-coordinated, laying the groundwork for their victory.
Second, the failure of the Willink Commission in 1958 to create the Middle Belt State out of the Northern Region shifted the political dynamics. This failure led many in the region to reconsider their alignment. For some, it seemed more practical to settle in the North—where competition for socio-political appointments was less fierce than in the West. This shift in opinion contributed to the NPC’s growing support.
Additionally, the official visit by Sir Ahmadu Bello, the Premier of the Northern Region, to Offa Grammar School for the commissioning of the Ludlow Hall, alongside the inauguration of one of the first private clinics in Northern Nigeria by Chief (Mrs.) Ayo Akinwande, a prominent nurse at the time, further solidified the NPC’s influence in Offa. These events fostered a deep sense of loyalty and connection between the people of Offa and the NPC, enhancing the party’s support base in the area.
These factors marked a pivotal turning point in the political alignment of the people of Offa, contributing significantly to the NPC’s success in the 1961 election. One of the most significant moments came during the visit of Sir Ahmadu Bello on October 21, 1956. His arrival in a large car with the registration plate number BY 7300 captured the imagination of the people.
It was a rare opportunity for many to see their Premier in person, further cementing his influence in the area.
However, despite this symbolic victory, the success of the NPC did not dramatically improve the socio-political or economic status of Offa or its people within the broader context of the Northern Region. The sense of political victory was undeniable, but it did not translate into tangible gains for the community at large.
The NPC maintained an overbearing influence, and the people of Offa were left to contend with the prevailing status quo. Acknowledging that their future might be tied to the Northern Region, Offa now faced the challenge of securing political ascendancy and recognition within that domain. The political dynamics were shifting, and while the region was firmly under NPC control, the people of Offa still sought to carve out their place within the larger political and social framework.
The political landscape of Offa, and indeed Nigeria, was forever altered by the events of the 1961 election. The NPC’s victory brought an air of triumph and celebration to its supporters, who saw it as a validation of their alignment with the Northern region. The drumming and songs that accompanied their celebrations echoed through the streets, reflecting the deep cultural ties and emotional investment in the political struggle.
For the AG supporters, however, the result was a bitter blow, one that they felt carried far deeper implications. The loss was not simply a political setback; it was seen as a missed opportunity for Offa to break free from the status quo and to embrace a new path of progress and self-determination that they had hoped for. Their disappointment was palpable, and it left a lasting mark on the town’s political psyche.
In the aftermath of the election, while the streets of Offa returned to their usual rhythms, the underlying tension did not dissipate easily. Political loyalties became more entrenched, and the town was left to grapple with its place in the larger political landscape of Nigeria. The divisive nature of the election sparked debates that continued long after the ballots were counted, giving rise to an increased awareness of the need for political engagement and influence.
The impact of the 1961 election reached far beyond its immediate aftermath. It marked a turning point for Offa, awakening a collective consciousness about its role in the national discourse. The phrase “Tí e ba n gbọ gbi, Ope l’ọwọ” echoed through the town, serving as a powerful reminder of the importance of discernment in political decisions. It urged citizens to balance their identity with the pragmatism required to navigate the complex dynamics of power.
This election, while a period of division and rivalry, also emerged as a defining moment in Offa’s history—a testament to resilience and the strength of political choice. It lives on as more than just a chapter in the annals of history; it has become a story that shapes the identity of Offa’s people. Their capacity to reflect on and engage with the political currents of their time stands as a powerful reminder of collective agency, illuminating the enduring spirit of a community in the face of change.
As the years unfolded, the citizens of Offa continued to wrestle with intricate political dynamics, carving out their identities amidst the shifting sands of Nigerian politics. The legacy of the 1961 election laid a foundation for future struggles, intertwining tradition with the quest for self-determination.
The essence of Offa—marked by resilience, unity, and an unwavering pursuit of a brighter future—guided its people through the changing tides of time. The narrative of the 1961 election resonates today, much like the steady beat of a drum, reminding us that while the sound may fade, the power of history and the collective will of the people endure, shaping destinies yet to unfold.
Thank you for journeying through this history. Though this narrative ends here, the story of Offa’s political destiny is far from over. Keep listening, for the drumbeats of tomorrow are already being felt.
Abdulfatai is a freelance researcher, writer, biographer, and history enthusiast.
