Pius Nsabe
In the age-old battle for political loyalty in Nigeria, optics are everything. So, when jubilant crowds of supporters in Edo State were denied access to their own governor’s Supreme Court victory celebration, it did more than raise eyebrows — it ignited questions about loyalty, transparency, and the cost of exclusion in Nigerian politics.
On July 11, 2025, Edo State Governor Monday Okpebholo found himself embroiled in an unexpected controversy. Instead of basking in the glow of a hard-won legal battle that affirmed his mandate, the newly confirmed governor was forced to take disciplinary action against security operatives who barred his supporters — many of them grassroots foot soldiers — from attending a post-victory reception at the Edo Government House.
The optics were jarring: hundreds of market women, youth, and members of the All Progressives Congress (APC) had waited since dawn to welcome the governor at the Benin Airport. After his arrival just past noon, the loyal crowd trekked in a celebratory procession through the streets of Benin, following Okpebholo’s convoy to Government House, chanting praises and waving party flags. But upon arrival, they were met with locked gates — and guards who told them they were not “Very Important Personalities” (VIPs).
The event that was meant to mark a political triumph quickly turned sour. The supporters who had stood by Okpebholo through his court battles felt betrayed. The denial of access to the seat of power — a place that symbolizes the people’s collective victory — struck a nerve. Eyewitnesses described scenes of confusion and frustration as the crowd was dispersed by armed security men.
Many of these individuals had walked miles under the scorching sun, draped in APC regalia, eager to catch a glimpse of the man they helped elect. Their exclusion from the celebration felt like a slap in the face — a reminder that in Nigerian politics, proximity to power is often tightly controlled, and rewards are unequally distributed.
“This was supposed to be a celebration for all of us. But instead, they treated us like strangers,” lamented Mrs. Efe Aisagbon, a trader from Uselu Market. “We sang, danced, and waited for hours. Is it because we are not big men?”
Governor Okpebholo was swift in his reaction. Through his Chief Press Secretary, Fred Itua, the governor condemned the security operatives’ actions, describing them as “unauthorised” and “in contradiction of the spirit of the celebration.”
In what seemed a rare move of political accountability, he ordered the immediate redeployment of all security personnel on duty at the government house during the incident — including the Camp Commandant. He also announced the formation of an investigative committee to identify those responsible for the controversial decision.
“This decision did not originate from me, nor does it reflect my values,” the statement read. “I will never knowingly authorise any action that disrespects our supporters… I remain committed to openness, inclusion, and respect for every stakeholder.”
Okpebholo’s response may have been sincere, but it also served as necessary political survival. Alienating the very people who fought for his electoral mandate — through votes, mobilization, and court-side loyalty — could spell trouble in a state with fierce political competition and a history of volatile voter behavior.
What transpired in Benin is not an isolated incident. Across Nigeria, the tension between the political elite and their grassroots supporters has become more pronounced. Access to government houses — physical and symbolic — is increasingly limited to the few, even in moments of supposed public triumph.
These spectacles expose the fault lines between a ruling class obsessed with “VIP culture” and the ordinary citizens whose labor sustains political machinery. It’s a system where party loyalty doesn’t always translate into inclusion, and “chop I chop” politics determines who gets a seat at the table — or in this case, who gets past the gate.
In a country where perception drives political capital, the exclusion of supporters from victory celebrations sends a dangerous message: that loyalty is transactional, and that the people can be used and discarded when optics demand a more curated audience.
From a security perspective, Government Houses across Nigeria often operate under strict protocols, particularly after politically charged events. It is plausible that the decision to bar the crowd was taken by overzealous officials trying to maintain control or prevent potential security breaches.
However, this logic falters in the face of context: this was a planned, celebratory reception. The presence of supporters was expected — even encouraged during the airport welcome. The abrupt denial of access, without any communication from the governor’s team, suggests a lapse in coordination at best, and institutional gatekeeping at worst.
The question then arises: who really controls the access points to power? Was this merely a bureaucratic failure, or an act of quiet rebellion by entrenched elements uncomfortable with Okpebholo’s populist posture?
Some insiders suggest that the governor may be dealing with resistance from within the state’s civil and security apparatus — a subtle contest for control that is not unusual in post-election transitions, especially after legal battles that shift political power.
In African political culture, access to the seat of power is more than ceremonial — it is a validation of status, relevance, and reward. For a supporter to be welcomed at the Governor’s lodge is to receive not just hospitality, but political affirmation.
Denying supporters this symbolic entry — particularly on a day of celebration — breaks an unspoken contract between the leader and the led. It communicates exclusion, even when unintended. This is why Okpebholo’s quick apology and disciplinary action are politically astute moves. They reinforce his image as a grassroots politician, conscious of the optics and reality of inclusivity.
As Okpebholo settles into his role with the legal battles behind him, he now faces a new challenge: managing the expectations of the people who brought him to power. Victory is only the beginning; governance will require balancing the populist energy that won him loyalty with the institutional discipline needed to run a complex state.
This incident should serve as a lesson in managing both symbolism and security. The people’s house — whether in Edo or elsewhere — must feel like it belongs to the people. Events of political significance must reflect inclusiveness, not elitism. And above all, the governor must ensure that his operatives align with his values, lest they become a law unto themselves.
In Edo, the gates of the Government House were closed to the very people who gave Governor Okpebholo his mandate. But in the backlash and his swift reaction, there is also an opportunity — to reset the tone of governance, to reassert the value of every supporter, and to make real the promise of people-centred leadership.
Nigerian politicians would do well to remember: it is easy to win court cases with top lawyers, but winning and retaining the hearts of the people requires something far rarer — humility and inclusion.
As Okpebholo himself put it, “I remain committed to openness, inclusion, and respect for every stakeholder.” The coming months will test how deeply those words are embedded in action — or if they’ll be drowned out by the growing hum of political gatekeeping.