By Maazi Obinna Akuwudike
In 1999, the ball stopped at the table of Chief Achike Udenwa as far as Imo was concerned. His word was law. What he said stood. Political structures revolved around him. In that era, authority had a clear address.
Today, he is barely regarded — largely out of respect that he was a former governor. Outside his household, his words no longer carry the weight they once did.
Dr. Ikedi Ohakim, from 2007 to 2011, was the final authority in Imo State. He determined direction. He shaped the tone of governance. But he is no longer dictating what happens in Imo today. Time has moved on.
Rochas Okorocha, at some point, appeared to delude himself into believing Imo was his private property. He ran the state with a kind of dramatic absolutism, almost as though it was a personal estate. There were signs of a daring plan to turn Imo into a monarchy or a hereditary arrangement rotating within his family. Power became personalized.
Today, beyond his household and a handful of those his administration favoured, his words bear little weight. He doesn’t even command the natural respect accorded to the likes of Udenwa and Ohakim simply for being former governors. Many believe his eight-year reign left more controversy than consolidation. So disastrous, some argue, that it would be difficult for Ndi Imo to ever again trust anyone from his immediate political lineage with public office.
Sometimes, those whom power is handed to freely by the people allow it to get into their heads. They forget that leadership is a privilege, not a birthright. They forget that authority is borrowed, not owned. And when power intoxicates, governance deteriorates.
I have often reflected on this paradox: those whose emergence came with questions hanging over them sometimes perform with greater caution than those who were handed power on a platter. Perhaps because they understand the fragility of legitimacy. Perhaps because they know they must constantly justify their mandate.
Now Governor Hope Uzodimma stands as the author and finisher — okwusia ogwu — of Imo State today. His voice carries the final authority. But in less than two years, someone else will take over that title. The seat will not remain his forever.
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On a wider stage, General Olusegun Obasanjo once stood as the beginning and the end of Nigeria. The instruments of power rested firmly in his hands. He demonstrated that authority decisively, sometimes in ways that history still debates like the case of Odi. Yet today, beyond the respect accorded to him as a former president, he cannot command Nigeria as he once did.
The same applies to Goodluck Jonathan. And the same will eventually apply to President Bola Ahmed Tinubu — whether in less than two years or in the next six. If he convinces Nigerians who feel economically strained to support him again, he may extend his stay. But when he steps aside, power will shift. It always does. Unless a leader attempts to install a family member — and even then, loyalty is never absolute. Successors seek independence. When former leaders become overbearing, friction begins. That is the nature of political transition.
Power is transient.
That is the moral.
Your legacy should not be about clinging to power by hook or crook. It should not be about manipulating structures to remain relevant. It should be about what your people think of you when you step aside. It should be about the impact you left behind — the livelihoods you protected, the dignity you restored, the opportunities you created.
In Imo State today, Udenwa and Ohakim can walk the streets of Owerri — even Douglas — without an army of security pushing people aside. People can approach them freely. There may be criticism, yes, but there is also a certain human access.
Can Okorocha who demolished Eke Onunwa out of sheer display of wickedness and cost people including my very self who owned two shops there, their age long property and livelihoods, creating pain and hardship to the same people he once campaigned to, go there and walk freely without heavy police protection?
Leadership should not create a permanent wall between you and the people.
Personally, when my own time comes — if I am ever privileged to lead — I want to be that person who, after stepping down, can stop at a bar along Douglas Road. No police sirens. No DSS officers chasing away ordinary citizens. No security men intimidating the same people who once voted me into office. I want to sit down, share a bottle of beer with them, laugh, talk, argue about football or politics, and listen to their honest opinions.
If truly the people voted us, why must we use police and DSS to chase them away?
Why should the same citizens whose votes brought you to power become obstacles to be cleared from your path?
A leader who fears his own people after leaving office must question the legacy he built while in office.
True leadership is not measured by the number of convoys you command while in power. It is measured by the number of people who genuinely greet you after you leave power.
When office strips away, what remains is reputation.
When sirens go silent, what remains is memory.
When security details disappear, what remains is the people’s verdict.
Power is transient. Every throne has an expiry date. Every governor becomes “former.” Every president eventually hands over.
But legacy — whether honourable or bitter — stays.
The real question for every leader, in Imo and beyond, is simple:
When you step aside, will the people raise a glass with you — or will they raise a sigh of relief?
— Maazi Obinna Akuwudike is a 2027 Imo Governorship Hopeful and writes from Owerri