Osun: Before algorithms, vices kidnap the polls

The Yoruba axiom, bi a ba fi owo ra ibo, a fi owo gba ijoba – he who buys a mandate with silver will surely recover his investment with gold – is not merely a moral injunction. It is the algebra of Nigerian politics, a grim arithmetic in which democracy is reduced to transaction. As Osun State approaches its off‑season governorship election on Saturday, 15 August, the proverb reads less like ancestral wisdom than prophecy.

Already, blood has been spilt. Rival supporters clash in towns and villages, accusations fly across party lines, and counter‑accusations cloud the air like harmattan dust. The election is still days away, yet the atmosphere is charged with fear rather than hope. In Osun, democracy is being tested not in the ballot box but in the streets, where machetes and inducements compete to shape the will of the people.

Then came the EFCC twist. On 5 August, the Commission directed First Bank Plc to place a “Post No Debit” restriction on Osun State’s statutory allocation account, effectively freezing it. The Commission claimed the action stemmed from an investigation into the alleged diversion of N11 billion in Ecology Funds, Intervention Funds, and FAAC allocations, alongside the suspicious withdrawal of over N14 billion within 48 hours.

Governor Ademola Adeleke condemned the move as unconstitutional and politically motivated, insisting EFCC cannot paralyse governance days before an election. His Attorney‑General, Oluwole Jimi‑Bada (SAN), filed suit at the Federal High Court, arguing that the freeze violated Sections 120-125 of the 1999 Constitution, which vest control of state finances in the House of Assembly and Auditor‑General.

EFCC countered that its probe predates the election and is routine, citing Section 38 of the EFCC Act (2004) and Section 24 of the Money Laundering Act (2022) as its legal basis. Yet both statutes require judicial authorisation beyond a 72‑hour stop order. Precedents abound: in 2018, EFCC froze Benue State accounts but reversed under public pressure; in 2025 and 2026, courts restrained EFCC from probing Oyo and Ekiti finances, affirming that oversight belongs to state legislatures.

President Bola Tinubu’s swift reversal of the embargo was therefore not merely an executive intervention; it was commendably suspicious – a reminder that EFCC must not conduct itself as a partisan outfit or appear to conform to the whims of the party at the centre. That attribute nearly tainted Nuhu Ribadu’s otherwise stellar record as anti‑graft czar.

If EFCC’s actions go unpunished, as in Benue and Oyo, then the lesson learned is that institutions can be weaponised without consequence. EFCC’s major sin was the preposterous ‘timing’ of its operation and a lack of due process. That is a dangerous precedent for a democracy already fragile.

The Inspector General of Police also recently alleged that Governor Adeleke’s Lodge harboured lawless men during his July visit to Osun. Has this, too, been investigated or validated? If not, it becomes another example of how allegations are deployed as political tools rather than subjected to due process. In a democracy, both action and inaction must carry consequences. Otherwise, institutions lose credibility, and citizens lose faith.

All these – the EFCC’s presumptuousness, the reversal of its order, and the IG’s preconceived notion about Adeleke’s alleged fraternisation with thugs – have not reduced tension in the State of the Living Spring. In Ede, Adeleke’s hometown, tension was palpable. The Kabiyesi there does not tolerate opposition to the continued suzerainty of his kinsman at Oke Fia Government House. Next door in Iwo, Oluwo Abdurasheed Akanbi has placed a “don’t come” order on presidential candidates of parties other than the APC.

In Iragbiji, the major traditional force openly aligns with the ruling party at the centre. A shopkeeper in Osogbo told me how young men were being courted with promises of cash and contracts if their candidate won. “They are not asking us to vote,” he said, “they are asking us to sell our future.”

In Ilesa, a teacher recounted how thugs stormed a meeting of locals, warning potential voters that “the wrong choice” would bring consequences. In Ife, students whispered of envelopes being distributed in hostels, each containing a few thousand naira and a reminder to “do the needful” on election day. Their PVC and NIN already harvested. These are not rumours; they are lived experiences, granular details of how democracy is kidnapped before dawn.

We have seen this movie before. In 2018, in the same Osun, the governorship election was declared inconclusive, leading to a rerun marred by intimidation and allegations of vote buying. The courts eventually became the final battleground, with the Supreme Court affirming victory after months of bitter litigation.

That episode left scars on the democratic psyche of Osun people, who saw their sovereignty contested not only at the ballot but in the courtroom. Now, in 2026, the cycle threatens to repeat itself – only this time with EFCC’s intervention adding another layer of uncertainty.

But Osun’s troubles are not isolated. Nigeria’s national elections have long been plagued by glitches that seem less accidental than engineered. In 2007, President Umaru Musa Yar’Adua himself admitted that the election that brought him to power was deeply flawed.

In 2019, reports of server malfunctions and delayed uploads of results cast shadows over the process. In 2023, opposition strongholds complained of BVAS machines failing mysteriously, while results transmission stalled in critical areas. Each glitch was explained away as technical, but the Yoruba say, ombo, ombo awon la de de – the storm is no longer natural; it is manufactured.

Consider the case of Ladi Adebutu in Ogun State during the 2023 elections. Reports surfaced of vouchers allegedly distributed to voters, redeemable for cash at designated outlets. It was a sophisticated twist on the old practice of handing out cash, bread, rice or salt. With BVN and voter cards, it has become easier to transfer slush funds directly, cloaked in the legitimacy of financial systems.

What used to be crude handouts in polythene bags has evolved into electronic inducements, traceable yet difficult to prosecute because of the complicity of institutions. The ember of democracy is being traded for a sack of grain, and the republic is being sold before dawn.

For these and several reasons, civil society groups have raised the alarm over our inchoate electoral system. Yiaga Africa warns that “electoral banditry” is taking root, with party agents allegedly distributing cash and materials to sway voters even before election day. SERAP has petitioned INEC to act decisively, insisting that failure to prosecute offenders emboldens them to repeat the crime. The National Human Rights Commission has documented incidents of violence and intimidation. The atmosphere in Osun is charged with fear rather than hope, and this is eerily worrisome.

These testimonies echo another Yoruba saying: bi a ko ba gbe ododo s’oke, iro ni yio gba ipo re – if truth is not lifted high, falsehood will take its place. In other words, when institutions fail to act, when elders remain silent, when watchdogs bark but are ignored, the marketplace of democracy becomes a theatre for deceit.

The lesson is clear: democracy cannot survive without accountability. EFCC must be restrained from partisan overreach. The Inspector General’s allegations must be investigated transparently. INEC must prosecute electoral offenders, not merely lament their actions. Civil society must continue to raise the alarm, and tribunals for electoral offences must be established to ensure justice is firm and humane.

Nigeria’s democracy is no longer nascent; it is 27 years into the Fourth Republic. Yet it still lacks credibility and governance because institutions fail to act decisively. If machetes silence voters and algorithms freeze governments, if police allegations are left uninvestigated, and if electoral offenders are left unpunished, then democracy is kidnapped twice over – first in daylight, then in the ledger.

The Osun election is a test case. If the bloodshed, accusations, inducements, and now EFCC’s financial restrictions are allowed to define the outcome, then the ember of democracy will dim further. But if institutions act decisively, prosecuting offenders and safeguarding the ballot, then Osun can become a beacon of hope.

It is not fair to give the dog a bad name in order to slaughter it for Ogun. In Yorubaland, it is often said that if the dog lives for twenty years, it becomes a condiment for worshipping the god of iron. So, if Adeleke must lose, let it be seen as the voice of the people, not the machinations of institutions.

The shopkeeper in Ede, the teacher in Ilesa, the students in Ife – their voices must not be drowned by the noise of thuggery, inducement, or bureaucratic strangulation. One truth remains: democracy is not stolen in one night; it is kidnapped in daylight, piece by piece, transaction by transaction. And unless we resist, the ransom will be paid not in naira but in the future of our children.

Osun’s August 15 election is not just about who governs the state; it is about whether Nigeria can reclaim the ember of democracy from the kidnappers of citizenship. If we fail, the storm will not be natural; it will be manufactured. And by 2027, we may arrive at the polling booth only to discover that the republic was sold before dawn.

By Kunle Somorin