After Applauding Alex Otti’s Projects, Deputy Speaker Benjamin Kalu Says Otti Is Underperforming
Every once in a while, Nigeria offers a tableau so vivid, so layered in irony and symbolism, that it feels like a parable written by fate itself. One such moment unfolded in Abia State over the weekend — at what should have been an ordinary commissioning of projects, another ceremonial display of public service. But between the sound of speeches, the clinking of microphones, and the ruffling of agbadas, two stories were written that day: one about power, the other about perspective.
The man in green, standing tall and smiling for the cameras, was the Deputy Speaker of the House of Representatives — a man of influence, prestige, and political power. He had come home to Abia for what appeared to be a celebration of progress. Roads were being commissioned, new projects unveiled, and the mood was generally optimistic. The Governor of Abia State, Dr. Alex Otti, was leading a transformation drive that had begun to restore confidence in a state long starved of good governance.
But what happened next — a simple event that barely lasted a minute — told two very different stories about Nigeria’s political culture and the quiet wisdom of the ignored.
Let’s start with the first story. The Deputy Speaker, representing the All Progressives Congress (APC), was present among other dignitaries to honor the ongoing works in Abia. His participation symbolized unity and political maturity — at least on the surface. But as often happens in Nigerian politics, the peace of the moment could not outlast the microphone.
Later that same day, the Deputy Speaker addressed party members and supporters of the APC in Abia State. He reportedly told them that Alex Otti was “not performing as expected” and that the APC would soon “take over the state.” That statement, in its simplicity, carried all the ingredients of a political storm. It wasn’t just what he said — it was when and where he said it.
Just hours earlier, he had stood at a state event celebrating development. He had applauded the roads, smiled for the cameras, and congratulated the people. But politics is an art of shifting tones, and what plays well on the podium doesn’t always serve in the caucus. So, at the party meeting, the applause turned into criticism. The same Abia that had been celebrated now became a land “needing rescue.”
The backlash was swift. On social media, citizens expressed their disapproval, labeling his remarks as politically insensitive and ungrateful. Others saw it as typical — proof that politicians often put party before progress. But beneath the outrage lay a deeper truth about Nigeria’s political culture: the refusal to recognize merit beyond party lines.
Nigeria’s biggest problem has never been a lack of intelligent leaders. It has been the refusal to allow leadership to belong to the people. Each state, once “won” by a political party, becomes a piece of property — a fiefdom. Roads are not just roads; they are political trophies. Hospitals are not public health assets; they are partisan flags. Development is claimed, contested, and weaponized.
That is why a statement like “APC will take over Abia” can sound so ordinary to the Nigerian ear and yet so absurd when examined closely. Take over what? Development? Progress? Or the privilege of holding the state hostage again? What we should be hearing from our leaders is not who will “take over,” but who will “carry on” — who will sustain progress, not disrupt it for ego’s sake.
In that light, the Deputy Speaker’s statement — though politically routine — was a moral misstep. Because when a people begin to see progress, when hope is rekindled after years of decline, the decent thing to do is to encourage continuity, not competition.
Now, the second story — the one that stole the show.
At that same commissioning ceremony, while the Minister of Works, the Governor, and the Deputy Speaker were all on stage delivering their speeches, something unscripted happened. A man, known around Aba as “Tupac,” strolled casually past the dignitaries.
No microphone. No security escort. No entourage. No invitation.
He simply walked across the scene — through the crowd, past the Governor, and into the background of history. Security men did not bother him. The audience barely reacted. The Governor continued his remarks. The cameras kept rolling. Tupac didn’t look left or right. He didn’t stop to acknowledge anyone. He just went his way, as if none of the drama on stage mattered.
And in that moment, Aba, Abia, and perhaps all of Nigeria, learned a lesson about perspective.
For a man presumed mad, Tupac carried a quiet kind of sanity that day. He showed, in his nonchalance, what many Nigerians secretly wish they could do: walk past the noise of politics, the endless ceremonies, the competing claims of parties and power. He walked past both the Governor and the Deputy Speaker, unconcerned with titles or speeches. It was almost poetic — the image of a man considered insignificant moving freely in a space where others tiptoe around hierarchy.
Nobody dared stop him. Why? Because society had written him off. And yet, in that freedom of insignificance, he found the truest liberty: the ability to ignore what others fear.
If you combine both stories — the Deputy Speaker’s speech and Tupac’s stroll — you realize who truly deserves to be ignored.
Let’s look deeper at the symbolism. The Deputy Speaker represents the Nigerian establishment: articulate, well-dressed, influential, and ambitious. Tupac, on the other hand, represents the ordinary Nigerian — dismissed, unheard, unimportant, yet unafraid. Between them lies the entire tragedy of our politics: the loudness of the powerful versus the silence of the overlooked.
While the Deputy Speaker was declaring political conquest, Tupac was declaring independence — not through words, but through action. He did not need to speak to make a statement. His walk was enough. His ignorance of the ceremony was itself a ceremony of defiance. He ignored power, and in doing so, became more powerful than anyone on that stage.
In every democracy, there comes a time when the people learn to see power for what it truly is — background noise. The real story is never in the speeches or the handshakes. It’s in the reactions of the crowd, the silent judgments of the observers, and the quiet defiance of those who refuse to be moved by performance politics.
Abia is undergoing a transformation, and it is only natural that politics will try to reclaim the narrative. But the people are not blind. They see roads being built, refuse dumps disappearing, and public confidence returning. They can distinguish between performance and propaganda. And that’s why many felt insulted by the Deputy Speaker’s remarks. It wasn’t just about party rivalry; it was about respect for progress.
Tupac, the so-called mad man, walked past that stage as if to remind us that leadership must be humble enough to be ignored. When governance is truly people-centered, it doesn’t need constant validation. It speaks for itself.
Governor Alex Otti has positioned himself as a reform-minded leader — one who understands that credibility in today’s Nigeria must be earned through delivery, not declarations. His administration has focused on rebuilding infrastructure, cleaning up Aba, and reviving public institutions. That kind of progress is not just developmental; it is symbolic. It represents the return of hope.
For years, Abia was synonymous with neglect. Roads crumbled, markets decayed, and the once-thriving industrial hub of Aba became a shadow of itself. But slowly, the tide is turning. Investors are beginning to look toward the state again. The Governor’s insistence on transparency and efficiency has resonated beyond party lines. People like me — and many others — are now making plans to invest in Abia.
That is what makes political statements like “Otti is not performing” so tone-deaf. You don’t have to support a man’s party to admit that he is doing well. In fact, the maturity of any democracy lies in the ability to celebrate good governance regardless of party affiliation.
Nigeria’s future will not be decided by party slogans but by pragmatic governance. Voters are beginning to look past party identities to performance indices. They are asking: Who fixed our roads? Who paid salaries? Who revived our schools? Who attracted investments? That is the new politics — the politics of proof.
In that sense, Abia is becoming a case study for Nigeria’s next generation of political leaders. The message is clear: you can’t win tomorrow’s elections by fighting yesterday’s wars. Voters are no longer impressed by partisan rhetoric. They want results.
The juxtaposition of the Deputy Speaker and Tupac reveals Nigeria’s dual reality — the world of appearances and the world of truth. The political class operates in a world of optics, always seeking control over perception. The masses, however, live in a world of experience. They don’t need speeches to tell them whether a government is working; they feel it in their daily lives.
And so, while the elite argue over who is performing or not, the people simply watch — or walk away, like Tupac did.
There’s humor in all this too. Aba people, with their irrepressible sense of wit, turned Tupac’s act into comic relief. Memes flooded social media. Some joked that Tupac was the only man brave enough to ignore power. Others said he was demonstrating “street diplomacy.” One tweet read, “Tupac for Governor 2027.” The laughter was contagious — but beneath it lay truth. Laughter has always been Nigeria’s most intelligent form of protest. It disarms the powerful while comforting the oppressed.
In laughing at Tupac’s defiance, Nigerians were not mocking madness; they were celebrating clarity. They were acknowledging the absurdity of a society where a mad man behaves more sanely than those in power.
Abia’s transformation under Alex Otti deserves more than casual acknowledgment. It signifies the reclamation of civic pride. When people begin to see government projects that work, they start believing again in the idea of statehood. That belief, more than any political promise, is the foundation of nation-building.
What the Deputy Speaker perhaps underestimated is that governance is no longer an abstract conversation. Abians can see tangible results. The roads in Aba are smoother. The environment is cleaner. Public funds are traceable. The Governor communicates transparently. Those are not partisan achievements; they are human ones.
True leadership is not about being noticed; it’s about making a difference so real that even when people ignore you, they still feel your impact. Alex Otti’s growing influence is not because he talks often, but because his works speak quietly and convincingly. The Deputy Speaker, on the other hand, represents the older order — one where leadership was performative, where presence mattered more than progress.
The contrast between the two men, and between the politician and Tupac, reflects a larger national tension: the shift from symbolism to substance.
When investors like myself say we are making plans to invest in Abia, it’s not just an economic decision — it’s emotional. It means faith has been restored. It means the narrative has changed. A state once mocked as stagnant is now becoming a destination of hope. That shift did not come from politics as usual; it came from leadership with vision.
It’s also a reminder to the opposition: sometimes, the best political strategy is to support what works. Criticize constructively, but do not belittle progress simply because it doesn’t wear your party’s color. The public is wiser now. Nigerians are watching not who talks loudest, but who delivers most.
The story of Tupac shows that ignorance, when directed at vanity, can be wisdom. The man ignored power and kept his peace. He had nothing to prove, nothing to lose. His mere existence reminded everyone that the universe doesn’t revolve around politics.
In that sense, perhaps it is we — the onlookers — who are mad, constantly obsessed with the games of politicians, instead of walking our own purposeful paths. Tupac’s indifference is a lesson in mindfulness: not every ceremony deserves our attention, not every leader deserves our loyalty.
Two stories, one picture. A politician who spoke, and a mad man who walked. One sought attention, the other gave it none. One wanted to take over the state, the other had already taken over the moment.
When history remembers that day, it may forget the speeches. It may forget who was standing on the podium. But it will remember the man who walked by — unbothered, free, and unknowingly profound.
That’s Nigeria for you: wisdom often arrives in disguise, wearing the rags of madness while power struts in borrowed robes. And sometimes, the most meaningful thing you can do is to ignore the noise and invest in what works.
As for me, I have chosen to invest — not just in Abia, but in belief. Because when a good thing is happening in a place, you don’t argue politics. You join in building the future.