Chris Ngige Reveals He Was Forced to Okija Shrine Before Becoming Governor
In Nigerian political history, few stories combine power, religion, and fear as vividly as the account just revealed by Dr. Chris Ngige — a trained medical doctor, former Anambra State governor, and former Minister of Labour and Employment.
Speaking on August 10, 2025, Ngige disclosed that on the eve of his 2003 rise to political power, he was forcibly taken under the cover of darkness to the infamous Okija shrine in Ihiala Local Government Area of Anambra State. The purpose: to swear an oath of loyalty to political backers.
What followed, according to his testimony, was a surreal and unsettling experience that would later become a catalyst for the shrine’s destruction — and a defining moment in the battle between political godfatherism and state authority in Anambra.
Ngige’s story begins in 2003, days before the Anambra governorship election. He recalled being “taken away” at midnight without explanation. It was only upon arrival that he recognised the location — the dreaded Okija shrine, long associated with occult practices, ritual killings, and intimidation.
“They said I must swear an oath of loyalty,” Ngige recounted. “I know those shrines and small deities don’t work — God Almighty is above all. So I went with my Bible and holy water.”
The atmosphere, as described, was tense and calculated. The shrine’s operators, used to dealing with fearful initiates, expected total compliance. For many, refusal to take the oath could mean the end of a political career before it began.
Ngige’s Christian convictions, however, put him at odds with the shrine’s expectations.
“When I saw what they were doing, one of them offered to swear for me, and I allowed him to do so,” he said.
By delegating the ritual to someone else, Ngige sidestepped direct participation — a decision that, in his telling, stripped the ceremony of spiritual authority over him. Armed with his Bible and holy water, he dismissed the shrine’s power as mere superstition.
The Okija shrine’s notoriety was already established by the early 2000s.
Located in a quiet corner of Ihiala, it had for decades operated as both a traditional arbitration centre and an alleged base for occult activities. Residents spoke in hushed tones about its power; politicians, businesspeople, and even ordinary citizens reportedly sought its intervention in disputes.
However, police investigations later revealed that the shrine’s activities had crossed into outright criminality: intimidation, extortion, ritual killings, and the manipulation of fearful clients.
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Ngige’s testimony suggests that, by 2003, the shrine was not just a place of local superstition — it had become a political tool for enforcing loyalty through fear.
Shortly after assuming the governorship, Ngige said he received a detailed security briefing on the shrine’s operations. The report exposed widespread abuses, from financial swindling to threats of death for defaulters.
Alarmed, he brought the matter to the attention of then-President Olusegun Obasanjo. The president’s response, according to Ngige, was swift and uncompromising.
“The President instructed my Commissioner of Police, through the IGP, to level the shrine. We went there, and it was destroyed,” Ngige revealed.
This demolition, carried out by security forces, was a symbolic and strategic blow to the shrine’s influence — signalling that the state would not tolerate parallel centres of coercive power.
The destruction of the Okija shrine in 2004 was a landmark event in Anambra’s political and cultural history.
When police raided the site, media reports described scenes of horror: decomposing human remains, ritual paraphernalia, and documents allegedly recording oaths and debts.
The spectacle shocked the nation and ignited debate over the persistence of such practices in a modern democracy. While many celebrated the end of the shrine’s political reach, others lamented the erosion of a traditional arbitration system — albeit one that had become deeply corrupted.
Though the original shrine was demolished, Ngige acknowledged that smaller shrines still exist in Okija and surrounding communities.
“The original structure no longer exists,” he said. “But there are still small ones, though their influence has greatly diminished. Many people have realised that the shrine was run by a swindling gang.”
This shift reflects a broader trend in Anambra: the gradual abandonment of fear-based systems in favour of formal legal institutions, even if those institutions themselves remain imperfect.
Ngige’s experience is inseparable from the larger issue of political godfatherism in Nigeria. In the early 2000s, it was common for powerful political patrons to demand oaths of loyalty from their protégés — often at spiritual sites.
The purpose was straightforward: to bind the candidate to the godfather’s interests, under threat of supernatural retribution if the agreement was broken.
By resisting the ritual and later dismantling its base of operations, Ngige positioned himself as a rare example of a politician breaking with the coercive tradition.
The Okija shrine’s infamy reached its peak in August 2004, when the police publicly paraded grisly evidence from their raid.
Newspapers splashed images of skulls, coffins, and ritual items across their front pages. Some reports claimed that dozens of high-profile Nigerians had been implicated — from politicians to businessmen — though few names were ever officially confirmed.
The scandal was a turning point in public awareness, revealing the extent to which superstition and politics were intertwined at the highest levels.
For many Nigerians, “Okija shrine” has since become shorthand for political manipulation through fear and occultism.
Its story is regularly cited in discussions about the dangers of traditional practices when co-opted for corrupt ends. Nollywood films have dramatized its lore, while journalists continue to investigate its lingering influence.
Ngige’s latest revelation adds a deeply personal dimension to this cultural memory — showing how even a sitting governor could be drawn into its orbit.
Ngige’s reliance on his Bible and holy water at the shrine underscores the role of personal faith in resisting coercive traditions.
In Nigeria’s religiously charged political environment, such acts of defiance can carry symbolic weight. They serve as public affirmations that modern political authority should rest on law, not on oaths to deities or secret societies.
However, critics might also note that refusing the oath did not shield Ngige from the intense political battles that later defined his governorship — including a dramatic abduction in July 2003, allegedly orchestrated by political godfathers.
Ngige’s journey from being taken to the shrine to ordering its demolition encapsulates a transformation — from coerced participant to reformer.
He frames his actions as part of a broader mission to free Anambra politics from the grip of criminalised traditional structures. Whether viewed as principled resistance or political pragmatism, the move reinforced his image as a leader willing to challenge entrenched powers.
The revelation has sparked lively reactions on social media and in political circles.
Some praise him for his courage, both in resisting the oath and in later dismantling the shrine. Others question why he did not speak out sooner, noting that his silence allowed speculation and myth-making to flourish for over two decades.
There is also a strand of scepticism, with critics suggesting that the story is being revived now to bolster Ngige’s political legacy.
Two decades after the shrine’s fall, Okija town is striving to redefine itself beyond its notorious past. Local leaders have promoted education, commerce, and religious activities to replace the fear-based economy once tied to the shrine.
Yet whispers of oath-taking persist in other parts of Nigeria, showing that while Okija’s power has waned, the mentality it represented still lingers in pockets of the political system.
Chris Ngige’s revelation is more than a personal anecdote — it is a window into a period when political ambition in parts of Nigeria was inseparable from occult coercion.
By refusing to personally take the oath and later dismantling the shrine, he struck a blow against that system. Whether his motives were purely principled or also politically strategic, the outcome was a milestone in Anambra’s political evolution.
Today, the ruins of the Okija shrine stand as a reminder of what can happen when tradition is weaponised for power — and of the possibility that determined leadership can break the cycle.