By Dr. Tom Zekeri
Standing at the banks of the River Niger in Lokoja, watching its waters seamlessly merge with the River Benue, one is easily captivated by the natural harmony of our geography. It is a breathtaking sight, a physical manifestation of unity in diversity.
But today, August 27, 2026, as Kogi State marks its 35th anniversary, the harmony of our rivers stands in stark contrast to the discordance of our developmental reality. For me, and for millions of Kogites who call this land home, this milestone is not a day for empty pageantry, government-sponsored banquets, or self-congratulatory press releases. It is a moment of deep, painful, and sober reflection.
We must ask ourselves the hard questions: Thirty-five years after the birth of the Confluence State, where did we lose our way, and how do we reclaim the promise of our founding fathers?
The Euphoria of 1991 and the Vision of Our Fathers
To understand the gravity of our current stagnation, we must journey back to August 27, 1991. I still recall the sheer ecstasy that swept through our towns and villages when Kogi State was carved out of parts of the old Kwara and Benue states.
Our founding fathers—patriots of unmatched resolve—lobbied tirelessly for this state. They did not do so for personal aggrandizement or to create fiefdoms for political dynasties. They envisioned a model state. Located strategically as the gateway between the northern and southern halves of Nigeria, and blessed with abundant arable land and mineral deposits, Kogi was destined to be a powerhouse of agriculture, industrialization, and tourism.
More than that, the creation of Kogi was meant to be a grand experiment in ethnic harmony. It was envisioned as a sanctuary of shared prosperity where the Ebira, Igala, Okun, Bassa, Nupe, and other minority groups would live, work, and thrive as one family.
Thirty-five years later, we must ask: would our founding fathers be proud of the Kogi of today? The honest, heartbreaking answer is no.
A Confluence of Broken Promises
Today, the promise of 1991 lies buried under the weight of decades of governance deficits. As I travel across our three senatorial districts, the evidence of our collective neglect is written on the faces of our people and etched into our crumbling infrastructure.
Our roads have transformed from economic arteries into death traps. Our public schools, which once produced some of the finest minds in Nigeria, are shadow remnants of themselves, underfunded and neglected. Our hospitals have become glorified consulting clinics where the poor go to die because healthcare is either unavailable or unaffordable.
Despite hosting some of the largest mineral deposits in the country, including the vast iron ore deposits in Itakpe and limestone in Obajana, the paradox of poverty in the midst of plenty defines us. Our youth, brilliant and energetic, walk the streets in search of jobs that do not exist, making them vulnerable to the sirens of crime and political thuggery. Our farmers, the backbone of our rural economy, cannot go to their farms without the looming fear of kidnappers and violent attackers. Even Lokoja, our historic capital, sits on the banks of two of West Africa’s largest rivers yet suffers from a perpetual, ironic thirst due to the lack of clean drinking water.
This is not the Kogi our fathers dreamed of. The promise of 1991 remains unfulfilled, hijacked by a political class that prioritizes personal survival over collective progress.
The Weaponization of Division
How did we arrive at this point? The answer lies in the deliberate fragmentation of our people. For too long, the ruling elite in Kogi State has survived by weaponizing our diversity. They have erected artificial walls between the East, West, and Central senatorial districts. They have whispered ethnic sentiments in our ears to keep us divided, knowing that a united Kogi would demand accountability.
But here is the truth that we must now confront: bad governance does not have an ethnic dialect.
When a pregnant woman dies in rural Okene because there is no functional primary healthcare center, she does not die an Ebira woman; she dies a victim of a failed system. When a young graduate from Ankpa remains unemployed for ten years, his hunger does not speak the Igala language. When a farmer in Kabba loses his life savings to insecurity, his pain is not Okun pain—it is human pain. Our suffering is collective, and therefore, our rescue mission must be collective.
We cannot afford another thirty-five years of drift. The year 2026 must be the in a leadership that views our mineral resources not as avenues for personal enrichment, but as tools for industrial expansion and job creation.
We must invest heavily in agriculture, secure our communities so our farmers can return to the fields, revamp our educational sector to prepare our youth for the digital economy, and build critical infrastructure that connects our rural markets to national supply chains.
To the current managers of our state, I say: roll back the drums. The state of our state does not justify the millions that will be spent on anniversary galas and billboards.
If we truly want to honour the memory of the patriots who gave us Kogi State, we must do so through action, not rhetoric. We must roll up our sleeves and build a state where opportunity is democratized, where security is guaranteed, and where human dignity is restored.
To the resilient people of Kogi State, I urge you not to lose hope. Let this 35th anniversary be the spark that ignites our collective consciousness. Let us look past the artificial divides of tribe and tongue, hold hands, and demand the Kogi of our dreams.
Happy 35th Anniversary, Kogi State. The journey to reclamation has officially begun.
Dr. Tom Zekeri is the Kogi State Chairman of the African Democratic Congress (ADC).
