By Prof. M.K. Othman
I have been itching to write about the 2026 Osun gubernatorial election. Still, work pressure, political sensitivity, and the Nigerian tendency to condemn people based on their names, ethnicity, religion, etc., kept me from writing until the desire became irresistible. When the campaign for the Osun election was at its peak, I told one of my wives (don’t mind my polygamous nature) that I am keenly interested in the process and outcomes of the Osun election; she waved it off as a non-event: reelection of a dancing governor? What does he do except dance at the slightest opportunity? How can he win against the ruling party at the center? Well, I ignore her being apolitical and knowing very little about the dancing nature of the southwest leaders.
My leader-figure from the southwest, whom I respect so much and have written about twice in my column and my book, “Three Decades of SAA: Fight Against Hunger and Poverty in Nigeria”, Mr. Olusegun Obasanjo, dances openly whenever opportunity comes. Nine years ago, I was in the gallery of the Rotunda of the Capitol, Des Moines, Iowa, USA, during the reception of Dr. Adesina Akinwunmi, who won the 2017 World Food Prize. I watched Mr. Olusegun Aremu Obasanjo, a retired Army General, former Head of State, and two-term President of the Federal Republic of Nigeria, thrilled to no end, openly displaying his joy and dancing to Adunni and Nefertiti music with Dr. and Mrs. Akinwumi Adesina to mark the moment. It was a genuine show of happiness, displayed in an African way, and the audience responded with thunderous applause and shouts of “Baba”.
Despite the affable nature of the milieu and visible pleasantry of all and sundry, the vast majority of the audience was confused; what is the meaning of “Baba”? Was it another name for Adesina? An American lady sitting by my side whispered in my ear, “Please, translate to me what the Musician is saying.” As a non–Yoruba language speaker, I said, “Nigeria has over 200 local languages and many Nigerians hardly speak more than three languages, and thus, I don’t understand a word from the musician’s song.” The lady was even more perplexed that a single country is endowed with more than 200 different languages. Well, the Capitol gathering was certainly an African celebration in the heart of America, and it made me proud to be a Nigerian and part of it.
Sorry for the digression, and back to Osun 2026: by 8.00 a.m. on Saturday, 15 August 2026, as accreditation and voting commenced across Osun State, election morning had arrived with more than the usual anticipation of polling day; there was a palpable sense that something consequential was being tested. From the early hours, roads and strategic locations bore the weight of an extraordinary security presence. At the same time, political heavyweights, political movers and shakers of Nigerian political space, party agents, observers, anxious voters, and we, every other Nigerian outside Osun, watched on, albeit tensely. Despite allegations of financial inducement, intimidation, and sporadic disorder, ordinary citizens queued at polling units, knowing that behind the secrecy of the ballot was perhaps the one place where all the noise, money, and political muscle-flexing inside and outside Osun State could finally become irrelevant. What mattered was who would win the election and how. Threats from irresponsible politicians exacerbated the situation
By that evening, the news and arguments had moved from the polling units to our phones, televisions, internet-connected computers, and the homes of big-time politicians and small groups. I followed the events in my room with amusement while patiently praying for the returning officer’s successful performance, my good friend, Professor Joshua Olalekan Ogunwole (Oguns), the Zaria-Hausa-Yoruba man who has always been a credible man of principle. WhatsApp groups were buzzing; television and social media analysts were doing their arithmetic, combinations, and permutations; party loyalists were trading accusations; and ordinary Nigerians were refreshing their screens for results from Osun. Somewhere in the middle of it all, I found myself thinking about what my wife had said earlier, something rather mundane: the so-called frivolity of dance. Is dance not an antidote and temporary relief from mental pressure and sadness? Isn’t it a way to show love and happiness in the moment? Is it also not a form of exercise that strengthens bones, joints, and muscles for a healthy body? Is it…? Nevertheless, I can’t remember the last time I danced.
For years, Ademola Adeleke had been reduced in much political conversation to “the dancing governor at weddings, rallies and celebrations, sometimes with an abandon considered unbecoming of his high office.” Yet Osun voters were being asked to decide something far more consequential than whether their governor danced and entertained his audience too often: they had roads to travel, are they better than before he became governor; salaries and pensions to receive; children in schools; businesses struggling with costs; hospitals to depend upon; and an economy to survive. So, standing behind the privacy of the ballot box, what should matter more to a voter: the way a governor moves his feet at a party, the political platform beneath those feet, or what he has actually done with the power entrusted to him to serve them?
There is something profoundly instructive about an election in which a governor popularly caricatured for dancing goes before the electorate and asks, in effect: ‘Forget the dance for a moment; it is just an amusement, a way of relieving tension, and concentrate and examine my records of performance!’ The lesson here is that an elected politician’s performance should guide the electorate, which is a globally accepted norm. I have not been to Osun State for more than a decade, and it is indeed difficult for me to score the governor’s performance.
Again, something equally instructive and bemusing is a politician contesting under a relatively unknown party and winning against major parties. Governor Adeleke ran on the platform of a relatively minor political party against the formidable machinery of the party at the center—and survived. Whatever political sympathies you hold, the 2026 Osun State governorship election deserves study beyond the familiar language of winners and losers. It raises a more important question as we approach 2027: what exactly should we be looking for when we choose those who govern us? The non-performing candidates for the 2027 election, sponsored and shielded by government machinery and patronage, should start worrying now, as Nigerians are wiser than they were in 2015, when the Buhari tsunami swept all: the bads, the goods, and the uglies. Let every politician bear their name. Today, we need to sift the wheat from the chaff and hold elected leaders accountable.
The official figures from that election are significant. Adeleke, contesting on the Accord platform, received 511,067 votes, while Bola Oyebamiji of the All Progressives Congress (APC) received 444,815. Najeem Salaam of the ADC came in a distant third with 17,180 votes. Of the 1,005,800 votes cast, 985,079 were valid. Adeleke led his principal challenger by 66,252 votes. Although these numbers tell us who won, they do not, by themselves, explain what happened.
What really happened, and what are the implications for the 2027 national elections? To be continued next week.
