Osun 2026: The Masquerade, the Hidden Drummer and Democracy -By Oluwafemi Popoola

There is an old Yoruba proverb: “Kò sí Egúngún tó máa jó, tí a kì í gbọ́ ìlù rẹ̀.” (No masquerade dances without the sound of a drummer somewhere nearby.) As a child, I found that proverb amusing because I thought it referred only to village festivals. Age, however, has taught me that politics is perhaps the greatest masquerade of all.

The loudest voices are not always the ones writing the script. The actors occupying the stage are not always directing the play. Sometimes the most consequential player is the one whose face never appears on the campaign poster, whose name is never mentioned in the headlines, but whose rhythm quietly shapes every dramatic entrance, every carefully timed controversy, every unexpected alliance and every convenient distraction. The masquerade receives the cheers or the insults; the drummer remains comfortably out of sight.

There is something unsettling about Osun today. Perhaps it is the anxiety that hangs over the state as August 15 approaches. Perhaps it is the familiar feeling that elections in Nigeria are often contests of power, influence, institutions and perception. As I watch recent events unfold, I am reminded of the opening line of Charles Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities: “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” That famous paradox captures Nigeria’s democratic journey remarkably well. We celebrate another election as proof that democracy survives, but we are simultaneously confronted by allegations, arrests, accusations and deep mistrust that make many citizens wonder whether democracy is merely surviving instead of flourishing. Are we preparing for a democratic exercise or rehearsing another familiar political drama whose ending everyone already claims to know.

In Osun presently, the campaign posters are new while the slogans have changed. The faces have become older, some even wiser, but the script appears recycled. Suspicion has once again become the loudest campaign manager. Fear now travels faster than manifestoes. Every siren sounds political. Every arrest is interpreted through partisan lenses. Every official statement is weighed by the colours of the political party making it. I cannot pretend this does not worry me.

Osun has long been one of Nigeria’s most politically competitive states. Since the return to democratic rule in 1999, power has shifted between political tendencies, but no election has been devoid of drama. The era of Prince Olagunsoye Oyinlola, the emergence of Rauf Aregbesola, the legal contest that eventually affirmed his victory, the succession of Gboyega Oyetola, and finally Ademola Adeleke’s dramatic triumph in 2022 have all reinforced one reality: Osun is never politically predictable.

There is a reason politicians invest enormous emotional energy in Osun. The state is relatively small, yet politically influential. Its elections often become psychological battles for national parties. Victory in Osun is rarely celebrated as merely winning Osun. It is interpreted as momentum, prophecy or rehearsal for larger national contests. That is why every major political actor suddenly discovers an intense affection for Osun whenever election season arrives. It is a seasonal romance.

This is not entirely new.

History teaches that democratic anxiety is hardly a Nigerian invention. In nineteenth-century America, elections frequently descended into intimidation and violence before institutions gradually matured. Britain itself endured rotten boroughs, vote trading and fierce electoral corruption before developing stronger democratic traditions. Even the Roman Republic eventually collapsed not because Romans stopped voting but because they stopped trusting the institutions that gave meaning to their votes. Democracy has never survived on elections alone. It survives on confidence.

That is precisely why the current atmosphere in Osun should concern every Nigerian, regardless of party affiliation

The National Peace Committee gathered political actors in Osogbo to sign another peace accord, but even before the ink dried, the conversation had already shifted to allegations of intimidation, violence and abuse of state institutions. According to the Independent National Electoral Commission, about 2,000 polling units have been identified as potential violence flashpoints. That figure alone should concern anyone who values democracy. Elections should inspire hope, not apprehension.

The arrest of the Secretary to the Osun State Government, Teslim Igbalaye, has also heightened the tension. The police announced that officers recovered millions of naira in cash, voter registers, voter cards and other materials during a raid on his residence. They also arrested several other individuals, including a man they described as a wanted suspect. Investigations, according to the police, are centred on allegations of vote-buying, criminal conspiracy and harbouring a wanted individual.

Barely a day later, Mr. Igbalaye was released, but by then the political damage or political advantage, depending on one’s perspective—had already been done. The Osun State Government condemned the operation, describing it as an attempt to intimidate the administration and undermine confidence ahead of the election. Governor Ademola Adeleke, speaking at the peace summit, painted an even darker picture. He alleged that his government had been subjected to sustained attacks, accused elements within the opposition and the police of intimidation, and warned that the state was drifting towards dangerous levels of political violence. Those are grave allegations that deserve careful investigation rather than dismissal.

I have no sentimental attachment to politicians. Public office should never provide immunity from investigation. If evidence exists against any public official, the law must be allowed to work without interference. Equally, if security agencies exercise their powers in ways capable of influencing political perception, they owe the public transparency that is beyond reproach. Justice must not only be done; it must possess the appearance of fairness. That old legal principle remains one of democracy’s greatest safeguards.

Unfortunately, our politics has become addicted to selective outrage. When security agencies investigate political opponents, many cheer because it serves immediate partisan interests. When the same institutions later knock on their own doors, they suddenly rediscover constitutional principles. We defend institutions only when they defend us. We condemn abuse only when we become its victims. In the process, institutions themselves become prisoners of political convenience.

Nigerians are among the most politically passionate people anywhere. Our challenge is persuading citizens that their votes are genuinely protected by neutral institutions. Perhaps that explains why every election now arrives carrying two parallel campaigns. One campaign asks for votes. The other campaigns for public trust. Increasingly, the second campaign is losing.

As I watch Osun approach another defining election, I remember that elderly man from my childhood. He never rejected democracy. He simply believed memory was democracy’s most faithful bodyguard. Citizens who remember yesterday are harder to deceive today. That may be the lesson before us.

This election is bigger than Governor Ademola Adeleke. It is bigger than the APC or the PDP. It is bigger than the ambitions of politicians already calculating how Osun might influence 2027. What is truly on trial is the credibility of our institutions. Can the police inspire confidence instead of controversy? Can INEC conduct an election whose legitimacy survives beyond declaration day? Can political actors compete fiercely without dragging the state toward violence? Can citizens accept defeat where the process has been demonstrably fair? Those questions matter far more than campaign slogans.

Oluwafemi Popoola is a Nigerian journalist, media strategist, and columnist. He can be reached via bromeo2013@gmail.com