Osun: Don’t Summon The Demons Of 1983
By Funke Egbemode
By Funke Egbemode
I was a slim teenager on August 15, 1983, but what I saw was fat and unforgettable. I came close, chest-to-chest close, to death.
A big box containing my parents’ certificates and documents was on my head when they stopped me.
With eyes red from rage and other things, they bellowed at me.
I explained, tears in my eyes and voice.
The streets were empty.
Residents of Ikirun, in today’s Ifelodun Local Government Area of Osun State, were all behind closed doors. Only “the boys” were on patrol.
The sky was dark from smoke rising from burning houses, sawmills and shops.
My father’s Action Group identity card became our get-out-of-tragedy card. My father had been a politician years before I was born, and he could have lost everything that day.
Our landlord, Alhaji Atanda, was not so lucky. He lost houses and sawmills. The drums of palm oil his wife had just taken delivery of were kicked over until there was a large red pool of oil.
I believe he also lost the will to live because he locked himself inside his burning house. His friends had to break down the doors to rescue him.
My knees were shaking, and my heart was pounding so loudly I thought it would leap out of my chest.
I saw flashing blades of newly sharpened cutlasses.
I saw blood.
I saw and felt fear.
I heard screams of pain and despair.
I witnessed the destruction of property and livelihoods—the kind that makes people give up on life.
What was the occasion? Was it a war?
Yes and no.
A communal war? Yes—a war in which brothers forgot they were brothers because they wore different party emblems.
It was supposed to be just a governorship election, but the two leading political parties, the Unity Party of Nigeria (UPN) and the National Party of Nigeria (NPN), turned a simple political contest into a bloodbath that left behind widows, widowers, orphans and unbearable sorrow.
It was a terrible season.
August 15, 2026—forty-three years after that day of pain and tragedy—history beckons again with another governorship election in Osun State.
I cannot ignore the coincidence.
The governorship election was held on August 13, 1983. The violence erupted on August 15 after a radio broadcast by a politician.
Another August 15 is almost here.
And another politician has spoken, placing his hands on the legs of a ghost that has long been asleep.
According to philosopher George Santayana, those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.
In Osun, are those who should remember 1983 remembering it correctly?
Or do they think it was merely reality television waiting for Season Two?
There are statements that should never come from the lips of a governor.
There are memories responsible leaders should never awaken.
And there are ghosts that should remain buried.
As Osun prepares for the August 15 governorship election, political tensions have risen, with accusations and counter-accusations over violence, intimidation and alleged attempts to influence the outcome.
Against that background, reports that Governor Ademola Adeleke invoked the possibility of “1983” if the election is not properly conducted have understandably generated anxiety because that year occupies a painful place in the political memory of old Oyo State and in the hearts of victims like me.
Young Nigerians may not understand why older people become uncomfortable whenever post-election violence is mentioned.
It is because people of my generation witnessed it.
We saw fathers pushed into burning houses.
The smell of burning human flesh never leaves your memory.
Those born after the dust settled may think 1983 is merely another year in a history book.
It is not.
It is a scar.
It is a wound.
It is a cemetery of dreams.
It is a reminder that democracy can bleed.
Old Oyo State was not just present-day Oyo. It included what is now Osun State.
When elderly people in Ilesa, Ikirun, Iragbiji, Ororuwo, Ila, Ife, Ede, Iwo, Ogbomoso, Ibadan, Saki or Oyo mention “1983,” they are not discussing politics.
They are remembering fear.
They remember sleeping with one eye open.
They remember mothers hiding children under beds.
They remember fathers refusing to light lanterns at night.
They remember the smell of burning buildings.
They remember neighbours becoming enemies because they belonged to different political parties.
They remember families divided forever.
I, Olufunke, remember the night my family distributed our belongings among my father’s friends and former schoolmates. All six of us children slept on top of our boxes and bags.
I cannot put into words what I think of those who would willingly summon the demons of 1983 again.
The 1983 election remains one of the darkest chapters in the political history of Western Nigeria.
That governorship election, which pitted the late Chief Bola Ige against the late Dr Victor Omololu Olunloyo, ended in bitter controversy.
Allegations of manipulation filled the airwaves.
Before anyone could say “Up Awo,” old Oyo and Ondo States became battlefields.
Streets became war zones.
People stopped arguing with words.
They began arguing with fire, cutlasses and charms.
The violence consumed homes, businesses and lives.
Political offices were attacked.
Communities that had lived peacefully suddenly became trapped in cycles of revenge.
Historians regard the unrest as one of the crises that weakened the Second Republic before the military coup of December 31, 1983.
Eventually, it became clear that nobody truly won.
Not Bola Ige.
Not Victor Omololu Olunloyo.
Not Lekan Balogun.
Not Adekunle Ajasin.
Not Akin Omoboriowo.
Not UPN.
Not NPN.
Certainly not the ordinary people.
History has a cruel sense of humour.
The politicians eventually moved on and, in some cases, became friends again.
Many of the victims never recovered.
That is why leaders must choose their words carefully.
Political speeches are not ordinary conversations.
They are like lit matches.
Sometimes they fall on wet ground.
Sometimes they fall inside a petrol station.
In an atmosphere already charged with allegations of attacks, destruction of campaign materials and fears of electoral violence, every word spoken by political leaders carries enormous weight.
Public appeals from stakeholders, security agencies and peace advocates have consistently urged all parties to avoid inflammatory rhetoric and commit themselves to peaceful conduct before, during and after the election.
No election is worth creating another widow.
No governorship seat should be erected on blood.
Nobody deserves to become an orphan because someone wants to occupy public office.
No political office is valuable enough to justify another generation growing up with stories of fathers who never returned home.
This is not about one political party.
It is about wisdom.
It is about fairness.
It is about the fear of God.
It is not about whether you support APC, PDP, Accord or any other political platform.
It is about whether we have learnt anything from history.
Leadership demands restraint.
A governor’s greatest responsibility is not merely to seek votes.
It is to lower the political temperature.
When followers hear a leader mention a tragic historical event, some interpret it as a warning.
Others hear it as a prediction.
The reckless may even mistake it for permission.
That is why words matter.
One careless sentence can travel faster than a convoy of security vehicles.
One reckless speech can do more damage than hundreds of thugs.
Those who witnessed 1983 are now grandparents.
Some still lower their voices when recounting those stories.
Some still remember where they hid.
Some still remember the neighbour whose shop was burnt.
Some still remember the family that fled overnight and never returned.
Some still remember the smoke, the screams and the burnt bodies.
Many of today’s politicians were children then.
Many of today’s voters had not even been born.
That is precisely why those memories should educate us—not recruit us.
If there is any lesson from 1983, it is that electoral victories are temporary.
The pain of violence is permanent.
Governors come and go.
Senators come and go.
Political parties change names.
But widows remain widows.
Orphans remain orphans.
Burnt houses do not rebuild themselves.
The houses destroyed in my hometown remained empty until their owners struggled to rebuild them.
A destroyed economy does not recover overnight.
Trust, once broken between neighbours, may take generations to restore.
Osun has earned a reputation for producing scholars, judges, teachers, journalists, artists, engineers and distinguished public servants.
Let it also become known as the state that refused to repeat history.
The greatest victory on August 15 will not be who occupies Government House.
The greatest victory will be that every voter returns home safely.
If no mother waits endlessly for a missing son…
If no child sleeps in a displaced persons’ camp because politicians failed to control their tongues…
If no hospital receives victims of avoidable political clashes…
That will be the sweetest victory.
Politicians must remember that elections last only one day.
Governance lasts years.
History lasts forever.
The generation that witnessed 1983 has already paid the tuition fees.
They learnt the lesson with blood and tears.
Must today’s generation pay the same price again?
I hope not.
For nations that keep repeating painful history eventually become prisoners of it.
Osun deserves better.
Nigeria deserves clear-headed leaders who will not inflict irreversible damage on their people.
May August 15 produce ballots and not bullets.
May it produce winners instead of widows.
May it produce celebration instead of sorrow.
And finally, anyone who threatens me with the ghosts of 1983 can never be my friend.
Let that ghost rest in peace—finally.
