The sun hadn’t even settled over the brown rooftops of Ogbomosho when the crowd began to gather in front of the local government secretariat.
Motorcycle engines coughed. Megaphones blared praise songs.
“Honourable Commissioner! The people are waiting for you!” someone shouted as the convoy crawled through the dusty street like a metal snake.
When the first siren screamed, the traders by the roadside froze, then smiled.
He was here.
The man who promised to fix everything.
Chief Dr. Festus Alao — Honourable Commissioner for Works and Infrastructure — stepped out of his Prado like a man stepping onto a stage. The agbada, cream-white and wide enough to hide a football, floated around him. The local chairman ran forward with a bow so deep it nearly split his trousers.
“Your Excellency, sir! We are honoured—”
Chief waved. “Leave all that, my people. We are one family.”
Applause followed. Cameras clicked.
He walked to the podium, cleared his throat, and began the performance every Nigerian crowd knew by heart.
“This administration is for the people...”
He spoke of progress.
He spoke of new roads, new schools, new hope.
He even promised that the long-dead borehole in Itesiwaju ward would soon flow again.
Every line earned a cheer.
The praise singers were working overtime.
But just behind the stage, under the same tarpaulin that shaded the commissioner’s black SUV, four men huddled around a brown envelope.
The Envelope
It was thick.
Not from paper — from expectation.
Inside were fifty crisp ₦1,000 notes, packed for the “media boys.”
Another bundle for “security appreciation.”
And one small, folded cheque for the local government engineer who would soon “approve” the already awarded contract.
When Chief finished speaking, sweat glistening on his temple, his aide-de-camp leaned close and whispered, “Sir, the envelope has been shared.”
Chief nodded. “Good. Make sure the photographer gets the one with my hand on the Bible. That one sells well.”
He turned to the crowd again and raised his hands. “You see! The youth are our future! You are the reason we are here!”
A tired-looking man in the back muttered, “Then why is my son still home since NYSC?”
But the music drowned him out.
A Contract Signed in Dust
By the next week, the bulldozer appeared — just for one day.
It cleared a small patch of road, enough to take pictures.
Posters of Chief Alao soon replaced the campaign banners. “Work in Progress — Courtesy of Your Listening Government.”
Then the bulldozer vanished.
The contractor’s phone went off.
The engineer signed off on “Phase One completed.”
Phase Two?
It never existed.
When the next rainy season came, the same road flooded again.
This time, the Commissioner came back, promising a “renewed” project.
And again, the convoy came.
And again, the envelopes changed hands.
The Market Woman’s Son
In the crowd that day stood Mama Folake, who sold yam by the roadside.
Her son, a diploma holder in Civil Engineering, had applied for that same road project.
He was turned down because “the job was already awarded.”
He watched the commissioner wave and the people cheer.
He watched the same faces clap for a promise that had already failed them twice.
When the convoy left, he looked down the muddy road that led to his mother’s stall and whispered,
“If truth had a price, maybe they’d sell it too.”
Epilogue: The Return
Two years later, Chief Festus Alao declared interest in the House of Representatives.
His campaign slogan?
“Tested and Trusted.”
The posters smiled across the same broken roads he once promised to fix.
And beneath the agbada, another envelope waited — fresh, thick, and ready for delivery.
🕯️ Moral:
Sometimes corruption doesn’t start with greed — it starts with applause.