Life has a way of testing us with small things before entrusting us with big things. Last week, the test came in the form of a stage. The stage collapsed.
It was the stage erected by the Anti Progressive Team — executives, family, the entire entourage — for their outgoing Sheriff. A simple podium meant to hold one man, one microphone, and the weight of a few moments. Yet it crumbled like paper soaked in rain.
Philosophy teaches us that character is revealed in little things. A man who cannot keep his cup steady will spill the ocean. A builder who cannot balance a stool will fail at building a house. The stage is not just wood and nails. It is a symbol. It is the first promise a contractor makes to the public. When that promise breaks under its own master, what confidence should the public have?
This same team now comes to us with blueprints for bridges. Bridges that must carry mothers to market, children to school, traders to their destiny, and heavy machines that hold the economy together. A bridge is not a speech. A bridge does not forgive error. A bridge either stands, or it buries.
So I ask the question of a realist, not a prophet of doom: If the stage they built for their own Sheriff could not bear his weight, how will the bridge they promise us bear the weight of a whole state? “Ti olùkọ́ni kò bá lè gbé àkàrà rẹ̀, bawo ni yóò ṣe gbé ọjà gbogbo?” If a man cannot carry his own bean cake, how will he carry the whole market?
And then there is the law that governs us all, whether we believe in it or not — the law of Karma. They threw stones daily. They carved names on the wall of insult. They plotted his fall in daylight and in whispers. Yet he answered none. Not a word. Not a sneeze. He chose silence over noise, work over war, patience over pride.
Karma is not a man. It does not take permission. It does not fight back. It simply arrives, quietly, at the appointed hour, carrying the weight of every action we send into the world. When you dig a pit for another, wisdom demands that you first measure its depth with your own foot. “Otítọ́ kò ní ọ̀rẹ́, ṣùgbọ́n ó ní agbára.” Truth has no friend, but it has power.
We are not rejoicing. We are reflecting. Because a state is not a stage for experiments. Learning on the job can be very costly. Governance is not a tea party, nor a dancing arena. A state is a trust. And when contractors cannot be safe on the small podium they assembled for their own leader, then the people cannot be safe on the big bridges they promise the people.
This conversation is not about party banners. It is about competence versus confidence, about substance versus slogan. You cannot sell us a bridge when your stage is in the hospital. You cannot ask us to cross a river when your boat leaked at the shore.
I remain vocal because love speaks. I remain a realist because love also protects.
Prophets predict. Realists prevent. And realists also observe.
Let us prevent the next collapse — on stage, and on bridge. For the sake of those who will cross after us. Where is our Sheriff? We deserve to know. This is a good time for him to perfect his handover note. Let us be concerned for his health. We are all human.
Rotimi Makinde
