By Abioye Tosin Lawrence
Ekiti and Osun are neighbors, yet their political markets tell two very different tales. Like twin towns with the same surname but different destinies, one is alive with bargaining voices while the other looks like a bazaar after fire, its walls standing, its stalls intact, but its energy consumed by smoke and ash.
In Ekiti, politics has rhythm. The market is awake, traders sharpening their tongues as much as their cutlasses. Governor Biodun Oyebanji, popularly called BAO, moves about like a returning buyer whose last trade left the sellers satisfied. His gestures are measured, his face familiar, and his presence carries the air of someone who knows both the price of yam and the cost of salt. The whispers in the crowd are clear: he is likely to return to the stall for another round of shopping.
But Osun tells another story. If Ekiti’s politics blossoms, Osun’s appears to be in hibernation. The tempo is low, as if the drummer has misplaced his sticks. Here, politics feels like a marketplace that has suffered an inferno, charred roofs, burnt benches, and the faint smell of smoke still lingering in the air. Buyers come, look around, and leave with folded arms, unsure whether to trust the remaining wares or wait for the rebuilding.
And at the center of this lull is the incumbent, Governor Ademola Adeleke, who often enters the stage like a masquerade unsure of which costume to wear. One day he is the people’s dancer, twirling with vigor at public functions. The next, he is the solemn administrator, clad in the robe of seriousness. Another day, he is the reluctant traveler, grasping for life jackets and networking for lifelines across political waters. His appearances, though colorful, sometimes feel like rehearsals for a play that is yet to be staged.
The people, ever perceptive, watch with half-smiles and folded arms. They do not boo, but they do not cheer too loudly either. Like traders after a market fire, they are cautious: Will this stall stand the next rain? Will the wares last another season?
Meanwhile, Ekiti sharpens its cutlass for harvest. Campaign songs are already filtering through the air, the familiar handshakes are back, and the governing network seems intact. The people there are bargaining loudly, with fewer doubts and more certainty. Continuity looks like a commodity already bought and paid for.
Osun, however, is in the phase of testing and tasting. Every announcement feels experimental, every political outing like a pilot episode. The administration itself seems to be searching for stable ground caught between dancing in public squares and tightening belts in private chambers. The state has promise, but promise alone does not fill baskets in the market.
The contrast between the two states is striking. Ekiti blossoms with political certainty, Osun meanders in a political lull. And yet, both remind us of Nigeria’s wider political theatre: a stage where the actors change costumes too quickly, where every masquerade carries multiple masks, and where the audience, though weary from broken promises never stops attending the show.
As 2026 draws near, the questions remain: Will Ekiti sustain its harvest? Will Osun rebuild its burnt market? Only time, and the traders themselves, will decide whose stall will stand the test of the next season.
© Abioye Tosin Lawrence is the publisher of Oriontimes Online Newspaper and author of the upcoming memoir titled: Voices from the fire; My journey through a hollow empire.