There is an old fable attributed to Aesop about a community of frogs who lived freely in their pond but became dissatisfied because they wanted a king. They petitioned Zeus to give them a ruler. Zeus, amused by their demand, threw a great log into the pond. The frogs initially trembled with fear, believing that their new king was powerful. But when they discovered that the log neither moved nor spoke nor interfered with their affairs, they began to ridicule it. They returned to Zeus and demanded a real king. This time, their request was answered with a creature that began devouring them. The frogs, having asked for authority without fully understanding the consequences of the authority they desired, discovered too late that political choices have consequences.

The fable has been used throughout history as a political allegory; in the version transmitted by Phaedrus, it was explicitly connected with questions of political order and the impatience of citizens with their rulers. The story is ancient, but its question is remarkably contemporary: when we ask who should rule us, do we also ask what kind of society we are creating through our political choices? This question brings us directly to Imo State. It is not merely a question about the Governor, the opposition, a political party, a local government chairman, a senator, a member of the House of Representatives or an aspirant preparing for another election. It is a deeper question: Who owns Imo? Does Imo belong to the political class alone? Does it belong to those who control government appointments? Does it belong to those who have the financial capacity to dominate political structures? Or does Imo belong equally to the professor in the university, the trader in the market, the farmer in the village, the student in the classroom, the professional in Owerri, the artisan on the roadside, the civil servant in an office, the traditional ruler in his community and the young person who has never held political office? My answer is simple: Imo belongs to all Imolites, and therefore every Imolite has a stake in its moral, political, economic and intellectual destiny.

The question of ownership becomes more important when we examine the meaning of political loyalty. Loyalty is not inherently evil. Indeed, every political system requires people who are loyal to legitimate institutions, ideas and leaders. But there is a dangerous point at which loyalty ceases to be principled and becomes personal. When a citizen supports a political leader because he believes that leader is advancing the public good, that is political conviction. But when a person defends everything a leader does merely because the leader belongs to his political camp, we have entered another territory. At that point, loyalty begins to compete with conscience. The great philosopher John Stuart Mill warned against the dangers of allowing social pressure to suppress independent judgement. In On Liberty, Mill’s concern was that tyranny could come not only from government but also from society itself. He described the phenomenon as the “tyranny of the majority,” warning that people can be pressured into conformity even without formal coercion.

That warning deserves serious reflection in Imo. We should not create a political culture in which a person is praised for defending everything his political camp does and condemned merely for asking questions. A healthy society must permit citizens to say, “I support this policy, but I disagree with that decision.” A true patriot is not the person who applauds everything. A true patriot is the person who can distinguish between the interest of the individual politician and the interest of the state. Political loyalty must therefore have a moral boundary. When loyalty demands that conscience be surrendered, loyalty has become servitude.

This is where intellectual accountability enters the discussion. What is the responsibility of the intellectual in a society? Is the professor merely a lecturer? Is the writer merely a producer of beautiful sentences? Is the journalist merely a chronicler of events? Is the clergyman merely a preacher? Is the lawyer merely a defender of clients? Is the professional merely a beneficiary of his profession? Or does intellectual capacity create a corresponding responsibility to society? Socrates, whose philosophical life became a symbol of intellectual examination, insisted that the unexamined life is not worth living. The philosophical implication is profound: a society that refuses to examine itself cannot easily correct itself.

Plato’s political philosophy similarly connects citizenship with responsibility. The famous saying attributed to Plato that refusing to participate in politics can result in being governed by those one considers less qualified has endured precisely because it captures a painful truth about civic withdrawal. Intellectuals therefore cannot permanently occupy the comfortable position of observers. They cannot complain privately about the direction of society while remaining publicly silent because speaking carries a political cost. If intellectuals surrender the public space entirely to political loyalists, propaganda merchants and professional praise-singers, they should not be surprised when public discourse becomes impoverished. Imo needs intellectuals who can speak to power without becoming enemies of power; who can praise achievement without becoming sycophants; who can criticise failure without becoming destructive; and who can defend truth even when truth is inconvenient to their friends.

There is also a danger on the other side. Intellectual accountability must not become intellectual arrogance. The university professor does not own the truth simply because he possesses academic qualifications. The professional does not automatically understand the suffering of the ordinary citizen simply because he occupies an influential position. The intellectual must listen to the people. The fisherman, farmer, trader, artisan, teacher, driver, student and civil servant all possess forms of knowledge that deserve respect. Imo is not an abstraction created inside university lecture halls. Imo is a living society made up of millions of experiences, hopes, frustrations, memories and aspirations.

Therefore, when we ask “Who owns Imo?” we are also asking whether the ordinary citizen has become sufficiently important in our public conversation. The answer must be yes. Development cannot be measured only by what appears impressive from the centre. A new road is important, but so is the livelihood of the person whose farm lies beyond that road. A government building is important, but so is the quality of education available to the child who may one day occupy that building. Political appointments are important, but so is whether institutions work when citizens who have no political connection approach them. The true test of governance is not how loudly government supporters praise government; it is how meaningfully ordinary citizens experience the state.

This is why Imo must move beyond the primitive understanding of politics as a struggle over who gets what position. Politics should be a contest over ideas, programmes, values and visions. Political parties should tell Imolites what they intend to do with education, employment, agriculture, industrialisation, technology, healthcare, security, environmental protection, urban development, rural development and human capital. Politicians should be challenged to explain not only what position they want, but what problem they intend to solve. The electorate should not be treated merely as a crowd that appears during campaign seasons. Citizens should become participants in governance. Political leaders should not be surrounded exclusively by people whose principal talent is praise. Every administration needs people who can tell the truth. Every political leader needs advisers capable of saying, “Sir, this policy may be wrong.” Every government needs institutions strong enough to survive beyond the personality of whoever occupies the Government House. This is the essence of institutional maturity. A state becomes strong when its institutions are stronger than individual interests. If everything depends on one person, then the state has not truly developed; it has merely become organised around a personality.

The tragedy of political loyalty is that it can sometimes make intelligent people defend what they would condemn if the political colours were reversed. This is one of the greatest dangers confronting democratic consciousness. An act does not become right because it is performed by our preferred politician, just as an act does not become wrong merely because it is performed by someone we dislike. Justice must not wear party colours. Truth must not require a political uniform. The same standard we apply to one government should be applied to another. The same principle we use to criticise an opposition politician should be available when evaluating a member of the ruling establishment. Otherwise, we are not practising democracy; we are practising tribalised or personalised political allegiance.