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.

The German great philosopher Immanuel Kant placed enormous importance on the moral autonomy of the individual, the capacity to reason and act according to principles rather than merely following external commands. Political maturity requires precisely this capacity. An Imolite should be able to say: “I support this person, but I will not support injustice because of him.” Equally, one should be able to say: “I oppose this politician politically, but I will acknowledge his good work when he does something beneficial.” That is not weakness. That is intellectual honesty. And perhaps what Imo needs most urgently today is not louder political voices but more honest voices.

The intellectual community therefore has a historic responsibility. Our universities, colleges, professional bodies, religious institutions, media houses and civil society organisations should become spaces where the future of Imo can be debated without fear. An intellectual who cannot criticise his own political camp has surrendered part of his intellectual independence. A journalist who writes only what pleases his sponsors has surrendered part of journalism’s moral purpose. A professor who refuses to engage public questions because they are politically sensitive has surrendered part of the social responsibility that comes with knowledge. A professional who sees injustice but remains silent because the victim has no political connection has reduced citizenship to personal convenience.

Edmund Burke, whose famous line about the triumph of evil through the silence of good people is often misattributed, did write a closely related warning in Thoughts on the Cause of the Present Discontents: “When bad men combine, the good must associate; else they will fall one by one.” John Stuart Mill likewise argued in an 1867 address that people should not console themselves with the idea that they cause no harm by taking no part, warning that those pursuing harmful ends benefit when good people simply look on. The lesson for Imo is not that intellectuals should organise themselves against government or against any political party. The lesson is that silence must never become the price of intellectual comfort. Intellectuals should organise themselves around truth, justice, development and the public interest.

And what does this mean for the ordinary Imolite? It means that the question “Who owns Imo?” must not be left to politicians and intellectuals alone. The market woman owns Imo. The student owns Imo. The farmer owns Imo. The artisan owns Imo. The pensioner owns Imo. The civil servant owns Imo. The businessperson owns Imo. The traditional institution owns a piece of its cultural inheritance. The young graduate struggling to find employment owns Imo’s future. The child sitting in a rural classroom owns a portion of the future we are constructing today.

When we therefore speak about political accountability, we should not reduce it to attacking whoever occupies office. Accountability also means asking ourselves what kind of citizens we are becoming. Do we sell our conscience for immediate political favours? Do we celebrate mediocrity when it benefits our friends? Do we remain silent when injustice affects somebody outside our family or political circle? Do we demand good governance only when our own people are excluded? These questions are uncomfortable because they shift responsibility from “them” to “us.” But a mature democracy must eventually arrive at that point. Government matters enormously, but citizens also matter.

Political leaders can shape institutions, but citizens shape political culture. If citizens reward blind loyalty, politicians will cultivate blind loyalists. If citizens reward competence, integrity and performance, political actors will eventually understand that those are the qualities required for survival. The coming years should therefore become a period of intellectual awakening in Imo. This is not a call for rebellion. It is not a call for hatred. It is not a call for political confrontation. It is a call for conscience. Imo needs a new culture in which disagreement is not automatically interpreted as hatred and criticism is not automatically interpreted as opposition.

We need a political environment where a citizen can question a policy without being branded an enemy. We need intellectuals who can write without first asking which political camp will benefit. We need politicians who can accept criticism without seeing every critic as a threat. We need journalists who can investigate without becoming instruments of political warfare. We need citizens who can distinguish propaganda from evidence. Above all, we need to recover the idea that public office is a trust, not private property.

Jean-Jacques Rousseau famously placed the sovereignty of the political community above the personal ambitions of rulers. Whatever differences one may have with Rousseau’s political philosophy, the underlying question remains powerful: when public authority is exercised, whose interest is ultimately being served? That question should accompany every public decision in Imo. Not “Who will benefit politically?” but “Will this strengthen Imo?” Not “Will my political friends applaud?” but “Will the ordinary citizen be better off?” Not “Will this embarrass my party?” but “Is this right?” These are the questions that turn politics into public service.

So, who owns Imo? The answer must never be that Imo belongs to whoever controls political power at a particular moment. Governments come and go. Parties rise and fall. Political alliances change. Officeholders eventually leave office. But Imo remains. The villages remain. The families remain. The children remain. The culture remains. The land remains. The memory of what we did with our opportunities remains. And history has a strange way of separating those who merely occupied positions from those who actually transformed society. Therefore, let every Imolite ask himself or herself a simple question: What am I doing to make Imo better than I found it? Let politicians answer it through their policies. Let intellectuals answer it through courageous scholarship and public engagement. Let journalists answer it through responsible journalism. Let professionals answer it through service. Let religious leaders answer it through moral leadership. Let young people answer it through creativity and enterprise. Let citizens answer it through responsible participation. Political loyalty has its place, but it must never replace conscience; intellectual freedom has its place, but it must never become arrogance; criticism has its place, but it must be guided by truth and love for society.

Imo does not need intellectuals who merely clap. It needs intellectuals who think. It does not need citizens who merely follow. It needs citizens who question. It does not need politicians who merely win elections. It needs leaders who leave institutions stronger than they found them. And perhaps the most important political question for Imo today is therefore not who will control the state, but what kind of state are we collectively creating? The answer will depend not only on those who hold power, but also on the courage of those who possess the intellectual and moral capacity to speak when speaking matters most.