The phone call came in the afternoon of Saturday, May 10. I was particularly tired and very low in spirit. And, usually, when I’m that way, I don’t take calls. My doctor’s advice. “Comfort, drop the phone, particularly  when you are tired. Rest. Shut your eyes. Don’t talk.” That is the wahala I have been going through since the past four years when my doctors began to, literally, run my life.

But this call was from my maternal home, Ihiagwa. I am proudly Chris Asoluka’s “nwa-nwa”. There are calls one does not ignore. This was one of them. So, I took it. After the initial pleasantries which had began to irritate me because the caller kept asking, repeatedly, if I was okay, the next question “arrested” me. “Have you heard what happened, what we are dealing with now?” I paused. He sighed. And added “life”. So, I thought somebody has been kidnapped, or somebody’s farm has been invaded by rogue herdsmen. I mean, those are usually the most current news from the South-east. Many people, including yours truly, have developed shock absorbers to such news. We just sigh, shake our heads helplessly, and life drags on. But none of those was the case. This was a combination of thunder, lightening, earthquake and tsunami. “Chris Asoluka died”, he dropped the bomb slowly. I had no response. But I slowly sat on the floor to avoid a fall because I had immediately began to sweat dangerously even though the room was cold. My mouth instantly turned dry.  I was just gazing at my phone. Speechless. And then, I screamed: “Nneka!”, and cut off the phone.

The news was difficult for me to process. There must be a mistake somewhere, I finally concluded. Chris called and spoke to me just about a month earlier. He said he and his lovely wife, Nneka, just thought about me; that we hadn’t spoken for sometime; that they plan to come visit me in the house; he was apologetic he hadn’t called for a couple of months but quickly told me he had, also, been out of the country where he underwent surgery. So, we agreed to see as soon as I was back to the country. And now this.

This is not true; there must be some mistake somewhere, I consoled myself. Wishful thinking. But, with faith in God,  I picked the phone and called two people I was sure would know. I called my cousin, Chief Martin Agbaso. As soon as he picked and I heard his voice, soooo very low, I knew Chris had gone. Two of them were great friends and each other’s confidant. I was  reluctant to ask him for details. But I needed to know how and why? So, I called another good friend of his, Nick Oparandudu. We spoke. And my blood pressure shot dangerously up thereafter.  After about two hours, I had the courage to speak with Nneka. It was no use. She was “silently” hysterical. I was loudly hysterical. She was in the village. And would come back the next day, she managed to tell me. I managed to hear that.

Chris always wanted to pass on in his village:

So, Chris planned his own passing, was my conclusion; in his own terms. He always talked about passing on at home anytime it was time for him to go. He would, jokingly, we  usually thought, talk about how he hated it when somebody died, and the body would be wrapped up and transported home in the luggage compartment of an airplane. He didn’t like the hassle or the discomfort and inconvenience the process gave family members. He thought it was a disruption of other people’s lives and activities. Just like him. A gentleman of the first order. He hated hassles. He hated any inconvenience to anybody. So, that must be why it took less than 24 hours after he passed for his family to announce the devil-cursed news,  funeral dates included. That was what he wanted. He hated too much protocol.

Morbid sense of humor

Anybody who knew him knows he had a sense of humor. He spoke slowly. Never raised his voice. Full of wisdom. Played with proverbs. Played with words. Held his audience spellbound with his combination of serious points, words of wisdom, proverbs and  humor that cracked one’s ribs. But atimes, his humor can be morbid.

Take these two.

When he lost his eldest sister in London, and having lost all the others, he became  not only a confirmed orphan but the only one of his siblings alive. So, he would tell his wife: “Nneka, pamper me o. If you don’t, I will join my siblings. And everybody would have a good laugh  and add “Nneka, pamper him ooo!”

And this. One day, after a funeral at a beautiful private cemetery in Lagos, he turned to Nneka: ” I kind of like this place. They are all neighbors. It’s like a Community. When I die, may be you should bury me here so that at night, all of us neighbors will come out, sit down and be telling stories. If you bury me at Ihiagwa, I will be alone there. No neighbors.” From Nneka was “God forbid”

And Asoluka was a consummate family man

He loved his wife and children to the moon and back. He had three children, but particularly had a special bond with his only daughter, Somachi. I remember the day Soma wedded. After the father- daughter dance which we thought he enjoyed, Chris came to where I was, and broke down in tears. He asked me for a handkerchief to wipe his tears  I had a good laugh at him, said ‘shame’, and in addition to the handkerchief handed him his sunglasses which he kept in my custody. “Jealous, protective father,   cover your eyes so Soma will not see them red”, I taunted him.

Chris always wanted his family around him. And, without them knowing, he planned it to be so on his death bed. He made sure Nneka and Soma were around him all through the few days in hospital when nobody expected his passing. He was alert; was never put on oxygen; was discussing with his wife and daughter and his medical team. Soma cheered him on. Hung onto his every word, every movement. Applauded him each time he took his medicines, or when blood was drawn from his vein for different tests. “Good job daddy,” Soma will tell him. “Okwuruoha, Okwuru Owere”, she would hail him. And they would hold hands. Nneka will tell him: “You know I’m leaving here with you. Once you are stronger, we leave.” Nothing prepared her for her husband’s passing.

The man and his books, the mentor

He loved books. He authored quite a few. And was not denied the company of books even in the hospital. Soma was around to read for him. She would sit by the bedside and read since he couldn’t hold the book by himself because of all kinds of medical “gadgets” attached to his hands in particular.

He loved to impact knowledge on others. He did that while in the hospital – to his medical team.

An accomplished development strategist, an accomplished financial guru, Lawyer, Asoluka mentored not a few people. One only needs to go to the internet which has been on fire, literally, since his passing. Testimonies from those he mentored are coming in like claps of thunder. While in the hospital, he continued with his mentoring, guidance of his  medical team in his own field and other fields. He was home to any subject.

The man with a Community spirit.

He loved his community. He was proudly Owere, and proudly Ihiagwa – his community. He, always, thought about things to improve his Community, to improve Owerri. The Ihiagwa -Nekede – Owerri road was one of his greatest worries, his nightmare. As he was being transported to Owerri from Ihiagwa a couple of hours after he fell ill, his thoughts were on that road. As the vehicle, no thanks to the bad road threw him up and down, he said he had discussed the road with his good friend, Imo State Governor, Senator Hope Uzodinma and was hopeful he would not fail him; that the road will get same treatment as the scores of others the Governor handled.

Now, the urgent prayer is that when his body will be transported from Owerri to Ihiagwa on July 27, the road will not bounce his casket/body around; it will be so smooth so that Chris will be smiling and hailing the Governor for honoring him in death.

The man with a a kindred spirit, proudly Owerri, unadulterated Igbo

Since Chris Asoluka’s passing,   from Lagos to the USA to Canada, it has been all very moody, dreary and long faces for my siblings and I. It has been rivers of tears. One of my younger sisters whose wedding  Chris and Nneka  were sponsors has been inconsolable. A man with a great kindred spirit, I didn’t need to ask him to be the sponsor. It was a role he offered to play, especially, when he knew that my sister’s husband is, like Nneka, Anambra. At the wedding reception, he was all over the place to make sure everything was okay, everybody was comfortable. Aside from my siblings and I being his “nwa- nwa,” we had a special relationship with him. He was “our big brother!” and we are devastated  by this sudden separation.

In Lagos where he lived, he was in the forefront for the fight for the progress of the Igboman. He had been the President of the intellectual engine room of the Igbo,  Aka Ikenga, Lagos. He was a solid Ohaneze member. He had sort, once, to be its President, to give it a new direction, but quickly, and quietly  withdrew when the office became controversial. Chris was a Federal Parliamentarian where he put his people first. He was Imo State’s Commissioner for Finance at a time where he showed unprecedented zeal, patriotism and accountability.

Dr. Chris Chigoziri Asoluka

Why I am angry

My anger over Chris Asoluka’s passing boils to high heavens. I am not just angry, I am incensed. Chis’ passing is like somebody who had crossed the Atlantic Ocean, crossed the Pacific Ocean, only to drown in a stream.

The questions I have been asking nobody in particular are: “What kind of joke did this guy pull  on everybody? What kind of magic is this? What kind of ‘wayo’ is this?” I am not going to lie that his health had been 100 per cent for some months, but whose health in Nigeria is 100 per  cent?  Who is absolutely free from these silly illnesses? We are all dependent on our medications, on the whims and caprices of our doctors.

There was nothing to suggest that Chris was in danger. The time we thought he was bad had since past by months and months. He was taking his medications religiously. He was keeping to his appointments with his doctors- both within and outside Nigeria- religiously. He was strong. He was going about his businesses. He was playing the role of husband, father, grandfather, big brother and mentor to many. There was no sign that it was his time to be harvested from Mother-earth by the great Creator. He was not ripe. If he was not strong, would he have gone home for the funeral of the Traditional Ruler of Ihiagwa, HRH Eze Lucky Ajoku? It was a funeral he ended up even not attending because he suddenly fell ill on its eve.

Why did the devil-cursed illness not begin in Lagos where his doctors were,  even though I understand the hospital he was taken to in Owerri is well equipped. It would have been easier to handle him in Lagos and/or air-ambulance him out. In deed, an air ambulance, provided by a worried friend of his was ready and waiting. But there was so much confidence in the hospital where he was that the air ambulance was asked to just wait, “let’s see.” I mean, from all indications, he was doing very well. Hope was high. Nobody thought of death. Which death? Then, suddenly…

How did we lose somebody like Chris just when Owerri needed him most. Brilliant. Urbane. Dignified. A combination of good looks, brain, wisdom. Chai!

What a waste!! And I don’t mean that his life was a waste. He had achieved all there was to achieve. A family of lawyers – father, mother, children. Beautiful,  loyal and loving wife, successful children.  Academically, Chris was solid; had a couple of Master’s degrees and capped them with a doctorate degree, not honorary! Well respected in the society. Had friends that mattered. Yet, it is difficult not to describe Chris Asoluka’s sudden passing as a waste of everything good. How does one even refer to him in the past?

So, this other day, nervously, I went to see Nneka in the company of Agbaso and lovely wife, Robin. And even though there were a number of people there, the house seemed so empty without Chris. It was so strange. Eerie!  My eyes kept dashing from upstairs to downstairs in a failed expectation that Chris could just walk down donning his infectious smile. His absence was so conspicuous that even the dog in the house noticed. The poor white, fine dog kept looking at faces miserably. He would end up at Nneka’s feet, look up at her face, then walk away to Chris’ usual chair. Sit down. Look up and down the empty Chair. And make the rounds again. An emotional Nneka explained: “He is looking for Chris.”

Weep, Owerri, weep! First, it was Paschal Dozie. Now, it is Chris Asoluka at just 70 years. It is well with our souls. God’s will, we are always told. He just picks us up like that to come stay with Him.

Chris nne m. Nwoke oma. Ome nwanne. Okwuruoha! Okwuru Owere!! Peace. Peace. Peace. Good trip!!!

Obi is the Editor-in-Chief/CEO of The Source (Magazine).

Say whatever you like about Sule Lamido, but one thing is beyond dispute: he is one of Nigeria's most consistent politicians alive today. Since 1999, Lamido has stood firmly with the People's Democratic Party (PDP).

He has resisted every temptation and opportunity to defect, even when it seemed politically expedient to do so.

In 2013 and 2014, Lamido was part of a faction of the PDP that became known as the "nPDP." It was at odds with then President Goodluck Jonathan. Yet, when most members of the nPDP defected to the then-emerging All Progressives Congress (APC), he stayed put. 

To him, abandoning PDP simply because it was ailing was akin to abandoning a sick child he himself brought into the world.

Today, even as the PDP seems to be faltering and politicians scramble to jump ship to the APC, Lamido remains reliably loyal. 

Recently, I came across a fascinating graphic illustrating the convoluted, often confusing, trajectories of party defections by Nigeria's prominent political figures. If Lamido's name were placed there, his track would feature just one entry: PDP.

I first met Lamido in Jos in 1999 during the PDP presidential primary convention, where Olusegun Obasanjo emerged as the party’s flagbearer. I was then a young reporter with Weekly Trust, keenly observing Nigeria's unfolding democracy. 

Our paths crossed again in 2010 through my good friend Adagbo Onoja, Lamido’s Special Adviser on Media at the time. Lamido warmly invited me to Dutse to condole with me following my wife’s passing. 

On both occasions, I found him sharp-witted, insightful, and intellectually engaging.

I noticed the news buzzing about Lamido's newly launched autobiography, aptly titled "Being True to Myself." 

The title strikes me as profoundly fitting. Here’s a man whose political life embodies solid consistency and fidelity to his principles. 

Once the book hits Amazon, I plan to promptly order it, savor every page, and share my reflections in a detailed review.

Sule Lamido’s story deserves thoughtful attention, whether or not one shares his political stance or his choices while he was in government.

The last two weeks witnessed a gale of defections by politicians notably from the opposition Peoples Democratic Party (PDP) to the governing All Progressives Congress (APC). The high water mark of these defections were the fell swoop defections of the Governor of Delta State, Sheriff Oborevwori, and a former Governor of Delta State and the former Vice Presidential running mate of former Vice President Atiku Abubakar in the 2023 General Elections, Ifeanyi Okowa, and many of their supporters.

Defections in Nigerian politics are not new. Their antecedent can be traced to the First Republic when we operated a British-style parliamentary system. The phenomenon was referred to as “cross carpeting”. In spite of this unsavory history, defections have come to define and characterise the politics of the Fourth Republic which encompasses our return to democracy from 1999 up to the present.

Interestingly, the opposition PDP, which previously held sway until 2015, set this unseemly tone by co-opting bigwigs of the opposition on the watch of former Presidents Olusegun Obasanjo and Umaru Yar’Adua. Subsequently, the APC took this predilection to a new low: it enticed members of the opposition and others facing investigation for alleged corruption by dangling them carrots. A former chairperson of the APC enticed allegedly corrupt politicians by famously promising that they would be free of their sins if they joined his party.

The latest gale of defections is alleged to be informed, partly, by subtle blackmail and coercion. This allegation is lent credence when we consider that one of the high-profile defectors, until now, was being brow-beaten and hectored by one of the anti-corruption agencies.

It is correct to argue that these defectors have the right to do so if they choose. After all, our Constitution allows us to associate freely and in an untrammeled fashion. Former Vice President Atiku Abubakar, who is a serial defector and whose political standing is supposed to be vitiated by Okowa’s defection, underscored this in his recent remark.

If politicians have the right to defect or to choose which persons to relate with, our defections are informed largely by the need to jump onto a gravy train and a primitive desperation for power. This is best underlined by the languid rationalisation offered by former Governor Okowa. He claimed that in hindsight, he ought to have aligned with the interests of his geo-political South South. What took him so long to receive this revelation? Does he want us to seriously subscribe to the notion that he did not give his aspiration to be Vice President any forethought?

In other jurisdictions where politicians are informed by high-minded ideals and well considered principles, it is an uphill task to defect or make the kind of shameless three hundred and sixty degrees turn that our politicians make. In such serious climes, cogent and reasoned explanations will be offered to the citizens or voters. Or the politicians will resign their positions because the platforms they used to secure power were no longer tenable.

Even in the more redeeming Second Republic when there was a semblance of ideological politics, and the political parties were anchored on some modicum of principles, the parties, at the worst of times, were sundered or splintered into factions. The Peoples Redemption Party (PRP) and the Nigerian Peoples Party (NPP) were cases in point.

Today’s political parties, except a very few, are mere sucked eggs. They are bereft of belief, principles or moral compass. Worse, the returns on investment in politics in Nigeria is the highest of any enterprise, hence the desperation for office. This desperation is aimed, not at adding value to Nigerians but at feathering the nests of these politicians.

The fact that politicians can defect with ease, and without recourse to their supporters or voters, speaks eloquently either to a lack of respect for Nigerians or to an insult to their intelligence. It also betrays the fact that the overriding considerations for the typical Nigerian politician are power and the lavish perks of office.

If, as some of them glibly argue, that they are leaving their parties to the governing APC because they are dysfunctional or that they are riven with crises, is the APC, which refuge they desperately seek, a paragon? This is a party, like other defective ones, which does not lay premium on internal democracy. This is a party which scarcely holds meetings of its executive bodies. This is a party which gives its ticket to the highest bidder. And this is a party which is bereft of any succinct or lofty agenda other than state capture.

The APC is thus as guilty, if not more guilty, than the parties they are abandoning.

This writer’s conjecture is that those scrambling for the grace and embrace of the APC do so for two self-seeking reasons: To have their sins glossed over by a party desperate to remain in office and to seamlessly access its ticket in 2027. This may be informed by the calibration that the APC has some of the most pivotal institutions which will facilitate this possibility in its thrall.

But even this calculation may be preposterous or unattainable.

Besides, as the well-worn saying goes, only fools rush in where angels fear to tread. Those departing the APC may not be without blemish but they had compelling reasons, informed by the APC’s failings and peccadilloes, to leave. The APC, itself, rather than alleviate Nigeria’s woes, has worsened them and remains, at best clueless.

Additionally, a scramble which is not adroitly managed can only lead to an implosion. The spooning or dishing out of the gravy could be messy. This is not to mention the greed and vaulting ambition of those jumping onto the APC train.

These defections also take Nigerians for granted. The defectors, and those cajoling them, assume that Nigerians will forever be docile and that they would forbear the misrule and excesses of the APC in perpetuity. There is a word for it. It is called hubris. Hubris often comes before a catastrophic fall.

Dazang is a former director at the Independent National Electoral Commission (INEC)

The 2025 Unified Tertiary Matriculation Examination (UTME), conducted by the Joint Admissions and Matriculation Board (JAMB), sparked public outcry over widespread failures, leading to a rare press conference by the Registrar, Professor Is-haq Oloyede. His statement is notable for its candour and rhetorical flourish. However, in light of best practices in crisis communication, the address reveals commendable efforts alongside critical shortcomings.

One of the core tenets of crisis communication is the prompt and transparent acknowledgement of the issue. JAMB’s press statement scores highly on this front. The Registrar admits, unequivocally, that technical glitches occurred and that candidates were affected. This stands in contrast to the typical deflection or denial often seen in Nigerian public sector communication. “There are grounds for the complaints about our 2025 UTME results… This press conference is convened to unveil the bitter truth of our findings,” he said.

This openness lends credibility and helps contain reputational damage. However, the initial delay between the release of the results (May 9) and the press conference (May 14) allowed public distrust to fester, which reduced the effectiveness of the eventual admission.

While transparency is commendable, the Registrar’s tone at times veers into the overly rhetorical and self-congratulatory. Phrases like “we burn the midnight oil” or referencing spiritual maxims like “Man proposes, God disposes” dilute the severity of the situation. Rather than focusing on the affected candidates, the statement meanders through lengthy descriptions of quality assurance processes and organisational philosophy.

Best practices suggest using clear, concise, and empathetic language during crises. Overusing metaphors and anecdotes may come across as deflective or insincere. Audiences seek reassurance, not poetry.

ALSO READ: 19-year-old UTME candidate commit suicide after scoring 190 in JAMB

JAMB earns praise for the Registrar’s assumption of responsibility: “As Registrar of JAMB, I hold myself personally responsible… and I unreservedly apologise for it.”

This is a textbook move in crisis communication: own the failure, don’t blame others. It helps maintain public trust. However, the apology is somewhat undermined by attempts to shift focus to the robustness of the system and the incompetence of unnamed service providers. The emphasis on “just one of the two service providers” feels like a hedging tactic rather than full accountability.

Another best practice is to provide a factual and comprehensible explanation of what went wrong. Here, the Registrar offers significant technical detail: issues with shuffling options, patch errors, server misconfigurations, and distinctions between “LAG” and “KAD” operational zones.

However, while thorough, the explanation is not sufficiently user-centred. Many stakeholders, including students, parents, and the general public, may struggle to understand this technical jargon.

The core message could have been simplified: What went wrong? Where did it happen? How many were affected? What are you doing about it?
Excessive focus on internal systems and structure detracts from the human cost of the crisis and obstructs clarity. JAMB took decisive remedial steps: affected candidates will retake the exam; WAEC was contacted to address scheduling conflicts; affected parties will be notified through multiple channels.

This is a strong and practical response, demonstrating both empathy and action, which are key pillars of effective crisis resolution. The Registrar’s statement that JAMB will reschedule exams for 157 affected centres reflects a responsive approach. However, the solution would have resonated more if it had been presented earlier and more clearly in the speech. It appears near the end, following many paragraphs of justification.

Moreover, it’s unclear whether the Board will compensate or support the candidates beyond merely rescheduling. For a proper restorative approach, some gesture of support (e.g., transportation assistance, exam fee waiver, or psychosocial support) would demonstrate deeper care.

Involving respected stakeholders—educators, parents’ associations, tech experts, and former officials—adds legitimacy to the investigation. It shows that JAMB is not acting unilaterally and values transparency. Still, the Registrar misses the opportunity to mention whether any candidates themselves, or their guardians, were part of this review. Their voices, being the most directly affected, should have had a space in the resolution process.

In closing, the Registrar leans into a heartfelt apology and uses phrases like: “I AM SORRY to all Nigerians.” This statement, although made late in the address, strikes a powerful emotional note. The triad of “please,” “thank you,” and “I am sorry” adds a human touch to the message. It indicates that JAMB acknowledges the public’s dissatisfaction.

However, the apology would have carried more weight if placed earlier in the statement, rather than buried after technical justifications. Best crisis responses end with concrete commitments to prevent recurrence. The Registrar fails to outline clear steps for future reform. While the speech highlights existing quality assurance processes, it does not promise new oversight mechanisms, third-party audits, or changes to provider contracts.

A future-facing statement such as “We will implement X, Y, Z to ensure this never happens again” is notably absent. JAMB’s crisis communication during the 2025 UTME controversy was commendable in its openness but flawed in its delivery. By focusing more on public clarity and actionable commitments—and less on internal glorification—it could have strengthened trust during a time of institutional vulnerability. For future incidents, JAMB must prioritise speed, simplicity, and support over storytelling.

Onyima, a former Commissioner for Information in Anambra State, teaches at Paul University, Awka.