There are photographs that smile.

And there are photographs that confess.

This one does not whisper.

It speaks loudly—if you understand the language of power, betrayal, memory, and unfinished business.


What we are witnessing is not a reunion of statesmen.

It is a convergence of yesterday’s failures, summoned by Orji Uzor Kalu, now parading under a new party label, still intoxicated by the illusion that Abia can be conquered again.


Gathered are familiar faces:

– His former Chief of Staff, later Governor, Theodore Ahamefule Orji

– T.A.’s son, “Ikuku,” former Speaker under Okezie Ikpeazu

– Nkiru Onyejeocha

– And others whose political footprints are deep… but lead nowhere good.

The stated mission?

Remove Alex Otti in 2027.

Hand Abia back to APC.

Turn back the clock. Break the mirror so the past is no longer visible.


But let’s talk about the centerpiece of this image.

The toothpick.

That toothpick is not casual.

It is not boredom.

It is not aesthetics.


It is memory.

I recall—clearly—private conversations with T.A. Orji.

How, as a sitting Governor, he was compelled to remit ₦100 million every month for the upkeep of OUK’s Igbere residence.

Another ₦50 million monthly for “mother’s maintenance.”


I recall him telling me how he would arrive—Governor of Abia State—in full motorcade, sirens screaming, only to be kept downstairs for hours.

Waiting.

Waiting… not for policy.

Not for governance.

But for mamacracy.


And when the matriarch finally appeared, the greeting was never “Welcome, Governor.”

It was, in plain vernacular:

“T.A., asi ni ibiara?”

Did they say you came?

Then came the instructions.

Orders.

Marching commands—back to Government House.


This humiliation continued until courage finally arrived—

nudged, pushed, demanded by his son—

and T.A. broke free from the grip of control, extraction, and indignity.


So when I see that toothpick today, seated beside the same man, I see two thoughts wrestling in one mind:

“Keep deceiving yourself.

You think I have forgotten?”

And at the same time:

“We are back in business.”


Behind him stands the son.

That smile is not innocent.

It is knowing.

It is mischievous.

It says: We understand this game. We have played it before.


But here is the part they are missing:

Abia has moved on.

This is not 1999.

This is not 2007.

This is not the era when power changed hands in living rooms and backyards.

Abians have seen the difference.

They have tasted governance that works.

They have felt roads under their feet, sanity in the books, dignity in leadership.


You cannot gather the architects of failure, dust them off, rebrand them, and expect applause.

The toothpick tells a thousand stories.

So does the silence of the room.

So does the desperation of the gathering.


2027 will not be decided by old grudges and recycled plots.

It will be decided by performance versus plunder.

By light versus darkness.


And let it also be said—clearly and without ambiguity—that part of this same plot is the quiet fantasy of returning OUK as Senator for Abia North. That delusion deserves early burial. Abia North has moved on. The people have moved on. The era of recycling power through intimidation, nostalgia, and backroom arithmetic is over. That return will not happen—not by noise, not by conspiracy, not by gathering yesterday’s men around today’s table. Abia North will not be dragged backward to satisfy wounded egos or unfinished appetites.


Abia will not go back.

Abia North will not go back.

Not to deception.

Not to mamacracy.

Not to political captivity.


History is watching.

The people are awake.

And the past—no matter how loudly it gathers—

cannot defeat the future.

In solidarity with Abians.

In full support of His Excellency.


---Ugo’Ena" Nde Abiriba.