By Wahab Oba
An African proverb reminds us: “When the roots of a tree begin to decay, it spreads death to the branches.” This rings especially true today, on this year’s Children’s Day, a time when the world pauses to celebrate and commit to the wellbeing of its youngest citizens. In Kwara State, however, the day is overshadowed by a grim reality: our children, our roots, our hope, are under threat, not from fate, but from failed leadership.
In recent days, the state has been consumed by a political spat over whether Kwara was once declared “fit for a child” by UNICEF in 2010. Yet, in the face of the devastating fact that over 300,000 children in Kwara are at risk of death due to severe acute malnutrition, such a debate is not only tone-deaf, it is profoundly misplaced.
To the mother watching her child waste away for lack of nutrition, or the father who can not afford a blood test at a public hospital in the state, the label “fit for a child” is meaningless. Governance is not about who won the last argument; it is about who is saving lives today.
Rather than engage with the alarming statistics and urgent calls for intervention raised by Prof. Ali Ahmad, the administration of Governor AbdulRahman AbdulRazaq chose sarcasm, slang, and historical revisionism. What we saw was a political tirade laced with insults and a strange obsession with erasing all traces of PDP-era progress.
But when your first instinct in the face of a humanitarian crisis is to attack the messenger instead of addressing the message, governance has failed. This is no longer about politics, it is about the fate of the Kwara child, and by extension, the future of the Kwara household.
Malnutrition does not check party cards before it strikes. It does not care whether a child’s parents chanted Otoge or stood in opposition. It creeps in silently, robs children of their strength, their futures, and too often, their lives. This is not a partisan problem, it is a human tragedy. And it demands more than propaganda. It calls for bold, sustained investments in primary healthcare, quality education, rural nutrition programs, and economic empowerment at the grassroots.
The heartbreaking truth is that this crisis, affecting over 300,000 children, was avoidable. With the right priorities, political will, and compassion, these children could have been saved from hunger, stunted growth, and slow death.
The Otoge movement came into office on a wave of public trust, promising to right the wrongs of the past. It pledged to deliver free healthcare, quality education, a living wage for workers, indigenous economic empowerment, and transparency. It did not campaign to usher in a season of child malnutrition, healthcare collapse, and economic exile.
Among its flagship promises was the provision of 193 tractors, one for each ward in the state, to enhance food security and empower local farmers. Fulfillment of this pledge could have ensured sufficient food production, reduced rural poverty, and provided the much-needed nutrients to prevent child malnutrition. Today, that promise is a forgotten headline.
Instead, we now count unfulfilled commitments like fallen leaves, visible, brittle, and lifeless. More than 83 doctors are said to have exited the state’s health service over poor remuneration, lack of equipment, and a toxic work environment. In Ilorin General Hospital, basic diagnostic services like ultrasounds and blood tests are unavailable. How can a government that promised free healthcare explain hospitals that can’t treat patients?
In education, the promise of free learning has become political poetry. Students in public schools now pay for WAEC and NECO, expenses once covered by the state. For many low-income families, this is the line between hope and despair.
Civil servants, the brainbox of good governance, are demoralised. Many are paid only 60–70% of their salaries, while others wait months to receive anything at all. Promotions are given without cashbacks, reducing achievement to empty applause. They are the lived realities of teachers, nurses, farmers, and parents, those whose children now face hunger, academic stagnation, and hopelessness.
One of Otoge’s boldest pledges was to empower indigenous contractors and stimulate the local economy. Today, most major contracts go to firms outside the state. Funds that should circulate among Kwara’s artisans and suppliers are exported, leaving behind a deepening crisis of poverty and underdevelopment.
As our people say, “Owo ilu ni ilu fi n dara”, it is the wealth of the town that beautifies it. When Kwara’s wealth is spent outside its borders, the local economy withers. And where poverty thrives, malnutrition follows. And instead of facing the storm, the AbdulRahman’s administration has chosen to silence dissent, rewrite history, and spin narratives. But no press release will feed a starving child. No tweet can replace a doctor. No media spin can treat anemia.
Today, Children’s Day should be a moment of recommitment, not rhetoric. A responsible government does not insult those who raise red flags. It listens, reflects, and acts. If we fail the children of today, we condemn the future of our state. Our children should be our pride, not our burden. They are not counting slogans; they are counting sacrifices.
It is time to end the bravado and begin the rebuilding. Governor AbdulRazaq’s administration has failed the children of Kwara.
