How did Sheriff happen to Delta?

By Ejiro Idama

Delta people are resilient. We will manage flood, manage NEPA, abi BEDC sef, manage fuel price, and still find time to manage politics. But every once in a while, a question escapes from the beer parlour, the keke, the WhatsApp group: “How did Sheriff happen to Delta State?”

It’s not an insult. It’s not praise. It’s that particular Nigerian question we ask when history takes a left turn and we are all in the bus.  

This is not a witch-hunt either. This is a near fullterm performance review, delivered with small laughter, small pepper, and plenty concern.

There is a refrain we all know. If you’ve attended any town hall, any empowerment, any “meet-the-people” event in the last three years, you’ve heard it. A citizen stands up: “Your Excellency, the youths in my community need skills, not just bags of rice.”  

Pause. Microphone feedback. Then the answer comes, calm, final, like a gavel: “I am the Governor.” 

Another one: “Sir, the road in my LGA has been abandoned for three years.”  

Response: “I am the Governor.”

It’s not that the statement is false. It is 100% constitutionally correct. The problem is when “I am the Governor” becomes the full policy, the budget, and the KPI, citizens start to wonder if governance is a title or a to-do list.

In comedy, repetition is funny. In governance, repetition without action becomes a meme.

Every child has an artistic era and the wall is the canvas. Delta seems to be in its own artistic era too. The canvas is the budget. The crayons are press releases.  

Projects are announced with beautiful flyers. Groundbreakings happen. Then rain falls, and the groundbreaking becomes a swimming pool.  

We are not saying nothing is happening. We are saying: citizens want to see the painting finished before the next exhibition.

The poor and struggling Deltan doesn’t eat flyers. He eats garri. And garri is expensive.

Every governor needs a team. That’s Governance 101. The critique that follows Sheriff around, fairly or unfairly, is about who is in the room when decisions are made.  

On social media and in market squares, you’ll hear: “The government is full of motor-park boys and agberos.”  

Is it literally true that the Executive Council meets at a park? No. Is it a metaphor for a style of politics that rewards loyalty, noise, and street optics over policy papers? That’s the conversation.

The danger of surrounding yourself only with people who shout “Yes sir” is that nobody tells you when the road is bad. Agberos are good at collecting. Governance is about distributing roads, hospitals and jobs. Different skill sets.

When citizens ask tough questions about unemployment or hospitals without drugs, and the answer is vibes and boys in black t-shirts, people get tired. They start to ask again: “How did we get here?”

To be fair, the administration has tried palliatives. Bags of rice. Some empowerment. Some buses, maybe.  

This is where the humour gets painful. Palliative is good for a bad day. It is not a 4-year plan.

A young graduate in Asaba told me: “Oga, I don’t need rice. I need WiFi and light so I can work.”  

The reply from the system: “I am the Governor. Collect rice.”

Delta has oil, ports, universities, and some of the most enterprising people in Nigeria. Yet the main economic policy seems to be: Wait for Abuja allocation, share small. That’s not an economic policy. That’s a sharing formula.

If there’s one thing Deltans will fight you over, it’s roads. From Osubi to Ughelli to Obiaruku to Ozoro, the roads have PhDs in potholes.  

Government says: “We are doing roads.”  

Citizens say: “Which road? The one we are swimming in?”  

Every rainy season, a new set of roads goes on “under construction” sabbatical and never returns. Contractors are paid. Thanksgiving is done. But citizens are still doing 4×4 in their Corolla.  When people complain, the response circuit is: flowery press releases and “I am the Governor”. Next topic.  

Roads don’t care about titles. They care about asphalt.

The loudest ministries are Works and Information. The quietest are Health and Education.  

School children sit on bare floors. Hospitals don’t have basic drugs and competent staff. But there is always money for a jamboree where audio projects are commissioned and dance troupes are paid to welcome the Governor.

That’s the kind of math that makes people ask “How dis Sheriff happen to Delta State sef?” not because they hate him, but because they expected more.

One day the Governor will say one thing. The next day, five aides will say five different things. By Friday, there’s a rebuttal to the rebuttal.  

This is where the “lack of intellectualism” critique comes from, not that the man cannot speak, but that the message is not sharp. Governance in 2026 is about ideas. If your idea is “I am the Governor”, the internet will finish the rest of the sentence for you.

Delta people are smart. We watch Arise TV, we watch TikTok, we compare with Enugu, with Abia, with Lagos. When we see other states doing tech hubs and we are doing rallies, we ask questions. And laugh too.

Why do we laugh? Because crying is expensive. We laugh when a borehole is commissioned three times.  

We laugh when empowerment means 20 people and 2,000 applicants.  

We laugh when the answer to every problem is “I am the Governor” as if saying it harder will tar the roads.

But behind the laughter is frustration. Citizens in Agbor subdue their laughter any time it rains because the Orogodo River overflows its banks, floods the city and swallows her people. The fisherman in Burutu, the trader in Emede, the cobbler in Sapele don’t want memes. They want light, water, and a future that doesn’t require “connection.”

So, How DID He Happen to Delta?

Politics. Party structure. Godfatherism. 2023 calculations. Name it. Sheriff didn’t fall from the sky. He was Speaker for years. He was part of the system. The system produced him.  

Now the system is asking him to deliver, and delivery is harder than declaration.  

That’s democracy. You campaign on promises. You govern on problems.

This article is not a call to fight. It’s a call to work. So, I beg Sheriff’s iPad boys to hold their fire.

Delta people are not asking for miracles. We are asking for competence.  

Until then, the question will keep circulating in groups: “How did Sheriff happen to Delta State?

And the only answer that will finally quieten the chats in the beer palours, inside the ubiquitous Keke is performance.

Because in the end, history will not remember who shouted “I am the Governor” the loudest.  

History will remember who governed.

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