The Curse We Keep Renewing: Inside the Igala Pull-Him-Down Culture

By Alh. Mohammed Yusuf

There is a peculiar industry that flourishes in Nigeria without registration from the Corporate Affairs Commission. It pays no tax, creates no jobs, manufactures no wealth, yet it never suffers recession. It is the thriving enterprise of Pull-Him-Down Incorporated. Every ethnic nationality in Nigeria has a branch office, but some communities, it would seem, have elevated the business into an ancestral vocation. We have become shareholders in one another's downfall, investors in mutual destruction, and enthusiastic distributors of the poison that eventually finds its way back to our own cups.

Whenever I scroll through the social media conversations of many of my fellow Igalas these days, I do not encounter the confidence of a people determined to shape history. I encounter instead a strange carnival of self-demolition. We have become spectators cheering whenever one of our own slips, stumbles or is pushed into the gutter. The marketplace of ideas has been converted into a wrestling arena where the loudest applause is reserved not for excellence but for humiliation.

You must ask yourself a difficult question. Why are we like this?

Look around Kogi State carefully. Observe how other sections of the state (Central and West), defend their own in the public square even while disagreeing fiercely behind closed doors. They understand an old African wisdom: you do not remove the roof from your own house simply because you dislike the man sleeping inside it. Yet we often gather in broad daylight to set fire to our own roof and then complain when strangers mock us for living under the rain.

The story of the revered Attah Igala, Ameh Oboni, deserves more than a passing mention because it is not merely a tale from the dusty shelves of history; it is a mirror stubbornly reflecting our present. Tradition tells us that Ameh Oboni was not undone first by foreign enemies but by betrayal from within. The arrows that wounded the Igala Kingdom were sharpened by Igala hands before outsiders merely completed the assignment. Whether one accepts every detail of the oral tradition or not is almost beside the point. The enduring lesson is that internal treachery often succeeds where external hostility fails. It was in the anguish of that betrayal that the legendary curse entered our collective memory, not as magic, but as a moral indictment against a people who repeatedly turn against their own.

Now pause and look around. Has anything really changed? We no longer gather in palace courtyards with spears and charms; we assemble on Facebook, WhatsApp, X, and TikTok armed with screenshots, anonymous accounts, fabricated stories, and malicious speculation. The battlefield has changed, but the instinct remains frighteningly familiar. Yesterday, betrayal was whispered in royal chambers. Today, it trends with hashtags and attracts thousands of views. The faces are different, but the script appears unchanged.

Until we confront this inherited culture of cannibalising our own, we may continue to blame Ameh Oboni's curse, when in reality we keep renewing it every day through our actions. The greatest curse upon any people is not one spoken by an offended king; it is the one they stubbornly pronounce upon themselves by refusing to learn from history.

Years ago, the legendary Joseph Abuh immortalised a painful truth in song. While other tribes parade PhDs awarded by universities, he joked that the Igala possess another kind of PHD: Pull Him Down. It was humorous then. Today it sounds less like satire and more like a doctoral thesis defended with overwhelming evidence.

Look at the recent social media theatre surrounding the Deputy Governor of Kogi State, Comrade Joel Salifu Oyibo. One rumour announces that one politician has already replaced him. Before that fabrication grows old, another social media lie merchant emerges with yet another replacement. Every week, social media manufactures a fresh deputy governor as though governance were a reality television competition where contestants are eliminated by Facebook broadcasts.

The tragedy is not that rumours exist. Every society produces gossip. The tragedy is that the loudest drummers beating these rumours are often fellow Igalas. We volunteer ourselves as chief witnesses for the prosecution whenever one of our own stands before the court of public opinion. We supply the rope, sharpen the knife and then pretend to be innocent observers when the execution begins.

What strange psychology is this? It reminds me of the crab trapped inside a bucket. None escapes because each crab is preoccupied with dragging down the one attempting to climb out. The bucket never requires a lid. The prisoners have become their own prison wardens.

Let us be honest with ourselves. A people who celebrate internal sabotage cannot blame outsiders forever. Not every wound is inflicted by strangers. Some scars are self-administered. Some betrayals are homegrown. Sometimes the enemy wears your language, answers your greeting and sits beside you at family meetings.

There is a moral distance between speaking truth to power and inventing lies merely because another man's progress disturbs your sleep. Every reckless falsehood we spread about our own weakens not merely an individual but the image of an entire people. We cannot continue exporting ridicule and expect to import respect.

Comrade Joel Salifu's political future, like that of every public office holder, ultimately rests not in the noisy speculation of Facebook commentators or WhatsApp political laboratories but in the complicated arithmetic of God, destiny, performance, and constitutional politics. The Igala proverb says, "Eju ki méné akp'éné." There is profound wisdom hidden in those simple words. Human beings frequently overestimate their ability to rearrange destinies already pencilled by the Creator. We often mistake gossip for governance and rumours for revelation.

Those who spend every waking hour digging pits for others should remember an ancient African lesson: the earth has an extraordinary memory. It never forgets who first picked up the shovel. The grave you enthusiastically prepare for another may someday become your own address.

In the end, perhaps the greatest enemy of the Igala nation is neither political exclusion nor economic marginalisation. Perhaps it is that invisible mirror we refuse to look into. For until we replace the culture of Pull Him Down with the culture of Lift Us Together, Ameh Oboni's so-called curse will continue to look frighteningly alive, not because spirits are pursuing us, but because we have become the most faithful custodians of our own misfortune.

— Alh. Mohammed Yusuf writes from Dekina LGA of Kogi State.