By evening, the local PDP headquarters in Imo State was a hive of frantic energy. The "Legitvibes" headline had already hit the wires, flashing across smartphone screens:
"They are not coming," a woman whispered beside him, her voice cracking the heavy midday heat. By evening, the local PDP headquarters in Imo
The humid air in Okigwe usually carried the scent of roasting corn and red earth, but today, it tasted like static electricity. It was election morning, 2023, and the silence in seven specific wards was louder than any political rally. It was election morning, 2023, and the silence
Inside the strategy room, a senior official slammed a fist onto a wooden table littered with crumpled reports. The air was thick with the smell of old paper and urgent sweat. "We told INEC," he shouted to a room of weary lawyers and frustrated candidates. "We gave them the maps. We flagged the security concerns. Now, thousands of our people are standing in the sun, waiting for a ghost to show up and hand them a ballot." "We told INEC," he shouted to a room
Chidi stood in the center of Ward 4, his PVC clutched so tightly in his pocket that the plastic edges dug into his palm. He had been there since 6:00 AM. By noon, the only thing that had arrived at the polling unit was a wandering goat and a growing sense of dread. There were no green-and-white ballot boxes, no blue-vested officials, and certainly no ink pads.