Dear Kenneth,

I have been meaning to write this letter for a long time. In fact, I started writing it when you first began appearing on television to explain why you had fallen out with Peter Obi. At the time, I thought what I was witnessing was a political disagreement. Such things happen every day. People leave parties, alliances, friendships, and movements they once believed in. Politics is a journey of numerous departures. But what I watched from you was something else.

It was a scorched-earth campaign. You held nothing back. You deployed every drone, missile, and venom in your arsenal. It was the kind of assault that seemed to have little regard for tomorrow and what it might bring.

As someone who has observed Nigerian politics for decades, I struggled to find a comparison. Not even Reno Omokri, Daniel Bwala, Femi Fani-Kayode, and others in that line of work had displayed the same level of determination to destroy what they once helped build.

That was when the roadside psychologist in me began to suspect that something deeper was at work. Forgive me if I am wrong.

From a distance, it seemed that something was hurting you beyond politics. The Kenneth I thought I knew appeared to have misplaced the guardrails that self-respecting people usually impose on themselves. It was painful to watch.

I wanted to ask questions, but I lacked the access or leverage to do so. So I chose to write instead. Then the matter escalated.

Before I could finish writing, we arrived at a point where Peter Obi threatened to file a N5 billion defamation suit unless you withdrew some of your claims. Whether that lawsuit succeeds or not is beside the point. What concerns me is how we got here.

Recently, I watched Rotimi Amaechi walk into the office of your new principal, Atiku Abubakar. You were sitting outside with Emeka Ihedioha and others. You sprang up to greet Amaechi. He glanced at you briefly before proceeding inside.

That moment said a lot to me. And I wished it did the same to you.

It reminded me that politics is a temporary arrangement. Today’s ally becomes tomorrow’s rival. Tomorrow’s rival becomes next week’s running mate. Everything changes. Every target moves. Which is why I keep returning to the same question. 

What happened?

I have listened carefully to your explanations for leaving Peter Obi. Truthfully, I do not have a problem with most of them. Every politician has a right to pursue what he believes serves his interests. Every political operative has the right to move on when they consider a project a failure. That is not what troubles me. What troubles me is the intensity.

What troubles me is the determination to keep digging for fresh ammunition long after the political divorce has already taken place. You see, in every profession, there is an unwritten rule. When a relationship ends, you walk away without setting fire to every bridge behind you. The way you speak about your former employer often tells future employers how you may one day speak about them. That is why most people leave quietly.

Something happened that made you choose a different path. Perhaps only you know what it is. The public story may not be the entire story. There may be wounds from the 2023 campaign that never healed. Or there may be disappointments the rest of us cannot see. I do not know.

What I know is that, at some point, anger stops being an issue-based analysis and becomes a story of its own. And that story often reveals more about the wounded than the target. Kenneth, you and I know that politics is a brutal business – a world populated by wolves, hyenas, and professional shape-shifters. But even in that world, restraint still matters. Memory and reputation intertwine ay the hip.

That is why I am writing. Not as Peter Obi’s defender. Not as your accuser.

Not even as a political commentator. I am writing simply as an observer who has watched your journey and now finds himself asking a question he never imagined he would.

Not since Yemi Alade asked Johnny in her song, Johnny, “Nwokem kedu ife na eme?” have I felt compelled to direct those words at anyone. Yet here I am.

Kenneth, nwoke m, kedu ife na eme?

Yours sincerely,

Rudolf Ogoo Okonkwo

Rudolf Ogoo Okonkwo teaches Post-colonial African History, Diasporic African Literature, and African Folktales at the School of Visual Arts in New York City. He is the author of “This American Life Sef.” His latest book is “A Kiss That Never Was.”