Samuel Anthony
There is a peculiar irony in watching a man preach betrayal with the intensity of a moral crusader while standing knee-deep in the very conduct he claims to condemn. That irony defines the recent publication by Ata Ikiddeh. What presents itself as a sermon on loyalty is, in truth, a personal grievance dressed in borrowed scripture, exaggerated metaphors, and synthetic outrage.
Betrayal is not a casual word. It is not a metaphor to be rented by the disappointed or a costume to be worn by the rejected. It is a grave moral charge that demands evidence, restraint, and credibility. Yet what Ata Ikiddeh offers is none of these; only insinuation, emotional manipulation, and the familiar anger of a man whose ambition has consistently outpaced his relevance.
His essay reads less like principled reflection and more like a frustrated soliloquy. It is long, theatrical, and heavy with imagery, but empty of facts. It seeks not to illuminate, but to suggest; not to prove, but to poison.
And it forces a simple, unavoidable question: who exactly is the betrayer here?
Is it Dr. Essien Ndueso—a man with a verifiable record of scholarship, service, and earned trust—or is it the perennial applicant for relevance who, after failing to secure institutional legitimacy through merit, resorts to weaponising language and morality?
This moment did not arrive suddenly. Ata Ikiddeh’s outburst is part of a long, predictable pattern, one that dates back more than a decade. Those familiar with Akwa Ibom’s political ecosystem have seen it before. The method is consistent: relentless proximity to power, unsolicited “support” mistaken for entitlement, access converted into leverage, and government courtesy interpreted as permanent patronage. When proposals laden with budgets, logistics, hotel bills, flights, and consultancy fees are not accepted wholesale, hostility inevitably follows. It worked for him in 2009 during Godswill Akpabio’s time, it didn’t click in 2016, hence the vituperative attitude to the immediate past Governor. This is not ideology. It is transactional outrage, intensified by the quest for stomach infrastructure.
Criticism motivated by public interest has a distinct tone measured, evidence-based, and focused on institutions rather than individuals. Ata Ikiddeh’s tone is unmistakably different. It carries the bitterness of frustration, not the discipline of civic responsibility.
What makes this spectacle even more striking is the selective amnesia that accompanies it. Ata Ikiddeh did not merely disagree with Pastor Umo Eno during the campaign season; he openly opposed and campaigned against him, championed rival interests, and invested his voice in an alternative political outcome. He lost fairly, decisively, and democratically. Now, post-victory, he seeks relevance not through reconciliation or humility, but through insinuation and blackmail masquerading as public commentary. When that fails, he cries betrayal.
One must ask plainly: is betrayal one’s failure to attract patronage or refusing to be bullied by you?
There is also an uncomfortable question Ata Ikiddeh persistently avoids one rooted not in politics, but in history. He is not a young activist finding his voice, nor a Gen-Z disruptor experimenting with digital relevance. He is a product of one of the most privileged legal generations Nigeria has ever produced: the University of Calabar Law Class of 1987 that went to the Nigerian Law School, Class of 1988.
This matters, because names matter.
That academic ecosystem produced men who have gone on to define Nigeria’s legal and political architecture: Senator Godswill Obot Akpabio, former Governor of Akwa Ibom State and now President of the Senate of the Federal Republic of Nigeria; Babatunde Raji Fashola, SAN, former Governor of Lagos State and former Minister for Works, Power and Housing; Senator Liyel Imoke, former Minister of Power and Steel and former Governor of Cross River State, Anyim Pius Anyim, former Senate President and former Secretary to the Government of the Federation; Senator Joy Emordi, and Justice Okon Abang of the Court of Appeal.
These were not distant legends. They were classmates,men who shared the same lecture halls, the same academic pressures, and the same national moment. While his peers ascended into jurisprudence, governance, and institutional leadership, Ata Ikiddeh perfected something else: proximity without purpose. This is not an insult. It is an observable trajectory.
At a stage of life when his contemporaries are policymakers, interpreting constitutional law, and steering national institutions, Ata Ikiddeh presents himself publicly as a “content creator” not as a matter of innovation, but of default. There is dignity in every honest profession, but there is something profoundly unsettling about a man of that pedigree, exposure, and opportunity choosing to build relevance almost exclusively through grievance, antagonism, and public blackmail.
It forces a question no amount of rhetorical flourish can silence: what happened between promise and present? Was it misfortune or a chronic inability to understand that access is not achievement, and proximity is not legacy?Blackmail, here the ready replacement for the jamboree lifestyle he opted for, while his peers remained in class, eyes on the ball?
Ata Ikiddeh’s record reveals a man perpetually auditioning for relevance, moving from one power centre to another, proposals in hand, demanding recognition. When embraced, he praises. When ignored, he attacks. When rejected, he moralises. This is not activism. It is entitlement reacting badly to limits.
It is therefore no surprise that Dr. Essien Ndueso has become a target. He represents everything this narrative cannot tolerate: quiet competence, earned trust, institutional loyalty, and relevance that does not beg for validation, one who does not trend by provocation. He does not negotiate relevance through threats. He does not seek visibility by tearing others down. And for those who confuse noise with influence, silence backed by credibility is intolerable.
So here is the question Ata Ikiddeh continues to dodge, no matter how many essays he writes or scriptures he borrows: how does a man who shared classrooms with Senate Presidents, Federal Cabinet members, and Appellant Court Justices, end up believing that blackmail is a substitute for legacy?
Until that question is answered honestly, every lecture he delivers on betrayal will remain what it truly is a frustration disguised as condemnation. History has already taken note. The public is merely catching up. And all those he attempts to pull down remain standing, vindicated not by noise, but by record.
Samuel Anthony is a journalist, based in Uyo, Akwa Ibom State.
