Dr. Aondoakaa Asambe
The Tor Tiv stool is often described as sacred, untainted, the last altar of Tiv unity. But anyone who believes that bedtime tale probably still believes masquerades descend from heaven rather than sneaking out from behind someone’s yam barn. Neutrality in Tivland? That’s like expecting palm wine to stay cold under the midday sun.
Perhaps the only Tor Tiv we might excuse from the charge of politics is the very first, Orchivirigh Makir Zakpe. His reign was shrouded in the infancy of the institution, a time when information was scant and the colonial government was still experimenting with how to domesticate Tiv leadership. One could say he wore the crown in innocence—before politics properly discovered the stool and turned it into a permanent outpost of government. After Makir Zakpe, however, the mask of neutrality fell, and the Tor Tiv throne became a political franchise, adorned in beads and horse tails, but tied firmly to the hands that feed it.
Take Orchivirigh Gondu Aluor, the second Tor Tiv. Before donning the crown, he was already a politician. His reign became a cold war with J.S. Tarka. Traditional rulers were trapped in a deadly dilemma: to tilt their loyalty toward Saawuan Tarka of the UMBC or Gondu Aluor of the NPC? Either way, Tivland bled. Benue became a river flowing with corpses, as rival youth militias—Iyongu Pania, a Tiv adulteration of “Young Pioneer and Brigade”—turned loyalty into license for carnage. Neutrality was not an option; it was a luxury no one could afford.
Orchivirigh Akperan Orshi, the third Tor Tiv, didn’t even bother to wear the mask of impartiality. He dropped his NPN senatorial ticket to take the crown. Divine ordination? Spare us. This was politics in lion skins.
Orchivirigh Alfred Akawe Torkula’s 25-year reign was the encyclopedia of political acrobatics. Loyal to Akume for eight years, switched to Suswam, then mocked as “Tor Pati” when politics shifted. Yet when Ortom emerged, even after initial opposition, Torkula quickly adjusted. In Tivland, the crown bends with the wind, or the wind breaks it.
To his credit, Suswam at least understood the need to respect the throne. He never openly maligned the Tor Tiv, knowing that mocking the crown is like spitting into the wind: bold now, wet later.
So when His Royal Majesty, Prof. James Ortese Iorzua Ayatse, stood at Adikpo in solidarity with Governor Hyacinth Alia, the online noise-making class acted like this was a new scandal. It is not. Every governor, at his time and political platform, has enjoyed the full backing of the traditional stool, whether they performed well or not. Governor Alia cannot be an exception. In fact, unlike some, he is already proving himself a stellar performer, firmly in the league of Aper Aku, the father of modern Benue. Tradition, after all, is a loyal drum: it beats for whoever holds the stick.
And this loyalty is not voluntary philanthropy; it is an obligation. Every Tor, whether presiding over a village hamlet or Tivland itself, is duty-bound to support the sitting government. Failure attracts consequences written deep in history. Ask the ghost of Dyakô Atser Ter Kunav, dethroned for refusing to donate mercenaries to fuel a pogrom in Kwande. Tradition is not a gentle dove; it is a hawk that pecks the eyes of the stubborn.
Nor is Tivland unique. Look northwards to Kano. The Emir, Sanusi Lamido Sanusi, was dethroned not because he ceased being royal, eloquent, or intellectual, but because he forgot the golden rule: tradition may bark, but only to the rhythm of the master’s flute. Sanusi’s fall is the freshest reminder that crowns in Nigeria are leased properties. Palaces do not belong to kings; they belong to power. Today it is Kano. Yesterday it was Gboko. Tomorrow, who knows?
So let us stop pretending. The Tor Tiv is no exception. Traditional institutions everywhere dance to the flute of those in power. And to the young critics making hoarse noises on social media: if you want the masquerade to dance to your whistle, then pay your own drummer. Until then, stop expecting the king’s feet to move to your tune.
