In an astonishing display of misgovernance, Governor Dapo Abiodun has allowed one of Nigeria’s most iconic historical landmarks, Olumo Rock, to languish behind locked gates for over a month, without any sign of renovation, restoration, or basic respect for its cultural significance

[dropcap]T[/dropcap]he timing couldn’t be more tragic—or telling. As Ogun State played host to the National Sports Festival, a golden opportunity to display its rich heritage to athletes, dignitaries, and tourists from across Nigeria, Olumo Rock remained inaccessible. Dusty. Deserted. Lonely and disgraced.

The question echoing from the crevices of Abeokuta to the corners of Ijebu Ode is biting: Does Dapo Abiodun intend to paint Olumo Rock green and yellow?

Is the governor trying to brand rocks with politics, or is this just the latest symptom of a government that has lost touch with its people, its past, and its priorities?

While states like Edo and Delta have turned their heritage into engines of tourism and pride, Ogun’s most prized monument has become a symbol of neglect under Abiodun’s watch.

Even more galling, no official explanation has been provided. No work is ongoing. No scaffold, no workers, no tools. Just silence and iron gates where stories once echoed.

As the sun sets on this administration, the gods of the rock have spoken. Their verdict? Exile to irrelevance.

And it doesn’t end there.

History may now remember Governor Dapo Abiodun not as a builder of dreams, but as the man who shut down Olumo Rock during a national festival.

The same governor who ignored the majestic Queen of Sheba’s trail through Biliki Sugbo Shrine in Ijebu Ode, opting instead to herd athletes into a stadium best described as internationally disgraced—abandoned, cracked, and littered with the remnants of once-great ambition.

Rather than seize this moment to redeem Ogun State’s crumbling tourism infrastructure, Abiodun’s administration chose instead to allocate a staggering N2 billion to feed athletes—more than enough to give Olumo Rock and other iconic centers the facelift they desperately deserve.

Meanwhile, state-owned sports facilities in Ilaro, Sagamu, and Ijebu Ode continue to rot under creeping grass and creeping doubt, as the government pours funds into questionable private ventures with murky benefits to the public.

Governor Abiodun’s tenure ends not with thunder but with a whisper of failure. He exits stage left, not as a hero of sport or culture, but as a governor whose disconnect from heritage and people earned him the ire of both.

Politicians now skip his calls, offering “cogent excuses” like “busy,” “engaged,” or “in a meeting”—but their loyalty has shifted elsewhere, to the “Next Man” who promises redemption.

As the sun sets on this administration, the gods of the rock have spoken. Their verdict? Exile to irrelevance.

And unless there’s a swift, honest reckoning with this abandonment of cultural duty, Dapo Abiodun may forever be remembered as the governor who silenced Olumo Rock.