Political dynasty is not peculiar to Nigeria. From the Bushes and Kennedys in the U.S. to the Gandhis in India and the Kenyattas in Kenya, family networks have long dominated party politics. What makes the Nigerian version dangerous is when dynasty replaces institutions, and loyalty to family replaces accountability to citizens. In Osun State, that danger has a name: the Adeleke family. For nearly four decades, the family has produced three senators, two governors, and a long list of appointees. Today, under Senator Ademola Adeleke, the dynasty appears to have reached its peak — and, according to mounting public criticism, its lowest point in governance.
The story did not start well. Isiaka Adeleke became governor at 36, left office with allegations of mismanagement — including claims around Asijere Water Dam contracts and a fleet of cars for cronies — and later admitted “I have learnt my lessons.” Instead of consequence, he was rewarded with a Senate seat where, critics say, he made little impact. Ademola Adeleke later completed that same Senate tenure, also without a record of legislative distinction. That history frames the current administration. The election of another Adeleke as governor in 2022 was celebrated by supporters as a return of “the people’s governor.” For many observers in Osun, it has instead become a case study in how dynastic entitlement can override competence.
The central criticism of the Adeleke administration today is about who actually governs. Multiple accounts from within Osun describe a government run by proxy. At the center is Kazeem Akinleye, the Chief of Staff, described by civil servants and opposition figures as the “de facto governor.” His closeness to the family, particularly to billionaire Deji Adeleke, is said to give him outsized influence over appointments, contracts, and policy direction. Alongside him is “Madam Dupe,” the governor’s elder sister, who is alleged to control contract awards and execution through networks across MDAs. The result, critics argue, is the sidelining of constitutional offices. Both the Secretary to the State Government and the Deputy Governor are said to have little voice. Meanwhile, Ede — the family’s hometown — leads in appointments of Permanent Secretaries, Commissioners, SSAs, board members, and in the siting of projects, including the current dualization of major roads there. Other zones that voted for the governor complain of neglect. The APC in Osun has pushed this further, calling on the governor to hand over Akinleye to the Code of Conduct Bureau over an alleged N297 million UNIOSUN TETFUND contract awarded to AKINSAS INTERBIZ LIMITED, a company linked to the CoS. The governor dismissed the claim as “malicious falsehood” designed to cause public disorder. The APC countered that resignation from a company does not erase conflict of interest when that company bids for state contracts.
Beyond personalities, the fiscal record is drawing fire. Osun workers have publicly asked the governor to cut the budget for the Office of the Governor, alleging that nearly N30 billion has been spent there in less than two years. They argue that money could have cleared outstanding pensions and benefits. The NLC in the state also accused the government of ignoring the N70,000 minimum wage despite increased federal allocations post-subsidy removal. On pensions, they cited a 2024 budget of N5 billion for contributory pension, with only N842 million — 16% — paid by June. At the same time, the administration is accused of prioritizing optics over delivery: media campaigns, donations, and public events, while core welfare issues lag. The governor’s public persona — dancing, partying, and frequent travel — is being used by critics to argue that the government lacks seriousness.
When criticism mounts, the response from the Adeleke camp has often been to frame it as an attack on the family, or to suggest that unnamed forces are trying to destabilize the government. That is a familiar playbook in Nigerian politics: raise alarm, accuse opponents of blackmail, and rally sympathy. But that strategy cannot save a dynasty from its own contradictions. Dynasty is not a defense. That the Adelekes have served for 40 years does not immunize them from scrutiny. If anything, it raises the bar. Proxy rule is not leadership. Having a billionaire brother, a powerful CoS, and a sister managing contracts may keep the family’s interests safe, but it hollows out democratic institutions. Spending is not development. Budgeting billions for the governor’s office while workers and pensioners wait for entitlements undermines the “people’s governor” brand. Town favoritism is not unity. Concentrating projects and appointments in Ede alienates the rest of Osun and fuels the perception of a government for one family and one town.
Political dynasty thrives on collective amnesia — the Nigerian tendency to forget, forgive, and reward the same names. Isiaka’s apology did not end his career. Ademola’s Senate record did not stop his governorship. Now, with Deji Adeleke’s wealth and influence behind the seat of power, and with Kazeem and Dupe allegedly running key levers, the family appears to believe it can outlast any criticism. But Osun is not a family estate. It is a state of over 4 million people with teachers, pensioners, students, and businesses that need roads, wages, and fair administration. Raising alarms about “blackmail” or attacking the president’s office for attention will not fix cost inflation, unpaid pensions, or the perception that Osun is now “seated in the pocket of the Adeleke dynasty.” Only performance can. Until then, the question Osun people keep asking remains unanswered: Among Governor Ademola Adeleke, Chief of Staff Kazeem Akinleye, and Madam Dupe, who is actually in charge? And more importantly: For how long will Osun be governed by dynasty instead of by the people?
