I was at Igbinedion University Okada, gunning for a degree in Medicine, when the economic recession struck like a physical blow. In Bayelsa State, Dickson was Governor, and the "half-salary" regime had become the law of the land. I remember it with a haunting clarity: a semester exam was looming, and my fees were unpaid.
My father wasn’t among the "half-salary" folks, he was trapped in the "no-salary" zone, a victim of administrative friction at the board.
The desperation drove him to travel all the way from Yenagoa to Okada. I was in class when Dr. Eddy called out: "Kariyai, your father is here." A smile touched my face; for a fleeting second, I felt like a primary school pupil again. My father had come looking for me at a University.
"Let us go and see the VC," he said. His mission was as humble as it was heartbreaking: to plead for his son to write the exams, offering the deed to his house as collateral. He promised he would pay. He pleaded, he gestured, he presented copies of my academic results, proof of the potential he was trying to protect. I can still hear the VC’s verdict, cold and final: "It’s a pity; he’s such a brilliant young man."
My father left Okada that day. He gave me his own phone because mine was broken, leaving me with a heavy parting truth: "At this point, there’s nothing more I can do." That night, I retreated to the mosque where I usually studied bcos of the silence, my bag heavy with books.
But the words on the pages were hollow. Why was I reading? To prepare for an exam I would never be allowed to write? My friend Lilian tried to kindle a spark of hope, "What if the VC changes his mind?", but the motivation wouldn't come. Sometimes, tears would just well up, unbidden, and in those moments, I nurtured a deep, honest resentment for Dickson.
How I finished University is a tale for another day.
Fast forward to the present: Kariyai Daukoru decides to write about the political landscape of Bayelsa State. To "cleanse" the media space with my commentary, I knew I had to be clinical. I needed my data straight; I could not afford the luxury of a lawsuit I didn't have the means to fight or unwarranted arrests.
To be bulletproof, I needed sources. I needed to exhaust every scrap of publicly available data so that if a challenge ever came, I’d have the weight of evidence at my back.
I began my study. I started with the DSP administration, a time of immense wealth where Bayelsa was deemed not worth developing. I moved through GEJ, then Sylva, and finally, I arrived at HSD (Henry Seriake Dickson).
This was where I intended to spend my time. I wanted to ensure that when I presented my facts, I would tie him so tightly he wouldn't be able to escape the "evil" his administration had caused me. But as I peered into the numbers, the narrative shifted. The man I blamed for my personal crisis was, himself, in a state of crisis. He wasn't mismanaging abundance; he was struggling for survival. The recession had hit so hard that the balance was essentially a "minus." He was the only governor in the history of Bayelsa State who received money that wasn't even enough to satisfy the wage bill.
It clicked: when there is no money to pay the living, how do you sustain the ghost workers? He began the painful, necessary cleansing of the Civil Service. While every governor before him had governed in the lap of luxury, the man I called "Pharaoh" or "Emperor" was no such thing. He was a lawyer wearing the cape of a manager. His managerial acumen is evident today in the businesses he oversees, including his own University. He is perhaps the only former Governor whose business ventures are known and rooted within the state, unlike others whose "businesses" are whispers and shadows.
When I finished the data, the emotion died. The man I held responsible for my hardship was wrestling with a hardship of his own. As a scientist who understands that data is the only antidote to propaganda, I felt the wind leave my sails. I could no longer call him an Emperor because I had seen the ledger.
One of the greatest mistakes a man can make is discarding the evidence in front of him to satisfy his emotions. I won't make that mistake again. The decision is stamped: I am officially cold. Zero emotions, just facts and data and if the facts align, I respect them immidiately.
They say if you want to hide the truth from a Black man, put it in a book. That day, that clause hit me like a physical strike. I had never once tried to hear Dickson’s side, yet there I was, reading his allocations, his wage bills, his Paris Fund, and the mechanics of how he managed it all. My decision is final: I am emotionless. If the data do not align, it is a lie.
Eventually, I accepted an invite to hear him speak on a Twitter Space.
A lady commented that "intelligent people" understand that voting means nothing. Dickson’s reply was sharp: "The people do not understand the power they have. Those of you who feel you’re too intelligent to vote, leave us."
Those who know me know I have never voted. I didn't even have a voter’s card; I didn't believe the count mattered. But after listening to him that day, I chose a different path. For 2027, I have already begun my voter registration. I will be actively involved in Bayelsa politics, because when intelligent men remain silent, the people perish.
To speak on Bayelsa politics, you must be willing to spend time studying the data. I ask: how many commentators write without the fog of sentiment? How many of you write with facts you can actually defend?
Do not wait for Robert Igali to dish out a rejoinder or for Samuel Kolawole to give you a script to share. Dig up the data. Write with conviction. Be unafraid.
My name is Kariyai Daukoru. If the numbers aren’t accurate, I am not posting them. My candidate for the 2027 General Elections will have a very clean slate. It is definitely not ERUANI Azibapu.
But for Bayelsa West? My candidate is Honourable Henry Seriake Dickson. Fully endorsed. The man is good at his job, not because I like him but because the data says so.
Those who need my forensic audit filled with data and sources, of Dickson’s Administration, kindly send an email, Kariya.ezekiel@gmail.com but until you see what I've seen, it will be wrong to villify him.
My name again, is,
Kariyai Daukoru and I'm not here to tell you what you want to hear. I'm here to tell the truth the numbers sing.
P.S
Senator Henry Seriake Dickson deserves the title, OFURUMAPEPE.
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