By Valentine Obienyem
History, in its patient unfolding, does not merely record events; it whispers eternal truths to those who would listen. It offers us mirrors in which to behold the present, not as a novelty, but as a reenactment of older dramas. Beneath the changing costumes of time, the actors remain much the same – moved by ambition, vanity, flattery, and the ever-persistent instinct for self-preservation. To study history, then, is to gain the quiet wisdom to recognise the old soul of a new performance. And in the theatre of our present, one such performance is being offered by Reno Omokri.
Reno is an Itsekiri man by birth, born of the Delta, shaped by its soil and traditions. Yet, in a curious transformation that would have amused even the ancients, he has taken to adorning himself in Yoruba robes – flowing agbada, beaded wrists, and the cap of a man seeking tribal intimacy. This sudden embrace of Yoruba identity is not, it would seem, born of aesthetic admiration or sincere intercultural curiosity. No, it is the ancient instinct of the flatterer, who seeks to curry favour by imitation through sartorial mimicry, as though borrowed garments could weave loyalty, and fabric alone might purchase acceptance. It is not culture he honours, but opportunity he courts, dressing ambition in the robes of borrowed heritage.
More telling still is his growing preoccupation with Islam. He now quotes the Qur’an with the zeal of a convert, speaks of the faith in exalted terms, and presents himself as a passionate defender of Islamic values – often with more fervour than those born into its fold. This is not reverence. It is strategy. He senses where power lies – in the hands of a Yoruba Muslim president – and, like a weather vane, he turns his face in that direction. His speech shifts, his clothing changes, his piety grows – conveniently and conspicuously.
Recently, he has taken his performance a step further by writing about the Yoruba people in near-messianic terms – describing them as the light of the world, the embodiment of wisdom, tolerance, and civilisation. In the same breath, he casts the Igbo people, subtly but unmistakably, as those intent on extinguishing that light. It is a rhetorical construction as old as propaganda itself: exalt the group in power to mythic status, while sowing suspicion and animosity toward any group perceived as politically inconvenient. Reno’s pen, once wielded to criticise this very same Yoruba establishment, now flows with praise so excessive it borders on the absurd. This is not reconciliation; it is opportunistic revisionism – a desperate attempt to be seen as an insider by vilifying others. This explains his constant attacks on Mr. Peter Obi, a man he once described as the highest exemplification of virtues – worthy to be studied, imitated, and perpetually adored. Listen to the man: “ Peter Obi, an excellent man who has raised the bar of leadership in Nigeria, is not only someone I am deeply proud of, but also a true honour to be associated with – for he stands as the very best our nation has to offer, and I, along with many others, strive to follow in the noble footsteps he has laid before us.”
It is here that history, with its inexhaustible treasury of examples, offers us a striking parallel. Plutarch, that ever-observant biographer of souls, tells us of Alcibiades, the brilliant, restless Athenian whose life was a monument to adaptability. “In Sparta,” Plutarch writes, “he adopted their coarse clothes and simple fare, let his hair grow long, bathed in cold water, and affected a rough and austere manner of life. But in Ionia, again, he would live luxuriously, with scented hair, flowing robes, and delicate habits.” Alcibiades moved through nations like an actor through scenes, changing masks and mannerisms with ease and calculation. He was, as Plutarch remarks, “marvellously fitted for all manner of duplicity.”
Even his religion bent to his ambition. Suspected in the desecration of sacred rites, he fled Athens and embraced the gods and customs of his hosts, first Sparta, then Persia, always reshaping himself to fit the favour of the moment. It was not that Alcibiades believed in nothing; rather, he believed too much in himself.
And what is Reno if not a latter-day Alcibiades? He, too, transforms not in substance, but in surface. He once hurled vile invectives at President Bola Ahmed Tinubu, branding him a drug lord, a forger, and a decrepit figure. In those days, he did not wear Yoruba clothing – check his videos. Today, the same man walks in Yoruba attire, praises Islam, and speaks as though he had never uttered those former words. He has not changed his mind; he has only changed his calculation.
It is a pitiable spectacle, not because of what it reveals about Reno, but because of what it insults in all of us – our memory, our reason, our sense of integrity. He imagines he is deceiving the world. In truth, he deceives no one but himself. Like the clown who forgets he is performing, he begins to take his mask for his face.
Having watched him with the attention that irony deserves, I have concluded that Reno is animated by two great illusions: the immaturity that mistakes guile for genius, and the conceit that his audience is always foolish. But a man who lives by postures will eventually be trapped by them. He is not a thinker, not even an honest trickster – only a buffoon, loud with pretence and barren of substance, spreading his buffoonery like a contagion and imagining it is charisma.
History has seen his kind before. It has forgotten many of them.
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