Oh death, where is thy sting?

By Jude Imagwe, MON

A Great Tree Has Fallen in Our Political Forest

Chief Dan Osi Orbih; Kulukulu 1 of the Universe, the Oduma of the Black Race.

Rest well, until that morning when death itself shall die.

There are deaths you hear about and somehow find the strength to accept.

There are others that leave you staring at your phone, hoping that someone will call back and say, “It is not true.”

Today is one of those days.

Chief Dan Osi Orbih is gone.

Even as I write those words, my heart struggles to accept them. There are people whose presence appears so permanent that you unconsciously exclude them from the possibility of death. You know that every mortal must someday answer the final call, yet somehow you imagine that certain people will always be there, their voice somewhere in the room, their laughter breaking the tension, their footsteps approaching, their courage reassuring everyone that the battle is not yet lost.

Chief Dan was one of those people.

The family has confirmed that Chief Daniel Osi Orbih passed away on Monday, 31 August 2026, at the age of 64. He leaves behind his wife, Mrs Florence Orbih; his children, Ms Winifred Anwosiobor Orbih and Dr Mildred Omonemi Orbih; his siblings, extended family and a political family scattered far beyond Edo State.

And so today I ask, with the helplessness of a grieving heart:

O death, where is thy sting?

O grave, where is thy victory?

How does a voice so familiar suddenly become a memory?

How does a man whose presence could fill a political gathering suddenly become the subject of condolence messages?

How does yesterday’s conversation become today’s history?

Kulukulu 1 of the Universe!

Oduma of the Black Race!

Who prepared us for this?

Certainly, I was not prepared.

Chief Dan was not merely a politician. He became an institution within Edo politics. From Ogbona in Etsako Central, he rose to become one of the most consequential political organisers of his generation in Edo State. He chaired the Edo State PDP from 2008 to 2019, more than a decade at the centre of some of the state’s fiercest political contests and later became the party’s National Vice Chairman for the South-South.

He was a strategist.

A mobiliser.

A fighter.

A bridgebuilder when he chose reconciliation, and a formidable opponent when principle demanded confrontation.

He understood the language of grassroots politics, not merely the politics written in communiqués and spoken at Abuja meetings, but the politics of communities, relationships, loyalty, organisation and human beings.

He had his convictions, and he possessed the courage to defend them.

Even when disagreement became costly, Dan Orbih was not a man easily frightened into silence.

Death has reminded us that beyond every political tendency stands a human being.

A husband.

A father.

A brother.

A friend.

A leader.

A man whose telephone number once connected people to a living voice and whose name must now be spoken in the painful language of memory.

That is perhaps one of life’s cruelest transitions.

And it is why Chief Dan’s passing has broken something beyond one family.

When one individual has become many things to many people, his departure does not leave one empty space, it leaves several broken spaces.

His family has lost their own.

Ogbona has lost a distinguished son.

Etsako has lost one of its formidable political voices.

Edo State has lost a political heavyweight.

The South-South has lost an experienced organiser.

The PDP has lost a man who gave many years of his life to its battles, victories, crises and survival.

And many of us have lost something that cannot be adequately described in political terminology.

The depth of that loss is reflected even in the words of FCT Minister Nyesom Wike, who described Chief Dan as a true friend and committed political ally and likened his death to the fall of one of the biggest trees in Edo State’s political forest.

And indeed, a great tree has fallen.

When a great tree falls, the forest does not immediately become accustomed to the empty sky it leaves behind.

For a while, everything feels different.

That is how today feels.

I remember the smile.

I remember the voice.

I remember the steps.

I remember the confidence.

I remember that unmistakable courage to push forward when others would rather retreat.

And I ask again:

Dan, who will give us that smile again?

Who will reproduce that voice?

Who will recreate those moments?

Who will answer when instinct tells us, “Call Chief.”

Perhaps this is the unbearable lesson of mortality: one day, without consultation, life changes tense.

He becomes; he was.

We will meet becomes we should have met.

I will call him becomes I wish I had called him.

And suddenly we understand that the most expensive things we lose are often the moments we assumed we still had.

Chief, as you begin that mysterious journey beyond the reach of our politics, arguments, ambitions and earthly struggles, I pray that the Almighty God receives you with mercy.

May He forgive your human shortcomings.

May every good you did speak where your voice can no longer speak.

May every life you touched become a witness to your passage through this world.

May the God whom mortals cannot question grant your soul safe passage into eternal rest.

And may He wrap His arms around your wife, children, siblings, family, friends, associates and the countless people struggling tonight to understand how someone so full of life could suddenly be gone.

For ultimately, we are all pencils in the hands of our Creator.

We write, but He determines when the sentence ends.

We plan tomorrow, but He alone owns tomorrow.

We acquire titles, build structures, fight battles and make names, but eventually, every one of us must surrender the pen.

Today, Chief Dan Osi Orbih has surrendered his.

But what he wrote with his life remains.

And perhaps that is the final victory over death:

That a man may stop breathing, yet continue living in the memories he created, the people he raised, the causes he fought for, the institutions he strengthened, the friendships he nurtured and the footprints he left behind.

Kulukulu 1 of the Universe,

Oduma of the Black Race,

the political arena will sound different without your voice.

The gatherings will feel different without your presence.

And for those of us who knew you, there will always be moments when memory will refuse to accept that you are no longer coming through the door.

But go well, Chief.

Go well, Leader.

Go well, our own.

Go peacefully into the great unknown from which no traveler returns to tell us the story.

The lion may leave the forest, but the paths created by its footsteps do not disappear with it.

Farewell, Chief Daniel Osi Orbih.

1961–2026.

Your voice is silent.

But your footprints remain.

May God grant your soul eternal rest and give all of us the strength to accept what our hearts are not yet ready to understand.

ADIEU, KULUKULU 1 OF THE UNIVERSE.

ADIEU, ODUMA OF THE BLACK RACE.

ADIEU, CHIEF DAN OSI ORBIH.

Rest well, until that morning when death itself shall die.