By Jimoh Ahmed
If roads could speak, the Itapele–Idoani–Kabba Road would cry out in anguish. Stretching through the heart of Ondo and Kogi States, this vital artery once pulsed with the rhythm of life—connecting traders, farmers, and travellers between the cocoa-rich Akoko region and the food belt of Okun land. Today, it stands as a broken relic of Nigeria’s forgotten infrastructure—a road of pain and peril.
From Itapele near Owo to Idoani, the journey begins with deceptive smoothness. A few kilometres of patched asphalt promise what quickly turns to dust, potholes, and misery. The once proud road, constructed decades ago as part of a federal linkage project, now lies in utter disrepair. Deep gullies swallow car tyres, trailers tilt dangerously, and motorcyclists navigate like men on a war front.
At the Idoani axis, where lush vegetation frames the ruins of tarmac, the people have learned to live with suffering as a way of life. “We don’t remember the last time any government official came here to see this road,” laments Mrs. Funmilayo Ajulo, a trader who shuttles between Idoani and Kabba to sell palm oil and yam. “Sometimes, we spend up to five hours on a journey that should take one. Trucks overturn, and passengers sleep on the road.”
Further ahead, the story turns tragic. Between Imeri and Ipele, sections of the road have been washed away entirely by erosion. Rivers have reclaimed the culverts, while makeshift bridges—wooden planks tied with ropes—now serve as dangerous alternatives for local motorcycles and bicycles. During the rainy season, villagers stand helplessly by the roadside, watching as floodwaters cut them off from markets and health centres.
For many, the hardship has gone beyond inconvenience. Farmers in Idoani and Afo complain bitterly that they can no longer transport yams, cassava, and maize to larger towns like Kabba and Akure. “Middlemen take advantage of us,” says Mr. Saka Olorunsogo, a farmer in Ipele. “They pay less because they know we can’t move our goods. A bag of yam that should sell for ₦10,000 goes for ₦4,000 here.”
Commercial drivers, too, are not spared. They often park along the bad portions, waiting for passengers to push vehicles through mud pits. A driver, Baba Fatai, who plies the Idoani–Kabba route, recounts how his bus got stuck for two days last July. “We slept inside the vehicle. Nobody came to help. By the time we managed to pull out, the radiator was gone,” he recalls with weary laughter.
Ironically, the road’s decay has also bred insecurity. Bandits and kidnappers now exploit the poor terrain to ambush unsuspecting travellers. The stretch between Afo and Ayere has become a danger zone after dusk. “We cannot travel after 6 p.m.,” says a teacher, Mrs. Oyenike Oladipo. “The road is so bad that once your vehicle breaks down, you become a target.”
What makes the situation particularly painful is that the Itapele–Idoani–Kabba Road is not a mere rural path. It is a federal link road that serves as a shortcut between the South-West and North-Central Nigeria—from Akure to Lokoja. Yet, successive governments at both state and federal levels have played the blame game over its ownership and maintenance. In the end, the people remain the losers.
Investigations reveal that the road last received official attention over twenty years ago during a patching exercise by the Federal Ministry of Works. A senior engineer in the ministry, who requested anonymity, said the project was abandoned due to “budgetary constraints and reallocation of funds.” Meanwhile, contracts worth billions have been awarded on paper, with little to show on the ground.
Civil society groups and community associations have not been silent. The Idoani Youth Vanguard and Ipele Progressive Union have written countless petitions to both the Ondo and Kogi State governments, urging them to pressure Abuja for intervention. “Our cry has reached deaf ears,” says Adegoke Ayeni, the youth leader in Idoani. “We only see bulldozers during election campaigns. Once elections are over, they disappear.”
Beyond the politics, the human toll of the bad road is profound. Pregnant women struggle to reach hospitals in Oka or Kabba; students miss school during the rains; and economic life dwindles in once-thriving communities. “It’s like we are cut off from Nigeria,” an old man, Pa Sunday Ilemobayo, says wistfully. “We voted, we pay taxes, but we are forgotten.”
Experts argue that rehabilitating the Itapele–Idoani–Kabba Road would revive local economies and restore hope to thousands. The route serves as a lifeline for farmers, small traders, and transporters across two states. It would also decongest the Lagos–Abuja route, offering an alternative corridor for goods and travellers.
Until that happens, the people continue to endure. Each day, buses crawl through the mud, farmers push carts along cratered paths, and schoolchildren walk miles through dust and danger. The road may be broken, but the spirit of its people—the resilient men and women of Itapele, Idoani, Ipele, Afo, Ayere, and Kabba—remains unbroken.
They wait still, not just for a new road, but for justice—the kind that only true governance can bring.
