From the long struggle for self-government to today’s debates over identity, territory, resources and the future of the coastline, Akwa Ibom’s 39th anniversary is more than a celebration. It is a question about what its people intended to build.
By Anietie Udobit, Abuja
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On September 23, 1987, Akwa Ibom State was born.
Thirty-nine years later, the anniversary arrives with the familiar language of celebration: development, resilience, sacrifice, progress and the promise of a better tomorrow. But beneath the ceremonies is a deeper story. A story about people who spent decades asking for political space of their own. A story about identity. A story about representation. And increasingly, a story about a difficult question: What exactly did the people who fought for Akwa Ibom State believe they were creating?
Because today’s arguments over land, resources, political representation, the Ibom Deep Seaport and the proposed Oro-Obolo State are not entirely new questions. They are contemporary expressions of an older Nigerian problem: Who controls the political space in which a people live, and who benefits from the resources within it?
BEFORE AKWA IBOM, THERE WAS A LONG WAIT
Akwa Ibom was created from the former Cross River State by the military administration of General Ibrahim Babangida on September 23, 1987.
But the demand did not begin that year. The state’s own historical records describe the agitation as lasting roughly four decades. A 2025 World Bank document containing the state’s official accounting history similarly records that the creation followed prolonged agitation dating back to the colonial and early post-colonial periods.
The territory that became Akwa Ibom had previously been administered under larger political arrangements. The mainland portion of the former Calabar Province became part of South-Eastern State after the 1967 state creation exercise and subsequently part of Cross River State after the 1976 reorganisation.
For those demanding a state of their own, the issue was not simply geography. It was representation. The question was whether communities located far from the centre of political power could adequately influence the decisions affecting their own lives.
THE IBIBIO UNION: WHERE CULTURE MET POLITICS
The history of the statehood movement cannot be told without examining the Ibibio Union. Founded in 1928, the Union initially emerged as a socio-cultural and welfare organisation. Historical scholarship records its concern with education, roads, agricultural prices, water supply and resistance to aspects of colonial administration, including warrant-chief rule, taxation, and forced labour.
Udo Udoma’s extensive history of the organisation describes its development from a cultural and welfare association into an institution involved in educational advancement and wider social and political change.
This evolution is important. It tells us something about how political movements often begin. They may start with culture. Then come welfare. Then representation. Then political demands.
The story of the Ibibio Union therefore offers an important lesson for understanding Akwa Ibom: Culture was not merely something to be preserved. It became a vehicle through which people organised politically.
BUT WAS THE STATEHOOD MOVEMENT ONLY ABOUT ONE PEOPLE?
This is where the historical story becomes more complicated. Academic research on the creation of Akwa Ibom shows that ethnicity and competing traditions of origin played a significant role in the politics surrounding the creation of the state.
One 1992 study by F.E.K. Amoah examined how traditions concerning Ibibio, Efik and other identities influenced the politics of state creation. It also cautioned against treating some popular migration narratives as settled historical fact.
That caution matters today. Because there is a temptation to look backwards and imagine that every community was always politically organised exactly as we understand it now. History rarely works that way. People had local identities. Clan identities. Language identities. Lineage identities. Religious identities. Economic relationships. And political interests. Those identities could overlap. Sometimes they cooperated. Sometimes they competed. Sometimes they changed.
The creation of Akwa Ibom did not erase those differences. It created a political framework within which they would coexist.
THEN CAME SEPTEMBER 23, 1987
After decades of petitions, memoranda and political agitation, the demand finally succeeded. Akwa Ibom State was created. Uyo became the capital. A political project that had occupied generations had become a constitutional reality. The meaning of that moment should not be underestimated. For supporters of state creation, it represented the possibility of bringing political authority closer to the people. It offered a new administrative centre. New opportunities for representation. New institutions. New access to development. And, importantly, a stronger sense that the people of the new state could participate directly in determining their collective future.
The state government today describes Akwa Ibom as having been created after about four decades of sustained agitation. But state creation solved one problem while creating another. How do different peoples build one political home without losing their individual identities?
39 YEARS LATER, THE QUESTION HAS RETURNED
Walk through contemporary Akwa Ibom and the old questions have acquired new vocabulary. Today we talk about: resource control. territorial boundaries. indigeneity. coastal development. political representation. state creation. land ownership. maritime resources.
The state’s geography makes these questions particularly significant. Akwa Ibom has a coastline stretching roughly 129 kilometres from the Oron area toward Ikot Abasi, according to the state government’s own description. Fishing, farming, trading and the oil and gas sector form important parts of its economic profile.
That coastline is not simply a geographical feature. It represents economic possibility. Ports. Shipping. Fishing. Oil and gas. Tourism. Industrial development. And potentially billions of naira in future economic activity.
So when communities debate who controls particular territories, the argument is rarely only about historical pride. There can be very real economic consequences.
THE IBOM DEEP SEAPORT QUESTION
Few contemporary issues illustrate this better than the proposed Ibom Deep Seaport. The project has been presented as an important component of Akwa Ibom’s maritime and economic ambitions. But its location and the historical ownership of surrounding territory have become subjects of competing claims.
A June 2026 publication by the Ekid Historical Society presented one side of that dispute, arguing that the proposed project is situated within Esit Eket and challenging claims that it lies on historically Oro land. Those claims are contested and should not be treated as independently established facts.
This is precisely why historical investigation matters. Maps. Colonial records. Court judgments. Traditional histories. Administrative boundaries. Gazettes. Land documents. Oral testimony. They can all tell different parts of the story. And sometimes the most important work is not deciding immediately who is right. It is establishing: What can actually be proved?
THEN CAME THE ORO-Obolo STATE QUESTION
The proposed creation of an Oro-Obolo State has introduced another dimension to the debate. Supporters of the proposal have argued for a separate political structure based on historical, developmental and self-determination considerations. Opposition has also been strong.
In 2025, a coalition of coastal local governments in Akwa Ibom—including Eket, Esit Eket, Ikot Abasi, Mkpat Enin and Onna—publicly rejected the proposed Oro-Obolo State, arguing that it threatened the state’s territorial integrity and control over coastal resources. Those are the coalition’s stated claims, not an independently established finding. The dispute continued into 2026.
In August, the Guardian reported a renewed confrontation between Oro representatives and the Ekid Peoples Union, while an Ibibio umbrella organisation defended the Ekid position and criticised the Oro-Obolo agitation. Again, the competing parties offered sharply different interpretations of the historical and territorial questions involved.
This is where the anniversary becomes more than ceremonial. Because a question that began decades ago— “Should we have our own political space?” —is now accompanied by another: “What happens when communities within that political space seek a different political arrangement?”
THE PARADOX OF STATE CREATION
There is a striking paradox here. Nigeria created states partly to bring government closer to the people and to respond to demands for political inclusion.
Yet every new state can create new minorities. Every new boundary can create a new majority and a new minority. Every new administrative structure can produce new questions: Who belongs? Who decides? Who owns the land? Who controls the resources? Who speaks for the people? And perhaps most importantly: Who defines the people?
This is why Akwa Ibom’s history cannot be reduced to the statement: “We fought for our state.” The deeper story is that different communities entered the state with histories that predated the state itself. The state is 39 years old. Its peoples are much older.
WHAT DID WE SHARE?
This is where the story connects directly to our ongoing MyIbibio Investigates project. For months, the investigation has asked questions about the connections between the peoples of the Lower Cross River region.
We have looked, among others, at Ibom. Iman. Nsit. Iboku. Abang. Eburutu. Uruan. Afaha. Enwang. Ukpabang. Also: Food. Language. Marriage. Trade. Religion. Ekpe. Migration.
The investigation has repeatedly encountered a complicated picture. Not necessarily one people. Not necessarily completely separate peoples. But communities whose histories have been intertwined through migration, marriage, trade, conflict, geography and cultural exchange. That complexity should inform how we discuss Akwa Ibom today.
THE DANGER OF TURNING HISTORY INTO A WEAPON
There is nothing wrong with being proud of one’s heritage. In fact, heritage matters. It gives people memory. It gives communities continuity. It gives younger generations something to inherit. But history becomes dangerous when it is used only to prove that another community has no legitimate place in the present.
The challenge before Akwa Ibom is therefore not to erase Ibibio identity. Nor Annang identity. Nor Oro identity. Nor Ekid identity. Nor Eket, Iman, Uruan, Obolo or any other community identity. The challenge is whether these identities can coexist with a larger civic identity.
Can someone be proudly Oro and proudly Akwa Ibom? Can someone be proudly Ibibio and proudly Akwa Ibom? Can someone defend ancestral history without denying another community’s history?
Those questions deserve serious conversation.
THE ORIGINAL PROMISE
Perhaps the best way to understand the 39th anniversary is to return to the reason statehood was demanded in the first place. It was, fundamentally, a demand for greater recognition and political agency. The historical record of the Ibibio Union shows that its early concerns included education, roads, agricultural welfare, water supply and protection from abuses associated with colonial administration.
Those concerns remain remarkably contemporary. People still want: good roads. quality education. economic opportunity. fair representation. access to resources. security. dignity. a voice in decisions affecting their communities. In other words, the fundamental question behind political identity has not disappeared. It has simply changed form.
AKWA IBOM AT 39: WHAT HAVE WE BUILT?
Today, the state’s political leadership is emphasising unity and future development.
In his anniversary broadcast on September 23, 2026, Governor Umo Eno described the state’s 39 years as a period of faith, resilience, sacrifice and progress, while arguing that its best chapters are still ahead. That message comes at an important moment. Because a state can measure its progress in kilometres of roads, bridges, schools, industries and infrastructure. But there is another measure. How successfully can its different peoples imagine a common future?
That is harder to quantify. But perhaps it is even more important.
THE 39TH-ANNIVERSARY QUESTION
Thirty-nine years after Akwa Ibom was created, perhaps we should stop asking only: “Who owns Akwa Ibom?” And begin asking: “What are we building with it?”
Whoever controls a political territory ultimately inherits a responsibility. To develop it. To protect its people. To preserve its history. To respect its communities. To manage its resources transparently. And to ensure that today’s political disagreements do not become tomorrow’s historical wounds.
The people who fought for statehood could not have predicted every debate that would follow. But they understood something fundamental: Political space matters.
Now the responsibility belongs to another generation. Not simply to preserve the state. But to determine what the state should mean.
A STATE AT 39
Akwa Ibom is 39. Its borders are 39 years old. Its government institutions are 39 years old. But the histories contained within those borders are centuries older.
That is the paradox—and perhaps the opportunity. We do not have to choose between history and unity. We do not have to erase difference to build solidarity. And we do not have to pretend that disagreements do not exist.
Perhaps the real test of maturity is whether we can acknowledge all three: Our differences. Our shared history. Our common future.
The generation that demanded Akwa Ibom State asked for a political home. The generation living in it today must answer a harder question: WHAT KIND OF HOME WILL WE LEAVE FOR THE NEXT GENERATION?
Thirty-nine years after statehood, that may be the most important anniversary question of all.
Happy 39th Anniversary, Akwa Ibom State. Thirty-nine years of statehood. Centuries of history. Many identities. One shared political future.
Anietie Udobit writes “Our Shared Nation,” a reflective column on identity, belonging, and the stories that bind Nigerians across differences.
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