By Tom Chiahemen

Sometimes, a controversy that appears to be about one thing is really about something else.

Former Anambra State governor and 2027 presidential candidate of the Nigerian Democratic Congress (NDC), Peter Obi, may have set out for Benue last week with the relatively simple intention of commiserating with victims of the Yelwata massacre, where more than 200 people were reportedly killed.

Yet, before he could reach his destination, the aborted visit had produced two very different but equally important conversations.

The first was about the alleged obstruction of his movement in Makurdi and the larger question of whether any Nigerian, much less a presidential candidate, should be prevented from entering a part of the country for legitimate political or humanitarian purposes.

The second—and the one that interests me more as a student and practitioner of journalism, media and public relations—was the unexpected debate over who speaks for a government.

More specifically: where does the responsibility of a Governor’s Chief Press Secretary end and that of a Commissioner for Information begin?

At first glance, this may appear to be an argument over nomenclature, protocol or bureaucratic hierarchy. It is, however, much more profound than that. It goes to the heart of government communication, reputation management, public trust and crisis communication.

The reported disagreement between Benue’s Commissioner for Information, Solomon Iorpev, and the Governor’s Chief Press Secretary, Tersoo Kula, over who had the right to comment on Peter Obi’s visit has therefore presented an unusual opportunity to examine a question that is often misunderstood in government: when two officials are responsible for communicating government, who actually speaks for the government?

My interest in the matter is not merely academic.

Although I have spent more than three decades in Journalism, Media and Public Relations, I have never served as Commissioner for Information or as a Chief Press Secretary. I have therefore resisted the temptation to pronounce myself an authority on a matter that is best illuminated by those who have actually occupied the offices.

I reached out to a number of eminent Benue sons who have served in those positions and also considered the views of other informed commentators.

The answers are revealing.

Chief John Omanchi, who served as Chief Press Secretary to the then Military Governor of Benue State, Lt. Col. Ishaya Bakut, at a time when Rev. Tor Ujah was Commissioner for Information, put the matter rather bluntly: there should be no clash of responsibilities between the two offices. In his view, where such friction exists, it could simply amount to a contest for power.

That observation takes us to the heart of the matter.

In public communication, power is rarely neutral.

Who gets to speak? Who gets the headline? Whose statement becomes the official position? Who enjoys the Governor’s confidence? And who is seen by the public as the authentic voice of the administration?

These may look like professional questions, but they can quickly become questions of ego and political influence.

Dr. Cletus Akwaya, who served both as Commissioner for Information and as Special Adviser/Governor’s Chief Spokesperson at different times over a period of 10 years, offers perhaps the most practical lesson.

According to him, when necessary, the two offices met, jointly drafted statements and determined who should speak first and who should follow up. In other words, the issue was never who was more important; it was who was better positioned to communicate a particular message at a particular time.

That is a profoundly important distinction.

Good government communication is not a competition for visibility. It is a coordinated effort to ensure that the public receives the right message from the right messenger at the right time.

Chief Tahav Agerzua, who served at various times as Chief Press Secretary, Special Adviser and Principal Special Assistant to the Governor, similarly recalled a structure in which the Commissioner for Information had statutory responsibility for the government’s information machinery, while the CPS managed the Governor’s reputation and the Government House press corps.

The distinction, as he remembered it, was clear: the Commissioner spoke for the government; the CPS spoke for or about the Governor.

That distinction is perhaps the most useful starting point in understanding the controversy.

The Commissioner for Information is a member of the State Executive Council and has responsibility for the Ministry of Information and the state’s information agencies. The CPS, on the other hand, is fundamentally an appointee of the Governor, serving the Governor’s office and managing the Governor’s media relations.

But there is an important caveat.

Government is not a collection of isolated voices.

Chief Press Secretaries, Commissioners, Special Advisers, Senior Special Assistants and other media officers may have different briefs, but they ultimately serve one administration. Consequently, the existence of different communication offices should not produce different versions of government.

Dr. Justine Amase, who served as Commissioner for Information and Orientation during the administration of Governor Gabriel Suswam, reinforces this point.

He explained that the CPS’s primary mandate was to speak directly for the Governor and the Governor’s office, while the Commissioner was responsible for the government’s official information and public communication machinery.

Yet the relationship between the two offices, he recalled, was maintained through a “dotted reporting line” that enabled them to discuss issues, align positions and reach agreement before going to the press.

That arrangement worked because neither office regarded coordination as a surrender of authority.

Indeed, Dr. Amase’s recollection of the successful hosting of the Radio Nigeria annual conference is instructive. When the Governor determined that the event should be handled by the Commissioner because it was a State Government event rather than an event of the Governor’s office, Dr. Akwaya willingly handed over the responsibility and supported the Commissioner.

There was no war over territory.

There was simply an understanding that the interest of the institution was greater than the ego of the individual.

That is precisely where the larger lesson lies.

Dr. Terver Akase, who served as Special Adviser on Media and Publicity, Chief Press Secretary and Senior Special Assistant on Media to Governor Samuel Ortom, also draws a distinction between the two offices. In his experience, the Commissioner is a member of the cabinet and has responsibility for government information, while the CPS is primarily concerned with the Governor’s media relations.

But he adds something even more important: the relationship must be symbiotic and cordial.

If the Commissioner is speaking on a matter of state policy, the CPS needs to know. If the CPS is communicating the Governor’s position, the Commissioner needs to understand the context. Otherwise, two officials can unintentionally begin speaking about the same matter from different positions.

And once that happens, the government has a problem.

Not merely a communication problem.

A credibility problem.

This is why Akase’s insistence that “the government needs to speak with one voice” deserves serious consideration.

Samuel Zenke, while agreeing that the Commissioner has broader responsibility for the state’s information policy and communication of government programmes, makes an equally important point: the CPS is not domiciled in the Ministry of Information and is not automatically subordinate to the Commissioner simply because both offices deal with information and the media.

This is where a mature understanding of institutional roles becomes indispensable.

Different does not necessarily mean superior.

The CPS and Commissioner may have different reporting lines, different mandates and different constituencies. That does not mean they should become rival centres of communication.

If anything, the more complex a government’s communication architecture becomes, the greater the need for coordination.

This brings me back to the Peter Obi controversy.

Dr. Amase makes an important distinction between the April 2025 episode involving Obi and the current September 2026 controversy.

In the earlier incident, he recalled, Governor Hyacinth Alia had taken a personal and public position on Obi’s visit and directed the CPS to communicate that position. The communication responsibility was therefore clearly located within the Governor’s office.

The current situation, however, is different, at least from the facts presented. There has not been sufficient evidence establishing that Governor Alia personally directed the alleged obstruction of Obi or that he directly participated in the actions of the thugs.

That distinction matters.

Where the Governor has taken a personal position, the CPS is naturally central to communicating that position. But where the matter concerns the actions or position of the State Government as an institution, the Commissioner for Information has a legitimate and broader responsibility.

The tragedy, therefore, is that what should have been a coordinated communication response appears to have become another story altogether: a story about the communicators themselves.

And that is dangerous.

In crisis communication, the moment the public begins discussing the disagreement among the people managing the crisis rather than the crisis itself, the communication machinery has already lost part of the battle.

Iorliam Shima perhaps captures this most appropriately in describing the Peter Obi episode as one of the most challenging public-relations moments since the beginning of the Alia administration.

At such a moment, he argues, the government’s communication machinery ought to have been focused, disciplined, coordinated and strategic—with every member of the media team concentrating on defending the government’s image, clarifying its position and managing the backlash.

That is the essence of professional public relations.

The first casualty of a divided communication team is often the reputation of the institution it is supposed to protect.

Government is entitled to defend itself. It is entitled to correct misinformation. It is entitled to explain its actions and challenge allegations against it.

But the effectiveness of that defence depends greatly on the credibility, consistency and coherence of the messenger.

A government that speaks through competing voices risks creating three versions of reality: what happened, what one official says happened and what another official says happened.

The public, naturally, begins to ask: Who should we believe?

And once that question takes root, rebuilding trust becomes considerably more difficult.

This is why the apparent controversy between Benue’s CPS and Commissioner for Information should not be dismissed as merely another quarrel among political appointees.

It offers Governor Hyacinth Alia and his administration an opportunity to revisit their communication architecture and clarify, once and for all, the responsibilities of the various offices involved in public communication.

There is nothing unusual about having several communication officers. Modern governments everywhere require specialists in strategic communication, media relations, public enlightenment, digital communication, crisis communication and reputation management.

What is unusual—and potentially destructive—is allowing those specialists to operate as competing voices.

The ultimate lesson from the experiences shared by these former Benue government officials is remarkably simple:

The CPS does not have to become the Commissioner, and the Commissioner does not have to become the CPS. What both must become is a coordinated communication team.

The Governor does not need multiple voices competing for ownership of his message. The government does not need multiple officials competing to demonstrate who is more powerful.

What it needs is something much less glamorous but far more valuable: clarity of roles, mutual respect, professional discipline and a shared understanding that public communication is ultimately about the institution—not the communicator.

After all, the microphone may belong to the individual at the podium.

But the voice belongs to the government.

And when that voice begins to sound divided, the public does not merely hear disagreement among officials.

It hears uncertainty at the heart of government.