By Nelson Orjiaku
In every generation, there arises a man whose very existence unsettles mediocrity, a man whose shine blinds the jealous and whose generosity confuses the bitter.
In Ngwoma Obube community in Owerri North LGA and across Imo State, that man is Prince (Dr) Alex Mbata — a name that radiates like a morning sun, regardless of the storm clouds of envy cast against him.
His detractors may gather in whispers, but their shadows can never eclipse a sun that burns too brightly for darkness.
For months now, Alex Mbata has been portrayed as a villain by those who cannot stand the discomfort of his light. They string together tales of tyranny, ambition, and false princely airs, hoping that if they shout long enough, truth will grow weary.
Yet, while they spin fiction and falsehood, reality sits proudly on the roads he built, the scholarships he funded, and the churches he supported. Every stone of his philanthropy is a louder testimony than their gossip and bundles of lies.
Let the record speak: when his native Ngwoma Obube needed infrastructure, Alex Mbata laid the roads; when widows cried out in despair, he answered with relief; when children dreamed of education, he offered scholarships that transformed those dreams into certificates.
His enemies, a band of low lifers, say he is ambitious, as if ambition were a sin. But what is ambition if not the courage to dream beyond the narrow walls of bitterness? What they call ambition is what widows call survival, what students call opportunity, and what Imo calls development.
The jealous may cloak his good works with suspicion, but the hungry child who eats from his generosity knows no such envy.
In churches across the State, the altars remember his hand. Priests chant blessings because Alex Mbata does not just give — he sanctifies his wealth. He reminds us that true philanthropy is not a quiet duty but a proclamation of love, carved for all to see. It is little wonder the heavens seem to echo his name in thanksgiving!
And now to their most laughable claim: that Alex Mbata wants to be an Eze. What a circus of nonsense! To suggest that a man who builds roads, schools, and churches is scheming for a village stool is like accusing the sun of wanting to become a candle, or claiming the Atlantic Ocean envies a puddle.
Alex Mbata does not need a beaded crown to validate his worth; he already wears a diadem woven from the gratitude of widows, the blessings of priests, and the prayers of students whose lives he transformed. If titles made men, then history would have forgotten those who built empires without thrones.
Let the truth be told; It is his detractors, hungry for crumbs of recognition, who dream of crowns and stools —project their desperation on him.
But, oh, how the critics persist! They will tell you he gives to buy loyalty. Their accusations are comical. If generosity is a crime, then let the prisons be filled with givers and let Mbata be their warden of kindness. For in politics, where others hoard, he gives; where others vanish after elections, he lingers.
While these envious bunch rehearse allegations of arrogance and intimidation, Mbata’s works remain untouched. A road is a road, no matter what the envious claim. A scholarship is a scholarship, regardless of what bitter tongues wag. A bag of rice feeds the hungry, even if the blind pretend not to see who brought it.
Indeed, Alex Mbata is a paradox — a man loved and loathed, celebrated and vilified. But history does not remember the whispers of critics; it remembers the works that outlast them. And Mbata’s works are everywhere: on the tarred roads, in the classrooms filled with children in uniforms he sponsored, in the thanksgiving services where his name rolls like a hymn. He is not flawless, but he is far from the caricature his enemies paint.
Let it be known — the louder the agents of falsehood spew gibberish about Mbata, the greater the proof of his relevance. Envy never follows the insignificant; it chases only the bright. That is why the clouds of bitterness hover around him. But like every true sun, Mbata remains undimmed, breaking through storms with a stubborn radiance that forces even his enemies to squint in reluctant acknowledgment.
So, let them talk, let them rant, let them recycle their tired falsehoods. The truth is that Mbata has given more than many dare to attempt, and his legacy is not in their pamphlets of slander but in the smiles of those who have felt his hand. A sun too bright cannot be hidden by clouds; at best, the clouds remind us how powerful the light really is.
And so we salute him — Prince (Dr) Alex Mbata, a man whose philanthropy provokes envy, whose presence unsettles liars, whose works embarrass critics. He is not the villain of their imagination, but the benefactor of our reality. His is the sun that burns beyond reach, too bright for envy, too relentless to be dimmed.
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