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Pendulum: Tribute to Pius Adesanmi

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By Dele Momodu
Fellow Nigerians, it is very difficult to write this tribute to a man one knew as a friend, colleague and brother, Professor Pius Adesanmi. Let me start from the end. Last Sunday started for me like every other Sunday, a day for relaxation. My son had driven to Oxford to pick me and take me home in London. The drive from Oxford on the Motorway was smooth, with little traffic here and there particularly when we got to London because as is typical of most roads in the capital, they are perpetually undergoing some repair or another at the weekends.
On getting home, I opted for a quick Nigerian lunch, something which is a rarity in Oxford and which I had therefore missed during my weekly stint in Oxford. Thereafter, I opened my phone to navigate through my social media platforms as is my habit. Suddenly, a satanic news item jumped at me. An Ethiopian airlines plane was reported to have crashed shortly after take-off. I was stunned. I have never liked such news, being a frequent flyer myself. I said the usual selfish prayer: “may we not have any of our family members or friends on it.” But truth was, that route, from Addis Ababa to Nairobi is quite popular for Nigerians. The headquarters of the African Union is in Addis Ababa and international agencies dot the landscape of Kenya which is also renowned for its amazing tourist attractions.  The allure for fun-loving and adventurous Nigerians is best imagined. My mind continued to process the news and I twitted a prayer for the casualties and offered my condolences to their bereaved families.
I was still wondering what might have caused this unfortunate crash when my eyes roamed to a pending direct message on Twitter from a lawyer, writer and brother, Tade Ipadeola: “Egbon, something ghastly has happened. We have to believe Pius Adesanmi was on the crashed Ethiopian airliner. Travelling with his Canadian passport.” I screamed, “no way!” I immediate called Mr Ipadeola in Nigeria and he reiterated his earlier message.
I started working the phones and soon stumbled on another bad news regarding another distinguished Nigerian on the ill-fated flight, written anonymously by God knows who: “Just got this: I’ve just been informed now that we lost one of our own. A high-profile Nigerian, Amb. Abiodun Bashua in that crash. Those serving in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs will know him. He was the former UN and AU Deputy Joint Special Representative in Darfur, Sudan. A complete gentleman. May God rest his soul.” What a terrible day this is turning out to be, I soliloquised. Ambassador Bashua is a brother -in-law to Bose and Gboyega Adegbenro, and I could therefore share in their pain and sorrow because of my friend and brother, Prince Damola Aderemi, whose mother, Funlayo Adegbenro, is the matriarch of the Adegbenro family.
As for Pius, who I used to call Kofeso, as a Yoruba corruption of the word ‘Professor’, I eventually confirmed that he had indeed perished along with Ambassador Bashua and 155 other innocent souls on that doomed Flight ET302. I knew his death would reverberate to far-flung places across the oceans because of his towering accomplishments in academia and the literary world. Kofeso, in his inimitable, simple but flowing literary style had written himself into the hearts of too many fans globally. At under 50 years of age (Pius had only recently celebrated his 47th birthday on 27 February), he seems to have achieved what most people wouldn’t have achieved at the age of 80 and beyond. I had become acquainted with him through his compelling essays and articles before we met physically. And ours was love at first sight, based on mutual respect and admiration.
My colleague and brother, Segun Adeniyi had called me in Accra, Ghana, one afternoon from Abuja, Nigeria. After our exchange of usual pleasantries and banter, Segun informed me that his close friend, Pius Adesanmi, would like to have my numbers. I gave him my consent immediately. Who wouldn’t? I was a big fan of his writing prowess, as well as his political interventions, even if we disagreed from time to time on various issues. I soon received a call from Kofeso and he told me he was coming to spend some time teaching at the University of Ghana in Legon. I told him to alert me once he arrived and settled down, and he did. I personally drove to pick him from Legon to my home where we had so much fun devouring our bowls of pounded yam and egusi soup. We ate as voraciously as we chatted moving back and forth from mundane to serious issues. We got on so well, it was as if we had known each other forever. I told him that for as long as he was in Ghana, he had unfettered access to my chefs, whether I was home or not. He was such a friendly man and he would sometimes ask if he could invite his friends along and of course this was fine by me.  His friends straddled society and was a reflection of the kind of persona that Kofeso had. Needless to say, we all bonded as one blood.
Months later, Kofeso returned to his base in Canada but we kept in touch. I followed him on social media, and I admired his passion and love for our motherland Nigeria, a passion we shared, albeit with different approaches.
Let me fast forward a bit. Kofeso was involved in a ghastly fatal motor accident on Lagos-Ibadan Expressway last year. He was lucky to escape with his life from what I later learnt. Somehow, I missed the news but stumbled on it on September 7, 2018, and I quickly sent him a WhatsApp message: “My dear Brother, this is Dele Momodu. I don’t know how the story of your accident escaped me. Just discussing now with Segun. May God heal you totally. I will keep trying till I get you.”
Kofeso responded about six hours later. I didn’t realise the accident was worse than I had imagined. “Great to hear from you my dear Brother Bob Dee. It was serious o. 2 months later I’m still in physio and recovering from injuries. 2 people died. I am the only survivor.” I was shocked to my bones. “Lord have mercy… May their souls rest in peace.” I wrote. How could I have envisaged that that fiendish accident was only a dress rehearsal?
Surprisingly, barely 24 hours later, Kofeso and I exchanged yet another WhatsApp conversation, after he read my Pendulum column titled “Are Nigerian Youths Truly Ready to Run or Just Ranting?” I was particularly delighted by his beautiful comment: “Bob Dee, this tour de force has arrived in time for inclusion in my syllabus on youth and politics in Africa.” I thanked him profusely.
Our interactions continued unabated, and on January 24, 2019, I contacted him to be one of the three referees I needed for my application to Oxford University, the others being my former teacher at the then University of Ife, now Obafemi Awolowo University, Ile-Ife, Professor Chidi Amuta, and my former boss at Weekend Concord, Mr Mike Awoyinfa. As always, as soon as he read my message, he responded: “Apologies Bob Dee, I’ve just seen this. I’m in a seminar. Can I call you in an hour?” I said ok. He requested for my current cv and asked if there was anything in particular I wanted him to write. I simply replied: “Pls write from the heart. You know I’m a great fan of your style.”
 I pestered him a bit about the deadline for the submission of the referee’s letter. At a stage, he phoned and said “Bob Dee, you should know I can never let you down” and I was deeply touched by his love. It was such a great honour to have him write a reference on my behalf as an impartial and independent assessor of the quality of my essays and work. He finally completed the reference and sent it off. True to his word, I subsequently got confirmation from Oxford that all my referees met the strict deadline, and I was very grateful to them all including Kofeso, who had obviously been very busy and distracted at that time.
My last WhatsApp interaction with Kofeso was on February 5, 2019, after what seemed an altercation between us on Twitter. Some young guys had suggested that Pius Adesanmi had attacked me in a comment, which I didn’t consider as a big deal, but Kofeso was visibly worried to the extent that he privately fired some quick clarification to me: “Bob Dee, I can’t believe this. I just got on Twitter now and noticed that a comment I made pointing out that CNN would always badmouth China from an American perspective was misread by so many. I hope you got my drift o. What is wrong with all these Twitter kids and reading comprehension?”
S
ince I didn’t feel his tweet was anything negative, in the first instance, I just told him: “Nothing at all KOFESO. We live in the age of ignorance and intolerance.” But Kofeso was not yet done, and he raged on: “I am so angry. How could anybody think it was u I was attacking? E GBA mi o. These kids can’t read!!” Kofeso appeared like a man who had a deadline to meet, and he didn’t want our relationship destroyed by any mischief-maker. I told him not to worry because, sincerely speaking, I didn’t take it to heart, in any way, and I had not even considered that I might be the one he was addressing in his tweet, which as he explained was not the case in any event. “My own KOFESO, these young guys don’t know our relationship. Check my response pls.” That was my final response to him on WhatsApp. It never occurred to me that it would be the last.
But I’m glad we managed to speak before his unfortunate departure on the tragic flight. Kofeso had called me weeks back to ask if I would be in Nairobi, Kenya, this week. He knew I travelled a bit within the East African region and was hoping we could meet in Nairobi where he was attending a conference. I said I would be in England most of this week before travelling to Lagos for a youth empowerment program. It was our last verbal discussion. It still plays on in my head like a broken record because this was a most unassuming intellectual and literary giant as his writings demonstrate.
Death took away one of Africa’s best and brightest. Like too many people have openly attested to, it would be difficult, if not impossible to replace Professor Pius Adebola Adesanmi. He came, he saw, he conquered, within a short space of time. Kofeso flew away on the wings of time into eternity and the sure hands and embrace of the Lord, when he finished his assignment on earth, even as we, the lovers and admirers of his writing and and some of his ideals, still feel that we needed him more. Such is the unchallengeable way of almighty God that we must give thanks for his short but monumental life. A life in which he gave of his knowledge and wit to enrich our space and thoughts. Kofeso, we thank and honour you today and always. You are a pious STAR!
My sincere condolences to his entire family particularly his mum, wife and children. May his beautiful soul rest in perfect peace.
Adieu, Kofeso. Sun re o!
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COLUMNISTS

Pendulum: And My Idol Died (By Popular Demand)

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By Dele Momodu

(I wrote this article the very night MICHAEL JACKSON died and wept throughout the typing… My wife looked on in wonderment… I rate it as one of my top three articles in 40 years… Now that Michael Jackson is back in the news, more for bad reasons than good, many people have requested me to intervene on behalf  of one of my known heroes of all time. I have nothing more to add or subtract from
what I scripted on Thursday, June 25, 2009, which was published on this very page on June 27, 2009… Please, enjoy, or just read, and form your opinion…)

God, please forgive me, for claiming publicly that I worshipped an idol. Truth is I did. I worshipped Michael Jackson. I hated anyone who ever passed snide remarks about this greatest showman on earth. Strangely, I never met my idol. He was a god I accepted in good faith. A god I would have loved to meet. But I kept faith with his music, and was privileged to have met some of his siblings. There was nothing I did not try to meet him. I always knew it was only a matter of time before the relentless vicissitudes of life would take its final toll on this extremely frail but prodigiously talented artiste.
Michael was supposed to be the peak of success but he was the limit of sadness. His fame eclipsed that of all his siblings combined. He was the very epitome of achievement. No artiste in history had generated as much controversy in one lifetime. Like the quintessential dancer that he was, Michael waltzed from one crisis to the other. He was the true example that the world may pretend to love success, but the world actually hates success. Every imaginary story was conjured, or concocted, around this stupendously famous man.
He packed more than the activities of a thousand years into the 50 years he lived on earth. The world is allowed a glimpse of such demigods once in a blue moon. Michael was a deviant in all ways. He defied the laws of gravity and motion. He was a spirit child, and he acted the part perfectly. He was bound to go the way he came, with a bang. It was impossible for him to go with a mere whimper.
In his time, most things he touched turned into gold. He became as popular as the Coca-Cola bottle. He was known everywhere and was more popular than most world presidents. In our school, every music group mimicked Michael Jackson. At the then University of Ife, one young man became famous on campus for his dexterous performance of Michael Jackson in “Beat it”. He is the same Femi Elufowoju who’s currently doing Nigeria proud as an actor in the elite theater of London’s West End. Michael was every child’s ultimate idol. Even for those of us who grew up in rural settings, and had no television sets at home, we knew this boy who danced better than James Brown. His name resonated like Iraqi bombs, exploding beyond boundaries.

This was the main cause of his problems. Success breeds more sorrow than joy. There is the intrusion of privacy. The financial demands of trying to put up an appearance. The envy of peers, and the subject of sibling rivalries. It was impossible to ignore Michael, whether you hated or loved him. To describe him as an icon was an understatement. Everything around him was big news. He was never going to live a normal life, like you and I. He was sentenced to his own prison, and would never be able to break free.

Michael lived in a society where the policy was everyone for himself and God for us all. He was a lonely child. He started life too early. And fame and fortune beyond imagination chased him. He was haunted by both. They became his albatross. He had to wear a mask to go out. He was said to have experimented with all manner of weird disguises. He earned the acronym, Wacko Jacko. He was easy prey for both genuine and counterfeit extortionists. They found all manner of excuses to take his money, and practically took him to the cleaners.

Michael lived and was sustained on maximum hype. He regularly reinvented both his person and his career. From being an innocent Black kid, he transfigured into a white ghost, who became whiter than snow. It was speculated that the record labels that made incredible fortunes off him had encouraged him to engage in bleaching away his blackness, a terrible habit that would later become an incurable obsession. It probably worked initially. But it soon became a tragic flaw in his persona.

Those who wanted any reason to detest him found perfect grounds for merciless assaults. He was insulted and abused. His unusual love for children was another sore point. He was called a child molester. Who knows? Neither you nor I were eye-witnesses. Such stories abound about newsmakers everywhere. As a devotee, we accepted him warts and all. He was human after-all. I learnt a lot from his life. That success would never guarantee happiness. That money would never buy peace. That your friends would rather watch you die when you get into trouble than offer a helping hand.

All those shedding crocodile tears now obviously saw Michael in his various stages of dilapidation – that those who can never match your talents would always attack your efforts. That at the end of it all, all is vanity indeed. Human beings are always quick to judge others. They leave the log in their eyes and chase the speck in that of others. Michael this, Michael that, was all we heard. Now that he’s dead, may be they’ll leave him alone, and allow the dead to bury their dead.

The problems were just too many for Michael. And the burden must have been too heavy to bear. It is difficult to imagine how he even lived for this long. He had marital problems. He had acute financial problems. From being one of the richest men in showbiz history, he became a pauper, as poor as a church rat. His grace to grass story was one of the most frightening examples of the fall of man. It could not have been easy. It was as if he had no family, and no friend.

The man had helped to raise money for the world, but the world failed to raise money for him, in his time of dire need. They watched his life collapse while everyone minded his own business. This is usually the tragedy of great people. They are often seen as the supermen who can solve all problems alone. But my illiterate mum knew better, and used to warn that there is a thin chord holding the heart to the human body. It is just too fragile.
Die-hard fans like me were hoping for a miracle that would teleport Michael back to his original state, when he was that adorable kid, and everyone thought he was older than Michael. Michael had that childlike innocence that made him vulnerable. But he was awesome. The world was not big enough for his stage. Music was his life and we had all foolishly believed that he could live, sing and dance forever. We followed his every move, shared in his triumphs, and suffered in his pains. He was human, very human. He had his foibles, like all mortals do. He tried to keep to himself a lot, and came out of his shrine only when necessary. He was called the weird one. He had to be. His life was too extraordinary and too sensational.

I was always hoping to meet him, one on one. And even dreamt of bringing him to Nigeria to live under our protection, when his troubles became too suffocating to watch. We toyed with asking the Ooni of Ife or the Alaafin of Oyo to make him an African Chief and get our government to turn him into our national treasure. That would have been feasible in a land that understood the power of entertainment and tourism. But one Arab tycoon stole him to Bahrain, where I believe life must have been very miserable for him. He was just too broke, and was facing certain humiliation of unimaginable proportions.
The bailiffs were after him like bullets. Before his very eyes, his prized possessions were auctioned. His Neverland Ranch, which was his recreation of paradise on earth, became a dead place and he had to give up the ownership of this private sanctuary. By the time the relationship between him and his Arab friend broke down, and he had to return Los Angeles, the damage had been done. He was forced to move into a rented apartment. Just imagine, from living in paradise to living in the pit of hell. It is better imagined than experienced.

What I admired most about him was how he kept readjusting to his excruciating conditions. He accepted his fate with uncommon equanimity. He was determined to prove that he wasn’t finished. He travelled to London recently to promote his forthcoming world tour. He needed to disappoint the cynics who thought he was down and flat-out. His plans were going fine. He had sold a record 750,000 tickets for his concerts. For him, the shows were meant to be the grand finale to an incredible career, the sort we are not likely to see again in our generation.

Also, he was working hard to leave a worthy legacy, and a formidable empire for his family, especially his children. He was said to have written hundreds of songs which he never performed, but were meant to be released only after his death. He was a workaholic. He probably died working. He didn’t want his fans to be disappointed in him. They were the reason for his existence. We meant everything to him, just as he meant everything to us.
You don’t have to be a doctor to know he must have died of exhaustion. The London concert was meant to be his final farewell to the world. He had gone as far as getting a personal trainer to beef him up for the tour. His existence depended on proving this ultimate point. It was a dangerous fixation that would prove fatal. He had been off-stage for too long. Unknown to him, age was no longer on his side. Everything that has a beginning must have an end. He did not accept the verdict of God. The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh. It was time to go and the time to be set free.

The elephant collapsed two nights ago. I cried like a baby. My wife had always found my love for Michael Jackson very strange. If she did not know me well, she may have suspected me of unprintable inclinations. I had wished Fela truly kept death in his pouch. We would have begged him to keep Michael for us forever. But Fela himself was killed by death. It is one debt we all owe. Sooner or later, the king of all bailiffs must come, and take possession of all. This is the reason we must do our best and leave the world better than we met it.

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COLUMNISTS

Spectrum: The Giant of Poverty

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By Anikulapo Macmillan

Is it this period when political parties are jostling on whom will become the president of the ninth assembly— that I am talking about poverty? Or maybe they are not bothering about the citizenry that lives below two dollar a day. That means how government has not understood its importance. Shame!

Let me be a little sarcasm here: what is poverty in a nation when senator is buying a Roll Royce, and the populace, are barely hungry? Maybe those exotic cars are for the serfs to understand that Nigeria is a poor country?

Oh! This is somehow a fable that Nigeria is extremely poor. That is why the EFCC has recorded billions from our rotund politicians in the last four years. Still, this is shameful to our system.

Is famished a kind of household name; or an inheritance curse for the poor Nigerians? Or is it deliberates from God that they should be poor? Please, who knows God should tell him that poverty in Nigeria is outrageous. Our hospitals can’t survive anymore because there is no money to buy equipment. Even schools are deteriorating. Thus, it is simply, a kind of system, Fela called ‘’ Roforofo’’

Last week, I encountered the speech of Emir of Kano, Sanusi Lamido Sanusi at the Gala Night of First Bank’s 125 years anniversary. I listened to his insightful speech because I admired his intelligence since he was the governor of our apex bank.

The monarch addressed in a kind of modicum that was relevant to what etch us in Nigeria. However, what he said was nothing but the truth. That poverty has beleaguered the citizens.

We have failed to know that it is the responsibility of the government to adequately restructure the society— this, is like, what a novelist, Harper Lee, wrote in her famous novel, To Kill a Mockingbird.  And this particular novel described rape as an instrument of hunger and racial inequality.

These two things are relevant in our beloved country. It is apparent to what the Monarch said. When I listened to him intensely; I began to feel a cataclysm.

We don’t know what we want than to follow those who don’t have our time. Whose children are not facing kind of conundrum the poor people are facing. Like the Success Adegor’s story whose educational love went viral because her parent could not pay for her school fee.

Meanwhile, what happened to her showed that poverty in Nigeria is not about race. It is about the government failing to do what is right. Oftentimes, I do feel dissipated of our democracy.

Is it not Democracy they are practicing in the US? It is painstaking that at this level, our government can’t provide basic school for our children. It is pathetic. Even majority of those public schools are dilapidated. It is unfortunate that by now we still live in abject poverty.

I have considered the Emir’s speech as part of what is germane in this country at a time when our politicians have failed to know that the priority of the government is to provide wealth across the citizens.

And the nation’s economy is not determined by the economy index alone. Either is it by the out flowing of resources. But, it is in Nigeria that our politicians use millions of dollars for tour.

Please hear the monarch: ‘’ I listened to all elections debate and nobody talked about child’s education and malnutrition. They are being marginalized because those millions are not important. The poor should be the major shareholder and not the multibillion shareholders

And at 2017, 58 percent of children under the age of 5 in the Kano have chronic malnutrition and 48 percent of all women of reproductive age are suffering from Iron deficiency and the high mortality rate and we treat that as a medical problem not as a nutrition problem’’

This scourge of poverty in our society has made us to go into dismay. It has let us to believe that poverty is part of us. We die like prey in what a poet describes to human condition in his poem: ‘’ to sea is fish/to live is human/and to die is the hunger that kills human’’ stoically, this is the narration of poverty in this country when an average Nigerian doesn’t have expectations. No jobs. No facilities in the hospitals and schools anymore. People are now dying because the government is not showing concern to the level of poor Nigerians.

We are now acting like we are all puerile to ourselves. We then begin to act like interlopers to ourselves rather to know how to fight for our system. Subtle, is it that people in the US are better than us in Nigeria? Where we die and we still bereaved with hunger while our elite die with smiles of billions in their account. This is obviously kind of argument Karl Marx talked about when he wrote his book: Communist Manifesto.

To live as a citizen means we need to know our right. We need to benefit in the government policies. And to be citizen that has the equal right and not citizen that suffers from inequality.

Unfortunately this is not the society that we find ourselves. A society that is squirmed with temerity and it is fickle with our societal impetus. However, what the Emir said at the First bank anniversary was remarkably an act for President Buhari because if he fails to eradicate poverty to a limit that means his administration has failed woefully.

So, our expectation in this country is nothing good than an economy where every Nigeria can have access to good health care and good education. Thus, Nigeria had about 87 million people in extreme poverty, compared with India’s 73 million. What is more, extreme poverty in Nigeria is growing by six people every minute, while poverty in India continues to fall.

Also, this is peculiar to us in Nigeria that poverty has become callous to us since the government has failed to realize that even the rich also cry. Therefore, we don’t need to undermine ourselves if truly we want to live out of this parvenu.

And lest I forget, permit me to digress a little bit, to what happened during the 2019 election both in Kano and Rivers State. These events showed that our people are hungry as a result of the political imbroglio in our system.

Having said this, those who perpetrated electoral evil that later led to some politicians’ hoopla from those people who were suffering from the menace of poverty scourge. So, poverty has caused drug addiction, kidnapping, armed robbery and other kind of atrocities that have made us to despise our humble beginning as a nation whose wealth is bigger the England. Enough! To become a giant of poverty.

@Babatunde_Mac

+2348076926109

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COLUMNISTS

Abiola and the Parable of a Poor Man in the Kitchen

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www.securenigeria365.com

Fellow Nigerians, I’m sure you are probably familiar with the stories of Chief Moshood Kashimawo Olawale Abiola. Yes, stories, for he was a man of many parts. MKO, as he was fondly called, had three initials that were synonymous with money (Money, Kudi, Owo). Each of the stories around him was the stuff of fiction, fact or “faction.” MKO was a man of sharp intellect, rare sagacity, and uncommon wit. He was a great storyteller, possibly in the mould of the ancient griots of Mali. His knowledge and repository of oral tradition and fables was legendary. He had remarkable tales for every occasion, and the way he stammered made his delivery unique and unforgettable. I was fortunate to have met and known this sensational prodigy who taught me so much, as an adopted son, and my great mentor.

As I prepared to put this column together, my mind flashed back to MKO, as it often does. This epistle is actually not about MKO. No. But there is no better way to illustrate the message than to borrow one of those evergreen witticisms of MKO, a man of superlative memory. My essay today is about the just concluded elections in our dear beloved country Nigeria, which was a complete mess to say the least. I will explain the various reasons and dimensions for my submission and conviction in a jiffy. Please, exercise some patience.

Despite earlier signals, and premonition, that the Buhari government was not likely to play by the books, I, like many others, suffered from unreasonable optimism that the Independent National Electoral Commission (INEC) would give us a pleasant surprise, against all odds. I had misplaced, and invested, my hopes and faith in the Chairman and leadership of INEC, a man called Professor Mahmood Yakubu, for crying out loud. I thought he would give us free, fair and credible elections just like Professor Attahiru Muhammadu Jega – a fellow academic whose tenure was well applauded for consolidating our democratic ideals – had done before him in 2015. How did I allow myself to be fooled by the charms, charisma and carriage of this man, who exuded grace, intelligence and confidence? My soft spot for academia and intellectualism could have been responsible. Most people I know would always, naturally, expect university egg heads to handle assignments with total dedication, commitment and integrity, even at the point of death. A man with a degree of Doctor of Philosophy, cut to be a philosopher in words and in deed, a king and champion of worthy causes and believer in eternal accomplishments and legacy. He should be above many temporal cravings, the reason it is often said that “the teacher’s reward is in heaven.”

In the recent past, I had come to regard the employment of Professors as returning officers for INEC a masterstroke that was bound to reduce the cases of electoral malfeasance and corrupt temptations. Professors are known to live humbly and simply within their modest means. In our days, they were happy in the company of their colleagues, after work, in the confines of the staff club, where they washed down some affordable grilled fish and pepper-soup with criminally cold beer. I had been mesmerised and hypnotised by their admirable performance in the 2015 elections, under the headship of a man of honour, Professor Attahiru Jega. It is unthinkable, and unimaginable, what could have gone wrong so soon, four years down the line. Perhaps, we can find explanation in one of the favourite wise-cracks of MKO, “if you want to know if a fish is bad, smell the head, once the head is rotten the whole body is gone.” Can anyone challenge that brilliant theory?

I did not know much about Mahmood Yakubu, but I took more than a cursory interest in him nearer to the elections when I started reading all sorts about him. There was a particular story that struck me, written by Professor Farooq Kperogi, whose essays I read religiously, almost like Biblical verses, just like I gulped everything written by Sonala Olumhense (right from my university days), and Abimbola Adelakun. Kperogi had stated, matter-of-factly, that Mahmood Yakubu hated Atiku Abubakar with a passionate venom. While it may have sounded like beer parlour gossip, the writer went ahead to regale his readers with copious information at his disposal. As much as I tried to dismiss them as tales by moonlight, I still couldn’t obliterate them from my gumption. It was difficult for me to fathom why a cerebral man would despise a fellow human being for whatever reason. Despite this, I was still willing to give Yakubu the benefit of doubts.

I decided to watch Yakubu very keenly and read every bit of information I could find on him. I was fascinated by the fact and realisation that I was about two years older than him. For me, he seemed to be a pride of my generation and I expected him to push the frontiers of human endeavours to sustain the confidence that many Nigerians had reposed in him.  Any normal human would be inspired to raise the bar beyond where Jega had placed it. Never did I envisage the nightmare that the 2019 election turned out to be. It was as if Yakubu could not be bothered at all. In all honesty, I won’t put all the blame on him. I believe the terrain was deliberately made difficult by our politicians. The desperation in certain quarters was hopelessly difficult. The involvement of the military was horribly depressing. I have never seen our respected and respectable soldiers misused and misdirected since the end of military rule. Those who were already over-stretched by the wars against terrorists and terrorism suddenly found ample time, men and resources for intimidating voters and rigging elections. As I write this, no one knows what to make of the Rivers State debacle. It is as if our country is under an evil spell.

I expected Yakubu to address the electorate, reassure them tangibly, conduct elections sensibly and professionally, have a balanced sense of judgment, and so on. I never expected the conundrum that ensued. To whom much was given, much was expected. Why did Nigeria have to waste millions of dollars on a sham called elections? Why did innocent Nigerians die because of the incompetence of some people? Why did Yakubu behave incoherently with no uniformity in the operations and execution of the elections? Why did he allow some politicians get away with murder? Why did he not resign if some leaders were hell bent on rubbishing his achievements in life? There were too many unanswered questions and riddles? Did Yakubu think this election was a joke? Will he in good conscience say this was the election he planned to conduct, and this was his best performance? Is he a happier and more fulfilled man today than he was before this unfortunate charade? When tomorrow comes, how would he look at Nigerians and explain how he spent the humongous cash and resources allocated to him? I can’t stop asking, what manner of man would watch his reputation go up in smoke in order to please mere mortals like himself?

I’m sure the APC operatives would have done a better job of conducting these amazing elections. Yes. Those guys, led by my dear Brother, Uncle Adams Oshiomhole would have replicated the same with, if not a higher, expertise we saw during their primaries when they recorded millions of votes for President Muhammadu Buhari nationwide and completed the exercise within a twinkle of an eye. The same geniuses conducted primaries in Lagos, and before you could say Jack Robinson, Babajide Sanwo-Olu had emerged victorious with a landslide, almost 2 million votes. So, how could APC perform better than INEC? Is that not a big shame to imagine?

I watched incredulously as Professors of several decades standing struggled to add up figures that were obviously concocted inside the forest of a thousand daemons. The numbers were terribly harder than Additional Mathematics. What could be responsible for this type of monumental disgrace at a time technology has reduced the stress of over-using human brains? Then I remembered the words of Chief Moshood Abiola again, and the wisdom in his parable of the hungry man in the kitchen. The professors are not Masquerades from heaven. They are human beings on planet earth. They have suffered under various governments and leaders who don’t see education as anything of value, or priority. Chief Abiola was to write: “you can’t put a hungry man in the kitchen and ask him not to taste or touch.” Food is very essential to the human body. With all due respect, it is thus tempting to conclude that the some of the Professors who failed us were those that suddenly found themselves in the kitchen with plenty of food to taste and touch.

We must salute all the wonderful people who made the difference, from the great INEC leader in Akwa Ibom, the incorruptible Commissioner of Police in Kano, the INEC official in Rivers who cried out for help while under danger, the one who was nearly killed at gun point in Imo State, because some people must win elections fair or unfair. They stood firm despite their lives being in danger. They did not try to eat what they lacked in arears and in advance. No man is perfect, but elections are too important to be toyed with. I must state, however, that the resoluteness of INEC in Imo State, and the unwavering decision not to give a politician employing duress any joy, is to be commended, but in the scheme of things, it is too little, too late! I will always give praise where praise is due.

If I were Yakubu, I will tender my unreserved apologies to the good people of Nigeria and without any hesitation, throw in the towel. He would forever thereafter be regarded as a man of courage and conviction, a hero and legend. Kings have been known to drink poison in the past as atonement for lack of peace and progress in their community. A sacrifice that they know is not too great to make so that their society may thrive.

It is not too late for Yakubu to fall on his sword and follow in the hallowed footsteps of those kind of great kings.

Philip Iyiola Abiola – A Legend Ahead of His Time

Yesterday, in London, I attended, with Senator Tokunbo Afikuyomi, the funeral of my great friend and St. John’s Grammar School, Ile-Ife school mate – the physician, General Practitioner (GP), Pastor, Mentor, humanist and philanthropist – Dr Philip Iyiola Abiola who died in his prime at the age of 58 years. PI as he was fondly called by all those who knew him, succumbed to the deadly, dreaded curse of cancer, but it was as if God wanted to elevate a passion that he had, and bring it to the consciousness of not just his family and friends, but also the general public. The creation of awareness of the fact that cancer and diabetes were beatable was what he lived for in his final few years. He was particular about the fact that there was a need to reconceptualise the treatment of these ailments in black people and ensure that treatment was tailored to their different physiognomy. I and Prince Aderemi had been by his hospital bed barely one week before he passed on.

I have not seen such a huge gathering of distinguished professional people from all over the world at such a gathering in a long time. Some came merely for the day to pay their last respects to these Icon and giant. The tributes and eulogies that poured forth from family and friends, at the unusually lengthy service of songs and the funeral reception, attest to the fact that this highly acclaimed man was of a special, rare and different breed, whose life and virtues should be emulated. This royal scion of Ile-Ife, cousin to the present Ooni of Ile- Ife, Oba Adeyeye Enitan Ogunwusi, Ojaja II, urged that his funeral not be one of dirges and mourning, but full of songs of praise and celebration. And that is what he got from the outpouring of love shown to him, as encomium after encomium was heaped upon him.

Amongst the guests were, the Ogunwusi’s – Sooko Adegboyega, Adetunji, Tolu, Mrs Ogunwusi; the Aderemi’s – Adedamola and wife, Kemi, Adeyemi, Adelekan, Dr Deinde Orafidiya, Senator Jide Omoworare and wife, Bisi; HRH Segun Layade, his medical colleagues – Dr Kunle Oladinni, Dr Odejinmi, Dr Salawu, Dr Dapo Alalade, Dr Ayo Adebanjo, Dr Ropo Adeojo, Dr Oladipo Oguntola, ; Akodi Ife – Dapo Eluyemi, Niyi Murele, Sikiru Aiyedun, Gbenga Owolabi, Kola Famakin, Seyi Awofisan, Wale Odutoye, Lawal-King; His Ilara Mokin in-laws including Larry and Ronke Bakare; Mr Raphael Lewu and wife, Bimbade, From America came Pemi Adereti-Folarin, Adewale Adeyemo, Leke Ijiyode, Dr. Akin Awofolaju, Mr & Mrs Adebowale, Mr and Mrs Madamidola, Dr Dapo William, Former Lagos State Speaker, Hon Adeyemi Ikuforiji, Hon. Odulana, Chief Bola Oba, the Adereti family from Canada, Mrs Biodun Olufisan-Magnus and daughters, Bolu and Kitan; the Adesiyans, Bose Agbesanwa, Deola Adesanmi, Jade Onigbode, Pastor and Minister Yemi Onigbode, Pastor and Mrs Omotayo, Mr and Mrs Akinyemi, Mr and Mrs Oladipo, Dr and Mrs Lawal, Mr and Mrs Elegbenla and Dr and Mrs bayo Ola amongst many others. The officiating ministers for all the events came from Christ Apostolic Church worldwide. Bidemi Alaran compered at the fantastic reception where Jazz and saxophone music soothed the guests.

Dr PI Abiola is survived by his beautiful wife, Eunice Taiwo, his phenomenal children who made him proud on the day – Dr Bolade, Lawyer Okiki, Toyin and Seyi; and his siblings, – Moses and Michael.

At the graveside, five white doves were released in his honour. We at Ovation Magazine also honoured him by ensuring that ace photographer, Dragan Miki, was there to cover the events.

To say that he will be sorely missed is just simply an understatement. I believe my friend and brother Damola  Aderemi, put it aptly when he said, “Without PI we are lost o!”.

Sun re o, Olokiki, Philip Iyiola, omo Abiola!!!

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