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I Never Believed Id Live Up To 97 Nonagenarian

Chief Mrs Funke Arthur-Worrey, a distinguished matriarch, community leader and philanthropist, is a former president and Head of the Board of Trustees of the International Women’s Society and widow of the late legal luminary, Steady Arthur-Worrey. In this feature to celebrate her as she turns 98, she tells GODFREY GEORGE about her early life in Nigeria and England, her career as a chartered secretary and fashion executive in London and why she did not vote for President Bola Tinubu despite campaigning for him It was as though the sun had been granted a final, glorious day to shine before retreating behind the clouds. The heat hung heavily over Lagos, thick and deliberate, as this reporter arrived at the Ikoyi residence of Chief Funke Arthur-Worrey that Sunday afternoon. A domestic worker greeted this reporter at the gate and ushered him inside, politely requesting a few minutes of patience. The sitting room was a quiet marvel: walls adorned with oil paintings, bold brushstrokes, carvings, and numerous large canvases, alongside so many sofas that one would wonder whether Mama had ever had the chance to sit on all of them. Each piece of art was interspersed with family portraits, which brought the room to life. The air was filled with a sense of history, tastefully preserved. “These artworks,” the domestic worker explained, “tell stories of time and place.” “Each piece you see here means something,” he continued. “They were collected from different places for different reasons. Mama will give you all the details when she comes.” He then settled me into a seat. “Is that not President Bola Tinubu there?” I asked, pointing to a picture on the wall. Before the tour guide could respond, Mama emerged from her room. Draped in an elegant flowing gown, her presence was unmistakable: regal yet disarmingly warm. Her face was gently made up, and her laughter, loud and vibrant, echoed through the room like music. “It is Tinubu o. It is Tinubu. He used to come here, in my living room. I campaigned for him, but I did not vote for him,” she said. “Why, though?” I asked. “I did not like the idea of a Muslim-Muslim ticket, so even though I campaigned for him, I voted for another candidate because of that singular reason. But now that he is President, I support him because God commands me to do so,” she said, settling into a sofa. “Come and sit next to me, my dear,” she told me, clearing a throw pillow to make space on the large sofa. We exchanged a few soft hugs. “Nice perfume,” she remarked. “I love your hair, too,” she added, gesturing to my fully styled hair. Blushing slightly, I flustered as I found my notepad. At 98, Mama still had her charm. She moved with a grace that belied her years. Fanta and popcorn arrived first—her idea of a welcoming spread. “Ah! You cannot come here and not eat anything. Abi, it’s Coke you want? Bring Coke, Faith. Chilled one. From the freezer, she called out to her housekeeper. It wasn’t long before she disappeared briefly, returning with a bowl of chestnuts and more popcorn. “You must eat,” she said. “Eat so that you’ll have the energy to ask your questions. You cannot come to Mama’s home and not eat. Ah! It’s a taboo!” The hospitality in her voice was unmistakable. Throughout the encounter, she asked if her guest was comfortable, if the light was too bright, if the seat was soft enough, if the ceiling fan should be turned off, or if the standing fan should be brought closer. “Na so Mama dey do o,” said Faith. “She is always cheerful, always generous. That is why I love working for her.” A heritage rooted in royalty Born into the esteemed Ogunmade Onile Gbale Chieftaincy House of Isale Eko, Arthur-Worrey’s lineage is steeped in Lagosian nobility. Her brother, the late Chief H.O. Davies, was a renowned legal luminary and nationalist, further cementing the family’s legacy in Nigeria’s history. Throughout her life, Arthur-Worrey has been a beacon of leadership and philanthropy. She served as the President of the International Women’s Society and led its Board of Trustees, championing women’s rights and empowerment. Her commitment to community service is further exemplified by her roles in the Nigerian Federation of Business and Professional Women and the Ikeja Lioness Club. Married to the late Steady (formerly Stephen) Arthur-Worrey, a distinguished Queen’s Counsel, their union was a partnership of intellect and service. Their son, Fola Arthur-Worrey, continued this legacy, serving as Lagos State’s Solicitor General and Commissioner for Lands. Two years to 100 “So I was going to ask you—at 98, it’s just two years to 100,” asked this reporter. “I know. It’s unbelievable,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “You see, when I turned 80, I thanked God because I never expected it. At 90 and then 95, I still said, ‘Me? A sinner like me?’ So now, at 98, how does it feel? I feel good. “I feel grateful. I now truly know there is a God Almighty. We have one God; we don’t worship two. He says, ‘I am a jealous God.’ If you believe and trust Him, He is there for you. And he has looked after me.” She speaks of God with the serenity of someone whose life has been full, yet humble. “Do you still go out?” I asked. “Yes,” she replied cheerfully. “I go out regularly. I have my driver who drives me anywhere I want to go. Sometimes, I take a walk around the neighbourhood. I also eat well. I go for walks. I even go to the market sometimes. I go and buy akara in the Lekki area. There is a street after Ajah—what’s the name now? The end of Ajah. There’s a market there. “We also used to go to Epe. We would stay there, look at the animals, and eat. One woman used to fry akara there for years. She’s not alive anymore. We’d eat her akara till dawn and then drive back. “I am always very happy. I’ve enjoyed my life. God has been good to me. I thank Him, though I can never thank Him enough. Jesus is the captain of the ship, and He’ll take us to the end.” There was no grandiosity in her stories, only the quiet joy of someone who had tasted life. “Looking back now, especially as a young schoolgirl, what are you most grateful for?” Saturday PUNCH asked. “Hmm… I’m grateful I was born into a loving family. I knew my great-grandfather on my mother’s side and interacted with him. My father was someone who loved everybody. As a little girl of about five or six, I would cling to him and go everywhere, to my grandparents and aunties. We were very close. Lagos was not as populated as it is now, but we were a family. We were close.”  “I will say I’ve been lucky. From my mother’s side in Abeokuta to my father’s in Esaleko, we were known to one another. There was love. Aunties who weren’t blood relatives were still aunties. Same for uncles. Lagos was very close-knit in the 60s and 70s.” She recalled names and streets like old friends. Her memory, still sharp, wove together the Lagos of yesteryear, a place threaded with familiarity and community. “What do you remember about your mother?” this reporter asked. “My mother was from Abeokuta. She was a trader. She traded in everything. The last thing I remember, she used to go to Old Apapa to buy condemned army uniforms from the Second World War. “These uniforms were imported by agents, not ours, but British ones. They were strong and of good quality. She and her friends had contacts and were allowed into the shipyards to collect them. That kind of thing cannot happen now with the Boko Haram era. But back then, people wore those British uniforms. She would buy strong shoes too, especially from Kaduna and Igbo land, and then resell them. “Before that, she sold clothes and had help from cousins, aunties, nephews, and maids. My childhood was beautiful.” She smiled then, fondness in every line on her face. Lessons from my mother “My mother was a disciplinarian. You could not misbehave. If someone from school or the neighbourhood reported you, you were in trouble. Not just me, all my siblings. If you said you were going out, you had to say exactly where. If you said you were going to the Williams’s house for a birthday and told her you’d return by six o’clock, you better be home by six. “Back then, we didn’t separate religion. Even though people were Muslim or Christian, we celebrated together. During Ileya, everyone joined. During Christmas, everyone celebrated. It was beautiful. “She wasn’t overly strict, but we respected her. She used to joke with us, asking, ‘Do you want akara?’ She spoiled us in her way, but respect and discipline were key. We respected elders. If they correct you, you must apologise. Saturdays were for chores. Either you swept, cleaned, or went to the market. They gave you two shillings to go to Balogun and buy foodstuffs. We were trained properly. “We were close to our cousins and neighbours. It was love all through. I’m grateful I was born into that,” Mama said. The sad thing, she continued, was that her mother died early. “She died young, at 62,” she said, with sadness in her tone. “My father died in 1940. He was over 50. They both died young. But I had my maternal grandparents for much longer. I was lucky in that regard.” Moving abroad and missing home “Eventually, when you go to England, it’s different,” she said. “You don’t have that closeness. I love my family dearly. All of them would be here if they could. But in some ways, I’m a private person.” Then, leaning back, she added with a playful smile, “You’re coming on the 23rd, right? You’ll see me. You’ll meet some of my family members. You cannot miss this big celebration. I have tagged it, “My Year of Thanksgiving” because I never expected to see 98.” Her pride in her family was palpable, even as she acknowledged the rhythms of modern life. “I have family all around. My nieces are still alive, though they’re often busy. They communicate through social media. I am not good with social media, but I try.” Near-death experience “God has been good to me, health-wise. As you can see,” she says with a smile that crinkles the corners of her eyes. For someone approaching her centenary, she exudes astonishing lucidity and warmth. But even the seemingly invincible have moments of reckoning. “I dare not tell Fola I have a headache,” she laughs, referring to her son. “All the doctors would come rushing.” Then, in a tone softened by recollection, she shares a moment of personal vulnerability, one that caught her entirely off guard. “Last time, I had a little issue, I fell,” she admits. “I’m so sorry. It never happened to me before.” It was on a Sunday, during communion at church. Everything had been perfectly ordinary, even joyful, as she had danced earlier in the service. But something shifted, subtly, inexplicably. She felt a wave of unease and, breaking from custom, sat back while the women processed to the altar. “That day was the anniversary of the Hospital Society. I had been invited as a special guest,” she explains. “After service, we were meant to go to the church extension to celebrate. But I didn’t stand up. Very unlike me.” What followed was a blur of concern and commotion. She collapsed, surrounded by doctors and nurses from the congregation, all attending to her. Her instincts pulled her homeward. “I thought, ‘This is it. This might be the end.” But it was obvious her body had other plans. “I told them I wanted to go home so I could be with my family,” she recalls, her voice tinged with resolve. But they insisted. She was taken to the church clinic, tested, and examined. It was not her first experience with medical scrutiny. Earlier on in the year, she said she’d spent three months in England, during which her children ferried her to one physician after another—NHS-trained and trusted friends all taking their turn. “They said I was fine. My heart was fine for my age.” Still, at the church clinic, concern mounted. Overheard whispers triggered a phone call: “Daddy, Daddy, Mummy is ill.” Her loyal driver informed her son, who gave immediate instructions: “Take her to Reddington. I’ll meet you there.” She recalls the journey, even in her weakened state. “I was only half-conscious. But I remember entering through the church gate, thinking they would open it for us. Then I saw the driver reversing. I said, ‘Where are you going?’” Her voice turns almost amused at the memory of herself: fragile, yet still keenly aware. “He didn’t answer. Just drove straight to Reddington.” At the hospital, she stayed for two nights. Doctors poked, prodded, and ran tests. The diagnosis was almost laughably simple: dehydration. “They said, ‘Mummy, do you know what? You need water. You’re dehydrated.’ They gave me fluids. And I came back to myself.” It was not the first time she had surprised those around her with a return to strength. “They gave me medication—iron, vitamins… everything was chemical,” she says, almost with an air of resignation. “But anyway, I’m all right now. It’s one of those things I must thank God for.” And she does, often and openly. “Between God and man… when it happened, I said, ‘Take me home.’ Because I thought, if this is the time, then it’s the time. I truly thought it was.” Yet, the weeks passed. One, then another. And she recovered. Now, nearly two months later, she speaks of it with the clarity of one who understands how fleeting time can be. “They discharged me. They told me, ‘Mummy, drink a lot of water. And eat plenty of fruits.’ I told them, ‘Food is not the problem.’” She lets out a soft laugh, the humour not lost. She said her children rallied around her in the aftermath. “All the children bring all sorts of things. When I told them the doctor said I should eat more, they didn’t waste time. They brought me everything. So I thank God for that.” Her gratitude for her family is deep and constant. It brims when she speaks of them. “Let’s say it’s Christmas or Mother’s Day, I will just start seeing all these messages from my children. All kinds of beautiful messages.” Distance is no barrier. “The ones in England, even when it’s my birthday and they can’t come, they will send things. Gifts, cards, everything.” Secrets to a long, fruitful life “Eat right. Shun crime and love all your neighbours. Don’t be a tool in the hands of bad people or be used as a thug. Stay fit, eat lots of fruit and drink water. Exercise, too. But, most importantly, pray, because God is the owner of life,” she added with s smile.

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News_Naija

When Fathers Vanish: Silent Scars Of Abandoned Children

Across Nigeria, countless families bear the deep emotional, financial, and psychological scars left behind by fathers who walked away. In homes where love once lingered, silence and unanswered questions now reside. In this report, GODFREY GEORGE unearths the raw truths of abandonment — its roots, psychological toll, and the cruel, weighty expectation of forgiveness that society places on those affected, especially on the weary shoulders of children struggling to piece their lives back together Their relationship has been a journey through stormy seas. Since meeting Mr Soprinye in 1996, peace has eluded Clara. They both attended the same skills acquisition college in Port Harcourt, Rivers State. Both were in the Catering Department: Clara specialised in pastries, while Soprinye focused on events management and large-scale cooking. Weeks grew into months, and their friendship began after a casual conversation during a joint class. A few weeks later, Soprinye sent Clara a love letter. Although flattered, Clara said she had no intention of replying, as Soprinye was not her ‘kind of man’. But just days after, something unexpected happened. Soprinye fainted during a practical class. Clara heard about the incident and ran barefoot across campus to  a nearby clinic where he’d been taken. He was on bed rest, with a drip in his arm. “I ran barefoot to the clinic to be with him. When he opened his eyes, it was me he saw. At that point, I had not even agreed to his proposal, but he knew I liked him. That was how we started. If anyone had told me this man would become who he is today, I wouldn’t have believed it,” she said, her voice heavy with regret. The pair quickly became inseparable on campus. When Soprinye graduated and Clara still had a few months left, she said she felt genuinely sad. But fate took a different turn. Clara was to return to her hometown after school, but her father, an oil servicing firm employee, was transferred to Port Harcourt. She helped him settle in and began living with him. Every evening, Soprinye would visit. Clara said she often snuck out of her father’s house just to see him, and it was in those clandestine meetings that their bond grew stronger. Eventually, Soprinye visited her family formally, bringing a few bottles of wine. Clara left with him that same day. That very night, everything changed. They had a minor disagreement, and Soprinye slapped her. “I didn’t think too much of it. I just assumed I was at fault. He was correcting me about how I served his food. I thought maybe I’d done something wrong. But then, it happened again two days later. This time, he shoved me into a corner in the house and stormed out. When he came back that night, he was drunk. I had to change his clothes and bathe him. “By morning, he was hungry. I still cooked for him and even apologised for the night before,” she recalled. Things grew worse when Clara became pregnant with their first child, a daughter named Faith. The abuse intensified. “He would beat, kick and push me. He would even lock me in the room for an entire day without food or water until he returned from work. Then I’d still have to cook and serve him first before I could eat. I did all of this while pregnant. Even in my ninth month, I was still waking early to make his meals,” she said. A few days before she delivered, Clara said Soprinye beat her so severely that she began to bleed. She was rushed to the community health centre. Her offence? She had asked him to help set up a small pastry shop in front of the house so she could support the family after childbirth. “I ran to my people, but I couldn’t tell my father. He was already ill and had just resigned from his job. We were all scared that either I or the baby could die. I gave birth four days after that beating, and for a few weeks, everything seemed normal. Then the beatings started again,” she said. Travelling without notice Clara said another pattern soon emerged. Soprinye would disappear from home without a word. “He would just travel. It was through friends that I heard he had left town. There’d be no food in the house. We’d practically be begging, but he didn’t care. One day, I went with our daughter, who was four at the time, to his uncle’s house. The man was livid and told me to stay with him until Soprinye returned. “Can you believe that when he eventually came to pick us up, he beat me? The moment we got home, he slapped and warned me never to pull that stunt again. I was broken. I didn’t know what to do,” she said quietly. “Before I knew it, I was pregnant again.” Two months into that pregnancy, 51-year-old Clara said Soprinye left the house once more—this time, for good. He didn’t return until after she’d delivered. “I don’t even know how he heard about it, but he came back after I’d had our son, Tonye. He didn’t contribute anything. The only thing I remember is that he left N470 on the table. Was that what he expected me to use to look after myself and the baby?” she asked, visibly upset. Soon, Clara began to hear rumours that Soprinye had taken another woman—and that she, too, was pregnant. “In fact, what I heard was that they were expecting another child. Whenever I tried to confront him, he would beat me till I could no longer speak. That was the level of cruelty I lived with,” she recounted sadly. The Tuesday he left On a Tuesday in 2010, Clara said Soprinye left and never looked back. At first, they assumed he had travelled as he usually did, but this time, it was taking too long. His family began to grow anxious and tried to reach him. Clara said it took eight months before anyone could track him down. Some said he was in Ebonyi. Others claimed he had relocated to Cross River to live with a new family. “I was more concerned about the kids. We had another boy by then. So there were three children now, and they were all in school and needed money. I was doing a small business in front of the house, but it could only take care of our feeding. Everything else was left undone. “We sent messages through family, but this man did not respond. One time, he sent us N5,000. Another time, it was N2,000. The next time I saw him was in 2012, when he came back to ask for my forgiveness. I forgave him. But in 2015, he left again. This time, for four whole years.” “He was still in Port Harcourt because people said they usually see him around. His things were still at home, but he simply stopped coming. He would send us N1,000 for the entire month, those were even the lucky months. “He came back again briefly and asked me to forgive him in 2019. By then, the children had grown up. The first one, Faith, was around 22. She had graduated from school where she studied Accounting, but was still job-hunting. “She told me not to forgive him—that she sensed he only returned because his money had finished. And do you know that this man left again? He said he was going to a pastoral school, that God had called him. That was how he vanished for another year. By then, I had become used to it, so I didn’t bother looking for him. “I told his people, and they said I should leave him. His daughter took the matter to the police, but I told her to withdraw the case. I don’t want that kind of drama. It was only when his mother died that he came back and joined his people to bury her. My own father died during one of his absences, and he didn’t attend the funeral. I carried the weight alone,” she said. Clara said Soprinye is now down with a stroke and is living with a friend in another state, which she refused to disclose. “I have forgiven him, but his children have refused. God knows I never told them anything bad about him. They watched it all unfold right before their eyes. They’re no longer children, even the youngest,” she added. ‘I won’t forgive him’ It was Faith who convinced her mother to speak after our correspondent heard her share the story during a webinar on fatherhood and abandonment. “I will not forgive him,” Faith said. “I’m already engaged to be married. And by God’s grace, it will happen. If that man is truly my father, he wouldn’t have done what he did to my mother. I’m not even sure my mom told you that he used to flog her with a cane like a baby. He would ask all of us to kneel down and flog us one after another, including our mother. We would all cry and beg him, but he’d still lock us in the house for the entire day. What kind of man does that? “My mother is the one who is always forgiving. Let him go and ask God for forgiveness.” Asked if she had seen him since he became unwell, she replied, “I saw him twice, when he came with his people to beg my mum. Both of them were crying. I just took my two siblings and walked out of that gathering. I know what I had to go through to be where I am today. I know the things I did that I am not proud of. Please, let him leave us alone and go meet the other family I learnt he built while he was away.” A family member, Tamunoboma, contacted by Sunday PUNCH, said he was aware of the situation, adding that everyone had warned Soprinye repeatedly to be responsible, but he never listened. “He’s my cousin, but I can’t lie to you—he doesn’t listen. Until his mother died, she kept begging him to come back, but he refused. He doesn’t listen to anyone. That’s the problem,” he said. Tamunoboma said he had recently spoken to Soprinye, who claimed to have turned a new leaf and was urging his children to forgive him. I am a changed man, says Soprinye Telling his side of the story in a WhatsApp voice note, Soprinye said he accepted full responsibility for his past actions, admitting that he had been “overtaken by youthful exuberance and life’s pressures.” “I don’t want to trade words with my family. They remain my family. I never married another woman. I may have made some mistakes in the past, but I am a changed man now. I have pleaded with them to accept me as their father,” he said. He also confirmed that he had been battling diabetes, arthritis, and hypertension. “I’m not asking them to send me money or take care of me. I believe God will take care of that. I just want to be free. That’s all. My wife has accepted me—it’s my children’s forgiveness I’m seeking.”  Reappeared after children had grown For years, the name Titus Egbuniwe evoked silence and sorrow within his family. Once a husband and father, he vanished, leaving behind a wife and children to navigate life’s hardships alone. His absence was so profound that his wife eventually declared him “dead and gone.” But in a twist that has captured public attention, Titus returned, seeking forgiveness and reconciliation. A family torn apart Titus’s departure, he said, was not due to a lack of love but stemmed from familial disapproval. He confessed that his family did not accept his wife and pressured him to leave her. Succumbing to the pressure, he abandoned his wife and children, eventually pursuing another relationship that never culminated in marriage. During his absence, his wife bore the burden of raising their children alone, enduring years of hardship and emotional turmoil. Years later, with the children now grown, Titus returned to the family, seeking forgiveness. His reappearance was met with shock and disbelief. In a video shared by TikTok user @eseosaruben, his wife is seen expressing her astonishment, stating that to her, he was “dead and gone.” Despite the initial emotional upheaval, the family eventually reconciled, embracing the opportunity to heal and move forward. The story of Titus’s return sparked widespread discussion on social media. Many users expressed empathy for the family’s ordeal, while others criticised Titus for abandoning his responsibilities. The 2007 case In 2007, Segun Adepegba dropped off his three young children at a private boarding school in Abule-Iroko, Ogun State. Seun was six, Titilola was five, and the youngest, Seyi, was just two years old. He promised to return at the end of the school term. He didn’t. Weeks became months. Months became years, and yet, no word from their father. Solid Rock Model College, the school where they were enrolled, became their reluctant guardian. The proprietor, Mr Samuel Ayegbusi, fed and sheltered them for eight years, spending over N7m to keep them clothed, fed, and educated. All attempts to reach their father failed. Neighbours claimed he had disappeared after separating from their mother. Others said he had fallen on hard times. None of the leads yielded answers. During those years, the children grew up without birthdays, without visitors on visiting days, and without a single letter from home. Titilola, the second child and only girl, once tried to escape to search for her father. Her brothers cried themselves to sleep more nights than they could count. In 2014, after the media took up the story and public outrage soared, Segun Adepegba finally resurfaced. “I am not a wicked father,” he told journalists. He claimed he had been battling poverty and shame. After separating from his wife, Ruth Okochi, he was left homeless, jobless, and afraid. “I thought the school would arrest me for owing. I didn’t know what to do,” he said. When he returned to Solid Rock Model College, the children were no longer toddlers. Seun was now a teenager. Seyi, who had been barely out of diapers when he was left, was now speaking with a voice deeper than his father’s. They sat with him in the principal’s office, unsure whether to hug or scold him. “It felt strange,” Titilola later said. “But I still love him. I want my family back.” Adepegba apologised to the school and to his children. He promised to find their mother and begin again. Where she was, no one could say for sure. He believed she might be in Abuja. The school forgave him. The children—hesitantly—did too. The story of Segun Adepegba is a stark reminder of the ripple effects of economic hardship, marital breakdown, and the fragility of parental duty. It is also a testament to the power of the press in reuniting families and forcing accountability where silence once reigned. Chi’s story She’s 31 now and a structural engineer in the United Kingdom, but she does not know her father. “My mother told me he did not accept the pregnancy and left home. All efforts to find him to this day have proven abortive. I am married now, and I have a son. I have already prepared my mind to tell him that my father had died. I don’t want to transfer the trauma to my son, that his mother was abandoned by her father. That is traumatic,” Chi said. The silent crisis In Nigeria, the phenomenon of fathers abandoning their families has become a pressing social issue, with far-reaching consequences for children, mothers, and society at large. This silent crisis, often overshadowed by other societal challenges, demands urgent attention and comprehensive solutions. Recent data underscores the severity of paternal abandonment in Nigeria. A 2018 report by the United Nations Children’s Fund, estimated that approximately 43 per cent of Nigerian children under the age of 18 are fatherless, translating to around 17.5 million youths at heightened risk of adversity and mental health issues. An online repository, icareforthefatherless.org, stressed that the matter is too widespread and needs to be addressed before it gets out of hand. Further highlighting the issue, the National Human Rights Commission reported that in Gombe State alone, 106 fathers abandoned their children in 2023. These figures, while alarming, likely represent just a fraction of the nationwide problem, as many cases go unreported due to societal stigma and lack of formal documentation. Why are fathers leaving? A renowned sociologist at the University of Port Harcourt, Rivers State, Prof Ifeanacho Ikechukwu, said several interrelated factors contribute to the prevalence of father abandonment in Nigeria. He said, “Widespread poverty and unemployment can lead fathers to feel inadequate in their provider roles, prompting some to flee from familial responsibilities. The pressure to meet financial obligations without adequate support systems exacerbates this issue.” Ikechukwu also added that conflicts within marriages, often stemming from financial strain, infidelity, or incompatibility, can result in fathers distancing themselves from their families. In some cases, cultural norms discourage men from seeking help, leading to withdrawal and eventual abandonment. This was true in the case of Mr Osondu, who shared with our correspondent why he left his home for four years. “I didn’t abandon them. I lost my job, and my wife and kids almost sent me to my early grave. I had to run away so I would not lose my mind. I am in Aba (Abia State). Whatever I have, I will send to them. They will manage it. But if they are seeing me, the bills will be too much,” he said. Speaking further, Prof Ikechukwu said that in certain Nigerian communities, patriarchal values and the marginalisation of women’s rights could create environments where men feel justified in leaving their families, especially when societal structures fail to hold them accountable. “None of these excuses is viable as far as I am concerned. Your family is your family, and you only realise the mistake you have made if you abandon them when you are old. Who will be there for you? Who will take care of you? Nobody can do that as well as your family,” he added. Impact on children The absence of a father figure has profound implications for children’s development and well-being, says psychologist Usen Essien. “Children without paternal support often experience feelings of abandonment, low self-esteem, and trust issues. These emotional challenges can persist into adulthood, affecting relationships and mental health,” he said. He also noted that studies have shown children from fatherless homes are more likely to struggle academically. According to him, the lack of financial and emotional support can hinder educational attainment and limit future opportunities. A child and women’s rights advocate, Mrs Mercy Yohan-Davidson, said fatherless children are at higher risk of engaging in delinquent behaviour, substance abuse, and early sexual activity. “The absence of a guiding paternal presence can leave children susceptible to negative influences,” the educationist noted. Also speaking, a lawyer, Selena Onuoha, observed that weak enforcement of child support laws and limited legal consequences for absentee fathers contribute significantly to the persistence of this issue. “Without stringent legal frameworks, many fathers evade their responsibilities without consequence,” she said. Societal consequences According to the social network bettercarenetwork.org, beyond individual families, paternal abandonment carries broader societal repercussions, ranging from economic strain to intergenerational cycles of neglect. The platform noted, “Single-parent households often face financial hardships, increasing reliance on social welfare systems and charitable organisations.” It added that communities with high rates of fatherlessness may experience elevated crime rates, as youths without adequate supervision and guidance may turn to unlawful activities. “Children raised without fathers may perpetuate the cycle of abandonment in their own families, leading to a generational continuation of the problem,” it stated.  The battle for forgiveness Forgiveness, in the context of familial abandonment, is often seen as a noble and redemptive act. But for the wives and children left behind by absentee fathers, the weight of that forgiveness can be crushing. In Nigeria, where traditional values both venerate familial unity and place moral responsibility disproportionately on women and children to “hold the home,” the emotional burden of forgiving a man who walked away is one that is frequently unspoken, yet deeply felt. For many Nigerian women, abandonment by a husband is more than the loss of a partner. It is the loss of identity, social standing, economic stability, and often, a dream. A man’s departure frequently thrusts the woman into immediate and unprepared single motherhood, with little or no support, says Yohan-Davidson. “Society, however, does not pause to consider her trauma. Instead, there is often an unspoken expectation that she ‘moves on with grace,’ finds a way to survive, and keeps the children from ‘going astray.’ And if, years later, that same man returns—often aged, broke, and seeking reconciliation—it is the woman who is looked upon to forgive,” she added. “Nigerian society is harsh on single mothers. When the man returns, she is expected to be grateful that her ‘head’ has come back, even if it is clear he is only back because he needs help,” says Dr Johnbosco Chukwuorji, a clinical psychologist at the University of Nigeria, Nsukka. Forgiveness, then, becomes less a spiritual decision and more a societal demand. Women who express resentment or refuse reconciliation are frequently labelled “bitter,” “unforgiving,” or worse, accused of blocking their children’s destinies by nursing grudges. For the children left behind, especially those old enough to remember the absence, the journey toward forgiveness is even more fraught. Chukwuorji noted, “A father’s abandonment is a wound that rarely heals cleanly. It is felt in the missed birthdays, the unpaid school fees, the absence at key life moments—and in the haunting silence when friends talk about their dads.” “When my father came back after 20 years, I felt nothing,” recounts Kachi, a 28-year-old painter in Lagos. “He said he had made mistakes. My mother died in his absence, and we had to bear everything ourselves. How am I expected to just forgive and start calling him daddy? No. It can’t work, bro,” he dismissed. Children, especially boys in patriarchal societies like Nigeria, Chukwuorji added, often internalise their father’s absence as a personal failing. For daughters, he said, it can affect how they trust men, shaping future relationships in unhealthy ways. “In therapy rooms across the country, psychologists are encountering more adult clients trying to unravel the emotional tangles left behind by absent fathers,” he said.  Religious doctrine vs emotional reality Christian and Islamic teachings alike emphasise forgiveness as a virtue. But this religious imperative, while noble, can be dangerously simplistic when applied to the complex realities of family abandonment. When a father returns after decades, often broke and seeking emotional or financial support, the assumption is that forgiveness will lead to healing and closure. But the emotional work required for this is rarely acknowledged or supported. In many cases, wives and children suppress their true feelings to “do the right thing,” leading to internalised anger, depression, and anxiety. Speaking on the matter, a senior pastor and presbyter at the Assemblies of God Church, Prince Azunna, said forgiveness was sacrosanct in the scriptures. “It may be hard, but that is what Jesus Christ expects from us as believers—to always forgive. Let go of the past and just turn everything to Jesus,” he said. He, however, advised men to be true leaders in their homes, adding that those who abandon their families for any reason should not have gotten married in the first place. “Marriage and raising children is more than just two people coming together. It is God-ordained. The two parties must be mature, knowing that there will be ups and downs. They both must be prepared. No one should abscond and leave the responsibility for the other,” he insisted.

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Dr Victor Omololu Olunloyo: Uncommon Brilliance

On at least two different occasions, the rumour was rife on social media that he was dead. To be falsely deceased, I teased, meant that he, like Alfred Nobel, had had the chance to read his own obituary. In one particular instance, a family rebuttal revealed that he was in intensive care at the University College Hospital, Ibadan. I made for the Intensive Care Unit at UCH the next day, a Saturday morning. I was not going to disturb their care or protocol—I just had to be there in case he needed me. Expectedly, and rightfully so, the nurses barred visitors from seeing him. I wrote my name on a sheet of paper and gave it to a nurse to hand over to him, just so he would know I was outside in case he needed anything. The nurse came rushing back and said that he wanted to see me immediately. As I got to his bedside, he held my hand tightly and, to the amazement of the medical staff around, quoted the melancholy words of Jacques in Shakespeare’s As You Like It: “All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts…” Right there, I stopped him in his tracks and told him he should quote no further. Instead, to his smile, we both said in unison that the exit was not now. He lived another three years after, but poorly. Finally, with every man inevitably heading to his exit, death, not wholly unexpected, came calling on April 6, 2025, after he had played many parts following an innings of 89. The preparation for these many parts began at Government College, Ibadan, in 1948, although he was a scion of an illustrious family, the first educated elite and early Christians in Ibadan. When David and Anna Hinderer, the first CMS missionaries, came to Ibadan in 1853, they were placed in the care of Balogun Olunloyo, a warlord and high chief of Ibadan. Balogun Olunloyo’s children, Akinyele (male) and Yejide (female), found play and school with the Hinderers. Akinyele became the first male literate of Ibadan, while Yejide became the first female literate. Yejide Girls’ Grammar School, Ibadan, is named after her. The Olunloyos prominently took up early church, civil, and administrative roles in Ibadan. The Akinyele line produced Horatio Vincent Olunloyo, who was Victor Omololu’s father. The brilliant signs of Horatio’s first son, Victor Omololu Olunloyo, were there even precociously from primary school. He took the common entrance examination, which was a global examination for all primary school leavers, and he was first in 1946 and 1947 in the whole of the Ibadan District Church Council schools, from Ibadan to Gbongan, Ikirun, and Osogbo. It was while at St. Peter’s Aremo Primary School that he was introduced to mathematics by an impressionable teacher, J.A.F. Sokoya, in a remarkable and inspiring way. He saw early and clearly the relations of integers and that there was a concrete connection between mathematics and real life. Here, foundational mathematics was planted to flourish in him for the rest of his life. In 1948, he entered Government College, Ibadan, from Standard Five, as the youngest in his class, when most of his classmates came in from Standard Six. It took him some time to rally. Once he found his stride in the second year, he never let go of the first position in Mathematics. To be first meant not just to score high but to get everything. Two illustrations will suffice. A Mathematics examination was to be administered by the teacher, Mr W.H. Browne. The teacher intended to write the questions on the board, head off for tea in the staff room, and return later to collect the students’ scripts. As he wrote the first question, he asked the students to begin. There were five questions, and they were to answer all of them. Just as he finished writing the fifth question and was gathering his papers to leave for tea, Olunloyo raised his hand. “What is it, Olunloyo?” the teacher queried. “I have finished, sir,” Olunloyo replied. The teacher initially thought it was a prank. He remonstrated with Olunloyo, then collected his script to mark it, only to find, indeed, that he had completed the exam and got everything right. There was an ‘unsolvable’ problem in the Mathematics textbook by C.V. Durell. At the time, it was common practice to tackle every problem in a textbook to gain mastery of the subject. This particular question had become a generational challenge—no one in the annals of GCI who had used Durell’s textbook had been able to solve it. It centred around a billiard table and was so complex because it required a spatial understanding beyond the students’ experience—they had never seen a billiard table before. Then, Mr A. Long, the principal, was scheduled to visit a friend at the University College, Ibadan, and took some boys along. One of them was Olunloyo. During the visit, they stopped by the Senior Staff Dining Hall and Recreation Centre, and for the first time, the boys saw a billiard table—and a game was on. Olunloyo took a careful look, his mind immediately entering a conjectural state. He could hardly wait to return to school to tackle the intractable Durell problem—the one that had confounded his class and their seniors. Back at school, he settled down to the problem and finally solved it. In a moment of sheer exhilaration, he threw off his uniform—some said he went completely nude—running wildly around his house, Grier, shouting: “I have solved it! I have solved it!! I have solved it!!!” It was a momentous occasion in schoolboy mathematics. His brilliance and escapades at GCI became legendary. He went on to record a Grade 1 in his final year at GCI, with an A1 in Mathematics. Following GCI, he dazzled with remarkable academic performances. He spent just seven months preparing for his HSC Examinations, a programme that would ordinarily take two years, and passed with AAAC. He spent three months at the University College, Ibadan, and passed the Intermediate BSc, another two-year programme. Though brief, his stay at UCI left lasting records. In tests and examinations, when students were asked to solve three out of five mathematical problems, Olunloyo would solve four within the allotted time and write on his script: “Mark any three.” He got them all correct. His fellow students fittingly nicknamed him Mark Any Three. His brilliance drew attention from far and wide. Adegoke Adelabu and Emmanuel Alayande saw in him a special Ibadan poster boy, a source of pride. M.S. Sowole, Ambassador and Agent-General for Western Nigeria in the UK; his father’s contemporary and close friend; Lady Kofo Ademola; and others saw in him a national academic prodigy. They leaned towards sending him abroad for university training. Olunloyo’s heart, however, was set on the University of Manchester. Why? Manchester was, at the time, one of the leading institutions in the UK offering Technology. Ademola Banjo was already there, making waves, having just earned a First Class in Mechanical Engineering. But Lady Kofo Ademola had different ideas. She wanted Olunloyo to attend Cambridge University, to become part of the prestigious institution that had produced some of the finest minds in Mathematics: Isaac Newton, Alan Turing, Carl Gauss, among others. She also desired it for sentimental reasons—it was where her husband, Sir Adetokunbo Ademola, had studied. Cambridge, however, offered only a deferred admission, as the academic session had already begun. Olunloyo was not inclined to wait idly for a year. Lady Ademola was challenged to find another prestigious university that offered immediate admission. That quest led him to St Andrews College. The University of St Andrews is no pushover. It is the topmost and oldest university in Scotland. It is a university much favoured by the British royalty. It was established in 1413, and it is as renowned as the University of Oxford, founded in 1096, and the University of Cambridge, founded in 1209. Coming with only three months from the University College, Ibadan, Olunloyo was placed in the first year to study Mechanical Engineering. He kicked against his placement because he wanted to be placed in the second year, and he was adamant about this. By precedent, this was not done, but Olunloyo was obstinately insistent. He took his case to his Head of Department, Prof Caldericks. Finally, Caldericks took the matter to the Senate, whereupon they reluctantly agreed to put him in the second year on the condition that he took a test in Mathematics, Physics, and Chemistry. Olunloyo pleaded for a week of preparation before the tests were served. When the tests were served—three hours per subject—and marked, he scored 98, 88, and 84 per cent in Mathematics, Physics, and Chemistry, respectively. St Andrews immediately placed him in the second year. In that second-year class, he led in all the subjects he took. He became a unique academic specimen, and this time, it was the Senate pressing to meet him. Prof Caldericks took his student to the Senate to the amazement of all the dons. Olunloyo got their bow. One of the amazing things he did in an examination of 150 questions, in which they were expected to do 100, was to do all, and he scored 132 per cent. The next student to him scored 89 per cent, while the third scored 66 per cent. At graduation in 1957, six academic medals were available in his department; Olunloyo won five, and the sixth was won by Ifedayo Oladapo, both Nigerians, both old boys of Government College, Ibadan, and both classmates at GCI. Olunloyo recorded, of course, a first class in Mechanical Engineering. So did Ifedayo Oladapo, who went on to do his PhD at Cambridge. At the end of the graduation year, the best results from the top ten universities in the UK, the Ivy League institutions, are pooled, and the very best of them get the most prestigious prize, the 1939 Prize, and to also dine with the monarch. It was Olunloyo who won the British Association Prize for the Most Distinguished Student in the Faculties of Science, and so dined with Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth in 1958. Olunloyo was exempted from a Bachelor’s and Master’s degree in Mathematics and instead went straight on to do a PhD—a four to seven-year programme. He did it in a record time of two years with outstanding merit, finishing in 1959. He was 24. Let us not debate: he was one of Nigeria’s most brilliant men. His brilliance was proudly extolled both overseas and in Nigeria. He returned to Nigeria, and marriage soon followed. I point this out just to relate it to brilliance. For his honeymoon, he and his first wife, Funmilayo, flew to the UK. On their return from Liverpool, they hitched a ride back on the Prime Minister’s yacht that had gone over for repairs. It was going to be a new adventure—returning home by sea. Early one morning in the middle of the journey, Olunloyo looked to the sun and to his shadow on the deck and used both to plot a mental compass, enough to determine that the ship was headed in the wrong direction. He asked for the captain to come to the deck. He shared his mental calculations, and the captain laughed. A disdainful laugh followed, and then silence fell, followed by a reflective sigh. At the captain’s command in his cabin were dials pointing directions, knots showing speed, scopes indicating the depth of water and coordinates—and here was Olunloyo without a tool other than a phenomenal brain telling him he was taking the ship in the wrong direction. Olunloyo asked that he should go back to check his controls. The captain went back to his control and checked his dials and his consoles, and when he returned this time, there were sweat beads on his eyebrows. He found that the ship was headed in the wrong direction on the mighty sea. The captain, speechless, motioned that Olunloyo should go back to his cabin. He was going to do a right-about-turn with the ship, the kind, if you are familiar with the sea, that brings about instant sea sickness. Well, better be sick than dead. Olunloyo, armed only with his brain and the rays of the sun, saved the ship, the crew, and the passengers from imminent disaster. On a flight home from London on one occasion, Olunloyo ran into Prof Wole Soyinka on the plane as he was putting his carrier bag in the overhead compartment. ‘Hello, editor of Mustard Seed.’ Wole Soyinka instantly turned and smiled. Soyinka was editor of Grier House magazine, Mustard Seed, in their school days at GCI and was two years Olunloyo’s senior. Both Soyinka and Olunloyo were in Grier House, both now academics, both sideline activists and politicians, both Ibadan ruminants who knew its nooks and crannies for all its notable culinary joints. So there was plenty to share and to heartily reminisce about before they took their seats on the plane. Watching quizzically as they engaged were two students from the Middle East. Nervously, they went to Olunloyo. ‘Sir, is that Wole Soyinka, the Nobel laureate, that you were talking to?’ Olunloyo answered in the affirmative, and both students nodded to themselves as if to say, I told you so. Soyinka, with his mane, is unmistakable. The students summoned courage and approached Soyinka to pay their respects and admiration. They were mathematics students, so they asked Soyinka if Nigeria also had mathematicians of his stature. All Soyinka did was look back from his seat and point them to Olunloyo, who led them to him. The students returned to Olunloyo and laid bare their mathematics problem. They wanted a simultaneous equation problem involving three unknowns solved. Olunloyo asked for a sheet of paper and solved the problem with three approaches: substitution, matrices, and moulds, to arrive at the same answer. It left the students with their mouths hanging open. Suddenly, they exclaimed: ‘Nigeria is full of geniuses.’ Perhaps so; who knows? When Lekan Are, his friend and classmate, was going to be 80, I teased him that Lekan’s GCI school number was 514, ahead of his at 546, making Lekan a quasi-senior boy. His mind went in a different direction. He said to me, ‘Lekan’s number at 514 is very interesting. That is, two to the power of nine (512) plus two to the power of one (2), making 514, which in binary language is 1,000,000,010 for the computer.’ Anyone who thinks like that must be crazy. Olunloyo was crazy about mathematics. I once had a week-long programme in Oxford. Somehow, I finished by Friday and now had the weekend to myself. To occupy the weekend, I needed a handy book to engage me, and so I went to Blackwell’s bookshop for one. I found none, until I ran into a mathematics book. So captivated was I that I read the book to the bookshop’s till, through the bus ride to my hotel, and by the next day, I had finished reading the book. Excitedly, I called my wife with élan about my read, and she asked, as women are wont to do, whether I was under the influence. She declined to share the book with me and instead suggested that I give the book to Olunloyo. As soon as I returned to Nigeria, I went to Olunloyo with my new find. Unsurprisingly, he sat me down and gave me a fuller lecture on Srinivasa Ramanujan, the Indian mathematician who took a mathematics chair at Cambridge without a university degree. Olunloyo just simply knew mathematics. When integers stood alone or together, he saw ascension or descension; he could make their evenness or oddities; when placed on top of one another and fractionated, he could make sense of them all; when a full stop was thrown around numbers, the decimals were his companions; seeing figures, he could make an apparent or inherent meaning from them; he could see figures when sequenced or looped; even when numbers were chaotic, he could make sense out of chaos. Given any figure, he saw a deeper meaning, and with several figures, he could interpret where, under the same circumstances, the rest of us drew a blank. So, for him, there was maths and beauty everywhere around us—in literature, in music, and in horticulture. Three years ago, he introduced me to the maths in graphic arts through the works of the genius E.C. Escher. Olunloyo was just simply phenomenal—a wondrous make, a mathematical head, pure and simple. But he was humble enough to acknowledge the vastness of knowledge, and he made it a daily assignment to learn continuously. And so he spent endless hours in his study and paid weekly visits to the bookshop. Even when he suffered a stroke, he put his head to the test, and when the faculty was still fully operational, he said the legs could go as long as the head was intact. He rode around in a wheelchair in his study and made regular visits to the bookshop. On his penultimate visit, he sent me a note… He wrote that the bill be given to ‘Kolade, whatever his surname’, and this was coming from ‘Olunloyo, the man with constitutional authority’. Sometimes, at public functions, he was bewitched by his thoughts. He would bend over a sheet of paper to solve some mathematical problems. In this mood, I knew better than to disturb his train of thought. When admirers, friends, and relations stopped by to say hello, they found him vacant—he was in a different realm. Surprisingly, though, and almost magically, he still followed the proceedings of the function. You knew this because, at the end of the event, he could engage by giving a blow-by-blow account of all that had transpired. In his professional life, he took up an academic position as a lecturer at the University of Ibadan, then at the University of Ife. He was later appointed Rector of The Polytechnic, Ibadan, and briefly served at The Polytechnic, Kwara. He held variegated positions within government and academic institutions, 55 in total, spanning 45 years of service. He served as Commissioner for Economic Planning and Community Development, and Commissioner for Education in the Western State. At one point, he held two portfolios concurrently, Commissioner for Education and Commissioner for Local Government and Chieftaincy Affairs. In many of these institutions, regardless of his title, he functioned as a troubleshooter, an ombudsman, a fixer of intractable problems—an interventionist minister. It was against this background that he set his sights on politics and was briefly drawn into serving as the Governor of Oyo State. I did not think much of his foray into politics and never hid that from him. He was a mass of contradictions. Once, he told me that the politics of Oyo State operated on a tripod: Lamidi Adedibu provided the brawn; Azeez Arisekola and Yekini Adeojo, the money; and Olunloyo, the brain, to formulate ideology and strategy. I was never impressed. I thought he had aligned himself with men whose quest for power knew no bounds. But he countered that political parties are made up of angels and devils, less of one than the other. I have since come to see the truth in that statement. Often, when he spoke of politics, I listened intently but with dissimulation. I believed he had started his mathematical journey brilliantly, but it had stalled the moment he veered into politics. I wish he had stayed true and exclusively focused on mathematics and engineering. His wealth of intellect and profound faculty would have resonated globally far more than his political legacy ever did. But he strayed into politics and remained mercurial in it—because he attempted to solve it using equations and theorems. It was a struggle that consumed him till the very end. For all his brilliance, he lacked financial intelligence. This dogged him in his twilight years, largely due to the huge expense of prolonged medical care. His family’s healthcare costs were also exorbitant over many years. People like him ought to have been retained in the financial courts of government or academia, never to be disturbed by mundane matters such as finances. Their focus ought to be scholarship, morning, noon, and night. He was on scholarship throughout his academic career. He could have been a national scholar for life. I am certain Olunloyo would not mind my mentioning his indebtedness to his family and to the late Abiola Ajimobi, late Lekan Are, late Alaafin Oba Lamidi Adeyemi, Pastor Enoch Adeboye, Rasheed Ladoja, Governor Seyi Makinde, Chief Bode George, Dr Wale Babalakin, Pastor William Kumuyi, Chief Olusegun Obasanjo, Professor Gabriel Ogunmola, Chief Kola Daisi, Lekan Ademosu, and General Ibrahim Babangida. Friends do not often reveal what friends do, but he repeatedly sang their praises for the support they extended to him. Given the portrait I have painted in this essay, one must ask: where truly lay his talent—in scholarship, particularly mathematics and engineering, or in politics? I cast my lot with scholarship. He knew I spoke little and wrote even less, but when I did, I was free in my expression. That was the foundation of our bond. I was one of his sounding boards. He was a great friend, senior, and mentor. I will miss his endless stream of conversation, from Beethoven to Newton, Einstein to Awolowo and Akintola, and of course, Euler, Ramanujan, Hawkins, and Archimedes—his fellow mathematicians. He was a polyglot, a polymath, an iconic and itinerant teacher, a maverick, and a restless politician. Such was the ease with which he could move from Pythagoras through Aristotle and Dante, to Nietzsche and Shakespeare. He was, indeed, deeply cultured. I recall a tale he once told me. Chief Obafemi Awolowo had written a letter to him in which he stated categorically, ‘…When I become 80…’ Olunloyo returned the letter the following day, having read it, and added two words to make it read, ‘…if and when I become 80…’ Awolowo accepted the correction. The Good Lord called Awolowo home at 79. Man’s limitation and language must always make provision for divine will—deo volente, an ablative absolute expression meaning God willing. On Saturday, April 5, 2025, Dr Olunloyo called me not once, but four times. On the fourth call, he asked me to undertake an assignment. I sent a note to the mutual friend he directed me to, and added, ‘By the way, Dr Victor Olunloyo will be 90 on April 14, 2025.’ Suddenly, I remembered his tale and quickly corrected myself to write, ‘…Dr Victor Olunloyo will be 90 on April 14, 2025, God willing.’ In divine providence, the Good Lord called him home the next day, April 6, 2025. When death finally came, even though prior rumours and hospitalisations had prepared me, I shed a tear. …Last scene of all That ends this strange, eventful history Is second childishness and mere oblivion, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. —William Shakespeare, As You Like It, Act II, Scene VII  

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Tinubus Remote Work Week And The State Police Saga

On Saturday, August 12, 2000, the Russian nuclear submarine K‑141 Kursk blew apart during an exercise in the cold Barents Sea. The boat was participating in Russia’s largest naval war‑game since the Soviet collapse when a faulty training torpedo exploded at 11:28 a.m. A larger blast two minutes later ripped open the bow and sent the 18-metre-high vessel to the bottom of the sea. Most of the 118 sailors died instantly. 23 trapped in the aft compartment survived for several hours. In darkness, they rationed emergency “oxygen candles,” knowing each one bought only a few more minutes of breathable air. 27-year-old Warrant Officer Dmitry Kolesnikov sent the last note: “All the crew from sections six, seven and eight have moved here, to section nine. There are 23 of us…We have decided because none of us can get to the surface.” They kept hammering SOS on the hull until the taps fell silent. Analysts believe the men suffocated late Sunday or early Monday as they ran out of oxygen cartridges. Above them, a heated politics was underway. The Russian government, reluctant to expose naval secrets, repeatedly rejected British and Norwegian rescue offers and told the press that everything was “under control.” When foreign divers finally attached a rescue bell eight days later, every sailor was dead. The mission shifted from rescue to body recovery, and the Kursk remains a warning: when leaders value optics over oxygen, the people die. Today, Nigerians in Plateau, Benue and Enugu are enduring a “Kursk moment.” Since early April, more than 120 locals have been shot, hacked or burned to death in Plateau State alone, according to Amnesty International and multiple eyewitness accounts. Relief agencies say the toll is higher, citing coordinated night raids on Bokkos and Bassa that left burnt homes and 3,000 displaced. In Benue, police confirmed 17 deaths in Logo and Gbagir after twin assaults blamed on armed herders. Enugu’s casualty count is still lost in a fog of propaganda and denial. Yet, a proposal most Nigerians agree would expand policing to the remotest hamlets—State Police—has remained stuck in the gears of federal politics for 14 months. In February 2024, President Bola Tinubu won “in principle” support from all 36 governors to create State Police during an emergency meeting at the Aso Villa. The Minister of Information and National Orientation, Mohammed Idris, who addressed journalists afterwards, explained that the process was still in its infancy and would only take shape after more deliberations among stakeholders. “This is still going to be further discussed. A lot of work must be done in that direction. But if our government and the state governments agree to the necessity of having state police, this is a significant shift,” he said. Two days earlier, the House of Representatives said it was considering a legislative bill “for the establishment of State Police and related matters.” Then a year of paperwork began. Governors filed position papers; the National Economic Council at its 147th session last December merely “took note” of the submissions and pushed the real debate to January 2025. A January meeting never happened. In February, the council said it was still “harmonising” reports and stakeholder consultations. Kaduna Governor Uba Sani, battling banditry at home, told journalists after the December meeting that most states back the idea because the FG is unable to cover all areas adequately. “I want to say here clearly that most of us are in agreement with the establishment of State Police…State Police in Nigeria is the way forward toward addressing the problem of insecurity,” Sani said. Fourteen months later, no enabling bill has reached the Senate floor, and no timetable exists for the formation of the State Police. Make no mistake: the NEC is only an advisory body, but one with much power to advise the President and his Federal Executive Council. While files shuffle in Abuja, Nigerians are digging graves. Those fortunate to escape with their lives have fled home. A rescue tool is within reach, but, like it was in the Kursk incident, politics, sources say, is stalling the process. In 2000, Putin feared revealing naval weakness; today, some fear governors might weaponise loyal guns against their rivals. Though these concerns are valid, they ring hollow to parents identifying their children’s bodies in Jos. Meanwhile, President Tinubu is away in Europe for a working visit. The Presidency says he continues to direct state affairs from Europe despite being outside the country for over two weeks. This feeds into an enduring remote work culture of Nigerian Presidents dating back to the Yar’Adua years. Amid the killings, the President issued a personal Easter statement consoling those who lost loved ones and their homes. However, the gesture felt more like a condolence text message to a grieving friend who desperately needs the warmth of company. In my piece on May 12, 2024, I wrote that Nigerians have been traumatised by the familiar rhythm of long-distance relationships with their presidents. Nonetheless, the President can bridge that gap somewhat by visiting the affected areas after his return on Easter Monday.