By Damilola Omosebi
Let us cast our minds back to a time of brazen political brigandage, a season where the very soul of Nigerian democracy was held hostage by the whims of powerful men. The year was 2006. The air in Ibadan, the ancient city of brown roofs, was thick not with the usual harmattan haze, but with the pungent smoke of treachery.
The scene: the Oyo State House of Assembly. But this was no hallowed chamber of debate. This was a fortress seized by thugs, their bellies full of cheap liquor and their pockets lined with dirty naira. These were the infamous “foot soldiers” of the strongman, Lamidi Adedibu, the “garrison commander” of Ibadan politics. Their mission, sanctioned from the very highest echelons of power in Abuja by then-President Olusegun Obasanjo (PDP), was simple: to illegally, violently, unseat a duly elected Governor, Senator Rashidi Ladoja.
Lawmakers loyal to Ladoja were chased away, their voices silenced by the threat of the cudgel. In their place, a handful of renegade members, shielded by these same thugs and, most shockingly, by federal security agents provided by Obasanjo, staged a charade. They called it an impeachment. The nation watched, aghast, as the sacred was desecrated. It was a raw, unfiltered display of power—a lesson that in the politics of that era, might was right, and constitutionalism was a mere inconvenience.
Ladoja, the gentleman politician, was out in the cold. His seat, his mandate, stolen in broad daylight. The message from the powers that be was clear: This is how the game is played. Cross the establishment, and you will be crushed.
But then, a lifeline emerged from an unexpected quarter. From the southwest came a defiant shield. Bola Ahmed Tinubu, then the Governor of Lagos State and the formidable leader of the then Action Congress (AC), now the All Progressives Congress (APC), made a calculated and profoundly principled decision. He opened the gates of Lagos.
He provided a cover, a sanctuary. Not just for Governor Ladoja, but for the majority of the legitimate lawmakers who had been driven from their own assembly. In Lagos, they found not just safety, but a platform. A stage from which they could fight for legitimacy, challenge the illegality, and keep the flame of their mandate alive.
Tinubu, in his second term, had nothing to immediately gain from this. It was a direct confrontation with the federal might of Obasanjo. It was a risk. But it was a stand for something greater than partisan politics; it was a stand for justice, for the sanctity of the electoral mandate, and against the bullying of a federating unit by an overbearing centre.
This act of defiance became the crucible in which Ladoja’s political survival was forged. The legal battle raged, but the moral and logistical support from Lagos was the anchor that held him steady. Eventually, the judiciary, in a rare moment of courage, restored him to office. The thief’s victory was short-lived. The rightful king returned to his throne.
Now, fast forward to the present. Look at the poignant, powerful, and poetic picture of today.
Senator Rashidi Ladoja is no longer the embattled governor. He is no longer the politician fighting shadows in Abuja. Today, he is His Imperial Majesty, Oba (Dr.) Mohood Olalekan Ishola Balogun, Alli Okunmade II, the Olubadan of Ibadanland.
Let that title sink in.
He is the traditional ruler of Ibadan, the city with the largest population in the entire southern Nigeria. He is the sovereign monarch of a state with the largest landmass in the south. From the political wilderness, he has ascended to the highest, most revered cultural and traditional stool of his people. The man they tried to erase is now the eternal symbol of their history and heritage.
And what of the key players in that dark drama? Obasanjo’s imperial presidency is a chapter in history books. The political machinery of Adedibu, once all-powerful, has faded into a whisper. The thugs have returned to the obscurity from whence they came.
But the man who provided a cover, Tinubu, is now the President of the Federal Republic of Nigeria. And the man he provided a cover for, Ladoja, is the Olubadan.
The lesson here is not merely about political calculations or smart alliances. It is a profound, spiritual lesson for every leader, for every individual wielding power today.
Do good. Because power is transient, but legacy is eternal. Your today is not your tomorrow.
The evil men do may live after them, but so do the acts of kindness, the stands for principle, the courage shown in defence of the oppressed. The “cover” provided in Lagos did not expire. It compounded, with interest, into a historical bond and a testament to character.
Ladoja’s story teaches us that when you are wronged, do not succumb to bitterness. Fight through legitimate means, uphold your dignity, and trust in the ultimate justice of time. Your persecutors may not be there to see your triumph, but your vindication will be a monument for generations to behold.
The throne upon which the Olubadan sits today is not just a seat of royalty. It is a throne built on an act of defiance, cemented by an act of solidarity, and crowned by the unwavering hand of fate. It stands as a permanent, golden reminder:
Do good, because no condition is permanent. Kindness has no expiry date, and in the end, integrity is the only currency that never devalues.
