The Nation Newspaper

Category: Olukorede Yishau

Kabiyesi

Each time I hear, read, or watch traditional rulers fight over supremacy, something shifts within me. It is not that such scenes make me despise tradition or culture. Far from it. What unsettles me is the quiet sickness they provoke, the feeling that decades after the world has moved on, we are still allowing ourselves to be emotionally and psychologically pressured by the ghosts of our ancestors.These ancestors lived in a different era altogether. Theirs was a time when life was basic and survival was local. Electricity was unknown. Airplanes were unimaginable. Telephones, radio, television, and even the earliest modern inventions had not yet entered human consciousness. Their worldview was shaped by the limits of their environment, their technology, and their understanding of the universe.Their actions and inactions were dictated by their time. Their behaviors, beliefs, and power structures were molded by the circumstances they found themselves in. From the architecture of their homes to the clothes they wore, from how they governed to how they worshipped, context played a decisive role in how things unfolded. They did what made sense to them, within the boundaries of what they knew and what was possible.

This is why, in this age and time, I worry deeply when one traditional ruler claims superiority over another and violence or social tension erupts as a result. It is troubling when each side begins to summon history as ammunition, dredging up ancient memories to validate present-day claims. The tragedy is that many of these historical accounts are not sacrosanct. They are not infallible truths etched in stone.In fact, scholars have long pointed out the inadequacies, contradictions, and gaps in many of these narratives. Oral histories, while valuable, are fluid. They evolve, they merge myth with memory, and they are often reshaped by power, politics, and pride. Yet, we continue to treat them as unquestionable evidence, worthy of bloodletting and endless rivalry.

Growing up, we heard all kinds of stories about the origins of the Yoruba people. One narrative I have always found difficult to accept without question is the claim that Oduduwa, the acclaimed progenitor of the race, came from Saudi Arabia and descended into Ile Ife using a chain. Was Ile Ife empty when he arrived? From what scholars have established, Ile Ife was not an uninhabited space. There were people there long before Oduduwa’s arrival.Still, if as a people we have chosen to accept him as the symbolic father of the race, a race that was not even called Yoruba in Oduduwa’s time, then so be it. Faith, symbolism, and collective agreement often matter more in identity formation than strict historical accuracy. But we must also admit that these stories are layered, contested, and far from straightforward. We were also taught that Oduduwa had seven children who went on to establish kingdoms such as Oyo. Even this account has been questioned by historians and researchers. Some argue that the number seven is symbolic rather than literal. Others suggest that the dispersal of power and people was far more complex than a neat family tree would suggest.If these foundational stories are open to debate, reinterpretation, and scholarly scrutiny, then one must ask a simple question. Why should traditional rulers in this modern age still be fighting over supremacy based on them? The era when traditional rulers were the ultimate powers-that-be ended long ago. Colonial authorities, with calculated precision, dismantled their political authority and nailed the coffins of absolute traditional power. The modern Nigerian state, like many others, placed kings and chiefs within a constitutional framework that stripped them of sovereignty.

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Today, political leaders decide who ascends these revered stools. Governors sign the papers. Courts adjudicate disputes. And as we have seen repeatedly, politicians have demonstrated the powerlessness of these stools by suspending or deposing traditional rulers when it suits their interests. From the West to the North, monarchs have been removed, sanctioned, or humiliated by elected officials. This is not conjecture. It is documented reality. Given this reality, one would expect traditional rulers to recalibrate their sense of relevance. Instead of expending energy on needless supremacy tussles, they ought to smell the coffee and accept that we live in a completely different world. This world bears little resemblance to the one inhabited by Oduduwa, Oranmiyan, Obatala, Bayajidda, and other revered ancestors.It is not just different. It is constantly changing. The world of ten years ago is not the world of today. The world of twenty years ago bears little resemblance to that of fifty or one hundred years ago. Technology alone has rewritten the rules of power, influence, and authority.

There was a time when the compact disc was revolutionary. There was a time when owning a flash drive felt like being ahead of the curve. There was a time when the video player was the pride of many living rooms. All of these have been overtaken by newer, faster, and more efficient innovations. Progress does not ask for permission. It moves on, relentlessly. Societies that refuse to adapt are left behind, clinging to symbols whose substance has long evaporated. Culture, like technology, must find ways to stay relevant without becoming destructive. Tradition should guide, not chain. It should inspire, not incite conflict.

I cherish ancient stools such as the Alaafin, the Ooni, the Awujale, and many others. They are repositories of history and symbols of continuity. But we do ourselves no favors by deceiving ourselves about their place in this rapidly changing world. Reverence does not require rivalry. Honor does not demand hostility.

From time immemorial, I have recognised only one true Kabiyesi, the ultimate authority, the one who can do and undo without limitation. That is God, our source, our creator, and our comforter. Anyone else who lays claim to absolute supremacy is, at best, engaging in self-deception.

I urge our traditional rulers to come to terms with this reality. I also implore them not to forget the times we live in. Let this awareness guide their actions and inactions. Only then can they free themselves from needless supremacy battles.

My final take: The age of kingdoms and empires has passed. They belong to history books and folklore. What remains is the opportunity for traditional rulers to redefine their relevance, to serve as custodians of culture, mediators of peace, and moral voices in a complex society. That role, if embraced with humility, is far more valuable than any hollow claim to supremacy.

January 30, 2026
What Baba Segi reminds me of

It was supposed to be a Netflix original series. That was the plan. Mo Abudu’s Ebony Life Studios had acquired the right from Lola Shoneyin, and the literary community was looking forward to seeing the cinematic version of their favourite novel, ‘The Secret Lives of Baba Segi’s Wives’. Shortly after the plan was announced, Netflix pulled the plug on its funding of original productions from Nigeria. Till date, it has not given details about why it took the decision. All we bank on are rumours and conjecture.

But, the good news is that the dream hasn’t died. Netflix pulled its carpet, but Abudu has been able to get other partners to replace it with a fluffy rug, a movie instead of a series. And come December, we will see actors such as Iyabo Ojo, Odunlade Adekola, Omowunmi Dada and Shaffy Bello breathe life into Shoneyin’s lively book in which a polygamous man, Baba Segi, one day finds out that nearly his whole life has been a joke, a lie, with his wives as the major players in the drama of his life. Were it not for his youngest wife, the beautiful and university-educated Bolanle, he might have gone to his grave without knowing the truth.

While those who have read the book are speculating about who and who will play what characters, I am more concerned about Baba Segi’s real-life replicas. The news of the movie adaptation reminds me of a woman. Throughout the first year of her marriage, her menstrual flow was constant. This cycle would be repeated for the next seven years. And, in those years when her period maintained its constancy, tears and sorrow were her uninvited guests. They never alerted her before they start cascading down her cheeks, leaving her helpless hubby to play the consoler when it happened in his presence. Many times she cried when he was away at work or visiting friends and family members.

Months after months, her monthly flow never ceased for once. The prayers and the fasting did not work the miracle she expected. Science seemed to be where she should have put her hope and trust. After going for series of tests, moving from one hospital to the other, a gynaecologist told her it was time she tried the In-vitro fertilisation (IVF). It is estimated that approximately 3.5 to 5 million children have been born worldwide following ART treatment. It is estimated that over 40,000 babies have been born through IVF in Nigeria since 1989.

The IVF route did not come cheap. She and her husband had to cough out about $3,300. It could have been more if luck had not smiled on them and the first IVF was successful. Age was still on my friend’s side so good eggs were harvested, fertilised and implanted in her uterus. And it did not take time for a successful pregnancy to occur in her uterus. And like the parents of Louise Brown, the first child successfully born through IVF treatment in July 1978, luck smiled on my friend and her hubby, she carried the pregnancy to term and they had a son— thus joining the expanding list of beneficiaries of the work of Robert G. Edwards, Patrick Steptoe and Jean Purdy.

Many women go through as much as ten IVFs and still have to adopt babies or take babies from family members. A popular pastor’s wife’s quest for those tiny tots who love to scatter homes with no knowledge of how to fix them saw her waiting for a decade. She sought help, including IVF. The money went down the medical drain and her tummy remained in perfect shape. Eleven IVFs refused to yield results and she opted for adoption, and life continued.

Before my friend took the IVF route, a pastor, who came for a programme in her church to pray for women, told them that in trying to have babies, they should emulate Sarah and Anna who never had IVF. He also mentioned other women in the Bible who conceived without scientific help. My friend, at that point, felt she had backslid into sin and was not trusting God enough. She was torn between going with science or with faith. Her gynaecologist resolved the dilemma for her: IVF is not satanic, the gynaecologist explained. In fact, the gynaecologist added a clincher: IVF is a miracle from God.

There was another issue for my friend and her husband to resolve: who should know about the IVF. They decided it should be for their ears only. And of course, the medical hands involved.

The day my friend narrated her story, another woman shared hers as well. She also had IVF. Not one, not two, not three, not four…She had ten and still there was no pregnancy. She eventually went the adoption route. She blamed the fact that she did not act on time on the belief in Africa that such matter was spiritual and should be left to God to handle.

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My friend buttresses this point by saying it is wrongly generally believed that a Nigerian man can never be sterile. Thirty per cent of infertility, my friend says, according to statistics, is traceable to men who have either low sperm count or zero sperm count. Baba Segi falls in this category.

Infertility is not just primary. A couple who have had a kid before may find it difficult to have another, a situation experts describe as “secondary infertility”. It is said to account for more than half of all infertility cases.

My friend believes it is time Nigeria and the rest of Africa went the way of nations such as Canada and Belgium where universal coverage of IVF improved the use of safe fertility treatments. She also believes the time had come to drum it in the hearing of ignorant men: men too can be infertile with either zero sperm count or low sperm count, thus being a major contributor to what researchers have found out: five to eight per cent of couples battle infertility worldwide and the prevalence in sub-Saharan Africa is higher, with 10 to 30 per cent of couples in Nigeria slugging it out.

An expert says a man will have low sperm count and it is the woman that will be taking drugs; lifestyle factor such as smoking of cigarettes, marijuana and cocaine plays a major role in male infertility. Obesity reduces sperm count, and what men eat and the vitamins they takes are key to improving their sperm and reproductive organs.

My final take: Lola Shoneyin’s ‘The Secret Lives of Baba Segi’s Wives’ portrays men’s role in infertility, and the need for this reality to be adequately acknowledged. A woman’s value needs not depend on whether or not she has a biological child; government need to put in place health coverage that can reduce the financial burden of IVF; in-laws, friends, family members and the society at large need to stop depressing women in the waiting room.

January 23, 2026
‘The Insight’ we need

I did not stumble on The Insight the way many people discover good journalism these days. It was not through a loud advertisement or a breaking news alert, but through an almost quiet recommendation that arrived via WhatsApp. I clicked. I stayed. And I understood, almost immediately, why Adejuwon Soyinka, a former editor with Tell and BBC and the editor in charge of Conversation Africa in West Africa, chose to call his Substack and vodcast The Insight. And since then, I have seen the YouTube version more and the experts he engages with have proved to know their onions.

The latest edition is on Europe’s silent deportation of Africans, with Nigerians occupying a key slot.

News, especially as Nigerians consume it daily, often arrives like a hammer. Headlines shout. Numbers overwhelm. Crises blur into one another until outrage turns into fatigue. What Soyinka is doing on The Insight feels different. It is not trying to compete with the noise. It is trying to make sense of it.

At first glance, the Substack page looks deceptively simple. Clean layout. Calm tone. No screaming headlines. But once you start reading, you realise this is journalism that assumes the reader is intelligent, curious and tired of being talked down to. It is explanatory journalism with a human pulse, grounded in Africa but alert to the world beyond it.

What struck me most was not just the topics Soyinka chooses, but the way he frames them. He does not ask, “What happened?” He asks, “Why does this matter to you?” And that small shift changes everything.

Take the recurring focus on Nigeria’s security, economy and place in global politics. These are familiar subjects. We have heard them dissected on radio shows, argued over on social media and reduced to soundbites on television. Yet in The Insight, they feel freshly interrogated. Soyinka does not rush to conclusions. He draws lines between events that usually sit in separate compartments in our minds.

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When he writes or talks about foreign policy or global military actions, he does not treat them as distant dramas playing out on foreign soil. He connects them to food prices in Lagos, migration pressures in Europe, insecurity in the Sahel and the quiet ways global decisions seep into Nigerian daily life. Reading him, you are reminded that Nigeria does not exist in isolation, even when we sometimes behave as if it does.

There is also a noticeable respect for context. Soyinka does not assume his audience has forgotten history, nor does he drown them in it. He provides just enough background to help you see how today’s headline grew out of yesterday’s compromise, neglect or ambition. It is the kind of writing that leaves you nodding slowly, not because you agree with everything, but because the argument has been patiently built.

What gives The Insight its personal texture is Soyinka’s voice. This is not faceless analysis. You can sense the journalist behind the words, someone who has spent years reporting, editing and thinking deeply about power, accountability and Africa’s place in the world. He writes like someone who has seen the machinery of news from the inside and decided that speed should not always trump clarity.

There is also an emotional intelligence at work. Soyinka understands the quiet anxieties many Nigerians live with. The fear that things are getting worse even when official figures say otherwise. The confusion of watching “growth” on paper while hunger deepens at home. The frustration of seeing global conversations about Africa that rarely include African voices. These tensions run through The Insight, not as complaints, but as questions worth examining honestly.

One of the most refreshing aspects of the Substack is its refusal to be performative. In an age where opinion writing often feels like a competition for the sharpest insult or the boldest take, Soyinka resists the temptation to grandstand. His writing is firm, sometimes critical, but rarely cynical. He seems genuinely interested in understanding, not just winning an argument.

This restraint makes the harder truths land more powerfully. When he interrogates governance failures or policy contradictions, it feels less like an attack and more like an invitation to think harder about consequences. He does not let leaders off the hook, but he also does not flatter the reader by pretending we are merely passive victims of circumstance.

Another layer of The Insight that deserves attention is its attention to identity and the African experience beyond borders. Pieces and vodcast episodes that explore migration, assimilation and the pressure Africans feel to “translate” themselves abroad resonate deeply. Many Nigerians know this feeling, whether through personal experience or through family members navigating life in foreign countries.

Soyinka treats these stories with empathy and nuance. He understands that migration is not just about visas and deportations. It is about dignity, belonging and the quiet negotiations people make with their names, accents and histories. By placing these stories alongside analyses of global politics and economics, The Insight reminds us that policy decisions eventually land on human lives.

There is also something quietly radical about choosing Substack as a platform. In doing so, Soyinka sidesteps traditional gatekeepers and speaks directly to readers. This creates a sense of intimacy. You are not reading a distant columnist in a towering newsroom. You are engaging with a writer who invites you into his thinking process, who assumes you can handle complexity without being spoon-fed.

That intimacy matters in a media environment where trust is fragile. Nigerians are increasingly skeptical of information, often for good reason. The Insight does not demand trust; it earns it through careful sourcing, balanced tone and transparent reasoning. Even when you disagree, you can trace how Soyinka arrived at his conclusions.

The inclusion of the Insight Vodcast adds another dimension. It suggests that Soyinka understands how audiences consume information today. Some prefer long reads. Others want conversations they can listen to while driving or working. By expanding the format without diluting the substance, The Insight feels adaptive rather than trendy.

What perhaps stays with me most after spending time on the page is a sense of calm seriousness. This is journalism that does not panic, even when addressing alarming subjects. It does not underestimate the reader, nor does it oversimplify the world. It trusts that Nigerians, and Africans more broadly, want more than outrage. We want understanding.

In a country where public discourse often swings between despair and denial, The Insight occupies a thoughtful middle ground. It acknowledges how difficult things are without surrendering to hopelessness. It points out global power imbalances without lapsing into victimhood. It insists that Nigeria’s story is entangled with the world’s story, whether we like it or not.

Reading Soyinka on Substack and watching the YouTube version feel like sitting across from a seasoned journalist who has seen too much to be naïve, but not so much that he has lost faith in the value of asking better questions. In that sense, The Insight is not just a newsletter. It is a quiet act of resistance against shallow thinking.

My final take: For people who want to understand not just what is happening in Africa, but why it matters and how it connects, The Insight offers something rare. It offers perspective. And in these uncertain times, perspective may be one of the most valuable public goods journalism can still provide.

January 16, 2026
A bouquet for Braithwaite

Oyinkan Braithwaite, the brilliant mind behind the Booker-nominated ‘My Sister the Serial Killer’, has delivered a sophomore novel, ‘Cursed Daughters’. Her new baby packs a punch. It is no surprise it made the Time 100 Books for 2025, the year that has just slipped by.

Braithwaite offers us a novel that deeply explores the complex nature of female rivalry, trauma, superstition and familial obligations. And she does so in prose so sleek that they are a delight to follow. And its many humorous lines add to the book’s addictive qualities.

At the beginning of the book, Monife, the daughter of Bunmi, is buried after her remains are pulled out of the Elegushi beach, where she chose to end it all. Thanks to a curse the Falodun women have battled from generation to generation.

Some hours before the burial, Eniiyi is born and over two decades later, Eniiyi will jump into the same water in order to save a drowning man, when the facility’s gatekeeper’s concern is ensuring there are no witnesses to the calamity.

Eniiyi, Ebun, Monife, Bunmi and Kemi stand at the heart of Braithwaite’s compelling read. Trailing them are their ancestors, dead but not forgotten. They include Feranmi, the beginning of it all, who was cursed because of her husband; Yemisi, who was labelled a witch; Yetunde, who men avoided like a plaque; Tobi, despised by her in-laws; the unstable Afoke; and Fikayo, the one whose health was her undoing.

In this novel that seems to suggest that some ends are beginnings, when Eniiyi emerges from Ebun’s birth canal, there is little doubt that she bears an uncanny resemblance to the deceased. Bunmi, the dead woman’s mother, becomes convinced that her daughter has returned to her through Ebun. From that moment, she dotes on the newborn and names her Motitunde, an identity that cements her belief that the child is her daughter’s replacement.

As Eniiyi grows, she accepts the unusual reality of having two grandmothers and addresses them accordingly, calling one Grandma West and the other Grandma East, in recognition of the wings each occupies in their family home, a home where its daughters have always returned when their men turn against them.

Eniiyi also sees Monife in dreams where the dead gives her the silent treatment until the day she says “not again” through Eniiyi’s voice.

Eniiyi grows up aware that she belongs to a line of women fated never to remain long in their husbands’ homes, bound by a curse said to have been placed on a long-dead matron who stole another woman’s man.

Over 200 pages into the novel, the identity of Eniiyi’s father or the circumstances surrounding her conception are shrouded in secrecy. All we keep hearing is about a guilt we aren’t given details of, a trick that helps drive the plot and sees us following, among other issues, the friction between Bunmi and Ebun over Eniiyi. Because of Bunmi’s attachment to Eniiyi, she invites herself into every decision that has to do with her or unilaterally takes decisions on Eniiyi without bothering to inform the mother and sees absolutely nothing wrong in her actions. As far as she is concerned, they have equal rights to her. After all, she is her daughter’s replica and chooses to change her due date so that she can be born the day the original is interred.

The author shows us individual differences in the way Bunmi and Kemi (Ebun’s mother) handle the curveball life has thrown at them. While Bunmi hopes her ex will return to her and their children, Kemi throws herself at the Lagos society jumping from one benefactor to the other and even when she becomes a grandmother, she refuses to throw in the towel. Instead, she enhances her beauty with Spandex and Wonderbra.

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Two major issues dominate the pages of this compelling read: generational curse and reincarnation. Before Eniiyi’s birth, all the Falodun women were concerned about was generational curse; her resemblance to Monife doubles their wahala as it brings in reincarnation and the fears associated with it.

The novel raises posers: Are generational curse and reincarnation real? Are they imagined? Are they just coincidences? Are there clear signs that define them? Braithwaite offers no straight or easy answers. Instead, she gives perspectives and leaves the answers to the reader. She shows us the spiritual angle to these issues, especially how people who claim to know more than the rest of us purport to have the solutions to these challenges; in the long run, money must exchange hands.

Are there answers in the darker spiritual corners of Lagos? Can the pattern be broken? Is liberation possible from family secrets and silent traumas? And do we see results even when cash is doled out to the spiritualists?

In the end, choose to believe whatever you want is the quagmire we are left with in this novel whose plot oscillates between the past and the present. At times, the past is the beginning of the curse; at other times, it is the years before Eniiyi’s birth or when she is a toddler; and the present is mixed, but mostly that period when many in their country feels the leadership’s run thus far has been disappointing.

Aside from the women, two other memorable characters stand out in this novel. The first is Sango, Monife’s loyal dog; the second is the Falodun house, the sprawling old and falling mansion with its east and west wings, that dominates the narrative. Without the house, this would have been an entirely different story, and certainly an incomplete one. The author’s success in making both Sango and, especially, the house so integral to the plot’s development deserves high praise.

My final take: As we wish ourselves happy new year, let’s see family as everything, let’s see family also as nothing. This 2026, family can make you and family can break you. It is a blessing to come from the right kind of family, one which stands with you through thick and thin, through trials and tribulations, through it all. And it is a curse to come from the sort of family that pulls you down.

Happy new year! And thank you for always reading me. I appreciate you. Greatly.

January 9, 2026
In this new year

I write this from America, a country I have now called my place of residence for about four years. But distance has not diluted identity. If anything, it has sharpened it. Living abroad has a way of clarifying who you are and where your emotional compass points. For me, no matter how far I travel or how long I stay away, Nigeria still takes centre stage in my thoughts, my conversations, and the things I choose to write about.

Each morning begins with two time zones competing for attention. America supplies the routine. Work, deadlines, traffic, the hum of a system that mostly works. Nigeria supplies the pulse. News updates, phone calls, group chats, memories, arguments, laughter. Before the day is properly formed, Nigeria has already announced itself. It is in the headlines I scan. It is in the voice notes I listen to. It is in the questions I ask and the silences I notice.

Nigeria still shapes my days. It still claims my attention. It still provokes my anger and my affection in equal measure. And as this new year unfolds, I hold on to a quiet conviction that our story is not finished. That the same resilience that has carried Nigerians this far can yet carry the nation forward.

There are days when being Nigerian feels like an act of defiance. Not the loud, chest-thumping kind that comes with flags and slogans, but the quiet, stubborn refusal to surrender one’s sense of belonging to despair. To say you are proud to be Nigerian in this season often invites raised eyebrows, sometimes outright disbelief. People ask how, why, and at what cost. They list the failures of leadership, the stubborn poverty, the insecurity that refuses to be tamed, the japa exodus that has become a national reflex. They speak as if pride must be earned only when a country is perfect, or at least functioning.

Yet pride, like love, is rarely logical.

I have lived long enough as a Nigerian to know disappointment intimately. I queued under the sun for hours for services that should take minutes. I have watched brilliant people abandon their dreams or relocate because the system seems designed to punish excellence. I have felt the small humiliation of explaining Nigeria to foreigners who only know us through headlines of corruption, scams, or tragedy. There are moments when the country feels like a weight you carry rather than a home that carries you.

Nigeria is a hard country to love uncritically, but it is an impossible country to forget.

Living in America has shown me what functional systems look like. It has also shown me that efficiency does not automatically translate to warmth, and structure does not always equal soul. Here, things move on time. Processes are predictable. Rules are enforced. Yet there are moments when I miss the unpredictability of home, not the chaos, but the human texture that comes with it. The way strangers talk to one another. The way community fills the gaps institutions leave behind. The way humour rises instinctively in the face of trouble.

Being Nigerian taught me resilience long before it became a buzzword. It taught me adaptability without seminars or manuals. Plans changed. Power failed. Roads disappointed. Promises evaporated. Yet life moved forward. People adjusted. Solutions emerged. In Nigeria, survival is not a theory. It is a daily practice.

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I am proud of that training. It shows up everywhere Nigerians go. You see it in how we work, how we negotiate space, how we refuse to be intimidated by unfamiliar environments.

There are moments in America when I encounter Nigeria unexpectedly. In the music playing softly from a passing car. In the accent of a stranger at the grocery store. In the shared look that needs no explanation. In those moments, pride swells quietly. Not the noisy kind. The steady kind that says, we are everywhere, and we are still standing.

Nigeria’s challenges are real, and they are heavy. Insecurity has stolen lives and peace of mind. Economic pressure has shrunk dreams and widened despair. Young people feel betrayed by a country that should have protected their future. These are not abstract issues. They are personal. They affect families, friendships, and choices. They are part of the reason many now live far from home.

But pride does not require denial. It requires honesty.

I have met Nigerians abroad who downplay their origins, as if Nigeria is a phase they outgrew. I understand the impulse. The country can exhaust you. But I also know that many of the strengths they now deploy confidently were shaped here. The confidence to speak up. The instinct to solve problems on the fly. The ability to navigate complexity. Nigeria, for all its chaos, is a demanding teacher.

Our diversity is another source of pride, even though it is often weaponised against us. Over 250 ethnic groups, hundreds of languages, countless cultures, all compressed into one national space. This diversity should be our greatest asset. Instead, it is too often manipulated by politics and fear. Yet at the everyday level, Nigerians coexist, collaborate, and intermarry in ways that defy the narratives of permanent division. In markets, offices, campuses, and places of worship, identity is fluid. People are first human, then Nigerian, before they are anything else.

I am proud of Nigerians because, despite everything, we keep building lives in the cracks. We keep creating beauty in the margins. Our music travels the world. Our films tell stories that feel familiar even to strangers. Our writers insist on complexity when caricature would be easier. Our entrepreneurs innovate not because the environment is friendly, but because giving up is not in our vocabulary.

From this distance, I see Nigeria more clearly. I see its wasted potential and its stubborn promise. I see how much is broken and how much still works because ordinary people refuse to surrender. The trader opening shop at dawn. The student studying by candlelight. The professional navigating corruption without becoming corrupt. These are not heroic myths. They are everyday acts of courage.

Nigeria also lives in my language. In the phrases that slip out unconsciously. In the humour that does not translate easily. In the cadence of thought that remains unmistakably homegrown. Even when I am physically elsewhere, Nigeria frames how I interpret the world.

As a new year begins, I find myself hopeful in a way that is careful, not naïve. I do not expect miracles. I am not waiting for overnight transformation. But I wish for movement. For progress that is measurable. For leadership that understands service. For policies that center people, not power. I wish that Nigeria will begin, truly begin, to surmount its challenges, not through slogans, but through sustained action and accountability.

I wish for a country where staying becomes as viable as leaving. Where talent is rewarded, not frustrated. Where dignity is not negotiable. These wishes are not unrealistic. They are necessary.

Living abroad has taught me that no country is perfect. Every nation has its contradictions, its blind spots, its unfinished work. The difference lies in how seriously those problems are confronted. Nigeria deserves that seriousness. It deserves citizens who criticise without contempt and hope without illusion.

My final take: I am proud to be Nigerian. From here. From anywhere. And with hope that the year ahead will mark the beginning of Nigeria rising, slowly but surely, above the weight of its challenges.

January 2, 2026
For Baba MicCom

I lost a father figure on December 19. Many knew him less by his given name than by the name of his life’s work—MicCom—a neat coinage drawn from Michael and Comfort, the English names he and his first wife bore. In that fusion of names sat the story of a marriage, a business and a way of living that seemed to perceive partnership as destiny.

I met Pa Michael Tunde Ponnle some months after he lost that first wife, Comfort Olufunke Ponnle. I was then a mid-career reporter who had made a costly mistake. Assigned to write about her burial programmes, I published the story a week early, creating a wrong and painful impression. My editor at the time, Mr Gbenga Omotoso—now Lagos State Commissioner for Information and Strategy—gave me Baba Ponnle’s number and asked me to call and explain the oversight.

I called with trepidation. But what I met was grace. He was fatherly, disarming, kind. In the course of that first conversation, we bonded over a shared wound: I had lost my own father the same age his wife died, that same October of 2012. Something seemingly settled between us from that moment.

When next he was in Lagos, he called me to come see him at a hotel in Ikeja GRA, where he was staying because there was no one to help with chores at his Ogudu GRA home. He hosted me more than once at his MicCom Golf and Resort in Ada, Osun State. He checked in regularly by phone. Any time he was in Lagos (before I relocated to the United States about four years ago) Baba would ask after me. Quietly, steadily, he occupied the space of a father.

He shared stories with me, stories about his life, about his work and about his children. And of course, about Olufunke, the woman whose death affected him tremendously. He also passed on lessons life had taught him, lessons that will remain with me until I become an ancestor like him.

Pa Ponnle was a man of substance without noise. Former Chairman of the Board of West African Portland Cement Plc (now Lafarge WAPCO), founder of MicCom Wires and Cables, and a philanthropist of uncommon reach, he wore his achievements lightly.

Born on December 24, 1939, to the family of Chief Job Ponnle, the Alawe of Ada, and Madam Oyaweola Awele Ponnle, he hailed from the Oludele ruling house. He attended Baptist Primary School, Ada, where he excelled. His mother died in 1948, when he was still a child, and he was raised by his father in a polygamous household.

“I was like a candle in the wind,” he once recalled. Yet his father anchored him. “He would cuddle me and pray for me,” Ponnle said. “He treated me specially without spoiling me.” That model of firm affection became his own template for family life. “He was my first mentor,” he said—words that explained much about the man he became, one who at a time donated one of his kidneys to his dying son, and it took him time before recovering from the experience. But, he was happy he was there for his son.

After primary school in 1953, secondary education was not straightforward. Though he passed entrance examinations to Kiriji Memorial College, Igbajo, and Baptist Boys’ High School, Iwo—no small feats at the time—financial constraints redirected him to a Teachers’ Training College. He later took courses with Rapid Results College in the UK, passed his science subjects including mathematics at Ordinary Level, earned his Grade II Teachers’ Certificate, and taught briefly.

Then came the pivot. He moved into engineering, a decision he later described as “the most valuable I ever took.” In 1962, he was admitted to The Polytechnic, Ibadan, to study Electrical/Electronics Engineering, later transferring to the Posts and Telecommunications Training School in Oshodi. After training, he worked briefly there before marrying Olufunke Fabunmi on April 26, 1966, in Ibadan.

A job at the Ibadan branch of the then University of Ife followed and with it, frustration. Two superiors made his working life unbearable. His wife, pregnant at the time, went to plead. It did not help. Ponnle left, choosing survival over bitterness.

Providence met him at the Osogbo Trade Centre, where he was hired as a technician and later asked to establish the Electronics and Television Department. At a symposium organised by his department, the Commissioner for Education, Dr Omololu Olunloyo, noticed him. Questions followed. So did an invitation to Ibadan—and a scholarship.

In 1969, Prince Ponnle travelled to the United Kingdom to study Electrical/Electronics Engineering at the Polytechnic of North London. He returned in 1972, graduating with honours, a Graduate Member of the Institute of Electrical and Electronics Engineers, and holder of an Advanced Diploma in Electronics and Communication Engineering.

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Back home, after brief stints to gain experience, he and Olufunke built MicCom Engineering Works, which grew into MicCom Cables and Wires Ltd, one of the country’s quiet industrial success stories.

Their philanthropy was equally deliberate. Through the MicCom Foundation for Education Development (MIFED), they funded the education of thousands. They built and renovated churches and mosques in Ada, extended electricity with transformers, provided water schemes, donated science blocks to universities, instituted prizes at Obafemi Awolowo University, established scholarships at WAPCO, reconstructed palaces, and supported schools, seminaries, and communities across Osun State and beyond.

“We were inspired by concern for humanity and responsibility to God,” Ponnle said simply.

Death ended his marriage to Olufunke on October 29, 2012, when she died of cancer in Cardiff, United Kingdom. In her memory, he established a foundation focused on curtailing the spread of certain cancers, donating its centre to a university—turning grief into service.

When he turned 80 in 2019, he donated his mansion in Ada to the Osun State government for the use of the state-owned university.

Prince Ponnle later married Titi Laoye-Tomori, former Deputy Governor of Osun State. He is survived by his wife and children—Yetunde, Biodun, Temitope, Kola, and Olubukola.

My final take: For me, he will always be Baba MicCom: proof that success need not shout, that kindness can be structural, and that fatherhood is sometimes chosen, quietly, and for life.

December 26, 2025
Tony Elumelu’s example

There is something fascinating about the way December stamps its feet. About the way it looks like the gateway into fresh opportunities. About the way it imposes certain truths. About the way it brings back things we have been doing year-on-year.

Each December I perform a small ritual that feels almost private. This ritual sees me scrolling through images of Lagos in its most festive mood. The state of aquatic splendour glows, its streets pulse with laughter; photographs and videos from its most glamorous gatherings fill my mobile phone’s screen. Among them are still images and audio visuals from the annual all-white Christmas party hosted by Mr. Tony Elumelu. Over the years the event has become more than a party. It has become a cultural moment, a night when business leaders, creatives and public figures briefly gather under the same lights.

This year there will be no such photographs or videos. Elumelu and his wife, Dr Awele, have cancelled the annual gathering. The decision came as a mark of respect for Elumelu’s six workers who lost their lives in a fire at Afriland Towers in September. The news of the cancelation was shared through his social media pages, yet it carried a weight that echoed far beyond those few lines of text.

What at first seems like a simple announcement becomes more meaningful the longer I sit with it. Elumelu is widely known across the continent as the chairman of Heirs Holdings and the United Bank for Africa. He is also the founder of the Tony Elumelu Foundation, which has become a significant force in nurturing young African entrepreneurs. His image is one of drive, influence and optimism. The man who preaches opportunity and empowerment has now chosen to pause his most visible celebration of the year. Moments like this matter, not because they are grand gestures, but because they reveal something about the values behind the public persona.

This decision feels like a humane response to grief. A festive and lavish gathering would have clashed with the pain left behind by the tragedy. By choosing silence over celebration, Elumelu acknowledges the humanity of his staff and honours their memory. He is also reminding the city that public joy should never drown out private sorrow. There is a dignity in that choice, a quiet admission that the rhythms of a community must sometimes bend to accommodate mourning.

There is also a broader social reading. Lagos is a city where success is often displayed in full colour. Parties, concerts and galas become the language through which prosperity is affirmed. Yet leadership sometimes calls for restraint. By cancelling the party, Elumelu is sending a message about responsibility. True leadership is not only about generating wealth or commanding influence. It is also about showing compassion and recognising when the moment demands reflection rather than revelry.

I think often about what a party signifies. A host invites people into a space of joy. A party is an escape, a gentle suspension of the world’s troubles. But grief is an interruption that refuses to be smoothed over. It insists that we acknowledge the pain that exists alongside our celebrations. Elumelu’s decision shifts attention back to the families left behind and to the questions that still linger about safety and accountability in the city. The gesture will not mend every wound, but it offers a form of public solidarity at a time when silence can feel like abandonment.

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Some will argue that symbolism is not enough. They will say that a cancelled party cannot replace the need for compensation, long term support and commitments to better working conditions. They will be right. Public gestures should be followed by real action. Lagos needs stronger fire safety standards, quicker emergency responses and more serious corporate responsibility. My hope is that this moment is only the beginning of broader engagement with those issues. A cancelled party can open the door to deeper conversations about how to protect workers and prevent future tragedies.

Another truth sits quietly in the background. December is the peak of economic activity in Lagos. Events provide income for decorators, caterers, waiters, photographers, designers and countless others who rely on the season. The absence of one major party affects circles of workers who depend on festive bookings. This tension is part of the moral reality of Lagos: joy and sorrow live side by side and every decision creates ripples. The city is always balancing celebration with survival.

Still, the gesture carries its own kind of grace. It reminds us that leaders are also members of the communities they influence. Lagos can be an overwhelming place, constantly in motion, constantly demanding spectacle. Yet here is a moment where a man known for grand gatherings chooses stillness. He chooses to stand with the bereaved rather than dance with the celebrated. There is something deeply human about that.

I have seen how Lagos responds to loss. Neighbours gather on verandas. Colleagues organise prayer meetings. Friends bring food without being asked. In those moments the city feels gentler. Elumelu’s choice fits into that tradition. It gives permission for the rest of us to pause, to feel, to remember. It tells us that sorrow is not an interruption of life in Lagos but a part of it.

As I think about the images of Lagos I usually scroll through each December, I know the season will look different this year. The parties will continue in other places and other homes. The lights will still glow. But in the space where the all-white celebration once stood, there will be quiet. That quiet speaks. It speaks of lives lost, of compassion offered, and of a leader who understands that honour has as much place in its calendar as revelry. If the silence becomes a seed for accountability and care, then this absence will not be an empty one. It will be a reminder that even in a city devoted to celebration, the most powerful statement can sometimes be a moment of shared stillness.

My final take: May the souls of those killed in the September fire continue to rest in perfect peace. May God continue to bless leaders like Elumelu who understand, perfectly well, that honouring the dead is honouring ourselves. After all, we all one day will go their way.

For this act, Elumelu has demonstrated that he is an omoluabi!

December 19, 2025
Why Masoyinbo matters

I did not expect a game show to tug at something deep in me. Yet the first time I watched Masoyinbo on YouTube, I felt a small stirring. It came from the sound of Yoruba spoken without hesitation, spoken with a confidence I had not heard in years. The programme created by Olalekan Fabilola, a graduate of Computer Science, has a way of reaching into the recesses of memory, brushing away the dust on words we once knew and urging us to speak them again with pride.

I see it as more than a televised challenge. I see it as a cultural gift. Each episode is a small ceremony in which the beauty of Yoruba is unveiled again and again, each question an invitation and each answer, whether perfect or flawed, an affirmation that the language still lives in us.

Masoyinbo does not approach Yoruba as a sentimental relic, but as a living vessel of knowledge that deserves to be spoken with competence and pride. Masoyinbo lands in the cultural square with a bold insistence. Speak Yoruba. Speak it well. Speak it without apology.

On the surface, it is only a quiz show, yet it carries the weight of a cultural awakening. The rules are simple. Ten questions. Yoruba only. No English. Not even a stray syllable. I remember leaning forward as the first contestant spoke, waiting to see if he would slip. He did, of course, as most of us would. The habit of code mixing has become second nature. Yoruba often shares the stage with English, a dance that feels natural until someone insists on separation. Masoyinbo reveals how far we have drifted from a language that once shaped our earliest thoughts.

What strikes me most about the show is not the struggle of the contestants but the quiet assurance of its host. Fabilola does not scold. He encourages. He coaxes. He smiles when a contestant stumbles and seems to say, without saying it aloud, that the journey back to fluency is a shared one. I always find myself nodding any time he guides a contestant towards words that hover just out of reach. At such moment, he reminds me of an elder helping a child recall a proverb: patient, warm, never weary.

There is something poetic about the simplicity of Masoyinbo. The questions come one after another, each one a doorway into the vastness of Yoruba expression. Some contestants enter those doorways with ease. Others linger, searching for the right word. I often sit before the screen answering the questions myself, only to discover that English stands stubbornly on my tongue. It is then that I understand the brilliance of the show. It is entertainment, yet it is also a mirror, reflecting the quiet erosion of our linguistic confidence.

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Any time I watch the show, I feel the presence of generations who carry Yoruba with dignity. The cadence of our elders’ voices drift back to me. Their stories, their prayers, their gentle admonitions all lived in Yoruba. They carried a rhythm that made the language feel like music. Masoyinbo taps into that rhythm. It reminds us that Yoruba is not merely functional. It is lyrical, textured, full of imagery that English cannot replicate. When contestants reach for a proverb or a metaphor, the language glows with new life.

Fabilola’s genius lies in presenting this revival without ceremony. There is no lecturing about cultural preservation, no heavy-handed appeal to nostalgia. He simply invites us to enjoy our language again. He has turned the act of speaking Yoruba into something competitive, humorous and emotionally resonant. Each time I watch him lead contestants through the maze of their own vocabulary, I see someone who loves the language deeply enough to make it fun.

It is easy to forget that millions of Yoruba speakers are scattered across continents, building lives far from home. Masoyinbo travels to them through screens and becomes a kind of anchor. I have seen parents abroad who play the show for their children. They giggle, they guess answers, and they celebrate tiny victories when they get a phrase right. For families like these, the show becomes a bridge to a heritage they do not want to lose. It is astonishing to think that a programme recorded in Lagos now helps maintain Yoruba identities in cities oceans away.

What moves me most, however, is the way the show challenges assumptions. Many people have grown used to thinking that indigenous languages belong to informal spaces while English belongs to serious discourse. Yet Masoyinbo elevates Yoruba by using it precisely in moments that demand clarity and precision. Watching contestants search for exact words reminds me that Yoruba is capable of bearing intellectual weight. It is not a lesser tongue. It is a complete world of thought, ready to expand as far as we allow it.

Fabilola may not describe himself as an activist, yet his work carries the spirit of one. He is reshaping habits without confrontation. He is restoring dignity to a language by letting it shine in ordinary homes. He is proving that culture can be strengthened not only through festivals and formal teachings, but through laughter and curiosity.

Fabilola’s project is a form of cultural activism disguised as entertainment. He is influencing hearts and habits by encouraging fluency where it has been slipping away. He is sparking conversations about language preservation and inspiring content creators to consider the power of local languages. He is proving that an indigenous language can thrive in digital spaces if given the opportunity and the right platform. His work is not framed in ideological terms, yet it plays a role in shaping cultural confidence.

As contestants listen to his instructions and as viewers lean closer to their screens, he is building a quieter revolution. It is a revolution rooted in sound. The sound of Yoruba spoken with intention.

When I think about the impact of Masoyinbo, I think about the faces of contestants who walk off the set smiling even after losing money. They smile because they have discovered something surprising about themselves. They smile because they have remembered old words and learned new ones. They smile because Fabilola has created a space where failure becomes discovery. In that discovery lies the beginning of change.

Fabilola understands that people learn best when they are relaxed and amused. He uses entertainment to smuggle back a level of fluency many did not realise they had lost.

The show also makes me think about my own relationship with Yoruba. The show has made me more mindful. I find myself reaching for Yoruba words in conversations where I would normally slip into English. I hear myself saying simple phrases with a little more deliberateness, especially when speaking with my daughter, Opemipo. There is pleasure in the effort. There is pleasure in the recovery of something intimate. Language is not just a tool. It is a vessel of memory and identity. Masoyinbo has reminded me of that truth.

Through Masoyinbo, I feel something inside me settle. I feel connected to a lineage that stretches back through time. I feel gratitude for a simple idea executed with sincerity. Most of all, I feel hope. If a quiz show can spark such a shift, perhaps the language has a chance to thrive in ways we have not yet imagined.

This is crucial in Nigeria, where a person who speaks good English is often treated as better educated or more refined, yet Yoruba, like many local languages, carries centuries of wisdom, humour, metaphor and memory. It sits at the heart of stories, proverbs and songs that shape identity.

I can’t conclude this intervention without thanking Ali Baba, whose support has helped Fabilola attain success with the show.

My final take: Masoyinbo has shown that a cultural revival need not arrive with fanfare. It can arrive gently, through a programme that laughs with us, challenges us and reminds us of who we are. And at the heart of it is Fabilola, holding up a lantern so that we may see our mother tongue clearly once again.

December 12, 2025
The Booker winner

David Szalay is the reigning winner of the Booker Prize, an honour he received at a dinner in London for his novel, ‘Flesh’.

The novel begins with Istvan as a lonely boy living in a block of apartments in Hungary with his mother.

Istvan, who has just started a new school because they have just moved into a new town, is having challenges making friends and when he eventually makes one, he slips off his hands in no time for a reason so flimsy but common among teenagers.

Cut off his peers, he finds solace in the company of a neighour in the apartment opposite theirs, a woman old enough to be his mother. First, it is a kiss, a not-so-deep kiss. In no time, the kiss becomes French in nature. Within a short time, it stops being just a French kiss. She takes the whole of him in her mouth. And in no distant future, she has sex with him, a moment the author describes with the restraint of a writer who knows that the power of transgression lies not in its description but in its suggestion. The woman tells him, “I want to feel you inside me,” and in that line, the novel exposes its central tension: the hunger for touch and the moral decay that often accompanies it.

While the escapade is going on, Istvan’s mother holds a meeting with him. Her concern: His teachers’ complaint about his seeming distraction and his slipping grades. He insists all is well.

Meanwhile, he is also associating with the woman’s husband, who shares cigarettes with him from time to time. On an occasion, he asks: “What have you been up to?” His answer: “Nothing much.” He avoids the woman after that. But she comes looking for him and they continue their exploration of each other’s bodies. When he is not with her, he feels miserable. The time they spend together is the highlight of his days and he is ever eager to leave school.

To the woman’s surprise, he starts saying he loves her and she cautions him against saying that because she says he is too young to understand what love means, too young to fall in love with a woman in her early forties who insists she loves the man she is cheating on. He protests her love for the man, but she says the matter is too complex for his young brain to grasp. At this point, she breaks up with him and things fall apart. The only thing keeping him sane has slipped out of his control and he goes after her and she shrugs him off. So, he goes knocking at her door and he is met by her husband, who tells him she is not around, but like someone who has lost his mind, he forces his way in and a fisticuff ensues and tragedy strikes and Istvan ends up spending three years in a young offenders’ institution.

Out of jail and unable to get a job, he joins the army. He leaves the military after five years, returns to Hungary a war hero and gets employed by a winery that once rejected him. Though he has left the army, the army hasn’t left him; he soon begins seeing a therapist because of the things he saw as the aftershock of the things he saw in Iraq, especially the death of Riki, his friend, when they were on a mission to supply water to Ukrainians.

Like a rolling stone, he leaves for London, takes a job as a security man. With time he upgrades to being a private bodyguard, but a repeat of the Hungary transgression begins and, with time, it unravels like such transgression usually does, and what begins in sweetness ends in teeth gnashing.

By the time the novel ends, Istvan has morphed from the 15-year-old lonely boy of the beginning battling poverty to a full-grown man, who rises beyond lack and later falls into financial disaster.

Despite its bleakness, the author successfully steers ‘Flesh’ away from moralising. The author simply observes — the way an artist with the mind of a sociologist might, or a confessor with no power to absolve. By making Istvan a man of few words, he succeeds in letting his flesh lead in decision-making in his life. For this man who answers most enquiries with ‘yeah’, his body decides most times.

The novel raises questions about modern life, about desire, about money, about sex, about love, about work and about survival. It also tells of the class divide, especially the chasm between Europe’s rich and poor. In raising these questions, the author refuses to nudge readers in a particular direction, handing them a blank cheque to decide for themselves who to either root for or reject.

He writes with a clarity that feels almost cruel. His sentences are spare, his silences heavy. What he achieves in ‘Flesh’ is not just a story about forbidden desire, but a meditation on loneliness, on the strange bargains people, especially men, make to feel seen. The novel reminds us that the body, for all its promises of warmth, can also be the site of ruin.

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With ‘Flesh’, Szalay confirms his reputation as a chronicler of contemporary disquiet. The book lingers like the aftertaste of something both sweet and unclean, a reminder that often, the things we do for flesh are the things that undo us.

He delivers a disturbing, intimate exploration of desire, loneliness, and the blurred boundaries between need and obsession.

Before ‘Flesh’, Szalay had earned a place on the Booker Prize shortlist with ‘All That Man Is’ and had already built a reputation as a quietly ambitious and psychologically astute writer. His debut novel, ‘London and the South-East’ (2008), a sharply observed portrait of a drifting salesman, won the Betty Trask Prize and marked him as a talent to watch. He followed it with ‘The Innocent’ (2009), a tense, darkly intelligent work about a young man entangled in crime, and ‘Spring’ (2011), a novel that explores disillusionment and identity through an aimless journalist. Across these early books, Szalay refined his gift for economical prose, deep interiority, and portraits of modern masculinity—qualities that would culminate in the global recognition he later received.

My final take: Our flesh, which refers to our body, has led many on the journey of no return or on journeys that nearly take their lives. So powerful is our body that many go beyond and above to please it. But, like our heart, we need to guard it because when we leave it unguarded, the end is usually catastrophic.

December 5, 2025
Simply Malala

She was only fifteen. Her best friend was Moniba, and she had imagined many more years of easy companionship with this special being she could talk to from morning till night without ever feeling bored. But this friendship, and indeed their future, came under a grave threat. The Taliban had invaded their Pakistani village. They were killing people, issuing diktats, and one of their most chilling commands, when Malala was eleven, was that girls must stop attending school.

Malala Yousafzai found that order impossible to accept. Instead of surrendering to fear, she spoke out against the Taliban and their attempt to deny girls an education, to push them towards becoming child brides and mothers before they even turned twenty. Her defiance did not go unnoticed. The men who spread terror in her village watched her, learnt her routine, and one afternoon one of them boarded her school bus. The gunman asked, “Who is Malala?” and without waiting for confirmation, shot her at point-blank range. She went into coma. That incident enlisted her in the exclusive club of people globally identifiable simply by their first name. Think Fela. Think Chimamanda. Think Malala.

When she came to, she was far away from home. She had been flown to the United Kingdom, a country that would become her new home. Even as she lay in the hospital, recovering from surgeries that kept her alive, offers began pouring in. Agents wanted to represent her. Publishers wanted book rights. Journalists competed for the first interview. She survived operation after operation and emerged as an international figure, invited to conferences around the world to speak about her experience and to become a global voice for the girl-child. The stakes grew even higher when she was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize.

But behind the attention and accolades, what was truly happening in her life? Malala provides those answers in her memoir ‘Finding My Way’. She reveals that her secondary school years in Birmingham were often lonely. She longed for the easy friendships she had once enjoyed in Pakistan, for girls she could talk to freely without feeling like her life was constantly under scrutiny. Her story, as she tells it, is not only about resilience in the face of violence, but also about navigating adolescence in a foreign country while carrying the weight of global expectation.

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After surviving the loneliness of secondary school, she was determined to avoid a repeat in Oxford, where she had been admitted to study Philosophy, Politics and Economics (PPE). Her mother, dominant like most mothers, we find out at the beginning of her Oxford journey, was determined to dictate her life in the elite university. She chose her wardrobe, but unknown to her, Malala had done her research and had secretly shopped for clothes suitable for her college years. In school, she joined as many clubs as possible, chatted up as many girls as possible and within a short period of time, she made friends whose company she shared daily.

While she tried to live a normal life as possible, security men lurked in the background. They had been there since she got to the UK. They are still there now. Taliban men have not withdrawn their quest to kill her.

But Taliban or no Taliban, life must go on. Malala must find her way. And Oxford helped her find it.

Her decision to truly feel like every normal campus girl didn’t go well with many morality police. One day she was photographed wearing jeans and T-shirt and a nylon bomber jacket. Many Pakistani men, who saw the picture online, called her names: traitor, porn star. She was accused of abandoning her country and faith. All because of jeans. Her mother too was mad at her.

“Our relatives are calling. Everyone at home is talking about you,” her mother said.

But she remained resolute in her quest not to have her parents, or anyone, run her life.

“I was going to a rowing club, not on a religious pilgrimage, Mom. I’m not a diplomat representing my country or culture. I’m just a student! And I want to have a normal life while I’m at college.”

It will not be the only time she will face the challenges of being a woman whose body and what she wears play a significant role in how strong or weak her faith is perceived. On an occasion, a picture she took with David Beckham led to her being accused of dishonouring her faith and, on another instance, her mother stepped in front of cameras and slapped off Prince Harry’s hand from her shoulders.

Combining academic work with girl-child advocacy was a major challenge. Oxford didn’t expect students to travel during academic session, but invitations were pouring in from all over the world asking her to use her voice for the girl-child. Turned between turning them down and facing her studies, guilt enveloped her. Malala felt God saved her for a reason and soon began to say yes to the invitations because the organisers said her voice would make a difference for girl-child education. Essays and tutorials took the back row as she flew from one country to the other.

“I would ask why you missed your tutorials last week, but I don’t have to because you were on the news twice from two different countries,” her course adviser, Lara, said and admitted her professors were aware she had responsibilities her peers didn’t have. Lara wanted an assurance that she would not travel again during school term. This was a day before she was supposed to be in Monaco for a paid speaking engagement. The money from such engagement was very important to her, her parents and her siblings. Since they moved to the UK, she had been the sole provider. Her teacher father wasn’t licensed to teach in the UK, her mother couldn’t speak English and so couldn’t work. So, it was impossible for her to promise Lara what would amount to signing her death sentence. Lara offered to work out a make-up arrangement with her professors.

While her friends were involved in college romance, she feared following suit would make her a pariah in the eyes of her people. But, it was only a matter of time before she activated her agency. Enter Tarik. But nothing much came out of her attachment to him.

Asser’s appearance changed it all. He became the centre of her world in no time when she turned twenty. He was in his late 20s. Theirs was an affair fraught with concern, of course from Malala’s side. She was worried about what Pakistani people would make of it.

“It was exhausting to constantly worry about being observed or photographed, to spend so much energy being aware of my surroundings that I could never fully be myself,” she observes.

But, the thrill of being loved overpowered her fears and the relationship continued and dramatically got her father’s blessing and now they are husband and wife.

My final take: I don’t envy Malala. Every day of her life she goes out with security guards and even when she is inside they are lurking outside making sure no one is trying to scale the fence to complete the assignment started when she was fifteen. What her life tells me is that extremism of any kind is bad. It doesn’t matter whether it is religious, social or ethnic in nature. The fact that we all don’t think the same way, worship the same way or pursue the same agenda should never be an issue. Please live and let live and that way the world will be a lot better.

November 28, 2025