Opinion
BAT rejects Trump’s amazing offer
BAT rejects Trump’s amazing offer
Tunde Odesola
(Published in The PUNCH, on Friday, July 11, 2025)
The presidential convoy spread out on the Third Mainland Bridge like a cloud of bats on seasonal migration. Sirens screamed. Lights flashed. The convoy of vehicles unfolds like the hail of light produced when the welder’s electrode kisses a metal, shraaaah! shraaaah! E plenty like iná wédà to fóká síbè.
As an insect enthusiast with particular love for beekeeping (cockroaches and bedbugs not included, please), I know that bees, ants and wasps have no kings, but queens, who guard-bees protect with their lives. However, termites have kings and queens, both of whom soldier termites protect with their last blood.
Be they bees, ants, wasps or termites, I love watching the life of cooperation, protection, order and hard work among insects. I love their guards’ provision of security for all and sundry, unlike the guards in this presidential convoy, whose only duty is the protection of the President, his family and bootlickers.
Measuring 11.8 kilometres, the Third Mainland Bridge, a massive masterpiece of concrete and steel work stretching over the Lagos Lagoon, was started in 1975 by the General Yakubu Gowon military administration, and continued by General Murtala Mohammed’s six-month government, before President Shehu Shagari stepped into the picture and did his bit. However, it was General Ibrahim Babangida who took credit for the bridge construction because he ensured its completion in 1990.
If the charismatic Babangida didn’t annul the June 12, 1993 presidential election won by Chief MKO Abiola, he almost certainly would have been preferred by Nigerians to shed his military khaki for the agbada of politics, instead of the less gifted and dour General Muhammadu Buhari, who later got the presidency on fake promises.
Regrettably, Babangida apparently lost political goodwill, honour, peace of mind and two terms of civilian presidency to the June 12 annulment. Little did Nigerians know that the official name of the Third Mainland Bridge is Ibrahim Babangida Bridge, but nobody remembers that; people only remember the abortion of June 12. The things men do, live with them.
It was on this Ibrahim Babangida Bridge that the presidential convoy set out en route to the airport. Jesu! Not even the president of the richest and most powerful nation on earth, Donald Trump, has such a long motorcade. From my vantage point, I counted the number of vehicles in the convoy. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 15, 20, 30, 40…Ha! Kilode? Is the president japaing? Probably to make counting difficult, the outriders zigzagged and crisscrossed. So, I stopped at 40-something.
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But in the middle of the armoured pack, I saw three Rolls-Royce Phantoms, three Cadillac Escalades, three Mercedes-Benzes, three Cybertrucks and three state-of-the-art buses. None of the cars in the convoy was assembled in Nigeria, despite the government’s avowed propaganda about patronising Made-in-Nigeria goods; not even the wash towels used for cleaning the vehicles were made in Nigeria, nor the foot mats.
Everywhere was on lockdown: air, land and sea – forcing the sun to hide behind the clouds, and birds vacated the air while the poor man’s movement was put on hold by those he voted for. Only the convoy moved. I yawned inside a Lagos BRT vehicle, wondering why the big men’s movement should stop the movement of citizens on the opposite side of the bridge.
This was when the window of one of the three buses opened, and I glimpsed Nigeria’s most recognisable cap, with its trademark chain symbol, the chain of oppression.
“Haa! Bàba Bàbá ni o! Olowo Eko ni ooo!” a youngster hawking alcoholic drinks and bottled water in traffic shrieked. “It’s the BAT, King BAT, the Lord of Lagos!” a hawker of plantain chips screamed, jumping, “I saw him! I saw him! Baba smiled and waved at me! Baba waved at me! The Asiwaju of the Universe waved at me!” A cripple, who begs in traffic, hissed and shook his head, “Una dey praise those who chain una? Ok o, make una kontiniu, una never see anything.”
The heat in the BRT was stifling, and sweat poured from skin pores. Thoughts of Nigeria flooded my mind. Since I was born and now that I am getting old, I have never seen Nigeria changeth (for good).
Inside the armoured bus, seated at the feet of the Lord of Lagos were members of his innermost circle – Noisome Winke, IdanFemi Gbabiamila, Baba Chief AdeBC, Jide-Olu, and Natasha coveter, Chief Dogswill Akpabi.
In the fleeting moment when the Lord of Lagos let down his window, I saw his gaze travel beyond the hailing roadside traders, resting on the 13-storey Senate Building of the University of Lagos, across the lagoon. I saw desire lit up in his eyes. “My name will suit the university more than its current name. What is UNILAG? Why not UNIBAT?
Winke, the ultimate bootlicker and mind reader, will not miss the opportunity to massage the ego of the Lord of Lagos. Though he cleared his throat, the frog in it would not keep silent. “Jide-Olu, don’t you think you should name UNILAG and this world’s best bridge after our personal Lord and Saviour?” Jide-Olu smiled, “No, Winke. UNILAG and the Third Mainland Bridge do not belong to the state. They belong to the centre, which is headed by our Lord and Saviour.”
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Sounding more like a masquerader battling stomach upset during a market show, Winke said, “Uhmm, it doesn’t matter, you can start the call from your end – that our leader deserves the university to be renamed after him. Or does he not?” Jide-Olu, “Why not, if not? In fact, I suggest we should call on the National Assembly to name all federal universities and polytechnics after our leader. That way, the nation will save money.”
Lord of Lagos: What do you think about these suggestions, Natasha, oh sorry, I mean, Akpabi?
Akpabi: (Smiles like a child eating ice cream, his special Ibibio accent booming loud and clear) Ha, you are our òká o. And, as our òká, iris not too much if we name Nigeria after you, I swear. Nigerians cannot reyect it. On Monday, the yoint session will rook at how we are going to do it, so that the opposition and Nigeria Rabour Congress will not begin their wahala.”
Lord of Lagos: Baba AdeBC, what do you think?
Baba AdeBC: Well, it’s not a bad idea for Nigeria to show gratefulness to her messiah and defender. I think it’s a good idea. (Baba AdeBC beams his trademark smile, which is as lifeless as the beach foam left behind on the shore by the roaring ocean)
Idanfemi: Your Excellency, you have a phone call from the US President, sir.
Lord of Lagos: Oh, connect me, Idanfemi.
Trump: How’re you doing, BAT?
Lord of Lagos: I’m doing great, Donald. Thank you. How’re you and your wonderful family?
Trump: We’re fine, and thanks for asking. Hey BAT, can I pick your brain real quick?
Lord of Lagos: Ha! No oooo; leave my brain alone o. Please, don’t pick it. My brain is old already. Ma se erekere iwo arakunrin yi. When you know you need Nigerian brains, why did you restrict your visa to three-month single entry? If you want millions of Nigerian brains, you open your borders for 24 hours and see.
Trump: No, you’re getting me wrong. I don’t mean to pick your brain literally, I mean to ask for your knowledge and advice on some issues.
Lord of Lagos: Oh, I see. Fear don catch me. I don’t want anything to touch this my political brain o.
Trump: Exactly what I’m saying! That your political brain is what I want to pick. I just saw your convoy on CNN! How do you afford such a large convoy and retinue of sycophants?
Lord of Lagos: That’s not for me to worry. The state takes care of that.
Trump: OMG! You mean the state bears the brunt of all that drain on taxpayers’ money? Are you kidding me!? I think it’s better to be president of your shithole than be president of America, seriously.
Lord of Lagos: You have come with this shithole thing again, Donald? You’re not serious.
Trump: Can you believe that as president, I pay for the food my family and I eat, I pay for drinks and clothes. I pay for private parties when I host them, I pay for gifts when I buy them for foreign dignitaries, I cover my vacation accommodations, and I pay for private events hosted outside the White House. Additionally, I pay for general household items like toilet paper, toothpaste, and garbage bags. Do you know that Bill Clinton incurred $16 million in debt for legal and personal investigation fees, which he paid over time?
Lord of Lagos: (Bursts into laughter) And you say you’re prezdent? Hahahahah! You’re prezdent indeed. Hahahaha! Yes, you’re the most powerful prezdent on earth, but are you the most indulged? Certainly, no! You’re just an administrative paper prezdent, I’m the ultimate ruler.
Trump: I wish we could trade places.
Lord of Lagos: Ha, trade places ke? No ooo! Let me be prezdent of this shithole, you continue to be prezdent of your superpower country. Stay with your democracy. I’ll stay with my empire. I don’t want to be Prezdent of America. I don’t wan die in prison, please.
Email: tundeodes2003@yahoo.com
Facebook: @Tunde Odesola
X: @Tunde_Odesola
BAT rejects Trump’s amazing offer
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Opinion
Driving 756km to watch soccer god, Messi
Driving 756km to watch soccer god, Messi
Tunde Odesola
(Published in The PUNCH, on Friday, June 12, 2026)
Cool fire emits from the potted plant in the backyard at night; it is the glowworm. A yawn, roll on the back, with four powerful paws playfully punching the air; it is the lion, king of the jungle. Water gently hits the shore, sings a splash-splosh song, and rolls back silently into the night; it is the ocean. Formally called Aurea, an eagle, America’s symbol of strength, freedom and resilience, soars up above the 88,000 heads gathered at the Jordan-Hare Stadium in Auburn, Alabama, gliding in and out of sight repeatedly, to the wild ecstacy of the crowd, before finally perching right on the kick-off spot in the centre-circle. Fireworks disappeared into the sky. The four natural elements – fire, land, air and water – are complete. They combine in equal proportions to forge the extraordinary spectacle fans are about to witness as they scream for the football messiah, the magic, the Messi.
About a month ago, when I learned that the god of soccer was leading Argentina to Auburn University for a friendly against Iceland national team on Tuesday, June 9, 2026, I knew none of the four elements could stop me from watching the match. I had long looked forward to an opportunity to pay yet another glowing tribute to the little man who climbed to football’s Olympus without exhibiting the arrogance of gods. Messi, the king who lives in his people, not among his people – like Nigerian leaders who live in abundance among the poor.
So, I got tickets for my soccer-loving children and me. How many are they? Ssshhhh! The Yoruba say: “Aí kọmọ fún ọlọ́mọ.” It’s a taboo to mention the number of one’s children publicly. Hahaha! Maybe that’s why population control is a big issue in Africa. So, I took two days off work. The 756-kilometre journey to and from Auburn is approximately eight hours. When citizens are happy, they gladly obey the laws of the land. Messi fans from far and near stopped at nothing to behold their king.
Messi earned the hero-worship of his fans, who saw him over the years dedicate his entire being to football, from age four when he joined his first local club, Albanderado Grandoli, in his hometown of Rosario, where his father was the coach. Commitment, consistency and dedication earn trust, love and loyalty. Nigeria teaches the opposite lesson daily.
Therefore, if I describe Messi as: “The extra drop of sweat on the farmer’s brow. The extra stroke of the sculptor’s chisel. The extra mile walked by the determined soul. Indeed, the little excess of effort poured into the chores of everyday life, crowning the ordinary with the diadem of the extraordinary,” I am not wrong. That is Messi, the leader who worked his way into the hearts of his people. The king who stopped to conquer.
The king is coming to town! The news caught fire. Leo, the son of Messi, is coming to town!! Everywhere is buzzing!!! Everyone waits with bated breath to see “the little man from Rosario, Sante Fe, who pitched up in heaven, climbed into a galaxy of his own, and shook hands with paradise, as he lifted his heart’s dearest desire, the World Cup, four years ago”.
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The journey to Auburn was on a smooth black road. Driving was a pleasure; no potholes, no police tollgates, or army arm-twisting checkpoints, no dirt, no fear of bandits or terrorists or armed robbers. My car ate up kilometres upon kilometres of tar, and suddenly I saw a little object drop from the open truck in front of me. It was a metal that looked like a padlock. The vehicle sped ahead, but its dropping sped towards me. In that arresting moment when all there was to do was to simply look, I heard a thud on my windshield, less than an inch above the wiper on the passenger side. The hit left an impact that looked like a bullet was trying to get in. It was an impact without an opening, like congealed blood covering a stab, leaving some lines of cracks.
The driver in the offending vehicle did not know a thing. It wasn’t his fault. It was an accident. My car had no camera. I can’t put it on him, though I saw the metal drop from his vehicle. If he denies the metal, I lose. How do I even begin to look for the metal? What if he owns up and says sorry? I won’t be able to bring myself to have him repair my car. I pondered all these thoughts. I let them slide and came to the conclusion that God was the ultimate protector, no matter what man does. Remember, I told you nothing was going to stop me from watching Messi, even if the whole of my windscreen shattered.
So, I journeyed on. My children did not drive with me. They drove in another car because we took off from different points. We talked intermittently along the way. They asked me for my Estimated Time of Arrival (ETA). I was six minutes ahead of them. Then my fuel signal went up. I veered into the next exit, thinking it led to a town. Behold, it was a link to another highway, with no gas station in sight. Quickly, I traced my way back to the Auburn highway and continued my journey. Shortly, I sighted a filling station. I drove in, relieved to find fuel and a place to take a leak. In less than two minutes, my children pulled up into the gas station as though they were monitoring me. Hugs. Pleasantries. Fuel. We all headed towards the temple to see Messi.
Auburn had never witnessed a mammoth crowd in its existence. It was like a pilgrimage. All the parks were filled. Federal cops, state cops, county cops and Auburn University security officials were on hand. All matted into the crowd in an unintimidating, but friendly way that exuded safety and service. The police matted into the crowd like ushers in a carnival, not bouncers in a concert.
Auburn University brimmed. Car parks were filled up, fans parked along the road in a single file, leaving a portion of the road for police, emergency services, etc. Thousands, including yours truly, parked far away from the stadium and embarked on an inevitable trek on the sidewalk. The last time I had a road walk in Nigeria was for one protest or another. But this walk was for pleasure, not pain. There was joy in the air. Vendors made quick money selling only one jersey, the Number 10 jersey of Messi. There was food, soda and beer for sale.
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Though I am a Jerusalem pilgrim, JP for short, it was Auburn that gave me a glimpse of the massive crowd that followed Jesus Christ when he preached during his 33 years of existence in a mortal body. Curiosity didn’t kill my cat, but being a journalist, I looked out for a squabble, altercation, or fight among the crowd; I found none. Everything seemed choreographed. Perfect. I trekked along with the crowd to Gate 16, where my children were waiting for me.
The game was billed to start by 7:30 pm, but, America being the summit of razzmatazz, there was so much fun lined up before the kick-off, with the crowd yelling and yelling nonstop. From outside the stadium, I thought the game had begun, only to discover that the players had not even filed out when I got into the stadium. America for show!
Soon, each team filed out; Argentina, without their little god. Nicolas Otamendi led Argentina out. The centre referee had a word with both captains, and the match got underway. For those expecting a drubbing, Iceland were third behind France and Ukraine in their World Cup qualifying group. And against the run of play, the first big chance of the game fell to Iceland, whose striker fluffed his lines in the fifth minute.
Argentina soon pegged Iceland back and took dominance, resulting in a ninth-minute left volley by Valentín Barco to score the opening goal from just outside the box. Then the song ‘Olé, Olé, Olé,’ rent the air. What is ‘Olè’? ‘Olè’ is a thief in the Yoruba language. In Spanish, however, ‘Olé’ means bravo or encore. La Albiceleste were dominating, and the partisan crowd were enjoying it. Before the half-hour mark, the crowd began to chant, “We want Messi.” Then the camera zoomed in on the small but mighty god on the bench, chatting with teammates. Fans went mad and started chanting “Messi, Messi, Messi”.
Argentina continued their dominance in the second half, but the Icelanders made up for their blunt attack by exhibiting tactical discipline in the midfield and defence. When Coach Scaloni made a couple of changes after the hour mark, the “We want Messi” chant boomed in the stadium. But Scaloni wasn’t going to bring on the GOAT simply because the fans were calling on him to do so. Messi had suffered muscle fatigue in his last match for Inter Miami, his club team in the MLS, and was subbed off.
So, Scaloni was going to introduce his most prized jewel with utmost caution, measuring the minutes and seconds Messi was going to play, because on Messi’s shoulders rests the hope of the Argentinian team to the FIFA World Cup, starting the next day. At the 67th minute, Argentina had a free kick right outside of Iceland’s 18-yard box. The free kick was in an area of the pitch fans worldwide call the ‘Messi area’. The spectators yelled for Messi, who was already warming up. They wanted him to come and do his thing.
But Scaloni was not to be hurried. He brought Messi on in the 70th minute, and the match came alive immediately. The attack became sharp and penetrating. Five minutes after he came on, Messi, crowded outside the centre-circle, gave a defence-splitting pass to Lautaro Martinez, who was brought down by goalkeeper Elías Rafn Ólafsson. Penalty!
Messi placed the ball on the spot, stood back, looked Ólafsson in the eye, and sent the ball through the middle, as the keeper went the wrong way. 2-0. Aside from the “Messi” chants, fans also performed ‘The Wave’ for their soccer idol. To perform this iconic crowd movement, adjacent groups of fans stand, raise their arms, and sit back down in quick succession, creating a visual effect of a rolling wave travelling continuously through the stands.
‘The Wave’ first emerged in North American sports arenas, such as at U.S. baseball and American football games in the late 1970s and 1980s, gaining global popularity during the 1986 World Cup in Mexico.
The fans were not done yet. As if on a cue, they switched on the lights of their phones, jumping and singing and chanting the name of the GOAT.
I’m sure Messi won thousands of converts that day. I mean spectators who were not primarily soccer-loving, but who came in company with soccer-loving fans. My children were formerly Ronaldo fans, but they couldn’t help jumping and yelling for the king when they saw him in his majesty.
In all the merriment, there was no ‘bigmanism’, no VIPs. Asians, blacks, whites, Latinos, Arabs, Jews, etc dissolved into one humanity. There was no siren, no pushing or shoving, everyone was equal. No unemployed youths were stamping their feet on the ground, hands up in the air, in total submission, for a few crispy currencies from the rich.
Everyone knows that if they misbehave, they won’t be sleeping at home later in the night. A young white man in the row in front of me came to the stadium with his two beautiful daughters. He heard my accent as I spoke with my children, and he asked where I was from in Africa. I said Nigeria. He said he had worked in Uganda, Zambia and Ghana, and that he gave birth to his younger daughter in Ghana. I asked him if he enjoyed Africa. He said yes, but that the sun was too much. “It’s like the Texas sun. Too hot!” he said, laughing. He asked me where I was from in Nigeria, and I told him the South-West. “Oh, that’s close to Ghana,” he said, revealing his familiarity with Africa.
People behave themselves in public because parents can call the police on you if you utter profanities in front of their children. Though the stadium was brimming with reckless abandon, the crowd knew the law and the limits of their freedom. You don’t say the ‘f’, ‘n’, and other prohibited words in public because parents and individuals can call the police.
In all of these, I looked at the effect one man could have on his country’s image. I looked at the effect of sport as a unifying tool for global harmony. I’m sure police officers, who witnessed the Messi spectacle in Auburn, would have a place of admiration for Argentina in their hearts and are more likely to treat Argentinians with respect.
Messi, the greatest, yet the humblest. Combining greatness with humility is what sets Messi apart from any sportsperson, dead or alive. He has never publicly uttered a word of pride all his life. This virtue cements his legacy, apart from his unparalleled creativity, vision, and genius. The accomplishments of Messi are the dreams of some of his rivals, like Ronaldo.
Messi, the Ultimate.
Email: tundeodes2003@yahoo.com
Facebook: @Tunde Odesola
X: @Tunde_Odesola
Driving 756km to watch soccer god, Messi
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