Opinion
The ‘fool’ who stopped Wike
The ‘fool’ who stopped Wike
Tunde Odesola
(Published in The PUNCH, on Friday, November 14, 2025)
The bully in me met its match in my primary school classmate, Lukman Oluwuyi, on our way back home one afternoon. In the eyes of a schoolkid, St Paul Anglican School, Idi-Oro, Lagos, was a couple of giant two-storey buildings on an expansive compound which served as an assembly ground in the morning and a football field during break. That was in the 70s when any elder on the street could fetch a cane, flog a wayward child, and march the culprit home to the applause of the entire neighbourhood. In those days, an erring child preferred a quick, anonymous beating to the humiliation of being beaten and escorted home by a Good Samaritan stranger.
Caramel-complexioned and restless, Lukman was a wiry boy with wavy, matted hair that glistened. Were he white, he’d have passed for a brunette; I, in my childish rascality, thought him an Arab. Lukman was ‘my boy’ until one day when a tiff broke out between us. Time has blunted the exact cause of our disagreement, but I remember it was on Ojowere Street, near Alli Lane, Mushin – two streets I learnt have been swallowed by the Lagos railway projects of the Babajide Sanwo-Olu administration.
On the fateful day, Ojowere Street was a long stretch of clay, having just been graded, as my friend and I plodded along in the simmering heat. Clad in a green khaki shirt and shorts, I was heading home to Lawanson Crescent, while Lukman was going to their house off Kayode Street, before the Deity at Crossroads, Èsù Láàlú Onile Orita, decided to meddle in our affairs.
I was democratic in my bullying. “I’ll beat you, Lukman,” I warned. Lukman did not retort; he merely struck a Kung-fu pose, evidence of the Indian and Chinese films he had been watching lately. I was livid, “Is this not Lukman, my bo-i? Lukman!! Lukman, who I’m bigger and stronger than? Lukman, whom I would tell to shut up, and dared not say a word, now turning against me?” I lunged at him, throwing the combinations I had learnt watching the Great Muhammed Alli on TV. But Luku, clever and resilient, found a way below my blows, scooped me halfway up, and slammed the pot of my rump (ikokodi) hard on the new road.
That act of gross rebellion got me madder. I sprang up, chased and quickly caught up with him. Probably out of fear, or not wanting to rub salt in injury, Lukman seemed unwilling to fight, but I was determined to avenge the insult. I knew I was the tiger. Lukman was the lamb. So, still on Ojowere Street, I engaged him in another round of fighting. I was bigger and stronger, but in no time, I found myself under Lukman the second time. Each time he slammed me, he quickly got up, like someone afraid, picked hup is bag, and walked away as if nothing had happened.
In our time, to cement your victory over a vanquished, the victor fed his victim with soil. In my opinion, Lukman’s failure to do that meant he wasn’t victorious yet; ìjà sèsè bèrè ni’.
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“Mi o ni gba, Lukman won’t get away with this sacrilege,” I sprang up and went after him. He struck his Kung-fu pose while I squared up in my boxer’s pose. Gbangan! I found myself on the ground again. I got up, chased and caught up with him for the fourth time, warning, “Lukman, ma na e, I will beat you.” That was the moment an old trader, who sold keys, padlocks, nails and hoes, etc, along the road, shouted, “Ma na e, ma na e, o ti la o mole ni emeta, o je kori sile, yio kan na o pa. Ole!” (You keep shouting ‘I’ll beat you’, yet he has floored you thrice; you’d better head home before he kills you, lazy boy!)
Quietly, I picked up my bag and headed homeward, seething and determined that Lukman would get his comeuppance before we departed that day. But, somehow, we didn’t get to fight again that day as Èsù Òdàrà had left Ojowere for another assignment. I can’t remember if we ever fought again in primary school, though we fought once in secondary school, when I thought he was caressing my sword with his bare palm. Honestly, I didn’t know how I came to think so highly of myself. Could it be the Mushin spirit at work?
After secondary school, we lost touch. Decades passed before I saw him again on October 1, 2016, during the reunion of the Old Students Association of Archbishop Aggey Memorial Secondary School, Mushin. I recounted his victory in primary school and the rematch in secondary school; he had forgotten both, but he laughed like a drunken sweepstake winner. Lukman travelled out to France in search of greener pastures in 2008 and came back to Nigeria for the first time in 2016, attending the reunion during the visit.
A few days after returning to France, Lukman died in a hospital. Shhhhhh! It’s not the wicked people of Aye Akamara that killed Luku. It was mosquitoes. My dear Elukumede died of malaria fever, which he took from Nigeria to France. Malaria is strange to France.
Faction is a literary style that combines fact and fiction. The Lukman story you just read is a fact. What you’re about to read next is an invented myth, a fiction.
Here it goes. Once upon a time, there lived in Eripa, Osun State, a farmer named Arije, whose compound was next to that of Abanikanda, a fisherman. One night, Abanikanda fell asleep while cooking his fish for the next day’s market. Soon, the cooking fire became a ball of billowy red throat of fury.
It was Abanikanda’s daughter who saw the inferno. She screamed, “Fire, fire, neighbours, fire, help!” Arije heard the shout and turned in his bed, curling up behind his wife, saying, “It’s their fire, let them quench it. I’m unavailable. Dem no dey see me.”
The fire raged and crackled. Arije snuggled. “Abanikanda cooks too much fish every day; he brought fire upon himself,” he said.
Leaping in tongues, the fire consumed the grass and roots used in making Abanikanda’s thatched roof, releasing into the air flares, which jumped on Arije’s roof, burning ferociously. Farmer Arije woke up to sorrow and tears, learning an eternal lesson.
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The Lukman and Arije stories illustrate, on the surface, the shameful clash between the Minister of the Federal Capital Territory, Abuja, Nyesom Wike, and one misoriented lieutenant in the Nigerian Navy, A. M. Yerima, a Kaduna indigene, who led a group of misguided, gun-clutching soldiers to secure a parcel of land for a retired Chief of Naval Staff, Vice Admiral Awwal Zubairu Gambo, who left service at the age of 57, and plunged into a life of luxury, which afforded him a multi-billion naira block of several buildings in Abuja.
On a deeper level, the clash highlights the crushing power game in the shithole we call Nigeria, our own dear native land, where though tribes and tongues may differ, in gangsterism we stand. It exposes to the ridicule of the international community, an inefficient, ill-equipped, ragtag and oppressive military which always places self-interest and clan above the Constitution and national interest. It shows a country of power-drunk, corrupt and immoral leadership being hailed by an ignorant public, who, having eaten the Stockholm Syndrome apple, grew to love their oppressors both in the ruling party and the opposition.
For his antecedents, if you called Wike talkative, belligerent, a spoiler, mischievous and arrogant, you are 100% right. But in his clash against the colluding military leadership, Wike was dead right, 200%. The backlash against Wike, however, arose from the poetic justice that saw him steaming in the stew of the victimisation and impunity, which the government he represents serves to the citizenry daily. Wike thus represents the spider caught in its own web. I do not pity him.
At all levels, Nigeria’s problem is systemic failure, a medical term for heart failure, needing urgent surgery, and as such, there’s a need to analyse the Wike-Military saga in proper perspective. We must shear the meat of this matter from the bones, abattoir-fashion.
Before this saga, I had never written a word, sentence or paragraph in favour of Wike. However, beyond the God-don-catch-Wike cacophony renting the press, airwaves and social media, I urge reasonable Nigerians to run a fine-tooth comb through the issue and dismount from the APC-Opposition fence.
To aid deconstruction and discernment, I hereby present two sequences to the story, illustrating reportage from traditional media and online posts.
Sequence 1
From a land-selling outfit, Gambo bought a sprawling swath of land in Abuja. He embarked on erecting many buildings on the land. Officials of the Federal Capital Territory Administration visited the site and alleged that there was no government approval for the land. The visiting officials told the builders to provide proof of ownership, government approval for the land and building approval plan. Thus, they told the owner to stop building.
Sequence 2
Gambo continued to build and refused to present any proof to FCTA. Instead, gun-wielding soldiers were drafted to the site. Officials of the FCTA who visited the site again were turned back, and they went to their office to report their findings. On the 11th day of the 11th month of 2025, at probably the 11th hour, Wike called the Chief of Defence Staff, General Christopher Musa, and the Chief of Naval Staff, Vice Admiral Idi Abass, before embarking on a visit to the site, telling them the situation at hand.
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Before we get to what happened on the site when Wike visited, I’ll ask some questions. What stopped Gambo from presenting the papers of the land and building approval plan to FCTA when asked to do so? Is Gambo not answerable to the constituted authorities’ inquiry because he was a soldier? Is he above the law because he retired as a CNS? Who ordered the drafting of soldiers to the site, because as a retired officer, who no longer has even a troop under his command, Gambo cannot legally order armed soldiers to guard his private estate when Nigeria is suffering from a manpower shortage in the ongoing battle with terrorists and bandits. Why did Musa and Abass not order the Yerima-led soldiers on maiguard duty to allow Wike and FCTA officials to do their inspection job and leave in peace? Why has the band of retired generals come after Wike while they are silent on the infractions of Gambo? Did Gambo get the money to buy such an expanse of land from his meagre military earnings? The answers to most of the questions are impunity and official corruption.
I daresay that aside from the ceaseless arrogance and oppression of the Nigerian military against the masses, I saw in the Abuja saga the fangs of the oppressive Fulani hegemony in the military and politics of Nigeria unbare. I dare to say that no Yoruba or Igbo officer would dare do what Kano-born Gambo and his gambolling soldiers did in Abuja.
As they say, you can’t build something on nothing. Singling Wike’s action out for condemnation without seeing through the tribal guile of a cabal in the Nigerian military, whose mantra had long been ‘born to rule’, is to fall cheaply to their ancient deception of divide and rule.
As for Wike’s multitude of antagonists sitting on the opposition fence, I’ll urge caution and wish they ponder on the lessons behind the action of Farmer Arije from Eripa. I hope this multitude know that in countries with serious military, like the US, China, Germany, France Britain, etc, where soldiers know their responsibilities, officers and men are under the laws of the land, not above it – unlike Nigerian soldiers – burning down Fela’s house, throwing his mother through an upstairs window, killing hundreds of innocent civilians in Odi, harassing MKO Abiola and his wife in the 80s, killing Dele Giwa, Ken Saro-Wiwa, the list is endless. Our monstrous military must be tamed and made to bow to the Constitution.
A ‘repentant’ Boko Haram or secondary school dropout who joins the military today as a recruit believes only his military superiors are those he can obey, not any constituted authority. This was why one low-ranking idiot in army uniform, some years ago, while driving against traffic in Lagos, dared to confront Governor Sanwo-Olu, saying he was a soldier. In 2012, Governor Babatunde Fashola arrested a colonel and a staff sergeant for driving on the restricted BRT Lane in separate vehicles. If not a governor, in some cases, or the President, no law-enforcement official in Nigeria can stop an erring soldier, not the police, not the DSS. Nigerian soldiers fear no law; they only fear the military, Boko Haram, terrorists, IPOB and Trump. Nigeria must stop their impunity for us to have a country.
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I think everyone is talking tongue-in-cheek on this matter, as it now appears, because of the fear of a military coup. In that case, it is not wrong to draw a conclusion that President Bola Tinubu truly needs the prayers of Nigerians.
Each time soldiers’ ‘asemáse’ impunity rears its head in Nigeria, I always remember former police spokesperson, Alozie Ogugbuaja, who, while in service, described the Nigerian military as a bunch of ‘peppersouping’ and ‘beering’ generals who only excel at coup planning and execution. God bless Ogugbuaja.
The excesses of the Nigerian military predate Ogugbuaja’s outburst. It goes even beyond independence and the post-Civil War era when Nigerians, showing courtesy, allowed soldiers to board public transport for free. Soon, soldiers began to deboard passengers from the front seats of public transportation buses, even as they wouldn’t pay a dime to vehicle conductors.
The Lukman Oluwuyi metaphor speaks to the Goliath which the Nigerian military represents, while insurgency, banditry, etc, have become David defeating Goliath. Yerima’s disrespect came before Wike’s because, by arrogantly being in the place he was not supposed to be, he disrespected the Constitution and the Oath he had sworn. Yerima condescendingly expressed shock that a policeman was talking to him, saying, “Look at a policeman talking to me”, as if he, Yerima, gave God the clay with which Adam and Eve were created.
LDRSHIP is the acronym for the seven core values of the U.S. Army. L means Loyalty to the Constitution. D stands for Duty of Fulfilling obligations by completing tasks and accomplishing assigned missions as part of a team. R means treating people with dignity and respect, recognising the value of every individual. S means Put the welfare of the nation, the Army, and your subordinates before your own personal interests. H means Live up to and embody all the Army values in every action. I means Integrity: Do what is right, both legally and morally, ensuring honesty and trustworthiness. P stands for Personal Courage: Face fear, danger, and adversity, whether physical or moral. How many Nigerian soldiers can tick all the boxes of the acronym? I don’t know. But I know how many who are good at peppersouping and beering.
In the US, civilians can walk into stores to buy military camouflage, which they proudly wear in support and solidarity with their soldiers. In Nigeria, soldiers will beat you to a pulp and lock you up if you wear any dress they consider ‘army green’ in colour. They will seize your car if its colour is too green. What an upside-down country!
I’ll leave you with the words of some three wise men. I’ll start with Dwight D. Eisenhower, the 34th President of the United States. He says, “Force can protect in emergency, but only justice, fairness, consideration, and cooperation can finally lead men to peace.” Are Nigerian big-for-number soldiers listening?
Albert Einstein is my second wise man. He says, “Force always attracts men of low morality.” I’ll expatiate by adding ‘unnecessary’ to Einstein’s force.
My third and final wise man is Rumi, a 13th-century Persian poet and Islamic scholar. He bequeaths these eternal words to humanity: “Raise your words, not your voice. It is rain that grows flowers, not thunder.” This advice is for Wike, who needs to improve his public attitude. He should have been gracious at the scene. But the attitude of Yerima was so nauseating, to say the least. I am a commissioned officer, my foot!
Email: tundeodes2003@yahoo.com
Facebook: @Tunde Odesola
X: @Tunde_Odesola
The ‘fool’ who stopped Wike
Opinion
The Shettima danger for Tinubu, By Farooq Kperogi
The Shettima danger for Tinubu, By Farooq Kperogi
The Shettima danger for Tinubu, By Farooq Kperogi
Opinion
Don’t Label Oyo Kidnappers as ‘Islamic Jihadists’ – Saudi-Based Nigerian Scholar Warns
Don’t Label Oyo Kidnappers as ‘Islamic Jihadists’ – Saudi-Based Nigerian Scholar Warns
- Says criminality remains criminality, warns against dangerous religious profiling
A Saudi-based Nigerian Islamic scholar, Mallam Ibrahim Agunbiade, has cautioned against the growing tendency to brand criminal gangs operating in Oyo State and other parts of the South-West as “Islamic jihadists,” warning that such narratives are misleading and capable of igniting dangerous religious tension.
In a statement issued on Sunday, Agunbiade, a Taalib (student) at Jami’ei, Islamic Propagation Rabwa in Saudi Arabia, expressed deep concern over the direction of public discourse surrounding insecurity in Oyo State, particularly following the recent abduction of pupils and teachers from three schools in the Oriire Local Government Area.
The scholar specifically referenced a programme on Splash FM 105.5 FM, “State of the Nation,” anchored by Edmund Obilo, where, according to him, repeated references were made to kidnappers and criminal gangs as “Islamic jihadists” allegedly bent on conquering the South-West and establishing dominance.
“Such sweeping and emotionally charged narratives may attract public attention, but they are not only misleading; they are also capable of creating dangerous religious tension in an already fragile society,” Agunbiade wrote.
He described the recent attacks in Oriire as “indeed tragic and condemnable,” adding that every responsible citizen must rise against such barbaric acts. However, he questioned the logic of automatically labelling criminal activities as religious missions.
“Since when did kidnapping schoolchildren become an Islamic mission? Since when did abducting innocent teachers and pupils become a religious obligation?” he asked.
“It is both irresponsible and intellectually dishonest to automatically label every violent criminal activity involving suspected Fulani bandits or kidnappers as ‘Islamic jihad.’ Criminality should remain criminality. Evil should be called evil without dragging religion into matters where religion itself clearly stands opposed to such actions.”
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Agunbiade pointed out what he described as a critical irony: many of the victims of these attacks are themselves Muslims. He noted that among the kidnapped pupils and affected families are Muslims whose lives have been shattered by the same criminals.
“So, how does one logically arrive at the conclusion that these kidnappers are fighting an ‘Islamic cause’ while terrorizing Muslim communities and targeting Muslim children?” he queried.
The scholar emphasised that Islam has never permitted the kidnapping of innocent people, attacks on schools, or the creation of fear and instability in society. He stressed that those who commit such crimes are enemies of humanity and enemies of peace, regardless of the language they speak or the religion they claim.
He further noted that respected Islamic bodies and leaders in Oyo State have openly condemned these criminal acts. He cited the Oyo State chapter of the Muslim Rights Concern (MURIC), which has issued statements condemning insecurity and calling for urgent government intervention. He also mentioned the Grand Imam of Oyo, Sheikh (Barrister) Bilal Husayn Akinola Akeugberu, as well as prominent Islamic organizations including MUSWEN, who have publicly expressed concern and called on authorities to intensify efforts toward rescuing victims and restoring peace.
“These are the voices that deserve amplification in our public discourse — voices of reason, peace, unity, and responsibility,” Agunbiade said.
He warned that when media narratives lean toward religious profiling instead of objective analysis, they risk inflaming ethnic and religious suspicion among citizens who have coexisted peacefully for decades.
“The role of the media in times of insecurity is not merely to sensationalize fear or promote divisive assumptions. Journalism carries a moral burden. Broadcasters and public commentators must exercise caution in their choice of words, especially in a multi-religious and multi-ethnic society like Nigeria. Words are powerful. A careless narrative repeated consistently can gradually poison public perception and sow seeds of hatred among innocent people,” he cautioned.
Agunbiade acknowledged the seriousness of insecurity in the South-West, noting that communities are under pressure, farmers are afraid, travellers are anxious, and parents are worried. However, he insisted that solving insecurity requires facts, intelligence gathering, effective policing, and sincere governance — not religious stereotyping.
“We must avoid turning a security crisis into a religious war narrative. Once criminality is wrongly framed as a battle between religions, the real perpetrators hide behind the confusion while innocent citizens suffer discrimination and hostility,” he said.
The scholar called on government at all levels to strengthen local security architecture, equip law enforcement agencies adequately, improve intelligence operations, and ensure that criminal elements are arrested and prosecuted. He also urged traditional rulers, community leaders, religious institutions, and civil society groups to work together in promoting vigilance and unity instead of suspicion and division.
“At this critical moment, Nigerians must refuse to allow fear to destroy the peaceful coexistence that binds communities together. Kidnappers are criminals, not representatives of any faith. Terrorists are enemies of humanity, not ambassadors of religion,” Agunbiade stated.
He concluded: “The fight before us is not Islam versus Christianity, nor North versus South. The real battle is between law-abiding citizens and criminal elements threatening the peace of society. Anything short of this understanding only deepens the crisis.”
Mallam Ibrahim Agunbiade is a Taalib (student) at Jami’ei, Islamic Propagation Rabwa, Saudi Arabia, and can be reached via agunbiadeib@gmail.com.
Don’t Label Oyo Kidnappers as ‘Islamic Jihadists’ – Saudi-Based Nigerian Scholar Warns
Opinion
IGP Disu: Inside the rotting walls of Zone II
IGP Disu: Inside the rotting walls of Zone II
Tunde Odesola
(Published in The PUNCH, on Friday, May 22, 2026)
Except for its motto and morality, there is hardly anything wrong with the Nigeria Police Force. If burnished in the furnace of grammar, the statement, “Police is your friend,” which is the motto of the Nigeria Police, is wrong because ‘police’ is a plural noun, and so, cannot legally coexist with ‘is’, a singular tense. Therefore, to put the motto in the right grammatical drive, the statement should read, “The police are your friend(s).” Aside from the test of grammar, the motto also fails the test of authenticity because, as everyone knows, the Nigeria Police Force is friendless and loveless.
But this wasn’t the fate of the force some 40 years ago when I walked into the Okigwe police station, stranded and needing a place to lay my head for the night. Early in the day, before the second crow of cock, I had boarded ‘The Young Shall Grow’ bus from Lagos en route to Okigwe, the home of Imo State University, where I had just been admitted.
It was a mobileless era when a letter sent by post to a distant state travelled like a tortoise with arthritis, crawling for weeks or months before reaching its destination. As soon as I got my admission letter from JAMB, I headed eastwards, afraid of missing the registration window and ultimately forfeiting my admission. The Lagos Liaison Office of the school had no information because it was on recess. Quickly, I borrowed the wisdom in a Yoruba proverb that says: “Kí ojú má rí’bi, gbogbo ara ni ògun ẹ̀’. Translated: “For the eyes not to see evil, the whole of the body must be agile.” So, I hit Oshodi, boarded a bus, and moved agilely to Okigwe.
However, Nigeria happened on the road.
Head of Zone II, Assistant Inspector-General Moshood Jimoh
Due to mechanical delays and a poor road network, the bus didn’t reach Okigwe until late in the night when the whole town was in bed, except the dingy police station. Though I was a lad who had never travelled outside the south-west and spoke not a syllable of Igbo, I knew police stations across the country were a place of refuge and fortress. I knew the Nigerian police, in a good measure, embodied the spirit of service and protection.
Similarly, “To protect and to serve” is the spirit behind the motto of police departments across the United States. But somewhere along Nigeria’s broken national journey, the Nigeria Police Force lost its spirit, service, and protection.
The reasons for this monumental loss are clear to the blind eye. With a numerical strength of 371,800 officers and men, the police-to-citizen ratio in Nigeria is about one police officer to every 637 citizens, which falls short of the United Nations’ recommendation of one cop to 430 persons. To attain the UN benchmark, experts say the country’s police force must hit between 650,000 and 684,000. A force starved of funding, adequate welfare, modern technology, equity and fairness cannot produce saints in uniform.
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The officer on duty that night in Okigwe was courteous but pitiable. I introduced myself and showed him my admission letter. He wondered why someone would leave Lagos for Okigwe. “Uhmm! My brother, you can see di way we dey here o. NEPA don take light. If you fit manage for dat place till morning; day go soon break,” he pointed to a concrete slab that was about to be my king-size bed. But providence had a deal lined up for me. As I sat on the slab, contemplating how I was going to sleep, a man in mufti walked in, spoke with the policeman on duty, and went to rummage through a chest of drawers at the back of the counter. He was a policeman. On his way out, he stopped and shot a glance at the man on duty, asking with his eyes who I was. “The boy na student of IMSU. He no know say di school never resume, and na from Lagos im come. He wan sleep here till morning.”
The man in mufti spoke Igbo to me. I smiled and told him I didn’t understand Igbo.
“So, you bi Yoruba from Lagos?”
“Yes, sir.”
Ha!” Why you come suffer come dis far? Why you no stay for Lagos or Ibadan?”
“I have spent all my life in Lagos and wanted a change.”
“Hia! Mosquitoes go chop you finish for dis station o. If you no mind, you fit come and manage with me till morning. Day go soon break.”
Though I felt safe in the station, I couldn’t bring myself to reject the Good Samaritan’s offer. So, we both left the station in a pall of darkness and headed to his abode, which was a stone’s throw away. As we made our way through bush paths to his house, I asked if there was a watering hole where we could have some beer. “All of dem don close. Okigwe dy sleepy once university no dey session,” he said, and added, “You dey hungry? I no get food for house o,” smiling. I told him I was hungry. So, we went to a house where he knocked on the door, and a sleepy woman opened the door and sold us bread, moin-moin and soda, which I paid for. On the way to his house, I fished a packet of Consulate cigarettes out of my pocket, the policeman whistled in admiration and said, “You bi original Lagos boy!”
Darkness escorted us to his house, which looked like an abandoned poultry shed. “This is where I dey manage o,” he said in a welcome. The house was built with corrugated iron, with holes that let in the rays of the moon through cracks. He showed me his mattressless king-size bed. “I go sleep on the floor,” he said, “You fit sleep on the bed.” It was a large-hearted moment of benevolence, and I was deeply moved. I spread my clothes over the naked springs, lay down and pretended to sleep, peeping at the sky through the cracks in the roof, silently asking God if He could see what I was going through. I prayed silently that I may succeed in my academic journey in the land of the rising sun.
At dawn, he showed me his bathroom – if courtesy permits me to call it a bathroom. Four sticks rammed into the earth, wrapped with palm fronds, roofless and doorless. In that jacuzzi, the heavens watched your nakedness while passersby viewed your legs as your towel or wrapper served as a door. I took my bath with the brown water my benefactor provided and headed to the school to see things for myself, offering profuse thanks for the memorable accommodation.
That was the situation of the police force 40 years ago: poor, neglected, unpaid – yet still recognisably human. Today, the situation has not changed, the motto has not changed, but the morality and purpose of the force have changed drastically. Today, poverty remains, but humanity has fled. The bloodstream of the police has been infected. Police stations are no longer safe for the police and the citizens.
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I have encountered one thousand and one ugly police experiences bordering on corruption, impunity, wickedness and opportunism. I can’t mention all, but the sheer devilry behind police actions was shocking. One was when my uncle, Abel Odesola, was killed on the Ife-Ilesa Expressway by a drunk driver in an accident in 2005, and the police at Atakumosa police station demanded a bribe from my family before they could release his corpse. I refused to pay the bribe and got my uncle’s corpse out. Another was when a team of policemen arrested me in the Ajegunle area of Osogbo, took me to the station for standing up to their impunity. On the way to the station, they told the eldest among them to lie that I slapped him. Little did they know that I was recording all our exchanges on the way to the station. The Osun Commissioner of Police threatened to sack them, and I had to beg on their behalf.
Now, age has tempered my intolerance of police impunity. Today, I often resist the temptation to escalate police misconduct on the pages of newspapers because I understand the internal mechanics of the force. The recklessness of a corporal can stain the career of a commissioner. One scandal can trigger a chain reaction. So, I often let things slide.
This was exactly what happened two years ago when officers made unprofessional demands of me at the Zone II Command Headquarters of the NPF, Onikan. I declined to comply but let it slide. This was after I went upstairs and complained to one of their bosses. I knew if I went to the press with the unprofessional actions of the junior officers, the embarrassment would travel upwards.
Thunder struck the same spot early again this year when I took a case of fraud to the notorious Zone II Zonal Command Headquarters, Onikan. It took PUNCH authorities to call the IG’s office to complain about the actions of the officers of the zone before the case could even be listed for investigation. The immediate past leadership of the zone appeared disturbingly indifferent, maybe deliberately so, for some reasons best known to it.
In a petition I wrote to the command on December 11, 2025, I complained about a suspected fraudster named Wole, who fraudulently obtained $8,800 from me during the process of helping him to buy a 2014 Toyota 4Runner from the US. The criminal suspect had lied to me that he was working with Dangote Refineries and repeatedly assured me repayment was guaranteed. This was in 2022. When I realised the suspect had no job, I personally helped him secure job opportunities, including two banking jobs and an accounting position with a major newspaper in the country.
The suspect turned all the jobs down, citing flimsy excuses.
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That was when it finally dawned on me that the suspect was playing games. So, I gave him an eight-month deadline, warning that I would initiate legal actions if he failed to pay me by November 2025. When he failed to pay, I wrote a petition to Zone II, titled “Re: Fraudulent Obtainment of $8,88,” which was received and signed by the zone on December 11, 2025. Wole wrote an undertaking at the zone that he would pay me the equivalent of N500,000 in dollars every month. He only paid for January, February and March. Efforts to get the zone to reach Wole had been futile as excuses tumbled down from Onikan, with the investigating police officer, Mrs Priscilla Erroim, telling me that the suspect was not picking up her calls, while he cruised the streets in the silver-coloured Toyota 4Runner with number plate LSD 388 HS.
I had thought that when an officer goes on transfer, the cases they were handling would be transferred to another officer. More so, the suspect included his residential address in the undertaking. This was not the case with Zone II. The case was just left in limbo. At the commencement of the case, I had a very rough time with Erroim, who is a Chief Superintendent of Police, and her subordinate named Francis. But we later resolved the conflict between us.
When I could not make a headway with Erroim and Francis, I called the Zonal PRO, Mr Gbenga Afolayan, a deputy superintendent of police, who said the officers handling the case before they were transferred should tell me who they had handled the case to. Thus, the case ran into a cul-de-sac. But an Assistant Commissioner of Police, Mr Ojugbele, distinguished himself by making genuine efforts to intervene.
I had thought that the recent shake-up within the force by the Inspector General was yielding results when I texted the new Head of Zone II, Assistant Inspector-General Moshood Jimoh, who acknowledged my text and promised that the zone would look into the case. I was pleasantly shocked! “Here’s an AIG responding to a random citizen personally, while the former AIG in charge of the zone wouldn’t respond,” I thought to myself. The Nigeria Police Force is working!
I acknowledged Jimoh’s prompt response in my article published in THE PUNCH on Friday, May 15, 2026, titled, “IG’s deployments and the rebirth of Zone II.” The article was published under another article, “Adeleke: Crime cannot dethrone Apetu and enthrone Oluwo.”
How wrong was I! Little did I know that what appeared to attract Jimoh to respond to my texts was not duty, but the allure of my foreign telephone number. Or, how do I explain that calls and texts to him after I introduced myself and made the publication were ignored? It left me wondering what manner of service and protection the common man gets from the police force if a columnist with the most widely read newspaper in the country could be tossed up and down by officers?
As it happened to me two years ago at Zone II, Onikan, so it has happened to me again this year: officers deliberately erect obstacles before citizens, preparing the ground for exploitation. I’m sure the shake-up initiated within the force by the IG is part of ongoing reforms aimed at re-energising the force. But for men and officers of Zone II, Onikan, this reform is like water bouncing off a rock. The IG must break that rock; otherwise, his efforts would go down the drain.
There is no nobler honour than for men and women to put their lives on the line for the safety of their country. This is why I spare no effort in commending the nation’s security agencies whenever they do right. But when corruption takes the place of conscience, then the walls of police institutions begin to rot from within.
Email: tundeodes2003@yahoo.com
Facebook: @Tunde Odesola
X: @Tunde_Odesola
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