Opinion
Tinubu definitely graduated from Chicago State University – Farooq Kperogi
Tinubu definitely graduated from Chicago State University – Farooq Kperogi
I’m no fan of President Bola Ahmed Tinubu. Anyone who has followed my writing in the last few years will attest that I rank in the top three severest critics of his person, record, and politics. But I’d be remiss in my self-imposed lifetime commitment to pursue the truth irrespective of where it leads me and expose falsehood irrespective of the consequences if I ignore the renewed, systematic dissemination of easily refutable lies about Tinubu not having graduated from Chicago State University (CSU).
Tinubu undeniably has many skeletons in his closet, but Chicago State University isn’t one of them. There is no question that the man who is known today as President Bola Ahmed Tinubu attended CSU for two years and graduated from it in 1979.
His study at CSU—a four-year, state-funded, historically Black university—was shortened because he transferred two years’ worth of college credit from Richard J. Daley College, a community college (equivalent to a diploma-awarding institution in Nigeria) in Chicago, which started life as William J. Bogan Junior College in 1960, got renamed Southwest College in 1970, and got renamed yet again as Richard J. Daley College in 1976.
That Tinubu graduated from CSU has never been in dispute. It was his claim to have attended or graduated from the elite, highly-ranked, privately owned University of Chicago that was a lie, but he later took back this claim and blamed it on an unintentional error by Senator Tokunbo Afikuyomi.
In June 2022, when fresh, widely shared, and obviously politically inspired doubts were raised about the authenticity of Tinubu’s graduation from CSU, I took advantage of my being a professor here in the US and reached out to friends and colleagues at the school to help me verify this information.
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A friend, who is a professor of English at the university, went to the registrar’s office and confirmed that Tinubu indeed attended and graduated from CSU. “Please be advised that Bola A Tinubu attended Chicago State University from August 1977 [to] June 1979. He was awarded a Bachelor of Science degree in Business Administration with Honors on June 22, 1979. His major was accounting,” a statement from the office of the Registrar of the university read.
I shared this finding in a June 27, 2022, article titled “A Bola Tinubu Graduated From Chicago State University,” which several news outlets and blogs picked up. I wrote that “A Bola A. Tinubu” had graduated from CSU because I hadn’t conclusively authenticated the identity of the person and didn’t want to make any evidence-free association of the name with then presidential candidate Bola Ahmed Tinubu.
But as I pointed out in a later column titled “Lies and Truth About Obi, Atiku, and Tinubu,” I can now confidently establish that the Bola A. Tinubu who graduated from CSU in 1979 is the same Bola A. Tinubu who is president of Nigeria today. I know this because the yearbook photo of the 1979 CSU cohort features the headshot of an unmistakably younger Tinubu, even though his last name was misspelled as “THUBV.” I’ll come back to this point shortly.
In the past few days, a seemingly coordinated misinformation campaign has been relaunched to resuscitate the lie that Tinubu didn’t graduate from CSU. The rehabilitation of the lie is being constructed on a hexad of appealing but ultimately self-contradictory inaccuracies and innuendos.
The first is that a search of Bola A. Tinubu in the archive of US college graduation records yields zero matches. Well, that’s because Tinubu’s last name was misspelled as “THUBV” in his final graduation record. But a search of “Bola A. THUBV” (which one Engr. Stanley with the Twitter handle @Engr_Stanley_EC did) turns up the record of a male who graduated from CSU with a degree in Business Administration (and a concentration in accounting).
Non-Western names are always liable to be misspelled here. I know because I’ve suffered this multiple times. Apparently, Tinubu wrote his name in long hand, as was the practice then, and whoever was responsible for entering the final records couldn’t correctly make out Tinubu’s handwriting. It’s easy to see how handwritten “I” and “N” can be mistaken for “H” and how “U” can be mistaken for “V.”
Of course, it’s reasonable to assume that Tinubu complained, and a correction was later issued for his degree certificate, but it was too late for the information that was sent to the National Student Clearinghouse.
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The second trigger for the rehabilitation of the lie is a putative July 8, 2011, FBI letter to the EFCC, which allegedly concluded that its search of Bola “Tinubo” in Chicago State University’ records showed that no such person ever enrolled at the school.
Well, duh (as Americans would say to signal that something is self-evidently obvious), no “Bola Tinubo” exists anywhere in the world. Had the FBI searched for “Bola A. Tinubu” at CSU’s registrar’s office, it would have found out that a person with that name graduated from the school in 1979.
The third lifeline for the revival of the falsehood is that a transcript oddly dated “0/76” from Southwest College belonged to a female. As I pointed out earlier, Richard J. Daley College used to be called Southwest College until late 1976. So, when Tinubu first enrolled at the school in 1975, it was called Southwest College, but by the time he graduated from it in 1977, it had been renamed Richard J. Daley College.
There are several red flags with the transcript, the boldest being the numbering scheme of the social security number shown in it. The nine-digit U.S. social security number is divided into a three-digit area number, a two-digit group number, and a four-digit serial number. It has always been that way.
But the social security number in the Southwest College transcript supposedly belonging to a female Bola A Tinubu is 231-060-595. That’s an impossible numbering scheme for a US social security number. Plus, the transcript isn’t properly dated and leaves the spaces for date of birth and record of high school blank. These are no trivial red flags of inauthenticity.
The fourth reason some people have infused a new life to the lie that Tinubu didn’t graduate from CSU is that the university locked its Twitter account in response to unremittingly vitriolic denunciations from some Nigerians. They say that indicates that the school is guilty of issuing a fake degree to Tinubu. That’s tortured logic. People and organizations routinely lock their Twitter accounts when they are subjected to an unceasing torrent of caustic online abuse.
In April, a TIME magazine reporter by the name of Astha Rajvanshi who wrote a profile on Tinubu after he made it to the magazine’s 100 most influential people in the world was forced to lock her Twitter account after political fanatics relentlessly cursed, defamed, and threatened her for doing her job.
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CSU is obviously unaccustomed to the quantum of negative attention it’s receiving from a group of Nigerians who are still smarting from the outcome of the last presidential election. It obviously wants to stop it.
The fifth impetus for the revival of the lie that Tinubu couldn’t have graduated from CSU is that Tinubu withdrew claims that he attended primary and secondary schools in Nigeria, which means he didn’t possess qualifications to be admitted to a US higher education institution.
Well, it’s entirely possible to earn a degree in America without ever attending a secondary school. There’s something called the General Educational Development test (or GED) for people who didn’t earn a high diploma before the age of 18. A close American friend and colleague of mine by the name Dr. Matt Duffy didn’t have a high school diploma. He had a GED, but he ended up getting a Ph.D.
I am not saying that was what happened with Tinubu. I don’t have the facts to make that claim. But it’s reasonable to assume that since it’s widely speculated that Tinubu changed the identity he had at birth, he disclaimed all associations with the schools he attended in his actual hometown in Osun and took a GED test in Chicago. In any case, most community colleges (and non-flagship state schools) have open enrollment policies, which means just about anybody can get into them.
Finally, the fact that Tinubu doesn’t want CSU to release his academic record— and the fact that the university has spurned requests to release his records— is being held up as an indication that he had no academic record there and that Tinubu and CSU are acting in cahoots to cover up a crime.
Well, there’s something called the Family Educational Rights and Privacy Act (FERPA), which forbids all universities and colleges in the United States from disclosing the academic records of a student to a third party. Every year, I (and all university employees who handle students’ grades here) have to undergo training on how not to disclose students’ records to third parties, including to parents, without students’ written permission.
Schools can only confirm directory information such as whether or not a student graduated from a school, which CSU has done repeatedly. And why would Tinubu accede in writing to his academic records being released to political opponents? Most people won’t, even if it’s just for the pleasure of seeing their opponents squirm in anger and frustration.
Farooq Kperogi is a renowned Nigerian newspaper columnist and United States-based Professor of Journalism.
Tinubu definitely graduated from Chicago State University – Farooq Kperogi
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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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Health
Don’t add lies to the terrorist horror in Oyo, By Farooq Kperogi
Don’t add lies to the terrorist horror in Oyo, By Farooq Kperogi
Don’t add lies to the terrorist horror in Oyo, By Farooq Kperogi
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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
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