I can’t really remember the year, but it was about 18 years ago when I formally met Dr. Omololu Olunloyo, the former Governor of Oyo State. At the time, we needed his input for the cover story on his neighbour and friend, the late Lamidi Ariyibi Adedibu—the garrison commander of Ibadan politics—who determined who got what, when, and where in the political landscape of the state.
Adedibu, a stark illiterate whose political ideology, concepts, and philosophy are studied in Nigerian universities up to the doctoral level, was so powerful that governorship candidates and other politicians seeking elective offices would get their tickets from his Molete home. Also, anyone he recommended for an appointment could not be rejected by the governor.
One fateful day, Demola Adegbamigbe, my editor at The News magazine, called me and relayed an editorial decision: “Gbenro, you have to book an interview appointment with Omololu Olunloyo for us as soon as possible. We want to interview him regarding our next week cover story.”
After being briefed on the direction of the interview, I put a call through to Baba Olunloyo. After the usual phone pleasantries, I explained my mission. He asked, “Which media organisation is that?” I replied, “The News magazine.”
Straightaway, he gave me an appointment for 10 a.m. the following day. Overwhelmingly happy, I called Demola and informed him. He said: “Great, Gbenro Baba. I trust you. You have never disappointed us. I am coming to join you tomorrow so that we can conduct it together. He added, we need to manage the man because he may hold us down for hours, gliding from one historical issue to another. The man is a walking encyclopedia.”
By 9:30 a.m., Demola, in his usual corporate dress, suited up like a banker and myself in my usual casual trousers and shirt were at Olunloyo’s house. We were armed with our questions and two midget recorders. While mine was a newly bought modern midget recorder, Demola’s own was the outdated one, quite big. When I asked Demola before the arrival of our host why he was still using such a midget recorder, he simply replied, “It is very strong and reliable. I can always trust it. I have been using it for a while and it has never disappointed me.” Though I had a contrary view, I couldn’t have argued with him since he was my boss. Molete is a densely populated area in Ibadan, but Olunloyo lived in a well-ventilated and green environment. While waiting for him on his veranda, our eyes caught a fruitful orange tree laden with countless oranges, which we couldn’t pluck. He had other trees as well. Both the grass and flowers were well maintained adding beauty to the though old house but far better than many of the modern houses.
When he joined us, we prostrated, as dictated by our culture. He received us warmly. Olunloyo could be very hilarious and humorous. Rather than hitting the ground running, he held us bound with different political stories—just as Demola had predicted. It was tough to even remind him why we were there. Maybe we would have enjoyed the experiences he was sharing with us if not the production of our magazine that preoccupied our minds. He talked for over an hour before asking: “What is that thing you said you wanted?” I repeated what I had told him on the phone—that we were working on a story and, as someone close to Adedibu, we needed his input. Then he asked, “Kindly remind me of the media outfit you represent?” “The News magazine, sir,” the two of us chorused.
“I can’t grant you the interview,” he said. “You guys offend me. I granted you an interview some years back. It was an extensive interview, and the only angle you could write your story from is on an hypothetical psychiatric imbalance. I am sound in my mind and I am not mad.” As he was speaking, we were not comfortable any longer. For me who knew nothing about what he was saying, I was sweating on the inside, goosebumps all over, though, he couldn’t see it. We begged him to reconsider his position. I even told him I knew nothing about the story he referenced. He replied: “I know you may not have joined The News when they wrote that rubbish about me, but you have joined them now. You’re all the same. Therefore, interview denied.”
Trying to digest what had just happened, he added: “It’s not about you, and I have nothing against you. It’s just that I vowed never to grant The News magazine another interview.” Realising we had hit a brick wall, we disappointedly stood to take our leave. Then he said: “No, you can’t go like that. I want you to see my library.” The two of us were not interested, but we couldn’t say no. He took us to a house in front of his. “I own this building,” he said. It was a large, white-painted house.
When we got to his study, I was amazed. He had a well-organised library with numerous rare books—many of which couldn’t be found in bookshops anymore. We walked through all the shelves together. As we moved around, he gave us a lecture on politics, the economy, religion, and Nigerian social life, punctuated by stories of prominent figures. He told us why late Chief Obafemi Awolowo could not make it to the presidency, saying that Awolowo was a good leader and a good president Nigeria never had. “Awolowo is too honest. Politics is not meant for an honest man. Whatever you want to do, keep it to yourself until you become a president”, he said.
He released us around 2 p.m., leaving me with a lingering thought—that Nigeria is a failed state. The wisdom he shared with me was the only thing I gained that day, minus that, the day was a wasted one. It was when we left that Demola narrated what happened to me and I think he felt for the man. He confessed that Olunloyo’s attitude towards the organisation was anticipated.
The second time I met him, I don’t think he remembered me again. He had come to see the then-former governor of the state, the late Otunba Adebayo Alao-Akala. Alao-Akala met him at the entrance of the governor’s office. As he alighted from his exotic black official jeep, Olunloyo said: “Alao, I have come to say hello to you.”
The governor exchanged pleasantries with him. As he was about to head into his office, Olunloyo asked in Yoruba: “Se o ni fun mi ni nkan alejo mi ni?” (“Won’t you give me something for entertainment?”) Alao-Akala jokingly replied: “Baba, ko si owo nisisiyi o.” (“Father, there’s no money right now.”) And he walked away. It was a comic scene.
As Alao-Akala left, Olunloyo laughed in his usual humorous manner and turned to some of us around, saying: “Opuro ni boy yen.” (“That boy is a liar.”) “How can he say there’s no money in the governor’s office? Has he forgotten that I was the first tenant in the governor’s office and governor’s house? I senior him. I occupied that place many years before he did. As I left, he will also leave one day. How dare he say there’s no money? What about the security vote he receives without accounting for it? Can’t he give me from the security vote? Security vote is the allocation from the federal government to governors, and they can spend it however they want, without accountability.”
He then told us a story: “There was a month I got the security vote when I was governor. I called the security chiefs to my office. I laid the money out and told them to take their share so they could secure the state properly. I didn’t tell them what they should take. I only told them to take what they wanted from the money. When the Commissioner of Police came in, he was shaking. I was laughing inside. I told him, ‘Mr Commissioner, go and take your share.’ He removed his beret and placed it on my table. Despite the air conditioner, he was sweating. I don’t blame him. Who wouldn’t sweat at the sight of money they’ve never seen before? He began packing and packing until I stopped him and said, ‘If you pack everything, what will be left for immigration, customs, and the army?’ He replied, ‘Yes, sir!’ and quickly left. But he forgot his beret. I picked it up and told those with me, ‘The Commissioner forgot his beret because of money.’ I said, ‘If I wanted to sack or implicate him, this beret is sufficient to be used for the purpose.’ I asked them to call him back. When he returned, he saluted three times, shouting, ‘Yes, sir!’ I gave him the beret and he ran off. Yet Alao-Akala said there’s no money in that office.”
Of course, we all burst into laughter. If a mischievous writer had been among us—or if this were the era of Weekend Times or Weekend Concord or Lagos News—that story would have made the front page, and not a single copy would go unsold.
In conclusion, Dr. Omololu Olunloyo was a very friendly, humorous, and intellectually sound individual. Oyo State and Nigeria have just lost a special breed and a gift from God.
Adieu, Baba Omololu Olunloyo.
Gbenro Adesina is a literary scholar, a veteran journalist and the Publisher of PrimeStar News Online
