September 2026

There is a particular kind of madness that visits a man stuck in traffic on the Third Mainland Bridge at half past six in the evening. I remember one such evening clearly. The cars were not moving. The okada men had long given up weaving between them and were now just leaning on their bikes, chatting. And somewhere between Adeniji and Oworonshoki, my mind decided to open a courtroom.

I once sat in a gathering of otherwise reasonable, educated Nigerians, the kind of room where everyone has an opinion and every opinion is delivered with total conviction, and listened to a full hour of righteous fury about the state of the country. The politicians were thieves. The system was broken. Nobody in government cared about the common man. Heads nodded. Glasses were raised. It was, by every measure, an excellent vilification session, and I nodded along with the rest of them, because every word of it was true.

I remember scrolling through one of those glossy “Forbes 30 Under 30” style lists one quiet night, the kind of night when you are not really looking for trouble but find it anyway. Photograph after photograph of confident young faces, each caption more impressive than the last. Founded a company at twenty two. Sold it at twenty six. Sat on a panel by twenty eight.