By Pelumi Olajengbesi Esq.
Today is Senator Iyiola Omisore’s birthday, and in wishing him a happy birthday, I want to pay homage to him by telling the long story of how an encounter with him changed the course of my life.
I completed my secondary education as a science student at Holy Flocks of Christ Secondary School in Ondo Town, Ondo State, where I served as the Senior Prefect Boy. As a young boy, my dream was to become a medical doctor. I was particularly excellent in Further Mathematics, to the point that I practically knew the entire senior secondary school syllabus, although my interest in Biology was poor. My teachers thought Engineering would be better for me, but in the innocence of a young boy, I loved everything white and clean about the appearance of doctors and thought they were more respected. Somehow, I also believed Engineering would be too dirty for me. My apologies to all engineers.
I did not make Medicine, so while waiting to give JAMB another shot, I started teaching Further Mathematics at a lesson programme for students preparing for SSCE in Ondo Town, where we lived at the time. I became fairly known for it. One evening after church service, I met Akinseye Henry, whom we famously called Asiwaju. He asked why I was simply waiting for another JAMB when I could apply to a College of Education, go to school, work afterwards and perhaps use that as a pathway to finance my eventual medical studies. I took his advice.
I got into the College of Education, Ikere-Ekiti, and by 2006, I had completed my NCE. Of course, I was jobless. I started volunteering with development organisations and running Integrity Icons Organisation, which I had co-founded with some friends at the College of Education. I also continued supporting the Students’ Fellowship, where I had served as Bible Coordinator as a student. And, naturally, I joined arguments wherever two or three people were gathered.
Life was hard, and I had to fend for myself daily. There were days when life felt miserable, but we kept fighting to survive and somehow kept pulling through. Perhaps because I had no job other than to argue and move around in the name of the Students’ Movement, and because my active involvement in student unionism at Ikere had sufficiently exposed me to activism, where ours was almost always to disagree with the authorities, my friends began telling me that I should study Law. I enrolled afresh for the necessary O’Level requirements and wrote JAMB. I passed at once, but the admission did not come.
I then convinced my friend, Ayo Akinniyi, whose parents were doing relatively well, that we should travel to the North and start a new life. I drew a lot of inspiration from the Bible and somehow believed that relocating to a new environment would change my fortune. We boarded a haulage J5 bus by the roadside one evening, and the driver helped us all the way to Zaria. We tried Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria, and the University of Abuja. Both attempts were unsuccessful for me, although Ayo eventually gained admission to study Mathematics at the University of Abuja.
I had done fairly well in JAMB, but I was not considered. I was subsequently told that admission to study Law at the University of Abuja was extremely competitive and that if you missed the merit list, you practically needed to be someone who mattered in the country to have any chance. I decided I would wait another year, work harder and make the merit list myself. By the following year, however, things had deteriorated. It was becoming difficult even to afford a JAMB form.
I would follow student organisations I had become associated with from my College of Education days to the National Assembly. Sometimes, we literally went there to disturb politicians and beg for money, armed with all kinds of ideas, scopes and excuses. Many times, we would spend hours at the gate without gaining access and then trek back towards Berger or wherever we could find a cheap bus to Gwagwalada. Through all of this, we still kept the appearance of serious young people who had direction. But beneath that appearance, the situation was becoming increasingly hopeless.
I decided to return to Ondo State, where my family lived. At least feeding would not be as difficult there. More importantly, I had strong ties with the Students’ Movement in the state and could constantly find opportunities to participate in whatever legitimate “scope” was available. When I arrived in Akure, I went straight to stay with my friend who had become a brother, Ayodeji Eminowa, popularly called Papa DJ. We had served together as executives of our campus fellowship; he was President while I was Bible Coordinator.
Papa DJ is one of those human beings God deliberately created to be kind. Whenever I stayed with him, he would vacate his bed for me, feed me and even give me transport money to go out. The following morning, I heard that some students were going to visit the late Dr. Olaiya Oni, the pioneer Ondo State Chairman of the Labour Party, at a time when Dr. Olusegun Mimiko was fighting to reclaim the governorship from the late Dr. Olusegun Agagu of blessed memory. I quickly joined them. At that meeting, I was given an opportunity to speak, and it was there that I met Akin Akinbobola, who would later become my benefactor and guide.
He took an interest in me and asked what I was doing with my life. I told him I had finished from the College of Education and wanted to study Law but was still hoping to get the money to purchase another JAMB form and generally survive. He bought the JAMB form immediately and told me to start coming to him every day as I prepared for JAMB. I sat for JAMB again and scored 270. He subsequently gave me transport money and other support to return to Gwagwalada while I waited for the admission process.
I returned to Gwagwalada expecting to wait for the admission list, but the University of Abuja suddenly announced that too many candidates had applied that year and that the Faculty of Law could admit only about 100 students. Similar pressure existed across other departments, so the University introduced a Post-UTME test. The Post-UTME form was ₦2,700. If that form had been sold for ₦100, I still would not have been able to afford it because I had only ₦10 at that very moment.
I was confused and completely lost about what to do. Luckily, I heard that some people were planning to protest against the Post-UTME and, naturally, I joined them. Unfortunately, it became clear that the protest itself was another “scope” for some people, and it failed. But something important came out of that failed protest: I discovered that the Post-UTME form was closing that very day at 2 p.m., after which it would be over. I rushed back to my friend Ayo Akinniyi’s apartment in Gwagwalada, which by then had practically been nationalised as our house.
I resisted every urge to call Mr. Akin Akinbobola because the man had already done so much for me without my asking, and I could not bring myself to ask for more. But the deadline was only about an hour away. Then Ayo came in and told me his mother was around. Mrs. Akinniyi was working with the Nigeria Customs Service and was probably approaching retirement at the time. I told Ayo immediately that the Post-UTME form was closing within minutes, and he told his mother that Pelumi was in serious trouble and would lose his chance of admission if he could not get the form. Without hesitation, she provided the money.
I raced back to the bank and paid in cash. The day of the examination came, and I sat for the Post-UTME and came out extremely confident because the questions were familiar and, to me, relatively easy. About two weeks later, we heard that the merit list had been published in a newspaper. It took me three days just to find a copy of that newspaper. Alas, my name was not on the merit list, and it broke me.
But another hope came. I was told there would be a supplementary list, even though the merit list itself had already exceeded the number we had been told the Faculty of Law could take. I began moving from office to office around the University, looking for anybody who could assist me. I knew nobody who could help me, and those who claimed they could help wanted money. Then the supplementary list came, and my tears betrayed me again because my name was not there. It appeared to be over; I had lost the admission again, and it was deeply disappointing and painful.
Then I heard there would be one final list, the almighty Vice-Chancellor’s List. How could I get onto that list? The only realistic way, I was told, was through the Vice-Chancellor himself. I decided I would have to see him in person, tell him my story and perhaps he would help me with a slot. I had nowhere else to return to and no other plan in sight. So I wrote letters to the Vice-Chancellor and began going to his office, sometimes waiting around all day while security prevented me from getting too close. Seeing him became almost impossible.
One day, late in the evening, I finally got close enough to him as he was leaving the office. I approached him and said, “Sir, I need to speak to you.” He asked, “What do you want?” Before I could properly make my request, a young man walking behind him quickly responded, “Admission has closed.” The Vice-Chancellor entered his Jeep and drove away, and I trekked back to my friend’s place late that night with virtually all hope lost, accompanied by the hopeless noise of Okada riders around Gwagwalada.
Eventually, the Vice-Chancellor’s List came out, and of course, I was not on it. That one was final. Otilo! What made it even more painful was Mr. Akin Akinbobola. He believed in me so much that I found it difficult to tell him I had not made the merit list, let alone tell him that I had failed to secure admission altogether. I decided I would not go back to see him because it was beginning to feel as though I was failing at life.
Maybe I should simply have waited and continued pursuing Medicine. Maybe I should have studied any available course, graduated and moved on with my life. My friends and contemporaries were already graduating, while I did not even know where I was going. I resolved to return to volunteering with development organisations and become even more involved with the activities of the National Association of Nigerian Students. Maybe I could get onto one of the students’ committees and at least get busy.
While my mates gained admission and resumed 100 Level Law, I moved from one students’ programme to another around the FCT, still trying to remain conscious of where I wanted my life to go. Then one day, I conceived an idea for a programme that I thought could be implemented in partnership with the Office of the President of the Senate. Of course, it was a big idea, but in difficult times, I can be very creative and ambitious. So I wrote a handwritten letter to the Senate President of Nigeria at the time, Senator David Mark. No response came.
The following week, I wrote another letter, but there was still no response. The third time, I wrote again, and still nothing came. Each time, I personally took the letter to the National Assembly gate, where correspondence was submitted, and then returned to Gwagwalada because we were hardly ever given the opportunity to enter the National Assembly complex. About two months after my Law admission had completely failed and nothing appeared to be happening in my life, I finally decided to return to Akure. The night before I was due to leave, my phone rang.
The caller said he was calling from the Office of the Senate President and informed me that I had been scheduled to meet the President of the Senate at 11 a.m. the following morning. They asked how many of us were coming, and I said, “I am coming alone.” It sounded like a dream. The appointment was fixed, and I immediately cancelled my trip to Akure. I prayed throughout the night, washed my clothes again even though I was convinced they were already clean, dried them and ironed them carefully.
My friend advised me that I might not get more than five minutes with the Senate President, so I prepared and rehearsed my presentation to ensure that my entire thought was compressed into four minutes. I had to make the perfect impression. By 6 a.m., I was ready, and before 8 a.m., I was already at the National Assembly gate for an 11 a.m. appointment. However, I remained at the gate until about 10 a.m. because security and the registry at the outer gate said my name had not been sent to them.
The number that had called me was no longer going through. Worse still, the money meant for my trip back to Akure had now been spent on a National Assembly visit that was beginning to look uncertain. I kept disturbing the people at the outer gate registry until I had thoroughly frustrated them and they began insulting me. Then one of the ladies suddenly said another list had just arrived. She checked it, and my name was there. Omo! Let’s go.
I collected my pass and proceeded to the Senate Wing. I went through the security checks and was eventually taken into a very big office. The office was impressive, but the man sitting there was not the Senate President. The man welcomed me to the Office of the Senate President while I sat there wondering what was going on. Almost immediately, he charged at me: “You wrote these letters?” I answered, “Yes, sir.” He asked, “You want to see the Senate President?” Again, I answered, “Yes, sir.”
He told me I would first have to convince him why I needed to see the Senate President. In my mind, I was thinking, who is this devil again? Then he said, “You have two minutes.” I immediately downloaded everything I had prepared to tell the Senate President. When I finished, he smiled and appeared impressed. I was happy because I thought we would now proceed to the next stage, but instead, he said he had a few questions for me.
“How old are you?” he asked, and I told him. “What is your idea of the population of Nigeria?” I answered about 160 million, which was around the figure at the time. “Good. What do you think is the population of Nigerian youths?” I said around 80 million or thereabouts. Then he asked whether I believed there could be as many as ten million Nigerian youths with good ideas who might also want to see the Senate President. I was not sure, so he continued, “Okay, let us say one million.” I agreed that there could easily be one million or more.
Then he asked, “How many days are there in a year?” I told him, “365 days, sir.” He asked me to calculate how many young Nigerians the Senate President could personally meet in one year if he were to attend to one million young people with different ideas and programmes like mine. While I struggled with the mathematics, he continued, explaining that it was a lot of work. He reminded me that the primary responsibility of the Senate President was legislation and that he had constitutional responsibilities, party responsibilities, responsibilities to his state and constituency, official engagements and many other duties as the fourth-ranking public officer in the country.
As he continued to enumerate the responsibilities of the Senate President, I began regretting why I had not simply gone back to my Akure jeje. It became obvious that I had been invited all the way there simply to be educated on why it was impossible for me to meet the Senate President. He concluded by telling me that I had good ideas, but I could not meet the Senate President. However, he said my initiative had been taken note of. I sat there mentally shaken and could barely look at him because I knew that if I did, I might cry.
Then, suddenly, he opened his drawer, brought out ₦50,000 in mint notes and handed it to me. My tears disappeared immediately. I could not believe it because that was the largest amount of cash I had ever held at once, in a year that had already been a very difficult one. I immediately pocketed the money before the man could change his mind and headed straight for the door. But he called me back. Ha! I stood at the door looking at him until he said, “Come inside.”
I reluctantly moved back towards him. He said, “You are a promising young man with great ideas. Why don’t you meet the senator from your state and start this programme with him instead of the Senate President? You can actually start small.” I told him respectfully that the idea was specifically designed for the Office of the Senate President with a nationwide structure. My idea was to get young people to simulate the National Assembly and engage in national discourse, with the Senate President observing.
Then he asked, “Where are you from?” I told him, “Osun State.” He asked, “What local government?” and I answered, “Oriade.” He responded that Oriade was under Senator Iyiola Omisore and asked whether I knew him. I said, “No, sir.” Immediately, he picked up his phone and called Senator Omisore. He told him that the Senate President wanted him to meet a young man from his senatorial district.
He described Senator Omisore’s office to me and told me to go there immediately because the Senator was waiting. He said I should discuss the same idea with him and that Senator Omisore would greatly support it. At that point, however, I was mainly interested in leaving his sight safely with my ₦50,000, so I agreed. I stepped out and deliberately began following another direction to leave. Suddenly, the man appeared behind me and called me back.
“You are going the wrong way,” he said. He then instructed a policeman to personally take me to Senator Omisore’s office. I followed the policeman, still wondering whether there was any way I could disappear behind him. We arrived at Senator Omisore’s office, where there were many people waiting in the reception, but I was taken straight inside. Senator Omisore immediately asked the people who were with him to excuse us for a moment, and I was offered a seat.
He stared at me, and for a moment, my mind went completely blank. We simply looked at each other until he said, “I thought the Senate President asked you to see me about a programme?” I answered, “Yes, sir.” He asked, “Okay. What programme?” I paused while he waited for me to respond. Then I said, “I want admission into the University of Abuja to study Law.”
He looked at me and asked, “Really? You mean that is the programme?” I said yes, and he seemed confused. He explained that it was very late and that they had submitted their admission recommendations months earlier. I kept quiet. Then he picked up his phone and called the Vice-Chancellor of the University of Abuja. He told him, in substance, “I need admission to study Law for one boy immediately.”
The Vice-Chancellor explained that it was already very late, but Senator Omisore insisted that he had to get me the admission, adding that the Office of the Senate President wanted the boy admitted immediately. The Vice-Chancellor protested again that classes had gone far and tests would soon begin, and wondered whether the student would even be able to catch up. Senator Omisore insisted that I should be allowed to resume. Eventually, the Vice-Chancellor agreed and asked that my details be sent immediately.
I provided my details, and just like that, I got admitted to study Law at the University of Abuja. It was the same admission I had finally accepted was no longer possible. I resumed the following morning, although my friends did not believe it. I woke up, dressed in my only pair of trousers and a white shirt, and headed for the Faculty of Law. That same day, a new list was released, and seven of us appeared on the list.
I was issued registration number 307, possibly the last or second-to-last Law student registered in that admission exercise, and I joined the other students halfway through the semester. That was how I became a Law student at the University of Abuja.
While many people helped me throughout the process, Distinguished Senator Iyiola Omisore made my journey to becoming a lawyer possible.
Pelumi Olajengbesi, Esq., is a lawyer and public interest advocate. He is the ACCORD candidate for the Oriade/Obokun Federal Constituency in the 2027 House of Representatives election.