The Company You Keep

When we see the above title, we think of teenagers being admonished to keep good company. We remember the familiar phrases like: “show me your friends and I will tell you who you are,” “evil communication /company corrupts good manners.” These are good lessons not just for youngsters but also for adults, for people holding positions of high responsibilities and everyone else who values mental health and general wellbeing. I delivered a speech at a small gathering organised by friends of some newly appointed chief judges. I have modified bits of it to address everyone in office of high responsibility who needs to be cautious about the throng of friends or well wishers. Pick your own lessons.

The day you step into your new role amid solemn oaths and passed down responsibilities, it is a moment to reflect, not just on the privileges of public office, but on the heavy mantle of integrity, fairness, and discipline that comes with it. To anyone who has taken an oath of office, I extend my heartfelt congratulations. Your appointment/promotion is not merely recognition of your brilliance, your years of practice, or the hard work you put in. It is a sacred trust placed upon your shoulders by your corporate practice or the Constitution and people, and by your conscience.

But in this publication, I will not be focusing on the corporate/political weight of your office. I want to speak to you about something quieter, subtler — but just as impactful. I want to speak about the ‘company you will keep.’

When someone ascends a position of high visibility, the atmosphere changes; old acquaintances begin to reintroduce themselves. Former schoolmates suddenly remember your birthday. Long-lost cousins show up with laughter, praise, and if you look closely — expectation. Phone numbers you deleted years ago start lighting up your screen. And slowly, subtly, it begins: the barrage of well-meaning crowd.

These are not evil people. They are not always cunning. Many of them genuinely believe they love you. But make no mistake—they mostly love the version of you that sits on that exalted seat, not necessarily the version that may sit alone in your living room after retirement. They are drawn, like moths to light, not to your essence, but to your office.

And not knowing this is where the danger lies.

Some people will offer help. Some will ask for help. Some will come with flattery, some with petitions or investment ideas. A lot will come with the kind of camaraderie that only exists in the presence of power. Be careful … because the applause fades. The warmth of the seat grows cold. And when your term is over — when the job is done and the phone rings a little less — those friends who came around for what they could get will begin to vanish like fog in the morning sun.

So, what is my message to you? It is simple: do not make long-term decisions based on short-term relationships.

Do not sign off on reckless favours because of people who will not pick your call in five years. Do not invest your credibility for anyone who would not sit with you when the headlines change from praise to suspicion. Do not sacrifice your sleep for the comfort of those who only call when they need something. History is full of brilliant men and women who destroyed legacies — not because they were evil, but because they could not say “No” to familiar faces. They loaned their influence to people who used it as currency and discarded them when the cost became too high.

You will be tested, not just by corporate or political complexities, but by emotional pressures. It could be a childhood friend in need, a distant relative who needs help that your name or office can easily secure or a neighbour with ‘just a little issue.’ Beware! Every compromise you make for another’s comfort is a dent in your own armour. And those dents add up.

You must develop the discipline to separate love from loyalty, and familiarity from trust.

Let me remind you: your (MVA) most valuable asset in this journey is not your connections, nor your charisma, nor even your intelligence. Your most valuable asset is your name. The title “Minister of the Federal Republic of Nigeria” (as was my case) may be given to you by the government, but the ‘honour’ is something you build yourself. And there is no pension or gratuity that can replace a ruined name. So when the well-dressed friend comes knocking and wine is poured and jokes are flying, pause. Ask yourself: “If I were to step down from this office tomorrow, would this person still sit with me?” If the answer is no, then let their flattery remain just that — noise, not nourishment.

This is not to say that you should walk in suspicion or live in isolation. No. We all need community. We all need people. But let your closest circle be made up of those who can look you in the eye and say, “Don’t do it,” even when it’s tempting; those who would rather lose your favour than see you lose your future. Your term in office may be fixed, but your reputation is forever. Do not trade permanence for pleasure. Do not let access blind you. Do not confuse the crowd’s presence today with their loyalty tomorrow. Many before you have sat where you now sit, smiling, proud, surrounded. And yet, some of them now walk alone, betrayed by those they once defended, disgraced by choices they once justified, and avoided by friends they once helped.

Let that not be your story.

Let your time in that office be marked not just by excellent service but by wisdom — the kind that sees through applause, the kind that values silence over scandal, and the kind that places legacy above the fleeting. When you retire someday — because all journeys must end, I pray that you will walk into that next season of your life not with regret, but with peace. Peace that you kept your integrity intact. Peace that you did not sell your conscience for comfort. Peace that the friends who remain are few, but true.

In conclusion, let me leave you with a simple tip — one I urge you to remember whenever you’re faced with influence dressed as friendship: ‘If they love you only because of what you do, they are not your friend. If they love you even when you have nothing to offer, keep them close.’

As you serve with honour, may you also serve with discernment. And, may your wisdom outlast your title.

Fatherhood with Ibe

See What It All Came To

They say some things only make sense when you stand far enough from them — like the pieces of a puzzle clicking into place when you’re not looking too closely. It is like the story of Efosa, a man that I knew when we were young men in Benin. He shared his story with me and gave me permission to share on my blog. It is a story that touched me deeply and reminds us that patience and compromise is very important.

Here is his story. Perhaps you can draw your own lessons.

“I married Stella straight out of the university. She was my childhood sweetheart; the girl I thought would be the mother of my children. The moment I met her in my first year of university and she in her final year in secondary school, there was no one else for me. I was so sure of my feelings and I felt we had the same vision for our future.

But love, I learned, is not always enough. Or perhaps ours was not the kind of love that lasts.

Stella came from a big family; she had eight siblings in total. I remember how animated she’d get when telling stories about sharing clothes, fighting for bathroom turns, or hiding her favourite meal from others. Me, I was from a much quieter home; I had three siblings. I thought Stella would want the same calm as we had at home. But no, she wanted near silence. She wanted a very small family – one child.

At first, I thought she was joking. We were young and in love, and people say all kinds of things when life hasn’t tested them yet. I thought she was just mouthing off. But she meant it. She was clear. “Just one,” she’d say. “I’ve raised enough children through my siblings. I want peace in my own home.”

I tried to change her mind. I begged. I even used silence as a weapon. But she stood her ground.

So we got married and had Osaro… just him.

I loved that boy. I still do. But I never stopped mourning the children we never had — the Christmas mornings with laughter echoing through the house, the noisy dinner tables. It’s not that Osaro wasn’t enough — it’s just that I had dreamed differently. I had more love to give, and nowhere else to place it.

Eventually, Stella and I drifted. There was no scandal, no shouting match, just a quiet surrender to the truth: we wanted different things. After eight years, we parted ways with dignity. She took Osaro to America, and I rebuilt. I remarried. I had two daughters and found joy in my fuller house.

We stayed in touch, of course. Stella and I were never enemies. But we had become strangers with a shared past and shared love in Osaro.

When Osaro was getting married five years ago, I flew to Maryland. It was the right thing to do, though I can’t say I felt truly wanted. Everything had been planned by Stella, right down to the colour of my tie. I sat at that reception like a guest who wandered in by mistake. People came to me with polite smiles, awkward introductions. Even Osaro — he hugged me stiffly, like he was afraid his mother might object. To him, I was a distant memory and a voice on the phone.

And I thought to myself that day, ‘See what it all came to.’

Still, I told myself it was fine. Not every father is meant to be the centre of his son’s world. Stella had done most of the raising. She deserved her spotlight.

But trouble started soon after. Osaro’s wife — Elvira, a sharp-tongued, city-bred girl, announced that she didn’t want children. Not one, not now, not ever. She claimed the world was too hard, too cruel. Claimed her career came first; claimed that having children was not a requirement for a fulfilled life. And she didn’t want Stella “hovering around with all that old-school mother-in-law energy.”

You can imagine how that went down.

Stella didn’t take it well. She called me in a rage — something she hadn’t done in a while. She said I needed to talk to “my son,” saying he had changed. She said Elvira was a snake.

“That girl is ruining everything.” She cried.

I listened. Then I laughed.

Not because it was funny. But because, in that moment, I realised Stella had forgotten who she used to be and how she’d behaved just the same way as Elvira was acting. The woman who stood her ground about having only one child was now furious that her son had married someone just as firm. Life has a funny way of spinning back on us.

I told her plainly to expect no such interference from me.

“Stella, if you didn’t want me interfering when it was your decision, why should I meddle now with Elvira’s decision?”

She hung up on me.

Of course, she didn’t stop there. She went back to Osaro’s house, uninvited. I don’t know the details of what was said. No one will tell me the full story. But voices were raised. Accusations were thrown. And then… a knife. A kitchen argument escalated into something from a nightmare. Stella was stabbed. She collapsed right there on the tiled floor between the dining table and the fridge. They said she tried to hold her stomach, said she whispered Osaro’s name before the ambulance came.

She spent three days in ICU. I flew back again. This time, no one cared what colour of tie I wore.

I stood over her unconscious body and remembered the day we named Osaro. The first time she smiled at me after delivery, sweaty and triumphant. I remembered how proud she was, holding that boy like he was a prize no one else could claim.

She died on a Tuesday.

I don’t think Osaro has recovered. He’s a man torn between a dead mother and a living wife he now cannot bear to touch. Elvira was arrested, charged, but later released on bail. Some people say it was self-defence. Others say Stella slapped her first. The lawyers will figure it out. Or maybe they won’t. The damage is done either way.

As for me … I keep thinking ‘see what it all came to.’

One child! One boy caught between two women.

Sometimes, when I sit in my living room surrounded by the laughter of my daughters, I wonder how different life might’ve been if Stella had allowed herself a bigger family. Maybe Osaro wouldn’t have grown up with so much pressure on him. Maybe he’d have had a sibling to share the burden. Maybe Stella wouldn’t have poured all her dreams into one basket.

But this is what it came to.

First a rigid stance, then a quiet divorce! A wedding, uncomfortable for me but triumphant for her! A fatal argument! And now, silence.”