36. The Seasons of Speech
I once pursued the glorious idea of becoming Student Union President at the University of Agriculture, Abeokuta. I lost by 21 votes. Truth be told, I was already in a nearly hopeless race and my only chance depended on the leading candidate, Sarafa Fasasi “Versace,” being disqualified. Fasasi had a fiery aluta spirit that commanded rooms. I knew, deep down, I was not wired that way. I was more into the theorizing and writing stuff, a skill that landed me the leadership of the Committee for Defence of Human Rights, UNAAB chapter at the 200 level. This same skill will come to bear in building BudgIT.
One Saturday morning, as the campaign rumbled on, my friend Comrade Kenny ambushed me with what he called a “golden opportunity” to prove my aluta spirit. The Obantoko student area had been without electricity for weeks, and NEPA needed to be confronted. Before I knew it, I was surrounded by a group of boys urging me to lead them. Fear crept in. I had always been more comfortable as a follower, hidden in the crowd in protests. But I was tossed into a taxi, carried in a convoy, and hauled to the NEPA station. Suddenly, it was my moment to lead.
At the station, I spotted a well-dressed man in a hurry, clearly the manager on his way to an owambe. Instinct kicked in. I blocked his exit and shouted in my highest pitch, “Mr Man, we are here to — ” before launching into the usual lofty, jargon-filled protest speech that tries to sound like Plato spiced with Latin. Out of everything I said, the only thing that truly angered him was being addressed as “Mr Man.” For someone old enough to be my father, he found it insulting and didn’t want to give further audience. I tried to hold my ground, hammering away at our grievance, desperate to shine for my SUG ambition. The other NEPA staff kept emphasizing how rude I was and didn’t want further conversations. If I apologized for my rude behavior, what would happen to my steeze? I kept my jargon up, talking over their heads.
Then I noticed people running, the same boys who pushed me forward had disappeared into nearby houses. Kenny and I were left alone when the police charged toward us. I sprinted into a next door mechanic workshop and scrambled for a fence, until I heard the chilling words: “If you don’t stop running, I will shoot you.”
That moment stayed with me. My line of work requires courage to advocate and speak truth to power. Activism has never been polite — it is often fiery, emotional, exaggerated, and designed to stir people toward change. From the fight for independence, the war against apartheid, the African-American struggle for freedom, to the fight for women’s rights, progress was rarely born of “respectability politics”. Yet, over time, most activism finds its way into dialogue, compromise, and consensus.
It is normal to charge our words with emotion to light up the room, but over time, we see that the strategy of finding consensus pushes progress ahead. So, I don’t have any problem with the energy and language of Gen-Z; it is a generational burden; or when screenshots of past tweets made by folks while younger are shared. I have hardly dragged someone on a past view etched in their youth if they have found new thinking as they aged on. Youth is an emotional time, and if social media had existed in the heydays of Wole Soyinka, Femi Falana, Chima Ubani, Ayo Obe, Beko Ransome-Kutiti, Olisa Agbakoba, or Alimotu Pelewura, we would be stunned at how emotional their words were. This is not to condone bigotry, stereotypes or hate that has wrapped our digital space. However, aging prompts us to be more measured and strategic in our pursuit of outcomes. We are littered with examples of how people find it challenging to make this transition.
I am not talking about becoming the antithesis of what was once preached, or remaining silent in the face of injustice, but rather suggesting that as we seek new paths in life, we realize that our words carry more meaning, and we would be mindful of them.
That’s why I’ve noticed a decline in my Twitter fights and anger these days. Even people will throw subliminals or throw around hateful stuff, I am clearly indifferent and cant just go back and forth with anonymous entities.
I have learned over the years — I am now an adolescent on such platforms, and a different behavior is expected of me. Because in the end, words don’t just fill the air; they shape memory and define perception. Youth may spend them freely, but age reminds us they are a currency — and every word must count. So, excuse the Gen Z who have been dealt a bad deal with currency devaluation or feminists who are struggling to find their space in a patriarchal society. Their words will be seasoned as they grab progress or age in time.
In the end, Kenny, I, and two others were arrested by the police, taken to the station, and forced to write a lengthy statement — the charge: inciting public disturbance. For a moment, it felt like our fate was sealed. But then the Mr. Man, whom I could have addressed as ‘Hello, Sir,’ fearing that things could escalate, pleaded for our release. And just when the night seemed darkest, Egbons Waheed Shittu and Saheed Ogunbase arrived to bail us out.
