Last week, it happened.
A long-awaited meeting. One I had deflected, dodged, and declined for months. But destiny finally caught up. The man — a towering figure among Nigeria’s so-called “gods of men” — got what he wanted: a private audience.
We met in the shadows of Ibeju-Lekki. No cameras. No entourage. Just two old schoolmates and a conversation that would shake the pillars of Nigeria’s oil empire.
We go way back — nearly 30 years, to our days at Oyo State College of Arts and Science (OSCAS). Life separated us, but the digital strings of social media kept the bond faintly alive.
He pulled up in a gleaming, new Range Rover. Alone. No security detail. But I saw it — the unmistakable bulge of a pistol tucked in his pocket. I didn’t ask. That was his cross to carry.
As the ice melted, we slipped into nostalgia. We remembered our noble lecturers — (Dr.) Adedokun Abolarin, now the Òràngún of Òkè-Ìlá (Aroyinkeye I), and Professor Femi Aniyikaye Aderoju, still thriving in academia. We paid our respects to the late Mr. Elugbaju, our brilliant Mathematics and Physics teacher. We gave thanks — to both Allah and God — for the gift of life.
But then, the air changed.
The conversation turned.
The revelations began.
What started as memory lane veered sharply into Nigeria’s political rot and the toxic underbelly of its petroleum sector. My guest, once knee-deep in oil and gas before his supposed divine calling, was now ablaze with secrets.
He spoke of the subsidy mess, billions bleeding through the NNPC, and — most explosively — a covert war between Africa’s richest man, Aliko Dangote, and a former NNPC GCEO.
“He’s not the villain people think he is,” he said, defending the ex-oil chief.
There’s more to this story than meets the eye.”
And then came the earthquake:
“The Dangote Refinery is not working. What you’re seeing is a charade. The crude oil sent to him? It’s exported. The fuel you buy? Imported. The whole thing is a scam.”
I froze. He claimed it wasn’t rumour — it was fact, from “good authority.”
“In five years,” he warned, “only Dangote will determine who rules Nigeria.”
Those words hit like a cold slap. I didn’t ask for proof. I didn’t need to. As the Yoruba saying goes:
“Àjé ké lánà, ọmọ kú l’ónì — ta ní mò pé àjé tó ké lánà ló pa ọmọ náà?”
(“A witch cried yesterday and a child died today — who doesn’t know the witch caused the death?”)
He blamed the smear campaigns and protests against the Former GCEO on desperate enemies of the state, terrified of exposure. But he assured me:
“One day, a new government will emerge — and the truth will explode like a firecracker.”
I said nothing. My mind raced. Were the presidents, governors, and VIPs who had praised the refinery blind, deceived — or complicit?
He claimed the top political elite were fully briefed. And then I fired back:
“Are Port Harcourt and Warri refineries working, as your friend promised before leaving office? Why must we now depend on Dangote, when your friend had eight years and left us with nothing?”
He looked down. No words. Just silence.
Another Yoruba truth hit me:
“Tí rice bá ńpàkútà, ẹnu oní bàrà kò loye ká ti gbọ́.”
(“If there are stones in the cooked rice, the beggar has no right to complain.”)
I told him plainly: the real looters aren’t in the private sector — they sit in the National Assembly. These men, elected to serve, now feast on $5 million bribes monthly to turn a blind eye. And yet — they blame a businessman?
He nodded. I could see the weight of guilt — or perhaps regret — sinking in.
The naira-for-crude swap, the scandal that haunted a former Petroleum Minister, was the root of all this. If the new players haven’t learned from the past, then truly:
There is always another time.
Another government. Another reckoning. A day when the curtains will fall and Nigeria will see its puppeteers for what they are.
As our meeting drew to a close, I didn’t hold back:
“Your friends and their cronies destroyed this system. And now, you expect one private citizen to fix it?”
He had no answer.
And then — the conversation shifted again.
To Nigeria’s most ambitious and controversial infrastructure project to date:
The Lagos-Calabar Coastal Highway.
A 700-kilometre mega-road, painted as progress, but cloaked in whispers of corruption, greed, and environmental destruction.
He said it clearly: this isn’t just a road — it’s a scheme.
Estimated at $11 to $12.5 billion, this superhighway is crashing through communities without consultation, transparency, or oversight. No competitive bids. No environmental impact report. Just bulldozers and broken homes.
And the big question: Who really benefits?
Because the route conveniently runs straight to one place — the Dangote Refinery.
Sources inside the Ministry of Works are in chaos. They call the project “rushed,” “politicised,” and “shady.” Hitech Construction — allegedly tight with top officials — was handed the contract with zero public scrutiny.
Across Lagos, the damage is visible. Entire communities — Okun-Ajah, Elegushi — crushed without warning. Hotels, homes, villages — flattened. Notices arrive after demolition. Compensation? Rare. Justice? A fantasy.
Environmentalists are screaming. Mangroves destroyed. Marine life displaced. Natural flood barriers gone. A disaster in the making. But no one listens.
“They are burying the environment under concrete,” one activist told me.
“And they’re doing it for the wrong reasons.”
Because here’s the heart of it: the road’s too-close-for-comfort alignment with the Dangote Refinery in Lekki Free Trade Zone.
Coincidence? Not likely.
He dropped the bombshell:
“Why is this road suddenly urgent? Why does it conveniently ease logistics for the refinery? This is private gain disguised as public good.”
He warned: this sets a terrifying precedent — where national resources serve the rich, while the rest of us pay the price.
FOI requests? Ignored.
National Assembly? Silent.
Local leaders? Muzzled.
Meanwhile, Hitech’s bulldozers keep roaring — no answers, no apologies.
This is not infrastructure.
This is asphalt robbery.
At a time when Nigerians are choking on inflation, joblessness, and forex turmoil, billions are vanishing into a project that reeks of secret deals and private profiteering.
Unless the government halts and opens this project to full public scrutiny — with contracts, consultations, and environmental reviews — this highway will not be remembered as a path to progress.
It will be remembered as a monument to betrayal. A concrete scandal. A shameful legacy.
And after all his revelations and vapourations, I had only one wish for my old friend:
That God grants him the wisdom to lead his congregation in the right direction.
Amen.
Mogaji Wole Arisekola writes from Ibadan.
