Femi Fani-Kayode

...Sadly we did not spend much time together in the last few years and were only in touch from time to time but when I heard of your passing earlier today something broke in me. I realised that you were literally the living symbol of my lost childhood and the rallying point and star of those of us that grew up with you and loved you. You were the bridge between the North and the South: who spoke Yoruba better than I did but who was proud of his noble Ebira Northern heritage and his Royal roots. You were also the bridge between the children of the elites who went to the best schools from a very young age in England and those who went to the very best schools from a young age in Nigeria. We fought gang wars between the two groups in those days whenever we came home for holidays from abroad at the parties we used to meet and the various social clubs we all belonged to but you brought us all together. Ours was a generation of love and brotherhood which cannot be matched or replaced. We lived life to the fullest, we had it all, we saw it all, we watched each other's backs and accepted each other as we were. Those were the days when brotherhood meant something. Those were the days when loyalty was everything. Those were the days when we took pride in who we were and in being Nigerians. Those were the days when we, as a people and a generation, bowed to no-one and had it all. Those were the days we rocked London, New York, Paris, Athens, Cannes, Marbella, Malaga, Nassau, Monte Carlo, St. Tropez, St. Moritz, Juan Le Pins, Acapulco and much of the world without a care and with no apology. We were tough, proud, wealthy, healthy, strong and feared young Nigerian men who had everything that we could ever want and we moved together like a pack of young wild lions. Those were the days my brother and we thought they would never end. Those were thevdays when our parents would worry about us and our futures and we would exchange notes and share jokes behind their backs and make a mockery of their fears. Then came adulthood with all its challenges and responsibilities and I believe that we all kept the flag flying and acquitted ourselves well. Outside of that our nation changed and the carefree days of joy and abundance for all came to an end as the fortunes of our beloved Nigeria dwindled. We pray for better days ahead and that our children and grandchildren can enjoy the essence and greatness of our people and country the way we once did. Meanwhile my brother I commit you into the hands of God. May He forgive you for all your sins and grant you eternal peace and rest in heaven. May your name never fade away or be forgotten and may your legacy, a great legacy built by your distinguished ancestors and forefathers, remain strong. I miss you already. I miss our fellowship. I miss our shared experiences and our many secrets. I miss our joint childhood and all our other brothers many of whom have passed on. Ours is a dwindling generation. We had our time and God was good to us. We had everything and cannot complain. Now it is time for you to rest brother and for those of us you have left behind to accept the inevitablity of what lies ahead. God is with us and you are with Him. Greet our brothers that crossed over before you and tell them that FFK sends his love. I pray for your precious soul brother and know that I shall NEVER forget you, whether in this world or the next. Rest well Suku Su and may the Lord strengthen, bless and protect your family and your wife, children and loved ones that you have left behind. (FFK)

FOR NAZIR...💔 My dearest brother Prince Nazir Ado Ibrahim of the Royal House of the Atta's in Ebiraland, Kogi state has passed & it has hit me hard. We grew up together, shared an eventful & rich childhood with many remarkable experiences & went through thick & thin together for 60 years! I thought we would grow old together & share the memories of our childhood whilst in retirement. I thought we would comfort each other in old age whilst the world quietly passed us by. I thought so much & planned so much but alas you are gone! You were one in a million brother. Always putting smiles on everyone's faces. I remember the days of Atta Lodge in Yaba, your dear father, the late Ohinoyi's house, where we all used to meet with friends & have a great time in the late 1970's & early 1980's. I remember the days in Chelsea at my apartment in Pier House, my fathers house in Brighton & your father's mansion in Belgravia. I remember the days of Lagos Polo Club, Ikoyi Club & Apapa Club where we used to gather & move around in our fearsome & daring "gang" of wild & adventurous friends! I remember the boxing & karate lessons we used to have & what a great warrior & courageous fighter you were. I remember how we were at JB' s house in a place called Bourdillon near the National Stadium in Lagos & police raided the place! I remember how we fought back to back & shoulder to shoulder together against our assailants whenever either of us was attacked or threatened. We never lost brother & they never had us down! That is what made our relationship so special. Nothing & no-one could come between us. We spoke a strange language to one another & we communicated in code & with our eyes. We walked the dark side together &, by the grace of God, we both survived. I remember how we learnt to ride horses together & play polo & how we used to both love marking the streets & treading the paths of the rougher sides of old Lagos in flashy cars whilst flexing our hard & crazy muscles. I remember the rivalries we all had over the girls, I remember the fights with the white boys & the locals, I remember the squabbles we all used to have over the most insignificant things, I remember the love that our band of brothers shared, I remember the numerous controversies we got into, I remember the numerous punishments that we jointly faced from our respective parents for our many wild outings & I remember how we used to go to night clubs like Legends, Tramp, Main Squeeze, Monkberrys & others in London and Studio 54 & Xenon in New York! I remember visiting you in a place called Geneva in upstate New York & how we drove to meet our brother Des Braithwaite in Syracuse! I remember your Porsche 928 S & his & mine & I rember how, in the various cities in the world, the police would stop & ask us how we could afford such cars at such a young age. We laughed them to scorn because they did not know who & what we were & more often than not we served them with hot words & left them with teary eyes & red faces! That was in the early 1980's & my goodness we had fun! We lived life to the fullest with Azad your older brother, Des Braithwaite, Kunle Braithwaite, Tonye Amachree, Deremi Ajidahun, Layeni Fagbayi, Gbegi & Dapo Ojora, Oscar Ibru, Gregg Mbadiwe, Gbolahun Sanyaolu, Ade Adetona, Ike Monu & so many others. Later in the 1980's you became my in-law after I married your beautiful cousin Saratu Atta, who was the daughter of your Uncle, the late Governor Adamu Atta of the old Kwara state. She & I have a beautiful daughter called Folake who you used to dote over with such affection & who you had a soft spot for when she was a baby. So much happened since that time but through it all you & I loved each other in the same way that Achilles & Patrocholus loved one another. Always watching each others backs & standing up for one another, often fighting over small matters & always coming back together again. (CONTINUED BELOW 👇👇👇)

OR Tambo was clear and decisive. We will never know the kind of President he would have made had apartheid ended earlier.

The coup d’etat in Mali was ‘orchestrated by French and British specialists — including eventual help of the US intelligence’ ‘And they hired Ukrainians to do this’ Viktor Bout @realvictorbout for the East Meets West podcast @EMW_podcast WATCH FULL youtu.be/7rtlz3SMudo?si…

🚨Julian Assange Prophecy: LAST Warning For Humanity. Digital archives let them erase history with one click. The next: "Page not found." The next: "it never happened." Don't trust the cloud. Paraphrasing Orwell, Assange explains that he who controls today's internet servers controls the intellectual record of mankind. He warns us that Western governments, large corporations, and certain wealthy individuals are increasingly able and increasingly trying to remove material permanently from the historical record using sophisticated methods.

• In 1961, Nelson Mandela, operating underground, gave his first TV interview to ITN. • He described the severe repression and violence Black South Africans faced for peaceful protest, noting the regime's brutal force to maintain apartheid. • This was months before co-founding Umkhonto we Sizwe and three years before his life imprisonment.

This is Dammy (Damilola) Feyide. She was in her 20s when she returned from the UK to Nigeria in 2017, ready to complete her NYSC and likely head back abroad. But today, the story is completely different. What started as a one-year service term became a lifelong mission. One afternoon, a nudge from the Holy Spirit caused her to stop her car at a correctional center. She didn't see "criminals" or "street kids"; she saw a reflection of Jesus’ heart. She saw children with doctor-sized dreams living in paint-starved realities. She started by giving money to children on the street and going to the correctional facility with gifts, but the Holy Spirit kept convincing her that there was more. That conviction led to the birth of Let It Shine Academy (LISA), a FREE boarding school for secondary school students in Lagos, Nigeria. About 270 students are enrolled in her school. No tuition fee, no hostel fee, no feeding fee, no uniform fee, no textbook fee, everything is provided for free. A standard private secondary school for free in Lagos. In a society where many children are pushed to the margins because of poverty, instability, family background, or lack of access, she chose to create a place where children can still dream, learn, grow, eat, create, think, and become who God wants them to be. Today, LISA is a beacon of high-quality, completely free education. While the foundation is built on Christ’s love, the school is filled with children of all religions. As I shared with my sisters Grow Her Faith Fellowship last week, faith isn’t a wall to keep people out; it’s a bridge that invites everyone in. When we serve, we don’t ask for a creed; we look for a need. We often ask ourselves, "What is the meaning of life?" The answer isn't found in the degrees we earn or the titles we hold. The whole essence of man is to live for impact. We are stewards, not owners, of the grace we've been given. If your life doesn't leak hope into someone else’s darkness, are you truly living? Impact isn't about having it all figured out. Dammy didn't have a background in education; she just had a "Yes" and a God who backs those He sends. I love women who live beyond applause, who are not just building names, but building lives. Women who are not waiting for perfect conditions before they begin, women who understand that purpose is not always glamorous. Dammy’s work reminds me again that impact is not about how many people know your name. It is about how many lives breathe better because you obeyed what was placed in your heart. Education is one of the purest forms of impact. When you educate a child, you change their language, their exposure, their confidence, their options, their family story, and sometimes, the direction of an entire generation. That is why I will always be drawn to people who build in this space, because clarity helps people see, education helps people rise, and impact helps people live better. Dammy carries all three with conviction. I believe she deserves to be celebrated. Today, I celebrate Damilola “Dammy” Feyide, for choosing to be a bridge between disadvantage and dignity, between “someone should do something” and “I will start where I am.” May we never become so busy chasing visibility that we forget the beauty of living for impact, and may more women rise with the courage to build what they wish existed. Let this be your stir to action: Stop waiting for the perfect timing or the full bank account. Go where the burden is, go where the heart breaks. Just as Dammy shows us, you won't know how deep the well of Grace is until you start pouring it out for others. Dear Dammy, keep living purposefully and intentionally; the heavens are documenting your impact. Tolu lope Ajayi #impact #freeschool #nigeria #education #Bugatti

The Soldier Who Found a Baby on the Battlefield and Carried Her for 40 Miles The American Soldier Who Found an Abandoned Baby on the Italian Battlefield and Carried Her 40 Miles to Safety — Then Spent 60 Years Wondering If She Survived, Italy, 1944. January 1944. Anzio, Italy. The Anzio beachhead was a particular kind of hell — a narrow strip of Italian coastline held by Allied forces under constant German bombardment, no room to advance, no room to retreat, just the grinding daily mathematics of holding ground under fire. Corporal James Whitaker, 24, Georgia, was moving through a bombed farmhouse on a patrol assignment when he heard it. Not crying — past crying. The sound an infant makes when it has cried beyond what crying can accomplish and has gone to a place beyond it, a thin persistent sound like a mechanical thing running down. He found her in the farmhouse cellar. An infant girl. Eight months old at the most. Alone in a wooden crate lined with a woman's wool coat. Alive, barely, from cold and dehydration. No one else in the farmhouse. No one else anywhere visible. He picked her up. The Problem James Whitaker was on a combat patrol in an active battle zone carrying an infant who would die if he put her down and who he had no ability to help if he kept her. He had no formula, no milk, no baby supplies of any kind. He had his canteen, a chocolate bar, and forty miles between his position and the field hospital at the rear. He started walking. The Forty Miles He carried her inside his field jacket, against his chest, where the body heat kept her warm. He gave her water from his canteen, dripped slowly from his finger to her lips the way he had seen his mother water young animals — a memory that surfaced from childhood without warning and turned out to be exactly applicable. He broke small pieces of chocolate and let her suck the sweetness from his finger. He moved at night when he could, staying off roads, moving through terrain that was simultaneously trying to kill him from German positions and from Italian winter. He talked to her. Quietly, constantly, in the specific soft register humans use with infants regardless of whether the infant understands. He told her about Georgia. About his mother's cooking. About the farm where he grew up. He told her it was going to be fine, which he was not certain was true but which he had decided to commit to regardless. She was alive when he reached the field hospital at dawn on the second day. A nurse took her from his arms. He sat down on the ground outside the hospital tent and did not get up for an hour. The Handoff The field hospital logged the infant as a found civilian, turned her over to an Italian Red Cross representative, and that was the last official record that connected her to James Whitaker. He asked about her before he went back to his unit. They told him she was stable, that she would be placed with a relief organization, that she would be taken care of. He went back to his unit. He went back to the war. The Sixty Years James Whitaker came home to Georgia in 1945. He married. He had three children. He farmed and then he worked in hardware and then he retired. He thought about the baby for sixty years. Not obsessively — he was a practical man, not given to obsession. But consistently. On certain mornings. On certain nights. A presence in the back of his mind, an open question he had never been able to close. She would be in her sixties now, he would calculate. He did not know her name. He did not know if she had survived the war, the occupation, the chaos of postwar Italy. He did not know if she had a family, children, a life. He knew only that he had carried her forty miles and handed her to a nurse and never found out what happened next. In 2004, his granddaughter Sarah — seventeen years old, working on a school project about WWII — asked him if he had any war stories. He told her one. Sarah put it on the internet. The Finding Three months later, a woman in Bologna, Italy, contacted Sarah's email address. Her name was Maria Conti. She was sixty years old. She had been told, by the Italian family who had raised her, that she had been found as an infant during the Anzio campaign by an American soldier who carried her to safety. She had been looking for that soldier for forty years. James Whitaker was eighty-four years old when Sarah showed him the email. He read it twice. He looked up at his granddaughter. "She's alive," he said. "She wants to talk to you," Sarah said. They spoke by telephone first — Sarah translating between English and Italian. Then by letter. Then, in 2005, Maria Conti flew to Georgia. She was sixty-one years old. She was a schoolteacher. She had three children and five grandchildren. She walked into James Whitaker's living room and he stood up — slowly, at eighty-five, he stood up — and they looked at each other. Maria crossed the room. She took both his hands. She said something in Italian. Sarah translated: "She says she has wanted to say thank you her whole life. She says she is sorry it took sixty years." James Whitaker held her hands. He said: "Tell her sixty years is nothing. Tell her I just needed to know she made it."

Overnight, Nigeria and the United States recorded a significant example of effective collaboration in the fight against terrorism. Our determined Nigerian Armed Forces, working closely with the Armed Forces of the United States, conducted a daring joint operation that dealt a heavy blow to the ranks of the Islamic State. Early assessments confirm the elimination of the wanted IS senior leader, Abu-Bilal Al-Manuki, also known as Abu-Mainok, along with several of his lieutenants, during a strike on his compound in the Lake Chad Basin Nigeria appreciates this partnership with the United States in advancing our shared security objectives. I extend my sincere gratitude to President Trump for his leadership and unwavering support in this effort. I commend the personnel involved on both sides for their professionalism and courage, and I look forward to more decisive strikes against all terrorist enclaves across the nation. Bola Ahmed Tinubu, GCFR President & Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces Federal Republic of Nigeria Aso Villa Abuja May 16, 2026

A testimony and receipt of our contribution to the struggle for the liberation of the people of South Africa.This was President SHEHU SHAGARI….Nigeria’s leader 1979-1983.Courtesy of @GettyImages @EFFSouthAfrica @SABCNews @Newzroom405 @MYANC @_cosatu

“Tonight, at my direction, brave American forces and the Armed Forces of Nigeria flawlessly executed a meticulously planned and very complex mission to eliminate the most active terrorist in the world from the battlefield. Abu-Bilal al-Minuki, second in command of ISIS…” - President Trump

British POW camp based at Ibadan, Umuahia and Lagos world war 2: Read: During the 2nd world war, the British Colonial Government set up concentration camps in colonial Nigeria where German and Italian prisoners or war were held before

The story of Count Bernadotte, despite saving 450 Danish Jews during the Holocaust, he was assassinated by the Zionist Stern gang for daring to seek a just settlement for Palestinians after they had been massacred and displaced by Zionist forces in the 1948 Nakba.

1943 Kings College Lagos anti-war revolt by students: Some students were arrested and drafted into the Army. Read:

Mahatma Gandhi was an anti-Black racist, who advocated a three-tiered apartheid in South Africa. While living in South Africa, Mahatma Gandhi described black Africans as “savage,” “raw” and living a life of indolence and nakedness. He routinely expressed "disdain for Africans," and he also campaigned relentlessly to prove to the British rulers that the Indian community in South Africa was superior to native black Africans. One of the first battles Gandhi fought after coming to South Africa was over the separate entrances for whites and blacks at the Durban post office. Gandhi obiected that Indians were "classed with the natives of South Africa," who he called the kaffirs, and demanded a separate entrance for Indians. In a petition letter in 1895, Gandhi also expressed concern that a lower legal standing for Indians would result in degenerating "so much so that from their civilised habits, they would be degraded to the habits of the aboriginal Natives, and a generation hence, between the progeny of the Indians and the Natives, there will be very little difference in habits, and customs and thought."

George Washington never went to college. His father Augustine died when George was 11, and the money for English boarding school died with him. His two older half-brothers had already been polished at Appleby Grammar School across the Atlantic. George got Virginia, a demanding mother named Mary, and whatever books he could find at home. At 14 he tried to escape it all by joining the British Royal Navy. His mother shut it down. So he did the next best thing: he taught himself surveying from his late father's instruments, and at 16 he rode west into the Shenandoah wilderness on a commission from Lord Fairfax, who owned over five million acres of Virginia and needed them mapped. His teenage journal survives. It is brutal, funny, and absolutely not the voice of a marble statue. On his first night at a frontier inn, he stripped down and climbed into what passed for a bed, only to find "nothing but a Little Straw Matted together without Sheets or any thing else but only one Thread Bear blanket with double its Weight of Vermin such as Lice Fleas etc." After that he preferred sleeping outside by the fire, even when it rained, even when his clothes froze stiff on him by morning. One journal entry, almost in passing: thirty Native warriors walked into camp carrying a fresh scalp from battle. The teenage surveying party shared their liquor with them and watched them perform a war dance by firelight. George wrote it down the way a modern teenager logs a weird night out. He swam horses across swollen rivers. He ate roasted meat off forked sticks because "our Spits was Forked Sticks our Plates was a Large Chip as for Dishes we had none." He met German settlers and noted in frustration that they "would never speak English but when spoken to they speak all Dutch." He measured timber in country where almost no English speaker had ever walked. By 17 he was the commissioned surveyor of Culpeper County, the youngest official surveyor in the colony of Virginia. By 18 he had parlayed the earnings into nearly 1,500 acres of Shenandoah Valley land in his own name, bought outright, while boys his age back east were still reciting Latin in heated parlors. The man who would one day command the Continental Army, defeat the largest empire on earth, and then voluntarily refuse a crown, did not learn leadership in a lecture hall. He learned it at 16, in a tent, in the dark, hundreds of miles from anyone who could save him.

She was twenty-eight years old and the most photographed woman in Las Vegas. Hollywood was bidding for her time. Elvis Presley had been in love with her. Frank Sinatra wanted her in his orbit. Every studio in town was offering her contracts she could not say no to. Her doctors had just told her that her husband Roger had a degenerative neuromuscular disease that was going to slowly take his body away from him. Her agent told her to keep working. Her friends told her she was too young to be a full-time caregiver. She fired the agent. Her name was Ann-Margret. In the middle of the 1960s, Ann-Margret was the kind of famous that made cameras malfunction. She had been born in Sweden and brought to America as a child, and somewhere along the way she had become the woman every studio in Hollywood was trying to put under contract. Elvis Presley had fallen for her on the set of Viva Las Vegas. Frank Sinatra wanted her in his orbit. The Las Vegas residencies, the film offers, the recording contracts kept coming in. She was iconic before she was thirty. And she was tired. Hollywood is very good at turning people into products. Ann-Margret had been inside the machine long enough to recognize that she had become one. When she walked into a room, people saw a brand. When she did publicity, her smile started to hurt from holding it for the cameras. When she went home, she was alone with the version of herself the world wanted her to be. In 1965, she met Roger Smith. Roger had been famous first. He had been the lead of one of the biggest television shows in America, 77 Sunset Strip, and he had the chiseled jaw and the easy charm of the kind of leading man Hollywood produced in those years. He also had three children from a failed marriage and a quiet, growing exhaustion with the business that had made him a star. When he met Ann-Margret backstage, he did not treat her like a conquest. He asked about her family. He noticed when she was uncomfortable. He saw, with what seems to have been a kind of instant and accurate clarity, the person underneath the product. They married on May 8, 1967, in a small ceremony in Las Vegas. There was no press. No fanfare. Just a quiet decision between two people who had figured out how to be honest with each other in a city that was not built for it. A few years into their marriage, Roger began dropping things. Coffee cups. Car keys. His words began to slur. The diagnosis, when it finally came, was myasthenia gravis, a neuromuscular disease that would slowly take his strength, his coordination, and eventually his clear speech away from him. There was no cure. There was only one direction the disease moved, and that direction was down. Ann-Margret was at the absolute peak of her career. Her agent gave her the speech. Other managers gave her the speech. Some of her friends gave her the speech. You are too young to become a full-time caregiver. You have too much talent to waste. He has children of his own who can step in. This is not your responsibility to carry. She fired the agent. What people on the outside did not understand was that Roger had been quietly saving her life since the day they met. When predatory producers had circled her, Roger had been the wall between her and people who wanted to use her up. When she had doubted her own worth, Roger had been the person who told her the truth. When fame had made her feel like a beautiful piece of merchandise, Roger had reminded her that she was a person, and that the person was the part that mattered. He had given her the space to be vulnerable, to be imperfect, to be seen. Now it was her turn. Ann-Margret restructured her career around Roger's illness. She turned down film roles that required long stretches on location. She canceled concert tours. She rearranged her Vegas residencies so that she would never be away from him for more than a few days at a time. When his speech became hard to follow, she became his voice in business meetings, finishing his sentences not to talk over him but to translate him for the rest of the room. When he could no longer walk on his own, she helped him walk. When he could no longer perform some of the public functions of being her husband, she made the public functions optional and kept the marriage private. Hollywood watched, fascinated and a little horrified. This was not how the story was supposed to go. Young beautiful actresses were not supposed to give up their careers to care for sick husbands. They were supposed to move on, hire help, find a younger and healthier partner. Ann-Margret did none of those things, and she did not explain herself, and she did not apologize for the choice. She simply stayed. It helped, probably, that what she was doing did not feel like sacrifice from the inside. It felt like the natural continuation of a decision she had already made on May 8, 1967. He had chosen her when she had needed someone to choose her. She was going to choose him back, every day, for as long as it took. She had no biological children of her own. She raised Roger's three children as fiercely as if she had given birth to them. She showed up at graduations, at weddings, at the births of grandchildren. She did not try to replace their mother. She simply added herself to the family, again and again, until being there had become so steady that the children stopped noticing it as a thing she was choosing to do. The disease took its time with Roger. It took his mobility. It took his ability to speak clearly. It eventually took most of his physical strength. But it did not take the thing that had made them a couple in the first place, which was the way they looked at each other. Roger Smith died on June 4, 2017, at the age of eighty-four. He and Ann-Margret had been married for fifty years and a few weeks. She did not issue a dramatic statement. She did not seek sympathy. She mourned the way she had loved, quietly, mostly out of view of the cameras, with the same private dignity she had carried through the entire marriage. Hollywood is built on illusion. Ann-Margret and Roger Smith spent fifty years inside it building the only real thing the place had.

Femi Gbaja: A Specimen of Loyalty, Gentility, and Competency Let us start by saying that we have both worked in the Presidency twice, and it is our informed opinion that hardly any Chief of Staff to the President has been as effective as Mr. Femi Gbajabiamila. From our experience and vantage points, what does effectiveness as a Chief of Staff to a President look like? The answer is that it involves managing the day-to-day affairs around the President and facilitating the executive function of the Commander-in-Chief, so that the Principal can focus on leadership rather than management. And over the last three years, this has been done brilliantly. Which, perhaps, explains why President Bola Tinubu publicly expressed his confidence in his Chief of Staff. Gbajabiamila has used access to process progress for the President, his party, and the nation. It is why multiple Governors from various parties, different geopolitical zones, and diverse cultural backgrounds have publicly testified to the efficacy and impact of the Chief of Staff. Let's take some samples: The Delta State Governor, the Right Honourable Sheriff Oborevwori, himself a former Speaker, like Mr Gbajabiamila, described the CoS as a "seasoned administrator." The Gombe State Governor, Muhammadu Inuwa Yahaya, depicted the Chief of Staff to the President as a "patriot" who brought 'immense legal and political acumen to the Presidency.' While the Osun State Governor, Ademola Adeleke, a member of the opposition, portrayed him as an "exceptional administrator". In terms of organisational prowess, he is at a near-genius level. And this may have to do with his experience as Speaker of the House of Representatives for four years. And his impeccable people skills are why 2019-2023 was the most rancour-free period in the House of Representatives, and why 2023 to date is the ONLY period in Nigeria's Fourth Republic without Executive/Legislative tension. His ability to look beyond his own interests to project, protect, reflect and advance the President's interests is commendably legendary. Even with his busy schedule, he has still found time to use his social media presence and relationship network to highlight the positive work the Tinubu administration has done. Not done. Has done. That is a first for a Chief of Staff in this clime. And if you have ever studied media and communications professionally, as I have, you will know that effective branding involves projecting positive things that are already happening. A government is most complimented when it displays what has been implemented, not what is being contemplated. He is a Muslim, and a practising and quite pious Mu'min. Yet, on Easter 2026, he, together with his family, came together for Easter Lunch, putting to shame those who said the Muslim-Muslim ticket of President Bola Tinubu and Vice President Kashim Shettima was for the purpose of Islamising Nigeria! And that is why it pains us that anyone would try to use mischief to bring down this Chief. And this is why we say that our support for him is solid. Those who know, know that Nigeria is better because of your service to the Commander-in-Chief. Carry on the good job. Be encouraged. Your presence in the present is excellent, and you are very much appreciated. Chief Femi Fani-Kayode, Ambassador Designate to South Africa, Mr. Bemigho Reno Omokri, Ambassador-Designate to Mexico.

Speaking at the Africa CEO Forum Presidential Panel yesterday evening in Kigali, I re-emphasised that Africa must put Africa first whilst creating opportunities for intra-Africa collaboration between our countries. Our continent cannot build scale by looking outward first. We must invest in one another, trade more with one another, build the corridors that connect our markets, ensure our innovative youthful population get the support they need, and give African businesses the confidence to expand across African borders. Nigeria’s reforms are not only about fixing yesterday. They are about preparing our economy to lead in the Africa of tomorrow. With AfCFTA, digital trade, shared infrastructure, stronger logistics, commodities exchange, and deeper private sector partnerships, we can turn Africa’s population and resources into real continental prosperity. The global risk and financial architecture must also give Africa a fair deal that recognises our local nuances and contexts. I thank my brother, President Paul Kagame, for his warm hospitality and for Rwanda’s continued leadership in showing what discipline, clarity and execution can do for development. Nigeria will continue to work with Rwanda and other African partners to build a continent that produces more, trades more, connects better, and competes with greater confidence in the world. Africa’s future will not be handed to us. We must build it, own it, and defend it together. ~ Bola Ahmed Tinubu, GCFR

Compare How President Tinubu and Peter Obi Answered Similar Questions. Who Between Them Would You Trust To Handle Your Own Money? Be Honest!