THE CITY OF ERUKU ON THE WORLD MAP
~BY JIDE J. OMOTINUGBON

Growing up in the City of Eruku in the sixties, (well, we call our town Eruku City) we knew of no other world beyond what life bestowed on us. We went to the stream to fetch waters and to swim. We went to the farm to cultivate the farmland. We hunted for rodents and crickets. We rolled the bicycle tires around. We rode the rented bikes. We participated in the local wrestling competition. And as times went by, we started going to school. I, as with most of my mates, did not start elementary (primary) school until the age of eight. We knew of no other world. As time passed, we began to realize that there were other worlds beyond the city of Eruku as evidenced by the commercial lorries bringing strangers in on market days to sell and buy things. The market days back then were held nine days interval. We saw new faces and new things. We began to realize that there were other things around the world beyond our town. While still in elementary school, we travelled to Koro and Oke-Opin for inter-house sports competitions including games of soccer and athletics. Those were the worlds we knew. The first time I had the “luxury” of going beyond the vicinity was my final year in elementary school when I travelled to Zaria en route Ilorin.
During the major festivals, we saw the whole town filled up with indigenes based outside the town. We heard stories of towns where they were, to make money. We heard of Ilorin, Zaria, Kaduna, Lagos, Ibadan and some other places. We heard stories of tapped water, electricity, tarred roads and other exotic things. We learned in social studies and later, in geography, the names and location of places on the map. Big towns within and outside the country but Eruku was never placed on any of those maps. We began to dream. We were wondering when and if ever our town would develop and be renowned. Just dreaming. No sooner, we had a secondary school built through communal efforts. That was in 1969. Students came from all over even people who did not speak Yoruba – all the way from Ebira-land and Igala-land which used to be part of the then Kwara State.
Dreams. Our dreams remained on what could we do to place the name of our town on the map. We read and studied some books. We listened to radio. Heard the names of some political leaders (mainly military.) We dreamt of joining the military when we grow up. Dreamt of reading law. Or become engineers. Do whatever it takes to get the name of our town on the map. It was slow. Painfully slow. Until now, it was like the town did not exist. Everything we have in the town was mainly through communal and church efforts: elementary schools, secondary schools, cottage hospitals etc. Whenever the government decides to intervene, it would put up some structures with no human to man them. We were, for example, once promised tapped water and a dam was to be built and before we knew what was happening, the bridge connecting our town to the next one, Koro, was blown off the river that was to be dammed! That created some enmity between us and our next-door township neighbor who thought the Eruku people did them bad.

We did not do really bad in terms of efforts at growing and developing our town. We are educated. We had scholars and professionals in every field of life. A few of them found their ways into government and governance which raised our hopes that, finally, our dreams were coming through. Not exactly. Because they still did not put the name of our town on the world map.
The most common trait of anyone born or raised at Eruku is resilience. The cognomen and clarion call of every Eruku born and bread is as follow:
Eruku Nain o! Eh O! (All true born of Eruku! Yes! We’re here!) Aru bain boo? (Are you scared?) Aru e b’eiye oko! (The bird is not scared of the wilderness!) Omo Eruku Mesi – (The true son of (Oyo) Mesi) Yi kee s’aru l’Oyo (Who is not a slave in Oyo) Omo Eruku ba ti woo ko l’are, ija mon rii da! (When anyone from Eruku tells you that an issue is no longer a joking matter, then the next step is to fight!)

Fast forward to the 21st century when street names and names of towns and individuals can be easily located through google and artificial intelligence. Every once in a while, when we type in the name of our town, a thing or two pops up. Now, it is more than that!

Tuesday, November 18, 2025 finally was the day that the name of Eruku made it to the world map. Not in the best way we have been hoping. If not for an innocuous livestreaming of the church program, showing people being herded including Mama Emiola, (Iye Ade whose residence is directly in front of our family house) the event of that day would have passed like any other and just adding to the statistics of the rampant kidnappings going on in the country. But not when Eruku was about to be put on the world map. It touched everyone’s nerves, nationally and internationally more so those of us who have family members among those that were kidnapped.

First, it was my spouse’s home church, the Christ Apostolic Church (CAC Oke Isegun) where her late mother was the choir’s matron. Everyone calls her Iye Akorin (choir’s matron.) Then her aunt (the one following Iye Akorin) was at the church service but released by the bandits after a short walk apparently due to old age. Then my niece, Titilayo Balogun (Nee Omotinugbon.) Then another niece’s son, Ebenezer Aina. Then Grace Moyeni Balogun, my spouse’s classmate in high school. Then, two Iyabo’s related to my spouse through marriage. Then ‘Molola my brother-In-law’s niece and her son. ‘Molola’s older sister was killed in an earlier attempt at abduction while coming from a wedding. At that time, ‘Molola was shot in the arm and was still recuperating from that dastardly event when she was kidnapped with the others right inside the church. There were two high school teachers among those that were kidnapped. I did not know all the thirty-eight now free abductees but I do know someone who knows someone who knows someone. Not to forget that three of the church attendees were killed and among those that were killed was the spouse to one of the abducted women who would only be learning of her spouse’s death on her release.

I am a psychotherapist listening almost on a daily basis to the traumatic experience of individuals. I have had patients whose stories cannot be retold anywhere because they were not believable. They are better imagined. And one of the freed abductees said as much in a TV interview when he said that their experiences were unimaginable. What gave me sleepless nights were how these victims would deal with the trauma. Is it the fear of going to church? The fear of hearing sounds that remotely sounds like a gun? Fear of being in a crowd or being alone and isolating? And we have not even heard their stories. The experience a seven-year old or a sixty-four-year-old went through. (The age-range of the abductees was seven to sixty-four.) And we are not even used to being in therapy in our environment. Sad.

I tried not to dwell into the politics but taking politics out of governance is like (as someone once remarked) taking mathematics out of physics. The only representative we have in government is the ward councilor! No board member of any parastatal. No commissioner. No adviser. No member of the state or federal assembly. In other words, we do not have anyone close enough to talk to those governing us. And yet, every election cycle, they seek for votes and the community is always divided about which of the major parties to support. Not until the incident, I have never heard of any visit made to the community by any top government official including the governor. Now, those of us not living in the community are advised not to come home due to “security reasons.”

And talking of security, why has it been difficult for the Nigerian government to devolve the security apparatus? How can someone from the Northern or Eastern part of the country be made the Divisional Police Officer (DPO) of a remote town in Kwara State? How much is the remuneration of a police officer that would require him being transferred from Adamawa to Enugu? It does not make any sense. None whatsoever. What we know of in normal clime is county (local) police where those recruited into the force are from or reside in the areas where they are policing. They know the terrain. They know the people. Intelligence gathering would be easier. I have never heard of the Inspector General of Police in United States of America! Not even in Britain, our colonial lord. There are other security arms that could be federalized like the department of state security (DSS.)

I am really veering off. I hope the Kwara state government would be kind enough to give us, the people of Eruku, some hearing by putting one or two members of our community close enough to the process of governance so we will have the opportunity to whisper our demands to the government. At the expense of repeating ourselves, we have professionals across the board. We also have political gladiators that would fit in anywhere. Now that our beloved Eruku is now nostalgically on the world map, we are appealing that we be given the opportunity to have a sense of belonging.

Odi: Anatomy of a Massacre.

By George Omagbemi Sylvester | Published by saharaweeklyng.com

How a Town Was Razed, Lives Erased and Justice Delayed.

On 20 November 1999 the Nigerian state executed a punishment that resembled collective vengeance more than lawful policing. The small Ijaw town of Odi, in Kolokuma/Opokuma Local Government Area of Bayelsa State, was invaded by elements of the Nigerian Armed Forces after the killing of policemen in the area. In a matter of hours soldiers razed whole neighbourhoods, drove survivors from homes and (WITNESSES, HUMAN-RIGHTS INVESTIGATORS and CIVIL SOCIETY WOULD LATER CONCLUDE) killed scores, perhaps hundreds, of unarmed civilians. What happened in Odi was not the chaotic excess of a firefight but a punitive operation with consequences that still HEMORRHAGE through the Niger Delta’s memory and politics.

The immediate provocation was gruesome: in early November 1999 an armed group killed a number of policemen (INITIAL ACCOUNTS MOST COMMONLY RECORD 12). The federal government, under President Olusegun Obasanjo, demanded swift action and publicly warned state authorities to apprehend the perpetrators. Within weeks, soldiers were deployed to Odi. According to a meticulous Human Rights Watch investigation, troops engaged in a brief exchange of fire with young men alleged to have killed police officers and then proceeded to raze the town—burning houses and markets, destroying property and, according to multiple eyewitness accounts, shooting civilians.

Human-rights organisations that visited Odi in the weeks that followed produced chilling findings. Human Rights Watch concluded that “the soldiers must certainly have killed tens of unarmed civilians and that figures of several hundred dead are entirely possible.” Amnesty International described large-scale killings in Odi as part of a pattern of reprisal operations by security forces across the Niger Delta and warned that such actions “CAN ONLY BE DESCRIBED AS A KILLING SPREE.” Those words matter: they move the event from a contested battlefield incident into the territory of extrajudicial atrocity.

Estimates of the death toll remain contested and politically charged. Official figures released in the aftermath were tiny (reportedly in the dozens) while local leaders, activists and some environmental and human-rights campaigners have given far higher numbers. Veteran environmental activist Nnimmo Bassey has claimed that nearly 2,500 civilians died; Human Rights Watch considered “SEVERAL HUNDRED” a plausible range based on interviews and ON-THE-GROUND OBSERVATION. The divergence of these figures is not a trivial statistical quarrel: it is a symptom of the opacity that cloaked state action, the absence of credible independent inquiry at the time and the subsequent failure to account publicly for the scale of violence inflicted on a civilian population.

Beyond deaths, the qualitative testimony from survivors is devastating and consistent: entire compounds were set ablaze, shops and boats destroyed and families plunged into sudden, permanent displacement. The Human Rights Watch report also documented allegations of sexual violence in nearby locations and recounted how access for journalists and human-rights observers was restricted; an obstruction that compounded the difficulty of independent verification and allowed impunity to calcify. The imagery of Odi (smouldering roofs, gutted houses, children made homeless) became for many a symbol of the Nigerian state’s willingness to use overwhelming force against its own citizens rather than pursue accountable law enforcement.

Years later the Nigerian courts provided a measure of juridical recognition of the harm done. In February 2013 a Federal High Court in Port Harcourt ordered the Federal Government to pay N37.6 billion in compensation to the people of Odi for the destruction of lives and property during the 1999 invasion. The judgment condemned the government for brazen violations of the victims rights to life, movement and property. That ruling was a formal acknowledgement that something grievously wrong had occurred and that the state bore responsibility. Yet even that legal breakthrough was followed by delay, partial payment and controversy: the government later negotiated an OUT-OF-COURT SETTLEMENT and paid N15 billion, a figure the community and observers regarded as inadequate relative to the court award and to the scale of loss.

Why Odi matters today is not only a matter of historical memory. The massacre sits at the intersection of three abiding pathologies in the Niger Delta and in Nigerian governance: RESOURCE PREDATION, MILITARIZED responses to social unrest, and the ritual of impunity. The Delta’s oil wealth has created both ENORMOUS NATIONAL REVENUE and LOCAL EXCLUSION; when communities demand accountability or protest environmental ruin, the response too often has been securitisation rather than DIALOGUE. Where policing fails or is seen to fail, the military’s intervention (ostensibly to restore order) has been used in ways that punish whole communities for the crimes of a few. Odi is an emblem of that pattern.

Scholars and activists have framed Odi not as an aberration but as a flashpoint in a broader crisis. Human-rights groups warned at the time that unchecked military reprisals would deepen grievances, spur cycles of revenge and radicalise parts of a region already suffering environmental collapse and economic marginalisation. That prediction proved accurate: the years after Odi saw the escalation of militant, criminal and protest activity in the Delta, including attacks on pipelines, kidnapping for ransom and the rise of organised militant groups; responses that have cost lives, damaged Nigeria’s oil economy and made a stable political settlement more remote.

What, then, is justice in the Odi story? A court order and a monetary settlement address part of the harm, but they do not RESTORE LOST LIVES, return the DEAD or compensate the LONG TAIL of social and psychological damage. Justice would also require transparent criminal investigations and prosecutions of those who gave and carried out unlawful orders, full reparations that are community-led and accountable, memorialisation that affirms the victims dignity, and institutional reforms to prevent recurrence. Human-rights organisations in 1999 urged such reforms; fourteen years later the court’s verdict validated the claim that the state had violated rights and owed redress. Yet the state’s partial payment and the absence of robust accountability for perpetrators have left a scar that official rhetoric cannot heal.

Odi’s lesson is blunt and uncomfortable: a democratic government that tolerates or obscures large-scale abuses by its security forces weakens the moral and legal foundations of democracy itself. If citizens (especially the poorest and most marginalised) are treated as dispensable, the social contract frays. The Niger Delta’s continued restiveness is a reminder that neither oil nor court rulings alone will buy peace; political inclusion, genuine development and institutions that answer to law are indispensable. As Human Rights Watch warned at the turn of the century: unchecked reprisals encourage further abuses and radical responses.

The memory of Odi persists in SONG, POETRY and TESTIMONY; it is invoked by activists demanding accountability and by families who still live with the aftermath. True closure requires more than commemoration: it requires a commitment from the Nigerian state to truth, accountability and systemic reform. The court’s 2013 judgment was a step—but steps without direction are merely gestures. The people of Odi deserve the full measure of justice: reckoning with what happened, prosecutions where warranted, truthful public record and reparations that rebuild the physical and moral fabric of the community. Anything less would be a betrayal of democracy and a testament to a brutality we pretended to have outgrown.

As we remember Odi, we must demand that the state confront its past. It is not enough to pay a portion of a judgment or to tuck atrocity into legalese and move on. If Nigeria is to be a nation that protects its citizens, it must be willing to investigate the crimes committed in its name—and punish them without favour. Only then will Odi’s burned houses and silenced families be honoured by more than memory: they will be honoured by the knowledge that the state learned, changed and guarded the sanctity of every civilian life.

*How Adaobi Alagwu and her Mother Turned Tunde Ayeni Into a Meal Ticket*

A fierce undertow runs beneath the sensational rumours of Adaobi Alagwu’s reconciliation with her estranged lover, Tunde Ayeni: it is that Ms. Alagwu and her mother, Adaora Amam, are shameless gold diggers who have turned Ayeni into their meal ticket. While Ayeni is far from blameless, the picture painted by close observers shows a calculated, deeply dependent relationship extended over years, not out of love, but out of financial survival and strategic leverage.

Sources close to the matter claim that Adaobi receives a monthly allowance from Ayeni ranging between N500,000 and N1 million, enough to underwrite much of her and her mother’s lifestyle. Even amid estrangement, she and her mother reportedly continue to occupy Ayeni’s properties: houses in Abuja, residences near his business facilities, and other assets he makes available for their use. Ayeni has become the anchor for a parasitic ecosystem, one that gladly tolerates public humiliation, controversy, even court battles, as long as the cash keeps flowing.

That ecosystem thrives on dependency. While Ayeni has publicly tried to reject or disown Adaobi even signing legal affidavits; she refuses to let go. She clings, because Ayeni remains her primary source of wealth and access, and because, despite multiple ruptures, he continues to fund her lifestyle. Her persistence goes beyond love or delusion: it looks like calculated survival.
Worse still, Adaobi has not confined her emotional life to Ayeni alone. Reports suggest that she has entertained multiple relationships with other men while still leveraging her connection to him. Such rumors, whether fully verified or not, point to a disconcerting reality: she may well treat Ayeni as the central pillar upon which she stages her social and material existence.
Her mother, according to several accounts, has played an even more troubling role: not as a protective parent, but as a strategist who both encourages and benefits from her daughter’s closeness to Ayeni. Insiders describe her as a woman who uprooted her life, abandoned her marital home, and relocated specifically to one of Ayeni’s houses at Plot 48, Mike Akhigbe Way, in Jabi, Abuja, while her daughter, Adaobi occupies Ayeni’s DD38, Lakeview Estates, off Alex Ekwueme Way, also in Abuja. For instance, Madam Adaora reportedly urged Adaobi to conceal vital truths at the beginning of her ill-fated romance with Ayeni, like her pregnancy, in a desperate bid to stretch the relationship’s limits until they could extract maximum advantage.

These findings are sharpened by commentary on a wider generational shift: wealthy older men who once wielded control in quiet, private ways now find themselves entangled with younger, digitally empowered women who understand emotional leverage, financial access, and social capital in ways their predecessors did not. The story of Ayeni, Adaobi, and her mother is not simply a private scandal. It is a dramatic confirmation of how power, money, and dependency have reconfigured contemporary relationships.
From those who know the players, Adaobi Alagwu was never cast in the role of a rescued young lover. Rather, she is portrayed as someone who recognized early that proximity to Ayeni could carry long-term benefit, and then positioned herself accordingly. Observers close to their circle say she never saw him merely as a romantic interest, but as an opportunity.

Evidence supporting this theory is public enough. Ayeni has reportedly provided her with a steady monthly stipend, and insiders claim she was still receiving those transfers even during times of public scandal. In some of his more revealing interviews, he has admitted regret, speaking of manipulation, entitlement, and emotional blackmail from Adaobi and her family.

According to those familiar with the situation, Adaobi never hesitated to dress elegantly and visit Ayeni’s office repeatedly, smiling through the awkwardness of knowing his wife was equally in Lagos. For years, whispers circulated about multiple men linked to Adaobi within their social circles, yet her mother continued to champion Ayeni as the ultimate catch. She even advised her daughter not to call him on weekends because “he would be with his wife in Lagos.”

When the secret “engagement” took place, an event without photographs at Ayeni’s insistence, the mother readily played along. Even after Ayeni questioned the child’s paternity, she would regularly show up at his office to beg. Ayeni would later remark that her requests had become routine, including asking for “One Million Naira for prayers.” And when he demanded the return of the bride price, she casually asked if it should be done formally or simply “arranged.”

Despite scolding from her husband’s kinsmen, she persisted, reportedly touring Abuja and introducing her daughter as “Mrs. Ayeni,” while simultaneously benefiting from his resources: a UK scholarship for her second daughter, and a lucrative job at NDHPC for her son. It became an ecosystem of dependence disguised as aspiration.
But money alone does not capture the full picture. According to Adaobi’s friends, her entanglement with Ayeni was never limited to transactional affection. They say she saw him as a source of security — not only financial, but social. The house she occupies, the staff who serve her, the status she carries in Abuja’s elite circles, all are attributed to her tie to him. Even when denied formal recognition, she continued to leverage that connection, refusing to relinquish it in word or deed.

At the height of their conflict, Adaobi’s mother allegedly pleaded with Ayeni to replace phones he had smashed, begged him for forgiveness when tensions threatened to boil over, and attended his office dressed elegantly to maintain visibility. One insider described the mother as “elaborately fearless,” someone who seemed unbothered by moral judgment and more focused on results.

To many of her critics, Adaobi does not simply want the luxury; she wants permanence without commitment. She appears to wield her dependence like a tool, playing on Ayeni’s guilt, his resources, and his public image, insisting on her place even as he insists on distancing himself. Her ability to remain physically present — living in his properties, frequently visiting his homes even after public fallout — distinguishes her from someone fighting for recognition, and aligns her with someone determined to preserve her access at all costs.

This orchestrated dependency, according to critics, reveals a moral erosion: not simply an opportunistic family, but one that has conflated ambition and entitlement, love and leverage, access and principle. The mother’s involvement complicates any argument that this is a romance gone wrong: it suggests a deeply embedded system of exploitation.
For Ayeni, the consequences have been serious and sustained. He once called this entanglement “one of the darkest moments” of his life, describing the family as his “greatest regret” in a televised interview. He accused both Adaobi and her mother of manipulation, emotional blackmail, and an unending sense of entitlement.
There have also been legal and reputational battles. Adaobi reportedly filed statements with the police, claiming harassment and intimidation. Ayeni’s camp, for its part, has denied several of her claims, painting a picture of a relationship replete with contradictions: on one hand, deep emotional entanglement; on the other, relentless exploitation.

Her friends say she blocks well-intended advice. Several have reportedly urged her to break free, reclaim her dignity, and build something independent of Ayeni. According to those close to her, she has gradually shut out those voices, preferring the access she still enjoys to the uncertainty that comes with cutting ties.
The question every critical observer is asking is simple: What is Adaobi really getting from keeping this connection alive? It is not only about the monthly stipend, though that is substantial. Beyond the cash, she benefits from physical spaces; houses, staff, and other material resources; that have enabled her to maintain a high-profile lifestyle without fully exposing vulnerability.
But the most baffling, most bewildering character in this entire sordid saga is Adaobi’s mother, the woman who flamboyantly calls herself Mrs. Princess Adaora Amam. She does not merely enable her daughter’s disasters; she escorts her into them with the confidence of someone utterly divorced from reality.

How does a woman who left her first marriage under scandal, and is knee-deep in crises with her second husband in Lagos, abandon her matrimonial home, her last claim to dignity, to go nest in her daughter’s lover’s house? And not just any lover: a fully married man, decades older, who has publicly humiliated them both, questioned the paternity of her granddaughter, and repeatedly denied them.
Yet instead of directing their rage at the person dragging them through the mud, Adaobi and her mother face the wrong direction entirely, charging at Ayeni’s wife, his girlfriend, and his associates with the fury of people determined to fight everyone except the man actually insulting them.
And floating above all this chaos is Madam Adaora’s grand delusion: the laughable insistence on calling herself Princess. A princess of where, exactly? Which kingdom? Which throne? Which lineage? Her behaviour alone betrays the truth. No woman born of pedigree behaves like this.
Her refusal to leave, even as her relationship with Ayeni deteriorates, signals a deeper truth. According to insiders, she has made a choice: humiliation is acceptable so long as stability remains. Rather than sever the bond, she persists. Rather than walk away, she tightens her grip.

The comparison to Regina Daniels’ widely publicized separation from Senator Ned Nwoko, by high society pundits, is particularly instructive. Unlike Adaobi, Regina walked away. Despite being younger and under intense scrutiny, she publicly asserted her worth, insisted on respect, and, when lines were crossed, removed herself from an untenable relationship.
Adaobi’s trajectory, by contrast, appears less about self-worth and more about dependency. While Regina seized agency, according to critics, Adaobi opted for survival, or at least the semblance of it. Where Regina’s exit was viewed by many as an act of self-respect, Adaobi’s tenacity has drawn condemnation as greed dressed in resilience.

Some commentators argue that Adaobi sees the relationship as a business, not a partnership. They suggest she took the same calculation approach that many ambitious people adopt in their careers: find a powerful benefactor, extract value, and secure long-term access.

What underlies this drama is a broader generational shift in how relationships are negotiated. Wealthy older men like Ayeni are no longer simply partners or benefactors; they are nodes in networks of social capital, power, and financial leverage. Younger women who grew up in a digital age, surrounded by public platforms and audience economies, understand this dynamic intuitively. They navigate relationships not only with hearts, but with spreadsheets: what I give, what I get, when I leave, whether I stay.
Adaobi and her mother, by many accounts, represent a sophisticated expression of that shift. They do not simply want to be loved; they want to be sustained. The stakes are both emotional and materially existential. They see Ayeni not just as a lover, but as an investment, a resource and the base of a lifestyle that may not be replicable elsewhere.
Their critics argue that the emotional intimacy has become secondary. What remains primary is the access: to money, property, and influence. They suggest that Adaobi’s repeated attempts to hold on, despite deep fractures, betray a transactional logic more than a romantic one.
Ayeni, on his part, is hardly a victim without agency. Even after describing his regret publicly, acknowledging both his culpability and the cost of their relationship, he is desperately seeking to reconcile with Adaobi. His critics, though, claim he misreckoned the depth of the desperation and ambition of both Adaobi and her mother.

Ayeni and Adaobi’s back and forth with each other certainly fits into a recurring pattern: powerful men drawn into emotionally volatile situations with younger women, only to be drawn back again. He appears to warn people publicly, justify himself in interviews, and attempt legal recourse, but those close to Adaobi say he has never severed the financial flow entirely.

This repeated dynamic raises deep questions about power: who has it, who uses it, and who sustains it. Ayeni wields resources; she wields proximity. He controls access; she exploits dependence. Their relationship becomes a site of perpetual negotiation, not of love, but of leverage.

And the moral cost is heavy. Whether one condemns her for her persistence or pities her for her dependence, the truth remains that their arrangement reflects a broader decay in relational trust. It suggests that love and money no longer occupy separate domains, but bleed into each other until the boundaries blur.
Adaobi Alagwu and her mother may be perceived by many as shameless gold diggers, but their strategy has been frighteningly effective. Through repeated demands, strategic positioning, and a refusal to relinquish access, they have turned Tunde Ayeni into a financial anchor for their ambitions.

When compared to the likes of Regina Daniels, who walked away from a high-profile political marriage with her dignity intact, Adaobi’s path reads less like a tale of emancipation than a study of calculated dependence. The contrast underscores a generational shift: whereas older norms emphasized discretion and commitment, newer norms exploit visibility and leverage. Adaobi and her mother appear to have mastered this new terrain, surviving scandal, humiliation and rejection because they view Ayeni not simply as a partner but as their lifeline.

If anything, their story demands that Nigerians examine more than their moral outrage. It calls for reflection on the power dynamics that govern modern relationships, especially when wealth, gender and ambition converge. It demands accountability for those who exploit, yes, but also for those who enable. Because the cost of this kind of symbiosis is not just personal, but societal: a corruption of affection, a redefinition of loyalty, and an erosion of trust in an age where money and love are dangerously intertwined.