Adewale Adedeji: The Man Who Refused to Inherit Power

Representation is the hardest labour in politics. No one understands this better than Hon. Adewale Adedeji, a reluctant politician who recognises that power is borrowed, governance demands discipline, and politics, long after the campaigns are over, never truly ends. Adedayo Adejobi writes

On a bright Tuesday afternoon, just after 1pm, the gates of a newly inaugurated constituency office in Ifako Ijaiye swing open, admitting a modest procession of aides and security personnel. The moment Hon. Adewale Adedeji steps in, the space settles. He has just emerged from what he describes as his first serious constituency and Community Development Association meeting of the year, one of those sessions that fray nerves, stretch tempers, and remind any elected official why representation remains the most demanding assignment in public life.

Dressed entirely in white, his signature kaftan flowing effortlessly, a matching cap firmly in place, and a now-familiar white beard framing a composed face, Adedeji looks calm rather than drained. It is an image Lagosians have come to associate with him: part statesman, part community man, part political student who never quite left the classroom. He exchanges warm, almost casual pleasantries with the reporter before gesturing towards the staircase. “We should go upstairs,” he says. “It’s quieter there.”

The first-floor office is expansive without ostentation. A solid wooden executive desk anchors the room. Behind it stand the Nigerian flag and another official banner, reinforcing the unmistakable authority of the space. Framed portraits and institutional emblems line the walls, while neatly arranged documents and a few decorative accents soften the formality. Everything suggests order, intention, and a man instinctively inclined towards structure rather than noise.

He settles into his chair and waits patiently as the recorder is switched on.

“Politics,” he begins, “is divided into three.” There are those actively involved in decision-making — holders of power who may never benefit from it personally. There are beneficiaries, often technocrats, convinced they can govern better than those elected.

Then there are what he calls political compensations: grassroots actors, not always formally political, but powerful enough to mobilise communities. “To understand politics,” he insists, “you must first understand where you stand within these three.”

It is an explanation that frames not only his worldview, but his journey. Having just emerged from the constituency meeting, this reporter was curious to find out if this relentless engagement defines his daily routine and whether it ever becomes exhausting.

He answers without hesitation. “Exhausting. Not everybody does what I do.”

To understand why he does it, one must return to the beginning, long before white kaftans and legislative chambers.

“I was born and raised in Ifako Ijaiye,” he says. “I attended Ifako International School and Government College, Ketu Epe, at a time when much of this area was still forest. The Ifako Ijaiye of my childhood bears little resemblance to what exists today. Where bush once stood, land now sells for hundreds of millions of naira. Development arrived aggressively and I insist it did not happen by accident.”

Politics, however, arrived in his life long before development did. “My late father was a formidable grassroots politician,” he says, pausing slightly. “Deeply embedded in local government politics. Widely respected.”

He sighs. “Our relationship was not romantic. We argued constantly about politics. I never wanted to follow this path.”

At some point, he admits quietly, he believed politics contributed to his father’s early death at 66, while serving as a member of the House of Representatives.

For a long time, politics repelled him. Instead, he trained as an Estate Manager, specialising in Facility Management and Urban Logistics. He became an entrepreneur in construction and entertainment, worked at the Lagos Internal Revenue Service, and lived what he describes as a full professional life.

Alongside this, he ran a youth-focused NGO, the Young Achievers Campaign Organisation of Nigeria. “It was there,” he recalls, “while supporting underprivileged youths, that my resistance to politics began to soften.”

“We needed government backing, recognition, and legitimacy. Politics, I realised reluctantly, was not just about power. It was a tool.”

That realisation drew him into mobilisation and campaigning for then-Governor Babatunde Fashola. Through that work, he caught the attention of Asiwaju Bola Tinubu, now the President. He remembers it vividly: a moment in a crowd, a pointed finger, a brief meeting, followed by another later that night in the company of governors. A relationship began, one that would profoundly shape his life.

“I was in London when I received a call inviting me for an interview with Governor Fashola,” he says. “I returned immediately, interviewed, and was appointed Senior Special Assistant on Lands, and subsequently Works and Infrastructure. At the time, my father was also in government.”

Yet neither Asiwaju nor Fashola knew they were father and son. He never traded on lineage. He was never introduced as anyone’s son. Asiwaju never asked. For nearly a decade, he served without that knowledge. It was only after his father’s death that Fashola informed Asiwaju of the truth. The reaction, he recalls, was shock. Asiwaju told him his father was a bosom friend. “I replied simply that I knew.”

“From that day,” he says, “I took Asiwaju as a father.”

He travelled across the country with him through multiple campaign seasons, observing closely, learning without notebooks. “Asiwaju does not teach theory,” he says. “Learning under him is practical, experiential, relentless.”

He describes it as an education vast enough to fill a compendium.

His formal political journey began only after his father’s passing. “I contested for the House of Representatives,” he says. “I stepped down when asked. I waited for another cycle that proved even tougher. Twenty-one aspirants contested for a single House of Assembly seat. Campaigning was brutal. Lobbying was exhausting. Convincing people who neither understood nor cared about legislative work was humbling.”

“People do not vote for competence,” he says pointedly. “They vote for access.”

That lesson reshaped his understanding of representation. In the legislature, unlike the executive, there is no direct control of funds, no contracts to award—only lobbying, persuasion, and appeal. He refuses to call it begging. “Representation,” he insists, “is the hardest part of governance.”

Every morning, he wakes to tens of thousands of messages, mostly requests. At some point, he questioned whether this was the life he wanted. A people-person with executive experience, he initially approached representation like an administrator. The result was the constituency office itself: a sprawling complex with halls, offices, and recreational facilities, open to the public at no cost.

“Still,” he says, “the demands kept coming. Roads. Drainage. Infrastructure.” Like Oliver Twist, he adds with a faint smile, “They keep asking for more.”

He lobbies the Governor, the Deputy Governor, and the Speaker. “I credit God for what has worked,” he says. “Ifako Ijaiye is now ranked among the top ten local governments in Nigeria.”

His technical background informs every aspect of his work. “I learned governance as a civil servant,” he explains, “rotating through nine ministries in rapid succession. Exhausting, yes, but invaluable. At one point, I held two Senior Special Adviser roles simultaneously.”

Upon assuming office as a legislator, his first task was to overhaul transport sector reform laws. He completed the process in two years.

Retained as Chairman of the House Committee on Transport for a second term, he returned to school. “What was the point,” he asked himself, “of chairing the committee without formal training in transport policy?” This is his fourth Master’s degree. “My final examinations begin next week.”

He laughs when asked how he balances his schoolwork with his legislative duties. At 42, he jokes, “the white beard tells the story.” He drives himself to school, wears jeans and T-shirts, and runs errands for classmates who have no idea who he is. “I don’t need an escort. The people are my security.”

School, he says, keeps him grounded. It reminds him of real pain points. Power, he warns, can deceive. Office can make a man forget himself.

Loyalty has anchored him through Nigeria’s shifting political platforms—AD, AC, ACN, APC. “I never left Asiwaju,” he says.

“I helped draft the APC youth wing constitution, participated in the merger processes, and watched him evolve without defecting. That consistency taught me loyalty as a political virtue.”

On youth empowerment, he is unequivocal. “Politics is not a fluke. It must be learned. Power and fame attract attention, but responsibility overwhelms intentions. Asiwaju has always created space for youths. Many who served under him are now ministers, commissioners, even traditional rulers.”

“From Asiwaju,” he adds, “I learned that power is not served à la carte. Resilience. Patience. Strategy. Anger is not a strategy. He watched quietly during years of attacks, learned when to speak and when silence is strength.”

He continues. “If you can prove your point, he takes it. Leadership, to him, is humility backed by conviction.”

As a member of the Lagos State House of Assembly, he says, “I learned that power is borrowed, not owned. Ninety per cent of leadership is for the people.”

His relationship with Speaker Mudashiru Obasa, he explains, is rooted in respect, mentorship, and shared history. “I entered the House determined to learn, not dominate. That decision shaped my legislative maturity.”

Beyond politics, his constituency work reveals the man behind the office: health insurance for widows, quarterly food and cash support for the elderly, thousands of free JAMB and GCE forms, scholarships for top-performing youths, and adult education programmes that have returned hundreds to classrooms and employment. He speaks of these not with pride, but with a sense of obligation.

“I have seen old people cry with joy,” he says softly. “I have seen youths light up at opportunity. I believe hope is tangible. Construction brings jobs. Development restores dignity.”

At home, the story is more delicate. “My wife never wanted to marry a politician,” he admits. “I once pretended to be a banker.”

She endured late nights, betrayals, health scares, and tears she found him shedding alone in his study. “We survived.”

“My children barely saw me for years,” he continues. “Today, I try to reclaim time. Grace makes balance possible.”

The criticism that wounds him most, he says, is forgiveness. “I forgive too easily. I learned it from Asiwaju. It is my weakness and my shield. I heal by seeing others happy, even those who hurt me.”

Beyond titles, beyond office, he wants to be remembered simply. “People-driven. Playful. Human.”