Of Praise, Power And The Unmoved Man

Femi Akintunde-Johnson

Despite a surly-lipped harangue by a writer in this space who lambasted and mocked potential laudatory treatise on a larger-than-life personality, and yet transformed from excoriation to a lavish adoration and systemic metaphysical exploration of same man’s persona – in his own unbridled effusiveness – and then added another billionaire benediction for maximum effect, all without a scintilla of restraint or shame, we go ahead with the needful. Jobless interlopers may hug transformers for all one cares.

 Now, to the matter. What is the frame of mind of a man who does not respond to praise?

It is an unsettling question in a society that thrives on applause, rehearses adulation, and often confuses noise for substance. Here, a compliment is rarely just a compliment; it is a currency, a bridge, a coded request. You hail, I hail back. You spray, I kneel. You praise, I acknowledge. It is a rhythm as old as the marketplace.

So when a man consistently refuses to dance to that rhythm – when praise meets a wall of silence, or at best, a polite indifference – it unsettles the ecosystem. It feels like a breach of cultural contract. It raises suspicion. Is it pride? Is it affectation? Is it disdain? Or is it something far more deliberate?

In reflecting on the life and persona of Michael Adeniyi Agbolade Ishola Adenuga Jr. (as he marks his 73rd birthday on Wednesday, 29 April, 2026), one is drawn less to the familiar litany of wealth, assets and corporate conquest – well documented, well rehearsed, and frankly, well exhausted – and more to this curious detachment from applause. A man so widely praised, yet so sparing in his response to that praise, presents a study in contrasts.

 Let us be clear: silence in the face of adulation is not emptiness. It is often a choice. There is, first, the possibility of internal anchoring. Some individuals operate from a deeply private scoreboard. Their metrics are not headlines, not social chatter, not even industry validation. They measure against targets only they can see, and timelines only they can interpret. In such a mental space, public praise becomes peripheral – pleasant, perhaps, but hardly decisive. It neither accelerates their pace nor alters their direction.

Then there is discipline – emotional, almost surgical. To react to praise is to admit that it has power. And if praise has power, then criticism must, by extension, have equal or greater power. The truly disciplined mind flattens both. It neither rises on ovation nor crumbles under censure. It simply continues.

This is not to romanticise detachment. It is to recognise it as a method. In the Nigerian context, where visibility is often mistaken for value, such restraint can appear almost unnatural. Our public figures are expected to acknowledge, to wave, to speak, to perform gratitude in visible, sometimes theatrical ways. Even humility is expected to be loud. A quiet man, therefore, becomes a puzzle.

But there is also a strategy in silence. Power, real power, rarely advertises itself. It does not need to. It understands that attention attracts not only admiration but intrusion, expectation, and, inevitably, contestation. To remain understated is to retain control – of narrative, of access, of self. It is to decide when to be seen, and more importantly, when not to be.

Those who have encountered Adenuga’s style – often through intermediaries, rarely through direct access – speak of a man who appears and disappears on his own terms. Engagement is selective. Recognition is quiet. Generosity, when it occurs, is frequently detached from spectacle. It is philanthropy without the drumbeat, intervention without the press conference.

And that brings us to a more uncomfortable layer of this conversation: the nature of praise itself. In many cases, praise is not innocent. It is negotiated. It seeks entry. It anticipates reciprocity. It flatters in order to position. A man who has navigated decades of high-stakes business, regulatory complexity, and competitive rivalry will, by instinct or by experience, develop a filter for such overtures. One way to neutralise transactional praise is simply not to engage it. If you do not respond, you do not owe.

Yet, it would be simplistic to conclude that such a posture is purely strength. Silence can also be armour. It can signal caution, even distrust. A man who does not respond to praise may also be a man who has learned, perhaps the hard way, that not all applause is goodwill, and not all goodwill is safe.

There is, too, the element of upbringing and early conditioning. Environments where excellence is expected, not celebrated, tend to produce individuals who do not hinge their sense of worth on external affirmation. Achievement becomes routine. Applause becomes optional.

But beyond psychology and strategy, there is something almost philosophical at play – a long-game orientation that renders the present moment less intoxicating. Praise, by its nature, is immediate. It celebrates what has been done, often without full understanding of what it costs, or what remains to be done. For those thinking in decades, even generations, such moments are fleeting interruptions, not destinations.

And so, the man continues – building, expanding, retreating, re-emerging – largely unmoved by the chorus around him. This is where the narrative becomes particularly Nigerian, and perhaps, ironically humorous.

We are a people who like our gratitude acknowledged. “Yin ni yin ni, k’ale se mi,” the elders would say – (express your thanks, that you may receive more). It is a neat, almost transactional philosophy of appreciation. Yet here stands a figure who appears to invert that logic entirely: give, but do not wait for thanks; receive praise, but do not validate it.

 It unsettles the rhythm. It leaves beneficiaries – some of whom have quietly experienced life-altering interventions – holding gratitude that has nowhere to land. Letters written, messages sent, emissaries dispatched, all in pursuit of a simple human closure: thank you, sir. And yet, the silence persists.

Is this indifference? Or is it a deliberate refusal to turn generosity into performance?

One might argue that in a culture increasingly addicted to spectacle – where even modest acts are amplified for social capital – the refusal to monetise goodwill through visibility is, in itself, a statement. It suggests a hierarchy of values where impact outranks applause, and discretion outranks display.

Still, the question lingers. What does it take, mentally, to remain unmoved in the face of sustained adulation?

Perhaps it takes a certain detachment from the self – the kind that sees identity not in public perception but in private conviction. Perhaps it takes a disciplined narrowing of focus, where everything that does not contribute to the mission is treated as noise. Or perhaps, more simply, it takes familiarity – too much familiarity – with praise to find it novel.

When you have been praised long enough, it loses its flavour. In the end, the fascination is not merely with wealth or achievement, but with temperament. With the ability to stand at the centre of attention and yet remain, in many ways, outside it. To be celebrated and yet unconsumed by celebration. To give and not perform. To receive and not react.

In a country where the loudest voice often wins the room, there is something almost subversive about a man who does not raise his voice.

Whether one interprets that as strength, strategy, or simply personality may depend on one’s own expectations of power and presence. But it is, without question, a rarity.

And perhaps that is the quiet lesson here: that not all influence is visible, not all gratitude is acknowledged, and not all praise deserves a response. Some men, it would seem, have simply chosen to keep walking and working.