It all began on a quiet Sunday, September 5th, 1976, at Ijebu Ife Community Grammar School, Ijebu Ife, Ogun State.
You were just 11. I was 12. And in that ordinary moment, an extraordinary journey began. We didn’t just become friends. We became each other’s destiny.
From that day, our lives fused like melody and rhythm. By 1978, we were already visiting each other’s homes, yours in Akerele, Surulere, mine in Idioro, Mushin, sharing not just meals or jokes, but values, love and an unspoken understanding that this bond would stand the test of time.
Holidays were sacred. That was when we became football pilgrims, never missing a match at the old UAC football ground, now Teslim Balogun Stadium, or at the grand National Stadium in Surulere. We were always in the crowd, cheering, laughing, and living. But we weren’t just watching football. We were shaping memories that would last a lifetime.
Your mother, Mama, an angel in human form, welcomed me as her own. She worked at Cadbury, and through your provisions, I tasted my very first cornflakes and Bournvita. I came with gari, sugar, and Nido, things you never quite fancied. But in those little differences, our friendship only deepened.
Our provisions were always locked in my locker, but our hearts were always open. We wore the same clothes, bought together from Ojuirin, Yaba.
From 1976 till now, anyone who saw one of us asked after the other. We were the twins who were not twins.
But our bond was more than innocent youth. It was vibrant, electric, and alive.
We did everything boys do before life settled into suits, careers, and responsibilities. We partied. We laughed. We lived loud. You were the heartbeat of every gathering. And I? I was your DJ and photographer, spinning music that moved the crowd and capturing every heartbeat through my lens.
But fate made me the man behind the camera. So, while the memories live on, my face rarely appears. I was always the one making sure yours did. And I wouldn’t change a thing. Because every flash of that camera was a celebration of you, of us, of a friendship most men can only dream of.
You never let distance steal our rhythm. Even when I moved abroad, our brotherhood only grew stronger. You bought the Ileya ram for Iya Seri, my mother, year after year. She called you her son, not out of courtesy, but from deep, genuine love.
Your children call me “Second Daddy.” And your wife? She is family, bone of our bond.
I remember May 11th, 1987, the night we embraced before my flight. And May 12th, when you stood there with love in your eyes as I boarded the plane. I left Nigeria, but I never left you. Our conversations never stopped. My friends abroad became yours. Yours became mine. Our bond became a beacon.
And when life got hard, when I had no ticket, no money, you sold your shares just so I could return to the UK. And when I told a client to give you the money for a job I did, you didn’t keep it. You gave it away to someone in greater need.
Because your heart is bigger than your title. Your soul is richer than any crown.
Today, people celebrate you not just because you’re a Governor. They celebrate you because you are “Oga Jide”, the rarest kind of man. A true Omoluabi. A man of honour. Of grace. Of depth.
I’ve spent 61 years on this earth, and 49 of them have been with you by my side. That is a blessing beyond gold, beyond diamonds, beyond politics or position.
Your counsel, your calm logic, your deep wisdom, they are my compass. And your nickname? Oga Jide. That’s what I still call you. Because long before Lagos knew your name, I knew your essence.
As you step into your 60s, may God crown you with greater peace, deeper wisdom, and everlasting joy.
May your light never dim. May your legacy rise higher than the tallest mountain.
My brother. My hero. My twin soul. My Oga Jide.
Aṣéyí ṣ’ámodún ni aṣé Ọlódùmarè.
I am forever, Your brother.
Dayo Adedayo
