BY BABAFEMI OJUDU
I have been around long enough to gather a fair share of lessons. Some experiences, no matter how far back, refuse to fade. They return, insistent—as if demanding to be told—perhaps because they carry meaning beyond the moment in which they occurred.
This is one of such stories.
Some years ago, a powerful political godfather was determined to deny a sitting governor a second term. Ironically, in the eyes of the public, the governor had performed exceptionally well. His work spoke for him. Yet power, as we often see, does not always bow to performance.
I was asked to go and appeal to the godfather—to speak, if possible, to his conscience.
When I arrived, I was confronted with a most unsettling sight. Men of stature—leaders in their own right, fathers and even grandfathers—were on their knees, pleading. Among them was a widely celebrated musician. It was a scene that diminished everyone present. Power had reduced dignity to supplication.
But that is not even the heart of the story.
In the midst of the appeals, one of the prominent figures spoke. His words have stayed with me ever since.
“Please, oga, have mercy on us. If we lose this election, it will be bad for all of us.”
Then he added, almost as an afterthought—yet revealing everything:
“I have been flying business class. I don’t want to return to economy.”
He even gestured his discomfort at the thought.
I quietly drew the godfather aside and spoke to him frankly. It was an uncomfortable conversation, but it helped in easing the impasse.
In that moment, however, the veil had already lifted.
This was not about the people. Not about governance. Not about the continuity of good work. It was about comfort—personal comfort.
The tragedy of our politics is often not in the absence of intelligence or experience, but in the poverty of perspective. When those entrusted with influence reduce public decisions to private convenience, the collective inevitably suffers.
There is a deeper lesson here—one that goes beyond politics.
Even when we think about ourselves—and we all must, to some extent—we must never lose sight of the larger community. Leadership, at any level, demands that the general interest outweigh personal gain. The moment self becomes the primary lens through which decisions are made, decline sets in—quietly at first, then all at once.
That man would later seek higher office. Not long after, he passed on.
Today, he flies neither business class nor economy.
Life, in its own way, restores perspective.
And perhaps that is the ultimate lesson:
The things we fight hardest to preserve for ourselves are often the least enduring. What truly lasts is the impact we make on others—and the extent to which, in moments of choice, we placed the common good above our own comfort.