A thought of Dele today was like cracking open a time capsule. Boom!
A flood of nostalgic memoirs rushed in, unfiltered and vivid. I caught myself musing deeply, drowning joyfully in the memories of those young, golden moments we shared at Touchstone, especially with our tribe of Dipsy, Marcello, Muyee, Awoo, Caro, and of course… Awoo again (because one Awoo isn’t enough).
But you see, this is more than just a tribute; this is a full-blown ode to friendship, seasoned with jollof memories and garnished with peppered laughter.
Dele, aka Mr. Senator, the man with a heart too large for one postcode – your name echoes in hallways of history, from Touchstone boardrooms to Danfo front seats. You weren’t just present, bro, you showed up – in suits and tie, in rolled-up sleeves, in vibe mode, in mentor mode, even in urgent 2k/ borrow-me-small-cash mode.
From high-powered conference calls to street-smart Yaba tales, from Jevinik’s pounded yam diplomacy to late-night dream scheming in Hilton rooms, our story wasn’t scripted. It was lived– loud, bold, unfiltered, and dripping with that Naija hustle energy.
I remember our many flights together between Lagos and Abuja – airborne philosophers full of ideas. Who could forget the stress and sweet chaos of planning ICPS, an international payments conference for the Central Bank of Nigeria (CBN)? An eight-month marathon of madness and magic. Dele, of course, was the principal actor, holding it down like a seasoned maestro.
You, my guy, defined what it meant to serve, not because it looked good, but because it felt right. Whether it was the groundnut girl bleeding on Little Road, or the chicken you gave to Mama on Montgomery– you did it with your chest.
Your kind of friendship is not by timeline likes or filtered posts. It is by shared bread, shared tears, shared fuel money, and late-night convos about fixing this blessed chaos called Nigeria.
You and Touchstone dudes brought fire to my wedding, gifts to my home, and faith to my grind. I even name-dropped you in my book STEAL IT, calling you “the most offensive replica of a talking machine.” LOL. The audacity! And yet, you still loaned me money to publish that very book, yes, the same book. Wawu! Who does that? Real ones only.
And let’s not forget Touchstone, that dream lab, that creative battleground. We weren’t just colleagues, we were co-dreamers, madmen with purpose, building castles from brand briefs and turning pressure into poetry.
Remember our rides home? Sometimes in a Danfo, sometimes in that sleek white Honda Ridgeline? Remember how we scammed each other into paying bus fare whenever you didn’t drive? Petty wars of brotherhood. The convos were deep: country talk, God talk, dream talk. You always said you wanted to serve, not your pocket, but Naija, the land of dreams.
And I believed you.
We were mad enough to make friends with touts and conductors at the Yaba and Cele bus stop. One Danfo driver even habitually reserved our front seats like VIP. That was the level of our craze.
Oh, and yes, your nickname is Senator. I don’t know where it started. Maybe Covenant University, or later at Lagos Business School. All I know is you wears it like a badge, and live it like a calling.
Dele, you’re more than a friend. You’re family. A brother from another bloodstream. A co-conspirator in the Lagos hustle and the Naija dream. Through stress, laughter, suya nights, and street wisdom, we built something real. Something sacred.
So here’s to you, Mr. Senator.
To friendship that rides through Lagos traffic with gist, joy, and jollof.
To dreams powered by grit, God, and good people.
To laughter that echoes from Touchstone corridors to Transcorp hotel rooms.
To the ones who give—not because they have everything, but because they are everything.
Na man you be.
And as Lagos lights keep dancing and the hustle drums beat on, know this: our memories are monuments. Not marble, but moments. Not statues, but stories. And my brother, your story is still being written — with love, with laughter, and with that big Senate energy.
Here’s to more madness, and more pounded yam.
Oya, let’s go. Life dey wait, and the next chapter?
E go loud.
