A friend from Akure who is entering the political scene wrote this beautiful essay in the aftermath of the death of the Deji of Akure. Fayanju's enthusiasm portends the positive passion young intellectuals are bringing into the political terrain.

Akure
I will advise you all not to fritter away your precious and non-recoverable time bellowing into empty spaces hoping there is someone up there who is capable of delivering all your requests. There is no such one anymore or anywhere; God is dead, for if God were alive, the world would not have come to such a miserable, deplorable and sorry state it has. And when we talk about religious beliefs and traditional values;; they are the promoters of slavish morality that is pervading the world today. These are the words of a minister of God who is very gifted in the area of breaking bad and undesirable news. But when misfortune befell with all its excruciating strength; he recanted.
I remember I once said something close to this in import on the 12th of December 1986 when my brother AJibola Collins Fayanju died in a road accident weeks after he celebrated his 27th birthday.
In my agony, i pleaded to God to put an immediate and permanent closure to all things in existence because I knew I would never be happy again. I also knew I would never forget the day and I have not forgotten for a day, but never thought I could ever recover; nevertheless, time spread its calming layers of dust on my frail being and I eventually recovered.
Jibola’s death shook a house that was full of fun to its foundation; the house has not fully recovered from the suddenness of his passing which has apparently disrupted the family business, plans and aspirations of every individual in it so enormously. Jibola was a superb painter and prolific graphic artist and as a convener of people, his death struck so heavily that his friends never gathered together again. He died and took music and other forms of creative art away from our house. Although he died young; he left behind a consolatory trademark that is inherent in most geniuses who silently breeze into the world, demonstrate signs and hurriedly leave before the ovation is loudest. Jibola made us proud as much as his death caused us pain. He was like a giant cockerel waiting to crow at dawn, but the dawn never came and the cockerel never crowed. If you say that is my family problem; you are entitled to your opinion and you may be right after all.
There were many talented musicians in the South west in the sixties and the early seventies but Wale Glorious was evidently a little ahead of his contemporaries in the music industry in terms of style, musical composition, lyrical expertise, sense of instrumentation and delivery of entertainment in general. I could not have known him for I was only three years and some months old when he died; even as young as I was, I remember faintly a day that people were trooping towards the New Central Hotel to catch a glimpse at him perform. I remember as well with mixed feelings of happiness and sadness the near ethereal pieces of sound of music filtering out of the hotel as I was listening in my father’s shop on the other side of the road.
However I grew a little older before I realized my people lost a priceless jewel the day he passed away. Please do not be surprised as I am that there is no single monument; whether a statue, cenotaph or ceremony in honour of the man who has beaten others to the propagation of the image of Akure and her people to the farthest ends of the earth. Is it not sad that no single individual has risen to his height till today amongst us, he left with music and the social light of Akure shone down with him? We are here relishing pounded yam and vegetable soup while the resourcefulness of Wale is being celebrated all around the world. An Indian music enthusiast brought Wale’s work to light in a musical exhibition in faraway Stockholm in the late nineties. This definitely as you can see; is not my family problem.--------
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eeyah!