Big Man, Bigger Mess

In the annals of Nigerian political history, there are men whose lives become legends, whose presence defines eras, and whose influence shapes the imaginations of generations. Some are remembered for their intellect, some for their charisma, and others for the sheer scale of what they amassed. Late Otunba Christopher Adebayo Alao Akala belonged to the last category. He was a man of “Oyato”—different, distinctive, dramatic. A retired police officer who traded his baton for the sash of governor, he strutted through the corridors of Oyo State politics like a monarch through his palace, gold chains jingling, skin glowing, and motorcade streaming behind him like a river of authority.

Yet, as history and the present remind us, being a Big Man comes with responsibilities, many of which Alao Akala apparently underestimated. Because when January 2022 came, and the “Atmosphere” of Ogbomoso descended into the cold silence of a mausoleum, the world he had built did not pause. Instead, it erupted, dragging his legacy into courtrooms, DNA tests, and injunctions, turning his lifetime of accumulation into a spectacle of absurdity.

A Man Who Encircled the Earth

The late Alao-Akala did not walk the land. He encircled it. He collected properties like others collect stamps. A plot in Ikoyi, a mansion in Asokoro, hotels in Ghana, dwellings in London, thirty-five properties in total, spanning three continents. Each title deed seemed to say: “I am Big, I am permanent, I am the land itself.” He was a modern Tolstoyan Pahom, but while Pahom collapsed under the strain of greed, Otunba motorcaded across his empire, seemingly invincible.

And yet, all this acquisition, all this grandeur, all this brilliance, has been reduced to a courtroom drama. The properties, once symbols of success, are now exhibits in a family war that reads more like a gothic Nollywood script than a real-life estate dispute.

Here is the first critical question: How did he amass all this property without the scrutiny that any public office holder should face? Were these legitimate ventures, or did influence and access play a role in creating a private empire from a public office? If a governor can own hotels across continents while managing a volatile state (then), what does that say about the intersection of politics and private wealth in Nigeria? And if no one asks, does that mean we’ve normalized impunity as long as it’s gilded in charm and charisma?

The Mausoleum Litigation

The crowning absurdity is the request by his first daughter, Oluwatoyin, to exhume his remains for DNA testing. This is not for commemoration or even closure – it is to verify whether six other heirs, including a sitting member of the House of Representatives, are genetically entitled to inherit. Think about that for a moment. To determine ownership of property, a court may need to dig up the deceased. A man who once commanded armies of supporters and presided over civic ceremonies may now be asked to provide a cheek swab from beyond the grave.

The scene is almost Shakespearean in its grotesque irony. Otunba, the man who built a mausoleum to rest in peace, might soon find himself in a laboratory, his legacy measured in DNA sequences and legal affidavits rather than respect and remembrance. One has to ask: What does it mean for a society when the dead must be summoned to testify through their genes? And more importantly, what does it say about the living heirs, whose ambition has eclipsed even basic filial decency?

Big Man Syndrome and Its Pitfalls

The saga of Alao Akala is a quintessential illustration of the “Big Man” syndrome that pervades Nigerian politics. Status is measured by the number of title deeds, the height of perimeter walls, and the shine of one’s jewellery. Influence is equated with moral authority. Yet, wealth without foresight is just a trap for the next generation. The mansions in London, the hotels in Accra, the plots in Ikoyi and Asokoro—assets meant to secure family and legacy—have become the instruments of public embarrassment and private animosity.

How many Nigerian elites have we watched amass empires, only to see their children fight over bricks and tiles in courts rather than honour their memory? When does the accumulation of wealth become less about security and more about spectacle? Is this the inheritance we aspire to leave behind, or is it merely a blueprint for litigation?

History offers caution. From the kings of old Oyo, whose palaces were fought over by heirs, to modern political dynasties collapsing under the weight of ambition and entitlement, the pattern repeats: accumulation without planning sows discord. The bigger the Big Man, the bigger the mess.

The Philosophy of Land and Legacy

Tolstoy’s Pahom teaches that a man dies chasing more land than he needs, only to end in a six-foot grave. Otunba reached the horizon, bought it, and built shopping malls on it. Yet, as of March 2026, the “land” has turned on him. The court injunction freezes the properties, and his heirs threaten to turn his tomb into a courtroom stage.

So, one must ask: Does a man ever truly need all that land? Is legacy measured in square meters, or in the peace that survives after death? Can influence, wealth, and status substitute for planning, clarity, and familial respect? If the very estate meant to provide security has become a battleground for entitlement, what value did all the accumulation hold in life or death?

Philosophically, this is a biting mockery. We glorify accumulation as proof of greatness, yet we neglect the quiet disciplines that give it meaning: a valid will, clear instructions, and heirs capable of restraint. What is the point of building a dynasty if its foundations are cracks waiting for litigation to exploit? How much of what we consider success is merely a stage for our eventual humiliation?

The Public Spectacle and Private Tragedy

The Alao Akala estate has become a national spectacle. Hotels, mansions, and properties once symbols of achievement now dominate headlines as props in a farcical courtroom drama. The Big Man, who dazzled in public life, has left behind a private circus. The public watches, both amused and horrified, as a man’s legacy is litigated rather than celebrated.

Is this not a mirror of our society? We celebrate grandeur, charisma, and influence, while ignoring the fundamental lessons of foresight, planning, and ethics. We admire Big Men in life, then mock their families in death. How much wisdom do we truly impart, and how much do we simply applaud spectacle while ignoring substance?

The Final Irony

As the court prepares for the next hearing, the lesson is stark. You can own half of Bodija, two-thirds of Asokoro, hotels abroad, and multiple mansions, but if you leave your house in disorder, your children will turn your tomb into a courtroom. The bigger the Big Man, the bigger the mess.

If exhumation occurs, the late Governor will provide one final service: a philosophical reminder that land cannot be taken beyond the grave, and if you fail to designate inheritance, lawyers eventually become the ultimate beneficiaries. In the end, a man needs little: a competent estate lawyer, a valid will, and children capable of letting him rest.