By Sola Adeola

I learned that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. Nelson Mandela

There are moments in the life of a nation when the true character of a person is revealed not by the office he occupies, not by the wealth he possesses or the influence he commands, but by what he does when power suddenly comes within his reach.

Sometimes, the most important decision a person makes is not the decision to take or accept power, but the decision to walk away from it.

Years ago, I sat across a Nigerian jurist whose story brought this truth home to me in a way I have not forgotten. I was listening to the account of a distinguished legal career, the use of office to build a cohesive and vibrant society, et al, and gradually the conversation moved beyond the courtroom. It became a story about a country in political turmoil, a democracy under pressure and a moment when an extraordinary proposition was placed before a man who could easily have allowed history to take him in another direction.

The country was The Gambia. The political atmosphere had become tense following the 2016 presidential election. The result had created an extraordinary constitutional and political crisis. The incumbent, Yahya Jammeh, had initially conceded defeat to Adama Barrow but subsequently rejected the result. The question was no longer simply who had won an election; it was whether the country would successfully navigate a peaceful democratic transfer of power.

And somewhere in the middle of that uncertainty was a Nigerian serving as the country’s Chief Justice.

Then came the proposition that could have altered the course of his life and perhaps his place in African political history. The opportunity to serve as interim president suddenly became an option. It is difficult to imagine what such an offer could mean to a human being. Political power is one of the most intoxicating forces in public life, especially in the African continent where leaders often sit tight in office.

Men have spent entire lifetimes pursuing it. Some have sacrificed friendships, family, reputations and principles to obtain it. Others, having tasted it, have found it almost impossible to relinquish.
But this man said no.

He chose to preserve the democratic process in a continent where leaders have too often sought to cling to power. That Nigerian jurist was Justice Emmanuel Fagbenle.

That revelation, for me, transformed the story from an interesting episode in African political history into something much more profound. It became a story about character. It became a story about restraint.

It became a story about the meaning of public service. And, ultimately, it became a story about what Nigeria chooses to remember.

Justice Fagbenle had served in The Gambia’s judiciary for years and rose to become its Chief Justice in 2015. His tenure coincided with one of the most difficult periods in the country’s democratic history.

He eventually recused himself from matters connected with the political crisis and resigned from the office in January 2017. He came home to give and account of his stewardship.
Then silence!!!

This story of Justice Emmanuel Fagbenle is therefore not merely about the judicial position he occupied, It is about what happened when the boundary between judicial authority, political uncertainty and personal opportunity became extraordinarily blurred.

That is where Mandela’s words about courage acquire a different meaning. Courage is not always about standing in front of an angry crowd. It is not always about making a dramatic speech or confronting an obvious enemy. Sometimes courage is the quiet discipline to recognise that an opportunity, however attractive or however tempting, may not be yours to take. Sometimes courage is saying no, when everyone around you might expect you to say, yes !

And perhaps that is why certain lives deserve to be preserved in the national memory of a country.

America (USA) understood the power of national memory long ago. Its capital is filled with monuments and memorials that has kept the stories of the life of extraordinary Americans in constant public consciousness. The purpose is not simply to remember the dead. The monuments exist to educate the living. The message is simple. This person lived; this person served; this person sacrificed; this person stood for something.

What do you stand for? What will you be remembered for?

A monument, therefore, is not merely a structure of stone. It can be a national lesson. A memorial can become an instruction t o succeeding generations.

Nigeria needs to think more deliberately about this.

We often wait until our remarkable citizens are far gone before we fully embrace and acknowledge their worth. While they are alive, we often overlook them, assume their contributions will be remembered one day, or simply move on to the next person occupying the centre of public attention.

Then death comes. Then suddenly, everybody remembers.

Then the tributes begin. Then the photographs appear. Then speeches become magnificent. Words such as icon, patriot, statesman, national treasure and great son or daughter of Nigeria begin to circulate.

Even the government of the day may suddenly ask, “Why didn’t anyone bring his matter to me before now?”
By then, it is too late!!!

Why must death be the event that finally makes us recognise greatness?

Why should a person have to die before the country tells him, thank you, or tell him or her that their life mattered?

There is something profoundly powerful about recognising people while they are alive. About recognising conducts or services worthy of emulation. It gives the country an opportunity to say to an exemplary citizen. We saw what you did. We understand the significance of your contribution. We appreciate the example you have given us.

More importantly, it gives the younger generation an opportunity to meet with such people, listen to their experiences and understand that greatness is not necessarily measured by wealth, political office or influence.

This is not merely sentiment. It is nation-building.

George Washington offered one of history’s most remarkable examples of the relationship between leadership and restraint. After leading the American forces to victory in the American Revolutionary War, he surrendered his military commission rather than hold on to power. Years later, after serving two terms as president, he again chose to retire. In his Farewell Address, he described his continuation in office as a sacrifice of personal inclination to duty.

The circumstances were entirely different from those surrounding Justice Fagbenle, and the two men should not be equated. Yet there is a common thread: neither treated personal power or personal ambition as the ultimate measure of public service.

That is precisely the distinction Nigeria should be teaching its young people.

We spend so much time showing young Nigerians who is powerful, who is wealthy, who has access to government, who has political influence and who can command the largest crowd.

But how often do we show them the persons who had power within reach and chose restraint? Self restraint for the common good.

How often do we celebrate the persons who could have benefited personally but chose principle over self aggradisement?

How often do we tell the young ones that sometimes the greatest evidence of leadership is not what you acquire, but what you are prepared to sacrifice?

Martin Luther King Jr.’s famous words about his children being judged by the “content of their character” offer another useful standard for thinking about leadership and citizenship.
Character. Integrity. Service.

Perhaps these are the missing currencies in our national conversations.

We have become remarkably comfortable measuring success through visible possessions and positions. But institutions cannot survive on material success alone. Justice requires character. Leadership requires character. Public service requires character. And democracy depends on people who understand that any office is a trust rather than a possession.

This is why the story of Justice Emmanuel Fagbenle should not remain merely a personal recollection.

It deserves to become part of a larger Nigerian conversation about the people we recognise, the values we reward and the examples we place before the next generation.

We should recognise those who defend our institutions.

We should recognise those who protect the integrity of their offices and the Integrity of the nation of Nigeria as an entity.

We should recognise those who refuse to exploit moments of national vulnerability for personal advancement.

And we should recognise those who demonstrate that public service is not simply about what the country can give you, but about what you are willing to give your country.

There is, however, another dimension to recognition that Nigeria has not sufficiently explored. What do we do with such people while they are still alive? A country that genuinely values experience must know how to deploy it.

Justice Emmanuel Fagbenle should not merely be remembered for what he did in The Gambia. Nigeria should consider finding an appropriate national role for him, subject of course to his willingness, where his experience, judicial knowledge, national development and understanding of democratic institutions can continue to serve the country.

It could be through constitutional or judicial reforms, democratic governance, ombudsman, mediation, conflict resolution, institutional strengthening or advisory functions on matters of justice and the rule of law.

The point is not to give him an office simply because he deserves a reward. It is to recognise a national asset and allow his experience to continue serving the country.

This principle should not apply only to Justice Fagbenle as a case in point. Nigeria is filled with retired justices, diplomats, academics, civil servants, security professionals, administrators and other citizens whose institutional experience could still contribute to national development if the country deliberately create channels for it.

We should stop treating retirement from public service as the end of relevance. Experience is a national resource. Wisdom accumulated over decades should not simply disappear from public life because a person has left formal office. This is where recognition becomes more than ceremony. It becomes policy.

Imagine a young Nigerian sitting in a hall with an experienced jurist who once stood at a historic crossroads and chose principle over power .

Imagine that young person hearing directly from him what it felt like to have extraordinary political power within reach and still decide that it was not his place to take it. That is an education no textbook can fully provide. The young person may leave the room thinking differently about power.

Perhaps more importantly, that young person may begin to understand that there are moments when saying no can be an act of patriotism. That is how exemplary lives reproduce themselves. Not because everyone becomes exactly like the person they admire, but because they inherit a principle.
One person chooses integrity.

Another sees it.

Another young person hears the story. Years later, that young person finds himself or herself in a position of influence and remembers what was taught not through a lecture, but through the example of someone who lived it. That is how a national culture of integrity is built.

Nigeria does not lack remarkable citizens. What it lacks is a sufficiently deliberate system for identifying them, documenting their stories, celebrating their contributions and, where appropriate, continuing to benefit from their experience. We should not wait for their obituary before writing mega tributes. We should not wait for their funeral before expressing gratitude for the lives well spent. We should not wait until an extraordinary Nigerian is gone before suddenly discovering that his or her life was extraordinary.

Recognise them while they can still hear us.

Learn from them while they can still teach us.

Engage them while they can still serve.

Document their stories. Preserve their testimonies. Bring young Nigerians to meet them. Where appropriate, build memorials and name institutions after those whose contributions deserve to become enduring national lessons.

And when they eventually die, let their memories live on not merely in marble plaques, but in the character of the people they inspired. Because the greatest monument to a hero is not a statue. It is a generation that chooses to live by the values that made that person worthy of remembrance. Justice Emmanuel Fagbenle’s story therefore matters far beyond one man and one political crisis.

It asks Nigeria to reconsider what it means to be a hero. Perhaps a hero is not always the person who reaches the highest office.

Perhaps a hero is sometimes the person who reaches the edge of extraordinary power and understands that there are things more important than possessing it. Perhaps Nigeria should begin to ask itself a different question. Not merely who are our heroes?

But are we recognising them early enough; learning from them deeply enough; and using their experience wisely enough?

Nigeria does not suffer from a shortage of remarkable citizens. It suffers from a culture that too often notices remarkable people too late.

And perhaps that is the lesson Nigeria must begin to teach again. Power can make a person important. But character determines whether that person is worth remembering. 

Adeola is a governance, security and public affairs analyst. He can be reached via:

[email protected] 07010006666.