By Moses Jolayemi
There are men you can reach but cannot quite get through to, and there is Dele Alake. With him, the telephone can be a most humbling instrument. You call, it rings, and nothing happens.
You try again, and still nothing. You send a message, and the silence that follows can be so profound that you begin to wonder whether you have the right number, or whether your name has somehow disappeared from his directory of consequential relationships.
Do not despair just yet. You may be dealing with a man who has perfected the art of being conspicuously unavailable without necessarily being emotionally absent. Just when you have concluded that your friendship has been consigned to the archives, your telephone rings. It is Dele Alake! Calling you out of the blues, as though the last time you spoke was yesterday. And then, astonishingly, you discover that you have been on his mind all along.
Welcome to the Dele Alake paradox.
At 70, which he attained on October 6, Nigeria’s Minister of Solid Minerals Development remains a study in contradictions. He can be maddeningly difficult to reach and wonderfully delightful to converse with. When he grants you his time, he does so with such generous abandon that a telephone conversation can stretch into hours, almost as if he were making up for the months of unanswered calls. A physical encounter is equally delightful, although ministerial responsibilities have understandably made such moments shorter and more precious.
The man is, in his own peculiar way, an acquired experience.
Many who know him would readily testify to his reluctance to dispense attention on demand. He is not one of those who confuse friendship with perpetual accessibility, nor does he appear persuaded that every ringing telephone represents an emergency deserving his immediate attention. With Alake, even a message must sometimes earn the right to be read. Its reasoning must be sufficiently compelling, its purpose elevated enough to arrest his attention. Sentiment alone may not open the door; a well-constructed argument stands a better chance.
It can be frustrating, certainly. But there is a method, perhaps, to this apparent madness. Alake is an intellectual who likes his mind engaged. He seems more interested in the substance of an argument than in the urgency with which it is delivered. Unfortunately, the rest of us have bills to pay, opportunities to pursue and problems that refuse to wait for a philosophical examination of their merits.
Still, one learns that being ignored by Dele Alake is not necessarily the same as being forgotten by him. And that distinction can be everything.
There is, however, one loyalty that has consistently stood above the clamour of competing expectations: his loyalty to President Bola Ahmed Tinubu, his principal and, in the President’s own words in his birthday message,
“my confidante, brother, and buddy”
This is perhaps the most misunderstood—and, for some, the most exasperating—dimension of Alake’s public life. His devotion to the President is so pronounced that other relationships and expectations can appear to occupy a distant second place. Friends may wait. Associates may wonder. Even Ekiti, his state of origin, may sometimes be left contemplating the possibilities of what might have been.
One cannot help wondering what Alake might have accomplished for Ekiti had he deployed to its development the formidable intellectual resources, cosmopolitan exposure and international connections at his disposal. It is a legitimate question, not an accusation. His loyalty to Tinubu has been a defining choice, and history will judge both the strength of that commitment and the opportunities that may have been sacrificed at its altar.
For now, the President’s description of him as a confidante offers a revealing glimpse into a relationship whose depth transcends the usual calculations of political convenience.
Yet there is another Alake, one who emerges when the demands of office recede and the formality of public life gives way to friendship. This is the Alake who can point you towards a path, explain what lies ahead, and then leave you to your fate with the disarming instruction: get on with it!
No elaborate promises. No lengthy assurances. No succession of telephone calls to ask whether you have arrived safely at the destination. He has shown you the road; the journey is yours.
The road may be rough, the terrain unforgiving and the obstacles formidable. Nevertheless, he expects you to find your feet and excel. Is this tough love, a test of character, or an expression of his confidence in the person he has chosen to assist? Perhaps it is all three.
Alake may simply see in others the capacity he recognises in himself. He knows that success is rarely delivered on a platter, and perhaps believes that people must sometimes be left alone to discover the strength they did not know they possessed. His method may not win him a popularity contest, but it can leave a lasting lesson: assistance should create capacity, not dependency.
And then, there is the Alake who understands that life is not meant to be endured exclusively in the pursuit of achievement. It must also be enjoyed.
Beneath that formidable exterior lies a proper _jayejaye, an omo Eko gangan_ who understands the philosophy of living well. Long before his buddy became President, Alake knew how to show a friend the finer side of life. He could introduce you to the hidden corners of East London, where carefully marinated, peppered Aparo—Sparrow, as the connoisseur might explain it—could accompany some of the finest cognac in an exclusive lounge.
He has an appetite for quality, whether in conversation, cuisine, travel or the good things of life. And he makes little apology for it.
While some of his privileged contemporaries were content to travel in the lowest-end economy cabin, Alake had discovered the pleasures of first class. He understood early that if one must undertake a journey, the experience need not be an endurance test. There is something quintessentially Lagosian about this disposition: enjoy life when you can, because tomorrow has its own uncertainties.
Yet, for all his accomplishments and privileged access, Alake is not given to advertising himself. One might reasonably have expected a milestone birthday of this magnitude to inspire elaborate celebrations across London, Dubai and New York. This city has long figured prominently in his international life. But one suspects that, confronted with such expectations, his response would be characteristically dismissive: “Omo, it’s just another day jor!”
And that, quite possibly, would be the end of the discussion.
At 70, Alake has much to be grateful for. His journey suggests that favour and preparation are not mutually exclusive. Yes, God has been kind to him. But divine favour appears to have met a man equipped with the intellect, discipline, ambition and relationships to recognise opportunities and make something of them. He has not merely been carried by the currents of fortune; he has, in many respects, prepared himself to navigate them.
That is why he should not be envied as much as he should be studied and emulated. The lesson is not that everyone must adopt his temperament, his peculiar communication habits or his uncompromising loyalties. It is that intellect must be cultivated, relationships must be built, opportunities must be recognised, and whatever advantages life confers must be matched by preparation and purpose.
Still, as he enters his seventh decade, there is one small request his friends and admirers might respectfully place before him.
Dele, please make yourself a little more reachable. Not every unanswered call is an act of betrayal, and not every message is an attempt to impose on your generosity. Sometimes, the person calling simply needs a word of encouragement, a little direction or the reassurance that the relationship still matters. And sometimes, the opportunity you could unlock with a brief conversation is precisely the one that might change a life.
You have demonstrated that you can remember people even when you have not spoken to them for months. Imagine what might happen if a little more of that remembrance were translated into timely attention.
Ekiti, too, might yet benefit from a more deliberate investment of your extraordinary gifts. So might the many younger people who look up to you, some of whom may never have the privilege of receiving one of those unexpected telephone calls.
For a man who has spent much of his life opening doors, perhaps the next phase is about helping more people find the handles.
Happy 70th birthday, my brother.
May the years ahead bring you good health, peace, fulfilment and the satisfaction of seeing your ideas bear even greater fruit. May you continue to enjoy the finest things life has to offer, without losing the simplicity that allows you to dismiss a landmark birthday as “just another day”.
And may those of us who have occasionally wondered whether you still remember us be pleasantly surprised, once again, by the ringing of our telephones.
Because, with Dele Alake, that call may come when you least expect it.
And when it does, you may discover that you were never quite forgotten after all.
