by Agbonmagbe Kazeem
“He was brilliant. He was powerful. And he knew it perhaps a little too well”
Chief Olabode Akanbi Thomas was the kind of man Lagos produced and the world noticed. Born in 1919, educated in London alongside legal giants like FRA Williams and Remi Fani-Kayode, he co-founded Nigeria’s first ever law firm — Thomas, Williams and Kayode on Jankara Street, Lagos. He became Minister of Transport. A founding member of the Action Group. A rising political star who, at just 34 years old, had already achieved what most men couldn’t in a lifetime.
But there was another side to him. Behind the sharp legal mind and the tailored suits was a man whose arrogance had become legendary. Judges winced at his conduct in court. Colleagues kept their distance. He was called brilliant, yes but also a bully.
And on the 22nd of November, 1953, that arrogance walked him straight into something he could not argue, legislate, or lawyer his way out of.
It was a routine meeting of the Oyo Divisional Council. Now, to understand what happened in that room, you have to understand what the Alaafin of Oyo represents. The Alaafin — meaning “Owner of the Palace” — is not simply a king. He is one of the most sacred and revered thrones in all of Yorubaland, a seat of power that stretches back centuries to the height of the Old Oyo Empire, one of the most powerful kingdoms West Africa has ever known. To disrespect the Alaafin was not just a social misstep. In Yoruba tradition, it was a spiritual recklessness, the kind that elders warned young men about in hushed tones.
Bode Thomas either did not know this, or did not care.
He arrived at the meeting and as he entered the room, every man rose to greet him. Every man, except one.
Alaafin Adeyemi II. King of Oyo. A man in his sixties, seated with the quiet authority of royalty that needed no validation from a 34-year-old lawyer.
Bode Thomas looked at the king and did the unthinkable. He challenged him. Publicly. Rudely. Demanding to know why the Alaafin had not stood up for him like the others.
The room went cold.
The Alaafin did not shout. He did not raise his hand. He simply looked at the young man before him and said, calmly, in Yoruba:
“Shey emi ni o n gbo mo baun? Emi ni o n gbo bi aja mo baun? Ma gbo lo.”
“Am I the one you are barking at like that? Am I the one you are barking at like a dog? Keep barking.”
In Yoruba culture, words carry weight that goes far beyond their syllables. The elders say “Ẹnu ni ibon àgbàdo” — the mouth is the gun of the corn. What a man of power speaks over you does not simply hang in the air. It follows you home.
Bode Thomas went home that evening.
And then he started barking.
Through the night, witnesses said he barked like a dog. Uncontrollably. Desperately. As though something had seized him from the inside and would not let go. No medicine. No reason. No explanation that the modern world could comfortably offer.
By the morning of November 23, 1953, Chief Olabode Akanbi Thomas — lawyer, minister, co-founder of Nigeria’s first law firm — was dead.
He was 34 years old.
Some said poison. Others pointed to darker, older forces — the kind that Yoruba tradition has always acknowledged quietly, the kind that live in the space between the seen and the unseen. Nigeria has always existed at that intersection. Between what can be proven and what is simply known.
Today, there is a street in Lagos that bears his name. A reminder that no title, no education, no political office can substitute for the one thing that Yoruba culture has always demanded above all else — ọwọ̀, respect.
He was told to keep barking.
He did.
Some lessons were never meant to be forgotten.
“THE HISTORIAN”
AGBONMAGBE REMILEKUN KAZEEM
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