The polymath Nigeria never fully understood: What Nigeria lost in Olunloyo

In memory of Dr. Victor Omololu Olunloyo (1935–2025)

It began like any ordinary meeting—a brief farewell exchange outside the Afenifere Oyo gathering. He looked a little frail, recovering from an illness, and mentioned that he had just been robbed. Robbed? My heart sank. In what kind of society do we now live, that an elderly man—an icon—could be subjected to such indignity?

Yet, even in that vulnerable moment, his mind was sharp, his voice strong, his words deliberate. “Come and visit next Saturday, 10 am,” he said from the comfort of his car that afternoon. We agreed. We showed up. And nothing could have prepared us for the world he was about to unveil.

Stepping into his modest living room in Molete, Ibadan, I was struck speechless. Books—everywhere. On shelves. On chairs. Under the table. Across the floor. The air felt dense with wisdom, as if the very walls had absorbed decades of insight.

And then he entered. Leaning gently on a walking stick, Dr Victor Omololu Olunloyo walked in—not with the posture of a frail man, but with the quiet command of one who had lived several lifetimes in one. It wasn’t long before I realised: I was not just in the home of a former governor. I was in the presence of genius.

A man of over 80 years, he could still recall dates and names with frightening accuracy. He read aloud without glasses. He sang the Hallelujah Chorus from memory. He pulled out his undergraduate and PhD theses—knew exactly where to find them among thousands of books—and recited passages like they were etched into his soul.

This was more than a conversation. It was a masterclass.

He showed us a letter dated 1957 from the University of St. Andrews in Scotland, recommending a grant renewal. He recited Shakespeare—Hamlet, Richard II—not as a performance, but as part of natural conversation. He pulled Yoruba classics off the shelf and read Igbo Olodumare in flawless cadence. He navigated from engineering theories to Yoruba cosmology with ease.

He showed us his music collection: from Beethoven and Bach to Fela and Hubert Ogunde. He pointed at a particular collection and said the singer was Hitler’s favourite composer. He plucked a flower from his garden and explained centrifugal force by mimicking a spacecraft spinning in space.

Dr Olunloyo’s intellect was dazzling, but it wasn’t the kind that demands applause. He didn’t wear it like a crown. He wore it like a tool—a well-worn, often-used instrument for solving problems, making connections, understanding the world.

He began solving those problems early. At Government College Ibadan, he started off behind—placed 21st in his first year, having entered from Standard 5 while his peers had completed Standard 6. But by the time he graduated, he ranked first in his class. He would go on to complete his Higher School Certificate in just three months instead of two years, topping all of Ibadan Province.

At the University of St Andrews in Scotland, he challenged the system itself—petitioning to skip the first year of study. No one had ever dared such a thing. The university made him take comprehensive entrance exams and his scores were impressive: Physics (84), Chemistry (88), Mathematics (98). They had no choice but to admit him directly into second year. He graduated with First Class Honours in Mechanical Engineering and was granted a rare exemption from both BSc and MSc programmes—going straight to a PhD in Mathematics.

Dr Olunloyo’s brilliance illustrates what is possible when talent meets tenacity. When excellence is nurtured. When systems recognise genius. But what happens when a nation doesn’t?

As Rector of The Polytechnic, Ibadan, Dr. Olunloyo brought that same brilliance into public service. We opened our mouths as he regaled us with the details of how he built a road that connected South Campus to the North Campus in just one day. He introduced traffic wardens to improve safety and order on our roads. He launched the first monthly environmental sanitation exercise in Ibadan, a model that spread nationwide.

In 2008, he led a delegation to the African Development Bank (AfDB) in Tunisia to resolve a ₦100 million debt dispute involving Oyo State. On the way, political unrest forced a detour through Libya—where they were detained for 17 hours. Undeterred, he pressed on.

At the AfDB meeting, his clarity and documentation exposed the error. The supposed debt was cancelled. The mission was a success. He approached governance as he did mathematics: with precision, problem-solving, and purpose.

But even as we celebrate his story, we must not see it in isolation. Dr Olunloyo was part of a remarkable generation of Nigerians shaped by institutions like Government College Ibadan. Among his classmates were Ifedayo Oladapo, who helped design the Third Mainland Bridge; Prof. Michael Bankole, who performed Nigeria’s first successful Siamese twins separation; and other trailblazers in journalism, medicine, business, and public service.

Their lives tell us something profound: Nigeria once built schools that built nations. There was a time we produced thinkers, not just certificates. But we stopped telling those stories. We stopped documenting their lives.

Dr Olunloyo’s story is exceptional—but it is also emblematic. He represents what we once were—and what we could be again.

As I sat in his living room that day, listening, absorbing, marvelling, I was haunted by a thought: If Nigeria fails to reach her full potential, it will not be because we lacked greatness. It will be because we ignored it when it was sitting in our living rooms.

Adeyinka is an author, banker, and thought leader. He writes from Lagos, Nigeria and blogs at www.greaterbayo.com.ng

Bayo Adeyinka