I have followed Ojo Ajisafe’s ordeal with the morbid curiosity one reserves for slow-moving tragedies, the kind where you already know the ending will offend both reason and conscience, but you stay anyway because turning away feels like complicity. Too many atrocities have clustered around this case for any citizen with a pulse to pretend it is ordinary. So when the matter came up in court on Thursday, 18 December 2025, I cleared my table, postponed every other engagement, and travelled to witness it firsthand. Experience has taught me that in this ministry, nothing ever happens straight, and whenever a date is fixed, new shenanigans queue politely to announce themselves.
Days before that Thursday, the office of the ministry’s all-powerful second-in-command had been unusually busy. Not busy with files or justice, but busy in the pilgrim sense. Lawyers, relatives of suspects, and assorted hangers-on streamed in and out, turning the office into a shrine where bargains are struck quietly and moral scruples are checked at the door. This newly anointed officer, already whispered about in hushed tones, had allegedly removed the original officers handling the case and replaced them with one of the establishment’s most notorious disasters, a man whose lifestyle mocks his salary and whose wealth answers no innocent questions. When we tried to hear the other side from the former officer in charge, she panicked, froze, and abruptly terminated the call the moment she realised who was calling, all without the courtesies expected of a well-cultured officer of the law. But then, that was all the motivation I needed to embark on the 148-kilometre journey.
When the Shina Olayele matter was called, the ministry’s representative, a man nicknamed “Parĩse” by his peers for reasons that became painfully obvious, rose and calmly announced that he was withdrawing the defence earlier filed by his colleagues on behalf of the applicant. The courtroom fell into a silence so heavy it could bruise skin. Even the air seemed offended. The Judge, a Bishop no less, must have sensed the stench of an unholy alignment between Parĩse and defence counsel, but he held his composure and focused on the business before him. Justice, after all, must sometimes pretend not to see what everyone else can smell.
The man beside me seethed. He whispered questions that were already burning on every tongue. Why withdraw a defence in a simple bail application? Why sabotage your own applicant in an attempted murder case? Why do Parĩse and defence counsel move like rehearsed dancers in a duet they are not even trying to disguise? Why has the ministry’s second-in-command arrogated to himself the powers of the Director of Public Prosecutions, Mr Olubodun, a man widely regarded as gentle, upright, and professionally sound? One man could not contain his disgust. He hissed audibly and walked out.
Suddenly, the earlier drama at the ministry made sense. The dots connected themselves without effort.
The Judge, incorruptible and undaunted, did what the law allowed. He noted that the offence was bailable and granted bail on mild conditions. No blame attaches to him. Bail is a judicial discretion, not a popularity contest. But some schools of thought are of the considered opinion that accelerated hearing would have been best in an attempted murder case, if only to remind the violent elements among us that the law is not always this patient with evil minds. Still, discretion is discretion, and it lies only with the Judge.
Around Parĩse, however, nothing passed without theatre. The desperation was palpable. Everyone was scrambling to impress the family of the accused, to earn a place in their good books. Strange middlemen and his cohorts competed like contestants in a grotesque talent show. Ojo Ajisafe’s inheritance, it is now openly whispered, is being shared according to performance. This is no longer conspiracy theory. It is casual court-corridor conversation, generally anchored by the suspect’s wife, lawyer, and relatives. To justify their savagery, they now tell anyone willing to listen that Ojo poured chicken, or tolotolo, blood on his own head to stage-manage the attack that nearly killed him. One must admire the audacity. Not the intelligence, just the audacity.
Then came the comic relief of the day, which would have been hilarious if it were not tragic. While bail conditions were being discussed, the name of the Yangede of Epe surfaced. Instantly, Parĩse and defence counsel leapt up in unison, proclaiming with theatrical confidence that Yangede is a paramount ruler, a first-class king, a Grade A Oba, and a member of the Ondo State Council of Chiefs. The courtroom erupted in laughter. The lie was too lazy to survive daylight. It almost passed, as many lies have passed before, until Ojo’s counsel, Barrister Femi Akinbinu, a polished city lawyer with no appetite for nonsense, rose to rescue the dignity of the court. Calmly and respectfully, he stated the simple truth: My Lord, the Yangede of Epe, Oba Isaac Oyebade Adelusi, is a Category B Oba. It is the truth. Nothing more. Nothing less. Facts, when spoken plainly, have a way of puncturing balloons.
Even then, Parĩse was seen gesturing reassuringly to his allies, drawing his palm down his chest in his abysmal way of saying, relax, there is a Plan B in the offing. They reportedly boasted that the case would never reach substantive hearing because, in their words, the law is an ass. They would rather die than allow the truth to stand naked in open court. Their fear is understandable. Rumours may bend easily under smooth tongues, but forensic reports do not respect influence. Medical experts will tell us whether a skull was split by a machete or painted with poultry blood. Science does not recognise godfathers.
Let every mother who still believes in justice ask questions for Ojo Ajisafe. If he staged the attack, let him face the full wrath of the law. If the accused are innocent, let them be cleanly exonerated. That is how justice works in civilised spaces. What we are witnessing instead is a frantic attempt to smother truth before it starts breathing.
Boasting openly that the Attorney General is with them is merely an attempt at intimidation, and it is uncalled for. As this is being written, the earlier work by former officers is being dismantled, rewritten, and neutralised, and a no-case submission, or better still, another nolle prosequi, is now loading quietly in the background, according to the powerful.
As things stand, the Ministry of Justice appears fractured into the good, the bad, and the grotesque. With Parĩse steering this ship, I see no realistic path for this case to sail safely to trial. It is being sunk deliberately, right at the harbour.
If I were counsel to the impoverished bricklayer, I would speak plainly to him. God has spared your life. With the calibre of compromised hands now gripping the wheel, this case is dead on arrival. Withdraw, for now. Preserve your life. Write to sine die the proceedings. Fiat is not statute-barred. Political officers are not immortal. Truth has a longer lifespan than power.
That, sadly, is where we are. In a land where justice is promised loudly but practised selectively, the poor are advised to step aside and let God litigate on their behalf. That is fiat; even when sought, it can never be granted. Parĩse knows how to steer things and make even the deaf listen. He’s a comrade, and comrades don’t lie. He can even say he was at the scene of the crime that day and that he saw Ojo pour tolotolo blood on himself, anything to keep his master out of jail and fatten his purse. Anything at all under the sun goes with him. Ojo’s lawyer said he recently won another case against the ministry that Parĩse messed up, and that even the hefty award against them remains unpaid after several demands.
Shockingly, he will push anything, and his admirers will buy it. My counsel to Ojo and his lawyer may be bitter and brutal, but in Ondo today, it may be the most honest one. There is this saying: “Allah ‘tahrrago, Oluwa ni ‘gbeja òle…”
The gang-up is an irritant, and it stinks to high heaven, the heavens where only His merciful rain can install justice for the oppressed.
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