THERE I was last week, seated quietly in church, watching Femi Osinbajo’s 70th birthday thanksgiving. His 92-year-old mother, beaming with joy. She will later, at the reception, dance beside him and his famous junior brother Yemi, the Professor and former Vice President of Nigeria — a picture of gratitude and grace. But as I watched, my mind drifted back. The story could have been very different.
We were almost not here to witness that moment.
I was with Femi, his younger brother — then Vice President Yemi Osinbajo — and a few others in a helicopter crash in 2019. That experience came flooding back to me yesterday when I heard the grim news from Ghana: a helicopter had gone down, killing two ministers and six others. My body tensed. I shuddered. I remembered February 2, 2019 — the day the sky almost swallowed us.
We had just returned from a gruelling campaign run: Yola to Calabar, then Calabar to Lagos. Our last stop had been VGC, Lagos, where Osinbajo took questions from residents while the rest of us, bleary-eyed and exhausted, stood by. By morning, we were airborne again — Lagos to Abuja — running on fumes, yamàrità for breakfast, and a shoestring campaign budget. Despite being in government, many of us paid for our own hotels, logistics, and even our food. (More on that in my memoir.)
That day, we were to land in Kabba, Kogi State — a town the state governor had warned us against visiting. He claimed the people there had “spiritual powers” and might harm him if he set foot in their domain. He refused to receive us — and true to his word, stayed away. Even when news of the crash broke, he didn’t come. We had to drive to his palatial mansion in Okene to prove we were alive.
We travelled in two helicopters: one belonging to the Nigeria Police, carrying the advance team, and the other — a Caverton chopper — carrying the Vice President, myself, Minister of State for Labour Stephen Ochei, Femi Osinbajo, Media Adviser Laolu Akande, and three security operatives.
Protocol required that the advance chopper land first, kicking up the dust. Then the second waits for the dust to settle before descending. That afternoon, something went wrong. The dust hadn’t cleared, yet our chopper began its descent. Suddenly, a brown cloud enveloped everything. We could see nothing. And then — a loud, terrifying thud.
The impact jolted us violently. Despite our seatbelts, we were tossed around like rag dolls. Phones, iPads, caps — all went flying. Panic filled the air. “Jesus! Jesus!” voices cried out in chaos. I shouted, “Calm down! Calm down!” trying to hold it together. The weight of the Minister was crushing the Vice President’s legs; I heard him groan in pain. It felt like time had frozen, and yet everything was moving too fast.
Then we heard hacking sounds — security men smashing open the doors. One by one, we were pulled out, covered in dust but alive. I was the last to exit. As I crawled out, I scooped up the Vice President’s cap, his phone, his iPad — and mine. The helicopter, tilted and bruised, hadn’t exploded. We were spared.
We took refuge in a nearby hotel to gather ourselves. Calls started pouring in — from family, friends, associates. But there was no time for fear or mourning. Osinbajo insisted: “We continue.” That same day, we drove into Kabba and were met by a massive, cheering crowd. The people we were warned to fear had only love and prayers to give.
Few knew that just eight months earlier, Osinbajo had narrowly escaped another helicopter accident on the outskirts of Abuja — that one crash-landed during takeoff due to a mechanical failure.
As if that wasn’t enough, months after the Kabba incident, I found myself in yet another helicopter scare — this time over Zamfara. We were two teams again: the VP in one helicopter, and I in the advance team with Hajia Maryam Uwais and Laolu Akande. On our way back to Sokoto, we flew into a sudden storm. The VP’s aircraft soared above the weather. Ours couldn’t.
What followed was a terrifying struggle to stay airborne. The pilot fought the wind, battling to maintain control. Then came the dreaded announcement: “We have to land — anywhere we can find.” We descended into the shrubs of rural Zamfara and sat there for nearly an hour, stranded, no visibility, no ground security — just vulnerability.
As darkness fell, the pilot warned: “We either fly now or risk staying here overnight — and we have no lights for night travel.” It was a gamble, but we took it. We lifted off, soared through the darkness, and by sheer grace landed in Sokoto — safe. We joined the Vice President and flew back to Abuja on the presidential jet.
Now, when I hear of helicopter crashes — like the tragedy in Ghana — I don’t just sympathise. I relive. I remember. I feel it in my bones. Hardly do people survive these accidents. Most end in fire, with bodies charred beyond recognition. That we walked away, not once but twice, is a miracle I’ll never take for granted.
My heart goes out to the people of Ghana, and to the families of the fallen. May their souls rest in peace. And may we who are still here never forget: every flight is a leap of faith, every landing a testimony.