The catalyst for our discussion was mathematics—more specifically, the recent governmental initiative aimed at removing mathematics from the list of compulsory subjects for arts students in Nigerian educational institutions. This policy change was one I had publicly opposed and actively campaigned against through the #LetOurChildrenCount movement, standing firm in the belief that every child’s education deserves to be valued and protected
“I AM with him, hold on, let him tell you where”
“Do you know …? Good, you need to come into… “
On a languid Lagos afternoon, the very essence of time appeared to slow, yielding to the gentle dominion of humidity and history’s quiet weight. The chosen venue — an unassuming gem nestled in plain sight — was one of those exquisitely refined establishments where the clatter of dishes is muted, the atmosphere is suffused with a rare blend of silence and intellect, and the waiters move with the grace of figures gliding rather than walking. I found myself there by the gracious invitation of Solomon Asemota (SAN), a venerable lawyer and an esteemed elder within Nigeria’s legal fraternity and moral compass. Accompanying us was none other than Professor Wole Soyinka, whose presence alone dignifies any gathering. The occasion was a leisurely luncheon, a moment to converse and savour the subtleties of thought amidst an ambience that seemed suspended in time.
The ambience was impeccable: tranquil enough to foster openness, refined enough to inspire contemplation, and sufficiently discreet to allow one momentarily to forget, amidst a backdrop of national dialogue, that they reside within a country perpetually engaged in public debate with itself.
Our conversation commenced, as is customary among Nigerians, not with the menu but with the headlines—a reflection of our innate tendency to engage with the most pressing issues first.
The catalyst for our discussion was mathematics—more specifically, the recent governmental initiative aimed at removing mathematics from the list of compulsory subjects for arts students in Nigerian educational institutions. This policy change was one I had publicly opposed and actively campaigned against through the #LetOurChildrenCount movement, standing firm in the belief that every child’s education deserves to be valued and protected.
Soyinka listened with the keen curiosity of a man who has spent a lifetime delving into the depths of his country’s psyche — both its extraordinary brilliance and its lamentable folly. I took the opportunity to elucidate that mathematics, beyond mere arithmetic, is a discipline rooted in logic and reasoning — a language that cultivates the mind for clarity, precision, and equity. To deny students, even those pursuing the humanities, access to such training was, in my view, to sow the seeds of an unbalanced and unruly intellect within the nation.
As I shared how, in a span of just four days, over two hundred esteemed professors had united in petitioning the Ministry of Education to reconsider and reverse a controversial decision, Soyinka chuckled softly, his amusement tinged with a hint of wistfulness — as if revisiting an old, familiar discomfort.
“Anthony,” he said with a wry smile, “you must understand that mathematics and I have never truly been friends. I could barely tolerate algebra, but geometry was, quite frankly, a cruel companion.”
We shared a laugh, the moment punctuated by a sense of mutual understanding. The Nobel Laureate’s candour was as charming as it was enlightening. Even as he confessed his tumultuous, often adversarial relationship with numbers, he quickly acknowledged their indispensable role.
“The mind,” he mused thoughtfully, “must be trained not only to count in numbers but also in consequence.”
Our lunch, guided as much by thoughtful reflection as by discerning taste, gradually transformed from a simple act of eating into a profound exploration of education, then into a deeper discourse on culture, and ultimately into a celebration of heritage. What began as a casual gathering evolved into a symposium of ideas, with Soyinka, without any formal call to order, quietly taking on the role of chair at the head of the table. Asemota, endowed with a calm yet commanding presence, assumed the role of legal counsel for our symposium. I, as was often the case, found myself caught between the roles of participant and defendant, for I was the one who introduced the next subject that stirred controversy within our circle—the delicate issue of repatriating Nigerian artefacts.
In my view, artefacts—though deeply rooted in Nigeria’s spiritual and historical identity—are also part of the shared cultural heritage of humanity. While it is essential to recognise that such items rightfully belong to Nigeria, their possession, display, and stewardship should be guided by the capacity to preserve and provide access. Artefacts are meant to be seen, studied, and appreciated by audiences around the world.
My take is that if a museum located in London, Paris, or Berlin is better equipped to showcase and safeguard these works, it is only fitting that they do so. However, this should be accompanied by an explicit acknowledgement that these artefacts are Nigeria’s rightful heritage. Part of the benefits, including any royalties or revenues generated from their exhibition, should be redirected back to Nigeria. Such returns can fund the development of our museums, empower local artists, and inspire future generations of creators.
In this approach, restitution transcends mere symbolism; it becomes a meaningful and productive process—fostering a system grounded in shared heritage and rooted in mutual respect. The ultimate goal is to forge an ethical pathway that honours Nigeria’s rich cultural legacy while promoting global collaboration and understanding.
Soyinka listened with keen attention, gently sipping his glass as if calculating the intricacies of my argument and weighing its mathematical precision. Then, in a tone both professorial and commanding—one that manages to convey a sense of being both watched and scrutinised—he addressed Asemota: “Solomon, you must give Anthony Kila’s theory a proper legal baptism. Can we indeed disentangle ownership from possession within the bounds of current conventions?” It was as if he had called together a secular tribunal—or, to borrow a later jest of mine, a papal consistory devoid of the usual incense and rituals.
Asemota responded with a measured smile, adjusting his spectacles with the grace of a seasoned advocate before both judges and history itself. He embarked on an eloquent exposition, weaving through the intricate labyrinth of legal considerations surrounding cultural property, referencing UNESCO conventions and Vienna principles that serve as guiding beacons in the restitution of heritage.
He acknowledged that while the concept of shared custody presented an intellectually stimulating proposition, it also harboured the peril of becoming a loophole—an avenue for continued exploitation—unless strictly and meticulously defined.
Soyinka nodded thoughtfully before gently steering the conversation into deeper waters with a kind of Socratic patience. He clarified the core of the debate: “Gentlemen, the matter at hand transcends mere ownership of the artefact; it questions the very essence of justice and who the true victims are. If we acknowledge that these artefacts were taken under circumstances of duress or deceit, then our moral obligation must begin with seeking redress for those who have been dispossessed and wronged.”
His words carried a profound weight, prompting further reflection. He pressed on: “Let us consider, if you will, the original provenance of the artefact—did it belong to the palace, the monarchy, or the people? If it was indeed the people’s, then restitution must be oriented towards serving their interests, rather than merely satisfying the custodians of royal nostalgia.”
This question hung in the air, a moral incense that fostered quiet contemplation. The ensuing silence was neither an act of agreement nor dissent but a pause for moral reflection, a moment that beckoned us to look beyond superficial distinctions and confront the deeper questions of justice and restitution.
The conversation continued, weaving law and ethics, art and politics, past and future. Soyinka, ever the dramatist of ideas, insisted that while art may travel, its meaning must never be uprooted. Asemota, the advocate, reminded us that the law, though written, must also feel. And I, the student of both, found myself reconsidering not just artefacts, but the architecture of justice itself — how nations negotiate memory, dignity, and value.
As the dessert was cleared away and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee replaced the lingering scent of wine, a thought suddenly struck me — one that seemed to encapsulate not only the essence of the lunch but also the mood of a nation at a pivotal crossroads. It occurred to me that we are a people too easily dispossessed — not merely of treasured artefacts, but of our collective memory, our logical reasoning, and our sense of direction.
The true act of repatriation we desperately need is not merely the return of objects, but the restoration of reason itself, which serves as the guiding compass for our identity and future.
As we departed from the venue with the same quiet discretion with which we had entered, outside, the vibrant pulse of Lagos continued unabated—chaotic, hopeful, and resoundingly loud. Yet, within the serene walls of that concealed restaurant, I witnessed an occurrence both rare and poignant: a civilised argument, a moral calculation, and a gentle reminder that even amid disagreement, we have the capacity to dine together, to reflect, and to nurture dreams of a more perfect nation.
As my car eased onto the bustling city streets, an involuntary smile played upon my lips, drawn by the irony that our luncheon had commenced with the language of mathematics and concluded with the discourse of morality—two realms, at their core, concerned with balance, justice, and the ultimate pursuit of truth.
- Join me, @anthonykila, if you can, to continue these conversations.
- Anthony Kila is a Jean Monnet Professor of Strategy and Development at the Commonwealth Institute of Advanced and Professional Studies (CIAPS). He serves as the Pro-Chancellor and Chair of the Governing Council of the Michael and Cecilia Ibru University (MCIU).