O flame that rose from Idanre’s stone,
Child of the hills where greatness is grown.
Not carved by privilege, nor crowned by chance,
But forged through trials, through fire, through stance.
You came not with noise, nor parade of power,
But with a quiet strength that bloomed like a flower.
While others made speeches, you dug the earth,
And gave your people more than words are worth.
You walked their roads, felt their pain,
Sat in the sun, stood in the rain.
You bore the weight most turned from fast.
A servant of the future, not a prisoner of the past.
The youth call you brother, the elders say son,
For in your season, real work was done.
A center of learning rose from your hand,
A market, a borehole, a lifted land.
Solar lights cut through the night,
Not as decoration, but symbols of right.
You gave scholarships, not for praise,
But to light up minds in the darkest days.
Small Alhaji, not small in might,
You brought the shadows into light.
You taught us that power is not pride,
But walking with people, not above, but beside.
And now, as the tide begins to turn,
And voices rise with silent yearn,
They do not seek a man in gold,
But one who hears what must be told.
Return, not as a politician in play,
But as the soul who clears the way.
Let history remember not your name alone,
But the seeds you planted, fully grown.
For nations rise on men like you,
Who act with heart, and see things through.
In you, a future once found its form.
Now rise again… and lead the storm.
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