Destiny walks with feet we do not see.
Sometimes it bends the road.
Sometimes it opens the gate.
For him — the child yet unborn —
Destiny said: “You will be born in Warri.”
Ten years before my first cry,
my father had already planted his steps in Warri.
He was not a son of Warri — no.
He was a son of Iyede,
the child of Ogbaudu and Akpororo.
He carried their name into Ughelli classrooms,
into Urhobo College, Warri.
The boy became a man.
The man became a seeker.
He chased medicine,
he wore the white coat of a sanitary inspector,
he walked the streets of Ondo,
then returned to Warri,
clipboard in hand,
measuring drains, checking homes,
serving the public.
But destiny shifted.
1962 — the ship carried him to England.
His father gone, the funds gone too.
A crossroad stood before him.
“Law, my brother. Law will carry you further.”
And so law it was.
He studied, he worked,
he bent over books by night,
shelving volumes in Buckingham Palace Library by day.
Norwood Polytechnic. Holborn College of Law.
Lincoln’s Inn called him to the Bar.
And when he returned in 1972,
Warri lifted its arms to welcome him home.
He partnered with Chief Mudiaga Odje.
He founded Ogbaudu Chambers.
He rose to the High Court Bench,
a pioneer judge when Delta State was born.
But greater than the gavel,
greater than the robe,
was the name he wore best:
Father.
Provider. Mentor.
A man who said,
“All my children will learn.
Not one will be left behind.”
And he meant it.
His children became nurses, professors, officers, dentists, pastors, teachers.
And when cousins and neighbors had no school fees,
he paid those too.
And so, by his love, I was born into Warri.
Love led him to my mother, Edline.
And love placed my cradle in that city.
Yet I always believed my cradle was meant to be in England.
For it was there, in London’s cold streets,
that my father bent over books,
shelved volumes in Buckingham Palace Library,
and stood tall in Lincoln’s Inn,
called to the Bar.
It was there that my mother, carrying me unseen,
dreamed of a tomorrow she could not yet touch.
I was always told I was carried back into Warri in her womb —
a child who crossed continents before his first breath.
England could have claimed me.
But destiny said no.
It had to be Warri.
It had to be the city of oil and quarrel,
the city of laughter and masquerade.
It had to be the city where my father’s love
and my mother’s courage
built a home.
And so, even before I opened my eyes,
love had already written my name into Warri.
I did not choose Warri.
Love chose it for me.
And if love placed my cradle in Warri,
then I must believe love also planted in me
a duty —
to love Warri back.
But love was not finished.
It came again —
this time for me.
I believe I felt love in highschool.
We sat, we spoke of nothing.
We laughed about little things.
But in me, there was something larger than words.
I felt love,
but fear stood guard at the door of my mouth.
So I carried the love quietly,
like a song unsung,
like a letter never sent.
I remove from Warri enter Agbor side .
Love and the City
Warri was not only oil.
Warri was not only quarrel.
Warri was not only fire waiting in the grass.
Warri was love.
Love between Urhobo and Itsekiri.
Love that made marriages across tribes.
Love that sat at one table,
ate from one pot,
dreamed of one tomorrow.
For my father, love in Warri
changed his destiny.
For me, love in Warri
showed me the trembling path
of what it means to belong to another.
Yes —
Love led me to Warri.
And love is what keeps me remembering.
Not only the quarrel.
Not only the fire.
But the houses, the families, the children,
the dreams that began because two people chose love.
Warri, cradle of quarrel and cradle of love.
Warri, city of fathers and sons.
Warri, city where fear silences a boy,
and love still finds a way to speak.
And so, I say again —
Love led me to Warri.
Love will lead us to Find Warri
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