Yesterday evening, Tuesday, 28th July 2026, I attended the Service of Songs and Night of Tributes in honour of the late Mrs. Nkechinyere Rhodes-Vivour, the beloved mother of Gbadebo Rhodes-Vivour.
It was an evening filled with dignity, laughter, tears, memories and lessons that stretched far beyond one family. Beautiful tributes flowed from every direction, each revealing another layer of a woman whose life quietly united people across ethnic, political and social divides.
Earlier that same day, I had appeared on the flagship production of WHOODX on Sigi, the new podcast by Olaemma Opara, popularly known as Signature. One of our conversations centred on what I described as “elder worship” and, inevitably, the discussion drifted to the divisive politics of 2023.
Many will remember how Gbadebo Rhodes-Vivour suddenly became “Chinedu” in political propaganda. His maternal ancestry was weaponised in an attempt to erase his paternal heritage and indigenous identity as a Lagos Island son. It was one of the lowest moments of our political culture. When politics descends to questioning a man’s identity because of his mother, society has travelled too far from decency.
Thankfully, grace prevailed, and he weathered the storm.
Yesterday, it was that very mother we gathered to honour.
Mrs. Nkechinyere Rhodes-Vivour (16 June 1957 – 10 July 2026) represented something far bigger than political labels. She was a matriarch in every sense of the word, a grassroots mobiliser, a political force, and a rallying point for many people from the South East and South South resident in Lagos. Yet she was equally embraced by her Yoruba in-laws on Lagos Island.
Throughout her years on earth, she built friendships everywhere she went through school, work, family and community. She became, in many respects, a miniature Nigeria. There was room in her heart for everyone.
But the most unforgettable tribute of the evening came from her sister-in-law, Peju Rhodes-Vivour.
Peju, a proud Yoruba woman married to an Igbo husband, narrated one of the earliest cultural “crises” in her marriage.
One day she lovingly prepared beans for her husband.
His response?
“No! No!! No!!!”
“This is not how beans are cooked.”
“This is not how beans are eaten.”
One would have thought constitutional amendments were about to begin over a plate of beans.
Determined to save both the marriage and the menu, Peju turned to Nkechi.
“Nkechi, please teach me how Igbo people cook beans.”
Lessons began. Adjustments were made. Peace returned to the dining table.
Then, history decided to demonstrate its impartiality.
Not long afterwards, Nkechi herself prepared beans for her husband, Wale Rhodes-Vivour, a proud freeborn Lagos Island Yoruba gentleman.
The aroma was excellent.
The presentation was beautiful.
The love behind it was unquestionable.
Then came the verdict.
“No! No!! No!!!”
“This is not Yoruba beans.”
Apparently, even beans possess citizenship.
> Perhaps that is why some beans are treated as indigenes, while others are still struggling to obtain certificates of origin.
This time it was Nkechi who had to become the student, while Peju became the teacher.
The Yoruba way was learnt.
Peace returned once again.
As everyone laughed at the story, I realised something profound.
Many of the conflicts we elevate into ethnic battles are, in reality, little more than disagreements over how we cook our beans.
The tragedy is not that our methods differ.
The tragedy is that we often refuse to learn from one another new ways of doing things.
If only our Pejus would willingly learn from our Nkechis, and our Nkechis would gladly learn from our Pejus, Lagos would become what it has always been destined to be: not a battlefield of identities, but a melting pot where every culture contributes its flavour to a richer Nigerian experience.
Looking around the hall, one could almost smell the imaginary aromas of Yoruba beans, Igbo beans, perhaps even Hausa wake. Distinguished personalities from different political persuasions sat together in honour of one remarkable woman.
To all the distinguished guests attending my 60th birthday, whether Yoruba, Igbo, Hausa, or from the many ethnic groups that make up the House of Nigeria, there will be only one beans on the table: Ewa Aganyin.
It earned its place not by tribe, but by taste.
As the saying goes, the proof of the pudding is in the eating.
If Nigeria ever embraces that principle, then our nation—and indeed Africa—would have learnt a timeless lesson:
The highest calling of leadership is not to enthrone the familiar.
It is to recognise and choose the best, wherever excellence is found.
Perhaps our politics, like our beans, would taste much better when we learn to appreciate one another’s recipes.
Citizen Bolaji O. Akinyemi, Apostle and Nation Builder.
