By Babafemi Ojudu
On every March 27, I pause.
I pause to take stock—not just of years lived, but of values held, battles fought, and lessons learned. It has become my quiet ritual to restate who I am, what I stand for, and what I still hope to become.
This year, that pause is deeper. Heavier. More reflective.
I turn 65.
It is an age that carries a private meaning for me—one that is both tender and sobering. It was at this same age that I lost my dear mother, my anchor, my first teacher in resilience, dignity, and grace. She did not merely give me life; she shaped the very essence of how I see the world and my place in it.
To arrive at the age at which she departed is to stand at a threshold—to look back with gratitude and forward with humility.
I find myself asking: What have I done with the gift she gave me?
And more importantly: What remains to be done?
Life, I have learned, is not measured in years alone. It is measured in impact—in the lives we touch, the truths we defend, the injustices we confront, and the legacy we leave behind.
I have been privileged to walk many paths—as a journalist in turbulent times, as a public servant, as a witness to history, and sometimes, as a participant in shaping it. I have known moments of courage and moments of doubt, seasons of triumph and valleys of trial. Through it all, one conviction has remained constant: that life must be lived in service of something greater than oneself.
At 65, I do not feel an ending. I feel a summons.
A summons to remain restless in the face of injustice.
A summons to keep faith with truth, even when it is inconvenient.
A summons to invest more deliberately in the next generation, whose future we hold in trust.
A summons to build—quietly but firmly—the kind of society we have long imagined but are yet to fully realize.
I am also reminded, more than ever, of the fragility of time. Of how fleeting our presence is. Of how urgent it is to love more, forgive more, and give more.
My mother’s life was not defined by abundance of wealth, but by abundance of character. If I can carry forward even a fraction of her strength, her compassion, and her quiet resolve, then I would have lived well.
So today, I do not celebrate in the loud sense of the word. I reflect. I recommit.
To truth.
To justice.
To service.
To humanity.
And to the enduring belief that, even in difficult times, we must not surrender our hope or our responsibility.
As I step into this new chapter, I do so with gratitude—for life, for lessons, for the people who have walked this journey with me—and with a renewed determination to make the years ahead count even more.
May I have the strength to finish well
