In the hallowed halls of Nigeria’s National Assembly, a 15-year-old autism activist and Guinness World Record–breaking artist is about to unleash a riot of colour and challenge the very notion of what is possible. Okechukwu Uwaezuoke writes
Somewhere in the otherwise solemn, oak-toned chambers and labyrinthine corridors of the National Assembly Complex in Abuja—where the air is more often thick with procedure than with poetry, and where debates drone on until they begin to take on spectral forms—an event not usually associated with the space is about to happen. Come November, those hallowed halls will shimmer, even thrum, with the riotous energy of colour: the audacious palette of Kanyeyachukwu Tagbo-Okeke.
At 15 years and already a Guinness World Record–breaker, Kanyeyachukwu is no ordinary prodigy. His work, which shuns the polite etiquette of hanging tamely on a wall, bursts forth with the unexpected punch of a well-timed interjection. And the Lawmakers—those seasoned wielders of gavels, clauses, and occasionally theatrical indignation—will suddenly find themselves staring down a different kind of argument, one made in oils, acrylics, and vision.
Chief among the works to be unveiled are prints of his Guinness world record-shattering masterpiece, “Impossibility Is a Myth”, a painting so colossal it makes legislative ambition look like a footnote. The title itself is no meek christening, but a bold provocation: a challenge to convention, a pointed question about the boundaries of what’s possible. And the exhibition? It bears the teasingly elegant name The Myth. A title that whispers, prods, and challenges at once—inviting all who enter to consider not only the art, but also the fragile constructs humans live by.
Yet the story of this vast work, titled “Impossibility is a Myth”, defies simple telling. Measuring an almost surreal 12,303 square metres, it is more landscape than painting, demanding the aerial gaze of drones or birds to even be comprehended. Before its prints grace the august halls of the National Assembly, the painting will have had another dramatic outing: an October unveiling at Lagos’s Eko Atlantic Marina, the first time such a record-breaking canvas will be shown against an ocean horizon. While Abuja lends its stately backdrop, Lagos will bring its vibrant energy. For the Tagbo-Okekes, however, these public stagings are the culmination of a long, arduous journey – one that began in quiet moments of struggle, patience, and unwavering dedication.
The idea—arguably a pivotal moment in Kanyeyachukwu’s already lustrous career—sprang from his mother’s quiet insight. Sylvia Tagbo-Okeke had long since learned to read her son’s idiosyncrasies. His autism diagnosis, far from limiting him, seemed instead to funnel his restless energies into colour and form. From the first scribbles that crept onto the walls of their Abuja home to the early canvases seething with swirls and emojis, it became obvious that his true language was not words but pigments. Exhibitions abroad soon followed, even a Flame of Peace ambassadorship in Austria. Yet for Sylvia, these milestones, glittering though they were, still felt incomplete. Her son needed a challenge big enough to harness his unbridled energies—something audacious enough to silence doubters, and at the same time, draw him deeper into himself.
Her proposal bordered on the quixotic: why not attempt a Guinness World Record? Why not allow the boy to paint on a scale so immense that it would dwarf football fields, rewriting not just expectations of him but of what art could be in Nigeria?
The logistics, of course, were forbidding. Permission was needed for a site vast enough to host the undertaking. Letters went out: to ministries, to parastatals, to the police, even…Eventually, it was the Nigerian Army, through the Chief of Defence Staff, that replied with unexpected generosity. Not only would they approve the venture, they would also provide grounds at the 17th Division in Gwagwalada in the Federal Capital Territory.
And so it was that soldiers—custodians of order and precision—became unlikely midwives of art. They cleared grounds, secured the space, and extended courtesies rarely granted to civilians. “We got the full and maximum cooperation of every military officer,” Tagbo Okeke, Kanyeyachukwu’s father, later intimated. For once, barracks became atelier.
Canvas, however, remained a formidable challenge. To procure fabric in such quantities, Sylvia undertook repeated trips – four precisely – to Aba the southeastern town whose sprawling markets are synonymous with industry and improvisation. The rolls of cloth, once stitched together, resembled some mythical carpet, spread across the army grounds like a terrain awaiting cartographers.
It was there, in Gwagwalada, that Kanye—tentative at first—laid his first brushstroke. A line that seemed ordinary enough, but one that initiated the transformation of cloth into canvas, dream into reality. Yet the field proved inhospitable: the heat unrelenting, the dust intrusive. Soon, the massive work was relocated to JC-Best International School in Lifecamp, another Abuja neighbourhood.
There, under a roof but amid new distractions, the boy laboured. Students peered curiously. Some days he withdrew entirely, refusing to touch the brush. At other times, he painted with a ferocity that astonished even his parents. Food, patience, and a steady supply of acrylics became as essential as inspiration. Donors rallied. Paint was provided in quantities that staggered. What had been expected to last six to eight months concluded in less than three.
At the heart of the finished canvas lay the infinity symbol, chosen instinctively by the boy. Around it danced his characteristic emoji motifs, scattered like constellations. The composition was less image than cosmos, expansive enough to contain his silences, his bursts of energy, his own looping cycles of withdrawal and return.
For Guinness, spectacle was never enough. The Records Management Team had to review the evidence to confirm whether the record has been successfully achieved. This, of course, took some time. Eventually the verdict arrived: Kanyeyachukwu’s painting had indeed broken the record, establishing him as the youngest African artist to do so.
April 2—World Autism Awareness Day—was chosen for the ceremonial presentation at Eagle Square. The choice was symbolic, almost too neatly so. There, under the pitiless Abuja sun, the Guinness World Records official handed over the certificate. The boy, more hesitant than triumphant, accepted it with an air of quiet bewilderment. His mother’s applause must have been the most fervent, reflecting her dreams and prayers for him. Cameras clicked. For a brief moment, autism’s silences and eccentricities ceded to art’s grandeur.
Now, as October approaches, attention shifts towards Lagos. The Eko Atlantic Marina will stage the first public unveiling of Impossibility is a Myth. Against the sea, the vast canvas will unspool as though it were part of the horizon itself. It will be a gesture unprecedented anywhere: no other Guinness World Record artwork has been revealed in such a setting.
And November will carry the momentum to Abuja, where The Myth exhibition at the National Assembly promises a more contemplative encounter. For what the work ultimately gestures towards is not just the scale of one teenager’s achievement, but the endurance of faith, patience, and improbable cooperation.
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