Jimi Benson, a member of the House of Representatives, representing the Ikorodu Federal Constituency, stands as a rare, towering exemplar of transformative leadership. Despite his successes, his heart has always been tethered to the pulse of the people, writes Kayode Alfred
In an age where integrity oscillates like a weather vane, Jim Benson’s consistency is a breath of fresh air. Unswayed by transient winds, his compass is fixed on the North Star of service. This consistency and unswerving dedication to the public good, has made him a lodestar for his peers. While others court chaos, he courts clarity.
Ikorodu stirred awake that Thursday to the usual chorus of hawkers and danfo drivers, but beneath the familiar humdrum resonated the rare harmony about a servant leader.
By mid-morning, the old Town Hall stood reborn amid the electric hum of 150 laptops springing to life. By sundown, bulldozers stretched their arms over the dusty spine of the Agbede-Ita Oluwo Road, promising smoother passage for traders, students, and dreamers alike.
At the heart of this transformation stood Benson, Ikorodu’s three-term emissary in Abuja, but more importantly, Ikorodu’s own son who has never ceased to remember home.
That day, Benson delivered a double stroke of progress: an ICT centre alive with promise and a 7.5-kilometre road reconstruction that spoke directly to the soul of a weary community. A ribbon and a road, symbols and substance intertwined, reminding all who watched that leadership, when anchored in service, can still stir a people to hope.
Even the air bore the fragrance of anticipation. At the Town Hall, elders arrived in flowing agbadas and beaded crowns. Youths jostled for seats, eyes alight with curiosity and a longing for the rare opportunity that had arrived at their doorsteps. When Benson snipped the ribbon, it surpassed a ceremonial act; it was the cutting away of distance between Ikorodu’s young minds and the world of digital possibility.
Inside, the ICT Centre glowed like a sanctuary. One hundred and fifty laptops, powered by stable electricity and internet connectivity, lined the hall. Fingers tapped hesitantly at first, then with growing confidence. A young boy whispered to his friend, “We no go dey go Yaba again to learn coding.”
His words distilled the heart of the matter: the ICT hub was a bridge, collapsing the gap between ambition and accessibility.
“I never believed I would sit in front of a computer of my own in Ikorodu,” said Tolu Adebayo, a final-year secondary school student, her hands trembling slightly as she touched the keyboard. “My parents cannot afford a laptop, but this place means I can learn coding and graphic design without leaving home. It feels like somebody finally thought of us.” Her voice, equal parts disbelief and joy, captured the spirit of the ICT Centre better than any speech could.
A few seats away, an older man in his forties, who introduced himself simply as Alhaji Kareem, smiled at the glowing screens. “When my son tells me about jobs in technology, I only nod,” he admitted. “Now, I can bring him here and he will show me. This centre is not just for children; it is for families like mine who want to move with the world. Honourable Benson has given us a tool to fight poverty with knowledge.”
By late afternoon, even though most politicians would have retreated to air-conditioned convoys, Benson stood still in the dust. Agbede-Ita Oluwo Road stretched before him, a landscape of potholes and craters that had mocked commuters for decades. For market women balancing baskets, for mechanics pushing broken cars, for schoolchildren trudging home, it had been a daily gauntlet of frustration.
But at his call, bulldozers rumbled to correct that neglect. The promise of asphalt gleamed in the eyes of onlookers. One vulcaniser confided, “If this road is fixed, I go save money. My tools no go dey spoil every time.” Such is the simplicity of development: when roads are fixed, citizens enjoy ease of travel and doing business.
At the road flag-off, the testimonies carried a different timbre, rooted in survival and daily grind. “This road don kill my keke many times,” said Kunle, a tricycle rider who had spent seven years ferrying passengers across Ikorodu. “Every month, I dey spend money to repair tyre, shock absorber, everything. If dem finish this road, na like new life. I go make more trips, carry more people, and feed my children better.” His words drew approving nods from fellow riders clustered around him.
Beside the cheering mechanics, a market woman named Mama Oyinbo lifted her hands skyward in thanks. “For years, we dey waka this road with dust covering our tomatoes and pepper. Customers complain, business slow. Today, we see hope. If Honourable JB fit finish this road, na blessing for us. We no go forget am.” Her voice cracked, but her gratitude was steady, anchoring the day in the raw reality of ordinary lives.
Every politician loves a ribbon-cutting, but not every ribbon unfurls into transformation. What marked Benson’s gesture apart was its authenticity. Since 2015, he has refused to be a mere absentee voice in Abuja. Instead, he has woven his politics into the everyday lives of his constituents.
At the heart of Benson’s politics is the quiet, steady pulse of service. The iCare Food Bank, launched years ago, still nourishes widows and the vulnerable with dignity rather than pity. It remains one of his most enduring legacies. Every month, widows and struggling households gather to receive relief packages that keep hunger at bay. “It is not just food he gives us,” said Mama Felicia, a widow of twelve years, clutching a parcel of rice and beans. “It is the respect that comes with it. I have raised my last child with the help of this food bank, and I pray for him every day.” Her voice trembled with gratitude, her eyes bright with tears.
Beyond hunger, Benson gave Ikorodu a voice of its own through IKD 106.1FM. For the first time, the people could tell their stories, broadcast their concerns, and celebrate their culture without leaning entirely on Lagos’ sprawling media giants. “Our voices used to disappear in the noise of Lagos,” explained Segun Alade, an aspiring broadcaster who dreams of finding his calling at the station. “Now we can discuss local issues, announce community events, and share Ikorodu music with pride. Honourable JB gave us this platform, and it has changed how we see ourselves.” The station has since become a rallying point for youth creativity and civic engagement, nurturing a new generation of storytellers.
Healthcare, too, has borne his imprint. The 80-bed Mother and Child Hospital in Imota stands as a bulwark against despair in moments of crisis. For women who once had to travel to crowded facilities in central Lagos, it has been nothing short of lifesaving. “I gave birth to my twins there,” said Mrs. Ayoola, cradling two giggling toddlers at her side. “The nurses were kind, the beds were clean, and when complications came, there was a doctor on hand. Without this hospital, I don’t know if I or my babies would be here today. That hospital is JB’s gift to mothers like me.”
Even young people seeking skills for survival have not been left behind. His constituency has seen training schemes that empowered youths in tailoring, carpentry, ICT, and agriculture. One beneficiary, a welder named Samuel, recounted how the programme turned his life around. “Before, I was just hanging around junctions, looking for odd jobs. But through his scheme, I trained, got new tools, and now I run a small shop with two apprentices. I am not just working for myself anymore; I am building others too.” His story exemplified Benson’s philosophy that empowerment must ripple outward, multiplying its effect across generations.
Others spoke of smaller but equally profound interventions that touched their lives. During the peak of the pandemic, when fear and scarcity choked communities, Benson’s outreach programmes distributed protective equipment and food staples. “He brought masks, sanitisers, and food when everything was locked down,” recalled Funmilayo, a schoolteacher. “We were afraid, but he gave us courage. He showed us that leadership is not about hiding during a crisis but standing with the people.” For her, and many others, those gestures established Benson as an empathetic leader.
Indeed, Benson’s authenticity lies in the visible, lived difference his projects create. He has built infrastructure and also trust, the most precious currency in Nigerian politics.
The ICT Centre and the road project are, therefore, the newest chapters in a longer narrative of consistent, thoughtful service. They revealed his political signature: projects that are at once symbolic and substantive, inspiring and practical, ambitious and grounded.
To understand Benson’s instinct for impact, one must retrace his journey. Born in Ikorodu in March 1972, he grew up a child of Lagos’ ancient town but also a student of global frontiers. From Lagos State University, where he earned his law degree, to the Nigerian Law School, and then to London Guildhall University for his master’s, Benson’s education was a steady widening of horizons. His MBA at Warwick added polish and global breadth, while his professional years at the United Nations and in the banking sector sharpened his grasp of law, governance, and finance.
When he finally returned to answer the call of politics in 2015, he came as a man seasoned by both global exposure and local understanding. His stride through Ikorodu Town Hall that Thursday, warm greetings for elders and fist bumps for students, embodied that dual heritage: diplomacy learned in Geneva, hustle acquired in Lagos, now poured into service for his people.
Amid the applause and festivities, gossip bloomed like hibiscus in harmattan. “Is JB not preparing for something bigger?” one woman asked, her tone half-curious, half-hopeful. “Governor, perhaps?” her neighbour replied with a knowing smile.
This was understandable; when a man delivers with such flourish, tongues cannot help but wag about his next horizon. Whether Benson harbours loftier ambitions remains his secret, but one truth resounded in the crowd: here was a politician who had transcended the ordinary script of ribbon cuttings and empty flag-offs.
At the road flag-off, the texture of the crowd shifted. Here were traders, mechanics, and okada riders; the pulse of everyday Ikorodu. Their cheers were raw and borne of relief. They did not need speeches to understand the significance of smoother roads; they could already calculate the savings, the reduced stress, the dignity of easier movement.
Lagos is no gentle arena. It is a stage of grand ambitions and cutthroat rivalries. Yet Benson has found a way to balance his politics across divides. For the elite and tech-savvy, he offers global relevance through digital infrastructure. For the grassroots, he delivers roads, food banks, hospitals, and radio stations. His stewardship bridges aspiration and survival, ensuring no group feels forgotten.
That balancing act is a mark of political savvy and also a guarantee of longevity. It makes him a figure difficult to dismiss, a representative whose base is wide and whose service resonates across class and generation.
As Chairman of the House Committee on Defence, Benson’s impact extends beyond Ikorodu. He has sponsored bills to strengthen Nigeria’s military capabilities, advocated for women’s inclusion in politics, and initiated motions that celebrate teachers and defend workers’ rights. His work in Abuja demonstrates a lawmaker who thinks nationally while remaining tethered to his roots.
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