Justice Or Impunity? The Tragic Demolition Of A Retired General’s Livelihood

By

John Ekundayo

In a quiet corner of Abuja’s bustling Wuse Zone 3, within the serene Panorama Recreational Park, stood a humble establishment known as Jazz and Blues Entertainment. It wasn’t just a business—it was a garden of hope, carefully nurtured by a man who had once flown combat aircraft in the skies for Nigeria’s defense.

Air Commodore Abayomi Balogun (mni, rtd), a retired senior officer of the Nigerian Air Force, served the nation faithfully for 34 years. A decorated combat pilot, he played key roles in peacekeeping missions across West Africa, especially in war-torn Liberia and Sierra Leone. He retired in 2014—not to withdraw from national service, but to contribute in other meaningful ways.

Rather than rest on his laurels, Air Commodore Balogun chose to invest his retirement in building a peaceful space for entertainment and youth employment. Jazz and Blues Entertainment became more than a business—it became a community, a training ground for young Nigerians, and a sanctuary of culture. For over a decade, it stood as a model of post-service patriotism.

But on August 7th, 2025, everything changed.

Without warning or prior notice, the Federal Capital Development Authority (FCDA) stormed the park. A demolition team flanked by heavily armed policemen, civil defense corps, and other security agencies descended on the premises as if going to war with terrorists. Six structures were marked for demolition. But curiously, only two were destroyed—one of which was the Jazz and Blues Entertainment center.

Air Commodore Balogun, dignified even in desperation, pleaded for just one more day. A day to retrieve valuables accumulated over a decade. A day to protect not just his personal belongings, but the livelihoods of 37 young Nigerians under his employ. His pleas fell on deaf ears.

Even as he presented documentation showing the structure had FCDA approval, he was told flatly: “We’re acting on orders from above.” And with that, the bulldozer roared. In mere minutes, years of effort were flattened to rubble. Furniture, equipment, instruments—millions of naira in value—destroyed without hesitation.

Then, as suddenly as they came, the demolition team stopped. The other structures were spared. Why?

What had changed?
Was this truly about urban planning—or was this targeted destruction, perhaps fueled by vendetta, politics, or greed?

Worse still, as the dust settled, another wave of trauma swept in. Miscreants—known locally as Baban Bola—descended upon the ruins, armed with machetes and threats. They claimed the remains as their own, chasing off staff who tried to salvage anything from the debris. By the time help from the Nigerian Police and the Air Force arrived, it was too late. The place had been looted clean.

For a man who had risked his life for the nation, this was a deeply personal tragedy. For his young employees, it was the sudden theft of their dreams. For Nigeria, it was yet another story of how bureaucracy and brute power can crush integrity and hard work.

Air Commodore Balogun did not ask for handouts in retirement. He created value. He gave back. And what did he receive? His only source of sustenance erased without dignity, explanation, or remorse.

This is not just his story—it is a mirror to our national conscience.

Must it take bulldozers and brute force to run a city?
Must documentation and decency be dismissed at will, because “orders from above” must be followed blindly?
And when will those in authority realize that injustice—no matter how small or targeted—undermines the very fabric of our unity?

As Nigeria continues to grapple with unemployment, insecurity, and the mass migration of its brightest minds, one wonders what message this sends to those who choose to stay behind and build.

General Balogun’s garden may be gone, but the question remains:

Can we build a just and equitable Nigeria by tearing down the efforts of those who serve it with honour?

Let us not wait until every dream is reduced to rubble.

Let us choose justice—before it is too late.