From losing her father at 12 to becoming the first female Deputy Speaker in Lagos State, Mojisola Meranda shares with Adedayo Adejobi her remarkable political journey, achievements and vision for women in governance.
There is a quiet authority in the Deputy Speaker of the Lagos House of Assembly’s office. It is an all-white room, softened by understated, elegant grey furniture, where the formal trappings of public office sit comfortably beside more personal reminders of the woman who occupies it. Behind the leather chair is the emblem of the Deputy Speaker; behind that, a rich brown mahogany shelf carries books on history, culture and legislation, interspersed with award plaques in varying colours and sizes. Together, they tell a story without saying very much: public service, recognition, history and an abiding attachment to the business of people.
Mojisola Meranda is dressed with the same understated polish. Her style is feminine and structured without being ostentatious; her glasses lend her an air of composure and quiet intellectualism. Nothing about her presentation is overly theatrical. She is warm and courteous with the reporter, answering questions with the ease of someone who has spent years navigating public scrutiny. At moments, she leans into a point; at others, she pauses, as though weighing the thought before letting it out. Her manner is confident but not hurried.
For someone whose life now unfolds beneath the glare of politics, she is keen to make one distinction. “I simply remain Moji Meranda,” she says. “When I’m not doing politics, I’m a mother, a wife, a sister, a niece, and an auntie. I’m also just an everyday neighbour.”
It is perhaps the simplest description of the woman behind the office. She speaks generously of her family, her parents, siblings and children, whilst crediting them with much of the woman she has become.
“I deeply appreciate my family,” she says. “I appreciate them for the training, the support, and everything that has shaped who I am today, even outside the office.”
Their greatest gift, she suggests, was belief: the freedom to pursue what interested her and the confidence that she could make something of it. Her political inheritance, however, runs deeper than family encouragement. She grew up in a progressive family within the palace, where politics was not an abstract idea but part of the everyday architecture of life.
“The palace itself has its own intrigues and politics. It is almost a world of its own,” she says. “Even within the palace, you have different political bases, different interests, and people with different perspectives.”
Her late father, Chief Taoreed Lawal-Akapo, who served as a legislator and the Ojora of Lagos, was a lawmaker before becoming a traditional ruler. Some of her siblings, too, entered politics. “I grew up around politics, and I think it runs in the blood.”
But the most important inheritance from her father was a way of treating people. She was only 12 when he died.
“One thing I was able to pick up from him was the importance of being accommodating and operating an open-door policy,” she says. “That has shaped my life and my career up to this moment.” She remembers, too, what his example taught her about office. “Whatever position you hold should first and foremost be about service to the people.”
The loss forced an early independence. She did not grow up with her mother either, and by the time she was approaching adulthood, she had already learned lessons that life does not always teach gently.
“I would say it was before I turned 18,” she reflects. “Circumstances forced me to take charge of my life at a very young age. I had to understand what I wanted, make decisions for myself, and learn to stand on my own.”
There were, inevitably, difficult moments. At school events, she would see children arriving with their fathers and feel the absence of her own. “As a child, there were moments when I felt sad and wished I had my father beside me.” But she was surrounded by a large family.
“Growing up in a very large family meant I was rarely alone,” she says. “We were always surrounded by siblings, cousins, relatives, and the warmth and companionship of an extended family.”
Perhaps that early experience explains something about her conception of public life. For Meranda, politics was never simply about occupying a seat.
“Ever since I was young, I have always dreamt of paying my dues and giving back to my community,” she says. “I wasn’t necessarily thinking about holding public office. My resolve has always been that whatever job, position, or office I find myself in, my community should come first.” She wanted people to be able to tell stories about her influence: someone gaining admission, overcoming a life-changing difficulty, finding an opportunity. Her definition of success remains similarly people-centred.
“To me, success means looking back and seeing the people you have reached out to and helped, seeing them grow under your tutelage, and watching your mentees excel.”
That philosophy extends into the way she talks about representation. She is careful to distinguish what a lawmaker can do from what belongs to the executive, even as she acknowledges the pressure on elected representatives to solve almost every problem placed before them.
“We have the laws; what we lack in some cases is enforcement,” she says.
Citizens, she argues, also need to understand their own responsibilities. A lawmaker cannot be expected to provide everything from roads to individual house rent.“A common man on the street may expect a lawmaker to tar the road to his house, not knowing that this is primarily the responsibility of the executive. A lawmaker can, however, lobby and advocate for such projects.” Her own interventionist approach is pragmatic. She has supported educational materials for public primary school pupils, coding and IT training during the long holidays, school furniture, JAMB forms, scholarships, medical outreaches, water projects, petty traders and food palliatives.
“I’m not talking about two or three exercise books,” she says of her educational support. “I mean a complete set, packs of notebooks, mathematical sets, school bags, and other materials they need.”
Her philosophy is simple: reduce the burden where you can.
“You shouldn’t have to worry so much as a parent when your children are going back to school.” She has also facilitated roads, streetlights and transformers, projects she readily acknowledges are technically outside the direct responsibility of a legislator.
“We have to go outside the box to make things happen for our people.”
But she is equally insistent that public office should not become a substitute for personal responsibility. “We need to reorient our people,” she says. “Politicians also need to live within their means.” For women contemplating public life, her message is even more direct. “Power is not served à la carte, whether you are a man or a woman,” she says, invoking a phrase associated with the president, Bola Tinubu.
“Once you believe in something, reach out and work towards it. Don’t allow yourself to be intimidated or bullied.” She believes women must be prepared to “pay the full price, slug it out, and enjoy the fruits of victory.”
Her own political journey has required its share of difficult decisions. Reflecting on the period in which she relinquished the speakership and returned to the Deputy Speakership, she does not dwell on personal grievance.
“To me, it was a call to serve and, equally, a call to sacrifice for the unity of the state and the party.” Then comes one of her favourite images: “I would still approach life with a clean slate, a clean canvas. Once you have the brush in your hand, you can paint what you want on it.”
When asked where such philosophy comes from, she shrugs it down to something less grand. “I would only call that street sense.”
Away from the Assembly, however, the woman behind the public persona is less complicated. There is a corner in her home where she retreats, remotes beside her, moving from one television station to another while listening to music.
“All sorts,” she says when asked what she listens to. “You’ll be shocked. Juju, jazz, especially live jazz. Reggae, Seyi Vibez, Kwam 1, Pasuma. Gospel. Islamic music. I simply love good music. It all depends on what I’m in the mood for.” Her mood also influences how she perceives life. “For me, life is not that deep. You live it as it comes.” Her reasoning is almost disarmingly straightforward. If there is a problem and you know the solution, solve it. If you do not know the solution, why destroy yourself worrying about it?
Beneath her easy pragmatism lies a serious concern about the country she serves. She stresses the importance of data and history in understanding Nigeria and planning its future. “If we get our data right, we can project, plan, and make better decisions.” She believes that without history, the country loses part of its ability to understand itself.
Her vision of Nigeria’s future is ultimately about productive lives. “The Nigeria of my dream is one where, even if it is not possible for everyone to be employed, those within the employable age have access to meaningful work.” For her, employment means more than income; it provides purpose and productivity while reducing incentives for crime and social vices. The Deputy Speaker knows exactly how she wants history to remember her.
“I want people years from now to be able to pick up a government or history textbook and read about Mojisola Meranda, just as we read about the Sardauna of Sokoto, Funmilayo Ransome-Kuti, and so many others who shaped our history.”
If her father could look down from heaven today, Meranxa is confident that he would say, “Abebi, I’m proud of you. Well done.”