Hot SourceThe Director, Lagos State Valuation Office (LASVO), Esv. Adekunle Awolaja tells Bennett Oghifo he believes the government should establish an office of the Valuer-General as it did for Accountants and Lawyers, among others. He also speaks about his heritage
You have been in government service, how did you rise to become the Director of the Valuation Office?
By 2012, the Director of the Valuation Office was about to leave, and I was called to take over. At that time, the office was struggling. Originally, the Valuation Office had been created through a World Bank-supported initiative to generate revenue for Lagos in order to repay a $300 million loan for water and waste infrastructure. It was anchored on the Tenement Rate Law, which unfortunately was poorly drafted and titled, leaving it vulnerable when the Land Use Charge came in. Instead of strengthening the valuation framework, the law was sidelined and the office reduced to near irrelevance. When I assumed leadership, the budget was a mere N6.5 million a year. Staff morale was low, and deaths among personnel had shaken the office. I resolved to revive it. I lobbied tirelessly, especially during Governor Babatunde Fashola’s tenure, and succeeded in raising the budget from N6.5 million to N11 million, and eventually to N600 million. This caused controversy — colleagues accused me of overreaching, while others openly resisted change. But I saw the battle as necessary for survival. Still, implementation was another struggle. At one point, despite a N600 million budget, only about 11% could be spent, because approvals and releases were deliberately frustrated. It wasn’t until very recently, under the current governor, Babajide Sanwo-Olu that we achieved over 80% performance of our budget.
As an Estate Surveyor, what do you desire for the profession?
Through it all, I have held firmly to a vision. I believe that Estate Management and Valuation, as a profession, should be structured like accounting — with two strong branches. Just as accountants can rise to become Auditor-General or Accountant-General, Valuers should have the chance to rise to become Valuer-General, Permanent Secretary for Lands, or Director of Land Services. That is the future I see for our profession, even though bureaucratic politics often tries to keep us subordinated. It has not been an easy fight. I have faced setbacks, resistance, and isolation. Some see me as a lone fighter. But I remain committed, because I know that in the long run, integrity, persistence, and vision will speak louder than politics.
Tell us about your education
I started my early education at Oke-Owa United African Primary School in Ijebu Ode, finishing in 1978. For secondary education, I passed through different schools, eventually completing at Ikorodu High School. I later proceeded to Islam College, where I re-sat and strengthened my results. My ambition was originally to become a civil engineer, but my A-level performance in the sciences fell short, so I shifted to estate management. That path turned out to be providential. I gained admission into Yaba College of Technology, where I obtained my OND in Estate Management. From there, I pressed on — doing an MBA at LASU, which I completed in 2001, followed by an MSc in Real Estate at the University of Reading (College of Estate Management). Eventually, I capped it all with a Doctorate in Business Administration (Project Management option) at the University of Lagos, which I completed in 2023. So yes, today I can be addressed as Doctor, and I accept that with pride.
What did you do after you left school?
After my studies, I served in the old Anambra State during NYSC, just before Anambra and Enugu were split. I worked in Onitsha and often crossed into Enugu, since the valuation practice I was attached to had branches in both states. After service, I returned to Lagos. By then, I had already been working in the local government before gaining admission, so I came back with a study leave to resume. But I met a system in transition: Babangida had granted local governments autonomy, and offices were being restructured. The Valuation Office, which used to be under local governments, had been centralised at the state level. That left me stranded — neither fully in local government nor fully absorbed into the state structure. At that point, I had to make a hard decision. I had worked about 11 years already, so my resignation was converted into an early retirement. It was tough, but I told myself I wouldn’t compromise. I didn’t even touch my gratuity or pension, because I felt it wasn’t right to take what I hadn’t fully earned. I turned to the private sector. I had enjoyed it during my IT year, when I worked in a valuation firm, and now I wanted to try it fully. I joined Fidelity Bank in Ikeja branch. There, however, I met envy and resistance. People who would have been my juniors now became my supervisors, and some felt threatened. My past connections also made them uneasy. I had dealt one-on-one with Chief Dideolu, who was commissioner then, and others of stature. So, naturally, colleagues wondered: why is this man here? Why is he so connected? Eventually, it turned bitter. They reported me to management, saying I was difficult and unproductive. It was painful because I knew I hadn’t done wrong. In fact, I had been carrying extra weight. For example, when NDIC was auctioning assets of failed banks like Capital Merchant Bank, I was working almost like a clerk, even though I was a graduate. I remember one day, during lunch, I went to see an old contact — my NYSC mate who was now an assistant director. By chance, Chief Dideolu himself was around. He saw me, and later I heard whispers: “Why was he there?” The story was twisted as though I was idle or disloyal. Around that same period, I faced a string of incidents that worsened things. A driving matter first: two drivers were attached to us then — a Yoruba man and another named Friday. I was uneasy about the Yoruba driver; he seemed to stir trouble. One Saturday, I took a car myself to deliver money to a client. On the way, I misjudged a turn and hit a dangerous fence near a bank. The bank later admitted their fencing was hazardous and even moved it back. But the story spread before I could explain. Even though I paid for repairs from my own pocket, it was added to my “offenses.” Not long after, a car problem led to another confrontation. The key was with the driver, and they had already called a mechanic before I even got there. The mechanic diagnosed timing belt issues. What seemed minor turned into a serious accusation during a partners’ meeting: that I was always neglecting official duties for “useless” office matters. The Chief was absent, but others raised it formally, and soon after a disciplinary letter was issued against me. It was our secretary — a young married woman who had been rejected as MD’s personal staff and placed in our office instead — who brought me the letter. She was in tears. At first I thought someone had died, but she said no, the letter was for me. It was a dismissal. She begged me to take it easy, even tried to soften the blow before handing it over. That day was one of the hardest of my life. As if that was not enough, 1996 also brought a season of terror in Lagos. Armed robberies shook the state, especially around Ikorodu Road, which became a war zone of soldiers and police. I narrowly escaped during one of those raids — it felt like a baptism of fire, a test of survival itself. For the first time, I found myself without a job. Two months passed with me doing little. I tried small business partnerships, but without real foundation, they failed. Many of my colleagues were married; I was not, so I spent much of my time at home, reflecting on my journey. Then came a turning point. In July 1996, Mrs. Ogunro, a family friend (though not a direct relative), reached out. She was then Director of Finance and Accounts in the Lagos State Government. Hearing of my situation, she asked if I would be interested in joining the Valuation Office, which was then recruiting Lagos indigenes. She linked me to the Director of Valuation, and that was how I re-entered government service. From that day in July 1996 until now, I have been in service — and I can say I have enjoyed it, though it has never been easy. I worked first in the Lagos State Valuation Office, then moved through several local governments: Ikorodu, Surulere, Ojo, and Eti-Osa. I was privileged to be the first valuation officer when Ifako-Ijaiye Local Government was created. Later, I was posted to the Lagos State Waterfront and Tourism Development Corporation in Victoria Island, where I commuted daily from Badagry — a punishing journey, but I never failed to report to duty. In 2007, the Corporation was split into two ministries: Waterfront Infrastructure and Tourism. I became one of the pioneer staff of the Ministry of Waterfront Infrastructure, where I worked under a boss I still consider a mentor and godfather. He trusted me and gave me enormous exposure, which turned out to be a defining point in my career.
What part of Lagos are you from?
I often laugh when people ask me about my background, because my story is layered — royal, cultural, and professional all at once. I come from Lagos State. My name itself carries weight: Mybioje — which means, “Don’t spoil the form.” That meaning has always stayed with me. It is a call to preserve standards, to maintain integrity, and to carry myself with dignity. I am also from royal lineage. My father was an indigene of Imota, in Ikorodu Division, Lagos State, and served as Baale before he passed. Imota itself has an ancient history, often misunderstood. Many people reduce it simply to “Ikorodu,” but the truth is richer. Imota is part of Ikorodu Division, but it has always had its own standing and history, with roots deep in the land and links even to the Ijebu people, the Itsekiris, and beyond. We are Ijebu, yes, but with connections that go as far back as Guinea. In our oral history, Ijebu itself is split — Ijebu-Remo and Ijebu-Ode — and we Imota people carry that proud heritage. We also have connections with the Itsekiris. In fact, in those old days, Imota stood as a camp for farmers, a settlement linked to the Odu Oba. Over time, modern labels confused things — names like “Ikeja,” for instance, which never existed in Yoruba history, only emerging through colonial arrangements. But beneath all that, our traditions remain intact. I grew up knowing that history, knowing the pride of who we are and where we come from. But I am also a prince — a heritage I never forget. Today, I stand as both a royal son of Lagos and a professional who has risen through persistence. My education and career have been marked by challenges, but each one has deepened my commitment to excellence in estate management and leadership in the real estate sector.
