By Barnabas McClint
I did not know His Excellency Sen. Lawrence Ewhrudjakpo PhD personally. I never shared a room with him, never held a private conversation, never benefited from his patronage or proximity. My admiration for him was formed at a distance, which in some ways is the cleanest place from which to speak.
Because distance strips away obligation.
What I knew of him came through consistent witnesses. Through public conduct that did not contradict itself. Through colleagues who spoke of him without rehearsal. Through stories that matched, no matter who told them. And through my mother, who worked closely with him during one of the most trying periods of our recent history, the COVID-19 crisis, when she served as Head of Department, Health in Southern Ijaw Local Government.
She spoke of a man who listened. A man who respected expertise. A man who was calm under pressure and humane in authority. A man who did not confuse power with volume. Her testimony did not sound like political praise. It sounded like relief.
Scripture tells us that in the mouth of two or three witnesses a matter is established. In Lawrence Ewhrudjakpor’s case, the witnesses are many, and their stories agree.
They agree on his emotional steadiness.
They agree on his intellectual depth.
They agree on his simplicity of life.
They agree on his fear of God, not as performance, but as posture.
They agree on his resistance to excess, compromise, and self-advertisement.
This consistency is rare. And it is telling.
Public life usually fractures reputation. The longer a man stays in power, the more versions of him emerge. Lawrence seemed to defy that entropy. Whether spoken of by civil servants, commissioners, clergy, subordinates, or distant observers, the portrait remains largely unchanged. Calm. Firm. Fair. Thoughtful. Principled.
That tells us something important. Character was not situational for him. It was structural.
He did not need to announce his virtues. They arrived ahead of him. He did not demand reverence. He earned trust. He did not trade in spectacle. He worked quietly, steadily, and with restraint.
There are men whose greatness must be explained. Lawrence Ewhrudjakpor belonged to the rarer category of men whose greatness had to be noticed.
I mourn him not as someone I lost personally, but as someone the polity needed. A reminder that leadership can be humane. That authority can be quiet. That faith can be sincere. That power can be exercised without abrasion.
His death leaves a vacuum not of noise, but of balance.
May his soul rest in peace.
May his family be comforted.
And may those who remain in public office learn that the loudest legacy is often built by the quietest men.
That is how Lawrence Ewhrudjakpor will be remembered by those of us who watched from afar, and believed the witnesses.
My name is Barnabas McClint and I sell bread. He writes from the Federal Capital Territory, Abuja.
