The legal profession, like many great callings, thrives on legacy—on the transfer of wisdom from one generation to the next. Some legal giants document their journeys, offering future practitioners a glimpse into the secrets of their success. Others, like Chief G.O.K. Ajayi, SAN, choose a quieter path. Despite being one of the most towering figures in Nigeria’s legal history—often mentioned in the same breath as the legendary Chief F.R.A. Williams, SAN—Ajayi never wrote a memoir. His silence in this regard is both a loss and a mystery. It leaves behind an unwritten archive, a collection of valuable lessons, strategies, and philosophies that could have illuminated the path for countless young legal minds.
Yet, the legacy of a true master is not always bound by pages. It can live on more powerfully through the memories, methods, and testimonies of those privileged to learn directly under their tutelage. In the case of Chief Ajayi, we are fortunate that one such disciple, the distinguished Wale Adesokan, SAN, has stepped forward to share these precious insights.
Through a careful distillation of his habits, values, and professional philosophies, we uncover not only how he practiced law, but how he thought law. And in understanding how he thought, we gain something perhaps even more valuable than any published work: a mindset, a way of approaching the legal craft that can elevate any practitioner from competent to extraordinary.
The Zen of Focus: Silence, Solitude, Strategy
Chief Ajayi’s mornings were sacred. As Adesokan recounts, “Nobody goes to court with me when I am going in the morning,” the Chief would say. That simple rule was more than a preference—it was a discipline. His car became a mobile study, not filled with conversation or music, but with contemplation. No stereo. No passengers. Just deliberate, razor-sharp focus. This wasn’t casual reflection. It was strategic mental warfare. In that quiet space, Chief Ajayi would conduct a mental dress rehearsal of the day’s legal battle. “What if they come up with this argument? Will my strategy hold? Should I tweak my approach?” His thoughts flowed through various scenarios, his mind rigorously interrogating every angle, every possible outcome.
This kind of mental discipline is increasingly rare in an age dominated by instant messaging and perpetual connectivity. But it remains essential. Chief Ajayi teaches us that focus is not about isolation for its own sake, but about creating the ideal conditions for deep, structured thought. The courtroom, after all, is no place for half-baked arguments or shallow reasoning.
Lesson: Identify and protect your sacred thinking time. Whether it’s during your commute, early in the morning, or late at night, reserve uninterrupted periods to mentally map out your case. Silence is not emptiness; it is preparation.
One of Chief Ajayi’s most enduring teachings, as described by Adesokan, was this: “Good is not good enough.” He insisted that every brief, every argument, every affidavit had to be treated as if it were a masterpiece in the making.
“If you have twenty points, don’t pick two just because they seem enough to win the case,” he would say. “Use all twenty. Tie all the loose ends.” It wasn’t just about overwhelming the opposition—it was about ensuring that no angle was left vulnerable, that no judge was left with a lingering doubt. Even after final drafts were signed, Ajayi was known to continue refining them. He believed in iterative excellence—the idea that your first version, no matter how good, can always be better. Adesokan remembers how Chief Ajayi would revisit written arguments multiple times, continuously elevating the quality of thought and expression.
Advocacy: Mastery of the Law and the Art of Persuasion
Ajayi was a master advocate—whether standing before a judge or writing pages of legal submissions. In his era, oral advocacy reigned supreme. He spoke law the way a symphony conductor handles music: with total control, deep emotion, and intellectual fluency. “He spoke law as if he was the law,” said Adesokan. He had so thoroughly internalized legal principles that even when he cited few cases, his writing carried the weight of established doctrine. Every paragraph felt like a pronouncement, every sentence rooted in deep jurisprudential understanding. He didn’t need to dazzle with volume; he persuaded with depth. Today’s advocacy has evolved. Written arguments dominate, and the personal performance element has diminished. Yet, the core of advocacy—persuasion—remains unchanged. Whether through speech or writing, a lawyer must guide the trier of fact toward their conclusion, not through force, but through elegant logic and emotional resonance.
Lesson: Master the law, not just for citation, but for internalization. Make the law part of your thinking so you can speak or write with inherent authority. And when you write, write to move the reader—to make the judge feel the correctness of your argument.
Cross-Examination: Mining the Truth in the Details
The courtroom is often likened to a battlefield, and nowhere is that more true than in cross-examination. Chief Ajayi’s prowess in this art form was legendary. During the ZangoKataf Tribunal Trial, Adesokan witnessed a master class in how to break down a witness.
“There’s a secret in the details,” Ajayi would say. He trained his juniors to probe beyond surface answers, to ask about times, locations, sequences—anything that might trip up a fabricated story. Jumping around chronologically was a tactic he used to prevent rehearsed answers from flowing unchallenged. If a witness lied, the truth would eventually reveal itself through inconsistencies.
He also taught that style matters. Cross-examination need not be hostile. A disarming, even friendly approach often encouraged witnesses to say more than they intended. This soft touch could be just as effective, if not more so, than blunt confrontation. And perhaps his most important rule: “Never ask a question if you don’t already know—or can reasonably predict—the answer.”
Integrity and the Strength to Stand Alone
G.O.K. Ajayi was not just brilliant—he was deeply principled. He rejected chieftaincy titles. He turned down national honours. He refused to cosy up to politicians. His sense of self was not tied to status, but to service. He did not leverage his access to government to curry favour. If anything, he sued them—on principle. He maintained a clear, uncompromising distance from influence that could compromise his professional ethics. He worked long hours, reading newspapers only at night during his commute home. He had no time for distractions. He taught by example that the law is not a game of connections or patronage. It is a sacred trust, one that demands discipline, honour, and independence.
In Adesokan’s eyes, the model advocate, as exemplified by Chief Ajayi, is not only skilled in court but also thoughtful in character. He combined fluency in English with fluency in ethics. He was always courteous to the court, generous with colleagues, humble in victory, and gracious in defeat.
He cautioned juniors: “Don’t be trigger happy. Don’t jump to conclusions. Read those lengthy provisions calmly. Study deeply.” His was a mind trained in rigor, patience, and discipline—qualities that remain evergreen in any legal system.
Chief G.O.K. Ajayi, SAN, left no autobiography. But through those he mentored—like Wale Adesokan—we find something even more valuable: a working blueprint for professional greatness. His legacy is a masterclass in legal thinking. It is an invitation to practise law with intensity, independence, and imagination. For every young lawyer who dreams of a distinguished career, and every seasoned counsel who still believes in raising the bar, the Ajayi mindset is a north star. Let us not mourn the book he never wrote. Let us live the lessons he lived—and teach them forward.