For years, I had confused Are Latoosa Court with Bower’s Tower. From a distance, the topmost sections of both structures seemed to share a familiar outline. It was a ridiculous mistake—one I carried quietly as a son of the soil who thought he knew his city well.
On a bright Friday morning, I decided to correct that error.
I set out to experience, in real time, what I had only admired from afar—Bower’s Tower. Living close to the tourist site, I chose to walk. The journey took me past the front of Ibadan House in Oke-Aremo, then uphill along a dusty, uneven path that snakes toward the monument. The climb was steep and sloppy in parts, but when I reached the apex and turned back, the effort felt worthwhile.
Ibadan stretched beneath me—brown roofs rolling endlessly into the horizon. I paused, reached for my phone, and took a few photographs. The view was striking, almost therapeutic. Apart from the occasional echo of prayers drifting from churches lining the road, the environment was calm and quiet.
At exactly 11:22 a.m., I arrived at the entrance to the tourist centre.
A middle-aged man sat inside what looked like a security post—its paint peeling, windows blown off, and structure weary with age. I greeted him. He looked up and asked, in a husky Yoruba voice, “Kí ló wá ṣe?”—What are you here for?
I told him I had come to tour the place. He informed me the entry fee was ₦1,000. I reached into my pocket, handed him the note, and he waved me in.
Before moving further, I asked about the availability of a tour guide.
“The person has not come,” he replied, then added, almost casually, “I also act as a tour guide whenever they are not around.”
He rose from his post and followed me into the premises, pointing at structures and narrating stories tied to them. The official tour guide would not arrive until 1:00 p.m.—one hour and thirty-eight minutes after my arrival.
To assure me of his familiarity with the site, the security man brought out his phone and showed me a TikTok video where he was explaining the history of the monument to Labí, a popular Yoruba cap maker. He spoke confidently, recounting the evolution of the Tower with ease. Later, he told me he had worked at the site for more than 15 years.
Inside the premises stood a decaying administrative building beside the entrance. At the rear was a lifeless restaurant and a damaged kitchen. Opposite them was an empty office. Lining both sides of the grounds were sheds with broken roofs and an abandoned suya spot. Everywhere told the same story: neglect. Peeling paint, blown-off windows, collapsed walls, foul smells.
Stepping inside Bower’s Tower felt like entering a quiet conversation with history. The air was cool and dim. Light filtered through narrow slits in the thick stone walls. A spiral staircase wound tightly upward, forcing me to slow my pace and be mindful of each step. Names and dates scratched by past visitors dotted the walls—silent witnesses of time.
At the top, the narrow space opened into a breathtaking panorama. Ibadan unfolded endlessly below.
That was where I met a couple taking pictures.
Temilola and her spouse had travelled from Lagos seeking a break from the city’s chaos. Ibadan, they hoped, would offer fresh air, quiet spaces, and a chance to finally see Bower’s Tower.
When they arrived, excitement quickly faded.
“There was no signboard,” Temilola said. “It was confusing—we entered through the back gate.”
“This place is overhyped,” she added. “It doesn’t even look like a tourist centre. The road here is bad.”
They walked around anyway, trying to salvage the moment. But abandoned structures, broken sheds, and the absence of basic facilities made it difficult. There were no guides, no clear directions.
“We weren’t privileged to have a tour guide,” Busayo, her spouse, said. “We were just on our own. At least the security man gave us some information.”
They took a few photos and left earlier than planned.
Built in 1936 by Taffy Jones, Bower’s Tower—locally called Layipo—is a colonial-era monument on Oke-Are Hill. It was erected in memory of Captain Robert Lister Bower, the first British Resident in Ibadan and Travelling Commissioner for Yorubaland. About 60 feet tall, with 47 spiral steps and two entrances, the Tower sits on one of the city’s highest points.
From its peak, one can spot landmarks like University College Hospital, the University of Ibadan, Cocoa House, Agodi Gardens, and Adamasingba Stadium.
Yet, despite its historical weight, the monument is slowly fading.
Eunice Elizabeth, a student researching her final-year project, visited the Tower to confirm its existence. “I came here to be sure it’s real,” she said. “It will help my project.”
Hassan Nurudeen, a regular visitor, remembers when entry was free. “It later became ₦50, then ₦100, ₦200, ₦500, and now ₦1,000,” he recalled. “Four years ago, it was ₦200.”
He lamented the neglect. “If rain falls now, there’s nowhere to hide. It wasn’t like this before.”
Giwa Asiyat, a University of Ibadan student, came inspired by photos she saw online. “The reality didn’t match the pictures,” she said. “There’s nothing aside from the monument.”
Still, Olalekan Basheeroh found the place soothing. “I came on impulse,” she said. “The view was beautiful. The names on the walls fascinated me.”
Back at the gate, the security man—who preferred anonymity—explained that tour guides were often absent due to official duties at the secretariat, leaving him to fill the gap. He confirmed that the site had been handed over to a private contractor and said government officials recently inspected the access road.
Another guide, Boluwatife, insisted the monument’s primary purpose was perspective. “The Tower is the attraction,” he said. “Everything else is secondary.”
He assured that renovations were planned and promised transformation before year’s end.
Walking away from Layipo, I was left with the same thought many visitors shared:
Ibadan knows Layipo—but Layipo deserves to be known better.
