Malcolm X arrived Nigeria from Egypt on the 6th of May, 1964.

[justseyi]

The air was thick with anticipation on May 6, 1964, when the plane touched down in Lagos, Nigeria. Malcolm X—fresh from a transformative pilgrimage to Mecca and a stopover in Egypt—stepped onto African soil, his sharp eyes scanning the horizon. He wasn’t just Malcolm Little anymore, nor even fully el-Hajj Malik el-Shabazz yet.

He was a man in motion, a seeker of truth, carrying the weight of his 39 years and a restless hunger for connection. Nigeria, vibrant and newly independent, welcomed him like a son stepping through the door after a long journey.

Days later, on a humid Friday night, he found himself in Ibadan, the sprawling city of red earth and intellectual fire. The University of Ibadan buzzed with energy as students gathered in a packed hall, their voices a chorus of curiosity and pride. Malcolm stood before them, his voice steady but electric, weaving stories of Black struggle, resilience, and the unity he’d glimpsed across the Atlantic. The room crackled—here was a man who’d stared down America’s brutality and now stood in their midst, a living bridge between continents.

As the night deepened, something extraordinary happened. The students, moved by his words and the weight of his presence, rose to their feet. In a spontaneous swell of honor, they bestowed upon him a new name: Omowale. In Yoruba, it meant “The child has returned,” a title that wrapped around him like a warm embrace.

Malcolm’s face softened, a rare smile breaking through. “It was an honor,” he’d later write, his pen still trembling with the moment’s gravity. For a man who’d spent years renaming himself—shedding “Little” for “X,” then reaching for “Shabazz”—this was different. This was homecoming, a gift from strangers who saw him as kin.

In a quieter corner, he sat with two young women, Iyabo Attah and Ronke Ademola, their laughter mingling with his deep, thoughtful replies. A camera clicked, freezing the scene: Malcolm, flanked by Iyabo on his left and Ronke on his right, his hands gesturing mid-thought, their faces alight with the thrill of meeting a legend. The photo would outlast them all, a snapshot of a night when borders blurred and a shared history sang.

But the story doesn’t linger there. Malcolm X’s life was a comet—brilliant, brief, and blazing. Less than a year later, on February 21, 1965, gunfire would silence him at 39 in a New York ballroom, his journey cut short just as it was expanding. Yet that night in Ibadan, when the students named him Omowale, lives on—a spark of recognition, a testament to a man who crossed oceans to find his people, and in turn, let them find him. The child had returned, if only for a moment, and Nigeria would never forget.

Malcom X fought and fought for we blacks he can never be forgotten

proud Muslim

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