Akintunde Ayeni :Business Without Continuity Plan Already Dead

On a humid Monday evening in Idimu, after dinner, Chairman of Yemkem International, Dr. Akintunde Ishola Ayeni, sat calmly behind his mahogany desk, his white kaftan pristine. In that quiet office, tradition met modern vision. For 45 years, he has given Nigeria’s herbal medicine a disciplined, institutional backbone. What followed was more than an interview. It was a journey into heritage, healing, and legacy, writes Adedayo Adejobi

On a humid Monday evening, as the light in Idimu softened into a pale amber and Lagos briefly loosened its grip on the day, the reporter arrived at the headquarters office complex just after six.

Dinner had been taken quietly, without flourish or interruption. Plates were cleared with efficiency, and the man at the centre of the space remained seated, composed, as though the passing hours had learned patience in his presence. The day’s labour was done. What followed was something more enduring. Memory, meaning, and legacy.

As always, Dr. Akintunde Ayeni was dressed in his signature white kaftan and matching cap, a visual constant that has followed him across decades of public life. He sat behind a broad brown mahogany executive desk, its surface polished to a muted sheen.

Behind him, wooden cabinets with glass panels lined the wall, holding files, records, and the quiet evidence of a life spent building institutions rather than moments.

The lighting was soft and even, deliberate rather than theatrical. Everything in the room spoke of order, discipline, and experience. Nothing felt accidental.

He sat upright in a high backed chair, leaning forward slightly as he spoke, his hands moving in controlled, economical gestures. This was not a performance. It was instruction. There was no urgency in his voice, no need to impress. Authority, in his case, had been earned too long ago to require reinforcement. Forty five years of practice rested easily on his shoulders, supported by a lineage that stretches back more than five centuries.

Lately, he explained, life has been dominated by production. What was once an ambitious network of 48 branches across Nigeria had been reshaped by hard lessons. Fraud crept into offices from Lagos to Ibadan, from Akure to Maiduguri. Court cases followed.

Trust collapsed. Then terror arrived. Boko Haram attacks forced the closure of northern branches entirely.

“Today, we operate mainly from Abuja,” he said calmly, not as retreat, but as recalibration shaped by survival.

This contraction marked a turning point. Consultation, once the defining feature of the brand, gave way to large-scale production. The consulting room yielded to the factory floor. Contract manufacturing for NAFDAC-approved individuals and companies became a central pillar. Franchising followed. “This new model reduced the burden,” he explained. “Ambition has not reduced. It has matured.”

There was a time he envisioned a thousand branches by 2010, two hundred in Lagos alone. The vision was clear. The execution faltered on human weakness. “You cannot be everywhere at once,” he reflected.

“So you trust people. But who are those people? Credible, honest, sincere? Nigeria is full of collapsed businesses not because of poor ideas, but because of poor character.”

Yet age seems to have little claim on him. Many describe his presence as ageless, an energy that defies the slow erosion common to long leadership. He credits God, discipline, and restraint.

“Seventy percent of profit has always gone back into the business,” he said.

In the early years, trade fairs were decisive. His stand drew thousands, where others attracted dozens. Money flowed, but indulgence did not.

“Where some spent, I reinvested. That is why today we have the biggest herbal medicine production facility in Nigeria.”

This was never a casual inheritance. His interest in traditional medicine began at six years old, seated beside his late father, watching preparations, memorising ingredients without notes, sent to markets to return with exact items, never once erring. His father, a renowned herbalist and spiritualist, treated infertility, chronic illness, and cases that hospitals had abandoned. Patients returned bearing gifts, clothes, food, and gratitude. Money was incidental. Healing was central.

Traditional medicine, he insists, was dismissed not because it lacked power, but because it lacked documentation. Nigeria’s forebears were researchers, venturing into forests, testing leaves, roots, and bark long before laboratories existed. “Our forefathers were the real doctors,” he said. “They researched, formulated, and administered.” China documented its medicine centuries before Christ. Nigeria did not. That absence still haunts the field.

When he entered the public arena in the early 1990s, scepticism was fierce. Innovation followed necessity. A bitter diabetes remedy posed a challenge until he adapted capsule technology, refilling shells with herbal powder. “It was not chemistry,” he stressed. “It was technology.” That distinction later became central to his confrontations with regulators and critics.

During the COVID 19 pandemic, his sense of responsibility sharpened. Fear was global. He focused on immune-boosting formulations, convinced that the body possesses an innate capacity to heal if properly supported. Organic food, herbal balance, internal resilience. Immune support products emerged in liquid and capsule form. Collaboration with the Ooni of Ife followed, including bitter leaf capsules.

“The goal was not to replace emergency medicine,” he explained. “It was to strengthen the body so it could fight.”

Debate around scientific validation persists, and he does not deny it. Instead, he calls for structural support. Nigeria, he argues, needs a national botanical garden to preserve medicinal plants. Today, raw materials depend on rural markets and ageing women traders. Knowledge risks extinction. Pandemics, he warns, will recur. “Herbal medicine works like soldiers in the body,” he said. “Any invader that enters, they fight it.”

His lineage stretches back more than five hundred years. Grandfathers and great-grandfathers, hunters and healers. Stories of extraordinary powers surface, though he draws firm boundaries. Herbal medicine, he insists, must be separated from occult practice. His own journey involved rebranding and focus. Spiritual consultation once dominated his work. Later, he chose to professionalise natural remedies and present them to the modern world.

Today, his children are involved in the business. One studied pharmacy in Ireland, accounting and finance in Paris, and is now studying traditional medicine.

Pride is evident, but measured. “A business without continuity is already dead,” he said. Knowledge must move forward or vanish.

Personal loss has tested him deeply. His wife of 35 years passed away a year ago. Grief lingers, but faith steadies him. “I have seen bombings, financial loss, and now this,” he said quietly. “Life is a journey designed by God. You cannot escape it.” Acceptance, not denial, has become his refuge.

In quieter moments, solace comes from delegation, from watching his children step forward, from knowing the structure he built can now stand without constant supervision.

Public perception has shifted dramatically. Once mocked, he is now recognised locally and internationally as a pathfinder. NAFDAC approvals, televised confrontations with sceptics, and the establishment of Nigeria’s first traditional medicine complex have secured his place.

Looking ahead, he believes Nigeria’s role in global traditional medicine is only beginning. Natural remedies are resurging worldwide. Side effects have eroded confidence in purely chemical solutions. Surgery and emergency care remain the strength of Western medicine, but beyond that, he argues, traditional medicine has proven its worth.

To young Nigerians, his counsel is restrained. ‘‘Be ambitious, but patient. Destiny unfolds over time. Speed without grounding invites distortion. Discipline, spirituality, and commitment matter more than haste.’’

When asked how he wishes to be remembered, his answer is unadorned. ‘‘As a leader in traditional medicine. As someone God used to establish and legitimise the field in Nigeria.’’

“My legacy will speak for itself,” he said.

If he could make one appeal to the government, it would be simple. ‘Fund traditional medicine. Support research, documentation, and export. Nigeria is sitting on a multi-billion-naira industry rooted in its own soil.’

The future, he says calmly, is already here. It only needs to be taken seriously.