Cocoa House, Ibadan — the first skyscraper in West Africa — was turning 60. For OICL, the anniversary presented a recognition problem as much as a commemoration. The building existed in public memory as a landmark, but the ambition that produced it had become invisible. Six decades of economic and institutional history sat behind a façade that most people walked past without reading.

We made a documentary. But before we touched a camera, we asked the right question: who is this actually for, and what do we need them to feel when it is over?

The answer was not the usual anniversary audience — shareholders, alumni, dignitaries. It was millennials. People old enough to inherit a legacy but young enough to still be deciding what they think of it. We built the film around their questions, not the institution's answers. What did the men who built the first skyscraper in West Africa actually believe was possible? And does that belief have anything to say to the generation sitting in its shadow now?

That framing changed everything — the interviews we sought, the footage we built, the way the story moved.

A film that an institution could put in front of any audience — investors, partners, young professionals, government stakeholders — and have it do recognition work without feeling like a corporate video. ILÉ ÀWÒSÍFÌLÀ did not just mark sixty years. It made the case for why sixty years mattered, in language that landed with people who were not in the room when it was built.

Oba Sikiru Kayode Adetona has reigned for over six decades — one of the longest-serving monarchs in Yoruba history. The Ijebu Renaissance Group recognised that a reign of that significance was at risk of being remembered only in the ways that oral tradition remembers things: partially, unevenly, and subject to revision. They needed a documentary. But what they really needed was an archival instrument — something that would hold the record correctly, permanently, and in a form that could travel.

A biographical documentary is easy to get wrong. The instinct is to produce a celebration — and celebrations, however sincere, rarely survive the moment they were made for. We approached this differently.

The film was built on two tracks simultaneously. The first was the life — Oba Adetona's story told with the rigour of a historical document, not the warmth of a tribute. The second was the culture — Ijebu tradition as a living system of governance, identity and value, documented through the lens of one man who has stewarded it longer than most of his subjects have been alive.

That double track is what separates a film from an archive. We were not just recording what happened. We were building a reference — something a scholar, a successor, a diplomat, or a young Ijebu professional could return to and find something useful.

A documentary that functions as three things at once: a biographical record of one of Nigeria's most consequential traditional rulers, a cultural archive of Ijebu tradition and governance, and a masterclass in what long-term institutional leadership actually looks like in practice.

A new governor arrives with a clear mandate — change how Oyo State is perceived. Senator Abiola Ajimobi's administration understood something that many incoming governments miss: perception does not reset automatically with a regime change. It has to be actively managed. BCOS, the state-owned media network, was one of the first institutions handed that brief.

Its existing identity had not been updated in decades. In a state trying to reintroduce itself to regional, national, and international audiences, the broadcaster's logo was a passive presence — neither announcing the change nor helping audiences read what was different about this administration.

The brief was deceptively simple: create a logo that can sit alongside international broadcasters without explanation. No asterisk. No context required.

A logo for a state broadcaster has to carry two things at once — modern enough to hold the attention of a youthful population that has already moved to satellite and streaming, and stable enough not to alienate an older audience that grew up with the institution and associates it with legitimacy and continuity.

We designed a mark that made a clean break visually while holding enough institutional gravity to avoid feeling like a departure. The geometry was contemporary. The weight was considered. The result was a logo that communicated the same thing the governor was trying to communicate — that Oyo State had turned a page, without erasing what came before it.