My Father Who Art in Heaven
Ẹni tí ò ní ìyá ò kí ń d’égbò ẹ̀yìn
If there was any proverb my mom overused while nurturing us, it was the above mentioned. Actually, it should have been ẹni tí ò ni bàbá ò kí ń d’égbò ẹ̀yìn, but the message wasn’t lost on us. The proverb loosely translates to: someone who has no mother should avoid injuries to parts of the body that their hand cannot reach.
My mother wasn’t trying to deny her existence or suggest that she’s incapable. It was an indirect reference to the fact that we have no father, a condition which clocks exactly 20 years today. Yes, you read that right. Wheeww!
If I remove two decades from my age, I have only a paltry number of years left. And the fatherless journey which started in 2001 has been full of extreme experiences but my heart is full of gratitude to God, and the men He sent help through.
Thank God for a very sharp memory, I remember virtually everybody that came to console us and their reactions. Mrs Akindele wailed and rolled uncontrollably on the floor, her wrapper flung away. Mr Adediran sat still, lost and in utter disbelief with his eyes swollen. Many others were just shouting, bọ̀dá ti lọ? Irọ́ ni, kò jẹ́ jẹ́ bẹ́ẹ̀. Others asked, ọmọ ọdún mélòó ni wọ́n ná? 44 ni wọn máa pé l’óṣù tó ń bọ̀.
The point of lamentation for another set of people was the fact that Oyo town lost an illustrious son who had just been appointed a judge, a not-so-common feat then. I’m sure the tragedy must have brushed Alaafin’s ears.
Many years after, whenever I visit my hometown and meet with my father’s friends and kinsfolk, they would always bemoan their fate, saying if my dad had been alive, they would have fared better in life. A younger friend of him still keeps a purse my father gave him in the ’80s, to have a memory to hold on to.
So, when I see friends, especially the younger ones, who go through a similar fate, I perfectly understand what it means to lose a father, for just one incident to throw your life upside down and move you from a smooth fast lane to a rough, thorn-filled path.
Through it all, I learnt some vital lessons that I’ll pass on to the generations after me. And they are simple really.
First, you can’t afford to marry wrong. Despite the hardship we went through, I can’t imagine if my siblings and I had had another kind of woman as a mother. The one we experienced would have been an understatement. Iya Kola is a goddess, no doubt. Her resoluteness of character is what I wish for in a wife.
Have the right set of loyal friends. If my father could look back from wherever he is, he would definitely be happy that some friends stood up for his family. Special mention to the Odeniyi and Mustapha families. They were there when it mattered most. Time shall certainly come to tell tales of their benevolence.
Invest in people. It is the most potent form of investment. The good men do truly lives after them. Some of the people who supported my family were those who were indebted to my dad because he was there for them when it mattered.
The last and the hardest of the lessons is that when tragedy strikes, family will be the first to vanish, after making empty promises. It’s hard, but it’s life.
Moving on, at times, in my corner, I can’t help but imagine how life would have been if I had grown up being the son of a federal judge with all the access, wealth and resources. But hey, here I am today. It’s been rough, no doubt, but with where I stand today, I am full of nothing but gratitude.
I’ll leave you with my life mantra: It is my responsibility (and my responsibility alone) that I am a victor and not a victim of whatever circumstance life throws at me.
Continue to rest in peace, my father who art in heaven, Muhammed Olawumi Bello (MOB) (1957–2001).
