Chief Oluwole Awolowo was definitely
not a saint. He never had a chance. He
was expected to be a “rascal”, a word
freely used beyond and beside its real
meaning, way back in our grapple with
the English language in Yorubaland.
It was affectionately used to mean no
more than a “high-spirited” lad or, as
someone once explained it, “extremely
restless and obstinate”. His disposition
was encapsulated in his nickname—
Unbreakable. It was the name of a
ball, the size of a tennis ball, which
young boys enjoyed kicking around.
Old tennis balls earlier served that
purpose, but they soon burst with so
much kicking around. But
“unbreakable” was solid through and
through, filled with layers of tightly
wound rubber straps which made it
virtually impossible to burst, while at
the same time giving it a chunky
appearance and a healthy bounce to
boot.
That was Wole in his youth, daring
vehicles on his bicycle across Oke Bola
roads in Ibadan—impossible to repress,
impossible to resent, impossible to
ignore.
I was very fond of him. His elder
brother, late Segun, was really my
friend but it was a delight to see
Unbreakable whenever he was around.
His presence never failed to introduce
a measure of comic relief to the
company, though he was normally not
loud and would even oblige with little
errands, if one knew how to approach
or coerce him with a little touch of
blackmail.
Segun was, of course, of a sterner stuff
—a musician in his own way, a
raconteur after a fashion, but in every
consideration a philosopher of no mean
mettle. When he passed away
suddenly, I was induced to move closer
to Wole, but the difference in our ages
created a gulf in respect of our
preferences, which were not too
conflicting though not exactly on all
fours.
The real obstacle to any close
relationship was Wole’s inbred respect
for his elders, which is actually a sturdy
trait of the Awolowo dynasty.
As time rolled on, Wole found it
increasingly appealing to move nearer
his Maker. I first thought it was all on
the surface. But, as if he knew my
feelings, he once invited me to worship
with him at his father’s church in
Ikenne on an Inaugural Sunday. So, to
Ikenne I went.
As a lay-preacher, I had my cassock
and surplice in the car. I was told that
Wole had become a lay-preacher too,
but decided not to wear my robes until
I saw him in. He was like to the manner
born when I saw him looking suited for
the occasion.
I then put on my robes and we entered
the church side by side. It was a
beautiful moment, one of the most
beautiful moments, for me. He later
became a full-fledged evangelist and
gave his life to Jesus Christ as his Lord
and Saviour.
His achievements have been dwarfed
by the enormity of his lineage. He was
an astute businessman, a publisher, an
evangelist, but still Awolowo’s son. That
is a tough act to follow.
The full realization of his potential must
have been adversely affected by the
unfortunate accident which he
survived, but the result of which
bothered him for the rest of his life. His
demise has left an empty space in my
heart, just as his brother’s did.
Segun did not even survive long
enough to live through the ghastly
experience of unending medical
attention; I wonder if he would have
cringed from his destiny either. The
Awolowos are a hardy lot. Through this
tribute to my aburo, I offer my
condolences to all of them – Tola,
Tokunbo and Mama. Glory be to God.
It was barely weeks ago that we read
those harsh comments about Chinua
Achebe about his last publication,
“There was a country”. Or was it
years? I wonder how many of us would
have written with as much severity as
we did had we known that the end was
so near then.
The book was highly critical of Chief
Obafemi’ s role during the Nigerian
Civil War. It was not the first time that
the famous author had expressed such
bitterness about the part undeniably
played by the man many of us take so
much joy in extolling as “The Sage”.
Achebe had feared Awo was near to
being deified as soon as the former
Premier of Western Nigeria passed on.
It was the man’s honest opinion,
spawned out of the deep acrimony
Achebe could not rid himself off. Some
of his ardent admirers even felt
uncomfortable about the timing. I
joined the chorus then in expressing
deep disapproval of what I
characterized as an unbecoming
diatribe. Appropriate as I felt my stand
was, a few of my remarks were
downright unfair. I later decided that I
would apologize to him at the first
opportunity I had.
The next time I saw Achebe after that
was at the Enugu airport. I hastened to
him to perform my act of contrition. But
even before the opening pleasantries
were over, he broke ‘in by saying, “I
see you are still writing. But as a
journalist … “
“Oh, I thought I would try my hand at
writing in the newspaper first … “, I
stuttered, taken aback.
“There is nothing wrong with that
either,” he said as he turned round to
introduce me to a friend with whom he
was travelling.
I was startled for two reasons. He left
no room for me to apologise, though his
statement indicated that he must have
been reading some of what had
appeared on this page.
Secondly, he remembered that I had
shown some promise as a writer years
back when he was the Head of the
Talks Department at the Nigerian
Broadcasting Service, (NBS) later the
Nigerian Broadcasting Corporation
(NBC). I had submitted a short story for
broadcasting which Ralph Opara, his
Assistant, thought highly of and
showed to him. He sent for me and
asked me for how long I had been
writing, and could hardly believe it
when I replied that this was my first
effort ever.
Without any hesitation, he sat me down
and discussed the title, the theme and
the development of the narration with
me. He assured me that I had what it
takes to be a good writer. I left his
office feeling like a prince. It was my
first writing to be broadcast though,
through the gentle nudges of the Head
of Talks, some others followed.
About four years later, I was
transferred to Enugu where Achebe
had become the Regional Controller.
From time to time, he would have a
quizzical smile on his face when he saw
me until one day he asked me directly,
“You are not writing any more?” I
muttered that I was producing feature
materials but would soon go further in
my literary efforts. And then I fled.
He seemed incapable of nursing any
bitterness in his mind, but he seemed
to have really had it in for Awolowo.
The truth is that he wrote really
beautiful things about other people,
like Wole Soyinka, in that book that
threatened to bring down thunder from
his various critics, but that was all
ignored.
Several of those who would have
crucified him did not seem to have
taken the trouble of reading the book,
anyway. It was enough that he had
written about a hurt that would not be
cured about their hero. Off with his
head!
Now, all that is forgotten. I thought it
was said that “the evil men do lives
after them, but the good is oft
interred with their bones”? Well, so
it will NOT be with Chinua. Thank God.
with one eye open
They are not sleeping very well in the
Ijora area of Lagos these days, or I
should say we are not sleeping well in
this area, because that is where I live.
The discovery of arms, ammunition and
the suspected terrorists that must have
intended to use them has exposed
what we knew all along, and that is
that the horde of Northerners in our
area must contain several elements of
the Boko Haram. There have simply
been too many of them, and they still
abound.
We accommodated all Northerners
under the umbrella of a single,
expansive identity—” malla”’. They
made themselves useful by performing
various menial tasks in the community,
but mostly kept themselves to
themselves.
They would not even pray in the same
mosques with other Muslims, but the
Constitution allows that. Recently,
however, the soaring increase in their
population, against the backdrop of the
terror in the North, had begun to give
many people some cause for anxiety.
Much of the fears remained
unexpressed because the security
personnel seemed to be at a distance
from the welfare of the people, being
mainly interested in issues from which
they could make a fast naira through
outrageous bail conditions, and stuff
like that. The raid and discovery of
those terrorist elements should
therefore be highly commended
because it seems to have been the
result of very sound intelligence
operations.
But it should not stop there. The people
who are being asked to cooperate with
the police by giving out information
deserve a measure of trust from the
police and vice versa. There is a wide
gap in confidence between the police
and the people in this area, and it is
constantly being widened by the
hectoring of the people.
The landlords and the process by which
these vicious people obtained their
accommodation should be brought
under close scrutiny, so that other.
miscreants may not continue to be
harboured in the area. When that is
seen to be done, perhaps ,he shall then
be able to sleep with both eyes closed.
Time out.
LINK:
www.vanguardngr.com/2013/03/dwarfed-by-his-heritage/