Eja nla lo lomi
Erin nla lo nigbo
Kato ri erin odigbo
Kato ri efon odi odan
Baba Oladejo Okediji lo
Odi arinna ko
Odi oju ala.
I apologise to my non Yoruba readers for starting off with this tribute in a language many of you don’t understand or can’t read. On a second thought perhaps I should withdraw the apology, why should I apologise for being me? Yoruba was the first language I learnt to speak and read. Why should this be a subject of discourse today? you might ask. I was born and raised in the north but either deliberately or not, my parents made sure I was able to read and hold conversation in my mother tongue. As it was common with the children of that era, it was only in the primary school at the age of eight or thereabout that I first encountered my first word of written English so much that I pronounced English words in my native language first. Anyway, that is a story for another day.
So why am I telling the story today? On Wednesday afternoon, I read online about the death of Baba Oladejo Okediji, one of the frontline Yoruba writers whom I grew up reading to polish my command of the language. He died in Oyo, his home town, at the age of 89, a few weeks to his 90th birthday, which he had earlier ‘predicted’ he may not witness. He had told a reporter who interviewed him in March this year that “I will be 90 in October this year, if I am still around.” The University of Ife and another organisation had been planning to honour him during the celebrations.
His books were my first encounter with thrillers long before James Hadley Chase, Fredrick Forsythe and other English writers entered into my world and that of other youths of my time. I still remember the CSS Bookshop then located on Ahmadu Bello Way, Jos, and other northern cities across the country. These bookshops and others were where we visited to buy Okediji’s and D.O. Fagunwa’s books. Before I entered secondary school, I had read all the two authors’ published books. Fagunwa’s books were what we read during the day because of their dreaded fairy tales of the world of animals, gnomes and spirits, while Okediji’s were our companion at night because of their thrilling story lines which were new to us then. Some of his books I read then are Aja Lo Leru, Rere Run, Agbalagba Akan, Atoto Arere, Karin Kapo, Opa Agbeleka, Oga Ni Bukola, and a host of others. Unfortunately, I am not aware if any of his books is translated into English or any other language for a wider appeal. Well, perhaps the question to even ask is whether his books are still in print. The last time I visited the University of Ibadan I can’t remember seeing any of his books on display, so is it too early to ask his publishers to begin to think of compiling his works; something like the complete works (stories) of Oladejo Okediji?
About three years ago, in an interview with Taiwo Abiodun, the old man had said, “The dearth of Yoruba language is worrisome as people no longer teach their children the language; everything is going down, the culture now is money, and there is no money in writing, just fame.” (https://staging.thenationonlineng.net/oladejo-okediji-writing-has-only-brought-me-fame/)
About two weeks ago, I wrote a tribute to the memory of another elder of the tribe, Pa Gabriel Okara. Gradually we are losing our literary icons and the repositories of our lores. Pa Okediji lived a full life as a writer and sired my Facebook friend, the talented painter and art historian Professor Okediji of the University of Texas at Austin, USA.
To Prof and his other siblings, I say they should feel proud that they came from a honoured background. As Pa Okediji joins the ancestors, what are the plans of the governments of the South West to take our language, our common heritage to greater heights, which Pa Okediji and Pa Fagunwa did very well?
A big fish has left the river
The big elephant has departed the forest
We can only find an elephant in the forest
We can only get a buffalo in the grove
Pa Oladejo Okediji is gone
Till we meet again
In the dream world.
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