I have just returned to base from a long, memorable visit to the homeland, the first long visit in more than twenty-five years. Yeye and I looked forward to it with excitement, with plans for each of the forty days we had scheduled for the visit. It was going to be capped with the community celebration of Okeho, the historic land of my forebears.
Of course, we were not unaware of the ageless dictum that man proposes but God disposes. We knew that we were mere mortals with no means of competing with God’s design for us. Yet, we prayed and hoped for the best, counting on the cooperation of the Master of the Universe.
A few days into our arrival, tragedy chose October 1 to strike. Death snatched Kola, my younger cousin. He was full of life, and of hope. Anytime he called me on the phone, his prayers were as moving as they could be, meant to underscore the sincerity of his motives: Brother mi, bi mo ti fe ko ri fun un yin, Olorun je ko ri bee fun mi. Bi mo ba n wo iwaju, ki n maa rii yin, bi e ba n wo ehin, ki e maa ri mi. Nwon ko ni ru oku yin wale. E ko ni ba sare emi naa nile. (My brother, I want my life to be a replica of what I wish for you. When I look forward, I pray to see you. When you turn back, I pray you see me. They will not bring back your corpse home from abroad. You will not come back to be shown my grave site).
Then Kola died, and though tradition did not allow me to be confronted with his grave site, the reality of what just struck the family did not escape me. He was the one with the proverbial legs. He ran errands across towns and villages on behalf of the extended family.
Kola looked after the young and old. It was his lot to convey home the remains of young family members who died while trying to make it in Lagos. When his turn came, he was driven home alive by his son and as he alighted from his car, he collapsed and died. Asiwaju Bola Tinubu was then in London while Yeye and I were in Lagos as his guests. I did not tell him of Kola’s passing, but he heard through his aides. He called and offered his emotional and material support.
Kola was a community man and the community, starting from the Alapinni extended family across Oyo and Okeogun, to Okeho at home and abroad, was wonderful in its expression of sympathy and support for the family. The truth of the dictum, eniyan laso mi (I am because we are) loudly rang through. To lose a loved one is sad. To mourn in solitude is doubly tragic. It is therefore priceless to be a member of a community which is supportive in times of grief.
At the same time, however, a community that is supportive of its members in joy and sorrow, also gets celebrated and appreciated. Indeed, the main purpose of our long visit was to celebrate Okeho community on the centenary of its relocation to its original site in 1917. As readers of this column may recall, I shared excerpts of my book, Okeho in history, on this page over a three-week period.
For nine days, from October 20 to 28, Okeho community had a program of events that excited and inspired. The centerpiece of those events was the historic visit to Okeho Ahoro, a serene and awe-inspiring place with magnificent landscape of hills, valleys and caves that provided security for its residents during the most unsettling period of warfare and slave raids in the 17th and 18th centuries.
Okeho indigenes were out in thousands to celebrate their heritage. The unity was palpable. The love was infectious. For once, politicians of various hues, who had barely seen eye to eye, dropped the animosities that had motivated their politics, for the common cause of lifting the community. Thus, when traditional drummers displayed an individualistic ethos that angered the community, they were soundly condemned by young and old. The drummers quickly retraced their steps.
The social media was put to good use by the technologically savvy. WhatsApp platforms were created and effectively deployed for the exchange of ideas and fundraising for community projects. The youth were fully engaged in various activities, including a centenary soccer league competition which drew mammoth crowd of spectators. Lectures, seminars and a major symposium were organized on various issues ranging from education to agriculture and drug abuse. Chieftaincy titles and merit awards were given out by the monarch and the community respectively to deserving indigenes and residents.
The grand finale was the public presentation of the book, Okeho in history, with Asiwaju Tinubu as the chief launcher. Okeho indigenes couldn’t be prouder of themselves and their community. The sense of belonging was heightened with the recognition of the original eleven villages that merged to form the town and each projecting their cultural contributions to the uniqueness of the town. Invited guests were many, from Obas to intellectuals, politicians, media giants, and business titans. Those who were unable to make it in person did not fail to send their support. Iku Baba Yeye, Alaafin of Oyo was well represented. So was Oba of Lagos, HRM Oba Akiolu.
Though he was not able to personally attend due to a conflict in schedule, Asiwaju Tinubu fulfilled his promise by sending a delegation of three led by Alhaji Hakeem Fahm to represent him with a generous donation to the causes the community identified as its priorities.
For someone so generous with his time and resources, we have always prayed for enormous blessings in return. Certainly, we did not expect a tragic occurrence to befall him. But we are all puns in the hands of fate and the gods. We are the helpless grass while they are the wild wind. They toss us around at will as we are no match for their smartness, wit, and what our human understanding counts as their capacity for mischief.
Sadly, on the first day of November, tragedy struck again. Jide, the first son of Asiwaju Tinubu was snatched by the cold hands of death in the middle of the night. Shocked and traumatized, words took a flight from our shuttered mouths. How does a loving father come to terms with a spontaneous emotion of grief over dashed hopes? How is a loving wife to express her fear of the future that suddenly appears cloudy? Or how are three brilliant boys to cope with a loss that they probably still do not understand.
Yet amid it all, two entities have remained constant. First is our faith in the author of existence who alone knows best and who alone gives and takes. Tinubu clearly understands this. Expressing his abiding faith in the Almighty, he has not allowed himself to break down in despair or bitterness. As he thoughtfully puts it, “mortality comes upon us all. We have no choice in that; but we do have a choice whether we shall be good or bad, just or unjust. Let us all strive toward the best in ourselves.” It is the mark of leadership.
Second is the community. Across the six zones of the federation, communities stood by Asiwaju in his time of need for comfort. Hundreds of sympathizers thronged his Bourdillon residence even after he had travelled to London to be with his grandchildren and daughter-in-law. Sympathizers also flew to London, showing sincere fellow feeling. That Tinubu did not mourn in solitude is a testament to the importance of community in human lives.
In joy and sadness, community endures. We must therefore strengthen the spirit of community. However, a desirable strong community spirit is threatened by the hopelessness that characterizes our local communities. We must therefore work for their educational and infrastructural development. For, as our local communities develop, the nation will reap quantum benefits.
