A Reckoning With Remo Secondary School at 80

A Reluctant Beginning

It is a part of my history I cannot ignore: a ploy by my parents to move me from the privileged environment of international primary schooling to experience integration into their culture, norms, and values, in order to foster independence and resilience during secondary boarding school, within the context of their tribal roots.

In the 30th year of the founding of Remo Secondary School, Sagamu, I gained admission after sitting the common entrance examinations and arrived from the north, ill-prepared, ill-equipped, and scarcely excited by the prospect. At age 10, my only options were between this school and Odogbolu Grammar School.

A Blur of Survival

The five years of being a student are a blur; I do not retain any particular friendships or bonds from that time. The people I considered friends were probably just fellow survivors trying to cope in a hostile environment, as we have scarcely maintained those connections since graduating.

If my memories are to be recalled, they would be in the names of the teachers rather than my classmates. The principal during my admission was Mrs Adebambo, a stoic lady who seemed to have eyes everywhere; you could hardly hide when not in the designated student assembly.

Yet I do remember hiding in a cavity behind the shrubs backing Falode House hostel as she walked by. I broke that myth.

Houses and Early Years

I was in Adedoyin House, and for my first three years, we took the wooden spoon at the Inter-House Sports Day. I was never a sportsman, but we cheered just for participation. Mr Abiona, I remember him as a kind housemaster; one of his sons was my classmate. The other two houses were Igimisoje and Mellor.

Remo Secondary School (RSS) was founded 80 years ago today by a Methodist missionary and community leaders as the first coeducational secondary school. Reverend William Frederick Mellor died in my first year at RSS.

Teachers Remembered

Of all the people who taught me, I remember most fondly Pascal Housenone, my mathematics teacher from the neighbouring Benin Republic. He taught me in my third form. Mr Adekoya taught English; he tarnished my school report that year by remarking that I was a truant. No one wondered why I was bothered, disinterested, and distracted in class; I preferred being in the library.

Of the malevolent lot was Mr Okonji, who earned the nickname Study-Study but was never able to enthuse us with his French lessons. He failed at imparting knowledge, relying on the cane; a sadist whose gratification was inflicting pain. With Mrs Odutuyo, the Yoruba teacher; the only lesson I learnt from her tutelage was adding diacritical marks to Yoruba; they both personified wickedness and abuse without accountability.

Collective Punishment

In my final year, we attended summer classes, and some classmates, intent on meeting girls one night, ran amok and caused damage and injury in the girls' hostel. Instead of investigating who the real culprits were, the school decided on collective punishment, expelling us from the boarding arrangements for the final year.

I remember the vice principal coming to the hostel and saying loudly that she knew these boys were not involved, but the decision had been made. That shaped my view and experience of RSS since the summer of 1980. I graduated in the Class of 1981; I have not returned since.

A Distance Maintained

I have observed activities of the RSS Old Students' Association from afar but have never been persuaded to join, as some of the leadership in the UK are reliquaries of memories I’d rather forget. For the record, I post this note.

Suicide When Academia Forgets Its Humanity

A Life Lost to Bureaucracy

I just read of a young medical student at the University of Birmingham who took his own life after failing a resit examination. By email, he was advised that he would have to exit the course.

What seemed like a simple administrative activity delivered by email by the University of Birmingham was, in fact, the end of the road for this young soul. He saw no other options left.

The Failure of Pastoral Care

It could not have been too difficult to invite this young man into a student affairs office or a dean's office to ascertain why he struggled to pass one resit examination when his other results met the mark.

Having invested life and purpose in a medical degree programme, surely, despite whatever rules were in place, no one, especially in an academic environment, should be oblivious to the considerable mental strain of effort not being rewarded with some recognition.

As per the narrative in the news, on that alone, I would suggest the University of Birmingham has been remiss in a core responsibility for student welfare that is quite unforgivable.

The Whisper of Despair

Then, whilst I cannot ascertain the facts of what the triggers for suicide and death by misadventure could be, I know there are times I have harboured suicidal thoughts.

I lived on the seventh floor in a swanky apartment in Amsterdam. As the long tail of cancer wagged ferociously with the loss of health, status, means and wherewithal, from the full-length windows in my living room, a voice whispered: Jump!

It could have ended things suddenly, without having to live through further adversity and privation that has become part of my story. My hesitation came from the desire to tell a better story.

When Platitudes Become Cruelty

In the comments that followed the sad news, there were many statements in the theme of, "Suicide is not the answer."

Reading all that left me quite incensed, and hence this blog, because that only works when counselling those exhibiting suicide ideation. It is unfeelingly cold and wicked to suggest that after the suicide has been committed.

My prayer is that those who appear to have the answer are not met with such overwhelming circumstances that no other option is presented in their predicament except for suicide.

The Fragility of Humanity

The fragility of our humanity is sometimes not understood without a personal encounter of indeterminable consequence. Even my two encounters with life-threatening cancer do not furnish me with the audacity to question the mental state of another when met with a wall of adversity that presents no hope or respite.

In many cases, people do need a different kind of confidante, before whom no wrong would be imputed against them. They are the warm embrace of succour and comfort, shining light into the darkness to see a path in life even when failure has snatched a prospect from reach.

A Lost Opportunity

I recall a saying that has stood with me from an uncle, way back in 1980, he said, "An opportunity once lost can be regained after a temporary setback."

I'm saddened the young man saw no further opportunities. May Phil Moyo's soul rest in peace, and his family and friends be comforted by the fond memories of his remarkable life.

A Google NotebookLM AI Audio Overview Discussion of this blog

Recuperation is something you should make time for

Learning to Prioritise Recovery

I completed my last chemotherapy session on 8 February 2010. There was another session scheduled for 1 March, but when I saw the ninth session was set for 22 March, I protested, telling my consultant that I saw my life resuming after 1 March and was not mentally prepared for further chemotherapy beyond that date.

My objection resulted in my multidisciplinary team cancelling the eighth session, but that was not my original intention.

Having been given my life back, I was back on the job market, seeking an opportunity, when my consultant said I needed another six months of recovery before returning to work.

Although I had a very generous welfare package, I wanted to return to work. My sense of independence drove me, just as it was clear that bills and the mortgage had not taken a break due to my illness.

The Cost of Returning Too Early

Within seven weeks of my last chemotherapy session, I was back at work. Then my body told me a different story: I neither have the strength nor the capacity for this responsibility. I need to negotiate an adjustment or resign.

The management was very understanding, and I was granted Wednesdays off. This break helped greatly throughout 2010. It was clear I had not allowed myself enough time to recover. However, I did not have the luxury of taking extended time off, as I was self-employed.

More recently, when I was diagnosed with malignant prostate cancer in June 2024, I chose radiotherapy and decided to work through the treatment in September and October of the same year.

On three weekdays during treatment, I had to finish early due to unmanageable fatigue, a known side effect of radiotherapy.

Pushing Through Despite the Warning Signs

Yet, after radiotherapy, I worked for another month as my strength waned, and I realised I needed more specialised care, for which I am grateful Brian provided in Cape Town. I was on sick leave for seven weeks, and although I was paid, I felt the urge to return to work halfway through the leave.

I returned on the first working day of 2025. I was not fully ready, but my spirit was willing; my body struggled beyond its capacity. I pushed through when another two months off would have been ideal.

Throughout 2025, aside from my holidays, hospital appointments and an episode of epididymitis—after attending the hospital, I returned to work; by December, I still had 14 days of annual leave remaining.

For someone coming off a cancer diagnosis and radical radiotherapy, I had overworked myself out of recovery and into a demanding work environment, complicated further by political issues within management. The mentality of just powering through.

A Wake-Up Call

When, on Monday, I experienced the recurrence of unexplained juvenile stomach cramps, there was a suspicion that I could endure the pain, and I did for hours.

A contractual obligation that we delivered to the client every Monday, which I controlled, I promptly completed ahead of schedule, posting the results before I left the office.

While the stomach ache did subside, it took its toll. I was in bed all of Monday, on nil-by-mouth except for essential medication. The same continued through Tuesday and most of Wednesday.

Amidst this, I realised: I do not give myself enough recovery time because I am driven, compelled or obligated by responsibility, circumstance, or situation. None of which is healthy.

A Commitment to Change

It is a realisation I must keep in mind. I am not in a competition of appearances. Good health will always lead to greater productivity; any shortcomings become visible somewhere.

Me Too, Church Too

The Peril of Fallen Leaders

The thought is scary: the number of prominent Christian leaders who saw amazing growth in their congregations and whose charisma touched lives globally have revisited what they once believed to the point of reassessing or abandoning the faith.

I am writing this having gone down the rabbit hole of a Facebook post. The author spoke of his conservative and evangelical background, 15 years of pastoring, and then realising the people he was taught to fear were just as much flesh-and-blood good people deserving of respect, courtesy, and consideration.

This led me to a podcast, The Rise & Fall of Mars Hill, a journalistic examination of the growth of a church plant in 1996 that collapsed dramatically in 2014.

A Fall From Grace

The fall of Mars Hill was not because of pastoral impropriety, but attributed to bullying, abuse, arrogance, and elements of narcissistic personality disorder found in the public figure leading the church, who resigned in 2014.

It makes you wonder about how Lucifer, in his exalted position in the presence of Almighty God, acquired that situation declared as, "Iniquity was found in him." I have agonised over how, in such a holy setting, a creature could turn wrong and take a third of the angelic host with him. How did Lucifer convince those angels of a better place than at the throne of God?

There must have been a cult following, where focus shifted from the principal or the principle to a personality.

When Personality Eclipses Purpose

The same happens in church, at work, in school, and in politics. In the Church, the focus should always be Jesus the Christ, regardless of how the vessel is used to bring the gospel and healing to the people.

Charisma can shift focus from the important, but with that comes the facility for actions that allow leaders not to be held to account and, consequently, not to be accountable for what they do.

Those who should stand up to authority are made to plead fealty with the admonition that straying out of line will be considered insubordination, rebellion, or even heresy. The leader posits as a god amongst mortals: untouchable and unassailable, infallible and literally inerrant.

It is a dangerous place to be, but this is evident in many congregations as the flock are led as sheep to the slaughter. Worse still is that these leaders do not stand alone; they are enabled and have enablers that create the myth and mystique that allows an untenable situation to thrive.

My Own Engagement With Church

In my engagement with the church, I have studiously compartmentalised things. The congregation is a meeting of people; the leadership have an onerous responsibility to "feed my sheep" according to the exhortation Jesus gave Peter before ascending to heaven.

I have participated in help or service roles but never sought leadership, even when such positions were offered because of my commitment or my knowledge of the Word.

I have not been inclined to lead and have viewed so-called leadership classes with suspicion, knowing just how power can corrupt and absolute power corrupts absolutely.

Knowing my human frailties, I have consideration of how inadequacies are faltering stumbling blocks. I depend on the grace of God, knowing the things beyond me are possible with God.

The Lure of Hero Worship

Naturally, I am not given to hero worship. I have always operated from the perspective that the only person to fear is one with two heads, and I have never met one.

Subscribing to a cult of personality probably fills a void somewhere in the psyche of the followers. I do not know for sure, but I have seen the damaging effects on the victims of such settings: from those adoring prophets in tune with familiar spirits, revealing things that imitate the word of knowledge (a gift of the Spirit given as he wills to the church), to those in unsupervised congregation settings where the leaders are now celebrity superstars worshipped by their followers.

When the structures and frameworks of these cults excusing abuse collapse, what do people have left if they had long stopped looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith?

A Call to Reflect

I can only recommend you listen to the podcast because it is as revealing as it is educational. We are all working out our salvation with fear and trembling.

This blog is hardly exhaustive on the many issues that emanate from beliefs, doctrines, allegiance, and faith. This is a contribution to the broader conversation.

Memory Pain

The Familiar Stranger

As I was walking to work this morning, I had the onset of stomach cramps, the abdominal pain I have written about often that I have experienced since childhood. I don't know what brings it on, but if I remember correctly, I last had this discomfort 14 months ago.

It is different from what you suffer with food poisoning; after emesis and bowel movement, you are usually alright. The other situation comes after a hot shower; lying on my belly cushioned with a soft pillow, makes things subside.

Memory and Recognition

This is memory pain, like a visitor you cannot bar from coming round to your place, it comes with a keen recognition, and the way it begins to tire you out is remarkable. For comfort, I take highly sweetened milky tea. It eases but rarely cures; however, some bed rest helps.

Yet, there is another concern. My tolerance of pain is high. I would endure discomfort for longer than is necessary as I attempt to put the issue out of my mind, even where it is becoming unbearable.

Perspective Through Experience

My reflexes have been schooled by cancer pain; any other kind of pain seems almost insignificant by comparison. I would rarely take analgesics because the pain is not deemed that serious.

Though pain is your body telling you something is wrong that needs addressing, I reckon I can bear it and manage. Do not think I treat the endurance of pain as a sign of machismo; it is more a matter of perspective derived from lived experiences.

Dignity and Humility

Eventually, after completing a change request in the office, I decided to leave for home. Walking back, I banished thoughts and images of me just falling in the middle of the street, writhing in pain. Could one be too dignified for such a humbling by sudden incapacity?

I am grateful for one last thing: regardless of the pain I am suffering, I have never lost my sense of humour or my ability to write about what I am going through.

For now, Akin is indisposed and taking a bed rest, looking towards a speedy recovery with a prompt return to verve and vigour.

Pain through the times

Blog - I remember this tummy ache (October 2007)

Blog - Take away the pain (September 2009)

Blog - Knowing pain is personal (August 2021)

Blog - The pain is a long story (September 2023)

Blog - That unwelcome discomfort from youth came visiting today (November 2024)

Flags Don't Make Patriots

Two Cities Changing

As I stepped out for a walk traversing the cities of Manchester and Salford, I noticed many changes in places I had not visited in quite a while; I'm talking a couple of years.

However, what was more interesting were the Union Jack flags flying on lampposts in some performative display of what some might think is patriotism.

The Absence of Historical Understanding

Frankly, I am quite unimpressed, because patriotism requires a keen understanding and sense of history that would suggest learning and study. I cannot ascertain that some of the agitators in this cause have acquired such knowledge.

For instance, I am an Englishman as I am British. My parents were born in Nigeria when it was part of the British Empire, and hence they were, into early adulthood, subjects of the Crown before Nigeria gained independence in 1960.

By the good fortune of providence, I was born in England, and at that time we automatically acquired citizenship by birth.

When Ignorance Meets Aggression

One man, because I looked different and had an accent, had the temerity to question my status in an aggressively racist rant on a train some years ago. Other fellow citizens called the police on him, and after spending the night in a cell, he was prosecuted, convicted, and paid fines totalling £750.

If he had had a basic appreciation of British history and the context of the brutality of the British Empire happening abroad whilst the profits built stately homes here, he might have been restrained and saved himself the humiliating consequence of baseless assumptions. But that expectation is like casting pearls before swine.

True Patriotism Requires No Flag

I do not need a flag to be patriotic. I do my civic duty by voting, and if called for jury service, I will attend. I belong in a society of values: fairness, justice, respect, and the consideration of others, knowing no one is above the law.

I believe we should treat each other with dignity and courtesy, seeking to live harmoniously with others regardless of race, creed, class, gender, ability, orientation, or status.

Identity Beyond Symbols

In all those situations of understanding and celebrating our Britishness, it is not flags that matter, but our sense of identity expressed in our humanity towards having a common purpose to make our world a better place.

That is why I think hoisting flags is an empty gesture. It is not representative of any particular value; it is, in essence, patriotism misguided and probably informed from a position of ignorance.

Paying respects to a colleague

Making the Journey

Yesterday was devoted to one main activity: bidding a dear and well-liked former colleague a befitting farewell. As the situation was, the only thing to do was to pay our respects and honour him.

His wife had advised in an email response to my indicating an intention to attend the obsequies that the best station to alight from was Poulton-le-Fylde, as it was the closest to Carleton Crematorium.

Leaving home early, I initially thought of going to Blackpool and then, closer to the time, making my way to Poulton-le-Fylde. However, after exchanges with another colleague who was changing trains at Preston (Lancs), I alighted at Preston and ended up at Brucciani’s Café, where the serving of Eggs Benedict left much to be desired.

Gathering Together

The rendezvous at the station later on saw the meeting of five more colleagues. We set off to a nearby pub, some steeling themselves for the occasion with a tipple.

Another colleague joined us there, and he drove us to the crematorium. As we got out of the car, the funeral cortège was coming up behind us.

A Celebration of Life

The gathering was a humanist celebration. The venue was filled such that there was standing room only; I took to leaning on the wall for support.

Such fantastic stories were told of him, including a very moving tribute from his wife. Many women cried, and even some men cried like boys. He was held in such great affection and deeply loved. A sombre, yet celebratory farewell it was.

The Reception Wake

The reception after the funeral, termed a wake, took place at Carleton Bowling Club. I did note, though, that we had barely exited the chapel when the next hearse had arrived, and there was going to be a last one after that, each session given 45 minutes. A commodification of death, in no uncertain terms.

We got to talk to friends, relations, his wife, and his mother, all appreciative of us making time to attend this farewell.

The Journey Home

Three of us left after dark to catch the trains, a 19-minute walk from the reception. We arrived just in time to board a train to Preston.

I changed at Preston for a train to Manchester, and it was on that train that a conductor not only checked my ticket but also asked for my railcard. He then said, "However you got that railcard, what's your secret?" Not the challenge I expected, but I was also being paid a compliment. It took a full month to be officially recognised as a senior citizen through my Senior Railcard.

An Unexpected Conversation

Then, guess what? The young chap sat beside me, fascinated by the chatter between the conductor and me, struck up a conversation. He was just about to commence his A Levels, attending a boarding school in Cumbria.

His intended career path was history, and I shared with him what I did. He had been in Cape Town last year with his school's rugby team, and he spoke of South Africa in such glowing terms.

What did we not cover before I disembarked at Manchester Oxford Road Station? Chance encounters making a journey and a day end on a jolly note.