In a year of remembering Dr Willy Legg

In a year of remembering

I never met Willy, but we had many conversations on WhatsApp and when he moved into a nursing home, there were bits of interaction when Brian went to visit him.

Last year, as Brian was about to leave for Cape Town to help me recuperate, he visited Willy and part of what transpired was Willy had a premonition and said he'll be gone before Brian returns to Bulawayo.

We were only about three weeks in Muizenberg, near Cape Town, when the news came that he had passed on. There have been snatches of memory and recollections since, many quite interesting and fond too.

I share one such memory below, which was a comment to the blog I wrote in tribute to Willy, a year ago. Unfortunately, the contributor did not leave a name.

The tortoise she birthed

To add to your fund of Willie stories: In amongst all the normal activities of being a clinical student in Harare Hospital, Zimbabwe, occasional remarkable incidents stood out.

One day, someone mentioned in the tea-room that there was an especially unusual case in the maternity unit. It was definitely worth going to see, and it involved a tortoise. Along with Willie Legg, with whom I was then sharing a house, I went to have a look at this 'most unusual case'.

In one of the small side wards holding the recently delivered mothers and their babies, we found a perfectly ordinary young mother in her bed; the adjoining bassinet contained a somewhat dusty but otherwise perfectly ordinary adult tortoise, complete with a few lettuce leaves.

Luckily, Willie spoke perfect Shona, so he asked the mother what her exact story was. She told him she had gone through her pregnancy without any real problems and had an apparently normal delivery in a district clinic. She had been greatly distressed when she was then presented, not with a swaddled baby, but a swaddled tortoise.

According to the established protocol for such things, she was transferred with her new and very obviously 'abnormal' baby to our teaching hospital, as this was a most unusual complication.

It appeared impossible to either of us that anyone could ever accept this story, so we asked the young midwife working on that ward what she thought of the story. She said, and I quote: “No, it could not possibly be true. I have examined the tortoise and noted that its umbilicus is fully healed.” I took this as a valid point, but not a completely satisfactory answer.

Naturally, we were nowhere near the end of the story, as the police were already on the case. It was soon confirmed that the clinic midwife had accepted a significant sum of money to give the newborn baby to a well-off local woman who was infertile.

The tortoise had been substituted for the baby, with the hope that this unsophisticated young mother would just accept this reptile as her unhappy lot. Luckily, this never had to happen, and justice was eventually served.

Blog - Dr William George Wykeham Legg (Willy)

Sam: Most impactful in lowly endeavour

Beyond the strength we have

Understanding and appreciating frailty after illness or treatment for disease can be a difficult thing. We strive as much as possible to get back to normalcy even if our bodies suggest we are nowhere near the capacity for the abilities we once had.

The bodily stresses of fatigue, lethargy, weakness, or tiredness are signals requiring action from rest to additional medical attention towards some sort of resolution. The life and circumstances we live in harshly dictate the reality of there being no pills for the bills.

Even where we have a cushion of support to banish the concern of livelihood, we need some sort of activity to take our minds off infirmity and adversity. Having lived through this sort of thing, I am quite acquainted with the issues involved.

Escaping illness for work

Attending the office this morning, I was met with some rather sad news, the lady who maintains and cleans the office, with whom I have had a good rapport had passed on. I saw her barely 3 weeks ago, it was my first time back in the office since before I commenced radiotherapy in September.

We had a few conversations, a big catchup from the end of June when she had been in hospital for an extended period and though she was back at work, she looked rather gaunt and frail, we were both glad to see each other. It never occurred to me that it would be the last time.

The shock of learning of her demise was quite unsettling, someone would suggest she returned to work much earlier than necessary, but how do you gauge the right time to return to work if all your life you have espoused dignity in labour? Call some of us old-fashioned, we’d rather work than get by on handouts or welfare.

The value in everyone

For those who can game the system to exist in indolence, there can be no praise or adulation. I guess it belies the flaws in the system. To live a purposeful life is what matters. Sam, as I remember her was forthright, clear-minded, tough, and engaging. I remember my father not wanting me to converse with the help, but how could we be in proximity and not engage?

Sam’s work kept the office environment clean, conducive, clear, and comfortable. She was as much a member of our team as anyone else, if not one of the most important of us all for what she did, for without her contributions, no one would consider the office a place to work.

As I have always taken my time to chat to everyone most especially the cleaners, she would be sorely missed. May her gentle soul rest in peace. Her light has gone but her memory remains.

Dr William George Wykeham Legg (Willy)

Sadly, it happened

As we suspected without putting words to our thoughts, a message that we received late yesterday came with the confirmation that a friend had passed on after a protracted illness.

I never met Dr William Legg, known as Willy to many; he was born in Zimbabwe and even though he travelled the world for work and his medical education, he was Rhodesian and Zimbabwean, part of a cohort of typically white Africans that apart from their distinctive appearance would pass for native in manner, tongue, and probably outlook too.

It was through Brian that I made an acquaintance with Willy, who was ever courteous, wise, and, well, naughty. I guess with the people who crossed his path due to his profession, you acquire a facility to engage anyone at any level and keep them totally at ease.

Some interactions to note

Whenever he asked Brian to pass his regards to me, there was something lewdly impolite that he also expected Brian to do, to ensure I got the message completely. Seeing my interest in not just Brian but Bulawayo too where he lived, he sent me an old hard-cover book on Bulawayo that contained language that would not pass the censure of a copywriter today.

It depicted a time and place that once was with an engaging narrative that made you want to make off to see, feel, and experience Zimbabwe. There was an expectation that we would meet as he desired to take me to the Matopos Hills, and I was more than interested as that is also where Cecil John Rhodes was buried.

A thought in closing

Alas! We never got to do that, as I have yet to visit Zimbabwe, and he had become quite increasingly frail over the last few years. While having a very active mind to the end, his body literally incapacitated him.

I have heard and read many stories about Willy. He spoke fluent Ndebele, could make chapatis from scratch, was a doctor to many, and a teacher of the medical sciences to many more.

To Brian, he was a friend, a boss, a confidante, a mentor, a father figure, and much more. It is with him that I grieve the passing of Dr William Legg. May his gentle soul rest in peace.

To that lonely man of Quernmore

The England that was

A big house stands lonely in remote Lancashire in the hilly countryside that looks far away from anything known bequeathed in a legacy to a man who served a family for a long time, and it became his hideaway.

Born in the closing of the Depression just as the Second World War began, to a young couple who might have ancestry that stretched to the ends of Yorkshire, steeped in the Victorian working-class values of duty and service, of which they were obviously exemplary.

The road sign to this village is one of those English placenames that is a Shibboleth, it sets apart the locals from the outsiders, and fascinating it is.

Happy and sad together

And 80 years to the day, tragedy and fortune struck, in Arnhem a father never returned and in Lancaster, a girl was born, and so was a life so marked from that day until the very end. He was the grandson of grieving parents as his mother cradled his little sister in her arms.

This is not my story, but one for which I seek to remember a man who was uncle to my friend. We all have uncles that we fondly remember, who we know and yet do not, whose persona reveals cleaves of the unsearchable travails of life represented in their quirks and tics.

In the passage of time, mother passed on for he never left her side to travel or get married, a lifelong protector even from a boy, seeing duty like he might have been told by his father as he left for war, make sure you take care of your mother. And now, he also had a little sister to watch over too.

The forever memories

When I met him during my many memorable sojourns to Lancaster for Christmas, his impression of things might have belonged to a forgotten age, but nothing he said was out of malice, it was a way of making conversation and you dug deep for wit and laughter rather than take offence.

I knew once the bond that brought us all together at Christmas had gone, he would become a total recluse back in his big house out of reach and out of sight, usually sought by his nephew and rarely seen except for letters and notes. He was free from the oath to care for his mother and the rest of the world could care for itself.

No one could blame him and what might never have been truly known was he was both liked and loved, every visit to another village in Lancashire would include the thought to ask after him. We sadly learnt that he had left his footprints in the sands of time now only to be remembered with a sigh and in dreams.

The lonely man of Quernmore (KWOR-mər) is gone. May his gentle soul rest in peace.

Dr Jerry Savelle (1946 - 2024)

A persuasion in pain

My Christian faith has led me on many journeys, in the search of purpose, knowledge, and insight on the issues of life along with looking to understand why we exist and what kind of legacy we might leave, to hope that in the annals of time, our footsteps show sure paths and our deeds are impactful in the lives of others.

In early September 2009, I was in excruciating pain and literally dying from cancer tumours that had consumed most of the area of my left sole and the underneath two of my toes. The only way I could walk on that foot was to bandage it tightly and wear a pair of monk shoes. I had not convinced myself of what remedy for this suffering might be.

Maybe a miracle today

My days and nights were preoccupied with listening to sermons on divine healing as I am also of a Pentecostal inclination; I have followed many leaders of that persuasion in the teachings and revelations they have shared for decades. Skimming through some of the websites of these preachers, I happened upon the itinerary of Jerry Savelle and instinctively, I booked a flight from Amsterdam to London with the view to attend every venue he would be appearing at.

In visiting, I informed some friends who met up for either of the two sessions that I attended, it was also a time of reckoning for me because until then, much as I would have wanted a miracle of healing to deal with this problem, a sense of irresponsibility of allowing my condition to deteriorate to the state I was in quickly dawned on me, because I then found the courage to admit to the seriousness of the disease I had until then kept mainly to myself.

An impartation of sense

Dr Jerry Savelle ministered in two different churches where the fawning of the overseers did not help the setting. The man of God then offered to lay hands on the whole congregation, but I was more like the thronging crowd than the woman with the issue of blood. If I received any virtue, it was commonsense. I did not regret my journey; it just gave me context to tackle an existential threat.

I returned home and booked an urgent appointment with my medical doctor and what followed was a referral, chemotherapy, and a survival which at prognosis if I did not tolerate the therapy left me with just 5 weeks to live.

God is good, always

Dr Jerry Savelle was a raconteur, a man who told wonderfully interesting stories about his Christian walk, he preached and taught about faith, favour, grace, the goodness of God, his motorbike and vintage car collection, his aeroplanes, and the many missions he had in Africa and all over the world. He encouraged and enthused, the titles of his sermons of which I have many just made you want to listen to what he had to say.

In Hard Times God Will Rescue You (YouTube playlist) is one set of 3 sermons he preached in 2022 that I have listened to many times in the last year to find great encouragement during my own personal hard times. Whenever I have needed the lifting up of my spirit and a reassurance of God’s love, I would seek out a message by Jerry Savelle either from my large MP3 archive of messages going back 25 years or a recent online impartation to the body of Christ on his itinerary in recent times.

An exemplary man of God

He represented a man of integrity, principle, purpose, faith, and good humour. He had been mentored by and been friends with many of the great men of faith who have either passed on or are well into their 80s. While I am saddened at his passing, he was a sure example of how to live the Christian life and be an exemplar of the eternal life that now is unto the life to come.

He always spoke fondly of Carolyn, his wife of almost 60 years, his two daughters and his grandchildren, he lived a full, exciting, and wonderful life. I think one quite important thing I learnt from his teachings was God is also interested in the things that bring us joy, be they pursuits or hobbies, as long as they do not distract you from eternal purpose.

He will be missed, but with the body of work in books, sermons, teachings, and stories he left for us, we can be thankful there was someone who showed that the person and character of God is for us to really find out, know of, and revel in the joy of living, knowing Jesus Christ and God the Father.

Remembering Uncle Cash

First amongst men

I cannot say how or what, there would have been months of preparation and a different message written. When I last sent birthday greetings, I said, “You have been one of the greatest and consequential influences in my life, for the good, the better, and the best.” I meant every word of that and to my knowledge, all who have influenced me, you come first amongst men.

At the celebration of your 65^th when we gathered to give thanks at your church, even I wonder how that was the very first time I had set barefoot as is the tradition in the citadel of Celestial Church, it speaks to the kind of man you always were to me, accommodating and understanding, never imposing and frequently counselling.

An irreplaceable loss

Much as I looked forward then to the jubilation that would have greeted your 70^th birthday today, it has become your first posthumous birthday. There are times I scroll through the many WhatsApp messages we exchanged through the years and before that, the distinct sound of your voice in my head that gregariously salutes me with one of the many monikers from 'Ọmọ ìlú Òyìnbó' through Kakaakin to the slip that allowed 'Ọmọ Fish & Chips', therein was an irreplaceable loss.

In some instances, it feels like a canopy with the embrace of appreciation and encouragement that was that light to the eye as a long weary walk through the night offered a fillip to press on to a beckoning hospitality disappeared; snuffed out by circumstances impossible to anticipate, yet one must not despair.

Your example guides

I believe you would have wanted us to be the better examples of your mentoring, your industry, your zest for life, your broadmindedness, your engagement, your kindness, and your unconditional expression of love and grace. There are many lessons to cherish and more to revisit to learn anew purpose, direction, and determination.

I commend your exemplary life and that we do not get to celebrate another birthday would not take away from the footprints which we follow in the path of excellence you exemplified. Uncle Omo Uncle missed but never forgotten.

Keith Shearer - The memories

Meeting at a pub

After Boris Johnson’s last address as Prime Minister in front of 10 Downing Street, I was clicking through a few things as you do online before I in the confluence of many thoughts decided to search for ‘Keith Shearer Architect’ on Google.

I went out with Keith in 1991; we met at The Prince Regent on Liverpool Road in Islington, one Sunday afternoon around Easter, I could not account for what brought him up there from South London where he lived. I was housesitting for a friend who had gone to Mexico on a street off Caledonian Road, so this pub was my local even without much event.

Until I met Keith there, I never struck up a conversation with anyone, I guess I was just seen as someone who came in, ordered a drink, and sat in a corner until the closing hours. Then Keith came to say hello, we struck up a conversation and he invited me over to his place.

A friendship becomes

Later that evening, he brought me back home where I was housesitting and after he left, I noticed that he had secreted a £20 note under a book on the table. This was when I was still looking for work and trying to stick to roles in computing rather than doing something else.

After that, we met up a few times, I was invited to a party with his friends and soon we became an item, and I moved in with him on Christchurch Road in Tulse Hill. Our domestic arrangements were easy, as he had a lodger who just could not be kicked out of the kitchen for the want of trying.

Keith was an architect with a firm in North London and he quite daringly in my view rode a bicycle to work when cycling on the main roads in London was not fashionable and quite desperately unsafe.

Tremendously talented

He was also a polyglot, he had such an ear for languages, I was just fascinated in not only his ability to speak languages but to write in Arabic, Cyrillic, and Japanese kanji. I have now read that he spoke Russian, Japanese, Chinese, Arabic, Italian and Serbo-Croat. I believe he spoke many more languages and one afternoon he bought a Yoruba language book and started making sentences, he was that gifted.

When I eventually found a job, Keith helped me with all the formalities in getting references from Lagos and all the preparations I needed to start before I found my own accommodation, including the move to my new place. I guess from then we began to drift apart.

6 years later, I returned to live in London from Ipswich and basically had an apartment on the next road from where he lived. We met up a few times and after 2 years in London, I was back in Ipswich and then in the Netherlands for over a decade. We did not keep in touch.

The memories to remember

However, Keith brought me new experiences because I attended my first gay pride with him, learnt more about gay history from him, and my first encounter with someone living with AIDS was a friend of his who had returned from France to spend his last days, desperately trying to write his story for which he needed some computing support, which I provided.

In many ways, I was naïve, not too understanding of the dynamics of gay relationships and was left to my devices most of the time. When I returned to the UK, I did try to contact him again, but my Internet searches indicated he had moved out of London.

The unexpected discovery I made this morning was that Keith had passed on in May 2021 at the age of 65. That was quite a shock, he had suffered a heart attack and I would have said Keith was one of the fittest men around and definitely of his peers too. It is sad news, but I remember Keith for his sense of fun, his tremendous help that was needed for me to settle down in the UK, his desire to try new things and his easy speaking voice that concealed a bundle of talent and ability.

May his soul rest in peace. James Keith Shearer, 1955 – 2021.

Uncle Cash!

A giant has fallen

“I agree with them.” That was the last message I got from him to which I responded, “I see.”. WhatsApp was our regular mode of communication typing out messages to each other about our health, our wellbeing, and other developments.

Uncle Cash of all men was the most significant and most consequential person in the making of who I have become, I can say without equivocation that without him and his intervention in my life at the particular time that he did, I would probably not be writing any story and definitely not the one I have woken up to write this morning.

Only last night, I was thinking about sending him a message to inform him that I will soon be travelling to South Africa, I vacillated and thought, I would do that by the weekend. Alas! That time has gone.

There is a small question of an unpaid debt that has been a canon in our shared stories, and that is where I will begin. When we returned from the UK in late 1970, two impressions were made on my uncle, the first of a precocious boy who spoke only English darting about the place, for which I earned the moniker Ọmọ ìlú òyìnbó (The boy born abroad) to this day, then secondly, he was having difficulties passing his West African School Certificate (WASC) examinations that my father promised him £10, if he excels.

He went on to live a more than excellent and fulfilled life, that family debt for success, yet unpaid. When he visited us, I would get tickled to exhaustion, he was humorous, playful, funny, and approachable.

In early 1986, he became my guardian, I had run away from home and was in a totally estranged situation from my father and his near relations. Uncle Cash allowed me the courage of my convictions, he could be brutal with others, but he was always, always kind, and empathetic with me, treating me with such dignity and respect, usually against tradition or convention, that I had leeway and confidence to talk to him about literally everything that concerned me. I never had that kind of openness with my parents or anyone else, he ushered me into responsible adulthood.

Uncle Cash was a giant and a pillar, I knew I could have a candid conversation with him. At times, he would say to me, “Akin, you are dangerous with the way you write, let’s talk instead.” I am a product of the example of daring and self-assuredness that he instilled in me for the 4 years that he provided support and guidance on how to live with honour and integrity, not compromising on your principles and your vision.

Uncle Cash built a career in insurance to become a fellow of the Chartered Institute of Insurers, an industry stalwart and examiner, and circumstances in Nigeria led him to emigrate to the UK where like he was wont to do, he reinvented himself still generously impacting lives when he informed me that he was going back to university to do a bachelor’s degree, in his 60s.

In the classes he attended, the faculty and the university would probably say they did not have a student attending, but a polymath in the experience of life amongst them and for that, at graduation, they arranged to get him from the hospital to be honoured with a commendation and standing ovation.

This tribute hardly captures the stature of the man, Uncle Cash was, much of it would be in the fond memories, the reminiscences, the sudden floods of insight, his voice conveying wisdom and guidance. He was religious, affable, larger than life, a partier, he loved to party. I remember when he and I spent a long weekend in Paris during a visit to mine in Amsterdam, we just had fun.

That is how I want to remember Uncle Cash, a man, a mentor, a counsellor, a confidante, a benefactor, uncle, father, grandfather, friend, Uncle Omo Uncle, sùn re o.

In the life of HRH, The Duke of Edinburgh

An amazingly long life

His Royal Highness, The Prince Philip, The Duke of Edinburgh who died today we mostly know from his public service and also as the Queen’s consort of 73 years. That much about his public service would be duly covered by many tributes, recollections, and obituaries that would fill every medium of the dissemination of news, information, and trivia. [Wikipedia:Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh]

A man who died just 2 months short of his 100^th birthday leaves one sad at his not reaching that landmark, but 99 is an extraordinary innings, it is not a competition to attain but many things including blessing, provenance, and luck leaves us celebrating an extraordinary life.

Of support and companionship

To the Queen who has lost a husband, partner, companion, and mainstay of 73 years, there will be a great void created by the absence of someone with whom she first had letters from the age of 13, some 81 years ago, to her must be accorded the deepest and heartfelt sympathies. What an exemplary marriage, an example of companionship demonstrated in love, in accommodation, in endurance, in patience, and in tolerance.

Through the good times and the bad times, they supported each other their private arrangements giving life and light to their public engagements, their working together like a symphony, in rhythm, in movement, and enthralling music. It must be the kind of relationship anyone would long for; when partners first meet when they take their vows and each day make a fairy tale of their imperfections given the allowance to reach the best kind of perfect, they could muster for each other.

No mourning but celebration

To the children, the part of my Yoruba identity lauds them, even in their sorrow, to have been predeceased by a parent that lived for a ripe old age brings congratulations for surviving that parent. For such there is no mourning but joy, there is no black apparel or attire, just blue, we revere a long life in a world where much is quite uncertain, it cannot be ignored.

As Prince Philip is given the kind of no-fuss send-off that he desired, much as we the people would want to thank him, I find the most profound Christian message of the resurrection in the notice posted by the Archbishop of Canterbury, “May His Royal Highness rest in peace and rise in glory.” Amen. [Archbishop of Canterbury: On the death of HRH The Duke of Edinburgh]

James Anderson (1956 - 1994), The Opera Queen

A brief and enduring encounter

James Anderson was a friend of mine, we met one evening some 30 years ago at the old Brief Encounter pub on St. Martin’s Lane in London’s West End. I cannot say why he took a liking to me, but we got chatting, he got me a drink and then invited me back to his place.

Quite an intriguing guy, he lived in Bermondsey and his little apartment was crowded out with vinyl albums, 5,000, he told me, mostly to do with opera and operetta, he was a walking encyclopaedia of that genre of music and entertainment, long before I had any liking for it.

I left his place in the pouring rain to return to an apartment I shared with others only to find that I could not get in because I did not have the keys and I could not rouse anyone to open the door that late in the night. I went to find a phone box as this was before mobile phones became commonplace and called James about my predicament, still wet from the rain.

He kindly invited me back, gave me warm clothes, made me tea and we went to bed. That is how we began a friendship and I learnt that he was HIV+ with his health just about holding up. Over the next few years, I met up with James on all sorts of occasions. A humorous wit, a cheeky smile and almost always up to mischief.

Praying for the time

He also had a sense of urgency, he wanted to finish the second edition of his published book, The Complete Dictionary of Opera & Operetta and he did not know how much time he had left to get it done. He did get it all done and published.

In July 1993, we had a big 37^th birthday party at his place in his honour, quite a few common friends were there, some I had also met before at the Brief Encounter. I did not realise that it was almost like a farewell party. James had been ill and developed AIDS, he seemed his jovial self but was probably putting up appearances. It was a rather jolly time.

A life cut short

Sadly, in early 1994 there was a two-page spread, a recognisable picture of a handsome and youthful man in a newspaper, I think the London Evening Standard, and there was a long tribute to the man we fondly knew as the Opera queen, James Anderson had died the night before due to complications of AIDS at the young age of 37.

I did not find out any details pertaining to his funeral, I just mourned privately, sad that such an amazing man had been taken from amongst us, like many others who I met and befriended after James. I cannot find anywhere James has been memorialised, not even on the UK AIDS Memorial Quilt.

Remembering the times

Of recent, I have been viewing memorials that have garnered some interest after the airing of the television series, It’s A Sin which documents a decade of lives of some young gay men affected by the AIDS crisis in London in the decade from 1981 to 1991. I have from time to time also searched online for James’ book, just to see if it was still in print.

However, this morning, reading a review of the book posted by a buyer in 2013, they complained the book was dated and some information was incorrect. This was a book researched long before the days of the Internet and I was almost ready to respond, that the only reason why the book had not been republished, updated and had current events and personalities were because, the author, died some 27 years ago.

All I have now of James Anderson is pictured in my mind, flashes of moments that defined our friendship, the danger that in my naivety I was unaware of and then accepted. He was the first person I knew who had the disease, it did not make him any less a wonderful person, he just passed on at a time when there was little to help his situation, as did many in the 1990s into the early 2000s.

Dr Akinboboye: A tribute

Roped to a memory

Memories are made of ideas, events, people, places, situations and much more. The things that trigger the memories are myriad with the ability to put you in a time and place.

One of my closest friends from school to whom I handed over a number of contractual obligations called to inform me that a customer of ours had passed on.

I immediately remembered a lesson in life our veritable customer taught me. He was in the medical profession and I was introduced to him via another professional acquaintance, out of that came an agreement and retainer to provide computer support and maintenance.

Know who you are

When we were agreeing a fee, he painted a scenario of people seeking his medical opinion on the hoof and for free without committing to anything in that encounter or relationship. He made it a point never to offer professional services in a social setting fundamentally because he did not acquire his expertise without rigour and great expense in cost and time.

Then, when he brought a customer or patient into a professional environment for services that might be a check-up to treatment for whatever ailment, if he was not doing it pro bono, then the fee for his services was agreed to, probably by mutual negotiation and never through haggling, bargaining, or barter.

The fundamental basis was simple, as a professional you charge a fee for your services expecting to be respected as such. From that, I could escape from the common saying that a customer is always right, because to someone who is a professional, for every idea of what a customer might think they want or need, they may not be right, in fact, they might be completely wrong, confused, unsure, indecisive, prone to suggestion, open to persuasion, bamboozled with jargon, and working against their own best interests in opposition to better judgement and advice.

The right in the light

From that perspective, I found a retort on the rightfulness of the customer, that a customer is always right when you are selling tomatoes.

Dr Peter Ibikayode Akinboboye, 67, who I first met in 1989 was a friend, a gentleman of an easy and approachable manner who sowed seeds of knowledge, insight, and wisdom in me like a mentor would. I was enriched by our frequent encounters and exhaustive conversations that evolved from my servicing his computer. I heard he passed on from complications of CoVID-19 at 67. Saddened as I am, I pray his gentle soul rest in peace. Thank you doctor for touching my life in a very significant way.

The Vulture died of a ripe old age

Boys being boys

Gúnugún kìí kú léwe, in Yorubaland, there are sayings put to song and then played out with the talking drum. The tonal percussion of the talking drum with its musicality immediately registers with us and we engage by singing out the lyrics being played.

Then some boys probably took one of those sayings in songs and made a catcall out of it, whistling to the tune of the song. It became their call sign through adulthood into old age. Whenever one arrived at the other’s house, you heard the visitor whistle and the host responded. We soon learnt what it meant to great amusement.

Every kind of old

The first part, as written above translates to, ‘The vulture never dies in youth.’ The full saying itself speaks to growing old and growing old well.

Gúnugún kìí kú léwe, kí ẹ dàgbà kì ẹ dogbó, kí ẹ fi gbogbo ara hewú bíi ti Ṣẹ́ṣẹ́ Ẹfun. The vulture never dies in youth, may you grow old and wizened, growing grey hairs all over your body like the beaded crown of the Alaafin of Oyo.

The monarch of the Oyo kingdom in Yorubaland is known as the Aláàfin, meaning the owner of the palace. He wears the rare Ṣẹ́ṣẹ́ Ẹfun crown which according to tradition is first worn at least 10 years after coronation. It was made centuries ago. The colourfully decorated white crown has a veil of white strings looking like braids of hair, hence, the simile of grey hairs and the Ṣẹ́ṣẹ́ Ẹfun. Click on the link for the pronunciation of Ṣẹ́ṣẹ́ Ẹfun.

The Ṣẹ́ṣẹ́ Ẹfun crown courtesy of NairaLand.

The whole saying reads like a prayerful incantation for long life and between these boys and lifelong friends, it seems to have been fulfilled.

Back to their story

Their lives more or less ran in parallel similarities, both went into the same profession of accountancy, whilst debatable, they were lotharios and Casanovas at one, they took second wives and started second families, built homestead houses literally opposite each other in our village. The comings and goings of one were always known by the other. The children are good and tight friends even if we live in far-flung places.

He was a jovial, affable, humorous man who anytime he saw me called me by the nickname Akinse, Akinse, and the last time we chatted on the phone he wondered why I hadn’t visited after all this while. That is another story. I do recall that my stepmother also pressed me about visiting Nigeria for years, it was left an unfulfilled promise that the vicissitudes of the times has put out of reach. She passed on just over two weeks ago.

He was my father’s best friend from childhood, and I know he will be sorely missed by many, including his children. Adieu! Otunba Ogunjimi Taiwo, may your gentle soul rest in peace. The vulture did die at a great number of years in his 80s. A life to be remembered, celebrated, and honoured.

In gratitude, I acknowledge the help of @KolaTubosun & @Bishopade who on Twitter helped me find the meaning and use of Ṣẹ́ṣẹ́ Ẹfun.

A great man, we've lost

A tribute

The realisation dawned on me like a lightning bolt, shock, utter shock and sadness engulfed me as I scrambled to ascertain, to confirm and to understand.

I have been incommunicado due to issues unfortunately beyond my control but social media today plays a role in the communication spectrum of our lives that we cannot ignore. Much as we hope to keep things traditional, this is where I have learnt of things of joy and things of sorrow too.

A brilliant star, a shining beacon, a light in the firmament, excellent, generous, wonderful, affable, reliable and a man much more than a mentor has gone into the irrefutable annals of time.

He blazed the trail of uncles whose academic brilliance could not be ignored, those who could ensure the doors he needed were opened did so; he gained access to the full potential he went on to fulfil in many numerous ways.

As an inspiration and as an example, he counselled, he admonished, he advised, he helped and never once did he withhold praise and encouragement, I never once heard a word of criticism from him, just words of positive reinforcement, time and time again.

When I was left without the means to access one of the biggest opportunities in my life, I paid him a visit, and it was sorted out, he was just that kind of man, he brought fun, jollity and experience to situations that lifted your sights beyond your circumstances.

Homely, lovely and true, I treasure and cherish those memories that will never be forgotten. Saddened at his demise at such a young age, he leaves a legacy of goodwill, of example, of accomplishment, of success, of integrity, of honour and of principle that many much older can only aspire to.

To a great man, a man of achievement, a man with vision, who fulfilled his mission – cometh the time, cometh the man and history is made of the stories of the footsteps of men like him who did well and touched the lives of others after them, lifting them up to do well too. For Uncle Jimoh Ogunnaike.

Adieu! Requiescat in pace eternal.