My Personal Reflections at the Presentation of My Father’s Autobiography

The journey that has brought us here today started about 10 years ago. As a student of history and politics, if I am a white man, I can enter a library and trace my origin back to more than 100 years. Unfortunately, in Africa, because we were more into oral history than written history, most of us cannot trace our family roots beyond one or two preceding generations. Being passionate about reversing this trend for future generations, I requested that my Dad should write a memoir that tells the story of his life and that of my grandparents as much as he could recollect. He started, stopped, started and stopped again. Despite my prompting, he lost interest simply because he felt there were some yearnings that were yet to materialise for him. One day, he called me and said, Omo, whatever you want to do with the draft after I pass away, please do. I went into my room, prayed to God that his memoir would be published and presented not posthumously. Today, I am grateful to God for answered prayer.

Let me start my short reflection about Baba Kunle by respectfully asking the following people in the audience to kindly stand up – Daddy Dr Kolade and Mummy Mrs Akande.

When I was young, one of the issues that my parents and I used to quarrel about has to do with my nature to look for family and friends. In the course of working on this book project, I came to realise they should be blamed for my nature. Why do I say this? Those parents of mine that I asked to stand up earlier on are epitomes of very close relationships my father and mother were able to sustain for more than 40 years. Dad and Dr Kolade have known each other from his Oduduwa College days and Chief Mrs Akande happened to be my mother’s best friend growing up while her late husband was also one of my father’s closest friends – a tale of two friends marrying two other friends.

There was a friend of my father. They became friends in 1972 during their postgraduate diploma course in education. Until he passed away a few years ago, you can be sure that on his way to Ibadan or from Ibadan back to Akure, he would stop by to see my Dad. As he drives into our compound, you will see my mother get up, go into the kitchen, followed by a pot of water on the stove to prepare Amala. As his friend comes through the front door, a constant was an affectionate shout of Oje Mi Oje followed by greeting my mother and the question ‘Se omi amala mi ti wa l’ori ina?” Today I remember with fondness Dr. Babasola Chris Ogunfuyi of blessed memory.

When I examine the course of the relationship between my parents, those that I asked to stand up, those who are not here today, I discover the essence of friendship, the essence of brotherliness and the essence of human relationships. Love for each other, looking out for each other, supporting each other, sharing with each other and seeking the welfare of each other. For me, there is no other practical way of being taught the teaching of our Lord Jesus Christ on love – 1 Corinthians 13:13 of the Bible states that “now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love”

When I hear my dad’s former student reminiscence about his disciplinarian nature, how they thought he was wicked to them only to realise later that he was moulding them for future challenges, I chuckle. I chuckle because they do not know that the same level of discipline they experienced under my dad was the same level of discipline we the biological children had.

In the secondary school, I would get summoned to the Principal’s office only to be told “Your father was here, I asked if he wanted to see you and he said no.” As I returned to school after a long vacation, my Dad would remind me that if I misbehave and I am told to go and call my father, it means I have another father elsewhere.

In fact, there was a time in my adolescence that I sat down and asked myself if Dad and Mum really gave birth to me. Why you wonder? I will give you a classic example.

Every long vacation, one of my non-biological fathers, who was then in the military would promise to pick me up to spend the holidays with his family. When it is a week to his arrival and I remind my Dad of the trip to Lagos, that was when my father would give me an expanse of land either to weed, plant the maize or fertilize the crop knowing fully well that I cannot complete the assignment in a week. When retired Lt Col Israel Oladipupo Odewale arrives, my father’s perfect excuse was ‘I gave him an assignment, he did not finish it and he is going nowhere’. Being a disciplinarian himself, Daddy Odewale would not argue and my dream of vacationing in Lagos would disappear into thin air.

However, in later years, in sober reflection of the kind of hard backbreaking jobs I had to do to survive in a foreign land, paying my own way through Masters and Doctoral degree programs, I could not but see that the training I thought was wicked had nurtured me to cope with the challenges of life in the future.

When people see me calling my Dad Baba Kunle, some wonder what kind of a child I am. They cannot understand where we have come from. From a man that asking him for anything was in fear and trepidation, to a man that I could boldly talk to and share thoughts with.

If I can recollect, that ice between us was broken in 1992. I came home briefly on a visit, and I went to Ife with my Dad. As we were returning with me driving, he suddenly asked ‘Kunle, when you were in the University didn’t you have any girl friend? To be honest I was shocked. If not for the fact that I’ve driven on that road countless times and driving had become a task that I completed effortlessly ‘unconsciously’, I don’t know what would have happened that day.

I had grown up in a household where you were brought up to understand that merely talking to a lady to talk less of touching her will result in her getting pregnant. In such a kind of environment, the fear of establishing any platonic relationship with the opposite sex became the beginning of wisdom for many years. As such, I responded to his question in the negative. I said to him “Dad, you and mum are to be blamed. With the way you brought us up, it was difficult to have a relationship with a lady when I was in the University.” That day, for the first time, my father apologised to me. We had some father-son discussions the rest of the way, and that episode eventually led to my affectionate way of calling him Baba Kunle.

There are so many things I can recount in my reflection, but I will leave them for the future as time will not permit me.

Thank you Dad for being just who you are. I am grateful to God that your dream of publishing your autobiography, a dream you nurtured for 7 years is a reality today in your lifetime. I am grateful to God that I got blessed with you and Mum to bring me into this world and nurture me to become whatever I am today.

On behalf of my siblings, I pray for a longer life, sound mind and good health in Jesus name.