Octave

My own life taught me this lesson early. Immediately after my first degree, I found myself in Ibadan. Since my school would not mobilise us immediately for NYSC, my father encouraged me to pursue a one-year diploma at the University of Ibadan. At the same time, my brother introduced me to Tayo, a skilled fashion designer known for creating shirts that rivaled boutique quality. I went to his workshop to learn tailoring. My arrangement was straightforward: lectures in the morning, workshop sessions on selected days. Something unexpected happened. Through my campus exposure and interactions with graduating students, I began spotting opportunities. I proposed an idea to Tayo: What if we designed customised graduation outfits for departments? What if we marketed directly to departmental executives? What if fashion met organisation? That small idea became a thriving business. Departmental executives engaged us, orders surged, machines ran overnight, and everyone won (I made money). Ironicall...

Languages are fascinating. Sometimes, a single word carries an entire philosophy. In English, there is simply “father.” In Yoruba, there are  Bàbá  and  Baba . To the untrained ear, they may sound identical. But anyone versed with the Yoruba culture knows they do not always mean the same thing. One may give you life. The other may raise you. One may introduce you to the world. The other may teach you how to live in it. And sometimes if grace allows, one man becomes both. The Blood Father: Bàbá Bàbá  represents the biological father - the man whose role in the human story is as ancient as procreation itself. Long before modern medicine or schools, there was the act of continuation. There was inheritance. There was the quiet transmission of life from one generation to the next. Biologically, a father contributes half of a child’s genetic identity. He passes on more than cells: genes, predispositions, facial features, bloodline markers, physiological traits, and sometim...

There was a time in Yorubaland when religion occupied our places of worship but never occupied our hearts against one another. There were Muslims, there were Christians, but above all, there were neighbours. Looking back now, I often wonder whether we truly appreciated what we had while we lived it. Growing up in a six-flat apartment at Ajigbotoluwa in old Alekuwodo, Osogbo, I never imagined that one day people would have to organise conferences and seminars to teach coexistence. We lived it naturally. In those days, Osogbo had its own social map. The elites mostly resided in Dada Estate, while many others were spread across Ogo-Oluwa and Alekuwodo. Alekuwodo was unique because it brought together the upper class, middle class and working-class families in one community. Many civil servants of that era belonged to the respectable middle class; teachers, social workers, accountants, engineers and local government officers. Salaries might be modest, but relationships were rich. My father...

There are dates that the calendar remembers, and there are dates that the heart refuses to forget. The 7th of June is one of such days for me. Once upon a time, it was my birthday. A day of laughter, greetings, prayers, and celebration. A day when family and friends gathered to rejoice over another year of life. But six years ago, the meaning of that day changed forever. On that fateful day, I was preparing for what should have been a memorable birthday celebration. Pots were on fire. People were cooking. A live goat had been slaughtered. The atmosphere was festive. We were expecting her arrival from Lagos. She arrived. But not in the manner we had hoped. She came to us and gave up the ghost. And just like that, my birthday ceased to be a birthday. Since that day, I have struggled with dates. Birthdays slip away unnoticed. Anniversaries lose their significance. Eventful days no longer carry the excitement they once did. Perhaps grief has a way of rearranging the mind. Perhaps when a tr...