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 remained devoted to his new faith without condemning his former one. He never taught us to view people through the lens of religion. Because of that, we moved freely among everyone in the neighbourhood. Christians lived in our compound. Muslims lived in our compound. Traditional values quietly existed among both. Festivals were not occasions for division; they were occasions for celebration. The only thing that changed was whose mother was cooking.
One festive season, it would be my mother’s turn to prepare food for half the neighbourhood. The next celebration, it would be the turn of the Adewoyes or the Bamidele family. As children, we were not concerned about whether the celebration was Christmas, Easter, Eid-el-Kabir or Eid-el-Fitr. We simply knew that food was coming and that everyone would eat. We understood aroma; the language of the cooking pot was universal, and every household spoke it fluently.
The Adewoye family, whose patriarch would later become Commissioner for Works under the first civilian administration in the newly created Osun State, were among those families whose generosity became part of our childhood memories. Then there were the Bamidele family, fondly known across the neighbourhood as “Bandy.” Their Ileya ram was almost a community celebrity. It was fed with special grass, admired by neighbours and sometimes entered into inter-community ram contests. I still remember how difficult it was to sleep as a young boy whenever I knew that Bandy’s ram had not yet been fed its evening grass. Such was the prestige attached to that animal. The ram was itself was a seasonal attraction.
The soundtrack of those years was equally memorable. Festivals came alive with the music of Sir Shina Peters, Dele Taiwo and Dayo Kujore etc. Their songs flowed from Table turner and giant loudspeakers, announcing celebration even before invitations were extended. Then came Christmas with its own special attraction, the beautiful multi-coloured, dotted local chickens fried in vegetable oil inside the popular square cooking cans of that era. To this day, I still wonder what happened to those chicken breeds. They seemed more colourful, tasted better and smelled richer than the breeds we see today. Perhaps childhood simply seasoned everything differently.
One of my most vivid memories was the communal reception given to a returning pilgrim from Mecca. The entire neighbourhood turned out in celebration. Drummers played endlessly while praise singers chanted, “Barika re o, Alhaji to re Mecca to bo, barika re.” The procession stretched from around the present Orita-Olaiya axis through the Akindeko Market area. Nobody asked whether the celebration belonged to Muslims alone. The joy belonged to everyone. One person’s blessing was regarded as a community blessing.
Politics also felt different then. The late Serubawon himself, who would later become the first civilian governor of Osun State, often visited political associates in our neighbourhood, including Alhaji Muibi Garuba Adewoye, the Bamidele family, Baba Abiola the councillor, the Oyelamis KK and others whose names have faded from memory. Whenever his helicopter descended, another form of excitement followed. Naira notes would flutter from the sky and we young ones would scramble after them with the determination of treasure hunters. No economics lesson has ever taught me the value of money better than seeing a fresh ₦5 note descend from the heavens. Those were also the days of the Social Democratic Party. I remember following a heavily bearded man carrying a small megaphone through the streets while we chanted, “Daddy, Mummy, Adeleke ni ẹ dibo fún!” Supporting Chief M.K.O. Abiola’s presidential campaign felt equally natural. Nobody paid us. Nobody needed to. Hope itself was enough motivation.
Yet, beyond politics and festivals, what remains most enduring in my memory is the culture of sharing. Even after we left Ajigbotoluwa in the mid-1990s and moved into our own family house, some traditions remained intact. For decades afterwards, one of the first meals we ate during Ileya often arrived from Alhaja Adewoye’s kitchen. During Christmas and New Year celebrations, food travelled in the opposite direction. Sometimes, if my mother’s Christmas package delayed, Alhaji Adewoye would call landline directly, not to complain, but to remind her. That was how seriously those relationships were taken.
The food itself was never the true gift. The relationship was.
For whichever child was fortunate enough to deliver the food, there was always an additional blessing waiting. We called it owo aganran; those crisp, mint-fresh naira notes. A child who returned from Alhaji’s house with a fresh ₦5 or ₦10 note felt like a successful businessman. That money could buy a plate of Wanke at Orita, Baba Dudu sweets or any number of childhood treasures. The messenger always returned richer and the friendship always returned stronger.
We also spent many festive periods with family friends such as Engr. Akande and others who had become extensions of our family. In those days, family extended beyond bloodlines. Neighbours became relatives. Friends became siblings. Communities became homes. The Yoruba say, “Ajoje owo kan ko gbé ẹrù dé orí.” One hand cannot lift a load onto the head. Looking back now, I realise that our parents understood this wisdom deeply. They built relationships across religious and social boundaries because they knew that life was lighter when carried together.
Today, when discussions about religious division dominate our public space, my mind often returns to that six-flat compound at Ajigbotoluwa. I remember the aroma of Ileya ram, the taste of Christmas chicken, the songs welcoming returning pilgrims, the excitement of fresh naira notes falling from a helicopter and the warmth of neighbours who became family. I remember fathers who respected one another and mothers whose cooking pots travelled more frequently than political opinions. Perhaps the secret of our coexistence was never hidden inside the mosque or the church. Perhaps it existed in the simple journey between both houses, where a bowl of steaming food crossed a fence and returned with friendship.
Our mothers exchanged pots, our fathers exchanged respect, and we children exchanged laughter, religion found its proper place, not as a wall that separated us, but as a window through which we appreciated one another.
Those were beautiful days. And sometimes, I fear that what we miss most today is not merely the food, but the spirit that travelled with it.
© Ayomide Abiona
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