By Yinka Fabowale
“Yinka I’d thought there was no person with your kind of voice, but hey, your diction can’t stand your old man’s. That man’s got the richest baritone I’ve ever heard.” That was my girlfriend remarking of my father after we both met and sat with him for some moment at a society party thrown by an in-law sometime in the late 80s. Father was already above 70 years. I was in my 20s.
For any girl but her, that ‘reckless’ compliment of another man would likely have provoked a suspicion of cheap flirtation or even incipient infidelity, enough to advice an immediate pulling on the breaks on any nuptial plans if there had been any already.
But not with this lady, a ravishing beauty whose affection and loyalty I had no reason to doubt, knowing she was ‘madly’ in love with me as I was with her.
Call it a flaw, but her natural disposition to express her mind with such a candour bordering almost on naivety was, apart from her physical beauty, the other major attraction that endeared her to me. Besides, I knew she’s only spoken the truth in any case.
But, I’d pulled a face in mock offence and declared between whispers: “In that case, we’re relocating our seats from here. I wouldn’t want to have him charm you any further and get you added to his harem.”
We both laughed over the joke, with my lover throwing her arms reassuringly over my neck.
But that incident like numerous others summed up the personality of my father, Chief Isaiah Olutunji Iyanda Fabowale, aka Lisabi, a man with presence, hard to ignore.
Cerebral and witty, the old man was a great conversationalist and humorist in whose company there was never a dull moment, even at almost a 100 years that he would have clocked by September 27 this year, but for death which came calling yesterday to say it was ended for him on this side.
And what an irony? He chose to go on the 87th birthday anniversary of his wife (my mum) the first of the four he had, which you good friends helped in celebrating in a delightful way, oblivious of the lurking morbid messenger.
We had hoped he would live to celebrate his centenary, the grand way he did when he turned 80 years and was installed the Baba Ijo of Christ African Church, Ijokun, Sagamu in Ogun State, or on at least a more modest-scale as when he advanced to 90 in view of old age infirmities.
But the man, who hardly reported sick, since I grew to know him up till the twilight of his years packed it up after a brief illness, with symptoms indicative that it was merely time for the last journey rather than a deleterious/debilitating health condition.
And really, Papa seemed to have given notice it was time to go when last I visited him on New Year’s Day with my family in Sagamu, an annual ritual almost aborted by the pervasive petrol scarcity, but for the insistence of my two elder sisters, Dayo and Busola (Mowo) who advised I dropped by to check on him as earlier planned, as the condition in which they met him, when they visited two days prior raised some concern.
True to their words, on sighting him, I sensed a lot amiss since I saw him last about early September last year. Lying weakly on the bed, the man, who normally looked healthy, strong and with glowing skin, had emaciated considerably and was not his usual cheerful self anymore.
Although he made feeble attempts to sit up on the bed as the visitors filed in and greeted, he could not. I had to urge him to stop trying. I observed he could not talk, not to talk of joking with the children or as usual, trying to impress them with quotations from Shakespare’s Macbeth, Othelo, Treasure Island or some other literatures that he had dazzled even us, their parents with ever since we were kids. Rather, his mouth twitched and he merely grunted.
At this, my wife, Lola’s eyes grew misty and she let out muffled sobs, but I put it to his ailment which, I believed he would overcome, as he had done on a few such occasions in the past.
However, the solemnity of the occasion induced me to reflect on life, the more I stared at the hoary-headed man lying on the bed, Here was the man, who was once a centre of attraction, a community leader, farmer, a socialite, one of the few wealthy men by the standard of the town he came to settle in since 1957, owning one of the first three filling stations there and setting up a flourishing pool agency business, later; now lonely man.
Gone were the crowds of friends, even younger ones in the neighbourhood who still dropped in, in the last few years, assured of a promise of free drinks over lively chats.
Many a time, when visiting, I’d met him alone peering out on the street from the balcony or window of his room of the storey building where he lived in Ayegbami area of the town, since all the wives had gone to stay with their grown up children, save for the youngest one, who, however had to be out sometime to mind her provision store located down the street, in addition to looking after him. On such occasions, I noticed he glowed with appreciation like a child, welcoming his parent from a long trip and I wished I could visit even more regularly.
Because of failing memory and being often alone, he was victim of neighbourhood urchins, who came to rob him of gifts of money and victuals from his children, on pretexts of running errands for him or keeping him company.
Although the services of a barber, doctor and nurse/care giver were hired to supplement the effort of his wife, reports that some of theses minders may not have been so regular and faithful in their task, coupled with inner loneliness, prompted a review and more frequent visits by the children particularly after noticed deterioration in his condition lately.
I gazed intensely at the man, who used to keep me panting after him whenever he took me for shopping at Bhjonsons, Leventis, Kingsway or some other super stores in Lagos or on some business there or to Ibadan in my youth days, now helpless, wiry and almost gaunt. The same man people hailed: “Lisabi, Lisabi’, whenever he walked the street, forcing him to stop and acknowledge the greetings and making a five-minute walk from our head office in Ijokun to our house on Cinema road an hour affair!
I contemplated how he strove to improve his life career first as a school teacher, then sales official with the SCOA, his battles as an entrepreneur, winning many times, and suffering losses sometimes up to the time he broke into public reckoning and when again things went south. The same man laid helpless…old, spent!
I could not help, but feel how in vain all man’s ambitions, and all the efforts he puts into achieving his dreams are, except it’s pervaded and driven by more than mundane purpose, by a more noble, transcendental purpose.
What is the meaning and purpose of this life after all?
It took me time to realize what a great gift his being my father was to me. As a man, father and husband, there were things the departed old man did that made him my hero and there were some I would probably have done differently.
But, who are we to judge another mortal soul? I can only, in gratitude to God, cherish fond memories and the ideals of love, generosity, modesty, simplicity and hard work he drilled into us, including making us the children to do our ‘vacation job’ on his farm, as against in exotic metropolitan offices, in payment for our school fees as students, even when the bulk of produce from the farm are given away in charity.
Whatever our opinions, Atanda has gone his way to render accounts to his Maker what he did with the many endowments and opportunities he had to live life as willed by the Almighty Creator. We whose path he crossed and affected only owe him good wishes and prayer that he will find the Mercy and Grace of God.
Please help send this human soul your prayers to accompany him ascend into the Light.
