Tribute To Prof. Olukunle Iyanda, My God-sent Helper @ 80, By Tunde Ojo

It takes a village to raise a child. So says an African proverb.

In my case, it is good fortune that one of the “village heads” who raised me, (I got to know  him as a young adult), is a man I feel widely excited  to call “uncle,” although there is no evidence of our blood relatedness. But I share with him the heroic heritage of Ibadan indigeneship. Ibadan is a city of historical relevance of the Yoruba race and huge significance in the evolution of modern Nigeria.  His name is Prof. Olukunle Iyanda. He turned 80 on April 01, 2020.

Prof. Olukunle Iyanda is an academic of global recognition. His list of laurels is long.  His  leadership in, service to the academia and industry are  enough subjects that can fill books, but all that reputation as inspiring as it is, is not what I want to celebrate here. It is his  humanity, or better still, humaneness , that makes him ever winsome.

It would have been grossly inadequate if I “import” a bus-load of  Ibadan talking drummers complete with “sekere” and “agidigbo” to his residence in Lagos to sing “Be ri i lokere e sa lo fun” (if you sight him from afar please applaud him, in Ibadan dialect)  for his 80th birthday. Or if I organised  a skillful “sakara” live-band to play for him to dance in his characteristic slow but dignifying movements to the rhythms  of one of his favourite musicians, Yusuf Olatunji (Baba Legba), the sakara maestro. Here is an intellectual giant with no airs who has turned a simple lifestyle into an art. A well-branded Ibadan man with tribal marks, yet devoid of provincial tendencies. A well-polished gentleman both in substance and style. A man with a great sense of what is fair and just. A God-fearing man. A great mentor and role model.

I owe God an eternal debt of gratitude for making me to meet him. God brought him to be a part of my story at a most crucial time of my academic life and at other life-shaping events. I will just mention one or two, trusting that they are sufficient enough to paint, at best, a sketchy portrait of his noble spirit. I hope not to bore you with details.

In 1980, armed with my recently released Higher School Certificate with high points which qualified me for admission into the University of Lagos to study Mass Communication, I travelled to Lagos for the first time highly confident of success in processing my admission.

I returned to Ibadan after with the certainty of finding my name on the admission list in due course. The first list came out and my name was not on it. I waited for the second. And when it was released; my name was missing. My idealism about university admission based on merit evaporated. The image of a nation that I grew up in where merit mattered had fallen on its face and a new but grim reality of Nigeria was dawning on the young me. A nightmare at noon. Who do I turn to? Where do I go next? My mind raced with endless questions and answers seemed very distant. My father had never had to ask anyone for help to get me into any educational institution, I thought. He never believed in it. For example, he put me on a bus alone to travel to Ado-Ekiti to attend the admission examination of Christ School, the longest journey of my teenage years.

I returned to Ibadan. On the intervention of my mother, a woman who never spent a day in a school for any formal education (by the way, that’s how to say it if you don’t want to call your dear mother an “illiterate”) but a strong advocate of education, I collected a letter from Chief Oshunkunle, a highly influential and benevolent government official in Ibadan, to Prof. Olukunle Iyanda.  On receiving the letter (I have never bothered what the content was), Prof. Iyanda instructed me to write a petition letter to the Vice Chancellor, attach a copy of my results,  give him a copy of the letter and leave the rest to him. I shivered at the thought of writing a petition to the Vice Chancellor. Although I had read some literature of protest and resistance, I was not prepared to start my university education on a note of activism but he insisted, so I yielded.

Weeks passed.

While the waiting endured, I picked up a job as an English/English Literature teacher in a village secondary school near Ibadan and I was just about settling down in the apartment I was allocated when my admission came through. My name was on the supplementary list.

What did  Prof. Iyanda  find? My file was labeled “awaiting results.” Someone  in the admissions office had  ripped my results sheets  from my file, perhaps with a sinister plan to replace me with another candidate. Prof. Iyanda’s intervention was used by God to save my admission. I was  introduced to his sense of justice and integrity which I later knew is the hallmark of the Iyanda family. I saw Olujide Iyanda live that code on campus, even when he was elected as a student union leader.

That episode could have changed the course of my life and career. From then on, I became  a member of the Iyanda family. And that has come with huge privileges.

To him, my name should not just be “Tunde,” it is “Babatunde,” the fuller version of my first name. He is the only person in the world who consistently calls me by my full first name. The same treatment goes to all members of his family. His brother is Olujide; his children are Oluyemi, Ibilola, and Ayokunle. Even his wife, Aunty, was Omotola, of blessed memory.

I lived in their boy’s quarters at Ozolua Road at the University and ate their food for free as an undergraduate, post-graduate and even after I started my career as a young advertising executive.

Prof. and Aunty never put a burden on me. I was an “S.U” (Scripture  Union)  Christian with my exuberance of faith  in his house but they never legislated against my conscience. They accepted my fiancée, Adora (Ada), a girl from another tribe into the family when my mother couldn’t  understand the logic of her son’s decision to marry an Igbo girl.

The entire Iyanda family played a significant role when Adora and I got married. All of them were there for us with support in cash and kind. It was shortly before my wedding that I moved out of their accommodation. As if that was not enough, Uncle ensured that my wife got a job as a teacher with the Lagos State Government where she built a highly-fulfilling and award-winning career. Before then, she had job-hunted for about three years.

Uncle and Aunty were great role models of family values and raising children intentionally; their children are all successful. All glory to God!

You can never be close to  him without knowing what separates intellectuals from the rest of the world. When I asked him for books on my admission for a post-graduate studies in Mass  Communication with specialization on PR & Advertising, I was expecting books on marketing but he gave me “The Republic of Plato” and advised that all I needed first was to learn how to think. “The Republic” is one of my prized possessions today, although I have not fully read one. ( I doubt it if I ever returned Prof.’s copy. I hope he will accept this public confession as an atonement.)  It’s one of the books I hope to read during this COVID -19 lockdown. We pray this season will not last long.

One day, I came down with hepatitis. And it could have claimed my life. I can never forget how Prof. and Aunty took over my medicare at the university health centre and paid the bills. Without them being the extended hands of God, I would not have the opportunity of being around to write this tribute. I am grateful.

As I was about to finish this tribute, my wife called me for a late breakfast. It was pap (ogi) and “akara.” As we settled down to eat, we both remembered one morning at the Iyanda’s home. The breakfast was the same as ours when a conversation broke thus:

“‘Motola, iwo o le din akara bi Iya Gbogan. Akara ti o ni cushion ninu.”

Let me unpack that for you if you don’t understand Yoruba.

 “Motola, (that’s his wife’s name), how come you can’t fry akara (beans cake) that is as spongy like the woman fabled for her akara from Gbongan ( a town in Osun State of Nigeria).

Aunty responded: “Wa a lati duro de Iya Gbongan ki o to jeun l’aro yi o.” (You will have to wait for Iya Gbogan before you eat breakfast today.)  To this, laughter erupted from all of us there.

As my General Overseer & Senior Pastor, Rev. Sam Aboyeji, would say; “how far you go in life depends on the help you receive.” Uncle, I have come this far because you are one of my God-sent helpers. I am glad to be one of the “villagers” that you have raised.

As you have turned 80, may the rest of your years be filled with joy and laughter. May you finish well in great spirit and good health, pleasing God in all ways. Congratulations!