It was only this morning as I went for the Sunday papers that the memories hammered me into submission and I cracked in broad daylight, hoping no one would hear me sob behind my mask. I heard the shattering news by accident in clinic sitting at the same desk from which I called you one afternoon because I’d heard a song on the radio that reminded me of you. For the last three weeks or so I’ve been in denial but when classmates asked me to do this I could no longer hide and faced the dreadful fact that you were gone. I shed these words even if it risks shedding how much of me you made up.
It’s been nearly 60 years since we first met. Our dads were medical officers in Lagos. You lived in a bungalow on Ikorodu Road. Remember when your dad came to pick me up to attend your birthday party? How can I forget how welcome you made me feel for the half an hour I was there before your dad took me home in time for bedtime. When you left for England I was devastated. Whenever we drove past your house I thought of you. Then we went up to Zaria.
On the 17th of January 1966 whilst the country was falling apart I was sitting at the back of the class next to Biyi on our first nervous day at Igbobi when with a slight stammer you answered to your name during roll call. My heart leapt. It’s him, it’s him. During half time I went to stay with you. We played Monopoly and watched Our Man Flint at Rivoli cinema across the road from the second floor flat you lived in before your move to Apapa. At one point so concerned was my dad that he might lose his son to his friend Uncle the Pete – the name he called your dad – he rushed out to buy a TV for my return from boarding school.
At Idi-Araba, tall, elegant with pencil thin moustache, the extrovert, gregarious, popular, you shared a room with me in Years 3 and 4 at Idi-Araba. You had my back, nursed me through hapless serial crushes, and crises, launched and restrained me, introduced me to everyone as your childhood friend. We had this running joke ‘my life is an open book”. On the dance floor, Rudolph Nureyev could watch and learn from you. When I rock to a tune on the radio now I think of you. I think of you when I see the iconic glorious Citroen DS your dad let you drive after 2nd MB. If we did now what we did with the Students Union van then the police would have shot us dead at Jibowu junction.
BBY, I know how much Banke and your family meant to you. I congratulate you on your success as a family man of spiritual and professional integrity. The other day I heard Herbie Hancock say that a successful life is one that makes others happy. Thousands have reason to be thankful for your gifts as a physician. I’ve seen you in action, expansive caring, compassionate, honest, the epitome of our calling. Your patients and family will miss you sorely and so will we, your classmates, heavy of heart, teary but proud.
I have a photo somewhere of us shaking hands at graduation. Proud parents looked on. You’ve joined them too soon. Those of us still living, those of us still breathing, may your bountiful spirit make worthy of drawing breath.
Sola Odemuyiwa (Yaro) on behalf of 667072 ICOBA set
