By Mofolorunso Adekunle Enigbokan
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. (Shakespeare’s Macbeth)
I first met Adeyemi Adegboyega Akanni Samuel Sanni at a “Lesson” class (after-school prep sessions) that was conducted by Mr. Enubuniga at Oke-Ado, Ibadan in 1958. We clicked. A formidable friendship of all ages was formed during that Lesson class. We visited each other at home, at least, four times a week. We played my little piano and toy saxophone as we solved problems in Arithmetic and joked about Mr. Enubuniga’s instructional antics. Both of us were horrible piano players but that didn’t matter to us. We just wanted to pound away at those black and white keys, generate some dysphonia and hop around like untamed rabbits in that room in a happy, joyful and youthful exuberance, free from all encumbrances. Clean fun, that’s all it was! A constant accomplice to that malady was Jide Kuti. Occasionally, Femi Adeyemi (A-Femi Karka) dropped in.
When Yemi’s mother tried to inculcate in him the spirit and importance of entrepreneurialism by sending him out to hawk boiled eggs, Yemi would bring his tray of boiled eggs to a field at Ibadan Boys’ High School where we would play ‘felele’ (soccer) until dusk. Fortunately, the guys at the playground purchased most of the eggs and Yemi returned home with a profit. Unbeknownst to us, Yemi’s nascent career in Business was in its infancy; his path to Pharmacy ownership was being hoed, and his trading acumen was being honed.
Even at that young age, it was abundantly clear that Yemi loved an abundance of life. He cherished the gift of life and he wanted to live every day to the fullest. It was as if someone had taught him, and he had learnt the lesson well, that the trick to a fruitful life, the magical key to ageing well, was to grow old with dignity, passion, optimism, humour and selflessness. Someone must have emphatically told him, “Stay young, young man, die young, but as late as possible.” Yemi must have taken that instruction to heart. As he aged, even as God was beckoning, Yemi still exuded the energy of a young man, living and loving life.
Like that aromatic, exquisitely beautiful red rose in Spanish Harlem, seeded in an extremely rich, partially carbonized, dark soil, nurtured by an experienced horticulturist with a green thumb, aerated with fresh, unpolluted air and bathed constantly with natural, golden sunlight, our friendship grew. It was easy, it was effortless. You see, Yemi’s eventual 6’3” frame was brimful of integrity, sincerity, generosity, dependability and positivity. He was measured in speech and temperament, always seeking a diplomatic solution to any conflict or upheaval. Yemi could tease and needle, but it was never founded on malice or hatred. He was loyal to a fault, never once straying from, or wavering in, his support of me. By golly, how could you not be friends with such a decent and delightful person?
Then came the time for us to pursue our secondary education. We rejected several offers of admission from other schools and elected to attend Ogbomoso Grammar School, Ogbomoso, Nigeria (a.k.a. Paku).
Subsequently, Professor Jide Kuti and Femi ‘Karka’ joined us at Paku. It was a happy reunion of sorts. Here’s a fun fact that most, if not all, of our Paku classmates were not privy to: Yemi’s father, Mr. H. K. Sanni, was an engineer who loved Mathematics. That’s why Yemi’s first Pharmacy in Dallas, Texas was named HK Pharmacy. Yemi was heck-bent on following in his Dad’s footsteps. Purposefully, he devoted a lot of time to becoming proficient in Mathematics.
One fateful day at Paku in 1963, we were in Class 1A and our most erudite and eminent academic colossus, Chief Adelowo, was teaching us a concept in Geometry. Out of the clear blue, from the back of the room, with no discernible connection to the topic at hand, except to demonstrate that he had been studying the Mathematics textbook ahead of the class, Yemi blurted out, “Sir, is that concept similar to the Pythagoras theorem?” The entire class erupted in a guffaw! That, gentlemen, was the origin of Yemi’s nickname, “Pythagoras”. It stuck.
A couple of years later, we were studying for a Biology laboratory examination in the then newly-minted Science building when Yemi suddenly felt this irresistible urge to eat a mango. He had spotted a ripe, seemingly juicy mango on the mango tree that was located in the space between Oyerinde House and Eyo-Ita House. Yemi darted towards the mango tree, climbed it and stretched out, face and belly down, on a dry branch that bore the tantalizing mango on its tip. In the twinkle of an eye, the branch broke. In a millisecond, my friend hit the hard, unyielding ground face first and at a very high velocity. His dental formula was shattered and there was evidence of internal bleeding. Yemi’s life was clearly in danger! It was a definite brush with death. Fortunately, by God’s grace, Yemi survived the devastating, life-threatening fall but a new nickname emerged, “Mango Man”. He didn’t embrace it and fortunately, it didn’t go viral, to employ today’s lingo.
Upon graduation from Paku in 1967, Yemi and I secured a job in the Nigerian judiciary. Yemi worked at the High Court of Ibadan while I worked at the High Court of Lagos. Our friendship was not vitiated by the geographical separation, our loyalty to each other did not wane. If anything, our friendship grew stronger. We developed a unique language that only the two of us could understand. The language entailed an intricate, complex, perhaps byzantine or labyrinthine use of letters, numbers, signs and symbols. We communicated nuncupatively in our innovative language, we wrote letters fortnightly in our preternatural language. We could afford to be careless with our letters because we were sure that nobody else would understand them anyway.
Yemi was fastidiously dependable and trustworthy. That combination was the cornerstone of our friendship. He was absolutely certain that his secrets were safe with me and I was sure that mine were with him. It was an unspoken oath we took to guard each other’s private confessions. To us, what happened in Las Vegas stayed in Las Vegas. It was nothing short of Divine grace and blessing to have a true friend in whom you could confide, with whom you had an authentic connection and to whom you could honestly open up about your dreams and fears, without ever worrying about leakage or misuse of your innermost thoughts, even when you had the normal, occasional disagreements. Yemi was that person to me and I solemnly thank him daily for his genuineness.
Yemi and I worked as Court Clerks. Our job description included translating a witness’ testimony from Yoruba to English, and vice versa, when the witness (or the accused person) opted to give their account or presentation to the Court in Yoruba. Sometimes, you come across functional illiterates who enunciated deep, convoluted, concentrated, impactful Yoruba proverbs or sayings that you’ve never, even in your wildest dreams, heard before and you had no inkling of how to even begin to translate them. You froze. You were like a deer caught in the headlight of an oncoming car. Then you muttered something, anything at all, as you considered the English meaning of any particular word that you were able to glean from the proverb or saying.
Such was the case in Yemi’s court when an accused tax evader was describing his reaction to a team of Tax Officers (“Akoda” ) who were approaching him. He said, “ N’gbati mo ri awon Akoda, mo kan lu igbe agbado.” Yemi froze. Then he translated thusly, “When I saw the Tax Police coming, I broke into the maize excreta!” It was as funny as bull dung! Even the presiding Magistrate, who was a Yoruba man, could not control himself. He laughed so hard and so heartily that his stomach ached as tears rolled down his cheeks. Yemi called me in Lagos immediately after his court adjourned and told me the whole story. We both laughed for, at least, one hour on the phone. It was hilarious! Memories are made of such experiences.
Well, it was time to further our education. We both decided to do so in the United States of America. In November 1971, I departed Lagos for Chicago, Illinois, USA. About a year later, Yemi left Ibadan for Langston University in Langston, Oklahoma, USA. We couldn’t stand to be apart. So, we reached a pact to both move to Texas. In August 1973, we started our Pharmacy education at Texas Southern University (TSU), Houston, Texas.
Of course, we lived together in an apartment which was a stone’s throw from TSU. We picked up menial jobs, usually jobs as Security Guards, here and there, to sustain our existence. The apartment rent, by Chicago standards, was dirt cheap; so, I was able to conveniently pay our monthly rent. Neither one of us could cook a lick! Our ‘delicious ‘ soup consisted of dumping a can of Geisha salmon into a pot containing boiling water and some condiments. If you smelt, saw or tasted any real palatable rice, beans, stew or soup at our apartment, it was gracefully supplied by one or two girlfriends who mercifully pitied us. We weren’t bothered by that though.
After our first semester at TSU, we found a brand new, elegant, beautifully constructed, expensive, luxurious, fully furnished apartment complex that was located a few miles away from TSU. It was called The South Park Village. We decided to rent a 2-bedroom apartment there. Our second floor unit overlooked the complex’s swimming pool. Opening our windows, we had an unrestricted, unimpaired, unblocked view of gorgeous girls in bikinis, screaming blissfully, gyrating seductively and summersaulting into the large, oval-shaped swimming pool. That gave us a free, visual and mental relief after a hard day’s academic exercise at school trying to learn about numerous drugs and diseases.
We undoubtedly loved the new apartment complex but we had a serious transportation challenge. The last bus station was about three city blocks from South Park Village and our textbooks were heavy. We didn’t have a car. I had wrecked my car in an accident after a wild, alcohol-dominated, rowdy and boisterous sendoff party that was thrown for me by my pals when I was leaving Chicago for Houston and Yemi did not purchase a car in Langston, Oklahoma. So, every morning, we would hitch a ride from South Park Village to the nearest bus station and then ride the bus to TSU.
One fine morning, a clean Black Muslim guy, attired in the customary bowtie and white shirt of the Black Muslims, gave us a ride to the bus station. He was on his way to his designated spot to sell ‘Mohammad Speaks’, a weekly newspaper published by the Nation of Islam in America. Since he had a ‘For Sale’ sign on his car, we asked him how much he was intending to sell the car for. He gave us a figure that would strain our budget. We told him that we needed a car desperately and that we would buy his old car if he would lessen the price. To our surprise and delight, he said that because we were struggling students, he would sell the car to us for half of what he was initially asking if we would pay him by 8:00 pm that day. We were elated! We took $200 to him that evening and he signed over the car to us. Owing to the fact that we bought the car from a Black Muslim, Yemi nicknamed the car ‘Mohammad Speaks’.
It turned out that Mohammad Speaks was a lemon! It puffed, and huffed, and spurted, and smoked, and rattled, and backfired at unpredictable periods and at will. Sometimes, it would start up at one try; other times, it would take 8-10 attempts to get it started. Every time we succeeded in starting up that car, Yemi and I would yell out “Hurray!” The gas gauge was malfunctioning. It was not dependable. Consequently, we had to keep a strict tab on approximately how many miles we could drive based on how many gallons we had pumped into the car and on what date. Sometimes, our calculation would be inaccurate and the car would stop on us on the road because we ran out of gas. It was not uncommon to see us pushing that car to the next gas station in Houston’s notorious sweltering and humid weather.
Strangely enough, we loved Mohammad Speaks! It rekindled our adventurous spirit. The unpredictability of what the car would throw at us became an intriguing fun. In a philosophical sense, we made ‘lemonade’ out of that ‘lemon’. In a practical sense, everything I know today about automobile mechanics can be attributed to that adventure with Mohammad Speaks.
Regardless of what a rough-and-tumble day we had, our luxurious apartment was always our refuge. It was a place of abode where we could shun the hustle and bustle of Houston, kick back, refresh, recalibrate, regain our sanity and reminisce about Paku. Yemi was a walking encyclopedia of Baba Ajani’s quotable quotes. He had a bigger repertoire of Baba Ajani’s dramas and idiosyncrasies than anyone else does. Yemi’s delivery of the aforementioned quotes and frolicsome acts was funny, masterful and convincing. It provided a comic escapism from stress. For Pakurians of a certain era, Baba Ajani’s quotes are immortal; they never become stale.
Yemi was an extrovert extraordinaire. He never met anyone he could not strike up a friendly conversation with. He related to Chiefs and Princes with the same ease that he kibitzed with peasants and paupers, servants and savants. Yemi’s gregarious and limpid personality, which was slightly surpassed only by his equanimity, was a lodestone to fun-seeking Yorubas in Houston back then. Our apartment became the congregation center. Yemi and I did not have steady, high-paying jobs; yet, we gave a house party every Friday evening at our apartment, thanks to the beer, wine and finger foods that were brought by our acquaintances. We just supplied the venue, the music, the pranks and the lighthearted jokes.
Every morning, while taking a shower, Yemi would belt out a song. It was very often “Jungle Boogie” by Kool and the Gang. For some inexplicable reason, Yemi was totally convinced that he was the soon-to-be-recognized coryphaeus of Kool and the Gang band! He believed that he was James “J.T.” Taylor personified (ha, ha, ha). JT was the actual lead singer of the Kool and the Gang band. I always had to sternly but jokingly inform him that he was no JT, that he wasn’t a JT relative or incarnate and that, in street lingo, he “sang like a croaking bird but you ain’t got no tune.” I would then cap it all by reminding him, again in jest, that that’s why we didn’t make him a singing member of the ‘Dane Bears’ at Paku. We would laugh like crazy about his pathetic singing and that would get our day going. If you thought that Yemi would desist from reenacting that shower act, you would be sorely mistaken. The following morning, Yemi would slip into the same routine in the shower. This time, he might belt out a Michael Jackson song and try to emulate Michael’s moves. It was hilarious!
When I graduated from TSU Pharmacy School in 1976, I stayed on to obtain an M.S. in Microbiology before going to Howard University in Washington, D.C. for my Ph.D. in Pharmacology and Toxicology. When Yemi finished at TSU, he worked for a while as a Registered Pharmacist in Houston before returning to Ibadan. There, he opened his own Independent Pharmacy. When the economy later turned south, Yemi returned to the United States. By that time, I had also returned to Houston, Texas and I was working as an Associate Professor at our alma mater, TSU.
In his second coming to the U.S., Yemi worked briefly at Midtown, Texas as a Pharmacist before finally settling down in Dallas, Texas. There, the entrepreneurial spirit of that egg-hawking boy in Ibadan years ago kicked in. The good Lord smiled on him and he successfully opened, owned and operated two Independent Pharmacies in Dallas. He had made it; he had arrived! While Yemi was living the American dream, he made sure that the dream of anyone around him did not turn into a nightmare. Yemi touched so many lives in Dallas, the Nigerian community in particular. A paladin for everything righteous and fair, Yemi was a moralist who decried licentiousness. He became known for his decency, altruism, empathy, kindness and benevolence. That was easy for him to do because he simply returned to our childhood creed that serving others and giving of yourself enrich your soul.
The way Yemi treated his employees and customers was quintessentially Yemi. His caring nature was palpable and clearly discernible. He was never acerbic or thrasonically indignant. He was neither censorious, captious nor contumelious. Riposte was a verboten. Yemi’s good-naturedness was not fugacious, intermittent or sporadic; it was constant, persistent, steady and omnipresent. It was his modus vivendi. Yemi was loved, respected and adored by his employees for his leadership qualities, patience, understanding and wisdom. He was a father figure to many of them. When Yemi won, he shared the credit; when he lost, he singly shouldered the blame.
The day arrived for that fateful trip to Ibadan, Nigeria. It’s my understanding that he was advised not to take that trip. Well, he did. When he returned to the United States, it was obvious that he was not whole in body, mind and soul. He was rushed to the hospital and within days, on January 25, 2005, to be precise, Yemi passed on to the greater beyond. It was so sudden, it was so striking, it was so devastating, it was so hurtful! It felt as if someone had inflicted upon me an unbearable pain that cut deeply to my bones. The whole world seemed to have come to a standstill. Earth became a blob of nothingness, a meaningless constellation of odious lobular blinding gas. My one true friend was no longer with us!
I fidgeted, I trembled uncontrollably, I bowed my head in sorrow, I heaved at the gruesome thought of his exit and tears tumbled down my cheeks torrentially. I asked rhetorically, “How could this happen?” What is the rationale? What is the rhyme, reason or explanation for this? There has to be an answer, somebody has to be the custodian of the real answer, I yelled! Dead silence! I had always prided myself as one who could analyze any given situation and come up with a logical and sensible answer. This time, I felt completely empty. It seemed like my skull was hollow; no white matter, no gray matter left in there. No answer was forthcoming. My true friend was gone, and gone forever!!
Yemi, through your exemplary acts of exhortations and selflessness, you lit candles in crevices of darkness. You consoled heavy hearts. You gave voice to the voiceless and you made the wingless soar like eagles. Your departure might have been an earthly tragedy, it was a Heavenly triumph. It might have been an earthly loss, it was a Heavenly gain. We might have loved you on earth, but God loves you more in Heaven.
I beg your indulgence to return to my starting point … Shakespeare’s Macbeth:
Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow
A poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more.
It’s a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
I bid you farewell, my dear and true friend.
Pax vobiscum! Requiest in Pace!
* Prof. Enigbokan writes from Houston, Texas
