Written in the Yarn: Memoirs of a Sagamu Boy

Chapter 1 — Beginning

“Wale, oko mi apesin, pele pele t’owo e o… B’isu eni ba jina, a maa n b’oje ni.”

To tell, or not to tell

From across the Atlantic, I can still hear my mother’s voice ring clear and true. Pregnant proverbs and home-grown yams were the two staples she raised me on. While the latter fueled my childhood enthusiasm, the former kept me humble of the resulting achievements. As a toddler, I had taken this proverb literally. I would gobble my steaming bowl of yam in the quietest corner of the house, shielding each mouth-bound piece with my slender fingers. As my hands grew, so did my understanding. I learnt to celebrate my achievements modestly, savoring my success in secret. I was taught to celebrate far from the prying eyes and spiritual arrows of the enemy; far from the mocker, keen on reminding me of my humble means. Yet, the more I came to enjoy my secret celebrations, the more skeptical I became of the arrows. Who could ever hate the taste of my mother’s sweet yams dunked in steaming vegetable soup? Not even my personal victories could sate my appetite for success. I took every opportunity to celebrate with others. Others who ate their yams on the porch. And through them, I soon learnt of the arrows of fate.

I remember my Uncle Kay vividly. He ate his yam at the village square in Itun Oke, with a cold bottle of malt and fried agric eggs. Uncle Kay was the most successful man in our family. He cooked his yam in Lagos. Though he was the youngest son, no family decision was made until he approved. No festivities proceeded without the fat cows he provided. Everyone in our village looked up to him; literally. We all gathered to admire his strapping frame draped in ceremonial robes as he was bestowed a chieftaincy for his success. Yet when the arrows came, no one saw them fly. We only saw the wounds they inflicted. A year into his chieftaincy, he lost his first daughter. His job soon followed. As his barn got smaller, the cows got thinner… and thinner till they stopped coming at all. And when the yam was finished, the crowd dispersed. His rise and fall echoed the cadence of Iya Wale’s voice, cementing her wise words in my memory. We had all watched him eat his yam in public and helplessly watched his enemies rob him of it.

Swung, I entered my early teens still believing that immodest victors invited spiritual attack and denied themselves the beauty of shrouded success; that men who broadcast their struggles risked stigmatization and a fall into depression. But once more, time tilted my perspective. Goaded by technology and social maturity, I have re-imagined this belief. I have developed a penchant for leadership and action, which often required me to tell my story, as an inspiration to my partners in progress. So much so that I now share my successes and failures on social media as encouragement to friends, family and unknown proteges.

Still, at inception, the idea of writing a book chronicling my first 30 years felt a little premature. More than I feared spiritual arrows, I feared I had not crossed enough milestones to enlighten the world. My personal battles seemed insufficient life experience to inspire an individual, let alone the generation of champions I longed, still long, to lead. Yet I wondered if a fuller life necessarily made for a deeper story. I often find end-of-life biographies too filtered by nostalgia to be inspiring. More so, the realization that modern technology has shortened the shelf life of life lessons tipped my scales against modesty. Sharing my story, my success and struggles, with the world has been one of my most transformative experiences. It has nurtured my aspiration to change the world, where the hunger to curb strife and a quest for glory have failed. So, as I reflected on my life and the priceless relationships I had built, through the several elementary schools I attended to Mayflower School in Ikenne, south to the University of Lagos, and across the Atlantic to Stanford GSB; I came to appreciate the depth of my narrow experience. My circumstances had crammed many years into my youth, lessons on which I have built bridges to many of my friends. That was all I needed; the conviction that my darkest and brightest moments could inspire a flailing African soldier to fight another round against fate. Because stripped bare of my moments of glory, mine is the story of the simplest African child. Genetically, financially and aesthetically, the child I was, had no claim to the spot I now occupy.

Written in the Yarn!

Omotayo, a young fashion design student fell in love with Oriyomi, a local tailor, in Benin City, weaving the first thread in my destiny.

Omotayo was trying to mind her studies at the fashion institute, but Oriyomi was relentless in his overtures. She had heard of the very skillful tailor in town. He was well-known for his design prowess, with one of his masterpieces gracing a former Miss Nigeria. For him, fashion design was a calling. At the tender age of 12, Oriyomi had dropped out of primary school to learn tailoring in Somolu, Lagos. Whilst financial constraints were partly responsible, the 80’s were rife with male children learning some form of trade or vocation. Upon graduation from two years of dutiful apprenticeship, Oriyomi left the comfort of Lagos for far-away Benin city with a head full of dreams.

As Oriyomi’s dreams became Omotayo’s memories, I emerged slowly from a flight of fancy to a heartfelt affair, and more quickly to an object of concern. My mum would later tell me how they met through mutual friends, how the relationship stayed informal for too long and how I came unplanned. She would recall how he joyfully welcomed her into his home when she skittishly broke the news. She was quite sure he truly cared for her; love was a luxury. She wasn’t sure she liked him that much. But she turned Ruth when her parents threw a tantrum at their union, threatening to disown her if she married that Ijebu man. In a more liberal place, at a more liberal time, nipping me in the bud would have been convenient. In a more liberal place, at a more liberal time, she would have kept me still… Safe in her womb. I made her feel safe, she said. She had a good feeling about me. She had me. She was just 22.

I arrived on Tuesday, September 29, 1987, to great fanfare. The stage was borrowed. My parents, who had travelled to Lagos to attend my dad’s annual family reunion in Ketu, were caught in the celebration of Lagos State Administrator, Mike Akhigbe’s 40th birthday. In a fashion characteristic of the Lagos elite, streets were blocked as parties sprouted in pockets across the city. Unable to get to the hospital, my soon-to-be mother went the way of the Hebrew women of Exodus 1:19. She exerted her labour on the floor of an 8 by 8 bedroom, her sweat soaking through the ankara iro that shielded her from the cold concrete floor. Mother and child were bathed with words of encouragement, experience and comfort, contributed by mothers within the family. Though the Somolu-issued birth certificate I received for her efforts got lost in the aftermath, my fate had just shown its resilience. My name could be nothing but royal. In the illegible scrawl of the office clerk that issued my replacement birth certificate, my initials stood tall like mountains in the Sahara; Adewale Michael Adesanya.

Childhood in Benin City — The Brilliant Rebels of Greater Tomorrow

I cut my learning teeth at Greater Tomorrow Nursery and Primary school. At least that’s the first one I remember from my series of educational gallivants. Academically, I was a casanova of some sorts, as I would later spend primary three in three different schools. I liked a lot of the schools, but Greater Tomorrow was one of my fondest. I remember often coming fourth and fifth, positions I was surprisingly very proud of. I also remember the first time I saw the word “brilliant”. It was in the comments section at the bottom of my end-of-term report card. Though I had no idea what it meant, I liked the way it sounded. I endlessly mouthed the plosive B at the opening, dragged out the double L’s in the middle and accented the cymbal-like T at the close. Perhaps I was just awed by the pop of the teacher’s red pen, which I, a student, craved but was forbidden to carry. “Wale is a brilliant boy.” My father loved it too. My mum, even more so. It stuck in my memory. So, I tried to remain a brilliant boy without even finding out what it meant.

Somewhere along the line, Lloyd came along. Literally. I honestly don’t remember him being born. Not when, not how, not why. I just became aware of a companion sometime during my infant years. We must have been born that close together. Class was the only place we weren’t together. We ate together, plucked fruits together and chased chickens together. We also fought each other, very rarely, because more often than not, we understood each other. It did not take us long to hatch our first rebellion.

I was 5 and he was 3. Daily, we had miserably watched other children ride home with their parents in flashy cars or at worst with “daddy’s driver”. So, after our mile-long trek home one day, we asked my dad why we neither had a car nor a driver to pick us from school. Why did we need to trek home all by ourselves? I gave him an ultimatum. “Pick us up from school tomorrow with your car, else we would not come home.” With his signature calmness, he replied, “Okay, no problem”. Well, that was easy. I pulled Lloyd to my quiet corner, which still comfortably fit us both and I shared the new yam with him.

Next morning, we dressed extra neat to school, sparkles in our socks and combs through our hair. By afternoon, we were beaming with smiles, adding a dose of high shoulders at the two o’clock closing bell. Eager, we waited at the car park, craning our narrow necks at the blast of every horn. Cars came and went, children upped and left. Until there were none left but the two of us. When our concerned teacher asked why we were still in school at 6pm, we retorted proudly,“Our daddy is coming to carry us with his car”. Our enthusiasm came in handy when at twilight our harsh reality dawned. Down once more we went, clinging to the curb of Boundary Road, kicking our frustration into stray oranges and other round objects, till we got home in the dead of night. No questions were asked. The unspoken message was clear. In little, be grateful. If only I could flash forward, I could see the blessings bestowed us by those miles we trekked.

I would realize years later that Lloyd and I were more brazen than other kids our age. We would develop a strong sense of independence without necessarily knowing why. I would need the lens of fatherhood and an experience of Western culture, to appreciate how our treks played a role in our independence. I would realize that the fancy cars and timely drivers were webs in a cocoon that kept the realities of the outside world beyond the reach of our peers. I would come to appreciate the moments I spent contemplating which side of Ihama Road favoured the day’s weather; the occasional segue to open-source orchards on the path home; the conscious decision on when best to leave school for minimal social stigma; and the choice between spending the ten naira I was dashed by a visiting uncle on bus rides home, or trekking to save the money for a refreshing Easter treat. For they all taught me early about real-life responsibilities, loaning me some of the social turbulence of my adolescent years, paying me years of manhood ahead of my peers.

But such wisdom was beyond me. I was still a boy barely turned six. And in my quest to wish my father into affluence, I had more folly to spare. I remember going to school and boasting that my father had a big sack full of money. This was after I had overheard him bantering with his friends in Yoruba language. He had told his friend he had “apo kan” of naira, a relatively meagre two hundred naira. I innocently transliterated the “apo” to mean “a sack full of money.” When the story filtered home, my parents had a healthy laugh about it. I did not. I still wanted him to be rich. Maybe I just thought it would make me more friends.

I do not remember having any childhood friends in Benin. Not that Lloyd was not enough. He was a ball of fun, energy and surprises. But my childhood was a monochrome shaded in Michael and Lloyd. My brother and I played together in our father’s shop on Ogba road. We didn’t have toys; they were the stuff of our dreams. We played with offcut pieces of fabric, combining them with tailoring supplies like thread rims, broken scissors and large cover buttons, into our grotesque versions of jigsaw puzzles. Our evenings and weekends were spent this way, to the relentless rhythm of Baba Wale’s foot operated Singer sewing machine.

Sewing was not his only obsession. An aspiring statesman, my father invested in almanacs displaying the names of all the then 30 State Administrators. He bid us know them all by heart. Lloyd needed the encouragement but it was wasted on me. I had wanted to be a soldier since I learnt to talk. If being born under the star of Akhigbe hadn’t left a mark, the presence of an air force base two roads away nurtured my obsession. The military fascinated me deeply. I often saw them on the streets, during drills, marching in sync and humming songs of war. Soldiers often visited our house, through our television to address us. I loved their clean flat-pressed uniforms, with the razor-sharp gators running down their pant fronts. They looked smart. I liked smart. I had convinced my mother to buy me a camouflage shirt-and-pants outfit for my third Christmas. When she unboxed it, I went into orbit. I wore it for days on end. I slept in it. I danced in it, marched in it, did British army salutes in it and even gave a mock national address in it. With my father’s work stool as a podium, I imagined myself inside the television, making grand hand gestures and using big words. I gave speeches so good the people came to our house to pay homage. I gladly let them in; into the television. I already knew which characters to drive out to make space for my followers; the cartoon characters, the local dispute mediators and the actors running mudane reels. I would spare the dancers and the musicians. I liked them. I trusted their honest self-expression. I could leave them in charge when I stepped out to walk the streets, among the other people. My people. If only daddy would show me the TV door.

Iya Wale proved a better guide. She showed me the way was through the letter C. She said I had to know the alphabet if I wanted to give good speeches. But C was my kryptonite. For some reason, I was convinced C curved outward and not inwards. My mother invested time, efforts and cane strokes in steering me right. But I was unwittingly stubborn in my misguidedness. When the stick failed, she promised to make me a robe from excess customer fabrics if I wrote C right. Carrot! With my robe of many fabrics as my north star, I eventually sailed my way around the cape of C. This experience set the stage for my first informal mentorship program. For the next 7 years, my mother innovated motivators along my educational path. She made sure to know all my teachers from kindergarten to primary school, offering professional mothering advice on my learning nuances. As often as she could, she would pick my brain after school, auditing my education for what to keep and what to discard.

The Downhill Roll

In 1993, I returned to my borrowed manger for the annual Ileya festival. It was my first real experience of Lagos but the city left precious few lasting impressions. Just one in fact; the people were mean. From the bus conductors, to the street hawkers, pedestrians on Ketu streets, even a few Adesanya’s at the family house. While the city and its minions rolled off my back, the family house in Lagos drew me in. Though it was my first conscious time there, the house smelled vaguely familiar. Perhaps my father’s bittersweet scent of machine oil and lofinda was genetic, not vocational. The house was kind to me. I found many yam corners. From my vantage point three feet above sea level, it felt like the biggest house in the world; in the world I had seen. Even Greater Tomorrow had fewer room than this. For those three days, space was all the luxury I needed, running around the house with Adesanya’s tinier than I was. Were I versed in such graces, I would have patted the house like a faithful horse. I would have savoured my days in the rain, for lean years lay ahead.

On our return, Benin greeted us with arms opened a little too wide. Suddenly, we had more space in the house than when we left. Unfortunately, we had nothing else. While we feted in Lagos, our house had been burgled by the infamous Anini gang. No, we weren’t rich enough to attract his attention. We lived in the boy’s quarters of a rich man, for whom my mother worked as a cleaner. He was worth robbing and our room had merely been a pitstop. My father’s machines were gone; clients’ clothing, finished or work in progress were gone; our television with all my faithful friends was gone. Even our food was gone. My mother could not have wailed louder, had a plague struck on Christmas eve. My father was calm as frozen lake, shades deeper in his trademark indifference. It was a different kind of calm. Morbid. His face, washed white with grief, set his pain-red eyes in bleak relief. I began to register a grim reality I had missed all along; our house had been inside his workshop and not the other way round. His livelihood had constituted a bulk of the loot. Staring at the naked wall, which I just realized was blue, he seemed to seek guidance from his almanac of military administrators. How would he refund his clients for the choice Hollandaise fabrics? How would he make rent with two weeks to spare? How would he feed his family? How would he keep it together? Clueless, Colonels Oyinlola, Onuka, Akintonde and the rest of their cohort smiled back at my father.

So, he tried to keep it together. After days of ministering to clients and scraping occasional meals, he proposed that we return to our hometown, Emuren, a suburb of Sagamu in Ogun State. Unconvinced, my mother tried to source funds and other essentials, whilst my father travelled to the village to prepare a place for us. While we waited, my mum nested us in an uncompleted building, from where she went in search of food. Survival was a daily ordeal. Meals were lean and well spaced out. Daily, the sight of our ribs straining against our bare chests drained her fortitude in huge gulps. When my father returned three weeks later, she conceded defeat and we took the night bus west to Sagamu. Ile Ibinu, as the Yoruba’s called Benin, had shown us its back. Forehead pressed against the car window, I looked forward to nothing. Though my spirit was sore, I was too naive to cry. Greater tomorrow, Ihama road and everything I was leaving behind felt like distant memories behind the veil of our recent tribulations.