Lessons From My Mother's Death

Good, Good Morning by Andy Kim

The sad event occurred early in the morning of July 6th, 1979...precisely 33 years today!

One of the very first lessons I learned from my mother's untimely death was the irony of life.

As our family was reeling from the shock of the terrible blow, the music blaring from radios all around our neighborhood was a very popular song of the seventies titled "Good, Good Morning" by Andy Kim (click on the link above).

Ironically, the message in the song was so completely opposite what our family was going through that morning that I felt like yelling at the entire neighborhood to turn off their radios.

Another immediate lesson I learned from my mother's death was how devastating the death of a spouse could be. My father was not only shocked and pained but also disoriented for days. He kept on mumbling to himself that God should have taken him instead of his wife because "Your mother was the moral and emotional back-bone of this family. If I was the one that passed away, it would have been better as you kids would have been left in more capable hands...I am not as good as your mother in mobilizing or rallying a family together..."

This sad moment of my life also made me appreciate some of my father's very strong life's principles. The first was "Love your relations but don't ever depend on them for your survival." And the second was "A couple of good friends are worth more than a thousand useless, happy-go-lucky friends."  

Talking of friends therefore, I'll forever remember and be grateful to some of my father's friends and notably, Mr. Adigun.

Although younger, more educated and highly placed (he was a top shot in Nigerian Telecommunications "NITEL"), Mr. Adigun was more of a brother than a friend to him. As soon as the incident happened, he placed his entire family at our disposal. In the first place, Mrs. Adigun, a nursing Matron at Lagos University Teaching Hospital (LUTH) was working on the night shift the day my mother passed away. She did not only perform her best during the critical moment when my mother was battling for her life, she also took an unpaid overtime to wait around and ensured that the corpse was bathed and properly embalmed. And when she finally got off duty, it was to our home she came to play the role of a therapist. For instance, she took one look at me and said, "Femi dear, you look more angry than sad. You're the only one that has not cried..that's not good for your health, you know...maybe you should cry a little."

In reaction, I did not know whether to laugh or cry. Then, I told her not to worry but she kept on asking why I was angry. So, I finally told her.

"Excuse ma'am...do you know how much mama devoted her life to Jesus?"

The woman nodded her head sadly. "Oh, yes, everybody knew that..."

"But why did she have to die just like that?"

"Oh my dear, your mother was a fighter...she refused to give up her life easily even as she screamed for Jesus to save her..."

"There you are..." I continued. "She screamed for Jesus...and what did Jesus do?"

Alarmed at my sacrilege, Mrs. Adigun moved closer to wrap one arm around my shoulder. "Ah...please don't talk like that...you boys are too young to be in this sad situation...but no one knows the ways of the Lord..."

"Yes, I knew you'd say that..." I quickly withdrew into my shell.

The poor woman went on and on to counsel me and pleading for me to "just accept it as fate..."

But that would be the beginning of my personal feud with Jesus. And it took years for me to reconcile with Him.   

Still on the Adigun family, the man gave us a chauffeur-driven car with his son, Femi Adigun, as the driver that took my brother and I on all errands in preparation for the funeral. Mr. Adigun went further to equip us with adequate cash allowance to fuel the car. And there was Iyabo Adigun (I hope I got the first name right) whose duties was to assist in cooking and taking care of our home while my brother and I ran around. Incidentally, when we expressed surprise at all these acts of kindness, my father merely shrugged his shoulders with a smile and then he said something that confused us, "Well...Adigun and I are brothers from the same mother..."

My mother's death did teach me another great lesson; one must endeavor to be good to people because there would always be rewards to be reaped from good deeds, one way or the other. This was amply demonstrated the day my brother and I walked into a popular casket showroom at Ebute-Metta. The middle-aged owner took one look at us and showed a hint of recognition.

"Hey, young men...who died?"

Initially, we were both irritated by the embarrassing question until finally, the man invited us to his office and said, "I can recognize your Olawole faces...I hope brother James is not dead?"

Now, we stared at him curiously and said no but that it was his wife who had passed away. Suddenly the man began to cry, grieve and lament.

"No! Mama Bose can't die...no way! That wonderful woman...she can't die...why must good people always have to die untimely?"

We allowed him some few more minutes to grieve until he gathered himself together with an apology. Then, he led us back to the showroom where, still sobbing, he pointed at a section where the most expensive caskets were displayed.

"Young men, please pick any one of these caskets."

We both shook our heads as we explained that we did not have the money to buy any expensive casket.

The man said "No, you will not pay...it's free! I bet you boys don't know how nice your parents are...do you?"

As we thanked him, the man waved us off and promised to come commiserate with our father.

There was a little "drama of love" when a committee of my mother's friends decided to finance the Service of Songs/Wake-keeping service that was held inside the sprawling compound of Ijero Baptist Church along Apapa Road in Ebute-Metta. The Adiguns wanted the deceased's friends to finance something else as they insisted that it was a great honor for them to take care of the expense. My father had to plead with the women and they took care of the assorted desserts that were served to the guests at the subsequent funeral party.

The "drama of love" did not end there. The then Pastor of our church (Ijero Baptist Church) was away all through that time. Our father therefore reached out to the Pastor of Ebenezer Baptist Church in central Lagos who promptly accepted to deliver the funeral sermon because of his close relationship with my parents, and especially my father. The executive committee of our church however felt the task should be performed by a junior Pastor of the church. But the man of God in Ebenezer Baptist Church decreed that no one else was more competent than him in the matter. Again, it was my father who pleaded that the host junior Pastor do something else in the program.

During the funeral service itself, the church organist appeared not to be in his best form as the congregation soon began to murmur in frustration. Quickly, my cousin (Femi Durotoye) stood up to go replace the man summarily and the difference was clear between the performances of the two guys. It was like everyone just wanted to show their love for my mom and indeed, the Olawole family.

And so, Sarah Segilola Olawole, my dear mother, it's been thirty three years since your untimely demise. Although he was not as morally and emotionally strong as you were, papa really tried his best to guide us (the kids) to the Promised Land of social, moral and economic emancipation which you envisaged for us all through your life with absolute devotion. May you continue to rest peacefully in the bossom of the Lord in Jesus name.