Sleep on Sarian Modupe. Sún re o ìyá mi rere, ìyá mi tòótọ́, ìyá mi ọ̀wọ́n. Ọmọ owóyẹlé Ògún yẹ̀’de. Òtòṣì ò yẹ ọmọ ènìyàn!

Mummy, my nights are punctuated by thoughts of you. I know you were fulfilled, and you said so. I don’t know what I feel but I was most unprepared for your death. I long to see you talk to me in my dreams. I want to experience “àrìnnàkò”, the chance encounter. I have questions. I know you are at peace. I know you made this world better. As you look down, count the number of clergy in this church, all for you, Modupe. Read the tributes and smile.

Is an eulogy of any value to the dead? I don’t know! I do know writing about my mother, her character, and life, might help someone gain insight into how to lead an exemplary life, defined by love, tolerance, understanding, respect, compassion, kindness, determination, and sacrifice. Writing about her, what she meant to me, to us, what she stood and lived for, and the odds she surmounted while alive, is the stuff of an award winning play. I have not had the emotional and mental strength to write since she passed onto glory. But I had to, now that she would be committed to mother earth this week. How do I begin her story? The tears won’t just let me. I can’t even see my screen, but write I must. I was completely blindsided by her death. Yet again, her sudden but graceful passage announced my folly to me, as an insignificant mortal. As a dye in the wool rational thinker, who believed so much in order, and logical expectations, I thought Dad would pass before her, because longevity runs in her family. Even as she sang the hymn; “Have you been to Jesus for the cleansing power?” and “The strife is o’er, the battle done;” I was still blindsided and in denial. I saw her pulse quicken, signalling cataclysmic heart failure, but I believed in the power of modern medicine to restore her.

Through this tribute, I want the world to read about a woman who braved all odds to achieve greatness for herself, and her children; to become an exemplar of love, sacrifice, tolerance, understanding and compassion. A woman whose name means “I am Thankful” and was always thankful in words and deeds. After Modern School, her dream was to become a nurse. She wanted to attend Ilé Àbíyè in Ado-Ekiti. Her father “refused.” My dad, a young teacher, fresh from Wesley College, Ibadan, met her, on one of her visits to Igan-Okoto. He promised to support her education if she married him. She did! I was a seven-year-old when she started telling me her story. She NEVER for once failed to remind me that she left “Egbado” because of me. I heard, “nítorí tìrẹ ni mo ṣe wá sí Àkókó” a gazillion times, especially when I did not measure up to her expectations. That was why I did everything in my power never to let her down while she was alive, and never would I, now that she is dead. In those days, it was rare to marry outside one’s enclave. It is hard to imagine that people do not often get married far away from their town even now, given the way life has changed in the last fifty years. In short order, she left all she knew and followed my father to Àkókó, to live with her husband’s folks and go to school to become a teacher.

Mum was very refined in manners and ways, given a long tradition of education and exposure in her family. In fulfilment of her dreams, she left my brother, Oluseun, who was barely two years old, and I, a five-year-old, to attend African Church Teacher Training College, Ẹpinmi-Akoko for two years (1971-1973). Those years, even though tough on her and dad, were a gift to me. I romped about with my cousins, climbed trees, learnt to hike mountains, and hunt games. Most importantly, I learnt Epinmi language, and got immersed in our culture and traditions. My ability to traverse both ends of the socioeconomic spectrum with uncommon ease can be traced to these beginnings. Even though she did not have the “ears for language,” she assimilated into Epinmi. My mother, Modupe, accompanied her father in-law to the farm. As an accomplished and revered hunter, Baba Pétérù Òtítọ́lọdẹ hunted big game with three-day old male urine poured on his six-pronged traps (pàkúté ọlọ́fà). I saw her carry the gourds bearing those ammonia laden urine many times. She hewed trees and farmed with him. Those were the earliest acts of humility she exhibited that defined my own perception till date.

Mum’s life as a teacher took off after she obtained the Grade II teacher’s certificate. It coincided with the Udoji awards. With her support, and modest earnings, dad built his father a house he had always wanted. We moved to Arigidi and started life together. Through her indigenous knowledge of herbs and nutrition, I saw her change outcomes for many infants who would not have survived their first five years. She taught many young mothers like her, how to treat a child with measles, convulsions and those little things that cause mortality in infants.

I take great pride that my mother led me by example on how to confront adversity. Those lessons came handy through thirteen years of infertility. She rose like a Phoenix from the ashes of those locust years to carve a niche for herself. With determination, perseverance, forbearance and cooperation from my dad, her ambition to have more than a basic education was fulfilled. Childbearing did not prevent her from reaching for the skies.

As we, her children, grew, my father held the academic gun, while she held the domestic bat. She wanted all of us, regardless of gender, to be able to cook, clean and have a happy home in adulthood. In early childhood, while dad held us to the highest academic pursuits through Lacombe’s and Kola Onadipe, she made sure we all could cook. She instilled in us the virtues of politeness, enterprise, contentment, honesty, hard work, integrity, respect, and decorum. Because she was a true Ọmọlúwàbí, she not only had these attributes and more, she did not fail to pass it on to us. She was diligent, dutiful, and equitable. Even though many people lived with us, not for once did she play favourites. Throughout her lifetime and even now that she has joined the cosmos, I marvel at her enterprise. There was never a day throughout her lifetime that she was not selling something. Because of her industry, we got more than what a teacher’s salary could fetch. Who would believe we grew our own yam, cassava, melon, okra, pepper etc., and made our own gari, palm oil, cassava flour and yam flour? When dad was at the University of Ife on study leave without pay, she was the sole provider for us, and she never made a show of it. Dad always handed us the money she gave. As the eldest, I knew, even if she never told me. Mum was such an exemplar of virtue. I’m glad I told her many times that I have never had any heated argument with my husband because I did not see her do so for almost 58 years!

As a child, mum suffered deprivation, neglect, and derision. Her sin was being female. Two weeks ago, I read the letters her father wrote to her in 1975 and in 1977, to explain all the intrigues, conspiracy and feuds leading to the beliefs she held. Her faith, his contrition, and the support of Dad, healed her from the trauma of childhood hurt. She forgave him, took care of him till his dying day and made sure his burial was great.

I take great pride that my mother led me by example on how to confront adversity. Those lessons came handy through thirteen years of infertility. She rose like a Phoenix from the ashes of those locust years to carve a niche for herself. With determination, perseverance, forbearance and cooperation from my dad, her ambition to have more than a basic education was fulfilled. Childbearing did not prevent her from reaching for the skies. After four children, she took the leap again. This time to Abeokuta. When she left Ṣeun, Ọpẹ, Gbenga and I, in 1979, to study in Abeokuta, I became the mother to my siblings for three long years. Those years were very tough on me as a teenager, because my teenage was sacrificed for the family, but it built my bonafides as a natural leader. Her biggest gift to me, from her Abeokuta undertaking, was the book Everywoman: A Gynaecological Guide for Life by Derek Llewellyn-Jones. It has remained a gift that keeps giving. Then, reading it took a religious meaning for me, as it made me understand the biology of being female. Most importantly, it guided my young years, when the hormones were raging. Thank you mum.

I still wonder how she graduated top of her class after five children, in Health Education at the University of Benin. It was at the University that she got exposed to the works of Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, the great Swiss American psychiatrist, who pioneered seminal studies on death and dying. Apart from her enviable spirituality and religious disposition, Elisabeth Kübler-Ross influenced her view of death. She never, for a second, feared death. She was ready; so ready that she predicted her manner of death with distinctive accuracy. She was ready enough to pick her burial site. In the face death, the moment she knew her time was up, she embraced death without fear or agitation.

I want the world to know she loved quietly, cared openly, and prayed secretly. That she was a natural peacemaker and uniter who entertained no discord. Sarian Modupe was the adhesive for the Akinleyes. The uniter who had a way to manage relationships and bring everyone together. She loved her children, her family, God, the Church, and she served humanity. She gave and gave and gave. While going through her stuff, her being, and life became more manifest to me. I wish I knew her more.

While mum was alive, I felt nothing could touch me because she was my prayer warrior and intercessor. She interceded for anyone who needed intercession. Many of my friends who had one problem or the other had their names written on a paper strip, tucked in her Bible like a bookmark. She prayed for them and sought solutions to their issues. How could I forget that she went to Jerusalem to remove the reproach of barrenness from me? My unflinching mother! Nothing ever fazed her. She was our ROCK! Our go to person and solutions architect. While dad rarely exceed 56 seconds in his calls, she stayed on calls for as long as we wished. She was the one to give us the meat of any story and the one to explain the meat, bone, and tendon to dad. She loved us and watched over us. Oh Mother! I’m sad, and I have no closure! I have read so many exoteric stuff about death since her transition. I feel lost and confused like a day-old chick which lost its mother. I have no one to talk to on end in the evenings anymore! No one to listen to the stories of my failures and little victories every night. I’m wracked by melancholy and enveloped by grief. Something in me left with her as she let out that tiny breath at 1:15 p.m. on 11th February.

I’m sure she pitied dad more than I did, when she knew her time had come. He it was she kept addressing. “Daddy, O ti tọ Jésù lọ fún ìwẹ̀nùmọ́…” “Daddy, ẹ ké alleluya méje…” She saw how he held on desperately to her for those 18 hours. It was the MOST LOVING, yet pathetic and heartbreaking sight in my memory. I saw unconditional love from both of them, as she lay dying. It all flashed through my consciousness. Throughout her marriage, not for once did she go against our dad – a perfect complement. She never left him alone for more than four days, except when she went out of country on evangelical mission. Her usual retort was: Who will cook for daddy? She was a devoted, faithful, and dedicated wife and mother. Dear Lord! How she cared for dad till the end and how dad cared for her, wiping sweat from her face, holding her hands, and begging her not to leave him. I saw her nod in the negative when he said: “Dupẹ, nípa ìfẹ́ Olùgbàlà kì yóò sì ǹkan.”

I want the world to know she loved quietly, cared openly, and prayed secretly. That she was a natural peacemaker and uniter who entertained no discord. Sarian Modupe was the adhesive for the Akinleyes. The uniter who had a way to manage relationships and bring everyone together. She loved her children, her family, God, the Church, and she served humanity. She gave and gave and gave. While going through her stuff, her being, and life became more manifest to me. I wish I knew her more.

Mummy, my nights are punctuated by thoughts of you. I know you were fulfilled, and you said so. I don’t know what I feel but I was most unprepared for your death. I long to see you talk to me in my dreams. I want to experience “àrìnnàkò”, the chance encounter. I have questions. I know you are at peace. I know you made this world better. As you look down, count the number of clergy in this church, all for you, Modupe. Read the tributes and smile. When I challenge you to be grateful and thankful, given all what God has done for you, you often said: “Modupe a sì máa dúpẹ́!” Sleep on Sarian Modupe. Sún re o ìyá mi rere, ìyá mi tòótọ́, ìyá mi ọ̀wọ́n. Ọmọ owóyẹlé Ògún yẹ̀’de. Òtòṣì ò yẹ ọmọ ènìyàn!

Yeye-Oba Bámidélé Adémólá-Olátéjú, an advocate, strategist and political analyst, was until recently the commissioner for Information in Ondo State. Twitter: @BamideleUpfront; Facebook: facebook.com/Bamidele. BAO