Alhaji, as many called him, was a truly unique blend of old Ibadan, a child of a father of Erin background, possibly Erin Ijesha, but nevertheless ‘Omo Elerin Mosa,’ who by legend descended from Obalufon of Ife. The first Ajadi of our line was his father, whose first name he adopted as his surname. I never met my grandfather, but he found himself in Ibadan to avoid the dangers of an estate dispute in his family at an early age. Alhaji’s mother is a direct descendant of Balogun Ibikunle…
The ultimate father is God (also the mother of all), but then comes the understanding of our earthly fathers. Mine is the late Alhaji Muritala Aderogba Ajadi, who was an extremely unique person and father. I rarely write about him because we seem to share so much that it feels like my existence is an extension of his. We do look very alike, but are substantially different in many ways, especially because he wielded so much power, influence, and authority, both as a professional, a first son, and especially because he also lived through a time when his qualities were fully expressed. He was wealthy and incredibly kind, too. I, as he always desired, have had a improvement on his life, even though he was richer materially and benefited from respect for the power distance of his time.
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What always summarises my dad is my story of his trying to register me in Law School in 1987. I was running late for my Law School registration after a vacation in England, against his advice and approval. I was in full warfare with my dad. He was detached, and I was responsible for myself (or so I thought). I had planned my arrival for the day before the Law School registration, along with my accommodation, which I arranged without any consultation with him. Unfortunately, my best-laid plans ran into an Alitalia strike, and I arrived in Lagos on the day of the Law School registration.
By the time I got to Victoria Island, the first day of registration was fully underway. As I joined the queue, the news came to me that my father had joined earlier on my behalf (long before I arrived). As if by conjuring, I watched as he exited the premises in a blazer and chinos (like any registering law student) that I never saw him wear before or after that day. He left quietly and with no recriminations or comment. We never discussed his attempt, even when we clashed on so many other things.
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Alhaji, as many called him, was a truly unique blend of old Ibadan, a child of a father of Erin background, possibly Erin Ijesha, but nevertheless ‘Omo Elerin Mosa,’ who by legend descended from Obalufon of Ife. The first Ajadi of our line was his father, whose first name he adopted as his surname. I never met my grandfather, but he found himself in Ibadan to avoid the dangers of an >estate dispute in his family at an early age. Alhaji’s mother is a direct descendant of Balogun Ibikunle; her father, whom I still have very fond memories of, was my Baba Layeye, a superhero of my early childhood.
Legend has it that my paternal grandfather was an openly loving man, a middleman and agent of Fulani cattle rearers and retailers of cows. He seemed to handle vulnerability with esteem. My father told me a story of his father carrying my late uncle Remi ‘Sule’ Ajadi as a toddler to see off someone (possibly my father) at the Aerodome in Ibadan. The toddler had a case of diarrhoea and stained my grandfather with loose stool. It is reported that he fashioned his clothes to carry the child more prominently and despite the stain.
My father, his son, proudly expresses his dad’s loving character as a brand that we, his grandchildren, should emulate. He was also a very proud Ibadan man. In my memory, I always see the Baba Asun Rara, a fixture on all our Muslim public holidays. The long Ibikunle oriki he would start hailing from miles away, and very early in the morning, before people had dressed up to go to the Yidi to pray, can be summarised from one word in the pages of Balogun Ibikunle’s oriki recitation – Àjípojoìkuda – meaning he wakes up to change the appointed date of death. He recites “It was always in praise of Balógun. A lone elephant that rocks the jungle. Ìbikúnlé has given up the idea of just rocking the jungle. He says he is a lone elephant that rocks the whole world to its foundation. A God-sent for the fulfillment of a mission. The mission that God gave to ìbíkúnlé, he executed the same before his death.” Like his ancestor, the same can be said of Muritala Aderogba after his death.
I think from his days at Ibadan Boys High School, he had a sense of responsibility. A banker and accountant, it is clear that he always felt obliged to give his family and others a genuine hands-up support, as many others. His influence as a banker made him critical to the many parents who had children studying abroad. He helped to fund the first generation of post-independence Western Nigerian business and sometimes further. A few years after his death, I was reminded by a family of his help for Igbo returnees to the South, following the Nigeria-Biafra war.
Alhaji had an immense presence that made everyone around him bow. We were never able to look him in the eye. His status was immensely enhanced by my mother, who had the most ferocious and unpredictable temper, always hyping his capacity as a disciplinarian and backing him to the hilt in what seemed to be everything. Like the Lion, his Lioness was always his protector, so we were not able to test his love or even explore his vulnerability.
As I go through his many papers, I come across many people whose school fees he paid. He championed all his father’s children, even though he had only one full sibling through his mother, as she lost many of her children during childbirth. He gave home to all his half-siblings and offered them his paternal sponsorship. He had a rule that everyone was his child, and we all knew him as Daddy, living in the same homestead. Everyone was educated to secondary school, at least, with many becoming University graduates; this aside from his children from three different wives. Fortunately, of his many girlfriends, none bore him children that would add to our existing complex family.
He was especially kind to his women too, including funding their children and sometimes their homes, both locally and internationally. My mother, who was his business partner and wife, seemed to ignore even allegations of infidelity. I remember that once a neighbour visited our home to report an affair between my father and her ‘friend’ to my mother. She walked the woman out, asking her to make sure her friend ‘married my father’ as she needs a ‘younger wife’ to reduce her obligations.
My love for profound and deep thinking I owe to him. His biography of Lenin and love for the late Mohammed Ali, and his regular exposure and commentary on Zionist wars, among many other things, were intellectually immersive. He regularly targeted me with Royal Bank of Canada newsletters, which were often deeply encompassing on a broad range of subjects.
My father was not a natural or even a regular beater of his children, even though my mother positioned him as the ogre to frighten me, especially when I crossed the line (which was often). His memorable approach is to chastise with the right hand, and offer love with the left hand. His disappointment was enough. I remember my teenage years trying to be part of doing what we call odú. We had created this legend of mercury derived from breaking into electric transformers, et al. It was an urban legend to cover what we stole from our loved ones to pretend we had made deals. I used to dip into my dad’s inner pocket to take his mint naira notes. I am sure he knew for some time but eventually caught me in the act. He reported to my mum by saying I caught ‘your son’ stealing. He stopped any effort of my mum to beat me. I was about 13 years old. The disappointment in both his body and eyes meant I never stole again in my life. I was never a saint either.
Alhaji had an immense presence that made everyone around him bow. We were never able to look him in the eye. His status was immensely enhanced by my mother, who had the most ferocious and unpredictable temper, always hyping his capacity as a disciplinarian and backing him to the hilt in what seemed to be everything. Like the Lion, his Lioness was always his protector, so we were not able to test his love or even explore his vulnerability. All of these went on till my mother died. After which there was no buffer, and everyone tested his much vaunted resilience, including me. Without any buffer, I offered business advice that was unsolicited because I could see he was risk-averse. Outside the buffer, I challenged his authority to tell me what time I had to be indoors, as I was a practicing lawyer and an adult. As father he had lost any control over me and I told him so. From then I was an ‘odaju,’ meaning some kind of ruthless person or literally, one with ‘unvarnished sight.
Another milestone was his remarriage. But by then the mask was off the Egungun, and unfortunately, a new lioness did not grant him protection. He was no longer invisible; worse, he was now out of the bank too. Without the authority of office and the invisibility of his superhero status, his vulnerability was amplified. He became the ultimate Rotarian, eventually becoming a Paul Harris Fellow. It was difficult for him to make the adjustments he needed to make into his new life, especially with his last two children, who were girls, in the overwhelming world of boys and men. He could not turn his new partner into a role player and he was too set in his ways to fully adapt to his new circumstance.
…my father, was mostly bark and very little bite. A deeply loving father, but a great believer in the long game of life. His was an habitual kindness, along with a deep reserve that is rarely visible to many other than the discerning. A deeply spiritual man whose home had a mosque but did not stop his traditional beliefs and practices. A man who introduced me to Mohammed Ali and, via him, to Malcolm X, but was a capitalist banker…
Part of our last interactions were his insistence that I pay a regular contribution from the UK to support him in caring for the youngest ones. He did not need it, and I knew he did not, but I still gave, even though he did not have the same fear factor as my youth. It was the least I could do to be a little like the Dawodu he wanted and expected.
Alhaji Ajadi, my father, was mostly bark and very little bite. A deeply loving father, but a great believer in the long game of life. His was an habitual kindness, along with a deep reserve that is rarely visible to many other than the discerning. A deeply spiritual man whose home had a mosque but did not stop his traditional beliefs and practices. A man who introduced me to Mohammed Ali and, via him, to Malcolm X, but was a capitalist banker who ensured his elite friends had access to all the foreign exchange needed to educate their children in Rugby, Eton, and many other elite English schools.
A kind benefactor of many across Nigeria as a nationalist but also bigoted against the Ijebu, who were the last Yoruba sub-ethnicity that his dear Ibadan people fought against at the end of the Kiriji War. Yet, one of his best friends was the late Chief Taiye Oworu, then a high chief of Ijebu Ode, whom he let us stay with on holidays both in Nigeria and London.
My father was a complex man. He seemed a bundle of contradictions, like most humans. My late maternal great-uncle explained to me when I complained about the many women after my mother’s death, “Muri is greatly loved by the women, I am sure there is nothing even he can do about it.” His women saw his humanity beyond the role we in his family had him trapped into.
Aside from being a father, provider, and protector, he was a man with passions. He must have had a nickname, I imagine in his childhood. His raucous engagements with his friend and school mate, Chief Rahman Ojedele, was a window to his schoolboy past. He had hobbies apart from his early attempts at squash, badminton, and tennis (middle-class pursuits). He watched Coming to America until the VHS tape was rendered useless, too.
The great loss for us all was not the passing of Daddy but that we never allowed him to step out of the roles and to discover Muritala Aderogba Ajadi, the man outside them. We are all poorer for it even now 32 years after.
Adéwálé Àjàdí, a lawyer, creative consultant and leadership expert, is author of Omoluwabi 2.0: A Code of Transformation in 21st Century Nigeria.
