After a glorious journey that lasted for 30,454 days, Passenger Number 28-05-1941, Alhaji Ajadi Abdulfatai Badmus, exited the Abuja International Landport on October 13, 2024, via an outbound flight heading to Aljana Fridaus, the extraterrestrial abode where inhabitants never grow old.
The man died after living for 83 years. The Asiwaju of Osogbo Land died after he taught at Methodist Girls High School, Ifaki-Ekiti, Fakunle Comprehensive High School, Osogbo, and served as Principal of Muslim Grammar School, Oke-Osun, Osogbo.
The young Badmus was not lazy. Until he retired, he worked hard for a living before leaving the mortal realm on that fateful second Sunday of October 2024, in Abuja, where he flew to hale and hearty, two days earlier, oblivious that the ailment laying many black men PROSTATE, was already digging a tomb in Osogbo.
In search of the golden fleece, Badmus, at the age of 26, headed to the prestigious educational institution by the lagoon, the great University of Lagos, Akoka, where he studied Geography between 1967 and 1970.
The Nigeria of the 60s and 70s was heaven on earth – Badmus could live his dream with his first degree but his quest for education and love for teaching made him head to Nigeria’s premier citadel of knowledge, the University of Ibadan, located in the land of rust and gold, among seven hills, bagging a Postgraduate Diploma in Education in 1976.
Hailing from the noble Ayogun Compound of Isale Osun, Osogbo, there’s no way you would live in the state capital for 13 years, as I did, without knowing Baba Ajadi, the personable personality. I had seen him at public functions a couple of times but had no personal relationship with him.
But I had established a lifelong father-son relationship with his younger brother, the Asiwaju Musulumi of the South-West, Edo and Delta states, Dr Olatunde Khamis Badmus, of the Tuns Farms fame. It was my colleague, Tunde Busari, who called me after the downpour that wreaked havoc in Osogbo, in 2009, saying his principal at Muslim Grammar School, Oke-Osun, Osogbo, wanted to see me.
“What for,” I asked Busari over the phone. “It has to do with the flood,” he said. “The flood affected me, too. It submerged my Toyota 4Runner overnight,” I said, ruminating over how to describe a job, whose practitioner would leave his own wounds and go after treating other people’s wounds. I searched and searched for an adjective to describe my job, “Thankless!” “Thankless! Thankless! kept beeping in my head.
Busari texted Baba Ajadi’s number to me and I headed to the Obelawo area of Osogbo, where Baba was waiting for me outside his flooded home. I parked my never-say-die, olive-colour Mercedes Benz 230 on the road in front of his house, rolled up my trousers and walked in the water to assess the level of damage.
Despite his ordeal, Baba was warm at heart. By the time he showed me all around his house, the water had receded a fraction, graciously leaving behind a delta big enough to take two standing adults. So, on foot, we had the interview.
Though he was blessed with the gift of the gab, he never garbed his narrative in flippancy or abuse. He called on the state government to clear drains statewide and urged residents to desist from blocking the drains with garbage. When he offered me coffee to keep the cold away, I said I was neither a coffeeist nor a coffeeholic. Then he offered me money for transport, I said I came in my car. “Ehn, wa sa fi ra epo, use it to buy fuel,” I respectfully declined the offer and proudly walked off to my immortal Benz.
I headed back home to lick my own wounds.
After I left, a worried Baba Badmus called Busari, “Hello, Tunde.” “Hello, sir,” Busari replied. “Your friend, Tunde, the gentleman from PUNCH, was here. He conducted the interview and took pictures. I offered him coffee, but he refused it. I also offered him some money for transport, he refused…” Busari kept quiet, listening attentively to his former teacher who summed up his fears in a question, “Will he write the story?”
I didn’t know Busari’s response. In fact, I didn’t get to know the old man ever expressed any fears about the interview – until I called Busari to commiserate with him, having learnt Baba had passed.
The flood story was published and Baba called to thank me. Afterwards, I never got to engage with Baba again until his 75th birthday in 2016. Baba had written his autobiography, “My Point,” and he wanted me to review the book. Respectfully, I declined the assignment because I was no longer working in Osogbo; I had been promoted as an assistant editor and transferred to PUNCH headquarters. But Baba Badmus pleaded with me to honour him with the review. I agreed on one condition: I would do the review but I wouldn’t be present at the ceremony to read it. Baba agreed with the deal. I was relieved.
Then came Busari, who beggarly pleaded with me to mount the horse of friendship to the grand ceremony. I said, “No! No! No! No miracle will make any beggar ride this horse.”
But I was wrong. I caved in to his irritating grating after days of staredown. Busari has a knack for putting me in a tight corner, making me write at inconvenient times, just like he has done in the case of this write-up on Baba. I’ve vowed never to oblige him again, anyway. I’m also planning to report Busari to the Olu of Itori, Oba Abdulfatai Akorede Akamo, who made him the Baaroyin of Itori, in 2019. Itori is the headquarters of Ewekoro Local Government in Ogun State.
Despite myself, I travelled down from Lagos to Osun for the review. Busari was at the Okefia Junction, Osogbo, where he had taken up sentry duty, waiting for me. “Ha, Tunde, emi lo seyi fun, oju o ni ti e lailai. O se gan ni o. Ha, emi nikan tan,” Busari gushed and prayed after collecting my copy of the review, heading to a nearby cybercafe to make photocopies.
Baba Badmus wasn’t expecting to see me at the ceremony. He was already seated at the high table when I walked in and sat in the audience. When the Master of Ceremony, top-notch journalist and lawyer, Oyesiku Adelu, called my name as the reviewer, followed by applause, Baba must have felt someone else was going to step forward to read the review on my behalf. When I walked onto the podium, I saw his face lit up in pleasant surprise. He whispered something to the then-deputy Governor, the delectable Mrs Titi Laoye-Ponle, who was still clapping.
I did my bit and left the podium in the wake of resounding applause even as the launching of the book started in earnest. After the ceremony, dignitaries swarmed the birthday boy.
I went close by and greeted him. “Ha, Tunde, o se gan ni o. Mo dupe, thank you.” He was happy to see me. I congratulated him and said I was going home. “Ah, no o, you can’t go like that. You must eat.” I said I was going home to eat. He grabbed me by the wrist and led me, in company with traditional rulers, into a reception hall prepared for traditional rulers, insisting, “You must eat with me.”
I followed him obediently. There was a kingly banquet. I can’t remember what I ate but I left enough space in my stomach for madam’s food waiting for me at home. E no easy to dine with kings. After eating, Baba stepped aside and came back with a fat envelope filled with money. He thrust it to me. But I firmly declined. “Ha, kilode?” he asked. I said, “I should be part of the launching. The review and my journey from Lagos was my own donation to the launching, sir.” Baba was shocked. He asked all the kings to pray for me. He thanked me and saw me off.
That was the last time I saw Baba. I encountered him just twice but he left a lifelong impression on me. Adieu, Asiwaju of Osogbo. The man lived.
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