I loathe it.
Actually, I hated it with a passion, but I was trapped—there was no escape route for me.
Eventually, I was forced to see its benefits.
My teacher, who never took “no” for an answer, was always insistent that there was no other way than the one he had prescribed.
My late father was the kind of teacher I wished to avoid while growing up. Yet today, his words echo constantly in my mind.
“Àbami o, I cannot figure it out.”
“What is it that you cannot figure out?”
“The assignment you gave me, sir.”
“Does it have a mouth, and can it speak?”
“It does not have and cannot speak.”
“Can it be wiser than you?”
“No, sir, but I cannot figure it out.”
“Go back to it and figure it out.”
“I have tried my best to—”
“When you have tried your best, you will figure it out.”
“I have really tried my best.”
“I will know when you deliver results.”
“(grumbling) I am just tired!”
Of course, he pretended not to notice the grumbling.
This went on for most of my growing-up years. His relentless insistence irritated me. Nevertheless, he would not budge until I delivered results.
He taught me focus, resilience, and the art of unlocking possibility.
That pattern would come to shape my life in profound ways.
It has been thirty years since you passed on. And every time I feel trapped in tunnel vision, when everything becomes blurry, I remember your words:
“Hún lẹ́run gbọ́n ú ju ni lọ”
(What cannot talk and has no mouth can never be wiser than you.)
Thank you for answering all those questions in your last year on earth. You even shared how you courted your wife. You taught me so much—and I want you to know: I have remembered everything.
I’m glad to tell you now that I finally learned the lesson I never wanted to:
No inanimate object should be allowed to assume more wisdom than me.
Àbami Ọ̀tún Ìjọ, your memory is forever blessed.
“I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.”