“Happy Birthday My Son. If Only I Could Have Helped You.”

Leaves from the vine,

Falling so slow,

Like fragile tiny shells,

Drifting in the foam,

Little soldier boy,

Come marching home,

Brave soldier boy,

Come marching home.

Uncle Iroh (Avatar: The Last Airbender)

This is a collection of curated stories and descriptions about Robert Adetokunboh Ishola; who he was and what he did with his life.

These are mostly second-hand and second person accounts as I was only alive for 11 years of his life and lived with him for far less time than that.

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1.

Robert got married to Folake when he was 36, broke and had no job. About a year after their marriage, living in a 3-bedroom flat somewhere in Meiran, Lagos, they were about to have their first child.

Most of the financials in the house were being handled by Folake at the time. Even though she had a job that so many people in her professional field saw as highly desirable, she was relatively new at it and wasn’t making hundreds of thousands. But with both her eyes open, she tied herself to a 36-year-old man who had no job, was broke and was still living with his mum.

Robert was a graduate of YabaTech and had a job at Nigerite before he met Folake. He was doing quite well for himself but he decided quit that job and start his very own consultancy firm so that he would be a big shot and be able to properly spoil is current and future family. This particular dream never did take off because of one problem or another, but it didn’t stop Robert. He would continue to try for success in his business. In the meantime, he would live life everyday as if he knew for sure that everything would be alright in the end.

Some months to the birth of their first child. Things weren’t looking great for this new Tokunboh-Ishola family. Here was a man with no job and no money and his pregnant wife who could no longer go to work and earn money. If the Tokunboh-Isholas were a business, they would have been a day away from declaring bankruptcy.

One morning, Robert left the house to see one of his old family friends and returned in the evening with several bags full of food for the house. “I won’t beg to take care of my family, but I will do whatever job that will earn me enough to take care of you Omoge” he told Folake. “Even if that means taking a job as a driver to an old friend”.

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2.

Tokunbo, as I used to call him, was exceptional in joyful relationship with so many.

The Isholas were a family of teacher-parent, prim and proper sort and it tells in their gentle demeanor. Whilst Tokunbo also had that at the base of his personality at all times, he was easily the most outgoing, friendliest, and outspoken of that Ishola family.

He just loved people. Loved to help and ensure people were happy. The type that would readily share all he had, and hope for the refill from God.

On one occasion, he knew I was deeply hurt about something mummy Mushin (his mum) had said to me. Tokunbo chased me down and told me, I should just overlook and forget. He then told me something hurtful she said to their dad in the same transaction – spilling nuclear family secrets as it were, just so I could let go of any offenses.

He was also courageous to challenge unfairness within and without the family.

His love for the wellbeing of others never let him reveal how badly he was faring health wise. He bore a lot with equanimity.

He crossed from being my brother-in-law to be my brother.

I know he, characteristically loved your mum with a single mindedness.

Great guy.

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3.

My sister, Adeola, and I didn’t live with our parents for most of our lives. Our parents were very busy people. I grew up believing that my parents owned the companies they were working at. It seemed, to me, the only reasonable explanation for why they worked so hard and stayed at work so late to the point that it made the most sense for us to live with our maternal grandma and go to school in her neighbourhood.

Every Sunday evening, our parents would drop us off and promise to pick us up on Friday evening. And on most weeks, that’s how it worked. But on some weeks, they would cancel because of one reason or another – which our grandma never told us. All we knew was to hope for the next weekend.

Our parents were so busy that we wouldn’t even be able to spend time with them on school breaks. It was back to grandma’s house for us. It wasn’t all bad though. I mean, apart from the child slavery (AKA home training), we never starved and we were allowed the occasional TV privileges, albeit nothing fancy.

On one of these weekends, our father was determined to see us and promised to bring us home from our grandma’s house. He was working at IMPCO, Fatai-Atere, somewhere in Mushin, and our grandma’s house was at Dalemo-Alakuko, somewhere in Alagbado – a Lagos-Ogun border town. It was about 27 kilometers to travel from his office to pick us up. It was about 27 kilometers of Lagos traffic and bad roads and crazy drivers to pick us up.

We had been on some of these trips with him so we knew he could spend up to 5 hours on the road. You could go to travel to Ibadan and back to Lagos and he still wouldn’t have arrived. But we were used to it. We would have even forgiven him if he didn’t make it that night. To be honest, we already had. It was about 19:30 when we heard the car horn at the gate and we were ready – more mentally than physically as we still had a lot of bags to pack. Finally, after forever, we would experience what living with our parents was actually like.

We started packing as hastily as we could because the driver still had to drive another distance to get us home before he could start on his own journey home. Luckily, he didn’t live so far away. But daddy hated that the man would be away from his own family at this time because we were slow and hadn’t prepared well ahead of time, so he told us to leave whatever we hadn’t already gotten and just throw everything in the boot of the car and get going. We were very excited to comply.

The road was very bad and it had just rained, so we had to drive very carefully. We didn’t know that it was the perfect opportunity to get robbed. They stopped their car directly in front of ours and rushed at us with a determination. My dad always sat in front with the driver. My sister and I were seated at the back. The driver locked the car doors at the first sign of trouble, but my dad unlocked his door and came out willingly. I followed him immediately and so did my sister.

We all laid in the mud. My sister drank floor water. My dad was begging for our lives. I was holding my dad’s hand as I looked up to get a better view of what was happening. It was the first time I had ever seen a gun. Our driver was trying to be a hero. It was admirable. I respected him for that. But if it was an attempt to impress my father, it was foolish. He was fighting the armed robbers for the car keys as they landed blows on him. My father screamed at him to let the keys go. The car wasn’t worth even one human life.

They got the keys and started searching the car for other valuables. They succeeded in getting all of 200 naira from my dad’s back pocket. They took the laptop back that was filled with clothes and decided that for some reason my dad’s Nokia 3310 and Multilinks phones weren’t worthy of theft. They shot a few times. “Nonso!” my dad yelled. Worrying more about our driver than his own children. I didn’t know it then, but now it makes so much sense. He might have traded his life for the life of that man.

“Oga, I’m here.” The driver responded after the armed robbers had left. My dad rushed to him to check about any wounds that he feared the robbers might have given him. He only let out a sigh of relief after he was sure Nonso was fine. We all stood in shock for the better part of 30 seconds before we noticed that they didn’t take the car and might be coming back for it soon. We ran for safety.

My sister and I ended up sleeping at our grandma’s house that night. Our dad hand delivered Nonso to his wife.

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4.

Your dad’s demise was at a period when I was so close to him and was tapping from his selfless personality. He was observant, attentive, impressive and knowledgeable. At every opportunity, he took me through the rudiments of the marriage life. He was always quick to calm my nerves and admonish me. “A real man does not shout at his wife. If she gets you angry, get your shirt and be excused.”

He carved a name on hearts. His legacy is etched into the minds of so many who crossed his path. That I’m very sure of.

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5.

He never liked when people killed insects with shoes, especially cockroaches. He preferred using insecticide. He also didn’t like people messing up his car, so there was a strict no eating rule.

Me, I knew that, but I used to look for his trouble, and he would not talk. I would buy and eat whatever in Lagos traffic. “Nitori o je wo ni (Only because it is you).” My sister – his wife – would say

He liked troubling me too, so that I could give him back the wahala.  Anytime I said “O wa lara yin (it’s in your nature).” he’d say “Se ara ti e ni ko wa ni (Is it not in yours as well)?”

At one time, we even had a gang. It was Him, another Tokunbo, Seyi and me. We would hang out every evening and talk and sing and tell stories.

We were very close.

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I had hoped that this would be a letter from him. A collection of stories he was telling about himself through others; about who he was and how he lived his life. Maybe even how he hoped I would live my life. It was supposed to be a gift that would end in “Happy birthday my son. If only I could have helped you.” Lord knows I could use the help.

All I have left of my father are a few bad photos, and the only letter he ever sent to me. He sent it to me after I had passed common entrance exams into Baptist Academy, Obanikoro – his alma mater. It meant a lot to him. I remember how he told everyone he met, when he came to pick me up from school, that he had graduated from the same school.

In the email, he mentioned 4 key things: HONESTY in all things, LOVE for fellow man, and CONTENTMENT with what you have in order to be GRATEFUL to God. I didn’t understand any of this at 9 years old. I was just excited to have received my first letter through my first email address.

My father lived 39 full years before I was born. For the 11 years he lived as my dad, I have no recollection of anything before my 5th birthday, and from what I do remember, I didn’t live with him a lot. My father invested his life in people – his family and his friends. Suffice to say, I don’t know my dad as much as the other people that were around during his first 39 years of life. So, more than a few bad pictures and a letter, he left me stories and lessons in people. He left me a challenge to be as honest, loving, content and as grateful – if not more – as he was.

I accept the challenge. But I need guidance dad.

Happy birthday father. If only you could have helped me.

Love,

Kingy.