For the Baba Ke: Tribute to Niyi Oyeleke, By Bamidele Johnson

It is not often that I struggle to find words. Not very often, at least. But this morning I find myself doing exactly that. My thoughts, since last night, have been as clear as mud.

Earlier today, Gbolahan Yekeen Balogun, a mutual friend of Niyi Oyeleke and me, sent a message. Niyi’s body, he said, is already on its way to Offa, his hometown. Gbolahan’s hometown, too.

It was not the news I wanted to hear. For much of last night, I told myself that the news of his death could not be true. That somehow, there had been a mistake. That Niyi, whom I called “For the Baba Ke”, was not dead, even though I had been told plainly that he had died.

There are moments when the mind refuses to accept what the heart already knows, even when the evidence is slapping us on the face. For the Baba Ke was a personable man. Refined, too. Those are the two qualities that first come to mind when I think of him. But there is something more personal I will always remember him for. He once saved me from what could easily have been a fatal episode.

It happened sometime in 2019. I had gone to Tafawa Balewa Square for a meeting with him and his crew. I arrived before they did and, feeling as fit as a rodeo horse, went to eat amala somewhere within the complex while waiting. By the time I finished and returned to the meeting point, For the Baba Ke and the others had arrived. We exchanged the usual pleasantries.

Then something strange happened. Just as we were about to get started, my head went woozy. I leaned against the bonnet of his car because my legs no longer felt reliable. The car became my crutch.

For the Baba Ke noticed immediately. He kept asking what was wrong. I wish I knew. I could not explain it because I did not understand it myself. All I knew was that I was sweating profusely, the kind of sweat that looks as though one had jumped into a swimming pool fully clothed.

He was alarmed. But he was also calm. As it turned out, he had experienced something similar before. He quickly got me into his car, handed me a bottle of water and switched on the air conditioner. Even with the AC blasting cold air, I kept sweating like a long distance runner.

After about 10 minutes, the fog began to clear. I slowly started feeling normal again. He then asked if I was hypertensive. I said yes. He asked if I had taken my medication that morning. I told him I had.

Once I had steadied, he shared his own story. One evening, he said, he had just finished dinner at home. He pushed his chair back and stood up from the table. The next moment, he went down as though hit by sniper fire. Fortunately, his wife was right behind him. She caught him and rushed him to the hospital.

From that conversation I learned something I had never known before. Some people, he explained, carry a heavier blood pressure load at night even when they are not physically active. Later, after undergoing a 24-hour observation with an ambulatory blood pressure monitor, I discovered that I belong to that category.

It is strange how the small moments become large in memory after someone is gone. Today, as his body travels back to Offa, that afternoon at Tafawa Balewa Square keeps replaying in my mind. His calm voice. His concern. The quiet assurance of someone who had seen something similar before and knew what to do.

For the Baba Ke was a refined and kind man. I will remember him for both qualities. But most of all, I will remember him for that afternoon when he looked out for me.

May Allah forgive all his shortcomings and grant him a place in Al-Jannat Firdaus.