Bolaji O. Akinyemi 05/08/1966 – 05/08/2024, 58 years Old.

By Bolaji O. Akinyemi

The death of one Bolaji O. Akinyemi for another Bolaji O. Akinyemi is the take away from my 58th birthday this year as a result of lessons from Onyeka Onwenu, Yusuph Olaniyonu, Tunde Odesola and others with life serving as the teacher.

Odesola is both hommy and buddy like the Americans would say. We spent our teenage years in the same suburb of Lagos, Orile Agege to be precise. Although I never had the opportunity of sharing fellowship with him under the cassava plantation at his father’s backyard. Ask him what that means. Our teenage years, were the years of Onyeka Onwenu, though a decade plus ahead of me and many of my peers who, in our several hundreds of thousands, were crushing on now the late Onwenu.

In her 30s, she looked like a teenager, a portrait of beauty and brain. Her death couldn’t have gone unnoticed by the generation that sipped and savoured the sweet wine of her music. ‘Wait for me’ had a meaning; I doubt, if it did on many, but at least not on me. I was waiting for no one and no one was waiting for me.

Tunde is an inspiration to me and behind this pen Imam, I bow dutifully every Friday, (only followers like me will understand my jab). So when on Saturday 3rd August I saw the notification of his post on Facebook, I was wondering if the sun had stood still and Friday had been extended to Saturday. But it wasn’t Tunde’s creation, but a repost by him of a very touching story of the benevolence of God’s mercy that gave a celebrated pen man of no mean repute another lease of life.

Former Editor of ThisDay newspaper and former Ogun State Commissioner for Information, Alhaji Yusuph Olaniyonu, was alive to witness his 58th birthday. 58 was the attraction and attachments to every line of Olaniyonu’s story. The story was published in the Premium Times of its July 31st 2024 edition.

Since I was going to be 58 on the 5th of August, 2024, Olaniyonu became a high priest to whom my emotion was connected. His article was titled: “At 58, God Has Given Me a Second Chance,” a reflection of how an elective surgery in a government hospital nearly sent him to the great beyond.

Olaniyonu wrote: “It all started on 19th February (2024) when I drove myself into a government hospital in Abuja for an elective surgery. The surgery itself was meant to last for a few minutes and I should return home not later than two days thereafter. That was what I was told. But that was not what happened.

“Since that fateful Monday morning, I have gone in and out of the surgical theatre nine times for six major operations and three minor procedures. I have spent six days in the Intensive Care Unit, surviving on oxygen and relieving myself through catheters. I have become totally dependent on others for the performance of even such personal functions as cleaning myself. I have lost 20 kilogrammes in five months and was reduced to a mere sack of bones. I have lost the use of my limbs and, like a toddler, I had to learn to walk again. I have spent millions of naira and thousands of dollars of my own and other people’s money. I have travelled hundreds of kilometres to find help. I have reached the very bottom of despair itself, and I had made plans for my own burial. But somehow, I am still alive.”

Olaniyonu’s story as fiery as it sounds is the reality of every citizen of this country. In his miseries he was even privileged because not many could survive what he survived by a dint of connection to the political movers and shakers of the country.

I was so touched reading Olaniyonu’s story, wiping tears off my blurry eyes many times, to be able to see through the lines of the story.

Then I penned down what was going to be my birthday post inspired of course by his story and the mix of the public emotional attachment to Aunty Onyeka Onwenu ‘s passage.

So on my 58th birthday, my post on Facebook goes: “I haven’t slumped!

Still held in place by the invincible right hand of God’s mercy and the left hand of his grace, the forces holding the heavens have not let go of me.

Please, join me in celebration of His grace and mercy 1,829,088,000 seconds, 30,484,800 minutes, 508,080 hours, 21,170 days, 3,016 weeks, 696 months, 58 years of pure Mercy and Grace.

Happy 58th birthday to me.

I counted the blessings of my 58 years on earth down to seconds.

Thus, my day began with a family meeting, where my occasion rhetoric of living ready for death was repeated. I told my children, if anything ever happened to me to please take care of my wife. Shortly after, my Senior Special Adviser on Security and Movement Logistics, Gorden Charles Morotioluwa, walked in. Thereafter, my hommy, Pastor Steve Olaiya, the lead Pastor of Universal Evangelical Church, walked in. He was practically following his boys, the Cargo Boys. (Ask those who live in Abule Egba, Lagos, who they are). They felicitated with me and requested that I should help build an event centre in Jibowu, Ilupeju titun community Abule Egba, that could provide additional earnings for them by helping users to park the cars.

I left for the hotel where Apostle Warren Hunter was, the Nigerian blooded South African who, today, is an American teaching Evangelist to the world. I left him for Daddy John AdejoroOluwa of the Plummet Mission to get Hunter an appointment to visit Daddy John the next day.
I left Daddy John to deliver gifts of Hunter’s books to the kingdom steward whose facility hosted Prophet Peter Adeniyi Olowoporoku’s 40 days Apostolic prayer where Hunter had been privileged to minister, courtesy of my facilitation.

From there, I went to my second home to see Bishop Joseph Ighalo Edoro. His office or home is my daily routine for evening walk, a distance of about 5 kilometres to mine. The angel, both the young and old dubbed, PJ. I ran into a surprise party put up by him, all for me. After the merry making I went into his photo studio to take a nap, and came out a few minutes to 5:00 pm to announce my departure.

I woke up with a bit of fatigue and wouldn’t be able to do my evening walk. A Keke from the front of his office delivered me safely at Fagba Bus Stop, where I would later die and be raised by mercy that I am yet to comprehend.

At Fagba, I resumed my usual brisk walk, but just like a dream, my left foot slipped into the hole left on the sidewalk by whichever construction company handled the road. Within micro seconds, a bid to pull my feet up and gain balance led to complete loss of it. Was it really a fall or a slump? It is better to describe it as a crash, like an aircraft crashing down from altitude with its nose into the road. I had a clashing of my jaw plates. My lower lips cushioned the effect of the fall on my lower incisors, but it bore the brunt. It scissored my lower lip so badly that you could see my teeth from outside. The head is indeed a ball. It bounced as it landed. Blood spilled as if a chicken had been slaughtered at the spot where my chin landed.

The nature of Lagos had taken over the mix-multitude of good Samaritans, standby sympathizers, and of course scavengers there for what they could easily pick.

Mr Olakunle Lawal, a tax officer with Lagos State was not alone in his good Samaritan’s kindness to me. He was ably supported by Mr Asade Olayiwola Lawal, a car vendor. Both of them ensured my things were safe from scavengers.
They ministered street first aid to me to the best of their abilities. If the song angel of my life ever made meaning, it was in the jiffy arrival of Bishop Joseph Ighalo Edoro. A call to him brought him running on his feet ahead of the car that was to bring him.

Still processing the mystery of the mirage into which I fell, a post necessarily had to go up, and it is better from me.

Anyway, no one could tell if anybody in the crowd of my pity party had done a video to blog on. I am not an elected public official, but as a volunteer public steward, I owe it a duty to inform my constituent of the happening.

May God give us leaders who share such affinity with the public.

Up goes this message from me.

“My Thanksgiving to God and appreciation to friends.

“I haven’t slumped”!

That was the testimony that got the devil mad!

The odd man showed up for his usual sudden wrestle. It wasn’t a smack down but a smashing, shattered flesh but mercy said no! Casted down, but not out! Fragments of torn flesh bounded together for another round of Mercy.

Anu dawo iku duro!

Emi l’olope,
Emi maa l’olope o.
E wa wo ore Baba, e wa wo ise Baba l’aye mi, Emi ma l’olope o.

Mercy denied me the evil privilege of dying young on my birthday.

I am UP for another phase of mercy. 58 years of pure Mercy to be delivered in grace and favour.

Still held in place by the invincible right hand of God’s mercy and the left hand of His grace.

Tell the devil, the forces holding the heavens have decided not to let go of me, until it is His time!

It’s an endless celebration of His grace and mercy.

In the message, I went on to give credit to the staff of Golden Mother Clinic and Maternity opposite the General Hospital, Ifako Ijaye, where I was rushed to. I was attended to and fully treated before money was even mentioned. Choosing a private clinic opposite a general hospital is a Nigerian thing, much of that my lesson from Odesola will soon reveal.

I pleaded with family, friends and fans to keep their calls, to give my lips time to hibernate. But for where! Calls came upon calls. I mustered through some and simply ignored many in consciousness of the pain that speaking had become for me. What a way to appreciate the little mercies of God really taken for granted. For the first time in 58 years, I literally uttered every word in pain.

Between Monday and Friday, I had read practically everything available online about adult fall. I wasn’t convinced by all I could pick that I had to fall the way I did. Though I had a perfect assessment of the error that led to the fall and a clear idea of how bad it was and what the consequences could be for a man who had managed molecular- related medical issues of sugar and blood pressure for over a decade and a half. I needed to be sure all is well.

Thank God it is Friday, the 9th of August, 2024. The routine on Odesola’s column published in the Punch Newspaper gave the information my heart was searching for.

It was the story of how an holiday trip to America turned the US to a home for the Odesolas. Tunde lives behind surprises and would have been a very successful prank star, had it not been for destiny. Little surprise the kids felt all was still a prank as they proceed to board the flight.

In Tunde’s word: “They struggled to bottle their excitement when we headed towards the plane, pinching themselves to wake up from the dream. They burst into stifled joy when the plane taxied off the tarmac, airborne. They locked hands, whispered silently among themselves as excited children do, and prayed not to be woken from dreamland”…

“It is both taunting and frustrating to imagine that anyone born in the richest continent and the most endowed geographical definition called Nigeria will elicit such excitement. But our day dreaming is perpetually nightmarished by leadership such as we have now. The previous has always been better and I can belt, if the structure doesn’t change, the present will be super better than the next.

“We landed in America to the cold embrace of winter. Way into our vacation, my younger brother, Niyi, and a family friend, Benjamin Orusara and his wife, Sola, advised me to leave the kids behind to continue their schooling in the US. “Leave them? How? How much is school fees here,” I asked. “It’s free and compulsory for elementary, middle and high schools,” they told me. They added that it’s a jailable offence for parents or guardians not to send their children or wards to school in America. It was easy to reach a decision because their mother was already holidaying in the US, ahead of our visit.”

Had Nigeria been America, if not all governors, at least a few past Northern governors and Local Government chairmen should be in jail living the rest of their lives for the menace of out of school children, now in seven digits.

A happy father without citizens rights in America wrote: “So, I requested their report cards to be sent to me from Nigeria. Report cards sent, we all headed to the registration centre. This was before the commencement of the academic year. The only questions the registration officials asked were their names, ages and addresses, nothing more. The officials knew they were new to the country but it didn’t matter. Education was all that mattered.

The registration officials were surprised to see the quantity and quality of subjects my children had done in Nigeria, hinting that the subjects were high for their ages. They said I could move them up to their next classes to match up with their level of knowledge but I said they should continue in the classes fit for their ages.

First day in school, my Gang returned home with personalised laptops with their names ingrained on them along with books and other learning materials. You surely can’t get that in any public school back home in Nigeria. They also brought home chargers for their laptops and syllabi. If your parents can’t afford stationery, you don’t have to worry. There are papers, erasers, calculators, pencils, pens, markers, crayons, photocopiers and printers, textbooks, highlighters, lab coats, goggles etc in class for students to use.”

I wish children from neighbouring countries of Niger, Mali and others who shared boundaries with Nigeria that strolled into our territory were accorded such rights to education in my country instead of generosity with electricity while leaving the future of our sub-region to roam the streets as Almajirai.

Tunde went on, assessing American educational system; “In middle school, Nigeria’s equivalent of primary school, pupils in the school club called Green Power built a race car which they used in competing in a car race involving other primary schools. It’s not a pangolo or cardboard car. It’s a real car with big tyres and engines akin to Formula One cars. One of my Gang members was a member of the club and I witnessed one such competition as a parent. The Green Power club is also available in High School, where they build more sophisticated cars and gadgets.

The middle school also owns an 18-wheeler trailer used by its music band to convey musical equipment to music shows and competitions. Imagine!

On a calm weekend in 2019, my Gang told me to take them out to a skating park called Insanity. It wasn’t their first time at the park, more so, they had been skating way back in Osogbo. So, I felt no worries about taking them to the park. But going by the name of the park, I should have known better. A terrible fall and everything went insane.

Blood splattered everywhere on the rink, the mouth was badly impacted, and teeth were missing. It was unsightly. I gathered my boy in my arms, took him to the bathroom, and washed him up, but the blood didn’t stop. My Gang was in disarray.

But Prof, as his nickname goes, showed uncommon courage and stoicism. He didn’t cry, he was calm and coherent, holding rolls and rolls of paper towels to his bleeding mouth.

I should’ve called 911 and accident and emergency rescue officials, firefighters and the police would have flooded the premises in less than five minutes.

At that time, I didn’t know there was a Fire Service Department directly opposite the skating park which was beside the county’s police station. I was a confused J-J-C. When my wife saw the injury, she went berserk.”

By this time in Tunde’s article, I was already weeping like a baby because the knowledge of my country’s potential to deliver the “luxury” that America was offering children of immigrants parents who were not citizens yet taunted me. The ignorance of my society exported with Tunde to America made me sad. There was what to do in such emergency, but Tunde didn’t know. Help is not a call away in Nigeria. It is a prayer point, a major at that!

In the confusion of his moment he called the shepherd of his church. Will you blame my buddy, to the God who rules in the affairs of men goes all petition in Nigeria, and his Priests are the go between. Tunde’s American Priest, is however not like his counterparts in Nigeria, most of whom have nothing else to offer the society aside prayer. A registered nurse. Who requested that the child be brought to the city hospital.

Live and let’s live is the principle of the American capitalist system. The poor are allowed to at least breathe.

“The city hospital, which is equivalent to Nigeria’s General Hospital, was like a skyscraper made of green glass and gold. As we stepped feet on the premises, courteous and well-dressed medical officials took over. They put Prof on a stretcher and wheeled him away after getting his name, age and my phone number.

They put him on a bed in an examination room fitted with the best gadgets known to medicine. One by one, they explained to me that they were going to run a comprehensive check to see if there was any damage to his eyes, ears, brain, nose, skull etc before zeroing down on the primary place of trauma, the mouth. They said damage to any organ in the skull might need to be treated first.

I breathe the breath which dying Nollywood actors on sick beds breathe to signify the end of life – uhnnnnnn, thinking if I was sold, the money I would fetch wouldn’t be enough to offset the hospital bills.

Doctors, nurses and various medical officials were smiling at me as they explained in detail each procedure they were doing. Before carrying out any procedure, they explained to Prof too and got his consent just as they got mine. I was smiling the kind of smile kidnap victims smile when kidnappers cracked a joke.

As treatment was ongoing, two medical officials came to me and gave me a form to fill out. The form was a feedback mechanism designed to know what the patient or patient’s parent feels about the quality of medicare provided by the hospital.

Investigations completed and Prof was given the all-clear, leaving us with the teeth and mouth – which were treated. The hospital then referred us to a children’s dental hospital.

Before leaving the county hospital after more than two hours, I lumbered to the reception to collect the medical bill which I expected to send me into bankruptcy and slavery. The receptionist flashed me a smile and asked Prof how he was doing. I wrinkled my face in a smile, thinking ‘iku de!’. She said, “You can go.” I asked, “Go where?” thinking payment was done at another department. “You can go home, it’s free.”

Tunde’s pen has made an emotional wreck out of me. I was already crying like a child who lost both parents in one day.

Tunde’s child would later get needed related treatment from the periodontist, who referred them to a private endodontist, whom they also visited for treatment and the child’s teeth are now properly healed.

Engraved in my consciousness is the procedure my medical attention should have followed, but didn’t.

Whose fault? You would want to ask! Not mine, nor our hospitals nor even President Tinubu’s. Ours is a cumulative effect of leadership failure. Unfortunately BAT hasn’t resigned to fate; he seems to have applied to join those he couldn’t beat.

Informed of my need for a comprehensive check to see if there are any damages to the eyes, brain, nose, skull since it wasn’t done before we zeroed down on the primary place of trauma- my mouth, (As the saying goes, it is better late than never), I reached out to medics who could be of help. But they seemed more concerned about the cost of the investigation I wanted done more than my quest for to know if all was well with me. According to one of them: “Believe God. Nothing is wrong with you.” That’s what the system has made of us, “e lo fokan bale” all on God even for duties that men should perform.”

I ended up with my old school classmate; Dr Aina Odusola who in faith agreed with my need for thorough medical investigation. He wanted me to convince him that the fall wasn’t related to the metabolism of my medical history which he is very much privy to.

I called Olakunle Lawal to get a second opinion of how I fell. His line wasn’t connecting. Also, a dial to Asade Olayiwola Lawal was not picked. But he immediately called back. When he asked about how I fell, his recount was the same as mine. Ruling out memory loss, Odusola issued the necessary queries for my medical investigations which results will be out in the new week. He also took me from the knowledge of what I knew as dentist to arrange for me to see a periodontist and endodontist.

By the way, a periodontist is a dentist who specialises in prevention, diagnosis and treatment of periodontal disease, a chronic inflammatory disease that affects the gum and bone supporting the teeth also known as gum disease.

Endodontist, performs root canal treatments and other procedures to relieve pain, primarily they work to save our natural tooth.

To Christ, who can’t be mocked, though mocked in the ignorance of the world at the opening ceremony of the 2024 Paris Olympic. To God the Father of light, whom many in the absence of His light, worship as idols unknowingly; be all the glory for the opportunity like Olaniyonu to a new life in one’s life.

A new me raised from the road to a better Apostolic and Nation Building Service for you.

Dr. Bolaji O. Akinyemi is an Apostle and Nation Builder. He’s also President Voice of His Word Ministries and Convener Apostolic Round Table. BoT Chairman, Project Victory Call Initiative, AKA PVC Naija. He is a strategic Communicator and the C.E.O, Masterbuilder Communications.

Email:bolajiakinyemi66@gmail.com

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