As the last child in the Fayemi household, my arrival was heralded with song and dance. Although my birth elicited genuine excitement on the part of my siblings, it was for my mother a cautious welcome. My mother’s caution was understandable having lost a boy and two girls in quick succession before my arrival.

1. TRIBUTE
MY MOTHER, MY MENTOR
As the last child in the Fayemi household, my arrival was heralded with song and dance. Although my
birth elicited genuine excitement on the part of my siblings, it was for my mother a cautious welcome.
My mother’s caution was understandable having lost a boy and two girls in quick succession before
my arrival. While I was generally called Olukayode (the one who has brought joy), mum privately
called me Folorunso (we give this one to God to protect) because, as she once told me, it wasn’t until I
turned five that she became more confident that I wasn’t going to disappear like my siblings did.
Given the above context, I grew up knowing my mother as a strong, proud, beautiful, elegant,
industrious, hardworking and a consistently optimistic woman – the unseen backbone of our family.
Unlike my father who was deliberate, self-effacing, almost withdrawn in his detached mien, Mum was
spontaneous - her effervescence and generosity of spirit was bewitchingly infectious. Yet the myth
then was that being a special child and the last born, my mother would spare the rod and pamper me
silly. I cannot recall enjoying any such status. Instead, she was equally generous and spontaneous with
her punishments. Mother reached for the closest instrument she could hit you with from her pounded
yam pestle to her giant soup spoon, not minding the injury sustained at that point even if she would
be back to nurse the wounds. Even at that, my sisters said she had mellowed by the time I came. She
always told me that she missed out on school because she was pampered by her grandmother (with
whom she stayed) – who removed her from school to escape the harsh treatment of the teachers –
and promised herself that no child of hers would have the same experience. So, you dared not inform
my Mum that you were flogged in school as this almost always certainly elicited a repeat treatment.
An unconscious feminist who refused to be dependent on anyone, not even her husband, Mum
trained me in exactly the same fashion she trained my sisters. She trained me to be independent in all
ways. With the exit of my four sisters from home by the time I entered secondary school, I became
the cook, the driver, her shop steward and the general journeyman. Mum worked hard and she
expected all around her to work hard. I could not recall any time my Mum did not have to go out and
work. Anytime I was on school break, it was all work – and my escape route was often my sisters’
various homes.

2. Although I also left home early and lived away from her for a considerable length of time, Mum had
already taught me a lot about life. While she often taught the same lessons as Dad about character,
compassion, hard-work, community service, perseverance, her style was remarkably different,
uncodified and refreshing. She was direct, precise, demanding and often in your face. Mum was
extremely protective of her family, loyal to her friends and her milk of compassion to outsiders was
legendary as she was always ready to share the little she had with the needy from far and near. She
complemented her husband who was reserved, self-effacing and inscrutable fittingly and this helped
his public image which would have suffered greatly. My mum was the best wife any man could pray
for and I certainly can confirm that my late Dad was very lucky. She was fun to be with and could
easily laugh at herself in a self-deprecating manner. I guess I must have subconsciously searched for a
woman like my Mum for wife and must have taken her teachings to heart with my marriage to a very
conscious feminist, family protector and public relations agent, and I often marvelled at the
remarkable similarities between my Mum and my wife.
My return to Nigeria after the exit of the military brought much relief to my Mum. My eventual
decision to become politically active in Ekiti even brought greater relief because it meant my constant
presence in Ekiti, something my Mum had missed since I left Christ’s School, Ado Ekiti. Mum had
craved for my presence for a long time - even if she was not that enamoured of partisan politics per
se. For her, anything to bring me closer home was more than welcome. We grew much closer during
this period that tested the mettle of many friends and family members. My Mum bore the brunt of
the period with extra-ordinary grace and equanimity. She witnessed several betrayals in the course of
my political work. She endured many indignities from known and unknown quarters. But the period
also showed clearly my Mum’s strength of character. Even when many had become disillusioned by
the ‘do-or-die’ politics of our state and urged withdrawal privately, Mum was consistently optimistic.
Her single-minded determination and steely resolve often surprised me because I’d mistakenly
thought age would have mellowed her. She never at any point urged me to throw in the towel. She
told me she always knew the journey would be tough and rough but also consistently reassured me of
the light she could see at the end of the dark tunnel. She urged me to be bold, courageous and not
betray Ekiti people. She hated my dismissive, sceptical mien and impatience with religiosity. A devout
catholic who carried her rosary everywhere, she could suffer fools gladly and still entertained various
hare-brained schemes by the emergency evangelists and fake medicine men that saw her as a conduit
to her recalcitrant son – even if she didn’t believe them. One even had the temerity to tell her she was
the source of her son’s problems and she must go back to where she got her son from and beg for
forgiveness, whatever that meant. That was just one of the several indignities she had to endure.

3. Since I was hardly at home during this period, many of my supporters looking for me in the village
ended at her doorsteps and her house was the refuge for many political exiles and supporters from
neighbouring communities. She never got tired of taking care of people. I am convinced I got my
selfless service genes from her as much as from my Dad.
The egregious rigging of the 2009 gubernatorial re-run election, coming in quick succession after the
loss of her husband and companion of sixty years took its toll and I believe she never really recovered
from the shock of her husband’s loss and the stress she experienced from my political struggle. It
however did not dim her optimism. When victory finally came in October 2010, she was extremely
proud of me but I never stopped being her little boy. Her house became a Mecca of sorts for
politicians and all those in search of favours. Her own pile of CVs was more than what I had in my
own office. Consistently, she would pull my ear and said I must give somebody a job because he
contributed hugely to the struggle through prayers and fasting. And at every opportunity, particularly
when she felt I was not paying adequate attention to her numerous and unrelenting requests for jobs
for the political jobbers always in her house, she would reprimand me openly that I should not come
to her house to ‘do Governor because she is the Governor in her husband’s house.’ When I got fed up
with the way she was bombarded by opportunists of various hue and moved her to Government
House, she protested loudly. She said I had no right to remove her from her house. For her, the
greatest security was the people who pestered her with all manner of requests, not the ‘prison’ where
I’d placed her in Government House without the freedom to welcome her unsolicited guests. Two
weeks to her demise, her paternal community in Omu-Ekiti honoured me as the son of their princess.
It was the first time of knowing that my Mum had any drop of blue blood in her. But then she acted it
all through her life. She was regal in her steps, highly fashionable and always liked to dress up.
Beyond the fad and fashion though, she had a more compelling urge to always look after people
around her, the way a service oriented royalty behaved – always ready to feed the hungry, to give
drink to the thirsty, clothe the needy, provide shelter for the homeless and share the little she had
with all. When death finally came, I was sadly not at her bedside – but Bisi and my siblings were. Mine
was largely an unspoken, impenetrable bond with Mum. I thank God for my Mum’s life of service to
all who had the opportunity to come across her. My mother, my mentor, thank you for showering me
with love without expecting anything in return and for the joy of bringing me to this world. I know
that what you would really like most is for me to continue to live a life of service to our people in Ekiti
and humanity at large. I promise not to disappoint you. Sun re o! Omo Oriyemusola…
Olukayode ‘Folorunso’ Fayemi