A Glorious Exit

By Adeleke Adefioye

For me, the concept of death is still unintelligible. It does not matter how one views or evaluates it. Death operates across the board. It is one huge debt owed collectively by humanity and individually paid at a specified time. My beloved uncle, Prince Emmanuel Liadi Adefioye, has just been liberated from the shackles of that huge debt. He paid his debt – the ultimate price and became free.

Daddy, as I fondly called him, was exceptional with a larger-than-life personality. He was naturally a mixer. He had no issue breaking the ice with anyone. When he entered the room – any room, he became the center of attraction. He laughed heartily. He communicated audibly. He dressed in style. He carried himself elegantly. He instructed sternly. He showed up when least expected. He dangled achievements in your face modestly. He advised with a warning to heed. He spoke with passion and expressed anger graciously.

Oh! I forgot to mention that pretense was not in his lexicon. He never pretended. With him, what you saw was what you got. He never minded whose ox is gored.

In his final days, he fought gallantly. It was the first time I ever heard he was admitted to the hospital. I called and exchanged text messages with my cousin about his health. I eagerly looked forward to updates on his health. On one of those attempts at checking on his health, I had sent a text message to my cousin having had a conversation with her extensively the previous day. ‘I really can’t take my mind off Daddy and I’m fervently praying that God stretches forth his healing hands over him.’ She responded to my message a couple of hours later, ‘Good morning, we lost him last night……’

Like a pack of cards, I crumbled and dropped to the floor. I immediately felt like my brain’s subcortical organ that houses thirst neurons triggered a process with what I just read as I felt an unexplainable decrease in blood volume and began to feel unusually thirsty. It was a sensation I cannot explain. Immediately, I put a call through to her hoping to hear a different refreshing story that would replenish the thirst sensation I felt.

Unfortunately, that was not the case. She lent a credence to the message she had sent me ’Prince is gone,’ she confirmed. I tried to be manly as I struggled to quickly switch from a grief mode to a console mode. I literally couldn’t complete the switch process. I let it all out uncontrollably. I cried like a baby and wailed while our conversation lasted. She did a great job consoling me as we both agreed that not only was he old enough to pay that debt owed by everyone, but he also lived a very good life.

Prince Liadi Adefioye was an uncle like no other. When I was in high school, I spent most of my summer breaks with him. One minute, he was pissed with me barging in on him without informing him that I was coming, and the next minute he would take me to his bedroom for a father-son conversation. He gave me the first set of life lessons. Be yourself. Think deep. Work hard. Trust yourself. Rely on yourself. Protect the Adefioye name. Struggle for yourself.

As a teenager at the time, I always listened with rapt attention but with a deficient comprehension. ‘He must have collated these life lessons listening to his mom – my grandmother,’ I concluded. I remember my grandma, Madam Comfort Efunyemi Adefioye, had repeatedly told me the same thing. She told me how her husband, my grandpa, became successful. ‘He was a committed risk-taker with a penchant for success,’ she reiterated. I bonded so well with Grandma. She knew I loved to listen to her talk about Grandpa and she did not hold anything back when it came to volunteering information about Grandpa’s unprecedented tenacity and unwavering resilience.

I began to grasp intellectually that my uncle meant every word he spoke to me about when I completed my NYSC. I was ready for the labor market and my first point of call was my uncle’s house. I specifically mentioned the name of one of the influential men he was friends with. I wanted him to introduce me to this man so that he could get me a job.

‘Deleke, you are Adefioye. You are a prince. We don’t look for people to influence things for us. We struggle for ourselves. Go out there and struggle for yourself,’ he instructed me. I looked at his face to see if the statement was a prank, but his face revealed he couldn’t have been sterner.  While most of my contemporaries at that age would think ‘Oh! My uncle doesn’t want to help me,’ I took it differently. I felt challenged by what he had just told me and made up my mind to do exactly what he had advised me to do. As we were taught in the Yoruba tradition, I prostrated, thanked him, and left. 

Those words he said to me became lifeguard rails for me to this day. ‘Go out there and struggle for yourself’ came from an uncle who knew what struggle was all about. He was in his early twenties when he lost his dad. He shook off the grief, the disappointment, and the end-of-the-road connotation of his dad’s untimely death and went out there struggling for himself. In those good old days when ownership of a Mercedes Benz was a status symbol, he came back to visit his father’s house in Ife in his own Mercedes Benz with a registration plate that bore LA 6101.

I never, since he instructed me to go struggle for myself, asked anyone for assistance or help to influence anything. I became a lone ranger struggling for myself. It paid off for me eventually. In one of our numerous conversations, I informed him how his actions and exemplary leadership led to a success story for me. ‘Deleke, I’m so proud of you,’ he posited, smiling with a sense of accomplishment.

A few years ago, I considered joining the race to contest for the Governor of Osun State. My uncle was one of the people I spoke with in the second round of consultations. ‘Deleke, my son. Not now. The coast is not clear yet,’ he concluded after giving me an insight into a few factors. ‘Gbo gbogbo nkan ti mo ba e so o (heed my words of wisdom),’ he warned. Afterward, he ‘dropped the mic’ with his signature statement/greetings – ‘J’aye ori e o.’ 

While some people call me Leke, Ade, Dele, and Adeleke, my uncle was the only one who called me Deleke. At heart, he was young despite his age. In voice, he was assertive. In reasoning, he was a source of wisdom. In action, he never pretended. In conversation, he held it down. In style, he was a point of reference. In friendliness, he was an ally. In a group, he was the social butterfly. In decision-making, he spoke his mind. He was stern. He was funny. He was compassionate. He loved success. He loved people. He loved cars. He was a prince who truly lived like one.

Daddy. ‘Rowolo. Niwano. Omo Oba. Rest well. Rest on.

Goodnight, sir.