Today makes it 20 years since my beloved grandmother, Fóyèkẹ́ BABÁṢỌLÁ, Àtọ́kẹ́ Ọ̀kín, Ọmọ Alápà Mọnjọra, went to be with the Lord.
Twenty years have passed, yet my memories of my maternal grandmother remain vivid, almost untouched by time. Perhaps it is because she was the only grandparent I grew up knowing, and her presence left an imprint on my life that can never be erased.
She was my first business partner.
Sometime between 2004 and 2005, after receiving a monetary gift from my uncle during a visit, I bought a dozen packs of popcorn from Takie beside the Post Office and sold them in her small retail provision store. Looking back today, I smile at the thought that my first venture into business happened under her watchful eyes.
Even before 2003, as a child living in Ilé Mágbàgbeọlá, Òsupà, I was always searching for any excuse to visit her at Ilé Alápà in Taràá, most times I would go without informing my mum. The journey was never an ordinary walk. It was a race.
The moment I passed beside Ilé Aláàyá and caught sight of her sitting behind her table of goods, selling her wares, my heart would leap with joy. To me, there was no more beautiful sight. I would dash into her arms, knowing I had arrived at a place filled with warmth, comfort, and love.
Being privileged to live under the same roof with her between 2003 and 2006, the year she passed on, remains one of the greatest blessings of my childhood.
I still find myself thinking about so many things connected to her: her words of wisdom, the stories she told, the songs she sang, her experiences in Ghana, her prayers, her unmatched beauty marked by those distinct facial marks, and above all, her extraordinary knowledge of oríkì.
I grew up listening to her chant the oríkì of my uncles, aunties, my mother, my siblings, cousins, and countless relatives.
Whenever family members came visiting, I eagerly anticipated their arrival, not because of the gifts they might bring, but because I knew my grandmother would not call them by their names. She would call them by their oríkì.
It was a beautiful experience, one that I have missed greatly. Since her passing, no one has carried on that tradition in quite the same way within the family.
One day, while she was still alive, I returned home with an assignment from my Yorùbá teacher. We had been asked to write the oríkì of our family house or an ancestor.
At the time, I knew little about my paternal family house, Ilé Arẹ́ṣin, or the stories of my ancestors. But I was completely relaxed. My maternal grandmother knew oríkì. She was a princess of Ọ̀kín-Àpà. I was certain the Homework would be a walkover.
What I received from her, however, was far more valuable than help with an homework.
She did not merely teach me the oríkì of Alápà, which I can still recite today. She taught me what oríkì truly means.
She made me understand that oríkì is far more than praise poetry. It is one of the greatest instruments of historical preservation in Yorùbá culture. It is Yorùbá knowledge management. It is an information system that preserves history, identity, poetry, values, taboos, culture, and the collective memory of a people. Through oríkì, one can understand who a person is, where they come from, and the story they carry.
Everything known in Yorùbáland has an oríkì.
Every child has an oríkì. A person may bear many names, but there is often only one oríkì given at the naming.
When my son was born, I was deeply moved when my uncle, who remains as my father, raised the issue of oríkì despite being an established and successful “alákọ̀wé”. My mother and two of my brothers also spoke about it before the naming ceremony.
Their interest filled me with joy because it reminded me that this beautiful aspect of Yorùbá culture has not been completely forgotten after all.
Today, we remember you.
Fóyèkẹ́ ọmọ Alápà
Àtọ́kẹ́ Ọ̀kín
Ọmọ Alápà mọnjọra
Ọmọ ení ẹjọ́
Ọmọ èjì asọ̀
Ará igbó lẹ́’mọ́ lẹ́’mọ́
Ará igbó lé’jò lé’jò
Bí igbó kò bá lẹ́’mọ́
Kí lé’jò yóò jẹ
Ejò a jẹ àgò
Ejò a jẹ àfè
Ní ilé àwọn baba rẹ
Gbogbo àwọn ọmọ,
Àwa ọmọ ọmọ,
Àti àwọn ọmọ ọmọ ọmọ,
Ńṣe ìrántí rẹ ní òní.
Sùn re, Abiyamọ tòótọ́.
Twenty years may have passed, but your stories still live, your prayers still echo, your lessons still guide, and your memory still gathers us together.
You are gone, but never forgotten
Johnson Akínrìnadé Okùnadé
One of Fóyèkẹ́’s Grandsons
Business Email — hello@johnsonokunadea.com