Tribute to Ayo Banjo

Former acting leader, Afenifere, Pa Ayo Adebanjo

The conference call came in on the morning of May 24, 2024, from his daughters, Bunmi and Yinka, that their father, Prof. Ayo Banjo, had passed on. The news was met with a moment of silence. My heart missed a beat but I composed myself enough to comfort them. To the world, Prof. Banjo, a star academic, had passed on. To them, it was their father who had passed, and these were two different matters. They sobbed from the weight of the loss. The personal bereavement was bound to transcend family because Banjo was distinguished not only for his academics but also equally distinguished and lovely for his friendliness and the sweetness of his general disposition.

I met him for the first time in 1963 at Government College, Ibadan, where he was a teacher. He briefly taught us English in 1964. When I was in Government College, there were a few subjects that I liked very much. Equally, there were some subjects that “did not like me”, as a classmate was wont to say for subjects that he failed. One of the subjects that did not like me was English, and by extension, I confess, I did not like the teacher who taught it, which meant that I was never fond of Mr Ayo Banjo, as he then was, for constantly painting my essays red. The rules of grammar and those irregular plural forms were a constant bafflement. I was at home with the precision and logic of mathematics and the wonders of science. In the innocence of that period, a good man or teacher, I thought, should be kinder in the use of the red pen.

Then, somewhere along the line in 1964, I think, Banjo married a very pretty lady, and I was bowled over. I could only conclude, at that youthful age, that his command of English must have played a part in capturing such a beauty. From then on, I started taking my English seriously and taking a new liking for Mr Banjo. What motivates a child can be specious, but we all need a mentoring anchor, an epiphany to shape destiny. Gradually, I found English at every turn of my life, discovered its mesmerising magic, and now eternally hold Banjo very dearly.  He could not have been kinder with that red pen. Banjo was an unmistakable personality. He was tall, sprightly and elegant. His writing was neat and clear. The writing had a special calligraphic loop to it which made it uniquely different and legible. It gave the picture of a reflective, precise and organised mind. And he was. In voice, he had a baritone, acquired from his father—deeply, calmly, assuredly and inviting. It was a voice that characterised his persona. It was also a voice that distinctly conveyed his profession.

English had to be enunciated with flex, tenor and tone. With him, the delivery was with a distinct voice. I was in one of his many presentations as the Vice-Chancellor of the University of Ibadan, where he stood, as usual, tall while his voice reverberated, bouncing off the walls of Trenchard Hall, commanding the full attention of the audience and fascinating the listener. The late Prof. Tunde Bajah, sitting next to me, was enraptured. He looked at me, ‘I will follow this man blindfolded’, he submitted. He was under the spell of good leadership and so was the entire university when Prof. Banjo led it. There was that aura about him. He exuded leadership, grace, humility and charm. Whatever the assignment, you knew Prof. Banjo was deep, measured and balanced in action. For that reason, the academic community across the country took their problems to him and he gladly obliged.

In 1994, about 30 years after our first interaction, we met again, this time professionally. He had, of course, gone on to seal an outstanding career and considerable reputation as an academic and an administrator in the university, while I was a burgeoning publisher. I was going to be publishing a book for him and Prof. Ayo Bamgbose, another academic titan, titled New Englishes: A West African Perspective. This time, it was my turn to bring out my red pen when I got hold of his manuscript. Alas, there was nothing to paint. I read it a second and a third time and determinedly painted a few lines just to get my pound of flesh. That publishing assignment formed the beginning of a re-invigorated friendship that was to last to the very end. He would, from that moment on, send his prospective publications for me to look over. That was a distinct privilege. There was going to be more that drew me to him.

Some 22 or so years ago, Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher of Britain, as part of her global cost-cutting measures, asked the British Council to close down some of its libraries worldwide. For Nigeria, the libraries in Calabar, Kaduna, Ibadan, Enugu and Port Harcourt were marked to be closed. When word reached me, Dr Victoria Okojie, the British Council Librarian in Ibadan, and I went to see the late Prof. Ladipo Akinkugbe, another academic giant, and then Banjo. I argued rather than close the Ibadan British Council Library that we should take the British Council Library over. We should form a society to run it. This gave birth to the Initiative for Information, Arts and Culture Development in Nigeria. Happily, the British Council acceded to our proposition and handed the Ibadan library to us. We turned it over, better than what it was, and it became more than a library for us. It became a Library and Resource Centre. At the start, the late Prof. Akinkugbe was our President, and then Prof. Banjo before the baton was passed on to me.

I remember vividly at its inception that Banjo insisted that our mandate include a vision for the promotion of civilisation espoused through the written word. In very shrouded language, he was promoting the intercourse of knowledge across the world. Man’s advancement has been through rigour of thought and ideas, most of which have been documented. The library aspired to provide access and space for intergenerational interaction. That the Library and Resource Centre remains today, the only one out of the five marked to be closed 22 years after, is a testament to his vision and an enduring legacy of his commitment to scholarship, his doggedness, and the resilience of society.

About nine years ago, Maj. Gen. Muhammadu Buhari (retd.) won the election for his first presidential term in office. As a result of this election victory and prior to assuming office, Buhari embarked on a goodwill trip around Nigeria to notable Nigerians who might have played a part in his success or whom he would be leaning on for support when he assumed office. The tour took him to Ijebu-Ode for a visit to the Awujale. To receive him, the Awujale, in turn, invited his chiefs and a few of his subjects to join him. I ran into Banjo on the appointed date as we approached the big circular Lion Conference Room of the Awujale. This room was going to serve as a holding bay before proceeding to the Banquet Hall, all in the palace. By the time we got in, the room was filled up with only one empty seat available, which I nudged Banjo to take. He moved to the seat and a few people came around to greet him while I stood by his seat so that we could engage in some conversation. Not long after, two courtiers from the palace politely approached him to let him know the seat he was on was the Awujale’s. Banjo immediately sprang to his feet and joined me standing. For a brief moment, I told him he occupied the exalted throne, and I teased that in the presence of witnesses, he could well be described as a temporary Awujale. He laughed heartily and those around who always thought he wore an unflappable mien were surprised to see him in that mood. Banjo was full of humour and he could take a joke.

A year after Akinkugbe died, about three years ago, there was going to be a memorial reception. I approached Banjo as he alighted from his car at the reception hall. Suddenly, his legs gave way under him, and we both fell on top of one another. It was a wet day, and the dampness of the grounds cushioned our fall. We were helped up by onlookers. As he got up, he said to me, ‘Kolade, I want to sit at your table.’ ‘No, Sir. You are chairman of the event, and I will watch over you from a distance,’ I said to him. Those sturdy and agile legs that held firmly between the posts at Igbobi College, nimble feet that made runs between wickets at cricket, feet that moved stridently across the campus at the University of Ibadan were now wobbly. Age now was beginning to tell.

If you were close to him, one of the most common words he used was, lovely. If you did anything right, he would say lovely. If you brought him anything, he would say lovely. If he engaged you in conversation, in closing, he would say lovely. He used the word lovely interchangeably as a synonym for good, thanks, affirmation and beauty. The truth of the matter was that he was the loveliest man you could ever find. What we will miss most about him is this boundless love for all and sundry. Love rang out loud, from mouth to mouth throughout the land on his demise, for the scholarship and happiness he supplied, in and outside the university, and for his pleasing disposition. He was a lovely, lovely man.

He had been poorly towards the end. But life is never linear. Some people may be at the cliff edge of death and suddenly and miraculously turn around. Others may seemingly look well and shock us with their deaths. We attend to relations and patients in high hopes that the best will be given to extend life. Life ultimately ends no matter what, because it is part of life for life to come to an end.

On the morning of May 24, 2024, he was seized by a brief chilling spell, and he heaved a high heave, and his chest rested to rise no more. He was 90. Adieu, my beloved teacher and dear, dear friend.

• Dr Mosuro is a publisher and bookseller