Since 2015, the 4th of November has always felt like the end of the world in our family. It’s hard to believe that ten years have already gone by since you left us, Babatunde Akani Oredola.
I still remember that morning so clearly. I had just stepped out of the toilet when Mum told me, “Tayo, I think something is wrong with your brother.” If I never believed in a mother’s instinct before, then that was the day I did. Even though the hospital and your friends assured us that you were recovering well from the sickle cell pain crisis that eventually took you, Mum just knew something wasn’t right.
Your death certificate said you passed away a few minutes after 10 p.m. Ghanaian time, barely an hour after you spoke to us in that sleepy tone. That night, I went straight to bed, but Mum couldn’t. She said she felt a heavy burden in her heart and kept praying until dawn. It was around then, on the morning of November 5th, that the devastating news reached us from Ghana.
Babatunde, we’ve all moved on somehow, but life has never been the same. Mum has never fully recovered; some of the things she once loved doing seemed to fade away with you, my dear kid brother.
For me, there’s one regret I’ve carried for the past ten years: not buying you the belt you wanted so badly the last time we saw each other, on August 8, 2015. I still cry about it sometimes. It would have been my last gift to you, especially knowing how you rarely asked for anything. I promised to bring it when I visited Ghana that December. I did visit, but you were gone. I ended up standing by your graveside, wishing it was all a dream, wishing I could dig you out and bring you back to life.
I’ll never forget how you waved countless times at me that day at the Lagos lorry park, something you rarely did. The guys around teased us, thinking we were lovers who couldn’t part ways. Little did I know you were actually waving goodbye forever. That scene is still fresh in my mind.
But I cherish our last moments together. I didn’t capture them on camera, but I’m grateful I spent that night of August 7th with you, waiting for your bus.
As for our little brother, he has grown so much, becoming so mature, and stepping into the responsibilities you left behind. He’s now a fine young man, doing what you loved most: agriculture. After your passing, it became his calling.
As for me, I’ve faced several complications of sickle cell, including the same one that took you (acute chest syndrome).. But I’ve refused to give up. I’ve taken it as a calling to keep speaking up about sickle cell, just like you would have wanted. That’s why we established the OBA Oredola Sickle Cell Foundation, not only to honour and immortalise you, but to raise awareness and to bring hope and relief to people living with this condition.
Since you left, no one has truly understood the pain of living with sickle cell the way you did. I’ve had to stay strong for Mum and our brother, even while hiding my own struggles. I miss how you could look at me, hear my voice, and know when I was in pain and how to help and comfort me. That bond, we never needed words. I haven’t been able to share that same connection with anyone since you left.
And guess what? I now have two beautiful daughters, just like you always wished. You loved girls so much! I tell them about you every chance I get. They know Uncle Tunde is in heaven, watching over us with God. That’s how I keep your memory alive.
Dad, too, has never fully recovered. Sometimes I think your death hit him as a sort of punishment, and harder because just when he was turning a new leaf, after threatening us badly, you left. I can tell he lives with regret every day, and that pain still lingers in him.
Who would have thought we could survive ten years without you? Yet here we are—but with a scar that never fades. No week passes without your name being mentioned, my dear kid brother. We miss you deeply. I miss you. And I can almost hear you teasing me again, “Auntie Tayo, you too like stress.”
Well, I haven’t changed much, except that sickle cell has left its mark on me. But we move. This past decade without you has been the toughest, but we are coming out strong and better, making peace with the situation.
Till we meet again at the feet of the Father, to part no more, keep resting, my beloved little brother, who acts like my elder one.
RIP Babatunde Akani