HomilyfromthePew

By the time I turn 56 on the 24th of March this year, my first son will still be four years old, and I have found myself thinking, again and again, about the greatest legacy I can leave him.

In that search, I keep returning to a simple correlation between my life and that of David: I am a man acquainted with battles.

The circumstances of my birth were themselves a battle.

My father struggled for years to have children, and in the end, God gave him six of us, but only in his old age.

And once, many years later, in my thirties, after I had graduated from Law School, he said something to me that has never left me: that when I was born, he never knew he would live to see us become grown men and women.

So, since I was born, it has been one battle or the other.

At age nine, I nearly lost my life to cholera. The doctor said that if my parents had been five minutes late, I would have been history. That was the first battle, the battle to stay alive.

After that, the pattern continued:

Getting into primary school was a battle.
Staying in primary school was a battle.
Finishing secondary school was a battle.
Gaining admission into the university was a battle.
Keeping the admission was a battle.
Gaining admission into the Nigerian Law School, another battle.
Rising above the waters in my chosen career was a battle.
Getting married was a battle.
Having a child was a battle.

Everything around me has carried the signature of battle.

Yet something shifted in 1997.

Before 1997, I was fighting for victory; from 1997, when I became a person of faith, I began to fight from victory.

Since then, it has not mattered to me how many battles I face; I know I have already won. Every battle is a replay of a battle already won before the world began.

When Jesus said, “It is finished” (John 19:30), nothing was left undone; under His covering, what confronts me is not the question of whether victory is possible, but the reminder that victory has already been declared.

God declares “the end from the beginning” (Isaiah 46:10), and that is my anchor in battle.

Being a man acquainted with battle, I used to think I fought all these battles so that, like Solomon, my son would fight fewer battles.

But I have come to recognize that it will not happen on a platter of gold. It will not simply be “because I fought, therefore he will not fight.” No.

I believe one of the secrets of David’s battles, and the impact of those battles on Solomon’s bliss was the conversation David had with Solomon.

Among other things, David must have taught his son how to identify allies: how do you identify your allies, your destiny allies, those you can call your own in times of pressure?

Because the truth is that anybody can be a friend in the time of bliss, but the Scripture says, “A friend loveth at all times, and a brother is born for adversity” (Proverbs 17:17).

Yoruba philosophy has been consistent on this matter:

“Ẹsẹ gírí-gírí ni ilẹ̀ ànjọ̀fẹ́; ànjọ̀fẹ́ kú, a ò rí ẹni kan.”
(In the lifetime of the generous, the home is a refuge for many; upon their death, the house becomes deserted.)

“Ọwọ́ ọ̀bẹ̀ ni ọmọ aráyé ń bá ni lá; wọn kì í bá ẹni lá ọwọ́ ẹ̀jẹ̀.” (People join you to celebrate with the knife that cuts the meat; they do not join you to handle the hand stained with blood, so in days of merriment you are attractive, but in the day of bleeding you may be deserted.)

So, for me, there is no other true measure of friendship offered than adversity.

If my son must not inherit my battles, then I must teach him something practical: how to identify an ally.

Yes, “friends are born for adversity” is true, but it can still be generic; people can stay around in adversity for different reasons, and how they stay around is another matter entirely.

But one thing has become clear to me from experience: a destiny ally is someone who can put in a word for you in the day of adversity, someone who knows you enough to stick out their neck for you; their neck meaning their reputation, their position, their credibility, sometimes even their lives and livelihood.

I learned this early through a story that still stays with me.

A friend of mine was accused of stealing a wristwatch in Primary 3; he was nine years old.

The teacher said, in essence, “I know this boy. I am not arguing about what is found where, but I do not believe he stole it. I know him enough, and I will put my job on the line to defend him.”

They found the wristwatch in his school bag, yet the teacher insisted someone must have set him up.

My friend told me that moment changed his life forever, that somebody could believe in him that much, and it made him careful with life.

And the teacher was right: it was a setup.

I have also tasted that kind of allegiance personally.

I recall how my brother and friend, Dele Farotimi, once defined our relationship. He said that if he is fighting somewhere and Taiwo hears, Taiwo does not ask for the facts; Taiwo begins to fight first, on his side.

It is after the battle is reduced, after there is respite that Taiwo asks for the facts.

He said Taiwo believes in his reputation and what he represents enough not to demand the facts before he stands with him.

When he said that, my heart melted. I burst into tears, and even as I write this, I feel it again.

I know, for certainty, that is what Dele Farotimi would do in my own case, and the eloquent particulars of our relationship have proved it over the years.

In that one description, Dele captured, excellently, my understanding of what a destiny ally looks like.

Then I remember another story, one that taught me how silence can become a sentence if nobody speaks in time.

A man I deeply revere, a leader I will continue to revere till my last breath, believed something about me, and what he believed was wrong.

But the circumstantial evidence was stacked against me; for him not to believe it, he would have seemed like a fool. So he drew back, still responsible, still measured, but he did not confront me.

The facts were centered on trust. I was aware of certain facts around the issue, but I was not aware of the conclusion he had drawn.

Our leader did not want to risk being wrong. He did not want to confront me and discover he had misjudged me. So he chose distance over dialogue. He left it there.

The other people were there people close to both of us, who were almost certainly aware of the negative conclusion our leader had reached about me.

Yet for years, close to two full years, not one of them said anything to me.

They watched the distance grow.
They watched the silence harden.
They watched a relationship that mattered drift under a weight I did not even know I was carrying.
And they still said nothing.

Then a very dear friend and leader heard those same facts and did what the others refused to do: he placed a call to me.

And what makes that call even more costly is this: he had a relationship with our leader. Not a casual relationship, a relationship deep enough for the leader to confide in him.

So, by calling me, he risked that trust. He risked being seen as indiscreet. He risked being misunderstood. He risked his standing with a man who mattered to both of us.

Yet he still called.

He said, “I heard a conversation concerning you. I know the facts stacked against you, but you need to go and see our leader and explain yourself. He did not ask me to call you, but I cannot hear this thing about you and keep quiet. This is destiny-sensitive.”

He did not interrogate me. He did not ask for my side first. He did not demand explanations or evidence over the phone.

He simply said, in effect, “I know you. I know this is not the kind of man you are. Go and defend yourself, now.”

That was what separated him from the crowd: he did not stand at a safe distance to analyze my ashes; he stepped into the fire and pulled the alarm.

I told my wife. We went together. I presented my own facts.

I explained myself, plainly, carefully, truthfully.

And by the grace of God, those facts were able to negate what our leader had been made to believe. I was exonerated. He believed me because I never did what I was accused of.

But I would never have known what I was being accused of, because it was too delicate for him to reason with me in the absence of certainty.

And then something remarkable happened: our relationship returned, not merely to full strength, but to something even better.

He placed me again in diverse areas of trust. Till today, that relationship stands.

And the difference-maker was not my intelligence, and it was not my effort.

The difference-maker was this: someone knew me enough to speak, before silence became my sentence.

My daily prayer for you and for me is that God will give you someone who will speak for you where it matters, someone who will put in a word for you in the day of crisis.

So what do I tell my son?

You will always need someone to put in a word for you; you will not always be present where your matters are being discussed.

A destiny ally is someone who knows you enough to say, “I can put my name on the line. Let me be wrong on this; if I am wrong, I will learn a new lesson. But I know this man; I know this woman; I will defend him; I will stand for her.”

No more. No less.

Such was Chief GOK Ajayi, SAN, to Baba Ademola Adesina Ogunlana (both of blessed memory).

When Baba Ogunlana was asked to appear before the Legal Practitioners Disciplinary Committee, Chief GOK rose; he did not begin with what Baba did or did not do, he stood and defended him.

At that time, Baba Ogunlana was like David challenging the Goliaths of the Lagos judiciary, yet this man stood for him: he put his reputation at stake; he spent his own money to travel to Abuja several times; he stayed nights; he defended him; and Baba was exonerated.

That is the kind of ally I want my son to recognize, and to become.

And I must also teach him this warning: I am not saying you should stand surety for a stranger, someone you cannot vouch for.

And how do you know you are a stranger to someone?

It is simple: anyone who cannot vouch for you on a level that matters sees you as a stranger.

Because you may think someone is “your person,” while you are merely a convenient acquaintance to them; the day of adversity will expose the true category.

This, then, is my #Homilyfromthepew this week: if my son must not inherit my battles, I must teach him how to identify allies, those who can put in a word for him in adversity, and how to become that kind of person for others.

Because in a world of battles, what you need is not crowd; what you need is covenant.

And covenant shows itself most clearly when it costs.

Do have an INSPIRED week ahead with the family.

MinistryofClarity

@highlight