VITAL OBITER®

REMEMBRANCE SPECIAL

I began to live with Chief Gani Fawehinmi when I was 18.

That was my first year of adulthood.

And looking back now, I realise something important:

What I came to know about him, and how much I learnt from him, was not simply because he was my uncle.

Yes, he sponsored my higher education and my legal education.

But I also chose to follow him.

It was not even a particularly sophisticated or fully informed choice.

My twin brother and I had chosen to come to Lagos.

And once I arrived, nobody compelled me to follow Chief around.

I simply decided that I would.

I still remember the morning it started.

I had studied his routine and knew when he normally left for the office.

So I got myself ready.

Unfortunately, my timing was not yet as disciplined as his.

By the time I came out, Chief was already driving through the gate.

Ah!

I ran after the car.

I called to the gateman.

I knocked on the window.

Eventually, the car stopped.

Chief looked at me and asked what I wanted.

I said I wanted to follow him.

And that was it.

That simple decision became the beginning of years of following him virtually everywhere.

To the office.

To meetings.

To engagements.

To struggles.

And, of course, back home to Ondo.

Every year, around Ileya, Chief held an annual family prayer gathering in Ondo.

It was no small affair.

Extended family came.

Staff came.

A whole cow would be slaughtered.

Rams joined the proceedings.

The Chief Imam and other Muslim clerics would be present.

And prayers would be offered for Chief, his family, his work and everyone gathered.

Now, during one of my experiences of that annual prayer gathering, something happened that I have never forgotten.

One gentleman who worked closely with Chief came forward for prayer.

I will leave his name where it belongs:

In the archive.

He was from Ondo himself and occupied a position of considerable trust. He handled purchases, supervised building and renovation projects, and generally managed various assignments for Chief.

Then came his prayer.

He essentially said:

He had worked faithfully for Chief.

He had been loyal.

He had protected Chief’s interests.

And if, in any way, he had deceived Chief, defrauded him or betrayed that trust.

May he be exposed.

I was about 18.

My young mind paused.

What kind of prayer is this?

Of all the prayers available in the spiritual marketplace, why would somebody personally select, “Lord, expose me if I have been stealing”?

But who was I?

The prayer had been prayed.

We said amen.

Everybody ate.

We returned to Lagos.

Then, perhaps a week or two later, I no longer remember the exact interval, the prayer developed legs.

The same gentleman was handling a project for Chief.

He went to purchase building materials and attempted to inflate the price, apparently expecting the supplier to cooperate.

Everything was going according to plan until the supplier asked:

“Whose receipt should I prepare?”

And our man supplied the name:

Chief Gani Fawehinmi.

Ah.

Wrong answer.

The supplier apparently knew exactly who that name belonged to.

He played along.

Then he went straight to the Chambers and reported what had happened.

And just like that, our brother’s prayer request received express delivery.

He had asked that if he was deceiving Chief, he should be exposed.

He was exposed.

Prayer answered.

Relationship terminated.

Case closed.

But behind the humour was something much deeper.

That incident taught me something about the peculiar place Chief occupied in the consciousness of ordinary people.

His name itself could become a form of accountability.

G. G. Darah captured the scale of that reputation in the citation he wrote when the students of Great Ife conferred on Chief the title of Senior Advocate of the Masses.

He described Gani as a man to whom a letter could be sent from anywhere in the world, bearing no address, only the name:

Gani.

And it would reach him.

That was how popular he was.

That was the man our gentleman had chosen to defraud.

But Chief was too large to be defrauded quietly.

The supplier did not need to know him personally. He knew what the name represented.

The moment the gentleman mentioned “Chief Gani Fawehinmi,” Chief’s reputation entered the transaction and the scheme collapsed.

I remember another story.

Armed robbers once encountered Chief’s vehicle around Toyin Street, off Allen Avenue, Ikeja while attacking motorists in traffic.

When they realised who was in the car,

“Chief Gani Fawehinmi!”

They reportedly left him alone.

Think about that.

The man could not be quietly defrauded.

Apparently, he could not even be robbed.

Even armed robbers had their own constituency.

There were boundaries.

There were people you robbed.

And then there was Gani.

That was the unusual thing about the man I encountered from the age of 18.

From the spiritual to the temporal.

From the profound to the mundane.

From courtrooms and prisons to family gatherings and building projects.

There was always a story.

Always a lesson.

Always something revealing about integrity, courage, reputation, public trust or the extraordinary relationship he had with ordinary Nigerians.

One thing many people did not know about Chief was that he was a very humorous man.

Humorous and very strict.

The way he combined humour with strictness was unusual.

He could be uncompromisingly strict, yet remarkably funny.

Chief also had a nickname for virtually everybody.

If he met you and became familiar with you, it was only a matter of time before he found a name for you.

That was part of his boisterous and lively personality.

Chief laughed loudly.

He lived loudly and yet moderate.

He was boisterous.

He enjoyed life.

He ate well.

He paid attention to his health.

And he was fearless.

He combined fearlessness, strictness, humour and a zest for life in a way that was entirely his own.

As I write this story, other memories are returning.

And as I remember them, I find myself laughing almost to stupor.

There was “Fatai Alata.”

There was “Raji, You Want Some Yoghurt”

There was:

“‘Jibade, Remind Me, I Want to Suspend You When We Get to the Office.”

“‘Jibade, What Do I Eat?”

“And I Will Not Give You the File.”

“Johnson, I Want the Fuel to Finish on Third Mainland Bridge.”

“That I Called Madam Is the One Taiye Went to Ride as Bicycle.”

“Okoroafor, We Have Lost Taiye.”

“He Is My Sister’s Son. I Brought from Ondo.”

“Taiye, You Join the Cult, I Send You Back to the Suffocating Life in Ondo.”

Each title carries a memory.

Each memory reveals another side of the man.

In the days ahead, I will write these stories in sequence.

Who knows?

They may eventually become a book about the human and very funny side of Chief Gani Fawehinmi.

The public knew the fearless advocate, the irrepressible fighter and the uncompromising defender of ordinary Nigerians.

I also knew the uncle who laughed loudly, lived fully, gave everybody a nickname and could combine humour with strictness in a way that was entirely his own.

Chief died on September 5, 2009, at the age of 71.

I have written much about him.

I have spoken much about him.

But recently, while talking with my brothers, this particular memory returned.

So I share it simply as I remember it.

Take from it whatever it teaches you.

For me, however, one lesson remains:

Reputation is what people say about you when you are absent.

Character is what gives them something worth saying.

And sometimes, if you are not careful, you may even pray for your own audit.

And heaven may say:

Approved.

From the Archives of
Taiwo AKINLAMI’s
Diary of a Roving Counsel