An Encounter With Arisekola Alao

 
Last Wednesday 18th, Alhaji Azeez Arisekola-Alao, the larger-than-life rabble-rouser Islamic leader and notable businessman of Ibadan, breathed his last. Until his death he was the deputy head of Nigeria Supreme Council for Islamic Affairs and the declared Aare Musulimi of Yorubaland. It is reported that he died in a London hospital that afternoon of prostrate cancer.
Aare Arisekola was many things to many people. He was loved by many and detested by as many.
To the masses of Oyo State he was a philanthropist, and the benevolent giver of alms to the poor.To the Ibadan (and perhaps most of Yoruba) Muslims he was emblematic of their faith, a fearless proclaimer of its tenets and protector of its values. Amongst the Ibadan political and cultural leadership he was the highly influential, if not feared, godfather.

But to the intellectual, especially college/university, community he was the detestable face of brawn over brain, of the oppressive and retrogressive state, and of its ‘filthy’ lucre – an image acquired through his publicly vaunted liaison with military despots, particularly General Abacha his closest friend, through whom his business empire boomed and proxy-power exercised.

I once had a personal encounter with the Aare. Weirdly, it was an encounter I had just in the morning of his death narrated to my friend, Dr. Ohioma Pogoson, as we drove past the gate of Arisekola’s sprawling mansion in the Bashorun/OluwoKekere area of Ibadan on our way to Osogbo, only for me to get a call in the late afternoon from Ohioma shortly after dropping him off at his home:
“Egbon, you won’t believe it, but my daughter just gave me the news that Arisekola is dead!” Exclaimed Ohioma.
One early morning, I think thereabout 2007, my phone rang just as I drove past the Ibadan tollgate from Lagos.
“Hello sir, is this Mr. Fagbenle?” “Yes, who is this?” I asked. “Sir, I am Aare Arisekola’s secretary and he wants you to please call him, sir,” said the caller, proceeding to give me two numbers on which I could get the Aare.
Somehow in my “paranoid” state then, I was petrified, wondering if the man with the awesome reputation of ‘mystical’ and temporal powers had ‘seen’ me that I was just driving into his territory. Was he monitoring my movement or how else did he know I was in Ibadan?
My mind reflected on an article I had written many years earlier, I think in 1988, in which I sent him to the cleaners on account of his notorious intervention that further inflamed a religious crisis at the University of Ibadan. Student Islamic faithfuls were demanding that a long standing Christian cross symbol mounted on the campus church should be repositioned as the Muslims had just discovered it stood to offend their sight during prayers at their mosque that’s within close proximity of the chapel that, nevertheless, predated the mosque.
I stopped to make the call to the Aare and as soon as his phone rang he picked it up. “Hello,” I said,“This is TundeFagbenle.”
“Ah, eyin nu, e dakun mo feri yin ni. E f’oriji mi, e dakun e yo’jusi mi,” he said in smooth Ibadan dialect. Simply put, he was begging that I should pay him a visit. I asked when and he said at my earliest convenience. “Anytime t’eba tir’aye nani. Kominkankinkanti’nbanse, ma paati fun yin. E sa je kin mo igbati e banbo,” he further expressed.
What could this Alhaji want of me? Indeed, how did I even come to his mind so much to deserve being implored so respectfully to visit him? That further frightened me. I am a very private person and hardly seen around in social circles. Certainly, Arisekola, by reputation, wasn’t the sort of personality whose friendship I would choose to cultivate. And now the lion wants me to come to his den!
I quickly phoned a couple of senior family members to ask for their opinion. Somehow, they all felt there should be no harm in going to hear why he wanted to see me. Nevertheless, I ‘chickened out’ and returned to Lagos without going by the Aare. It was a couple of days later I called him again to say I was on my way to him from Lagos. Promptly again he picked his phone, eagerly again he would be awaiting me.
The street that led to Arisekola’s abode was lined on both sides by poor native folk – children, women, men, beggars all – seated on the bare tarred road patiently waiting for when the Aare would come to give them the alms for the day or distribute the foodstuff to take away in his customary and unfailing fashion. What a life, I thought.
As soon as I mentioned my name at his gate in Ibadan, the security people went into frenzy, flinging the gate open with fanfare and respect. I was at the back seat and my driver must have wondered how his oga had kept this stupefying status of his a secret for so long “pretending” to be just an “ordinary” person!
We drove in to find scores of people, including some white folk, all around the Alhaji on the vast expanse strewn with trees, flora, fauna, and buildings. As soon as I alighted the car Arisekola moved over to welcome me with great warmth, holding my hand and leading me into the main building to the right. He signalled the white men and others to wait for him whilst he and I took the stairs further into more private areas of the huge building.
When we got to where looked like his ‘sanctum sanctorum’, an ample parlour suffused with expensive furniture, décor, and stuff, we sat beside each other on a settee, my curiosity heightening.
“Ah, e seun gannit’ewari mi. Oju yin re, mo ma ngbadun yin gannininu PUNCH.” Then went straight into the matter. “E mo’unti mo feri yin fun gan? Mo ka nkanti e konipa Obasanjol’ose to koja, mo sigbadun re ganni!” Meaning why he wanted to see me was to let me know how he enjoyed reading my column in the PUNCH and that he was particularly pleased with my (scathing) article on Obasanjo in the last column.
   My mind eased a bit but was still curious. Could that be all – for which he had to go to this great length to give me the red-carpet treatment? I began to surreptitiously scan the room and its surrounding, taking in everything, still suspicious of a “trap”; perhaps a tape-recorder was hidden somewhere. I would have to say little, hear this “Big (but diminutive) Man” out, and get out as quickly as I could, I thought.
(To be concluded next week. May the soul of Alhaji Abdul Azeez Arisekola-Alao rest in peace.).

Written by Tunde Fagbenle