I met Pius Adesanmi in February 1992 at the University of Ilorin. Though we were in the same department (he was of the French arm, while I was of the English section of the Department of Modern European Languages (as it was then known), he was three years my senior. However, he and my elder brother, Segun Emosu, who belonged in another department of the Faculty of Arts were mates. And we also shared the same hall of residence then. His room downstairs was just some steps away from H2/28 on the upper floor, where I was squatting with my brother.
This proximity afforded me the opportunity to know that the brilliant Pius Adesanmi was not all only about books. He was a jovial, lively person who could just saunter anytime into our room whose all ‘legal’ occupants were final year Arts students like him, pull some ‘verbal trouble’ and walk away.
That Pius Adesanmi was roundly brilliant went without saying. It was even legendary. During the one academic session I spent with Pius Adesanmi at Unilorin, a particular story spread like wildfire in the harmattan, at least round the mini campus of the institution. Every student of language – be it English, French, Yoruba, etc – must offer courses in the linguistics department throughout their course of study. This applied to Pius Adesanmi as a student of French. He had been taking the linguistics courses right from his 100 Level. And he had been turning in good results too. But in his final year he must offer the courses being taken by a particular lecturer in the linguistics department who notoriously was never generous with marks. The paths of the lecturer, a professor of the Old Order, who was one of the three founding professors at the takeoff of Unilorin in the 1975/76 academic session did not cross until then because the professor was always taking senior classes. Baba was miserly in assessing his students and Pius was never known for scoring grades less than ‘A’. Talk of the trader who is ever bent on not filling the standard measurement to its brim and his client who would never accept otherwise. Long story short. In the first semester, one student made a mince meat of whatever were the old professor’s standards. Very unlike him, the professor had to (deservedly) give the student an ‘A’ grade. The course had a continuation in the second semester and the story was the same as the professor had no choice but to give unto Caesar what belonged unto Caesar. Bewildered, the professor, we even heard, had to seek out who the student that arm-twisted him in two consecutive semesters was. That student was Pius Adesanmi. That academic calendar year, Unilorin produced three or four (I can’t exactly remember now) First Class graduates. Out of that number, I remember this very well, Adesanmi was the only First Class student from the Faculty of Arts.
Not too surprisingly, in his chosen field, Pius became a professor, a cistern of knowledge feeding humanity to better the society. But alas, that cistern suddenly got shattered on Sunday.
Sangba fo!
Kokoro ni ko je ki n gbadun obi t’ogbo
Iku ni k’oje ki n gbadun eni rere.
Bi a ba n rebi a ma dani logun odun,
Bi a ba n rajo a ma dani logbon osu
Pius Adebola Adesannmi lo ko dagbere fun enikankan!!!
Pius Again?
(Dirge for Pius Adesanmi)
Boeing…
Going…
Gone!
Elder!
Brother!
Pray!
Pius…
Passenger Pius!
Silence
Silence of the night
Silence
Of the hourglass drums
Silence!
That night −
It seemed the jackal
Was on the prowl
But those were the stealthy steps
Of the nocturnal owl
The night −
Darkness shut in the skylight
And no roaming birds in sight
Night…
Dreams…
And nightmares…
It was the surreal portrait
Of your morning
And the mourning to come
Boeing…
Going…
Gone!
The Big Bird must fly
But to perch no more
Earth!
Not the hieroglyphic bird of Egypt
O! the wide wings of Ethiopia!
That bore your free spirit
In the sultry space
Of the Nubian skies
Boeing…
Going…
Gone!
It was your last flight
Like a lost child in the cold
Like a helpless bird
Bathed and beaten in the rain
It was your last flight
But the eagle did not fly −
The night owl had spoken
It whispered in the eaves
It cried in the alcoves
But the dreams, too,
They were shady and surreal…
It was your omen
The omen of your final flight
And the plumage
Of your free spirit
Would perch no more!
Silence
Silence of daytime
Silence
Of the tired-wing crow
Silence!
This morning
Earth rises no more
It cries, it cracks, it cackles
But the lion’s roar
Moves the mahogany no more!
It was your final flight
And the forest trees
Buried their boughs
And bore no branches
For your perching wings
O Pius!
The eaves and the alcoves −
Now they sing out of tune
As the pigeons
Parry the setting sun
And the young fruits
Of your youth
Ripen and rot
Before your midlife market!
Boeing…
Going…
Gone!
The night waits in vain
In vain, to see
Your hoary tufts
Follicles now never to be –
The silver strands
That never flowered!
Silence
Silence of the streets
Silence
Silence of the marketplace
Silence
Silence of the city square
Silence!
The deaths that trailed
In the backyard,
And tracked your travelling paths,
Now have left the streets sombre
And our brows buried
Beneath unseen aches of indignation −
This sullen sunrise…
Abiodun M. Bello,
Lagos.
13 March, 2019
and then