An Ode to my baby sister

The story begins with the name. ‘Olufunșo’ translates, roughly as ‘a precious gift from God, placed in the hands of a grateful earthly recipient, to be tended lovingly and treated with the care and reverence of someone handling a delicate, fragile object that must be preserved and nurtured at all costs.’

“But she cared about everybody, and was always ready to listen to their worries, and to offer advice, especially where it had to do with their emotions.”

At least this was how our father, hereinafter referred to as ‘Baba Ijebu’, a former schoolteacher and later United Nations employee in the ‘Belgian Congo’, appeared to interpret his mission as it concerned his daughter. A devout Christian with four wives, he carried himself with such dignity and certainty that other people came to him for advice when they had problems in their households. He was the first President of Unity Band in our local church – Trinity Church, Ilasamaja, which, from humble beginnings grew to become one of the largest Anglican congregations in Lagos. In those days, the Unity Band, the preeminent society in the Church, met frequently for Fellowship at our house in Idiaraba. Funso and other children would be sent out into the neighbourhood to purchase moinmoin and eko to ‘service’ the meetings. The esteemed members of the Unity Band, male and female, did not hide their relish when, towards the close, the children would bring in the moinmoin and eko, on enamel plates, still hot inside the leaves, and leave each person to patiently unfurl the leaf-wrapping before setting to work on the food. The little ones would erupt in titters, pinching each other as they watched from behind the curtain on the corridor.

Funso was born exactly two years to the day after my own birth. From early on it was clear to me that the unwritten responsibility to treat her like a Ming Dynasty vase was not going to be carried by our father alone, but also by me. Friends made cruel jokes about Baba Ijebu’s sense of precise timing in having two children with the same birthday, two years apart, although they also recognised we were polar opposites. She was the spitting image of our mother, naturally light-skinned and pretty, with a dimple on each cheek.

I was already attending primary school at All Saints School, Yaba, with our older sister Remi when she was shipped in from the Congo to join us at Idiaraba. To my eyes, she looked like a doll, and I did not know what to say to her. It was an awkwardness I quickly found I shared with Baba Ijebu and the other boys. She went about her way, made her own friends, and generally let it be known that she was fine. But she cared about everybody, and was always ready to listen to their worries, and to offer advice, especially where it had to do with their emotions.

Her school grades were not great. This would normally spell trouble for any other child with Baba Ijebu – a thorough tongue-lashing, or a few strokes of the cane, deftly applied to the child’s backside. With Funso though, all Baba could muster was a tepid rebuke, often followed not long afterwards by some attempt to make friendly conversation.

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In the ten-room ‘face-me-I-face-you’ house, you could tell when Baba was angry by the loud snap of his rubber slippers as he walked up or down the long corridor, ending in his parlour in front. Everybody hid in their rooms, holding their breath. Everybody except Funso. Sometimes he would send for her, after ensconcing himself in his favourite armchair, which commanded a view of the corridor.

‘Where have you been? I have not seen you all day.’

‘I’ve been around, Daddy’, she would reply, with a vague insouciance.

He would try to look stern, but he did not know what to say beyond that. Often his distemper was considerably eased.

She liked to dress up in pretty clothes, and she was the soul of the party on social occasions. As she grew up, she kept her life private, but my own was fair game. Anyone she saw with me had to pass her scrutiny.

She attended Secondary school in Gbagada. Then she was off to Ibadan to study modern Languages at UI. The course requirements fell neatly into her specifications. They offered adventure, travel, and the chance to see the world and meet new people. She spent a year in Russia, practising the language. She went to the USA and travelled in Europe. When she was done, she worked as an Announcer and Producer at Nigerian Television Authority (NTA), in Ibadan.

Later she decided to settle in the UK.

She took up a career job with HM’s Revenue and Customs.

Sadly, a disabling polyarthritis and other debilitating health challenges supervened, constraining her mobility and career possibilities, despite the best efforts of the NHS. She retired early.

She did not lose her verve, and her independence, despite the constant discomfort.

She never lost any opportunity to shower kindness and affection on her siblings, her nieces and nephews, and other members of her extended family.

Funso remained our family’s fashionista, even when she could no longer physically attend the weddings and birthday parties she used to love. Her jewellery, and her designer shoes and bags were eager take-aways for her nieces during her working life, especially as she constantly bought new ones.

After a hiatus of several years virtually housebound, she decided to spend this last Christmas on holiday in Dubai. It was something she had always wanted to do, and in retrospect, it was her last hurray.

Her happy, excited message from Dubai on Christmas day remains on my phone.

We were all heartbroken when her health took a sudden turn for the worse and she passed on to glory shortly after her return to London.

Perhaps the world would stand still for a moment for my baby sister Funso this morning as we gathered to mourn and bury her at Camberwell. May her beautiful, gentle soul rest in perfect peace.