It is never my style to subject the dead to uncomplementary commentaries. Neither do I have a reputation of passing judgments of mockery on the recently departed. The dead deserve silence, not stones.
I am of noble pedigree, and decency, forthrightness, and wisdom is our hallmark as a true yoruba born. Yet, life is a stubborn teacher. It teaches in the cradle, in the marketplace, and sometimes – in the grave, and I am here for the lessons it promises.
The grievous news of the horrid passing of this young man was communicated to my timeline by mutuals and the tributes expressed in his honour were indeed humbling and sobering. Touched by these encomiums I reflexively joined his loved ones in mourning his passing and honouring his memories despite never knowing the man while he drew breath. For death is a debt every man must pay, and grief is a language we all understand.
But hours later, the same algorithms that carry condolences began to ferry unpleasant whispers. And I had to take a trip to the man’s wall to have a peek at how the mind of the man worked while he walked among us. I am not one to judge any man by the opinions of others. Accusations must pass through the sieve of personal inquiry.
Then came a surprise – he had blocked me.
A man I never knew. A man I never crossed paths with. Blocked.
That startled me for I am not known on this space to trade in insults or to invade people’s privacy with provocation. Anyway, that weighs a little, afterall, Every man has sovereignty over his space. No one owes another an apology for the boundaries they erect. That weight, I dropped.
I dug deeper, not in attempt to unearth unflattering footprints but to have an idea of the kind of clay the late biker was moulded with and some of the things I found, I rather not fully express. The grave has swallowed enough.
All I will say to those yet breathing, for lessons are of no value to the dead. Let us live with the consistent consciousness that we are only here for a very short stint and regardless of who we become, the positions we hold and the opinions we share.
Treat the next man with mirror regard. Even when values clash like talking drums, let respect remain. “A river does not drink its own water.” We are here for one another.
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Wishing death upon anyone – even those whose politics or policies we oppose – is not courage. It is poverty of spirit. It diminishes the wisher more than the wished.
In the end, I will honour Onifoto as a man, a soldier, a fighter, a fellow Nigerian – one who rode for what he loved and lived in the direction of his passion.
May the earth rest lightly upon him.
May eternity grant him quiet.
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