By Oluwaseun Okediran
My father recently wrote nostalgically about his return to the University of Ibadan Senior Staff Club, a place that had been part of his life since the 1980s. Reading his account brought back a very different memory of the Staff Club for me.
For him, it was a place of tennis, friendships, pepper soup, intellectual conversations and camaraderie.
For me, one evening many years ago, it became a place of refuge.
I was in primary school at the time, at the University of Ibadan Staff School, preparing for Common Entrance Examinations.
Like many students of that era, I was enrolled in the famous Mrs Ukonye’s lessons.
After school, a few friends and I would walk from Staff School to Mrs Ukonye’s house, a few streets away, for our lessons.
My mother, who was then a senior lecturer at the University of Ibadan, would usually pick me up afterwards and we would head home.
One particular evening, however, she was late.
One by one, the other students left until eventually only one girl and I remained. She lived nearby and, as it approached 7 p.m., she too had to go home.
Suddenly, I was alone.
There were no mobile phones to send a quick “Mummy, where are you?” message. I knew my mother’s office was at the Faculty of Law, so I made what seemed to my teenage mind the most sensible decision: I would walk there and find her.
Anyone familiar with the University of Ibadan campus will know that this was no small undertaking for a schoolgirl, particularly as evening was setting in.
I had been walking for perhaps fifteen minutes when, suddenly, I saw my mother’s car drive past. I shouted.
I screamed the driver’s name.
I called my mother. But the car continued on its way.
They hadn’t seen or heard me.
I immediately guessed what had happened: my mother had finally come looking for me and, not finding me where I was supposed to be, was now searching elsewhere.
So I turned around and began walking back towards Mrs Ukonye’s house, hoping I could intercept her there.
I missed her again.
By now it was getting dark, I was frightened, and I had no idea what to do. Should I remain at the lesson house in case she returned? Should I attempt the long walk back to her office? Where exactly was she looking for me?
Then I remembered something.
The Staff Club.
My parents knew people there.
Surely, I thought, somebody there will know me.
So I made my way to the University of Ibadan Staff Club.
There, in the middle of a game, I spotted one of my father’s friends, Pastor Steve Shaba.
I must have looked a sorry sight—a frightened schoolgirl, close to tears, appearing unexpectedly at the Staff Club in the evening.
I approached him and explained what had happened.
My mother was supposed to pick me up. She had been late. I had left the lesson to look for her. I had seen her car. She hadn’t seen me. I had gone back. Now I didn’t know where she was.
And, perhaps most importantly to my 10 year old mind, I was convinced:
“She’s going to be so mad at me!”
Dr Shaba reassured me immediately.
He stopped his game halfway.
There was no lengthy discussion about whose responsibility I was or whether someone else should deal with the situation. His friend’s daughter was stranded and frightened. That was enough.
He would take me home.
Even in my panic, however, I had one request.
“Please, can we go back to my lesson first and tell them you’ve picked me? In case my mummy comes back looking for me.”
So we did.
At Mrs Ukonye’s house, we met her husband and explained what had happened. Pastor Shaba gave him his name, which was carefully written down so that if my mother returned, she would know exactly who had taken me and where I had gone.
Then he drove me home.
Meanwhile, my poor mother was frantic.
She had gone from place to place searching for me—school, the lesson house and elsewhere—and, as I later learnt, was reaching the point where the police station was becoming the next stop.
Eventually she returned to Mrs Ukonye’s house and received the message:
Pastor Steve Shaba had found Seun and taken her home.
The relief must have been enormous.
By the time she arrived home, there I was—safe and sound.
Looking back now, what stays with me is not simply that one kind man interrupted his evening to help a frightened girl. It is what made it possible for that frightened girl to walk into the Staff Club in the first place.
I knew I would find someone who knew my parents.
I knew I could ask for help.
And I knew, instinctively, that I was among people who would not leave me stranded.
My father’s recent article describes the Staff Club as a place of recreation, relaxation, friendship, networking and community.
All of that is true. But for those of us who grew up around the University of Ibadan community, places like the Staff Club sometimes represented something even more profound.
They were part of the village that raised us.
Long before mobile phones, location sharing and instant messaging, there was a different kind of network: people who knew one another, knew one another’s spouses, knew one another’s children and understood that looking out for those children was simply what a community did.
That evening, I wasn’t a member of the University of Ibadan Senior Staff Club.
I wasn’t a lecturer, professor, tennis player or distinguished academic.
I was simply somebody’s daughter.
And that was enough.
So when my father writes fondly about returning to the Club decades later, I have my own reason to remember it fondly.
The University of Ibadan Staff Club once got a frightened little girl safely home.
And that little girl was me.
