My brother, Pastor Samuel Oluwafemi Aregbesola, who I fondly called Bishop, one of the God Soldiers, won his battle on earth and returned back to his maker on June 16, 2016, after 54 years sojourn on earth. He predeceased our aged mother and left behind a beautiful wife, a woman of valour, Oriyomi. The tragic news of his death was like a dagger that stabbed my soul and cut through my spirit. I never knew my dinner with him in February this year would be our last together as siblings, as there were no signs that light was about to go out for him in the womb of time.
Receiving phone calls at odds time from Nigeria or from Sierra Leone where our extended families are based is not what I often look forward to. And by odds time, I meant receiving calls that perhaps Diaspora Africans, especially those of us in North America, dread to receive from family members during sleeping hours. The outcome of such “breaking news” could define the rest of your day if not the rest of one’s years. While such unpredictability might add colours to our lives as mortals and is even part of life, I wish the news would always be good. Thus, when I saw three missed calls from my younger brother at 3.3am Eastern Time, I knew my day was pregnant with meanings. I hesitated to return his call until I would arrive in my office. On second thought, I summoned the courage and called him back at about 8 am. “Broda mi,” he said in the Yoruba language. He waited a few minutes while I held my breath. Then he eventually unburdened himself: “Pastor Femi died this morning after a brief illness that lasted a day.” This cannot be true; I screamed back. I spoke to Pastor Femi a few days earlier; he was not sick, so what is all this about, I retorted. His uncontrollable crying at the other end of the line nudged me back to the reality that this was certainly not a joke.
For Pastor Samuel Femi Aregbesola, answering his calling to become a full-time pastor was not an easy decision to take as it entailed, in his view, leaving wealth to live a frugal life of a pastor. After initial resistance, he eventually abandoned his thriving automobile dealership business to serve the Lord, but this was not until he had his “on the road to Damascus” experience. Subsequently, like everything he did, he served God without reservation. Stepping into our Late Dad’s shoes was not difficult for him. Yoruba elders were right: “Ọlá abàtà nií mú odò ṣàn, ọlá baba ọmọ nií mú ọmọ yan” (translation: “As the bank spurs the river flow, so a father inspires his child”). My brother blossomed in his Ministry; a legacy left behind by our late Dad, another God soldier.
Tragically, about two decades after his ordination, my brother preached to his flock what would be his Final Sermon on Sunday, June 12th, 2016. Curiously, he preached about "When the Saints Go Marching In.” According to a church member who attended the service, the delivery of the sermon was not only poignant, it was enthralling and captivating till it ended. She described how my brother finished his message with this sentence: “Lord when the Saints are called home marching in, let me be among them”; and then cupped his face in his hands crying. It was indeed a Final sermon by a pastor that left his flock with a message of hope and resurrection in Christ. A few days later, he marched to join the Saints without any serious illness or struggles with life.
My memories of my brother are what I now have left, and are lessons I will not forget. While I can no longer remember days, I recall fond memories. Growing up with six other siblings and missionary parents was full of good moments that left me with fond memories: these include church planting by our parents and moments of bonding as siblings. I still have a vivid memory of my excitement of the time we spent together playing soccer, eating together on one plate, or singing in the church choir. Dad made sure each of us could sing in the choir and play one musical instrument or the other so that church service can begin if church members came late.
How can I ever forget living with my brother in Lagos before his ordination! He not only financially supported my studies at the University of Ibadan, and those of my other siblings, he also provided financial support to my friends that I brought home to him for financial support. He never said No to any financial support request as long as it involved scholarly aspirations. For example, he gave me the same monthly stipend that he gave to my friends, whose parents he never met before I brought them home to him. He was selfless. He was kind, even to a fault, perhaps to his detriment. He would go starving to feed a person in need of food.
My brother was also a man of styles. His gait was brisk. His smile was disarming. He was simple and soft-spoken yet with a heart of steel for what he believed. He could reprimand without raising his voice, yet embrace you striking a right balance that showed it was only a tough love. He was principled. He was a man of service who persevered, knowing full well that material accumulations in this world were nothing but vanity. Once he accepted his call, he dedicated his life to the pursuit of happiness and not wealth. He floated an NGO, Flame of Desire, with the goals of providing youth empowerment and in providing support to the indigent, such as poor widow that our society does not provide a social safety net for; he met their needs to the best of his ability and regardless of their creed or ethnicity. He was a man who believed there were better days ahead, off in the near distance. He bore the pressures that came his way with grace, showing little signs of strain even when he was under challenges that could have broken mere mortals. His unwavering optimism in the face of tribulations and in taking a position on the side of what he believed to be right was unparalleled and even rare. The principles that guided his actions as a man of God, the vision of his leadership as a clergy and the humanity of his person as simply Femi are unrivalled. As attested to by a few members of his flock, he was the archetype of the servant as a leader, and this was a role that he played with great resolve and uncommon humility.
While grieving this irreparable loss, I cannot but manage to smile when my seven-year-old daughter, in an attempt to console me said: “may be your Dad was bored in heaven and needed another Pastor (my brother), to hang out with him there”.
As my brother’s flesh begins his rites of passage when it will finally embrace its wrapper of sands and goes back to dust in a few days, his indefatigable legacy lives on. Legacy, in the words of Peter Strople, is not about leaving something for people, but in leaving something in people. My brother left a lot to people. His legacy includes but not limited to the many lives he touched: the souls he won for Christ, many indigent widows he supported financially from his limited budget, and the youth he mentored on the right path through leadership training. As our family plans to immortalise his name through his pet project, Flame of Desire, I cannot but find solace in the words of Abraham Lincoln: “in the end, it's not the years in your life that count. It is the life in your years”. My egbon, the life in your years is noteworthy and unblemished. Though we may die, Jesus says, “I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in Me, though he may die, he shall live.” (John 11:25). My lovely brother, my mentor, Ijesha modu aponada, omo eleni ateka, omo eleni ewele. Ijesha o ridi isana, ile leru Owa ti mu ina roko. Ijesha losin tolotolo, eru baba ti wa losin pepeye. Omo Owa, omo Ekun, sun re oo, may your soul rest in perfect peace. Goodnight this morning!
Emmanuel Aregbesola can be reached at [email protected]
