A YOUNG WITNESS TO MURDER
ThaHoodScholar Teecube@tersootsafa488152
13 hours ago
Some memories are forever etched on one's mind. No matter how you try to shake them off, they adamantly find a permanent place of residence in the sanctum of your thoughts. As a young lad, I became quite aware of this particular trait in me - certain events left graphic memories imprinted on my mind. As I was growing up, I had become fond of drawing as a child, and as my mind evolved, it became keen on picking up details from whatever I saw or heard. My curiosity was running wild on adrenaline, though I was quite an introvert. This particular trait in me has greatly shaped my outlook on life.
The year was 1995. Professor D.I. Saror was the Vice Chancellor of Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria. He was at the tail end of his four-year tenure, and this period was a turbulent season in the University. I was a young pupil at Staff School, ABU, and because the school was located within the University's main campus in Samaru, we - even as kids - were well-informed about all the happenings: from raucous student union government activities to staff union protests and other internal political wrangling rocking the University. My late father was a staff member of the Bursary Department; his office was on the fourth floor of the famous 8-storey Senate building. Whenever I closed from school, I would take a detour from my way home to visit my dad in the office, where I was assured of a sumptuous moi-moi meal and kunu drink that was always prepared by my dad's colleague, Mrs. Orimolade, whose son Samson was also my Staff schoolmate. I enjoyed taking the elevator that propelled us from the ground floor to the fourth floor, where my father's office was located. Back then, there weren't any strict protocol restrictions on one's movement within the senate building, so sometimes I, along with other kids, would stay in the lift to enjoy the 'ride' from ground floor to the last floor, and from there we climbed to the senate rooftop to have a wide aerial view of the beautiful campus surroundings.
However, there was this particular day when something happened that left a long-lasting traumatic impression on my tender mind. It was in October, on a Monday - I still recall the date was at month-end when staff were always agitated about receiving their wages. It was somewhat a norm then for protests to break out whenever some union members perceived a delay in receiving their emoluments or salaries, as those kinds of protests weren't alien within the university community, and they often registered in my spongy memory. That Monday afternoon, I had closed from school and headed towards the Senate building from Staff School, passing through the Faculty of Arts, when I noticed there was a riotous crowd of staff who were holding tree leaves and some with placards, singing discordant chants in protest. I avoided getting close to where they were gathered, even as my curious mind would have loved to push me to do so, and I simply made my way up to my dad's office.
While we were in his office on the fourth floor, we could still hear the riots below gaining momentum. I saw staff members whose offices were in the Senate building gather in groups to discuss the cause of the ongoing protests. Down below, somewhere near the University Security office, there was a building occupied by a professor whom the protesters were angry with and baying for his blood. They gathered around the building, demanding to see the man whom I heard they accused of withholding their money. From my dad's office on the fourth floor, at the south end of the Senate building, I could see what was happening below as I looked out the window from a good vantage point. I remember asking my dad why those people looked so unappeasable. I recall my dad saying they were a headless mob whose actions were not necessarily valid, and they were probably misguided and incited to protest against the man, maybe driven by various sentiments like religious or ethnic biases that had sadly become more noticeable within the university.
For about an hour, the protests continued around the office building where they believed the professor was in hiding. Much later, I watched in horror as they succeeded in breaking down the door that secured the professor and got hold of him. They pounced on him without mercy with sticks and other objects they held, without pity. It was my first time witnessing what I grew up to realise was jungle justice, and unfortunately, it happened within the hallowed walls of a university that should never have allowed such to occur. The ill-fated professor was mishandled by the mob; they threw him into the boot of a vehicle and drove him away from the position where I was viewing the unfolding manslaughter.
That evening, as we returned home, my mind was deeply disturbed, and the images kept haunting my soul. I was a young lad, but I was left traumatised. I asked my father what the name of the 'hated' professor was, and he told me he was Professor Bamidele Bandipo. Since that day, the name remained engraved on my mind. Professor Bandipo died at the hands of his subordinates, who were wrongly misguided to vent their frustrations and anger on him. He was a Director with Ahmadu Bello University Teaching Hospital when his precious life was cut short. I grieved in my heart as if he were also my father, though I never knew him up close. I never stopped thinking of his family and his children, whom I believed were probably my contemporaries or seniors at Staff School. I imagined how they were faring in the absence of their father. Back then, as kids within the University, we saw professors as demigods because of the academic achievements they had made, and I never stopped thinking of how such a great man, who over the years had acquired immense knowledge to become a professor, could have his life wasted just like that. Now I know better - Nigeria happened to him. It was quite a horrendous experience for me, and till this day, I haven't gotten over that childhood trauma, to which the events surrounding his demise exposed my little mind.
This piece isn't about me. I was driven to write this in memory of the late Professor Bamidele Bandipo, whose killing was barbaric and unjustifiable by recalcitrant staff members of the Department he headed at Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria. I'm pained that, till this day, his murderers have never been held to account for their heinous crime against the man who was later exonerated of any wrongdoing. I would later learn the culprits were arrested, but after a protracted litigation with various vested interests not desiring justice to be served, the suspects were later released, and the case died a natural death. May the soul of Professor Bandipo continue to rest in peace, and I pray that his surviving family, wherever they are, finds the healing and closure they need in his fond memories left behind.
#teecubethahoodscholar #profbamidelebandipo
#storiesthatmatter #ahmadubellouniversity #staffschool #SamaruZaria #musingsofthahoodscholar
#ayoungwitnesstomurder #memoirwriting #teecubethahoodscholar #childhoodmemories
