Ms Funke Awolowo, the first child of Segun Awolowo Snr and grandchild of the late sage, Chief Obafemi Awolowo, tells TOBI AWORINDE about growing up in the household of the former Premier of the Western Region and her relationship with her brother, Segun Awolowo Jnr
Many Nigerians are interested in knowing more about you. Can you tell us about yourself?
My name is Funke Awolowo. I stayed with my mother till I was five. I actually entered the Awolowo family fully when I was six; before then, it was partly. I started living in Okebola, our home in Oke Ado, Ibadan, where I started my primary school at the Maryhill Convent School. That’s where we all went to — Funke, Segun, Kemi, Yemisi, Ayotola, even Dolapo Osinbajo and Olumide (Oyediran) –we all went to Maryhill in the custody of Prof and Mrs. Oyediran. Mrs. Oyediran, formerly Tola Awolowo, is the second child of the sage (the late Chief Obafemi Awolowo). From Maryhill, I went to Yejide Girls Grammar School for a year. I think Papa (Obafemi Awolowo) visited me at the school and he didn’t like the school; so, I ended up going to Methodist Girls High School, Lagos. That was the first time we would live in Lagos. When I was at the school at the Methodist Girls High School, Segun was at Igbobi College, which is the school my father went to. I think there were three of us — Funke, Kemi and Yemisi — who went to Methodist Girls High School. After about one and a half years, we decided that we wanted to go back to Ibadan. So, we all moved back to Ibadan. I went to St. Louis Grammar School, a Catholic school. Segun went to Government College, Ibadan, while some of us went to International School, Ibadan, before I went to England for A-Levels. I went to a school called St Mary’s Gate in Bournemouth. Then, I went to Edward Greene’s Tutorial College in Oxford. I did some more advanced studies, and then we came back to Nigeria, all of us. I started at the University of Lagos; I did Psychology for two years, then because of family issues, after two years at UNILAG, I went back to England. That’s where I completed my degree programme. I did a BA honours in Humanities. I majored in English and History, Politics and Law. I got a BA from the University of Northampton. I did a stint in postgraduate law at the University of North London and I did some computer studies, business studies, banking and all sorts of courses and I worked. After about 15 years in England, I moved back with my two sons to come and have a feel of my heritage and get into the stream of things. I worked with the Royal Exchange, an insurance company. Before that, I worked at ADIC Insurance, which is owned by someone I didn’t even know but who used to be my father’s very good friend, that is, Prof Joe Irukwu. In fact, one day at the office, I met him and he said, ‘Are you really Segun’s daughter? I was the one that brought Segun’s result from Cambridge’; I think because my father had to fly down for the treasonable felony case (of Papa Awolowo). I worked at a place called CAC. I did business contracts and that is what I am still doing — some personal business here and there. I’m also in pastoral ministry; I am a pastor at the Sovereign Word Church, Egbeda. We have a church in Ikeja and others all over the world. I am one of the pastors there. I also co-pastor a little fellowship, House J. As my life graduates, I want to do a lot more of ministry, go into the nations and preach Christ.
Can you speak more on moving into the family at the age of five?
I was about eight months old when my dad died. When my mum was pregnant with me, there were serious issues in the family. Papa was in prison during that 1962 time, battling treasonable felony. In 1963, my father died. So, there was no move towards marriage or anything. So, I think because of that gap and because of the trauma of the period, there was no real consensus. But as the family settled, Papa, being a very responsible man, like he would always say, Segun and I are of sentimental value. He said he had to go back to my uncle, who, by the way, is Uncle Tunji Braithwaite. That was my maternal grandmother’s brother; and he was very close to Papa Awolowo, especially during the treasonable felony. He was one of the lawyers. He was a very close uncle. So, I think through him, they were able to make amicable plans for me to be restored back to my father’s home. Even though he was dead, Papa and Mama promised to look after me and take care of me. And so, that is why it took that long for me to come into the family.
A lot of people got to know about you when Otunba Kunle Olasope wrote an article followed by an interview with SUNDAY PUNCH. Why have you not been so much in the limelight?
It depends on what you define as being in the limelight. I would say during Papa’s campaigns, I was always there. You’re not the first journalist to interview me. I’ve been on TV for numerous interviews and in newspapers, and this statement always comes up. When does one get known? I really don’t know. Must you be in politics for you to be known? So, I really don’t know how to answer that.
Maybe it’s because you are not consistently in the public eye.
Maybe that is it, but I do my bit. I think I’ve worked a bit with Lagos State. When Papa died, I came out as the unknown one. When Mama died, I think I was relatively known by then: ‘Okay, there is a Funke; though we don’t see her, yes, she exists.’
Do you ever hear chatter from people saying you have never been a real member of the family?
Let’s go back to that write-up (by Olasope). If you open it, you’ll see a lot of interesting things. When he wrote it, he acknowledged the children, Pastor Funke Awolowo and Segun Awolowo (Jnr). I didn’t even know if I was in the picture from the outset, but a lot of people raised the question you are asking: ‘Who is Funke Awolowo?’ And someone said, ‘She is a pastor. She is this and that.’ ‘And we don’t know her. How come she’s been hidden?’ I really don’t know. It doesn’t mean I feel alienated. I don’t feel like a stranger. That is my family; I don’t have another. Yes, I have my Braithwaite lineage and my sisters from the Osebanjo family. By the way, I have sisters that my mum gave birth to — Taiwo and Kehinde, Bola and Femi. But I think my Awolowo part is the family I have always really belonged to. So, I don’t know who is trying to cover me, but I think I have been there as a child and a daughter doing my part. As you can see, I am well educated; so, I don’t know what it takes to be known. I think it is until you do that politics thing. Maybe when I finally get my hands on politics, maybe that yearning to know me would be assuaged, so to speak.
Can you talk about your childhood and your relationship with Segun Jnr.?
My childhood, I would say, was great. As I have told you, a big part of it was in Ibadan. But I remember Segun and the rest of us were all close. My brother and I were quite close for obvious reasons — we had lost a dad and we were in the family. We were as close as any brother and sister, even to the point that it got Papa’s attention. So, everything that he gave us tied us together because he knew we were that close and there would be no issues. Papa was a very good grandfather. There was time when we were at Maryhill. A couple of times, I noticed that he came to fetch us in school when we were breaking up for Christmas, from there straight to Ikenne and we would spend all our holidays, especially Christmas holidays in Ikenne. I remember then, I used to arrange Christmas carols and plays; we would entertain him and after some time, he got us swings and slides, and people would come and play with us. He just wanted to be around us. And it wasn’t just Segun and me, it was the entire set of grandchildren. He was somebody that loved grandchildren. I don’t know if Nigeria knows that about him. Somebody once said, ‘If you want to hurt Awo, touch his child’. Maybe because of what happened to my dad, he had a lot of sentiment when it came to his children and even grandkids. We also went abroad with him. There was a hospital he used to go to every year as we advanced in years. It is called the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota, America. We would follow him to Mayo Clinic in groups. He would take four or five of us and we would go there. We would go to New York and stay in the best hotels; London, stay at the Dorchester Hotel or Churchill Hotel. We had great times. It was a time I noticed he studied each and every one’s personality and, of course, loved us for who we were. He made corrections. We went on holidays together, cooking. I remember one where Papa did something that scared me. We were not that domesticated but at the age of 15 or 16, he was telling Mama, ‘You have to teach them how to make ikokore (water yam pottage)’. And being the first, there was so much emphasis on me. We were in Rochester (New York) one day and he said the cook should vacate the kitchen because, sometimes, he would travel with his cooks and even his driver. He said, ‘Baba Francis, vacate the kitchen and Funke will do the cooking’ (laughs). And my cooking skills were quite funny. Of course, Kemi and Yemisi joined me but I was the main person. Luckily, Baba Francis was wise enough to put all the right things. I was going to do yam pottage. He had cut the yam and put the shrimps and every other thing that I had to put. So, all I had to do — and that is exactly what I did — was to put everything in at the same time. Lo and behold, it went well and from that day on, for like two weeks. By the time we got to London, I was making fried rice. That was how Papa was. I would be agitated in the kitchen because a lot of people were coming, the Adebanjos, the Jakandes and so on, but he would commend me and let them know that ‘Funke did that’. He wanted us to be well-rounded. In terms of academics, he would discuss books with us. He said it was important that we read the Bible through and books like ‘Prometheus Unbound’. There were so many deep books. He said, ‘I don’t want you to be flippant. I want you to be deep. I want it to be said of any child that comes out of this home that you are outstanding and special’. I remember I was like, ‘Where will I find such books?’ But lo and behold, when I went to the university, they were all there on the rack. Those were timeless books, so to speak, and I got to read some of them and I said, ‘This Papa!’ His psyche about life was just unique. Some of the things I write on Facebook, people come to me and say, ‘You are like your granddad. You’re so deep’. You could not be in that house — and I will say it about any child that comes out — without being deep, special, God-fearing and disciplined because Papa really poured himself into all of us.
In the last part of his life, Segun was telling me that he (Awo) opened up on a lot of things in terms of politics and what he thought of each family member because Segun was at the Ogun State University (now Olabisi Onabanjo University). He was literally living in Ikenne. So, Papa would have the time to spend with him. I think that was the missing part. The last few years before Awo died, I was in England. A lot of activities had been going on before I arrived. I think I arrived the day they took him to the stadium. That was the last part; then we went to Ibadan and Ikenne. They were wondering, ‘How come she is coming this late?’ That time, I remember I even had my first-year exams. So, all through the funeral, I was reading. Thank God I passed the exams.
Papa and Mama were such an item. Whatever Papa said, Mama just confirmed. They were doting disciplinarians. When they got at you, they were dealing with you.
Did they ever beat you with the cane?
Ah! Papa beat me. I think I was one of the few grandchildren that Papa actually beat with the cane. I remember once, Papa had told us not to go out barefoot. Not only was I barefoot, he was coming from court. My hair was wild; I was barefoot and really jumping up and down. I just saw his car swoosh in and it was too late to run in or hide. I saw his glasses; the way he looked at me, I knew that (I was in trouble). I was wondering, ‘Can he see that I’m not wearing shoes?’ Within five minutes, ‘E lo pe Funke wa (Go and call Funke)’. I was upstairs. ‘Bata e da (Where are your slippers)?’ I said I had just worn it. He said, ‘How come your hair is not well packed?’ I said, ‘I’m sorry, sir’. For some reason, I got four lashes. I thought that was unfair but I think that’s the only time I remember I got a beating. But Segun got a lot of beating. You know how boys can be when they are young, especially when it is someone you want to pour all that you know into. That is not to say I did not have the verbal (tongue-lashing). I don’t even know if I prefer the beating to the verbal part because when Papa talked to you, everything in you shook. I remember once, he was telling us about virtue and, you know children, all of us had gone clubbing overnight and he came in and said, ‘Do you know that nobody knows my weakness because I always keep things under control’. And I was shaking inside me. We lived in those two worlds, as children who wanted to do their own thing but we couldn’t get away with it because of the umbrella of discipline we lived under. Everybody would size you up by where you are coming from and we didn’t get away with that.
Do you have any personal experience of the impact of your father’s death on Papa and Mama Awolowo?
First of all, let me tell you how we knew. For a while, people would come in and we would be introduced: ‘Awon omo Segun ni (they are Segun’s children)’ and I would see the change in their faces; some people almost weeping or grabbing me, ‘Eh Pele (sorry)’. I am talking about six, seven or eight years old and I would wonder, ‘Why are they so (sombre)?’ Nobody had told us our father was dead. They would say he went to England. Went to England? And Segun and I would discuss, ‘This man that went to England, when is he coming? We too want to live with our father’. But we couldn’t tell anybody. So, I remember that one year, Papa had a trip to see Gen. J. J. Oluleye in Benin. So, he took three or four of us to Benin and I don’t know how he got on that topic. Segun and I were there. I just said, ‘Papa, when is our dad coming back?’ You know when you have asked a question and you are almost regretting it. He actually sat down and said, ‘You too sit down.’ He said, ‘What happened, I don’t know if you can understand. He had an accident many years ago and he passed away. He’s dead!’ Segun is very emotional. You would have thought I would be the one crying. My brother dropped a tear or two. That was how we knew; that was how it was established. I recall that when we got home to Apapa, I heard him saying in Ijebu, ‘They know now,’ and that ‘I was able to explain to them’. But I had mixed feelings that ‘why didn’t they tell us’ because I had hoped and desired that, one day, we would meet him? But I knew that it wasn’t easy on Papa. As I told you, when I saw his demeanour as he told us, it is something you don’t want to tell your grandchildren. I have read that it was a very traumatic day when they told Papa and he said, ‘Segun is dead but we are alive. Let’s deal with the living’, and he had to deal with some court papers on the same day. In literature, I learnt something about stoicism. It is when you transfer your burden or grief to God and you believe that things will get better eventually. I think that Papa comes under that because of the way he treated it at that time.
On the other hand, I heard that Mama was in a state. It took God to heal her that she lived up to 100 years old. They said it was a terrible time for both of them. I remember that when he heard, all he was telling them was that they should take care of his wife because he knew that it would be a terrible time. It is not something the family talks about easily. I remember the first time I saw the car in which he died in a picture, it was when Papa died. All those things were preserved and (there were) a lot of stories. Even Kunle Olasope started talking more openly after Mama died. So, it was something that was guarded to protect them because they knew that it was very deep. My dad was only 24 when he died and it was only divine that he happened to have had two children. How many 24-year-olds, especially at that time that he had just finished his degree, had children? But God is a perfect arranger. So, it was a very deep experience. I don’t think Papa got over it. He didn’t talk about it but those special moments when he did talk about him were deep and solemn moments.
What was your mum’s relationship like with the Awolowo family?
My mum, of course, you know got married to Majekodunmi. But also, I can tell you that she ever got over it. She told me that, for years, she would tell people, ‘But why are they saying Segun is dead? I saw Segun’. And of course, for that, you would know that this was a mental thing. She said, for years, she couldn’t believe it because my mum was about 17 or 18 when she got pregnant by him, and, she said, ‘He taught me all that I knew. I never was exposed’. My mum was like an English girl. She grew up in England; so, she wasn’t into this Nigerian thing. So, it was like he brought her out to know all those people. I remember she mentioned Prince Aderemi. I think she had mentioned Otunba Olasope and all his friends then. She mentioned the fact that when she started seeing him, there was a picture on the wall, which she didn’t see after that, of the person he was seeing then — I think, Ms Bola. She would talk about how he knew how to dance, how he spoke impeccable English, how he was a very stylish man. She said, ‘Do you know that even (the late South African singer) Miriam Makeba was his girlfriend?’ She spoke a lot because her last few years were spent in England with all of us (her children). She was buried in England by the way. She spoke at length about my dad. So, yes, I had that information from my mum, but I don’t know why she started speaking about him quite late, almost as if she knew she was going.
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